#teyla

[ghostlyfanparadise]

[sg-1verine]

Teyla Emmagan shitpost no.1

[m00nnewt9]

STARGATE ATLANTIS - AUGUST 29, 2025 - BEHIND THE SCENES PHOTOS

[sg-done]

*Rodney and John flirting with each other yet again* Teyla: And you two are sure you're not dating? Rodney: 100%. John: Of course not! Why would you think that? Teyla: I wonder why that possibility would even cross my mind, John. I fucking wonder.

[klaymornightrayskn-b]

Любимый момент.

Favorite moment.

[quasieli]

[Image description: A series of 9 images, 8 digital drawings of various characters and 1 selfie of the artist/OP (they/he) flashing a peace sign and smiling at the camera. The art pieces feature my OCs; Zaema (she/her), a young Half Elf Girl, and her dad Lucero (he/they) a Sun Elf/Aasimar man; Petra (she/her), a Water Genasi woman in fancy dress; Valentino (he/him), an Aasimar trans man holding up a playing card with a flourish; Lumo (they/them) and Navarre (they/them), two forms of the same character with Lumo being a Tiefling and Navarre being a High Elf; and Quey (he/any), my monster-sona of demonic and angelic heritage. Other characters are OCs belonging to others including; Teyla (she/her) a Tiefling posing confidently in a storm of lightning, Kid (she/they) a teenage Tiefling screaming out in anger and sadness, and Adartitus (he/him) a Fire Genasi man charging into fight. End description.]

2024 is drawing to a close so time for a little art retrospective!

[bloodyoceanmary]

I’ve finally finished the incredible show that is Stargate Atlantis and I. Have. Thoughts.

I watched Vegas and Enemy at the Gates together (on the advice of my sga leader @lightthewaybackhome) and I’m so happy I did.

So Vegas feels like a different show entirely, from the filming to the characters. Sheppard does not seem like Sheppard nor does anyone else. They’re all darker, more broken versions. My heart was just broken the whole time, but I didn’t cry until I saw Rodney though. This is the Rodney without his Sheppard to guide him and help him. This is the Rodney who lets Keller pass him by. This is the Rodney that lets Sheppard go alone. This is Rodney without a Sheppard that lit up Atlantis (this is honestly worse than last man but it’s a good parallel).

This is the Sheppard that goes alone on yet another suicide mission because he’s lost everything anyway…and then he dies. While Johnny Cash’s “Solitary Man” plays. Because that’s who Sheppard is, not the man in black saving the world with his people, but the solitary man who is alone without a home and no chance to be healed. And yet still he sacrifices himself and is brave and dies saving the world. Sheppard becomes the action hero at the end of the movie that goes out guns blazing and, while it’s usually cool to see, this one just breaks our hearts.

And then we move to the finale and…oh! Sheppard is Sheppard again, and Rodney is Rodney and everyone is okay.

And we see the parallels between the Vegas world and ours throughout the episode. Sheppard about to go on a suicide mission stops right at the last moment because Rodney’s voice breaks through the radio. The team is about to die blowing up the hive ship but stops because Atlantis is there in time to save them. Atlantis is lit up because of Sheppard. And then we see them all at the end. They’re happy, and alive and not broken.

And even though they aren’t fully healed, cause who ever is in this life, they’re on the path to healing. There’s hope, there’s light that has broken through the darkness (the way the show ends with the light piercing through the clouds is so beautiful in a literal and metaphorical sense like I’m sobbing).

There’s a couple lines from songs that my Sheppard told me about that is forever linked with SGA now. Ghosts That We Knew has a beautiful line, “So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light”. Throughout the show there’s so much darkness and pain, but we stick through it with the team because there’s hope that it’ll be okay. There’s hope because John is there, because they’re all there right where they should be. It’s a beautiful metaphor for life.

And then there’s a song called Hospital for Souls. It’s mainly a Sheppard song, as he lets himself burn for his family, but it’s also how Atlantis is a hospital for all the broken souls and brings them together. It’s why Sam didn’t stay there long and Woolsey came on board. It’s why Ronon says at the end that he is home. It’s why Teyla chooses to stay and raise her son in Atlantis instead of her home world. Why Rodney waits 48000 years for Sheppard and why Sheppard realizes finally that he doesn’t have to die to be redeemed, that living and healing is possible for even him.

It’s been a wonderful journey watching this show, it’s changed me, helped me grow and made me realize that healing is possible for even me. That a family is what you make it and they can be your hospital for your soul no matter how weary, broken or hurt.

I just love this show. I’m immediately gonna start rewatching it from the beginning because this. This is my family, my home. I’ve found myself in the darkness of Sheppard and the outlierness of Rodney. In the fierce love of Ronon and sisterly bond of Teyla.

I’m ever so grateful my friend got me to watch this, so happy that I went through the darkness into the light with my team, through tears and shouts of joy. I always said Supernatural would be the only show with this kind of life-changing, life-saving impact. But Stargate Atlantis now holds that honor too, this little, cheesy, ridiculously funny and terribly sad series has changed my life, helped me be the person I wanted to be for so many years but always struggled with (yeah I’m louder, complain more and am maybe a bit more annoying but gosh it’s more fun) and just generally helped me with so many endless things. And I’ve found some great friends and got closer to one of my best friends, aka my Sheppard lol.

Anyway, all this to say that this show is beautiful and incredible and please do yourself the honor of watching it but definitely bring tissues. Don’t worry too much about why they wear sneakers for like two seasons or their military tactics are off, but just enjoy the friendship, the humor, and how wonderful it shows that it doesn’t matter how messed up you are. How dark you’ve gotten or how many pieces of your soul you’ve sacrificed for others. You can be redeemed and healed and made whole. You can find people who love you despite your flaws and shortcomings. And you can find the light no matter how dark the world has become. You too can be home.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters will contain 18+ material

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three | Ch.Four | Ch.Five | Ch.Six

Chapter Seven (ANGST, wherein Stephen experiences a guilt induced nightmare)

Stephen had suggested that they return to the Sanctum, hoping to allow Teyla a chance to process all that had happened, and to begin to grieve.  She had declined, her eyes brimming with determination and an eagerness to share with him, her happiest memories of her father.  He watched her move about the flat, while telling him a series of stories in a sort of stream of consciousness--leading him to realize that this was how she chose to mourn.  Eventually, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, her focus on showing him the contents of several photo albums encompassing the time she’d spent living with her dad.

In the quiet moments in between, Stephen sensed how desperately she was trying to fend off her heartbreak.  He hurt for her, but remained patient for the moment she might trust him enough to ask for what she needed.

As dusk colored the sky outside, Teyla located those pieces of her father’s work which he had saved for her, covered loosely in several layers of muslin cloth, waiting for her hand to reveal.  Worn and weary as she was, she found the fortitude to hang on just a while longer—though with each piece she unveiled, Stephen noted her tears remained barely in check

First there was a thick sketchbook that Charles had kept during the years that Teyla lived with him.  Much of its content was concerned with Teyla herself; studies of her at the breakfast table or amidst a pile of schoolbooks; sketches of her laughing, or at play; even a few which caught her sleeping--all of them created with a father’s loving eye.  Stephen enjoyed seeing this younger version of Teyla, imagining the daily joy she had brought to her father’s life.

There was a softly romantic portrait of Moraine in the nude, which Teyla explained had been painted early in their courtship; that the Artist was head over heels for his model was evident in every brushstroke.  A second painting depicted Moraine in the fertile bloom of pregnancy; set against the night sky, framed against an open window of a smaller apartment of decades ago, she was clothed in a translucent ivory nightgown, her hands resting protectively upon her protruding belly.  Stephen found it nothing short of breathtaking; a magnificently rendered image of womanhood in its unassailable glory, and beautiful with understated sensuality.

“You like this one,” Teyla observed quietly, but clearly proud of her father’s handiwork.

Stephen let out a low whistle, “This piece is amazing, Teyla. Your dad was a talented artist.”

Her voice caught a moment, but she readily agreed.

Two sculptures sat draped in linen slip cloths, lined with tyvek for extra protection from moisture; Teyla uncovered them reverently to reveal a bust of her mother—looking like some Grecian goddess—while the other captured Moraine with a wee Teyla.  Though made of marble, the piece was alive with their family bond, as mother bent low, cupping her daughter’s hands in her own, allowing both to study a small winged creature (Stephen’s mind insisted it was some sort of Hadeethan butterfly) which rested upon Teyla’s open palm.  “Fantastic,” he murmured.

“That he was,” she agreed, with a plaintive finality that voiced her sorrow.  A large, rectangular shape rested beneath the remaining storage cloth.  Teyla gasped as she slid the cloth away.  “I have…I have never seen this one…”  She bowed her head to hide the tears she could no longer hold at bay. 

Stephen draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.  She shivered against him. “He must have done this after I left Earth.  I wish…” Teyla sobbed, “I wish that I had known.”

This painting was unquestionably the finest of the works that Charles had set aside for his daughter.  A crowning achievement.  Teyla gazed wide-eyed at them from the canvas, her truth beautifully captured; the small curve of her smile, the soft fall of her hair, the unassuming kindness that lived in the depths of her doe-eyes.  She rested her chin against her palm, her hand angled so that the rich purple stone of her mood ring was visible.  She looked happy—and as though she knew the secret to happiness and would share it freely if only the viewer could awaken her image to speak aloud.  Walter Charles had painted the quiet miracle that had brought him fulfillment as no other soul in the world ever had, in a language that articulated his heart as no written or spoken word ever could.

Surely Teyla understood the image for all it had meant to her father.  She breathed hard several times, then made a desperate, strangled sound, before nestling her face in the crook of Stephen’s neck.   

The bitter taste of remorse filled his mouth, and Stephen’s hands flared with fresh spikes of pain, as he considered the talented hands that had created this striking portrait of a beloved daughter.  An artist’s hands that might have been given more time to share his talents with the world, if only a ‘hot-shot genius doctor’ had actually cared about the patients that had sought his help. The painting seemed infused with the soft light of her gentle spirit, imbued with all the love her father held for her.  An exceptional creation—and I failed the man without a second look back.

“I’m so sorry, Teyla,” he whispered, “So, so sorry.  I’d give anything to make this right…”

She was shaking her head against his words, “Please, Doctor, please just take me from this place.  I cannot bear this pain inside my heart.  I feel my father as though he is near, yet I will never hear his voice or feel the comfort of his embrace again.” 

“Of course,” he assured her, “Whatever you need, honey.”  He released her as gently as he could, to conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Bleecker Street.

Understandably, Teyla had no appetite, but at Stephen’s stern insistence, she ate a little yogurt, and a few slices of mango, before retiring to the small room he directed her to for the night.  Though her body’s clock was still set to Kathmandu time—where it was early afternoon--he had a hunch he could coax her into some healing sleep.  Failing that, he would employ a small sandman spell, though that turned out to be unnecessary.

Feeling both the weight of his responsibility as her mentor, and the gnawing guilt that he might’ve made a difference in the quality and length of her father’s final days, Stephen sat at Teyla’s bedside, watching over her a while.  Watching as her breathing evened out and the lines of her body softened, knowing she had found the sort of solace—for a time—that he’d been unable to give her.  When satisfied she rested easy, he headed to his own room, planning to immerse himself in study, certain the peace of sleep would elude him—which was precisely as he deserved.

It was that same old dream again, but with a wicked twist.  He dreamed it far less frequently these days, and if he took the time to analyze just why, Stephen would realize it was because he had finally shed much of the guilt which he had carried for more than half a lifetime.  Accepting that he bore full responsibility for his horrific accident, facing his demons in the aftermath, and recognizing that his medical career had never been of one of true service to others, had been a struggle that rivaled the constant physical challenges presented by his ruined hands.  Only the enlightenment that had come to him with his studies in the mystic arts had enabled him to accept the truth about himself, humbling him and inspiring him to be a better man than ever in his life.

His dream-self stood—as he always did--on the shore of one of the smaller Fremont Lakes, drinking a can of Coors, laughing with his friends, and flirting with the prettiest of his sister’s high school classmates.  He was only weeks away from beginning freshman year, and Stephen had been thinking that a little fling with Chloe Butler might be the perfect way to end the summer before heading off to study medicine at Creighton University.  His sister Donna had swum out toward the the center of the lake, headed for the swim platform to bask in the afternoon sun—swimming as effortlessly as she’d done at least a hundred times before, and he frankly wasn’t paying much attention. He should have been; if he had been, he might have reached her minutes sooner, reached her in time to keep her from going under that last time.

In reality, he’d only heard her call his name once, but in the dreams, her frightened voice always carried across the water to him, repeatedly calling for help, calling his name, begging him to save her.  When he realized she was in trouble, he’d shucked off his scuffed leather boat shoes, the first of the young men on the narrow strip of beach to dive in, swimming frantically in her direction.  He was never to know for certain what had put her in distress; without a full autopsy (their mother couldn’t bear the thought of one), the best explanation they’d been given was a seizure of sorts, or something as innocuous as an ill-timed cramp.  And though his lungs burned with his effort to reach her, Stephen was still a dozen yards away when Donna sank below the surface with heartbreaking finality. 

In his dream, he relived again his frantic search for her in the dark depths of the lake, finally finding her, bringing her to shore, and breaking down after he was unable to resuscitate her.  But this time, instead of waking sweat-soaked and heart hammering the insistent beat of his failure and his guilt, the nightmare continued.  Though she was long dead and buried, Donna was there, in the flower of eternal youth, riding passenger with him in his Lamborghini Huracan.  You failed me, Stephen, she intoned, her eyes flashing with bitter accusation; you were my older brother and you were supposed to look out for me, but you failed miserably; and as the rain began to pound the windshield, she questioned him without remorse:  how many others did you fail in your egotistical short sightedness?   

Stephen faced her, helpless to change the past, knowing his own fate was already sealed; in moments would come the crash and his car would hurtle off the road, breaking his hands beyond repair, robbing him of the life he’d worked so single-mindedly to establish for himself.  You failed me, Stephen, she repeated, as you always fail the ones in greatest need…and just before the collision, Donna’s face transformed, and she was Teyla, but not angry--only sad, her indictments delivered quietly, regretfully, with a tenderness that matched her spirit in the waking world.  You failed him, Stephen Strange; a better man might have saved my father.  Somehow her words stung even more, for the gentle way in which she delivered them.  You were ever selfish, and blind to the needs of others, so perhaps there is some justice in your fate, after all.  And then she was gone, as his car spun and spun, and the pain was excruciating, and he knew in that moment that he deserved the pain, he deserved to have his old life ripped away…and if he spent a hundred years expunging his guilt through selfless service, he could never erase the misery, the loss, the deaths, of those he’d failed.  His dear, doomed sister.  Walter Charles, and those patients, who, like him, were not challenge enough to merit his valuable time and attention.  And now, his gentle Teyla…

“Stephen”.  Softly, yet urgently, spoken. “Stephen, you must awaken.”  A concerned, familiar voice, summoning him away from his pain and self-recrimination.  Pulling him from the depths of his dream.  A hand—her hand--upon his shoulder, soft but insistent, lightly shaking him back to consciousness.

“Teyla,” he murmured, still caught in the nightmare.  He needed to tell her.  Wanted to, but that would only bring her pain.  “Teyla…”

“Yes, I am here,” she answered, “I am here, Stephen.  Open your eyes.  See me beside you and know that all is well.”

His eyes fluttered open, unable to focus at first, and his heart was pounding, just as it always did in the wake of that nightmare.  Her hand on his cheek was soft and cool, her face hovering above his quietly merciful, the ends of her hair just brushing his skin. Teyla of Hadeeth.  How was she here, sympathetic as she tried to soothe him, the embodiment of clemency when he deserved only her scorn?  “Teyla?” he whispered, wondering if she was just the remains of his dream, and would vanish like mist if he dared to trust she was real.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered patiently, “Leave those painful memories behind.  You must not torment yourself so.” Despite the grief he knew dwelled in her heart, her focus seemed to be solely on comforting him.  

“I was dreaming,” he rasped, feeling he ought to explain, and hoping he didn’t appear as weak as he felt.

“I know,” she told him, the calm of her voice and in her touch beginning to banish the anguish that had enveloped him.  “I dreamt as well, Stephen.  I saw enough to know, and I felt your distress, and now I am here because you are more than worthy of mercy—but such mercy must begin with yourself.”  She laid a hand over his heart, and an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

Amazed at her perception, Stephen searched her eyes, reading her sincerity, unbelieving that redemption could be so easily gained.  He shook his head to clear away the vestiges of his nightmare, sitting up against the headboard.  He laid his hand atop hers, swearing he could feel the beautiful life force that inhabited her slender form.  “Teyla,” he confessed, “If you knew the truth, you might not be so generous…”

Her eyes told him before she spoke, that she was well aware of the part he’d played in her father’s story. “I already know all that I need to know, Stephen.”  His given name upon her lips, spoken without a hint of her usual formality, was a balm against his shame.  “You have paid a heavy penance for your past mistakes; you need punish yourself no longer.”

Stephen breathed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling entirely unworthy of the absolution she was offering.  “Do you understand, Teyla?  Your own father…”

She cupped a hand against his cheek, silencing him with a wise, sweet smile.  “I assure you, Stephen—I understand it all…and I promise you that you are not the man you were in those days.”  He opened his eyes, finding only compassion in her own.  “You have become your best self, through trial and pain.  I swear that you are now the man you were destined to become…but you must forgive yourself--for that will finally free you from this burden of guilt that weighs upon you so.”

Though awestruck by her heart’s true generosity, Stephen suddenly felt tired enough to sleep for a week.  “Yes,” she smiled, relieved on his behalf, “You must rest a while now, and come the day this darkness will fade to naught.”  Come morning he would wonder too, if she’d worked some gentle magic by simple touch alone. 

At her prompting, Stephen slid back down onto his pillow, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him.  He caught her hand in his before she stood up to leave; she didn’t seem surprised.  “You are most welcome, Stephen Strange,” she told him, then headed to his door.

“Just tell me this,” he said, a ghost of his usual cheekiness restored, so that she turned back to him from the doorway, “How are you so young, and yet so wise, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

She raised a brow—quite insouciantly—and he saw in her a bit of Moraine’s regal bearing, as she proudly replied, “I am both my mother’s daughter, and my father’s child as well.  I dare to believe that the best of both of them have found their union in me.”  Teyla gave a little shrug, and left the room—though the surprising smile she left upon Stephen’s face lasted long enough to see him into a more peaceful sleep of his own.  

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