1963-09-15 - A Little Bit of Magic
Summary: Amora runs into Strange in the Park. The two discuss politics and then Amora is Amora.
Related: Jotunheim plot logs
Theme Song: Move Your Body
amora strange 

The sun was warm still in New York, despite the fact that the world shifted forward toward fall ever increasingly. Amora walked along the park's path, the perfect image of a socialite out and about for a light stroll. She wore a sleeveless dress of emerald green, piped in white, with matching circles looping around the edges. A large matching, wide brim hat and sunglasses sat on her golden crown, and she looked over the rim to peer down at the grass. Though the area was physically cleared of the Jotun's incursion, magically it seethed where they had entered.

A manicured hand spread out over a nearby tree, and a muttered spell followed as she cocked her head to the side and 'listened' to the magical signature of the area. A frown marring her lips as she stepped back and continued in her seemingly aimless wanderings.


Blending in was never his thing, not even when he was plain ol' Dr. Strange, M.D. The man who crosses the expanse of grass could fit in with the park's attendees, though perhaps more with the evening crowd or one entertaining a significant other after a night on the town. The Eye of Agamotto sits at his throat, disguised as a pin for his bolo tie, which cinches shut the collar of his white dress shirt. His dress shoes and black pants deflect most of the lingering dew in the shady portions of the green outskirts of the wooded portion of the park. Tossed casually over his shoulder is a black blazer (though, if one looked very closely, it has a reddish under-hue in brightest light and - was that a strip of golden stitching along the edges of the inner silk lining?) and he lets it slip from his shoulder, absent-mindedly catching it before it touches the ground.

He pauses at the edge of the trees, his light eyes scanning its depths. He seems to be triangulating after something. His glance takes his gaze towards Amora and he seems to straighten in surprise - before striding with purpose into the trees.

"Of all the magicians…and now of all times!" he mutters, looking over his shoulder again towards her distant form. All he wanted to do was find where this Jotun came into this realm and seal it off!


If Amora noticed his appearance or even seemed to care, she didn't show it at first, as she traced a hand out before her curiously as she walked along the path leading to the glen. She arched a golden brow upwards, pausing as she finally found the signs she was after. She took a more circular route, but still ended up following much the same path as the good Doctor took.

And then her gaze landed upon the magic user, just off to the side from where she stood in the shade of the trees. She popped off her sunglasses, green eyes deceptively wide in surprise, as she settled her sunglasses atop her hat. A shift followed her figure, her shoulders rolling back as she sashayed up to him, a smirk pulling at her richly painted lips.

"Oh, how nice to see you. Just a man I wanted to speak with. I assume the Thunderer tracked you down recently?" She cocked her head to the side, pausing just a breath away from him—unless he backpedaled that is.


Strange freezes up and slowly lets his shoulders drop from where they sprung up around his ears after he heard Amora speak. In the bright slant of sunlight through the autumn-dappled leaves above him, his jacket (clenched in a tightly-knuckled fist) has shown its deep garnet hue. He slowly turns, giving her a carefully-controlled expression of bored disdain. However, he's unable to hold his place after she approaches him; he allows her within a hand's width of his person before taking a full step back and letting out a huff of irritation.

"Meddling as always, Lady Amora," he says coolly. Her signature has now clouded the area and it takes him a moment to find the crackling otherworldly cold of the Jotun's path, growing fainter by the minute. Sunlight is never kind to residual magic. All the while, he never takes his eyes from her form and if they looked distantly unfocused for a moment, they now narrow on her with steel-blue focus. "That the God of Thunder visited me is none of your business. If you'll excuse me," and with that, he continues further on into the woods, headed for the distant thinning of trees where the odd shiver of the surrounding Midgardian reality seems thinnest. Deeper away from the park proper and its unknowing visitors, away from prying eyes.


A chuckle escaped her and she trailed along behind him, carefully stepping in her high heels along the wooded path. The sound was oddly girlish and light in the shadows of the trees. "I could help, you know. As an Asgardian I /do/ care about what the Jotuns do.." She drawled, waving her hands above—the sky darkening ever so slightly as a few clouds that had been on the horizon moved to cover the sun's rays. Just a nudge. She wasn't Thor, after all.

"My people /have/ been fighting them for several centuries after all." She added after a moment or two, "And it matters that the Thunderer came to see you, because I suggested he talk to you. Since Loki has been.. missing.. Thor has been rather distraught. I feared it has affected his judgement on things."


He half-listens to what she says as he makes his way through the brush that separates him from the clearing. Strange just shoves it aside, no need for magic here, and then he's in the space.

Letting out a sigh that shivers on the end, he feels the hairs on his body rise. The wall between the worlds is very thin here and even in the weakened sun, partially covered by Amora's gathering of clouds, the air is much cooler and smells of distant blizzards overtop the mouldering leaves. He glances over his shoulder and sees her following; his response is another sharp huff.

"Lady Amora, honestly. Don't you have better things to do that meddle with my work?" he asks, his brows knitted in a frown. Out of sight of prying eyes, he allows the jacket to regain its true form. In a rippling swirl of magic that hides its shape momentarily, blurring it like a rock beneath a stream's surface, the Cloak changes back and then swishes into view. It settles on his shoulders like a tamed bird of prey and frames him in crimson color. "I don't have time right now to…entertain you. I need to seal this place off once again. It's bad enough that these Jotuns are entering other realms. I don't need another thing to deal with right now." His eyes are ice-blue now. Strange is in no mood for antics, not today.


Annoyance, flickers to life in her gaze, and between one instance and the next, Amora stands before him. Her figure still in her human guise, but her stance had chanced. Her arms were crossed and she shot a glower up at him, her fingers tapping against her arms. "Then you can listen for two minutes instead of ignoring me like a petulant child." She snapped, arching a brow upwards.

"My people have /experience/ dealing with Jotuns, especially their incursion into Midgard. Now stop being such a boy, and allow me to help." She stepped toward him, a finger pointing at his chest as she tried to poke him.

"Besides, the fact that I /sent/ Thor to you. I asked him to see you, since Loki has been missing. He has been making questionable choices since his brother did not return from Asgard. I would discuss such matters with you, after this is handled."


His teeth flash in a silent snarl as he feels Amora's fingertip prod at his sternum.

"It's not just you Asgardian females, it's all Asgardians, isn't it? Sticking their noses in affairs that should remain mine alone. I've got news for you, Asgardian," he growls, pointing a finger back at her rather than poking at her, "You can wait over there, like a good little girl," and he points at the other side of the clearing, "until I'm done closing this off. And then maybe, once I'm done, we can talk about Thor and Loki like adults. Hmm?"

He crosses his arms tightly, his scarred hands gripping his biceps, and glares at her. "I don't need any assistance with this business here."


A roll of her shoulders follows, her chin tilting upwards as she stepped forward into his personal space. "Tell me again how much you see me as a little girl," Her voice had dropped as she reached up with both hands to try to smooth her finger tips against his jaw line. Her eyes glittering with a challenge.

"Shall I remind you about the things I've made you feel, good Doctor? Things, I hope, no little girl has ever instilled in you.."

And then she was stepping back, gesturing behind her at the veil between the worlds that stretched thin.

"If you want us out of Midgard, then you had better hurry up and speak with me. Otherwise you will miss your opportunity to be rid of us from this realm… and your business.."


"How shall I tell thee the ways?" Strange replies coldly. He's ready for her intrusion into his space now and stays there despite her proximity. A tilt back of his head is just barely enough to keep her fingertips from skimming his jaw and he sighs slowly through his nose. "Since you're so adept at reading others, you'll clearly be able to tell that you…repel…me."

With that, he takes a half-step back, readying his magic about his hands, already beginning the process of weaving the strands of reality back together. "I'll be able to hear you well enough from across the clearing. Now, unless you'd like for your aura to be woven into the closure, I suggest you move." His irises have an oddly-iridescent emerald hue about their centers now, reflecting the nature of the magic he grasped. Neon-green circles have cuffed his wrists; they glisten with needle-thin strands of ancient Mystic art, the glyphs etched in their designs lost to time itself.


A glimmer of magic follows and Amora teleports well out of the way, a sigh dragging from her lips as she takes up position against a tree. She leaned there, watching him work his magic with near wistful look upon her features. "I might repel you in that you dislike how you lost control, Doctor. It's perfectly natural to feel such things, especially around a Goddess such as myself." She called, crossing her ankles as glanced upwards into the boughs of the tree.

"Longer lived creatures and gods have had that reaction." She added, decidedly, she knew it was not helping. But look, she was behaving. Mostly.


It feels like he can breathe again, thank the gods above and below. He feels as if he did well this time around, despite her being so close to him. His senses had momentarily clamored at her closeness, his skin aching for the soft touch of her hands on him, but unwavering self-control (aided with the surrounding chill of the air and alien frissons of the weakened veil) had reined everything in. Everything.

"Good," he mutters at her sudden distance. He turns to face the area where he feels the icy air leaking through and had to shuffle two steps to the side to really see where reality is thinned. It's odd, being able to faintly see a world of blues and greys and a wide expanse of ice-crusted snow, superimposed atop the changing greenery of the park around him. No wonder earlier mankind came up with stories about the Fae and stolen children; no child could avoid interaction with such a novel thing. He ignores everything else Amora says - other than adding a derisive 'tsk' - before he gets to the task. Clearing his throat, he closes his eyes and summons up the entirety of the veil-weaving magic.

It comes from his surroundings: from the totality of elements present, from the nebulous presence of the Gaia deity; and it comes from within him, from his deeply-ingrained and immovable belief that this was his Earth, his gods-given charge, and that it will remain separate unless at his command.

The sheet of reality on all sides of the weakening of the veil begins to riffle, like the surface of once-still pond disturbed by a stone's throw, and then creep slowly back towards a central point. Beadlets of sweat form on Strange's forehead. There's a measure of sentient resistance to his magic and he shows his teeth once more, this time with an audible growl of effort, before he spits out a strengthening Word to aid his spell. With one final back-push that forces him to shove back magically, the wall between the two worlds is sealed up. With a series of lingering light-strands that seem to weave through the central point of closure like an intricately-Mystical sigil, the rift is no more.

Letting out a gusty sigh, Strange slowly allows his hands to relax from their counter-signs and they fall to his sides. He wipes at his brow before nodding curtly at the air before him. "And that is done."


Amora let the mortal wizard do what he wilt, a nail file being summoned from nothing as she idly filed away at her already perfect nails. Still, it was a common enough sight on Midgard that the Enchantress took to it with the amused air of a bored Goddess. Still, her gaze remains on Doctor Strange as he works the spells required, and her eyes light up in an answering shade—her own magic allowing her to /see/ what the Midgardian did. A twitch of her lips followed as she felt and saw the veil between the realms seal shut once more.

As he sighed, Amora was once more in his personal space, without so much as waiting for him to tell her 'it was done'—she was there. A wicked smile on her features.

"Bravo, Doctor. Now, lets get some tea and talk, hm? I believe Louis left the wards in place at Glory and King. Shall we?" She wiggled her finger in the air between them, spinning up a tiny globe of green light.

"You and I need to speak on Asgards people here on your Midgard.."


Being wearied from just closing off the thinned wall between the worlds, Strange can't hold his place. This time, he stumbles as he takes a step back, hands half-raised in automatic self-defense. He lets out a strangled sound of frustration, some part stifled curse and most pure emotion.

"Gods damn it, woman! Space!" With tightly-closed lips, he (reluctantly) diffuses the defensive spell from his person and takes in a centering breath. He let it out in a sharp clearing of his throat. "If you are acting as a liaison from Asgard, I will…agree to a cup of tea, in the interest of avoiding more meddling in my affairs. If this is some machination, Lady Amora…"

He leaves the thought hanging. Let her imagination do the rest. (Who knows what her imagination will actually come up with?)


An amused chuckle escaped her closed, smiling lips and she reached out a hand, with a grip that was far too strong for such a delicately sculpted extremity. Yet it wasn't of the flirtatious variety, merely a legitimate attempt to steady the stumbling man. Of course, he was stumbling from exerting himself overly, not in reaction to her sudden appearance.

Then with a wink, and a whispered word of command the two were whisked away in a puff and swirl of green magic.

The two reappeared outside of Glory and King. She released her grip on Strange, and summoned a key from somewhere into her hand. It was decidedly odd to see her unlock the door with such mundane means, but she did so, holding the door out for him.

"I know Louis is still alive, his wards are still up after all. But where? I sensed his approach into Asgard and beyond that I can sense nothing. I wanted to ask you, if you felt him anywhere on Midgard, if I was missing anything. But Thor did not wish to ask for your aid. I know you don't favor me, but if we can rule out that Loki—Louis.. however you know him.. is here, then myself and the other Asgardians will be returning to Asgard and out of your hair and your realm." She murmured as she sauntered inside.

A wave of her hand followed and a teapot and two tea cups appeared on the side table. She perched in the very chair that Strange had seen her and Loki in previously, and plucked the cup up with both hands.


He has a moment to recognize her grip on his dress shirt and for his lips to form the beginnings of a snarled sentence, and then —

Her sussurance of a Word turns the world momentarily awash in swirled hues of every green he'd ever seen. Strange is kept upright by Amora's grip on his shirt even as they appear on the doorstep to the most-singular 'mortal' demesne of the Trickster God. Strange brushes off his shirt where her hand had grasped with a wrinkle of his nose and slowly, suspiciously, follows her inside once the door is opened.

It is no surprise to him that she takes Louis's seat. After all, it's a place of power and currently, their interactions abound in subtle attempts at control. Strange raises a brow, but remains silent on the matter as he walks over to the fireplace. He's seen the cup of tea and ignores it for now.

With a murmured Word and fluid gesture, he starts a flame in the pile of remaining half-burnt kindling and it quickly sprouts, filling the room with warm and ambient light. It glints off the various artifacts and bronze touches in the furniture that makes the space so….Professor Louis. The arm-chair, the seat where Amora had last seen him, is his destination and he settles in it with an ease he mostly feels. The Cloak wraps about his legs to keep away the chill. As he leans on one elbow, resting his chin on one intermittently-shivering hand, he narrows his eyes at Amora thoughtfully.

"In regards to your professor…or rather, your youngest Prince - no, he is nowhere on Midgard. It has been a number of days since he graced this realm. I know none of his plans nor do I have ideas of their outcomes." Now he shifts in place, moving to briefly rub at the side of his goatee with his free hand. With that tic assuaged, he settles back into the chair and an air of weariness haunts him. "I spoke with the oldest Prince, your…God of Thunder, about inter-realm relations and continuing peace." Best to leave it at that.


Whatever hesitance the Doctor shows in regards to following her about into the room at large, Amora doesn't seem to notice. Or at least let on that she cares. Instead she makes a show of enjoying her tea, reaching forward to add a spoonful of sugar and stir it in delicately. She hummed under her breath, her gaze following him from the fireplace and around with a near predatory light. Her usual sultry smile in place as she eyed him from over the rim of the tea cup.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that my magic wasn't so diminished that I missed Loki being on Midgard. Thor was adamant that I might have missed him for some time. Now that that is settled, I assume you felt the presence of the Queen here a few days ago?" She arched a golden brow in challenge, tilting her head to the side.

"More and more Asgardians, and their enemies will continue to appear in Midgard here, until the Princes are both in Asgard. Currently, as it stands, I am attempting to do just that. However, Thor believes it in his best interest to marry a woman living here.. Which will cause more visit to this realm than previous. Though, that's if all goes well in Asgard. If it does not.. he might very well be exiled here. In which case, I feel you have the right to be made aware… that all of his enemies down the years, all the centuries.. they will appear here to take a crack at the exiled Prince." She murmured, setting her tea cup aside and leaning forward. Her hands folding on her lap.

"Your Midgard will bleed, if Ragnarok comes to pass while the Prince is here.."


Strange eyes her with flat frustration tempered by exhaustion and finally replies,

"It is no minor matter to me that Thor could be exiled. I'm well-aware of its cause, Lady Amora, and I will likely know if it should come to pass before even he." Let her chew on that one. "And yes, I felt a distinctively powerful signature. It disappeared before I could investigate, so I thank you for enlightening me of its source." Well and good, actually, that he knew the Queen was now involved. He had a fairly large number of things riding on her kindly nature that Thor had so fondly described. In a rueful way, he was looking forwards to seeking an audience with her.

"In regards to your claim of enemies appearing…it is nothing new." He sighs as his focus flickers to the fire. "Nor is it something I am concerned about. All-Father Odin thinks this realm under his thumb and I am content for him to remain thinking so while the Princes finish gallivanting about." He snorts and rolls his eyes. "It is utterly ridiculous, the amount of blustering pride you Asgardians possess. This realm has advanced since the days of the Vikings and come under the watchful Eye of deities more powerful than the All-Father. No Ragnarok for this realm…not while I am here."


A quirk of her lips pulled another delighted grin to her features, this time with a flash of white, straight teeth. Too perfect for any mortal. She slid out of her chair and stood, smoothing a hand over her hair as she turned away and paced a step or two away from him. She found a mirror on the wall, and made a show of patting and rearranging her hair.

"The Queen came to chat with me, she was… in a hurry to leave after finding out about Thor's intent to court. So she left before much could be said." Which was partly true.

"She's a skilled magic user and is more subtle than many would expect for an Asgardian.. but that can only be expected given that Loki is her son and all. One of them had to reflect her hand." She murmured, shrugging lightly as she turned on her toes and faced him again. A hand settling on her hips as she sauntered toward him. She paused, stopping before him just a breath away.

"You need not chide me over Midgard's ways. I am well aware of the advances made upon this time and realm. I was here before the Princes took an interest in the past century or so. France for instance—oh, hmm, two or three centuries ago. But since I have returned here this visit? I am very… impressed. But I have a vested interest in Midgard remaining free and untampered.. and even more so in returning all my fellow Asgardians to their proper realm." Her voice was low and sweet and soft.


Joy of joys. He's accidentally let himself be pinned in the chair. In hindsight, with the Asgardian woman once again and clearly in his personal space, Strange regrets the decision of sitting down.

"You use the word 'untampered', Lady Amora, but it seems precisely in your nature to be quite the hypocrite regarding it," he replies quietly, keeping his tone and expression neutral. "And please, by all means, continue in your quest to return your fellow Asgardians to your home realm. Once you're there, do me a favor - stay there and stop meddling."

He cannot wait to discuss inter-realm relations with Odin at this point. Surely there would be a way to convince the All-Father to keep a closer eye on his subjects!


Amora hooked a golden brow upwards, a quirked grin stretching ruby lips as she reached out to try to run a hand over his shoulder as she lowered herself down to sit on his lap. "I haven't done anything to Midgard that is not within the realm of its own rules. I have not unleashed the terrors of the Nine Realms. I have not permanently enslaved anyone. Nor have I caused any international incidents. I have conquered no governments nor topples any. In my regards, that is untampered. I would not see it spoiled by the whole of Midgard informed about the Nine Realms. Midgard isn't ready for that. They quibble over such minor things now—but they would soon unite under the banner of fear.." She whispered softly, tilting her head as she peered at him.

"Tell me that is true, and I shall recant my statements." Her smiling face considered him, golden hair spilling over her shoulders.


The stuffed fabric of the chair gives a bit to his subtle retreat back from Amora's approach. It's far too late to get up now, not without some awkward jilted movements and perhaps even knocking the woman to her behind. The gentle weight of her hand lands first along the padded shoulder of his smoky-blue battle-vest and then, Strange lets out a slow hiss of aversion from between slightly-bared teeth as she settles across his legs, not far above the bend of his knees.

He glares dead into her eyes as he considers her words. Not many beings have lived after receiving this dagger-like look, full of distant Mystical storms and the promise of imminent reaction. Sure, there's a familiar tremor within his bones at her presence - his skin knows the heat of her touch well enough and there's still a lingering want within his blood, as if his body still aches for another hit of her powers. But all of that…all of that is buried beneath steely will and rings of lambent power about the centers of his irises.

"All knowledge is worth having," he growls back, "and sometimes it is terrifying to learn new things. I can see the entirety of Migard aligning against Asgard and it all begins with you. So…I give you one warning, Enchantress." A heartbeat of silence. "Move from my lap or I shall move you."

The Sorcerer Supreme is now well within his rights to dump her on her behind. After all, his powers are at their utmost supremacy in self-defense - and he did not invite her into his space.


A curving smile follows and Amora reached up to run her fingertips against his jaw line, before she lifted herself off his lap. As asked. But that was all. She shifted, hands settling to rest on either side of his head as she hovered over him. Her brows lifted as she smirked over him as if to say, 'I did what you asked, be more specific next time'.

"I have little interest in remaining here, I promise. I have so out of necessity alone. I know you dislike the nature of my attentions Doctor, but I am honest in my intent at least. Yet you scorn me so easily.." She pouted, her lower lip parted as if she were hurt.

"What have I ever done to merit such distrust?" Her voice was honeyed and she fluttered dark eyelashes down at him. "I have followed everything I have said I would do, have I not? Tell me truly one instance where I did not. You wound me so terribly.."


Strange allows the brief brush of her touch along his jaw, but his dark expression never changes. He successfully hides the quivering of his stomach, but barely avoids straightening his back unconsciously due to the frisson of hair-raising thrill that runs up it. Still, she has moved from his lap, as he asked (commanded?) and this he appreciates. Finally - he can breathe without being wreathed in her perfume and presence.

"I don't disagree that you stay true to your word, but your actions have been lately at odds with them in my presence." His eyes narrow and a wrinkle appears along one side of his nose. "Speaking of my presence…what was this I detected? A note of my own magic amidst your aura? I don't remember granting you permission to borrow anything of mine. The agreement was, I believe, for a kiss—" and he has no choice but to pause as the memory briefly floods him with heat. It shows in the faint reddening of the tips of his ears. Still, he presses on, his voice dropping lower with threat. "Not for even the tiniest bit of my Art."

He's settled into the chair more comfortably now and one hand flips palm-up from where it had been clenching the end of the armrest with white-knuckled pressure. He doesn't lift it any farther than what the rotation of his wrist grants. "Give it back."


A chime of laughter followed, green eyes flashing with amusement that was not unlike a feline's. She leaned forward, her features pressed to hover over his, her lips just a breath away as she met his shadowed and dark expression with her own sultry one. She shifted, her whole frame just shy of touching his as she exhaled a sigh as if she were much put upon.

"I wanted to make sure you came back for a visit." She fluttered her eyelashes at him, butterfly kisses of air, and dragged her lower lip between her teeth.

"I haven't met a man so singularly powerful as you Doctor. Not in all my centuries of exploring the Nine Realms. There's never been a Midgardian of your strength, of your skill.." Her voice dropped to a husky whisper as she spoke, sliding her hand in a ghosting motion down his arm. Not quite touching. Just a tease.


His eyes flick to her approaching hand and watch very, very carefully to make sure that it doesn't make contact with him. If it had, she would have received the Mystical equivalent of a tasering. He's quite done with uninvited touches.

Still…how she bites her lower lip and looks up at him through her eyelashes… Strange's throat bobbles with his next swallow before his lips thin, mirroring his steel-blue gaze: emotionless.

"I will ask you once more, Amora. Give back what you took from me." His words are calm, cold, and laced with warning. All of this skill and strength that she mentions - he has it in spades within his Realm, that of Midgard. And now, he waits, outwardly patient, with the stillness of a large predator and on the razor's edge of calling forth a spell to rip his stolen Arts from her aura, regardless of the consequences.


Another much put upon, dramatic, sigh escaped Amora—and she rolled her shoulders back pointedly, tossing her long, fairy tale locks of gold back over her shoulders. Perfume rising around her as she peered down at him, her hands moving to curl into the back of the chair over his head as she leaned over him. "It will require me touching you. What was taken in a tantric measure will need to be returned that way.." She whispered, a glint of laughter in her eyes as she raked her gaze over him.

"Are you certain that you wish me to return it?" She hooked a golden brow upwards, she traced her hand down his side, again not touching, as it settled on the armrest.


It takes Strange a moment to decode what she's implying and he immediately curls one side of his lips, marring the line of his goatee. His chin tucks subtly and his blue eyes glitter icily up at her as he watches her neatly undress him with her verdant gaze. The gods have indeed cursed him in this instance: magic responds flawlessly to the concept of 'like drawing like'. She's not wrong in the least. The easiest way to get back his lost magic is to kiss her once again.

He's mindful also of the ability to call back his magic. It is not precisely an attack, though not exactly in the category of self-defense…unless he actively considers it so.

"What is mine…is mine," he growls. His open palm shifts to grasp the Eye of Agamotto hanging from his neck; its ridged edges dig painfully into his skin and clear his mind briskly of most of her near influence. "Swear it. Swear by your powers and your Name that you will give me back all of the power you took from me and shall not take anything else from me. Only then will I let you kiss me."

It's a heavy thing, swearing by one's Name and powers, especially in the Realm of Midgard. The deities that oversee this Realm are jealous of such a thing and quick to reap the rewards of broken promises.


Amora shifted, settling herself on the armrest of the chair as she watched him with rapt attention settling on his amulet. A yawn escaped her then, and she stretched her arms up and over her head, stretching her limbs out and away from her figure in a decidedly tempting manner. A rise of her brows followed, before she leaned over him once more, her lower lip jutting out as she propped her head up with a hand.

"I want a better kiss than last time then. You /do/ realize that over the whole of the Nine Realms there are men that have given their lives to be graced with such a gift? And yet you spurn me so. You wickedly cruel man." She fluttered her eyelashes again, her other arm settling over her middle. Her gaze flickered over him, over the serious edge to his demeanor.

"Oh very well, I swear that by the power of the All-father, who controls all Asgardians, near or far. By the Norns who hold the fates.. I shall return what was stolen to you, and I shall not take further from you what is not freely given.."


"Much better," he bites out, as if disappointed in her sudden follow-through to his suggestion. Truthfully, he was hoping to have to summon back his powers. It wouldn't have mattered if it had stung a little - at least, to him. Speaking of stung: he feels slightly so at her comment about a 'better' kiss. What on Earth had she been expecting in that moment, for him to linger? Not so, not with the Book of Giants in his hand and escape at his back.

Slowly, with all the grace and presence of a hunting cat, Strange rises from the chair and faces Amora. His grip on the Eye hasn't lessened in the least; if anything, it's increased and the force is like to leave an imprint within the skin - lingering, mind-clearing pain. "If I don't get my magic back…I will hunt you down, Lady Amora, with all of my wiles and the Vishanti's might in-hand." And he means every single last syllable that he just uttered.

His eyes flicker up and down her body, so artfully reclined on the arm of the chair, and then he moves. He pulls her (by her hand that rested over her middle) with slow, insistent force from the recliner's edge and then tightly against the leanly-muscled lines of his body. Their fingers intertwine and his knuckles go white in response to the charge that rushes from their touching palms; it travels up his arm and into his heart like a pure shot of white-hot adrenaline. His other hand slips along the rounding of her ribs, then up between her shoulderblades and into the tangling of golden hair at the nape of her neck.

He pauses to look deep into her eyes and sighs slowly, already feeling his nerves beginning to respond to the press of her body against his. "Just can't keep yourself from my business, can you…?" His question feathers across the distance between them and he leans in to mould his lips against hers.


Oh Amora went along more than willingly with the grip and tug on her hand, a smirk painted on her lips as she rose with a grace of form that was otherworldly. Her figure was warm and pilant against him, and she let her hands roam hungrily over his chest and around his waist to scrape with polished nails over the fabric of his shirt.

This was a woman, no a goddess, that knew the shape of a man's form and knew well where to run her fingers for the best of affects. Even as a delicious almost purr left her as his hands slid upwards and tangled in her hair. Her eyes watching him from beneath feathered eyelashes that glinted strangely with victory.

At his question she quirked a golden brow upwards, the smirk still plastered on her lips until he leaned in to kiss her. Then she was pushing back against him, attempting to hook a leg through his, even as she released the grip she held on his magic. A tingle of his magic sliding through their lips, through her fingers, that alight on his frame and snuck beneath the fabric of his shirt. The magical interplay a mere hint at what magical pleasures the Enchantress of Asgard could perform.

But beyond that, even more secretly, she slipped her own magic bundled into his. Hidden. A method she had used to track Loki on Midgard. That had held and remained hidden for the century plus that he remained away from Asgard.


Everything tingles - every single square inch of his skin feels electrified and the only reason he notes that his magic has returned to him is a sense of…a puzzle piece falling back into place, one he only knew was missing from Amora's brief earlier caress of his jawline. Later on, much later on, he'll consider the implications of this level of subtle trickery and need to consider far more regarding it.

His lips momentarily go numb with the blistering heat of his missing bit of Art returning to him and Strange's muffled 'mmph!' is tinged with pleasured-pain. It's like a familiar drug, this feeling of promised fulfillment teetering on the edge along with his sanity, making his fingers entangled in her tresses delve further within their silken length.

Then he feels the slicing prickle of her fingernails against the skin of his chest. The transference of his magic is much more startling here, making him gasp against her lips and then disengage from her form entirely. The only sound in the room overtop the crackling of the fire is his heavy breathing. He stands there momentarily, eyes dilated hugely and still glowing with the surging Mystical magic within his blood, and then he swallows thickly.

"Thank you, Lady Amora," he rumbles, words roughened with the after-effects of the tantric return of his stolen power; no argument against this being the 'bedroom voice'. That he can rip himself from her arms says much for his fortitude and focus, however, and he's quickly coming back to himself. "Truthfully, I hope to never see you again."

And with that statement, he strides across the room, Cloak billowing behind him, and leaves. The door shuts behind him with a decisive 'snap' and the wards of the room return to their normal, watchful state. The Sorcerer Supreme has left the building.

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