#that picture of a coathanger

[marlynnofmany]

Seeing Faces

It’s rare when we get a shipment to deliver that’s not packaged somehow — either in Earth-standard boxes, another world’s version of shipping crates, or a livestock pen of some kind. Even that bunch of alien trees had been thoroughly wrapped at the bottom. But this collection of machinery parts didn’t have so much as a layer of cling-wrap on it. I guess the owners figured these things were sturdy enough not to need it.

They were probably right. The metal chunks were heavy. I tried to guess what they were made for as Blip and Blop muscled the biggest ones onto a hover sled, clearing the way for Paint and me to gather up the smaller pieces. Captain Sunlight bid the customer farewell and shut the cargo bay door.

“I think these look like vertebrae,” I said to Paint. “Greasy vertebra. Ew. I’m going to need a new shirt.” The offworld engine oil of whatever didn’t seem acidic at least, so that was nice. I sighed about the black smears.

“Strange vertebrae,” Paint said, juggling her own armload of odd shapes that didn’t seem to be rubbing off on her orange scales. Not that I was jealous or anything. “There would need to be a dual spinal cord.” She tapped a claw on one of the holes.

“Hm, yeah. There are probably animals like that,” I said. “Or robots, as the case may be.”

Ahead of us, Captain Sunlight opened the door to the appropriate storage hold, then headed off on captainly business. It was impressive how different a vibe she gave off compared to Paint, for all their physical similarities. Both were little lizardy people, but one strode with her lemon-yellow head held high, every inch the authority figure, while the other was Paint. She somehow bounced when she walked, even when weighted down by unwieldy metal things.

“I’ll bet these stack really well,” Paint said. “They look like they interlock. We could probably build a spinal column without them falling over.”

“We probably could,” I agreed. “But I don’t want to be the one responsible for bending one of the flanges because we wanted to test it out.”

“Hm. Yep yep yep. But I maintain that we could.”

“We could.”

The two of us entered the storage hold to find Blip and Blop racing to see who could unload the sled faster. It’s not that the Frillian twins were overly competitive, but they were twins. They’d apparently hatched at the same time, and had been in a low-key competition to see who was better at life ever since. But they smiled while they did it.

“Done!” Blip declared, setting down a lump of metal big enough for Paint to hide behind. She raised her hands in triumph, fins fluttering.

“Doesn’t count,” Blop said as he put down his own piece. “You didn’t line them up right. Mine are tidier.”

They squabbled about this while Paint and I unloaded our metal chunks nearby. I had to kneel to keep from dropping the things. It would be just my luck if they did warp on impact, or bounce off each other and whack me in the shin.

The Frillians took their debate out the door before I finished. They’d already moved on to who could steer the hoversled with the minimum of touching.

“Ha,” Paint said. “They do stack.”

I turned to see only one of the things set on top of another, with Paint ready to catch it if it slid. She took it down before I could say anything.

I just nodded and arranged my own into a reasonable huddle, then wiped my hands on my shirt. It was only when I moved toward the door, with a look back at the big pieces, that I got a good look at the one that Blop had set on its side.

This was the logical place to put it, not sticking out past the rest, but the thing that caught my attention was the shape when seen from this angle. Those two holes could have been eyes, and the flanges were shaped like stubby arms. There were even a couple slots in the middle like nostrils.

I burst out laughing.

“What?” Paint demanded.

“It looks like Zhee!” I said, pointing. “Big bug eyes and everything!”

“What does?” Paint asked. She came to stand next to me, following my arm, but just looked confused. “Where are the eyes?”

“These!” I said, stepping closer and pointing at the holes. “And those are the arms. Isn’t it perfect?”

Paint cocked her head as if slightly tilted vision could unlock the answers. “Arms?”

I repeated myself, but she still looked lost, so I found a notepad and pencil in a storage cupboard —reliable even when the batteries all run out — and sketched what I saw.

“Ohh, I get what you mean now,” Paint said when I showed her. “Those parts are lifted like pincher arms, and those are roughly the same proportion as Mesmer eyes.”

“Yeah, it’s uncanny,” I said.

Paint took the notepad to study it closer. “How did you even notice that?”

“It was pretty easy,” I told her. “It just jumped out at me when I looked from the right direction. Like seeing faces in clouds, you know?”

Paint’s blank expression said that she didn’t know.

“Do you not do that? Find patterns of familiar shapes in random things?”

“No?” she replied. “Is that a thing I’m supposed to be doing?”

“You don’t have to! It’s just something that everybody does on Earth, ever since we’re kids. It’s probably from a long history of watching for camouflaged predators in the bushes. You’ve got camouflage on your planet, right? You must.”

“Yeah, sure,” Paint said easily. “But I guess not that much. I’ve never seen a face in a cloud; that sounds terrifying.”

“Not really; it’s more like feeling smart for spotting something. Well,” I amended. “It could be a little unsettling if you see a skull or something. But that’s rare. There are whole systems of divination about this sort of thing.”

Paint looked like she was about to ask a million questions, but right then the sound of familiar clicking footsteps tapped down the hall.

“Zhee!” Paint called, whirling with the notebook in her hand. “Zhee, look what Robin saw!”

Zhee came into view looking just as eyecatching and purple as usual, halting at the doorway while Paint eagerly explained the conversation we’d just had. Quickly and enthusiastically. With lots of waving the sketch around, and pointing back at the machine part.

I felt like apologizing as he stared with an unreadable alien expression. His antennae weren’t even moving; I couldn’t tell what he thought of it all.

Finally Paint finished talking. “She says it’s probably because her species watches for predators in the bushes. Isn’t that amazing?”

Zhee made a point of looking slowly from the sketch to the metal thing, then to me. I braced myself for judgement.

Instead, Zhee raised his pincher arms into the same pose and declared, “I am the danger that lurks in the bushes.” Then he slunk out of sight, many legs scuttling in a quickstep way that he knew darn well I found creepy.

Paint blinked at the empty doorway, still holding the notebook.

“Aw, man,” I said. “He’s picking things up from Trrili.”

Paint immediately closed the notebook. “We definitely shouldn’t show her.”

“Agreed!” I said.

After a moment of thought, Paint tore the page out and handed it to me, then took the notebook back to the cupboard. I pocketed it with a final glance at the metal vertebra that looked remarkably like a cartoonish Mesmer squaring up for battle.

Someone had left a roll of no-residue marking tape on a box nearby. I grabbed a strip and stuck it onto the metal, with the ends curved up.

Now the thing had a goofy grin that possibly no one would recognize. But if there were any humans on the receiving end of this delivery, they ought to get a good laugh out of it.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

[spotforme]

actually the plot is secondary actually, expantion on that "futuristic" comedic dystopian milieu is all i'm thinking about

[marvelousmop]

While the twist in the 1974 movie Madhouse is set up quite well, my favourite (definitely unintentional) bit of foreshadowing is that the picture Herbert (Peter Cushing) has of him and Paul (Vincent Price) looks like a random thing he slapped together because he heard that Paul was coming a few days ago and thought "Wait, shoot, I should probably add something to sell the illusion that I actually like him."

Couldn't even bother to put it on the wall at a normal angle, that hook was probably used for a Christmas Stocking or a coathanger.

[peppergnocchi]

URGENT!!!

Please help a disabled NB artist provide for their cats and be able to survive while unemployed!!!

Hey, my name is Ari! I'm a disabled NB artist who's desperately looking for help! Currently, as I have been fighting to get disability benefits in light of recent health troubles (Awful joint issues, extreme fatigue, spinal straightening that makes me dizzy when bending, extreme vitamin deficiencies, and mental health issues including autism), I haven't been able to secure a job. Since November I've been trying every day to apply to different places, but despite any skills I may have, I either never hear back from employers, get interviewed and then ghosted, or am told that they went with another candidate. Here's one of my cervical X-rays showing the straightening in my spine, which causes coathanger pain, the aforementioned dizziness, near fainting when standing up after being bent for short periods of time, and all over body misalignment/pain:

I also have two lovely cats (and other small miscellaneous animals) who need food, supplies, and care that I can't afford. Here's some pictures!:

With this being said, I put together a GoFundMe! I wouldn't make one unless I was desperate, but I honestly am at this point in time. Alongside the other health issues I face, I also need to get to a rheumatologist to determine if I have an autoimmune disease/infection, since I tested positive for ANA.

If you can donate, I very deeply appreciate it! If not, it's alright. Please just share if you can to boost, since I'm hoping to be able to make at least $150 by the end of next week to be able to pay my phone bill!

Any donations over $5 will receive a free small commission!!

Here's the link!:

Thank you so much for your time and help!

-Ari

[zahri-melitor]

Gosh it’s hilarious when artists are like “I can draw that!” and don’t bother to use their reference photo properly.

There’s something…missing…from that picture.

Something that should be taking up over 50% of that view to be at that angle.

I can’t quite put my finger on it…

Oh. Wait.

YOU LEFT OUT THE BRIDGE. To manage to have the exact view you’re using there you’d probably be just above Luna Park in Milsons Point. The angle on the Opera House sails is too side on to be from the same side of Kirribilli with the Bridge behind you.

And thanks Google, this was shot in 2009, so the city skyline around Circular Quay looks more accurate than the pics on my phone.

Anyway this boardroom is apparently on board a giant yacht directly IN Sydney Harbour because otherwise that giant coathanger would be obstructing half the view.

[vonlipvig]

ok taking a look at some of the screenshots we got in the steam page and oh boy

-we've got some new characters: holly, and a fancy looking guy (for one second i thought he was a ghost, don't even ask me why lmao). guessing that's patrick on the shot with them, so is this the ghost hunting broadcast team?

-i wonder if that's graham on the live screen...maybe an old ad or recording of some sort?

-new buttons on the board, with the icons for lights, a saw, a coathanger, and some weights. also, interference board is gone and we have... whatever the hell that new thing is, spooky!

-it doesn't seem like you can pick the ads, but this is what appears to be ye olde ad machine here:

which kinda does look like you can fit three rolls of film. but can you pick? maybe you can't and you have to remember to switch to the correct one.

-more pictures showing some locations:

they really do seem to be ghosthunting in this abandoned studio, huh. oh man, i know it's literally called "live & spooky" but i'm such a coward with horror games i'm gonna CRY.

-oh, also, the DLC on steam has the "gore" and "violence" tags, so make of that what you will. ohhhhhh boy.

[letrune]

We deposed the fascist tyrant a dozen years back in a bloody revolution. The now democratic country had a lot of problems. Oh so many new factions sprung up, and all of them implemented an idiot in my new parliament. I stepped down after installing the democratic institutions and decided to do the boring paperwork that actually ran the country.

They also sent spies in there. They all knew I am too big and too powerful, thanks to some... powers. But that is not of any import. I want my home country to be a good place to live in.

There are a lot of spies in this administration. They want to know if I do implement the idea or if I shift votes or cheat. I never cheated for anyone. The worst I did was digging up the dirt of horrible people and conviniently release it before their campaign got powerful, crashing them.

But... There was one man I could not even think of stopping. Marax Rekliff. He was an academical from the neighbouring country, logistics, mathematics, sociology, a bit of psychology. Had a brief stunt as an anarchist during university, but eventually, he stopped politics and became, as they say, a boring man.

Bur I do know he works for the Union, a neighbouring country. The Gray Eminence (me) is to be spied on, and to be subject to every trickery known to mankind. To see if she really is what she says she is. To see if she does what she said she will.

I got to say, I am happy for Marax. He was about 20 when he got the job. Was a kid when the fascists were deposed, if I recall well.

Now, he is 40. Still a sharp mind. When I struggled to make sure the trains can deliver food where they must, and toiled away for a week on the plans, he shown up with multiple ideas. Nobody else did.

When the last election felt like a powderkeg, I collected all options, but I failed to see any way to do it without blood. My Marax... He offered to fabricate some dirt on one of the horrid people. Turns out, he did not fabricated a thing, he just tricked him.

It's a shame he works for the Union. They can't accept my home country switching leaders every five years or less, but with Marax at the administration chair, they are at peace. My country had one or two murders and fifty robberies last year, thanks to his logistical plans. I struggled to get it lower, and he just had this amazing budget plan that made sure our land is a land of peace and tourism.

He even rooted out some spies in the administration who did a bad job or wanted us to have more survelliance or less freedoms.

And Marax only have to send a coded report every three months. I know exactly how, but, man... This man is born to be an administrator.

I wish I could promote him in my job, but then he has nobody to spy on!

Sometimes I drop him a little extra as a bonus. A forgotten plan of a superweapon I saw on TV. A microfilm that, between my vacation pictures and cat images, has me talking to a shady looking guy (actually a coathanger and some shadows). A huge plan of highway expansions with railway lines and scribbled on secret messages that can mean a lot. I even left him a note in some cookies I delivered once, i think I wrote "you will be notified of great events. Follow the Gray Eminence. Don't allow her to build the dam. Take care." Or something. I forgot.

Marax Rekliff is the spine of this entire administration. Without him, the parliament would collapse in three weeks.

....Darn, I think I have fallen in love with him a few times. But I can't let such distract me. I got my work to do.

Your chief administrator is a spy and a traitor. You have known this for years. You’d also hate to get rid of him. To rise in the ranks and work his way closer to you, he has proven to be the most effective administrator you’ve ever had. A vast improvement on the loyal idiot he replaced.

[toetappinsilence]

favorite recent meme has to be "how will i accomplish some random task?" and then a picture of a fucked up dog or cat and they label it as "the [adjective] [relevant noun]"

like "how will i hang up these 50 coats?" "the virtuous coathanger:" (pic of a cat in a weird pose that kinda looks line a coathanger)

just tip tier really good stuff

[djshannonigans]

Radio Clash on Newtown Radio, 8.26.24

Hosted by DJ Shannonigans

Beck - "Where It's At"

Mavis Staples - "Worthy"

Charles Bradley, Bullets - "Ain't It A Sin"

Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings - "Don't Give A Friend A Number"

The Meters - "Cissy Strut"

Ray Charles - "Hit The Road Jack"

Carl Carlton - "She's A Bad Mama Jama"

Florence + the Machine - "Dog Days Are Over"

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - "Y Control"

Jack White - "Old Scratch Blues"

The Mystery Lights - "Mighty Fine & All Mine"

The Coathangers - "Follow Me"

The Bug Club - "Lonsdale Slippers"

Wishy - "Sick Sweet"

Pink Breath of Heaven - "The Wind Is Calling"

Wild Pink - "Sprinter Brain"

Ducks Ltd. - "Train Full of Gasoline"

Quivers - "Pink Smoke"

New Order - "Bizarre Love Triangle"

Curses - "Another Heaven"

Skelseys, Curses - "Picture In My Mind"

Tr/st - "All At Once"

Mr. Toe - "You're Such A Weirdo"

The Belair Lip Bombs - "Say My Name"

Lesley Gore - "You Don't Own Me"

Loretta Lynn - "The Pill"

Dolly Parton - "Light of a Clear Blue Morning"

The Smile - "Pana-vision (live at Montreux Jazz Festival)"

[jasperlovesstarss]

Friend sent me this picture so I made it into some RF!Wally (Walden) x RF!Candy (Candilyn) art :p

(Ps: he chose the coathanger)

RF au belongs to: @/KatelynDeuce on Twitter and TikTok(?)

[beatrice-otter]

[image description: picture of a crow flying with a wire coathanger in its beak. /end id]

The opposite of the stork

[talopeiros]

Learning to Smelt - 2

Part 2! The main goal of my second smelt was to A: Figure out how the sand casting worked B: Try mixing copper and aluminium together to make Aluminium bronze! TLDR: Here was how it went down:

Now into the details! The whole reason I got into smelting was to cast metal into cool items and the like, and to do that I needed a casting flask and some casting sand. All a casting flask is is a wooden or metal box that comes in two sections that you can pack sand and your design into. You want to be able to clasp the box shut so that the heat and pressure of the liquid metal doesn't cause it to pop off. Part of the reason the box in the vid burst into flames at the mid point is because we only clamped down one side of the box, thinking it would be enough (IT WASN'T) For the casting sand we made a mix of bentonyte (bentonite?) clay and yellow bricklayers sand in a volume ratio of 2:8. A lot of other casting vids and forums suggest a similar combination. Bentonyte clay is super fine so use a mask when handling it. With the sand part, you can't use regular sand since the grain shape of that does not lock together too well and will fall out of the vessel really easily (trust me I tried and it was impossible to hold anything in it). Once it's been mixed, you then need to put in 2 or 4 stroke motor oil into it and mix it thoroughly. Don't really have any specific measurements/amounts but what you're going for is to use a little oil as possible for it to be "wet" all throughout. Best way to test is to mix in a bit of oil, clasp a chunk of the sand mix in your hand and, if it can hold its shape, you're good. otherwise, MOAR OYLE

Now a quick heads up, the sand mix we used didn't work so well. best volume mix of sand-clay we used (which I'll go into a bit in the next post) was 6 sand for 4 clay.

Once you have your template, sand and flask, you start loading up the sand into the flask, and packing it in as tightly as possible. If it's not, then there's a chance that some of the sand could fall into the gaps and cause the design to be a bit scuffed.

Once you get to the halfway point of your flask (i.e. 1 of the two sections, the second section should not be on top yet) you press your design into the sand and keep it in there. Once you're satisfied it's evenly at the halfway point, get some talcolm powder or some other separating powder and coat your design/exposed sand in it, using a brush to spread it evenly (YOU NEED TO DO THIS IF YOU DON'T WHEN YOU TRY AND REMOVE THE DESIGN IT WILL NOT SPLIT AT THE HALFWAY POINT EVENLY)

After that, lock your top half on (with the design still in there) and start filling in the sand and really packing it in there as best you can. Once you're done you simply separate the 2 halves and voila! You have your negative space for the metal to FLOW LIKE FINE WINE. (Also sorry I didn't have many pictures in my second smelt, probs should've taken more photos over this part) Of course for it to flow (like fine wine) you need to then carve channels into the sand so you can pour it in in the first place. You NEED to take special care when carving because, even if the sand is packed in tightly, too much force may dislodge the whole thing. You'll need either a drill or a sharpened section of pipe to allow you to make a hole in the top piece for the fluid to flow. Make sure it's large enough for the metal to pour. You also need to make one (or more) vent holes. These holes you aren't pouring down there but they need to be there to make sure there's a place for the gases to vent out. Probably a sharp piece of wire coathanger would be best for these (and of course make sure they connect to your design.

Speaking of your design, you never want to pour directly onto it! Make sure your pouring hole if off to the side a bit with a channel that leads into the main design. This is mainly so you don't damage if from the inital collision of the liquid metal onto the sand.

In the end, you should have something that looks like this! (Hopefully better than it though since again, this one did NOT go according to plan)

There were a couple of reasons this one didn't go well.

The sand composition. 2 Clay for 8 sand was not a good ratio, it needed more clay

More talcom powder as a separation layer. You can't see it but that middle layer was very uneven since some parts of the top layer fused to the bottom layer and it was a whole thing)

The end result of the above pour was this! Another attempt at the channel emblem:

Yeah not too good, looks like really bad aluminium bronze. Plus there are a few holes in it, where I'm guessing the mold began to break down while the sand was burning.

Another reason this one didn't work too well! We used almost exactly the amount we needed! Because we didn't put too much in the crucible, I believe that too many impurities got poured out with the molten metal which caused it to look like a mess. Still, not too shabby! And I can certainly say the next one went a lot more smoothly too! On a side note, make sure if you want to do this that you don't have a crazy uncle nearby. After we had poured out the aluminium bronze, he wanted to "take advantage" of the hot crucible/smelter and put some scrap brass he had into it. Certainly sounds like a good idea if you like efficiency, but of course mixing metals you don't want to mix is a very bad idea. When poured, the brass ended up looking really bad since it was mixed with the leftover aluminium bronze already in the crucible and also I could not use the bronze crucible again until I filed out all the traces of brass I could find. More to come!

[nothingofvaluewaslost]

STORY: Don't Feed the Birds

A short, dark science fiction story. What happens when your words come back to you, on the one day you can't afford it?

If you enjoyed it, feel free to visit my Patreon.

Don't Feed the Birds, by Christina Nordlander

The morning of my wedding, the sky was clear, a plane of burning blue. My evening suit hung out on a coathanger over the closet door. Jamis, already in his suit, popped into my room to borrow the blow-dryer, and we sat on my bed joking about the ceremony and the reception, about the most far-fetched things that would go wrong. At one point he poked me in the shirt above the waistband and said:

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of extra stuffing there, Seb.”

But it was mainly nostalgia, a rerun of all the old sibling jabs we might miss after today.

The church was less than a kilometre from our terraced housing estate, but Tiffy’s parents had rented a limo for my family and me. It was my first time riding in anything so luxurious. The stuffy air in the carriage was bitter with old leather upholstery, and the whole arrangement of details made you want to light a cigarette, even if you didn’t smoke. You couldn’t see the sky from in there. You could look out the windows, or a little bit through the windscreen, but lush leafage stretched in arches above all roads. That refined and drugged air was starting to make me dizzy, nauseous. There was no prison like one of these cars: the gratitude stopped you from getting out and running.

If I’d asked them to stop, let them believe I was getting motion-sick, the chauffeur would certainly have done it. It would have cost more time, and if they came, there was nothing I could do.

Out in the blazing car park, along the raked gravel path up to the church doors, tarred and with tousled sprays of lilac on both sides. I glanced upwards once, but the drapery of leafage was so dense, I wouldn’t have seen anything.

Tiffy’s mum had arranged a fairytale wedding: the chancel stuffed with white roses, an angelic choir of eleven-year-old girls. The thought of the cost made me light-headed. When I’d spoken to Tiffy, she’d laughed and said, “They’re burning my inheritance on it, we’re gonna end up on the street.”

We were inside the porch, shady and chilly between heavy stone walls. I felt dizzy and fever-warm like from sunstroke, but the morning had been cool. This was where I met Tiffy, her dark hair put up in curls, body encased in the slim bodice of her wedding-gown. The ivory skirt bloomed out to its full width and would float over the flagstones when we walked, half-a-step, and wait, and half-a-step, like the vicar had drilled us.

“You look like you’ve never seen me before, Seb,” she said with a pointy smile.

We waited, arm in arm, outside the bustle of a packed church, until the wedding march struck up inside and the warden pushed open the doors.

I don’t remember the first third of the walk. It was a unique phase of my life, and it felt like I might still be dreaming. I didn’t want to stare in every direction like a curious child. The aisle was a tunnel enclosed by a grey haze.

I didn’t see the bird until it was two steps away. It had perched on one of the pew doors on the left, wood painted grey with blue trim. In my memory, I picture them as flea-bitten and moulted, but they’re always bright and new when you see them: fitted in silicone sleeves, no dust particles get into the system, an estimated effective life of eighty years. It was sitting so it could see me, with an eye that was a little sensor under glass.

I didn’t try to swat it. If I’d thought it would help, I would have, but I wouldn’t be the first to try. You’d probably be able to beat them to scrap with a baseball bat, at least enough to silence them, but we’re not fast enough to surprise even an organic bird. As we proceeded, I came up with impossible plans: toss my black jacket over it, prevent it from seeing me. It would have been less possible than smashing it up. I was the groom; there was no-one in the pews who didn’t have their eyes on us. Still, I might have tried, if I’d had a chance.

A moment later it had flapped onto a many-armed wrought-iron chandelier, and there was no way to reach it. A guest whose name I didn’t know ducked in its trajectory, the draft of its wings wafting her blond hair across her eyes.

I’d frozen in the aisle. Tiffy had to squeeze my arm to get me to move.

My hope of making it through the ceremony without birds was gone, but I could still hope that it wouldn’t say anything. That was what I had left, hoping, praying. I didn’t think about the fact that we’d have to stay for at least a short sermon – hymns, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” I managed to convince myself that it was just a case of getting through the marriage act and our vows. I calculated the maximum number of minutes it might take.

We passed below the unlit chandelier. I couldn’t see it any longer without craning my head back. I did anyway. The wrought-iron arms blended into it, so that it was possible to imagine that there wasn’t anything there. An artificial tree and an artificial bird.

“Most females have had like twenty to thirty dicks before they hit fifteen, anyway.”

It didn’t sound quite like my voice, but they never do. Tiffy and Jamis and my in-laws would recognise the voice, they were used to hearing it from outside. The church vault amplified it.

I marched onward. I’d stopped praying: now I focused on getting to the altar rail and getting it done. I fixed my gaze on the embroidered cross on the white altar-cloth as if it wouldn’t be able to speak until I stopped focusing. (As if no harm would be done until it spoke again.)

I couldn’t bring myself to look at Tiffy’s profile, but in my memory, she looks like she’s about to cry.

The organ had fallen silent and the floating wordless choir had fallen silent. There was nothing for the bird to drown out other than a concerned muttering.

“It’s just woke feminists who whine about rape all the time, after all. Men would rather die than just lie down and let someone subject us to something like that. I mean, little boys are too weak, but a grown man would fight back.”

It was a long post, we were almost at the altar rail with its flat embroidered cushions when finished. The clergyman stood stiff. He let the ceremony proceed as if one of us had dropped something. I was a little outside myself, I hovered next to Seb’s dark-haired head in the liquor scent of my aftershave and almost wanted to hear more, to see it tear down more of me. I wanted to see what would be left.

I only remember snippets of the ceremony. The things the bird said are clearer. Tiffy didn’t run out on me, nothing so dramatic.

We’ve hugged since then, and had sex. When she looks at me, she has an expression that I never saw while we were dating. If I talk to her, I don’t know what it might lead to.

Yes, it was all my words. Not even those who hate them the most are able to show proof that the birds twist what we say. If I could have made myself believe it, I would have. That would mean it wasn’t me.

I could say that I’ve matured, that I wouldn’t say those things again, but I don’t know if it’s true.

I want to have a conscience again.

THE END

[oliviamartinphotography]

David Cook

David Cook is an NZ photographer. A lot of his work focuses on capturing people in their environment. I particularly loved his work Meet Me In The Square from the 80’s in Christchurch which he recovered after the 2011 earthquake. It provides such interesting snapshots into society at the time from punk fashion and rebellion against the status quo to an empty stadium full of beer cans, illustrating NZ drinking culture, university graduates, schoolboys learning to shoot a gun, a nun, a girl riding a bike. The black and white photos allow us to focus on the scene and leave colour to our imagination. I think black and white also creates a feeling of something in the past like a memory or something you haven’t experienced. His work Bledisloe & Jelicoe from 90’s Hamilton is also really interesting. It shows the average life at that time through images at parties, interiors and people on the river. I love the way that he portrays seemingly mundane settings in such a special way. He captures people being people which is the beauty of it. My favourite photos in particular of his:

Lady on the phone - I think this image has a strong composition uses aspects of the golden spiral. The woman on the phone in the foreground is lit by the lighting coming from the room she's in. The lighting is warm which gives a homely feel and the woman's face clearly shows she's having a good conversation. The doorframe and phone wire beautifully frames a woman and the living room beyond where there are a few more ladies sitting around a red table. This image creates a sense of community and friendship.

Man standing in stadium - I think this image is interesting as the man is situated in a stadium after an event. He's the only figure we can clearly see but there are some figures that are pictured far in the background. There are beer cans littered everywhere which creates an interesting scene as well as the lines of the steps that lead to the man in the foreground.

River through the window - I love this photo as it captures both the interior and exterior. The framing of the river and trees through the window frame is beautiful and contrasts the more dark interior. The edges of the room create leading lines into the frame. We can see a coathanger and shower curtain so we can assume this is the bathroom. The window is split into 2 frames which divides the river in the bottom half from the bush above. I like the tranquility of this image - no people.

[callowaymp3]

"You don't need to tell me twice." Noah teased. He was slightly horrified to find his tone was bereft of it's usual playful cadence and instead, was betrayed by the warmth usually reserved for Flynn, or in his more tender moments, Keeley. He blamed the fact that in Poppy Martin's bedroom, he was completely unmoored, eyes shut tight, his only lifeline the grasp of a pretty girl's hand. He was vulnerable with his eyes closed, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be since Holden had first placed deft fingers over his own, teaching him which guitar strings to pluck, or even the first time he'd kissed Flynn. He was completely at Poppy's mercy, and shocked to find he didn't mind.

Almost reflexively, his grip on her tightened as a hand found his waist. He resisted the urge to wriggle from her grasp, unsure as to whether it was down to a sudden burst of ticklishness or a reluctance to let Poppy guide him. But no, in the swimmy darkness, Noah fighting not to trip over his own feet, her touch felt good. The tenderness of Poppy’s touch, light but firm, a hand slipping under the worn fabric of his shirt to brush his skin, was overwhelming. He took small, careful steps in the self-imposed darkness, listening out as Poppy stumbled with him, let out a high giggle, Noah laughing with her despite the fact he didn’t know what they were laughing at.

A curtain of fabric fell over his face, despite what he was sure were Poppy’s best efforts to wrangle both a 5’10 white American male and whatever obstacles were in their way. Whatever it was was heavy, and as Noah reached out a blind hand Poppy’s hands fell away, leaving Noah mourning their momentary loss as the fabric was neatly pushed aside.

“You so rich you got Narnia back here, huh, Pops?” he chuckled.

Even behind closed eyes, it seemed darker in this room, the smell of Poppy’s perfume was thick in the air, comforting, small pin-pricks of light disorientating him.

“Still?” Noah asked, wondering what kind of game she was playing. Anxiety was ramping up the longer he stood with his eyes closed, moments away from wondering if this was some kind of prank. Maybe Poppy would pull back a curtain or rip some kind of sheet away and there would be Kara, standing with a smug smile on her otherwise sweet, freckled face, as though to say, we know what you did. He couldn’t picture Kara with that kind of venom in her though. Kara was sweet, Noah had always liked sweet girls. It dawned on him for the first time what a startling resemblance to Poppy she had.

Poppy’s lips brushed his skin, pulling him from his reverie. Or in this case, a quickly escalating series of scenarios in which he imagined his current girlfriend clocking him for the somewhat emotional affair he was having with a woman who was, effectively, his employer. In Noah’s defence, an emotional affair had to be one of the least horrible things he’d ever done to Kara.

His stomach fluttered gently as Poppy disentangled from him, quietly moving further into the room. He could hear her shuffling around, the tell-tale sound of coathangers clinking against the railing and each other as Poppy seemingly searched for something. Was this whole space her closet? And what could Poppy possibly have for him in here? Noah resisted the urge to reach both of his hands out to see if he could touch each wall either side of him. How big was this place, exactly?

He could hear the anticipation building in her voice as he obediently held out his hands, waiting for whatever gift Poppy had to bestow on him. After a few seconds that seemed to stretch out into forever, he felt a mass of heavy fabric be pressed into his arms, the quick touch of Poppy's hand as she made sure he had a hold on it. His fingers curled around the mass, it was a rough-hewn fabric. Denim, maybe? He fumbled in the dark stupidly, feeling his cheeks redden.

"Okay?"

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust when they sprung open, his first sight that of Poppy with her trademark, shit-eating grin on her face. He shot her a small smile back, for a second forgetting about his gift, until his eyes cast downward.

For one horrible, humiliating second, Noah feared he might cry. It didn't take him long to put the pieces together, but it took him a second longer than it should've to believe what he was holding. Calloused fingers ran over the embroidery, the all too familiar name of his hero stitched there, and he forced himself to swallow around the lump in his throat. For a moment or two the pair merely stood in silence, Noah's fingers curling and uncurling in the fabric of the jacket. He resisted the urge to bring the collar to his nose, certain it would only smell like Poppy after a time of living in her wardrobe, and also because that would've been fucking weird.

"What... how did you..?" he asked, lifting his head to look her full in the face. "Why?"

He clutched the jacket close to his chest, smoothing over the places he'd worried at it, held it a little too tightly like a greedy kid. It was, by far, the nicest thing that had ever been given to him. It was up there with his guitar, with the presents his Mom had worked her ass off to put under the tree every Christmas. Yes, it was the most expensive thing currently in his possession, but it was also the kindest gift he'd ever been given, because Poppy knew how much he would love it.

"I can't... you can't give me this." he laughed, throat thick as he moved to close the distance between them, crushing the jacket between their bodies as he pulled her in for a hug. His hand cupped the back of her head sweetly, so reluctant was he to let go of the jacket, and quickly his lips found her forehead, lingering there in a kiss.

"Poppy Martin, you are the most insane girl I've ever met."

Not for the first time today, Poppy found herself surprised by Noah. Flirting was one thing, but feeling him so compliant to her touch and hearing the soft exhale as her lips parted from his skin was all the validation she could ask for. If his words hadn’t been enough for her, this was all the confirmation she needed that he was as into her as she was him. His lips seemed to part into a shy smile as he eagerly insisted that he trusted her, his fingers curling against her own where she held his hand. 

“Okay, good,” Poppy giggled. “Just follow my lead, okay? Grab onto me if you need to.” 

Carefully, she slid her free hand to his waist, gripping tight as she started taking slow steps backwards, glancing over her shoulder as she guided him through the room. She laughed nervously as her knee bumped the edge of her bed, finding herself far more attentive with Noah’s wellbeing than her own. She tugged him carefully through the room until they reached a long, flowing curtain, the fabric shaped into perfect floral patterns, as though a wall of leaves and flowers hung low from her ceiling. 

Removing her hand from his waist, Poppy pushed the curtain aside, carefully pulling him along behind her as her bedroom opened out onto a large closet space. The room was almost the size of her bedroom, a fact she was still coming to terms with even after living there with Diego for so long. Growing up, Poppy had never been acustomed to having nice, expensive things, and certainly couldn’t justify spending hundreds of dollars on items of clothing. Colour filled the space they were in now as she glanced around her, her chaotic sense of fashion – or lack thereof – haphazardly on display around them. There were rails chock-full of bright, gaudy t-shirts with colorful flower patterns, or those marked with pokemon and animal crossing villagers across the breast-pocket. She had touring outfits by the dozen, made up of tiny sequinned skirts and sexy bralettes that she didn’t have half the confidence to wear off stage, as well as her favourite pairs of dungarees and dirty converse that she’d felt too nostalgic to throw out. 

“Okay, keep your eyes shut, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” Poppy told him. 

With one final squeeze of his hand, she brought his knuckles close to her mouth, letting her lips brush the skin there too, a silent promise before she released her hold on him. Stepping further into the wide space, she beamed as she surged forward to the corner she desired. She knew exactly what she needed and where it was.  

Hanging from a rail was a jacket that, to the untrained eye, looked like nothing special. In fact, it looked just about like every denim jacket she’d ever seen Flynn wearing, navy and worn with fraying threads on the cuffs of its sleeves. Contrary to its tired look, Poppy had never worn it. In fact, it was too big for her, hanging baggy against her shoulders, falling just above her thighs. Etched just above the breastpocket, in faded white thread, were the words Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. There were details such as this one, or the logo that rested on the arm of the jacket – or even the dates 1984-1985 printed across the back – that served as the ultimate giveaway to what she was about to hand Noah, and she had all the faith in the world that he’d recognise its significance. 

Carefully, Poppy pulled the jacket free from its hanger, and turned back to Noah, taking a few slow steps in his direction. 

“Okay, I need you to hold out your hands for me,” Poppy told him, her voice lifting an octave, barely able to contain her excitement. 

As she watched, somewhat impatiently, Poppy beamed openly to herself as he slowly outstretched his arms, palms opening at her request. Then, with as much grace as she could, she pressed the fabric into his hands, her fingers skimming his own as she closed his fists around it and took a step back. 

"Okay, now open your eyes,” Poppy requested, bouncing on the balls of her feet in unfiltered glee. 

[celerrie]

curse-breaker [part 3/3]

summary: You're the Mystic Arts' best and brightest when it comes to breaking ancient curses, and Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme...well, he's the Mystic Arts' best when it comes to everything else. But when a normal day together at New York City's Sanctum Sanctorum is turned on its head by an invitation from Tony Stark himself to attend this year's Stark Industries Gala, you find that you need to clarify what, exactly, you and Stephen are to each other, and not just to the world at large.

pairing: Stephen Strange/Sorcerer!Reader

warnings: Literally 90% of this chapter is just smut. We've got us some magical mind-reading and mind sex, sex magic, face-sitting, edgeplay, P in V sex, creampie...I think that just about covers it! DNI and DNR if you're under 18!!

word count: 11.9k

a/n: Finally, the smut chapter! Let's jump right in! If you're looking for earlier chapters, though, you can find them here: [part 1 here] [part 2 here]

“So we’re looking for a picture of a guy with tentacles on his face.  Anything else you can remember?”  Stephen asked, magically flicking through the pages of his book quickly.

“Not really,” you sighed, waving your hand again and again to skim through your own book’s pages rapidly.

“Mm.  Well, we’ll find it eventually,” Stephen sighed.  “Though I am very tempted to just use the Eye of Agamotto to get through this in the next two minutes.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to save that for serious problems,” you remarked.

“Yeah, well, I can think of a lot of other things I’d seriously rather be doing right now,” Stephen grumbled.  You hummed in quiet agreement, but, to your relief, Stephen didn’t actually reach for the relic around his neck; as much as you wanted to be able to focus on him, too, neither of you needed for him to create the potential for alternate timelines or altered reality or any of the other things that could come from the wanton use of a magical item that could literally rewind and speed up time.

You and Stephen soon fell into your own headspaces, all of your attention on the task at hand.  For a long, long stretch of time, during which you made it through the first 300 pages of your book, there was nothing but the sound of the two of you breathing and the steady swish of paper as each page was turned.

Abruptly, the Cloak began moving beneath Stephen, jostling him around. 

“Hey, what’s—I’m reading!  I’m doing the right thing,” Stephen protested.  “What are you mad at me about now?”  But the Cloak, being unable to answer, simply continued to ripple and flutter, pushing Stephen up into a sitting position and pulling itself out from beneath him.

“I think he decided he was tired of being laid on,” you said with an amused chuckle as the Cloak went to hang himself up on a coathanger kept by the bed.

“He messed up my robes,” Stephen grumbled as he was dropped back on the bed, shifting his hips and trying to straighten out the layers of his Sorcerer Supreme attire, which was now rumpled underneath him.  “Oh, fuck it, I’m just going to put something more comfortable on,” he muttered after a moment when it became apparent that fixing his outfit was going to be more bother than it was worth.  He waved his hands, and you watched out of the corner of your eye as his deep blue robes turned into his favorite baby blue Columbia hoodie and a pair of dark grey sweatpants.

“Better?”  You asked, amused.

“Yeah,” Stephen agreed, already back to flipping through the book he was holding.  You turned your attention back to yours, parsing through as quickly as you could.  Within another couple hundred pages, though, you found your shoulder and neck getting a little stiff from how you were propped up on Stephen’s pillows.  You shifted your weight, trying to wiggle into a comfortable position.

You thought you had it figured out until a couple hundred pages later, when you once again had to adjust yourself.  A whole day of teaching curse-breaking plus a couple hours of hunching over that little table in the library had really left you achier than you’d expected.

“You’re distracting me,” Stephen voiced from beside you.  “Can’t you stop squirming?”  You rolled your eyes, glancing over at him.  He always looked so undeniably soft and cuddly in his sweats, and right now was no exception, no matter how prickly he was acting.

Suddenly, an idea came to you.

You picked yourself up and turned your whole body, laying your head down on Stephen’s lap and stretching your legs out across his bed. 

“What are you doing?”  Stephen asked; you could feel his thighs tense beneath you, and when you turned to answer him, you realized that he was frozen in place, his hands stilling where they’d been magically flipping through the book, as if he was completely unsure of what to do.

“Getting comfy, so I can stop distracting you,” you replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“This is more distracting,” Stephen said under his breath.

“Mm,” you hummed.  “It’s comfier for me, though, so….”

Stephen was silent for a moment before dropping his hands and relaxing some of the tension in his thighs.

“Is it really?”  He finally asked.

You made a content mm-hmm­ in agreement, and Stephen let out a somewhat resigned sigh in response, making no effort to move you or verbally remand you for your decision.

You smiled to yourself, turning your attention away from Stephen and beginning to flip through your book again.  The steady swish of paper above your head told you that Stephen was doing the same.

You were coming up on finishing up the first thousand pages of your book (officially halfway!) when you felt something tugging softly on your hair.  When you turned to see what was going on—had you gotten your hair caught under one of Stephen’s legs, somehow?—you were surprised to instead find Stephen’s fingers, shaking as they tentatively played with one of your locks.

“Is this all right?”  He said, his voice low and quiet as his fingers stilled under your gaze.

“Yeah.  Feels nice, actually,” you murmured, your eyes soft as you regarded him.

“Mm,” he hummed in response, letting his fingers begin to move again, twirling and brushing through your hair in unsteady, tentative movements.  As you both returned to your books, he gradually became more confident, letting his fingers card through more and more of your hair, alternating between running it between his digits and smoothing it down in gentle, slow strokes.  Soon, his fingers were even brushing up against your scalp, providing soothing stimulation as he ran his fingertips through the roots of your hair.

You leaned into his touch as he did so, allowing yourself to make a small mewl of pleasure.

“You like that?”  Stephen asked, and when you glanced up at him, you were surprised to once again see that same eagerness to have gotten the right answer that you’d seen earlier, when you were both working hunched over the table together.  His lips were slightly parted as he looked down at you, desire and fascination intermingling in his gaze.

You were suddenly extremely grateful that the Cloak had cockblocked the two of you.  This was so much better than if you’d just fucked each other.

“I do,” you breathed, fluttering your eyes closed and letting your lips part as Stephen ran his fingers along your scalp again just to see the effect it would have on him.  When you opened your eyes, you were greeted by the sight of his chest rising and falling just slightly faster and harder than usual, his pupils blown.

God, he was a gorgeous, gorgeous man.  You wanted to absolutely wreck him tonight.  You wanted to twist him around your little finger, to experience the depths of devotion he obviously had for you, to watch him shake and shudder beneath you while you praised him and pleased him in turn—

 “I was, um,” Stephen began, his lips still parted as he continued to regard you.  “I was wondering what you thought about red and blue as our colors.  For the gala,” he clarified.  “I know I mentioned it earlier, but now that you’re officially going with me….”

“You want me wearing your colors for all of Stark Industries and the Avengers to see, is that it, Doctor Strange?”  You asked knowingly, though not without keeping your voice soft and low and allowing a lazy smile to pull at your lips.

Stephen ran his fingers through your hair again as he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I do,” he murmured.  “I really, really do.”

Your smile grew at his words, and you reached back with one hand, slipping it under Steven’s thigh and gently rubbing the firm flesh you found there.

“That can be arranged,” you agreed, turning back to look at your book before the needy look Stephen was just barely disguising drove you absolutely wild.  “Are you thinking of a blue suit for yourself, then?”

“Blue suit, white shirt, darker blue tie.  Black shoes.  And Cloak, of course,” he added,  “for the pop of red and the levitation powers.  And because I don’t really go anywhere without him anymore.”

You began flipping through your book again, smiling to yourself.  He hadn’t just considered this offhand today; he’d thought about it. Thoroughly.

“And what about me?”  You asked, unable to resist.  “Do you see me in a blue dress or a red dress?”

Stephen was silent for a moment, and even without looking at him, you could feel his eyes on you.

“I see you in whatever dress you want,” he finally answered carefully.

You smiled at this reply.  He was trying.

“That’s a good answer,” you admitted, continuing to gently work the firm flesh of the back of Stephen’s thigh.  “But really, Stephen.  You said earlier that you don’t see yourself at the Gala without me, so I’m curious: what do you see me in when I’m there in your mind?”

Stephen drew in a slow breath, turning page after page after page of his book as he exhaled slowly.

“I thought red and gold at first,” he finally said, the hand that was entwined in your hair running through it once more, then smoothing it down, then repeating itself again, “but then I realized that Stark would probably take that as some sign that you were a huge fan of his or something, so I had to throw that idea out the window.  The last thing I need is Tony thinking my date is there for him and not me.”

You laughed quietly in amusement; red and gold had seemed like it would be a good choice at the start of Stephen’s sentence, but you definitely saw how those colors would be reserved for the host of the gala himself.

 “Blue, then?”  You asked, though you were already sure of the answer.

“Blue.  Though I envision a little bit more of a royal blue than my suit or robes, to bring out your complexion and provide a little matching contrast between us,” he replied.

“That actually sounds like it might work.  We could match my dress to your tie,” you mused, continuing to flip through the pages of your book.  “How do you know that royal blue would bring out my complexion, though?” 

Stephen chuckled at this, grazing his fingers along your scalp in the most scandalously delicious way.

“I told you I remember things about you with crystal clarity, didn’t I?”  He murmured, and you actually felt a little heat rise up to your cheeks at this.

You’d never imagined that Stephen paid attention to even these small, relatively insignificant things about you.  You couldn’t even be sure of the last time that you’d worn royal blue, though you were sure you had at some point over the years.

“Right,” is all you said, hoping that the way that you were continuing to flip through your book and rub Stephen’s thigh would conceal some of your own shock.  “Will you come dress shopping with me sometime, then?”  You asked after a beat.

Stephen’s hand continued its steady rhythm through your hair.  Stroke, rest, repeat.  For a moment, you were worried; as Sorcerer Supreme, the earth needed him.  Did he really have enough spare time in his day to take you dress shopping?

“I’d be delighted to,” he murmured, and you felt the anxiety in your chest loosen.

Something told you he’d always have enough time for you.  And if he didn’t have enough, he’d make more.

Literally.

“Next Saturday?”  You asked, turning away from your book once more to look up at Stephen.  You couldn’t help but feel a soft smile pulling at your lips.  You’d fought the Zealots, interdimensional monsters, and innumerable mystic threats with this man, but the thought of going dress shopping with him made you feel more excited than you had expected.

You supposed it had to do with the fact that the two of you lived such a hard life together, full of battle and teaching and training and investigating, always pushing back against the evil forces that threatened the world.  The chance to do something as mundane and romantic and soft as dress shopping together felt undeniably thrilling.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Stephen responded, his voice quiet and smooth.

Still smiling, you slipped your hand out from behind his leg and reached up for his hand, which was still running through your hair gently.  You carefully disentangled his fingers from your hair, then entwined your fingers with his.  His large, long digits shook and occasionally spasmed against yours, and the unusual ridges of his dozens of surgical scars felt foreign against your skin, but you didn’t care.  His hand was warm and comforting in yours, and you could feel his magic flowing through him and into yourself like a low undercurrent of electricity that hummed of his very being.  You imagined that your magic was flowing into him in return in a reciprocal energetic connection that spoke of the ways in which the two of you were becoming more and more intertwined with one another.

Stephen ran his broad thumb back and forth over your hand, his blue eyes soft as they held your gaze.  Finally, he returned his attention back to his book, and you did the same, reminding yourself to stay patient.  You and Stephen were in the last half of your books now; you’d be able to turn your full attention to him soon enough.

Fortunately for you, that moment came sooner than later as you flicked over a few more pages and saw a small inset image of a man with tentacles on his face.

“There he is!”  You exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and letting go of Stephen’s hand in favor of snatching the book out of midair.  “Fucking finally!”

“Where?” Stephen said, sitting upright too and scooting closer to you. You moved closer to him in turn until he was leaning over your shoulder so closely that your back was pressed against his broad chest.

“Right here,” you said, pointing out the small picture as you scanned the surrounding text for any clues as to who you were looking at.

“Chthon,” Stephen said after a moment, pointing out the text that identified the betentacled man.  “The world’s first black magician.  Said to be of the race of Elder Gods and brought back to Earth by Morgan le Fey.”

“No further discussion of this most foul, yet mighty, arcane being, nor of his legacy, the Darkhold, shall be had within these pages, for even their mere mention, though necessary, invites corruption, pestilence, and devastation to all those who read this page,” you said, reading the next line aloud.  As you did, a heavy dread settled in your stomach and a shiver passed down your spine.  Stephen must have felt it, too, for he wound one arm around your waist, pulling you closer to himself.

“I just got the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach,” he murmured.

“Me, too,” you agreed.  His arm tightened even further around you.

“Whatever this Darkhold is, and whatever this Chthon has done, it’s ancient and powerful magic,” Stephen rumbled, and you could practically hear the frown in his voice.

“It is,” you nodded solemnly as you scanned the rest of the page.  Unfortunately, as promised, it never mentioned Chthon or the Darkhold again.  You made a mental note of the page number it was on, then closed the book and set it aside with a sigh.  “Well, at least we have a start.  We’ve got a face and a name.”

“We do,” Stephen agreed, setting his chin on your shoulder.  “And Kamar-Taj has Morgan le Fey’s personal journals in the Special Archives, so I think we’ll have a lot more than just that soon enough.”

The beginnings of hope stirred in the pit of your stomach with this new information, chasing away the sense of dread that had settled over you.  Whatever this was was bad—world-altering, life-ending bad—but as long as you had Stephen, everything would be okay.  If anyone could put together the pieces of this mystery, it was the smartest man you knew.

You turned in Stephen’s hold, settling your hands on the breadth of his shoulders and regarding him fondly.

“You’re pretty brilliant sometimes, you know that, Sorcerer Supreme?”  You murmured, bringing one hand up to cup the side of his cheek.  He leaned into your touch the slightest bit, his eyes fluttering closed as he covered your hand in his, pressing your palm to his skin more firmly.  As he did, you could feel the sense of dread that had settled in his body dissipating into thin air.

“I could never do any of this without you,” he rumbled, the vibrations of his voice echoing through his chest and into yours.  He turned and pressed a kiss into the open palm of your hand, then smiled against your skin, a small chuckle escaping him.  “In fact, that was reason number seven on the list of reasons why I wanted you as my date to the Gala.”

Something flipped in your mind at his words.

Maybe you did want to hear that list, after all, you decided as Stephen began pressing soft kisses to the inside of your wrist, the bristles of his perfectly groomed beard tickling and scratching your sensitive skin.

“That is a pretty good reason,” you admitted as he inched higher up the inside of your arm, giving you another kiss and another and another, even as his lips curled into a smile at your words.

“I knew you’d think so,” he murmured, blue eyes glancing up at you through his dark lashes.  You once again recognized the self-satisfied look he wore when he got something right; it was just barely disguising an underlying need to get more and more things right about you.

“What was reason number eight, then?”  You breathed, carding your fingers through Stephen’s hair as he began working his way up to your bicep, pressing kisses to the muscle and then to your shoulder as he worked higher and higher still.

He paused at your words, his lips now hovering over your collarbone.  He pressed a kiss there and then delivered another one before pausing again over your neck, his beard scratching over your pulse point as he smiled.

“Let’s, um, let’s actually start at reason number one,” he said, sounding a little sheepish.  Ordinarily, you’d wonder what the reason for his sudden hesitation was, but moments later, he began nipping and kissing at your neck, working his way up to your jawline, and your only thought became the need to tip your head back to grant him as much access as possible.

“All right,” you acquiesced, your mind beginning to grow hazy with desire.  “Let’s hear it, Stephen.”

“I like having you around,” he mumbled against the column of your throat, punctuating his sentences with kisses there, too.  “I like being around you.  And when I’m away from you,” he added, moving up to your jawline once again.  He pressed a kiss there, too, then hovered his lips over yours. One of his big hands tangled in the hair at the back of your head, holding you close but not quite close enough to give you the pressure on your lips you so desperately craved.  “I miss you.  I’d miss you the whole night long if I were at that gala with anyone else.”

 “Even Wong?”  You breathed, unable to resist being sassy.

A bubble of laughter escaped Stephen at this, his lips grazing over your own with the movement.

“Even Wong,” he agreed, and you laughed and pulled him in for a messy, clumsy kiss, bumping noses and your teeth clacking against his as the two of you laughed and held each other and molded your mouths together around your smiles.  The low, languid energetic buzz of the universe around you tumbled upwards, escalating in pitch the more your magic and laughter and mouth entwined with Stephen’s.  Your veins were on fire; your heart was burning, aching, searing from the fullness of feeling him—his magic, his energy, maybe even his very being—flooding into you.  You didn’t know which it was. It could be all of them or one of them; it could be that it was impossible to separate out Stephen Strange from his own magic.  Maybe, by now, he was magic.

But if that was true, he was your magic, and you were his.

You had to have him; you had to have all of him, and you had to let him have all of you. 

Almost as if you’d decided on it together, he began to lay back, and you pressed further into him, tangling your fingers in his larger ones and pinning his hands to the mattress by the side of his head just as you pinned his broader frame with your smaller one.

“It would have killed me to see anyone else on your arm at that gala,”  you admitted, speaking your words around your open-mouthed kisses to him.

“It would have killed me to go with anyone else,” he admitted right back as a flood of triumph surged into your system from him.

So this was what it felt like to be Stephen Strange when he got something right.  You could see how the mountain-sized kick of dopamine his system provided him could get addicting.

As his tongue slipped into your mouth, taking dominance of the kiss back from you, you had to admit: you could also see how he could get addicting.

“Let’s hear the second reason,” you said, pulling away from the kiss.  Stephen chased after you, craning his neck up to try to recapture your lips in his. It wasn’t lost on you that he left his hands pinned underneath yours, even though he could easily overpower you and pull you back down to take the kiss he so obviously wanted.  And oh, by the Vishanti, did he look gorgeous with his eyes half-closed, his expression already half-drunk on you as he yearned for you.  The things you could do to him, the ways you could wreck him and please him—

Stephen suddenly stopped chasing your lips, setting his head back on the pillow and regarding you with wide eyes and lips parted. You had to assume that, just as his elation at having done well with his first reason had spilled into your consciousness, your desire to see Stephen absolutely ruined for you, begging for your touch and praise, was flooding his mind.

“Second reason,” he repeated breathlessly, his fingers trembling as they squeezed yours just a little tighter.  “Second reason.”

“Second reason,” you repeated with a breathy laugh, squeezing his hands back as you lowered your head and kissed the strong column of his throat.

“It is astonishingly hard to remember what I’m supposed to say right now,” Stephen rumbled, his voice dropping into his low range, reverberating against your mouth.

“Use your all-powerful photographic memory, Stephen,” you snickered, sucking and biting at the skin just under his jawline, then soothing the mark you’d made with your tongue.

“I’m trying.  Fuck.  Fucking shit,” he hissed as you began thinking particularly hard about working your way further down his body until you were pulling his sweatpants and boxers down and sucking his cock.  You felt his hips buck beneath you as you imagined touching your lips to his tip—

And then, suddenly, your foot-in-mouth senses began going off, perhaps louder than ever before due to the fact that there was no distance between the two of you, physically or magically speaking.

“I’m bigger than what you’re imagining,” Stephen said smugly, apparently perfectly able to focus on that, of all things.

“Of course, you are,” you grumbled, immediately dropping the mental image you’d been conjuring up. It figured that Stephen would be cocky, smart, powerful, and hung.

“Trust me, you’ll be happy about it in the long run,” Stephen grinned beneath you as he sent a soft surge of magic into your palms, gently pushing your hands away from his.  Once his hands were free, he wrapped them around you, his fingers spreading wide as they moved across your back, holding you close and pulling you up to give you another kiss.  His open mouth met yours with a hunger that you didn’t know that careful, controlled, clever Stephen could possess, and you melted into him willingly.  “Second reason,” he said when he finally pulled back for air.  Your mind felt astoundingly clear for having just been kissed senseless, but moments later, you realized why.  “I told you this one earlier, actually, but when I’ve got you in my arms, I feel calm, like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

For the first time, you could feel what he felt when he held you.  You always felt calm in Stephen’s arms, but what he felt was a profoundly grounding experience, as if you could take all the chaos and energy and sheer force-of-nature power that was Stephen Strange and rearrange it into something cohesive just by your presence and proximity.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”  Stephen asked, stroking your cheek with one thumb and looking at you admiringly.  “A lot of times, I can even tell where you are in the Sanctum based on this feeling.  But it’s strongest when I’m holding you.”

“It’s…” you started, your mind running a mile a minute.  Beautiful.  Electrifying.  Magical.  A thousand times better than my foot-in-mouth senses.

Stephen laughed at this, a low, almost melodic chuckle that you rarely heard from him.

“Having just experienced your foot-in-mouth senses, I agree with you on all accounts,” he grinned.

“I really got the short end of whatever magical stick we both got when we met each other,” you agreed, and another genuine, melodic laugh came from Stephen at this.

“That’s reason number three, by the way,” he said, the hand that had been on your cheek tangling into the hair at the back of your head and pulling you in for another kiss. His other hand slipped underneath your shirt, his fingers trembling slightly as they explored your back.

“What is?”  You asked as you pulled away from Stephen enough to slip your hands under his baby blue Columbia hoodie.  “My foot-in-mouth senses?”  As you sat back enough to do so, your hips rocked into his cock, which was straining against his sweatpants, already hard.

Shit.  He was bigger than you’d imagined.

“Told you,” Stephen said with a smirk, lazily grinding his hips up into yours.  You tried your best to remain mentally unperturbed by the fact that he was right; you didn’t want to give him that pleasure.  The last thing you needed was for Stephen Strange to develop even more of a complex than he already had.

But he did feel delicious against you as he ground up into your core.  The friction he could provide was tantalizing, and you couldn’t help but imagine, for the briefest of nanoseconds before you regained control over yourself, how good he’d feel, filling you and stretching you and fucking you.

A hit of dopamine flooded your system at this, and you knew that, despite your best efforts, Stephen had sensed your momentary weakness, and he felt fucking great about it.

“That’s it.  You’re gonna feel so good all full of me, baby girl,” he mumbled against your lips, his big hands sliding up and down the sides of your waist.

Oh, God, he wasn’t supposed to sound that good dirty-talking you.  He’d barely even said anything, and you were getting soaking wet for him.  Could you blame yourself, though?  His voice was so low and smooth, and his hands felt electrifying on you, and his cock was still grinding up into your core desperately—

“Third reason,” you said, your voice breathy and shaky as you skimmed your fingers along the sides of his waist in turn, up to his ribs and down to the sharp lines of his svelte hips.

A low chuckle erupted from Stephen at this, and moments later, you were hit by the awareness that you thought that you were going to be the one to have him underneath you, shaking and mewling and begging for praise, but he was going to do everything in his power to make you be the one coming unraveled for him.  His thoughts were leaking into your mind, visions of him hovering over you, his hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead as he filled you, rocking you into the bed—

That competitive bastard.  This was payback for that earlier thought about sucking his cock; you were sure of it.

If Stephen Strange wanted to try to play this game, he could go right ahead.  You were going to win it, though.

“I want to hear the third reason,” you repeated yourself with more confidence, trying to regain control of the situation by lifting your hips and lips away from his and resting your hands on his pectorals.  They rippled beneath you, lean yet larger than you’d remembered.  Since when had that happened?

Another hit of dopamine flowed into you from Stephen.  Shit, you thought, irritated with yourself.  You hadn’t meant to give him that satisfaction.

Stephen smiled beneath you, clearly very pleased with the dynamic emerging here.

“The third reason,” he said, sliding your shirt up and over your shoulders.  You pulled back from him enough to help him, once again sitting back on his cock as it strained against his sweatpants, “is that you’re literally one of the only people I find funny.  Trying to banter with anyone else is like talking to a wet rag.”  You tugged at his sweatshirt, pulling it up and signaling to him that he should discard it, and he sat up to help you strip it off of him.  “Even this,” he said, tossing his Columbia sweatshirt aside and wrapping his arms around you.  “This connection, this…whatever we’re doing.  I love it.”

You let your hands clutch at Stephen’s well-muscled shoulders as he pulled you in close until your chest was flush against his. A hungry look passed over his face as he lowered his head down toward you once again, slotting his mouth over yours.

He kissed you with that searing intensity and desire that you were learning lived deep inside Stephen, his hands pinning your hips down to his.  At the same time, he rutted up into you, his growing desperation to receive and give friction seeping into you.

Oh, by the Vishanti, it felt good.  Everything about this felt good; the steady drag of his cock against your core, even through your clothing, was just what you needed, but you could also feel Stephen’s pleasure and how turned on he was. Your consciousness was almost overcome with how excited he was to be finally grinding up into you, to be the one in bed with you, making you feel good—

Something clicked in your mind, and you decided you were going about this all wrong.  If you engaged Stephen in the battle of wills he was trying to bait you into, you were going to lose.  There was, quite simply, no one in the universe as strong-willed as the Sorcerer Supreme.  No, you were going to win Stephen over by giving into him.

It was remarkably simple, really. If you tried to keep pretending that Stephen didn’t phase you, you were just going to end up accidentally goading him into trying to prove to you and himself alike that he did, in fact, have the power to make you come apart at the seams.  But if you admitted how much you liked the things he could do to you, he’d spend all night chasing your high, doing everything he could for you.

If he was excited to be making you feel good, then God, you wanted him to know the full intensity of the fire he stoked in you and the electricity he put in your veins.  Foreplay with him was already worlds better than any foreplay you’d ever had with anyone else.  You’d never experienced this level of magical connection with another human—had never even known it was possible, even—and you wanted to let it keep going deeper, to let him fuck you just right and to take care of him and that perfect, absolutely gorgeous body of his until he gave everything he had to you.

Stephen’s mouth moving against yours slowed as his mind struggled to keep up with the onslaught of desire from you.  Finally, he pulled back, pupils blown and lips swollen from being kissed so thoroughly.

“You do think I’m pretty,” he rumbled.

It took you a long moment, but you finally remembered your conversation in the morning as you’d portalled yourself over to Kamar-Taj. 

Don’t you worry your pretty head over it, Stephen.

You think I’m pretty?

“I think you’re fucking beautiful,” you purred, no longer holding back your emotions.  As expected, a kick of dopamine hit your system from Stephen’s.  “I think you’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever so much as laid eyes on.”  More dopamine.  “Even your grey hairs are the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.  Let me take care of you, Stephen.  My stunning, handsome man.”  Another jolt of elation and desire.

“I want to take care of you, too, sweetheart,” he said, his voice shaky.  “I want to fuck you so good.  Make you all mine.”

“You will,” you promised him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “I promise, baby, you will.  But you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

You waited a moment with bated breath.  If you were right about this—about the fact that he would only fight you for control if he felt like he had something to prove to you—he’d melt into your openness and unabashed passion for him while striving to overachieve and please you.

And if you were wrong, he was going to be in control, and you had a feeling you would be in for an interesting night full of power play after power play.

“Of course,” Stephen finally breathed. “Anything you want.  I’m all yours, darling.”

“My beautiful man,” you sighed, holding his face—his pretty, perfectly sculpted face—between your hands and kissing him hard.  As you did, you thought about how you wanted him to unclasp your bra and free you from it.

Stephen grunted, moving with all haste to undo your bra clasp.  His fingers shook violently as he attempted the task at first; it wasn’t until you felt him direct more of his magical energy to stabilize his fingers that he was able to accomplish his goal.  Once he did, though, you helped him shimmy your bra off your shoulders.  The moment he cast it to the side, you pressed yourself against his chest again, savoring the heat of his smooth skin on yours and kissing him deeply.

“Thank you,” you sighed into his mouth as you took his hands, moving them onto the sides of your breasts and moaning as his trembling fingers came into contact with your skin.  “That’s so much better.”

“Anything for you,” Stephen breathed, his fingers tracing your curves tentatively, though you could feel the overwhelming hunger that was at the core of him urging him to claim you, to bite you and leave marks all over the softness of your tits and inner thighs.

“What reason are we on?”  You asked as you pulled back from his chest just enough to allow your breasts to be bared to him.  Without his heat to keep you warm, you could feel your nipples pebbling in the cool air, and you longed for Stephen to play with them. Beneath yourself, Stephen’s cock stiffened even further, and an awareness of the fact that he was aching from being so hard for you, from craving your touch so thoroughly, filled your mind.

“The fourth,” Stephen breathed, fulfilling your desires by sliding his hands across the soft plushness of your breasts, savoring and groping at their curves until he came to your nipples.  A gasp left your mouth at the electric tingle of his magic that surged through his fingertips and into your flesh as he stabilized his hands enough to allow himself to roll your hardened peaks between his thumb and forefinger.  At your reaction, the briefest, most split-second feeling of shame and embarrassment trickled into you from Stephen.  Short though it was—blink and you’d miss it—it was powerfully intense, buoyed to the surface of his consciousness by fears that he’d never be good enough in bed for you, that he’d hurt you with his clumsiness or his magic, or that you’d be turned off by his hands.  You tasted all those fears at once, and then, abruptly, they were gone, pushed away from the surface and away from you.

Well.  You couldn’t have that.

“That felt really good,” you said, sitting back on Stephen’s lap so that you were on full display for the man underneath you.  Firmly and confidently, you put your hands on Stephen’s and redirected them back to your breasts.  “That tingle of magic…right…there,” you breathed, moving his scarred fingers back to where they had just been.  “Fuck, that’s…that’s really sexy, Stephen.”

Stephen’s lips parted as he watched you with lust-blown eyes, his gaze fixed on where your hands intertwined over your tits.

“You…you’re not just saying this to make me feel better,” he finally said, continuing to do his best to please you with his fingers and his magic.  “You like this.  A lot.”

“When do I ever say things just to make you feel better, Stephen?”  You moaned, biting your lip and clutching at his hands as they became bolder in their manipulations.

“I know, it’s just, I….they’re ruined,” he finally admitted quietly, his hands stilling for a moment.  “Why would you want—”

“They’re sexy, you idiot,” you fired back, though not without affection in your voice.  “You have big hands with slender, long fingers and dozens of mysterious scars from a tragic accident, and you pour magic into them to help them work.  And the magic feels good to me.  You’re in my brain; surely, you can see how this is a turn-on.”

“I…yes?”  He finally said, beginning to move his fingers again.  “I can.  I can,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself.

It helps that they’re yours, you added mentally.  Every part of you is gorgeous to me.

Out loud, however, you uttered a simple “good boy” as he began playing with your tits in earnest again.

Stephen’s mind reacted to both these things with fireworks, a rush of positive emotions flooding through him and through you as he groaned out loud, a beautiful, low sound in his chest.

Strong arms wrapped around you, hitching you up on his lap before pulling you back down towards him. He captured one of your nipples in the warmth of his mouth, his tongue working deftly to swirl and flick at your hardened peak while his hands moved down to grope and squeeze your ass.

“I still owe you that fourth reason,” he said, moving his mouth over the soft expanse of your breast, kissing and biting you in his bid to mark you as he intended.

“Let’s hear it, then,” you purred, grinding yourself down onto Stephen’s still-clothed cock and carding your fingers through the greys of his hair.

“I want to make you laugh,” he said, then moved over to your other breast, marking it the way he’d marked the first.  “And get you drinks.”  Another hickey, followed by his tongue soothing your skin.  “And hold you in my arms.”  A soft bite and a soft, slow kiss to your flesh.  “And dance with you.  You, and no one else.”  At this, his mouth covered your other nipple, lavishing it with the attention the first side had received.

“Oh, Stephen,” you sighed.  “Say that again.”

You didn’t have to clarify; you already knew he could understand what you were thinking about.

“You, and no one else,” he repeated lowly, his hands squeezing your hips and pulling you as close to him as was physically possible.

Then, to your surprise, he sent a tingle of magic through his tongue as he closed his mouth over your flesh once again, and you swore your vision went white with bliss and shock for an instant.

The first thought you had that broke through the pleasure was that you wanted him to try that somewhere else.

Stephen laughed at this, closing his mouth over your nipple again and sending his magic through his tongue once more as he flicked and toyed with your peak.  You whined and squirmed in his hold until he finally pulled away, scraping his teeth on your nub as he went.

“Does my pretty baby want to ride my face while I do that?”  He asked, his hands squeezing your hips encouragingly.

“Yes,” you gasped, and Stephen’s smile grew wider.  “Oh, Stephen, yes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he rumbled, his hands moving to slide your leggings and panties down.  You lifted your hips to help him, only to eventually find yourself irritated enough by trying to strip while kneeling to just magic them away into a pile on the floor.  Stephen chuckled at this, his broad palms moving over your soft thighs as his eyes raked hungrily over every last inch of you.  “You’re beautiful,” he practically purred, his hands skimming back up to your hips.  Magic flowed through him and into you as he lifted you like you were feather-light, pulling you up over his shoulders until your core was situated over his face.  He breathed in and out, the air from his lungs hot and teasing on your core, and you could feel, in your own mind, the way he was savoring the scent of you.

You’re so beautiful.  Stephen’s voice, clear and strong and deep, murmured into your thoughts as he turned to bite and suck at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.  You squirmed and squealed at the sometimes-harsh contact and the bristle of his goatee on your skin, but nevertheless, you allowed him to mark you the way he wanted, especially since he was slowly working his way inwards toward your dripping pussy.  You have no idea how beautiful I think you are, do you?

As he finished the thought, you were hit by a rush of memories, all photographic, picture-perfect in a way that your mind was not capable of achieving.

You, coming down the stairs at the Sanctum Sanctorum first thing in the morning, your pajamas on and the sunlight illuminating your face.  A smile crossed your sleepy features when you saw Stephen had just come back safely from an emergency visit to the London Sanctum, and you felt the way his heart ached at the thought that another man might be the one to see that smile every morning and not him. 

Beautiful, Stephen thought.

You, shielding his battered and magically paralyzed body with your own, your knees on either side of his chest and the muscles in your arms and shoulders flexing as you struggled to contain the strength of the energy and rage building inside you, channeling it into a spell to vanquish your enemy.

Beautiful.

You, laughing at some dumb joke he’d made.  You, your nose buried in a translation book, the setting sun framing you in the library window.  You, standing tall as your hands worked quickly, sorting through magic runes as they floated and twisted in the air, fighting to break an ancient curse as the ground beneath the two of you shook.

Beautiful.

You, covered in mud and the smell of smoke and little specks of Styrofoam, beaming from ear to ear as you told him all about the sorcerers you’d been working with today.

Beautiful.  You’re beautiful, inside and out, and that’s reason number five, because you make the world light up everywhere you go.

His nose gently parted your folds as his hands held your hips firmly, and finally, finally, his tongue darted out to lick a slow, almost gentle stripe up your core. Satisfaction with the taste of you surged through him and, in turn, through you.

“Stephen,” you breathed.  He moaned into your pussy, a delightfully low, deep reverberation that had you gripping his hair and grinding down onto his mouth for more friction.

You shine, Stephen thought into your brain as he began eating you out like a man starved.  You shine in every single way, and I want the world to see that. And tonight, I want to worship you for it.

God, you wanted his worship in a way you didn’t even know you could.

Yes, you thought back to him.  Be good to your pretty baby, Stephen.  Make me feel so good I can’t even remember my own name.  You can do it.  If anyone can, it’s you.

His tongue was perfection against your cunt; being in your brain the way he was, he knew everything you wanted, the perfect angle and pressure to apply, and where to move to provide you with just the right stimulation. Thanks to the magical connection between the two of you, he knew you as intimately as you knew yourself. As you grew wetter and wetter under his care, soaking his chin and his goatee with your juices and his saliva, you could feel your ever-mounting pleasure seeping into his brain, rebounding into yours and reverberating between the two of you like a building echo chamber of bliss.

“That’s my pretty baby,” Stephen moaned aloud into your pussy.  “Letting me have her perfect little pussy, telling me exactly how to make her feel good.  Do you feel good, beautiful?”

Oh, by the Vishanti, he knew you did.

“I want to hear you say it,” he rumbled, and you swore you saw stars at how good the vibrations of his deep voice felt against your heat.

“I feel so good,” you affirmed breathlessly, only for an ache of wanting to reach through you.  Stephen wanted more of your praise, and he wanted you to say his name while you praised him.  God, he ached for your praise in a way that almost hurt.  “Oh, Stephen,” you crooned, carding both your hands through his hair as his cerulean blue eyes flitted up to make contact with yours, even as his tongue began fucking in and out of your hole.  “My good boy.  My beautiful, gorgeous, perfect man.  Who���d have thought you have a perfect tongue that knows just where to be on me?  You make me feel so good, Stephen.  Better than even I can make myself feel.  You’re making my pussy so wet for you, so ready to be filled and taken.  You will take me, won’t you?”

Stephen’s grip on your hips tightened.

“Gods, yes,” Stephen groaned into your core.

“You’ll fuck me out of my mind with your tongue, and then you’ll fuck me and fill me with your cock, won’t you?”

“Please,” Stephen said, his voice strangled.  “Please let me.”

“I’ll let you, Stephen,” you promised him.  “I’ll let you.  My good boy.”

 Stephen’s efforts to please you only increased at this.  You rapidly became blinded by pleasure, a coil beginning to build in your stomach more quickly than ever before thanks to the way your pleasure became his became yours again.

After a long moment of basking in the tumultuous climb to your peak, Stephen removed one of his hands from where he was firmly holding onto your hips and keeping them pressed into his face.

Watch, he ordered you, and you obeyed, turning over your shoulder to see what he wanted you to see, though, in a sense, you already knew.

Still, it was a delicious sight to watch Stephen move slowly, pushing his waistband down inch by inch.  You could see it snag on his cock, could see the way his hard thickness was being pushed down slightly into a smattering of immaculately groomed, short, dark hair as his waistband inched ever further away from you.  He wasbig, nice and girthy and veiny; oh, by the Vishanti, you wanted those thick, manly veins and that fat, heavy cock in your cunt so badly. You needed him, needed that perfect cock that you could only see some of and that you already knew you loved.

The pleasure that shot through you from Stephen at this was almost enough to make you cum on his lips right then and there.

“Shit,” he mumbled into your cunt, hand stilling for a moment as he panted heavily.  “Shit, I almost came, too.  Didn’t ex…didn’t expect you to want it so badly.”

The thought that you had almost just made the Sorcerer Supreme of all of Earth nearly come in his pants without so much as actually touching him crossed your mind, and you had to admit, you were pretty into it.

That’s what you do to me, pretty baby.  You drive me wild, he thought back to you, taking a deep breath as he watched you move your hand to your clit, which was beginning to ache with the lack of attention it was receiving while Stephen focused on not coming just yet. 

 Finally, he began moving again, mentally imploring you to watch, and you did, moving your fingers on your clit faster as his cock finally sprang free of his sweatpants, bobbing up against his stomach.

You wanted so badly to touch it, to touch him, to run your fingertips along that big vein and give his tip kitten licks before taking the whole thing into your mouth—

Just before you managed to get started, though, Stephen poured magic into his tongue, and you became practically boneless with pleasure as he replaced your hand with his mouth and began teasing and flicking your clit faster than ever before.  His magic was fucking into your cunt and pleasing your clit so sweetly, so deeply, hitting places far within you that nothing physical could ever—or had ever—reached.

It was all you could do to brace one hand on the headboard while your upper body practically gave out on you.  Your pleasure, once again, reverberated into Stephen’s mind and then back into yours, and you soon found yourself sobbing his name, your other hand gripping his hair so tightly it had to hurt.

Through the haze of pleasure, though, there was something else: an iron will, a determined sentence being repeated in his voice again and again and again.

Don’t come, Stephen.  Don’t come.  I can do this.  I can ride out her pleasure.  Don’t come.

The realization hit you suddenly that if you were this close to your high, you must have been taking Stephen right along with you.  He was fighting with every ounce of his not-inconsiderable willpower to avoid tumbling over that edge with you, but what could he do against this rapidly rising tide?

“Stephen,” you gasped, fighting to pull your hips away from his beautiful, clever mouth.  His strong hands held you there in an almost bruising grip, but when you exclaimed his name again, this time with more determination and less of a keening tone, he finally let go.

“What is it, beautiful?”  He asked, his eyes full of concern for you.  “Did I hurt you?  Please tell me I didn’t hurt you with my magic, I—I didn’t—”

“No,” you reassured him, moving your hands to float yourself off his face and back over his hips, your pussy coming to rest over his shaft.  “You didn’t hurt me, Stephen; your magic felt amazing, actually.  I just don’t want you to come just yet.”  As if to emphasize your point, you ground your slick wetness up and down along his length.  “After all, I promised to let you fuck me and fill me, didn’t I?”

Stephen drew in a sharp breath, his hands returning once again to your hips, where his strong fingers fought to still your movements.

“You did.  I—just give me a minute to recover a little,” he requested, moving one hand up to your cheek when you stopped rocking your hips to let him settle back down from the precipice he’d found himself on.

“Of course,” you breathed, though you were already beginning to feel a deep ache that spoke of how empty you were at the moment.  You needed him inside you, needed the stretch of his big cockhead pushing its way into your entrance—

Fuck, pretty baby, I need you to think of something else, he hissed into your mind.

“How about reason number six, then?”  You asked, letting Stephen pull you down into a kiss that was somehow slow and languid yet hot and heavy all at once.  “I think that’s the number we’re on,” you added when you pulled back for air.

“It is,” Stephen agreed, wrapping his arms around you and holding you in a tight embrace.

Something in his energy shifted at this, and for a moment, you were worried he was going to retreat from this connection with you entirely.

Something was wrong.

“Stephen,” you breathed, chasing him as his magic pulled away from you.  You captured his energy before it was gone, and you held him tightly, desperately, both on the mystical plane and the physical one.  “Don’t go.  Don’t—don’t—just tell me what’s wrong,” you pleaded with him.

Had you hurt him?  Had you upset him somehow?  What had you done?

He stopped trying to retreat from you, and a swirl of complex emotions flooded through you, too multifaceted to be able to sort out immediately.  The one thread you did manage to identify—the one that jumped out the most at you—was an odd sense of grief and regret and fear.

You weren’t sure you’d ever seen Stephen afraid of anything before.

“It’s not you, beautiful.  It’s just…I know I’ll never be able to offer you a normal life,” he finally said, burying his nose in your shoulder.  “Our lives are constantly in danger because of who we are and what we do.  There will probably never be a time when we’re not dealing with mystic threats, and that’s especially true for me, because I’m forever bound to my duties as Sorcerer Supreme.  But you…you could walk away from this, if you needed to.”

“This is a really, really weird reason to want to take me to the gala, Stephen,” you said in a feeble attempt to try to make light of whatever the hell was going on here.  “Gotta say, I don’t get it.”

Unsurprisingly, your attempt at humor didn’t work; his heart remained heavy, and you swore you felt tears pricking at your eyes that weren’t your own.

“Being with me is a risk.  An extraordinary one,” he continued, his goatee grazing the skin of the crook of your neck as he spoke.  “People who are close to me have already gotten hurt or killed, and I’m sure they’re not going to be the end of it.  So if there comes a time where you decide that this life isn’t for you—the Mystic Arts, the Sanctum, me—I’ll understand.  But in the meanwhile, if we can share even one night of being together like a normal couple, of getting to…to forget about who we are and the Mystic Arts and just be together, dressed up on a night out…then I really, really want to do that with you.  I want that memory of us, together.”

An undercurrent of emotion swept through you from Stephen.  There was a longing to have just been your non-magical, rich doctor husband, to have somehow met and immersed you in his world before it was turned upside down by his car accident.  There was a fear that the day would come when you’d need to leave the Mystic Arts, and there was a fear that even separating yourself from all you’d known, from him, might not be enough to keep you safe.  Along with that fear came a powerful urge to protect you, to become the strongest Sorcerer Supreme the world had ever seen, to make sure that you were never, ever separated from him by the machinations of another.

And underneath it all, there was a deep surprise that he was being so emotional about this.  When he’d written this reason out earlier, it hadn’t seemed like too big of a deal.  One normal date together could last him a lifetime, if he needed it to, and besides, people moved on all the time.  He’d done so once already.

But now, having been connected to you in this way, he knew that being separated from you would be like tearing half his heart out.  He had always loved you, but he’d never known how deeply that love ran, and now that he had finally recognized it, he was all the more profoundly affected by the fear of losing it.

It was, perhaps, the thing he feared most in the world.

“I don’t plan on leaving you or the Mystic Arts, Stephen,” you breathed, your voice shaky and tight.  “And I don’t plan on letting you be taken away from me, either.  Not again,” you added, thinking back to when he’d gone to sacrifice himself to Dormammu in order to save all of Earth.  “But all we have promised to us is the present, so let’s not worry about these things just yet.  Let’s just be together and love each other.”

He was silent for a moment, taking your words in and thinking on them.  Then, you felt earth’s master of time put aside his powerful fear of the future.  The heavy weight of it shifted off of you, and though you knew Stephen likely wasn’t over his fear entirely, at least he could focus on the present instead of dwelling in realities that were yet to manifest.

You had to admit, you were proud of him for that.

“Let me love you,” he finally rumbled, grinding his hips up into yours.  “Let me make love to you, beautiful.”

You didn’t need words to give him your consent; you let your desire for him flow through yourself and into him, and he responded with that powerful hunger that you were learning was at the core of Stephen Strange, both in his magic and in the searing kiss that he gave you as he slotted his mouth against yours and continued to grind himself into you.  You bucked your hips in turn, rubbing your wetness all over his shaft, pausing as your entrance met the bulge of his cockhead.

You couldn’t tell if you had the thought or if Stephen did, or if the two of you were thinking in an almost startling synchrony now, but the yearning to feel his thick tip stretching your walls open as he pushed inside your core flared true and strong once more.  Stephen bucked at this, groaning into your mouth as you continued to kiss him, thoughts filling his mind—and, in turn, yours—of how he was going to fuck you into the mattress, nice and slow and gentle for as long as the two of you could hold out, then fast and hard until you found your shared high together. He was going to fill you with his cock and his magic and his adoration and love for you, the way he’d been wanting to for years.

The two of you rolled together, words completely unnecessary as you both mentally agreed that Stephen would need to be on top to fulfill your shared fantasy.  Once you were underneath his broad frame, you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist, hungrily holding him close to you, and he reached down between your bodies, lining his cockhead up with you and rubbing it up and down through your folds and slick.

“Are you ready?”  Stephen murmured lowly, and you mewled and nodded, urging him on with your hands on his shoulders and your legs around his waist.

Gently, he pressed himself into you, his fat cockhead stretching you out just as you thought he would.  Stephen gasped at the sensation, wonder written across his face as he pushed slowly into your core.  The stretch you were feeling grew stronger, becoming almost painful in that tantalizing, give-me-more type of way, and Stephen stilled himself, waiting for a moment and watching you intently.

You’re not hurting me, Stephen, you reassured him in your mind.  I need you.  Please.

His lips fell apart as he drew in a shaky breath, then pushed the rest of the way inside you, hilting himself in your core.  You pulled him down into another kiss, this one gentle and soft as you struggled to make sense of all that you were feeling.  He was so full and heavy in you, and similarly, his cock felt so snug and warm and wet in you.  You were better than he’d imagined; your pussy was beautiful, perfect, his.

You mentally implored for him to begin moving, and he did, entwining his hands (shaking) with yours as he began moving his hips in gentle, slow thrusts.  His heavy cock dragged along your inner walls in a way that had you squeezing your heels into his back to encourage him to give you more; at the same time, you could feel your own pussy holding his cock like it was made for it. Like you were made for him.

Stephen dropped his head to your breasts, licking and sucking at them and sending his magic through his tongue once again.  Through it all, he refused to pick up his pace, continuing to slide in and out of you in languid, though not unattentive, movements.  You wanted him to give you more, to fuck you faster and harder and take you up to that peak that you hadn’t been far from reaching earlier, but this desire was drowned out by an increasing possessiveness from Stephen.  You wanted more of him, but he wanted to spend all night buried within you, fucking your perfect pussy nice and slow and claiming it as his with every stroke, and, as you’d said earlier, there was nobody in the world with a more unyielding will than Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme.

“Take it,” he groaned into your chest.  “Take all of my big cock in that pretty pussy of yours.  That’s my pretty baby.  Being so good for me.  Gonna let me fuck her as long as I want, because she’s all mine, isn’t she?”

“All yours, Stephen,” you gasped as he continued to rock in and out of you inch by tantalizing inch.  “I’m all yours.”

“All mine,” he growled, moving his hands to hitch up underneath your knees and press them to your shoulders.  “Mine.”

You expected him to fuck you harder in this position, but he continued to draw in and out of you in slow, tantalizing movements, his eyes often flitting down to watch the way his cock disappeared inside of you.  Despite his slow pace, your mutual pleasure stoked higher and higher, buoyed by the way you could feel everything he was experiencing and vice versa. Still, it never reached a fever pitch; when your pleasure began to escalate, he slowed down even more, creating an intense ache and need within you.  By the second time he did this, you were aching for more stimulation so badly that tears were pricking at your eyes, his name falling off your tongue in sobs.

“You’re being so good for me, pretty baby,” Stephen said, kissing away your tears.  “So good.  You can keep taking me, can’t you, pretty baby?  Or do you need me to fuck you hard and fast now?”

“I can…I can keep taking you like this,” you said around a hiccup, and a low moan tore from Stephen’s throat at this.

“What a good girl,” he murmured, once hand reaching up to stroke your cheek gently before returning to the backside of your knee.  “I’m going to take such good care of you.  Promise you’ll feel so good in the end.”

“I already feel so good, Stephen,” you said, and it was true.  As agonizing as it was to be denied release again and again, there was something incredible about being in your body and Stephen’s at once when you both wanted more of each other, when it felt as if your desire for one another could literally never be satiated.

Stephen’s iron will held true as he fucked you relentlessly slowly, refusing you your release again and again and again until you were out of your mind with need and desperation and pleasure.  You were reduced to putty in his hands, crying out for him with tears in your eyes, your own consciousness sometimes in your body and sometimes in his and sometimes nowhere at all.  When you flickered into his body, watching yourself sob and reach and claw for him while getting fucked, you became dimly aware of the irony that you’d thought that you would be the one making a mess of him, and now here he was, reducing you to this.  In the end, though, you (he? You couldn’t tell who was thinking what anymore) were going to absolutely ruin him, send him over the edge in a way that he’d never experienced in his life.  Even now, he was holding on to his connection to his body only through sheer determination to make you his, to make this last as long as it could, and, above all else, to fuck you more thoroughly than you’d ever been fucked in your life.  In fact, the further Stephen slipped into your mutual pleasure, the more you found him clinging to his absolutely, wildly desperate desire to please you and make you pleased with him in turn.

It wasn’t unlike when he’d sought out your approval in the library.  Everything came down to you, in the end.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when he called out to you, his voice thready and his lips puffy from all the kisses the two of you had shared.

“Pretty baby,” he moaned.  “I need you.”

You understood his meaning immediately.

“I need you, too, Stephen,” you keened.  “Take me.”

Take me how I know you want to.

Stephen’s hips stuttered against yours for a moment, and for one last instant, you were in his body, watching your drooling cunt be split apart by his red, needy cock.  Then, his hips moved fast and sharp, snapping against you with a loud slap, and you were sent back into your own mind.

He leaned more of his weight onto your aching, doubled-over legs as he rutted into you hard, his heavy balls slapping against your ass over and over again.  You clutched at the bedsheets, at his forearms, at anything you could hold to as the wet sound of your skin slapping together filled the air and his cock reached deep into that place of you that had you seeing stars.

Then, to your surprise, his magic was there, too, deep in your cunt and on your clit, hitting you achingly sweetly.  Within moments, you were breaking apart at the seams for him, pleasure gushing through you and through him, the coil in your belly snapping and wave after wave of sheer hot ecstasy rolling through you.  You went limp; your vision went white, and there was no sound, only silence.  There wasn’t even a you; there was just the connection between the two of you and pure electric bliss racing through it, reverberating back and forth.  Just when you thought you might come back to your body, Stephen’s orgasm rolled through the magical connection between the two of you, sharp, deep, heavy bursts of pleasure exploding as he shot his load deep within you.  You were him, feeling his balls tighten and empty themselves, his cock spasming as your pussy throbbed around him, milking his orgasm out, and you were you, feeling the way you clenched around his thickness, the way another burst of pleasure began anew as you came on his cock again, your orgasms an echo chamber for one another.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over you and Stephen like this; each time you thought you were coming down from your last high, the bliss that reverberated into his brain started him up again, and then, in turn, you were soon coming again, and vice versa.  You were vaguely aware that he was coming without pumping any seed out; he’d completely emptied himself within you, and yet, you were still throbbing around Stephen’s cock again and again, begging for more.

 When you began to come down from your shared bliss, the waves becoming less overwhelming, you were surprised to find yourself babbling and sobbing and screaming for Stephen, and in turn, he was grunting filth into your ear, moaning and calling for you, his voice low and desperate.

Finally, his arms gave out above you, and he slumped against you entirely, letting your aching legs fall down as he wrapped his arms around you and buried his head in the crook of your neck.  You held to him tightly, feeling the weight of his body on yours. It was blissfully soothing and reassuring.  You were warm and safe, folded up in the arms of your man, the only man you could ever trust to experience such a powerful, deep connection with.  You were exhausted magically and physically, your eyes fluttering shut despite the slick and sweat and cum staining the sheets all around you and Stephen’s softening cock still within you.  Through your still-open connection, you could feel a similar level of post-orgasmic exhaustion in Stephen.

“I love you,” he murmured, moving his hands clumsily and magicking all the filth the two of you had created away.  “I love you so much.”

In the wake of the bliss and emotion you had both shared, you didn’t need to hear anything else.  You moved your hands, too, magicking the blankets up around the two of you.

“I love you too, Stephen.”

As you began drifting off to sleep, though, you heard him murmur something quietly.

“There was one other reason.  An eighth reason.”

Through the haze of your exhaustion, you remembered that he hadn’t wanted to tell you that reason earlier.  Now feeling too exhausted to speak, you let your curiosity seep through your magical connection.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Stark’s face when he sees how gorgeous you are at that gala and realizes you’re with me.”  Stephen’s voice, husky and almost asleep, was nevertheless full of pride and satisfaction.

I’m yours, Stephen, you promised him with your thoughts.  All yours.

Mine, he thought back, and to your surprise, he added, and I’m all yours.  Have been for a long time.

You smiled to yourself and fell into a comforted sleep, feeling certain that here, in the Sanctum Sanctorum, in your home with Stephen, in his strong arms, was precisely where you’d always belong. [A quick ending author's note: I couldn't keep Stephen's reasons straight in my mind while writing this, so I had to write them out for myself. In case you want to see them all and get some feel-good fuzzies, here they all are, from Stephen's perspective!

Reasons why I want to take you to the gala:

1. I like having you around, and when I’m away from you, I miss you. I’d miss you the whole night long if I were at that gala with anyone else. Yes, even Wong. 2. When I hold you in my arms, I feel calm, like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. And I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of calm at any party that Stark is putting on. 3. You’re literally one of the only people I find funny. Trying to banter with anyone else is like talking to a wet rag. Please don’t make me suffer through a night of having to pretend that everyone else’s terrible jokes are funny. I don’t think even Stark has enough alcohol to help me survive that. 4. I want to make you laugh and get you drinks and hold you in my arms and dance with you. You and no one else. 5. I know I’m not supposed to talk about the fact that you’re beautiful, but you are beautiful, inside and out. You make the whole world light up wherever you go. You shine, and I want everyone else to see that. 6. I know I could never offer you a normal life. Our lives are constantly in danger because of who we are, and I’m forever bound to my duties as Sorcerer Supreme. But if I can give you even one night of just being a regular couple and getting to dress up and forget all about the Mystic Arts, then I want to do that. 7. And related to that, I could never do any of this without you. You’ve been there with me since my first days at Kamar-Taj, and now that I’m Sorcerer Supreme, I have no idea how I would survive holding this title without you around. Why would I want to go to the gala without the person who made—and makes—all of this possible? 8. Lastly—and I’m so sorry, but I have to mention this—I’m absolutely dying to see the look on Stark’s face when he sees how gorgeous you are and realizes you’re with me tonight. If you're interested in seeing more of this reader x Stephen pair (maybe at the gala?) please feel free to let me know!! Either way, thank you for reading! <3]