“Dark, Smooth, and Dreamy, huh?”
“Stephen, don't. Just drink your cursed drink—” the barkeep was rudely interrupted as a flash of red flew past his face, crimson cape slapping a customer's unprepared drink out of his hand.
Stephen Strange—the man wearing the cape—turned to you in a dazed yet collected state.
“I'm dark and smooth... and I can be dreamy,” he raised a playful brow at you, holding up his bottle of booze as he read its slogan. The extremely overwhelming feeling of first, and secondhand embarrassment washed over you as you turn away from the scene to quickly cast a spell of invisibility.
The men that entered The Bar With No Doors usually carried their own quirks, what with the whole being a wizard thing and all but you never dared to walk up to the regulars; they were well beyond your reach and most definitely out of your league.
You were a mere apprentice, both magically and socially, not even accomplishing the simple task of getting the barkeep to remember your name.
But now you found yourself in a situation most odd.
The embodiment, the core, the very pinnacle of wizardry was inebriated and chatting it up with you. Doctor Strange as they call him, the Sorcerer Supreme, the Master of the Mystic Arts . . . and the man you'd never gotten to meet despite having coming here for quite a while. You'd overheard from his circle of mage-friends that he was usually late, typically caught gathering his clothes from his one-night-stand, or with his face half imploded, eye sockets and nostrils oozing his soul from saving a small innocent child from the Underworld's death grip.