1963-12-08 - Scandalous Tea Time
Summary: Amora comes to pester Strange, until Wanda appears.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None' — please, don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
amora wanda strange 

Warning for Amora being Amora

Brooding. That is, without a doubt, what the Sorcerer Supreme is doing as he sits at the small table nearest to the window in O'Riley's Tea Shop. Brooding and chewing over the many changes to his life in recent times. Reality is stable, but continues to hum with a low sense of foreboding that keeps him constantly needing tea in order to avoid heartburn. He draws a fingertip back and forth along the side of the white porcelain tea cup he holds on both hands as he rests it on the table top. His palms aren't quite getting scalded, but are definitely kept warm.

Old Mrs. O'Riley eventually left him to his mulling after dropping off a tea pot full of hot water and small plate with a selection of tea bags on it. She recognizes that pensive state, the general cloudiness of his attention, and after the half-hearted smile he gave her earlier, she patted him on the shoulder and let him be. As the only customer, she trusts him. Away into the corner, she went and there she is now, reading a book with spectacles perched on the end of her nose.

He never took off his coat and the crimson scarf, content to let them shield his body against the cold that seeps through the glass. Outside, it's threatening to snow judging by the wind and the scurrying clouds in the sky. He sips at the dark brew, a breakfast tea from the Far East, with hints of ginger and chamomile to settle his stomach and idly licks his lips before going back to staring at some point beyond the window.


Between the passing of one moment and the next, Amora was just.. there. Hands tipped with green nails slid over his shoulders as she pressed against the back of his chair, draping herself over him in a lazy, and downright scandalous manner. Golden hair spilled over him and into his line of sight as she released a low sounding hum near the shell of his ear. The magic that clung to her intrinsically would set his senses blazing, as it always did.

"Brooding Doctor?" She whispered, and leaned away, regardless of how he reacted to her nearness. A smile painted on her lips as she rounded the table to stand just before him. A hand on her deliciously curved hip, and green eyes dancing with merriment. A tight knit sweater dress of deep emerald hugged her every curve and the neckline swung low with little golden beads sewn into the hem.

And further more, hanging from her collarbone was the notorious necklace that glittered darkly against her pale flesh.

"I do so hope that you're not cross with me.."


His reaction is kneejerk. To be interrupted in such a manner that brings the brightest flaring of the whites of his eyes along with the instant adrenaline rush of gut-deep panic is perhaps the cruelest thing Amora could have done, even if unintentionally.

The Sorcerer immediately ducks from her touch and manages to slide away from both chair and table without upsetting either, though that in itself is a level of luck that would impress even Wanda, with her statistical grip on reality's responses to fate. It brings him not far from her presence, merely on the other side of the small table. The ringing chime of their immediate surroundings flipping to the Mirror Dimension is apparent not only in sound, but in the immediate noticeable refracting of the tea shop around them as well as his instant change from coat to battle-leathers and scarf to Cloak. The Eye hangs about his neck, but does not glitter just yet. Mudras limned in spell-light are held out before him as he pants, pupils dilated wide from her touch; the side of his neck, with its scarring, still tingles as if brushed with pepper oils, a burn that hurts as much as it excites. The sorceress is given a good, long glare with Mystically-lightened eyes of frosted-lilac as he considers all of his answers to her. Finally:

"You can't begin to understand the current depths of my loathing for you, Lady Amora. The Marianas Trench is an excellent start," Strange growls. "What do you want?" The query is terse and bitten out.


The Enchantress seems utterly tickled with his reaction, her gaze sweeping around the mirror dimension with a small 'hmm'. Green eyes scanned the tea shop's alternative, reaching out to tap things curiously. "I never truly cease to be amused by this little pocket of reality," She mused, tossing golden hair over her shoulder with a flick of her wrist as her gaze returned to the glowering man before her.

His answer gained merely a hitching of her eyebrow and she moved toward him with an outstretched hand. Not touching him, but flirting with the idea.

"Now, whyever should you loathe me so utterly? I have done thee nor your's harm. I have committed no great and terrible acts.." She paused, a finger moving to tap her chin and she smirked, her fingers lowering to play with the necklace that dripped from her neck.

"Does this have aught to do with your friend? The Baron? Neither of you are willing to share with me what occurred between the two, so how am I to be to blame?" She fluttered those dark eyelashes at him as she spoke.


He lowers his hands with visible hesitance and the Words waiting on the tip of his tongue melt away as he adopts a stiff pose standing there on the other side of the table, arms folded as to keep those weapons out of her reach as well as project his intense lack of need to discuss anything with her. Even the weather is not fair game currently.

Her move, with offered palm of apparent peace, is countered with an equally-deliberate retreat on his part. Strange doesn't care anymore, not even at expense of ego and pride. It brings him around the table, keeping it precisely between them, the tree between predator and prey. No touchie!

The first question asked by the beautiful Asgardian is ignored entirely; the list of perceived slights is rather long. The next question?

"I'll have you know that you're playing with fire with the Baron, Lady Amora. Don't come crying to me when he discards you like a used tissue," Strange replies as he rolls the tightness that lingers in his shoulders from her touch. His glower deepens. "I don't know what you two are up to, but leave me and mine out of it."


Laughter. Laughter chimes and echoes around them as Amora throws back her head in utter gales of chortles and giggles. It was a beautiful sound, or would have been to most mortal ears. Green nails raked through golden locks and Amora broke off only after a long moment, amusement still bright in those eyes as she smirked at Doctor Strange. A sway of her hips put her leaning over the table, both hands sliding flat against the top of the wood there.

"Oh darling, how adorable! You truly think that I of all people am in danger of losing my heart to that little pet?" Laughter was rich and abundant in her voice and she grinned, perfect teeth flashing white against red lips.

"I am over three thousand years old and have been playmate of Loki, the god of lies deceit and tricks. Truly," She sobered momentarily, her expression going to a chilling mask that he'd not seen upon her at all.

"He is a toy.." She sighed, and dusted off her shoulders, peering back at him. "And given your chilly response in regards to him, and just how much he adores getting under your skin.. then 'tis safe to assume he is not under your protection." An arch of those golden brows follows as she cocked her head to the side and settled herself on the table top facing him.


His expression shifts towards irritation now rather than a straight scowl. Despite the insidious uncurling of his stomach at the sound of her delight, the good Doctor is himself entirely unamused. Nobody laughs at him.

The momentary reveal of apparent exploitation at the hands of the youngest Prince surprises him at first, but then settles into unfortunate logic. Of course. Had she expected otherwise from the wily Trickster God? The one brow arched remains so even as he watches her settle, dress, cleavage, necklace, and all. Those bright eyes slowly rise to her face and narrow.

What a question and unfortunately absolutely appropriate given his mantle. Strange can feel the ulcers forming even as he answers as steadily as he can.

"Regardless of the current status of my association with Baron Mordo, I ask that you keep in mind that everyone on this planet and in this reality is under my protection, Lady Amora. You will be privy to my council if you abuse anyone and they come to me about it." After all, he's a huge believer of freedom of choice. He also assumes that anyone in Amora's tender care has had their freedom of choice subjugated to her inherent attractiveness.


The blonde goddess on the table, hedging a thigh higher upon the wooden table top as she propped her chin up with a hand. Blonde eyebrows held high as she met him gaze for gaze. "This planet of Midgard, and this specific reality of it. Aye, 'tis an easy enough parameter to follow, my dear." She smirked.

The Baron loved going to other dimensions and other planets. His rules were noted with a smirk, a widening of ruby lips as she shrugged and leaned back finally, running her hands through her hair.

"Now, won't you tell me what exactly it is that I have done to displease you so?" She purred, chin held high as she kept her perch on the edge of the table. "It cannot be that I've taken your old friend to bed, not after you've rejected my advances so often.." The last part of sentence dipped low and she eyed him from beneath her eyelashes. Then she was turning her gaze as if disinterested to her nails, turning them over in the light.


He does not like the insinuation that his stated limitations were not enough, but seeing as the specific person in question was Baron Mordo, Strange chooses not to argue the point further. Again — free choice and all that.

It is incredibly difficult to not look into those emerald green eyes without getting frissons up and down his spine. Perhaps she can note the faintest stirring of a response in him, through that damned hindbrain of his already reminding him that her touch was oh-so-good before, and how he wars against it. The subtle slip of tongue over his bottom lip, just the tip, and how his eyes remain dilated within the rings of frosted-lilac. He doesn't come any closer, even as she perches there, but doesn't retreat either. It's her own decision, the one to double-check the status of those flawless nails, that gives him reprieve from the dangerous whispering of his ego. With a difficult swallow, he gathers himself with a few blinks before straightening further, willing more walls of self-control around his mind and person.

"Do what you want with the Baron. I don't care." Or rather, he cares very little, when push comes to shove, due to the number of sharp digs from the man. "You play a cruel game and, quite frankly, I think you show up just to bolster your own self-worth, Lady Amora. Because you can't have what you want. Ever." His goatee quirks in a smirk that borders on snarl. "No matter how hard you try, no matter the number of times you flaunt — I will not be your toy."


The sorcerer's words filled the silence that slowly built as Amora turned over her hand, leaning away as if finding some manner of flaw in the paint that glittered on those perfect nails. The movement hopefully catching his eyes and snaring his attention. It was a ploy of course..Then, without seeming warning, she was between him and the table. She leaned forward, magic swirling around him with the heady scent of all the things he could possibly associate with intimacy.

A tug arcane power followed as she curled her fingers in a beckoning gesture, eyes alight and holding his gaze with all the allure possible. She had planted the seeds of her magic months ago in his aura and now she played with it without so much as physically touching him.

Her power was like a sensuous caress along his synapses and nerves, delicious and slow, all at once. A hint of the promises that she had made him their first meeting. "Never?" She breathed, and it would sound as if her voice played along the shell of his ears, as of hot breath curled along his flesh.


The window isn't saving him. In fact, it bars his immediate retreat because Amora was there and now she's directly in front of him and why on earth is his brain so muddled?! The chill causes him to inhale, a terrible idea in the face of the goddess bent on making him eat his words, and his sigh shivers from his parted lips.

Emerald green, the blot of her subtle tracking spell, bleeds into his amaranthine aura in blatant contrast of color. The Sorcerer is hard-pressed to think of anything but the way those fingers gesture to him with a near-physical draw on his body. He barely resists it, the effort causing muscles to quiver as if fly-stung, and the shivering reaction only deepens into tics as he feels the foreign power continue to suffuse his self-control and turn it on its head. The crimson Cloak, trapped between body and glass, can do nothing but flutter helplessly and attempt to brush at his face to gain his attention with collars. His hands are fisted at his sides, white-knuckled, aching in his damaged nerves.

Gods below, her eyes are so green, why has he never really looked before? No, Stephen, STOP.

"Never," Strange manages, voice husky and lilted with the tiniest bit of despair in the realization that his confidence had gotten him in over his head once again.

The call goes out, weak and sounding as if he's drowning; it's the only thing he can think of, right now, floundering in the draw of the Enchantress: Rakshasi!


Pinned as he was, Amora wasted no time closing in and pressing her advantage, and her curves against him. Delicate hands curved over his chest and upwards to begin undoing the laces that held his tunic closed. Her breath ghosting over his lips as she teased a line of kisses along the edge of his jaw and to his ear. Her touches were ghosted by hundreds of magical pluses that ran over him in teasing ways all over his figure. As if she were all around him all at once. She hadn't previously played with him in this manner, using magic to such an extent, but now she did the more that he refused her, if only on principle alone.

The Princes of Asgard were one thing, anyone 'less' in her eyes was completely unacceptable.

Then of course, was the press of her lips against his, hot and demanding and sealed with magic ages old. Layer upon layer of insidious power that had been planted on those lips that gave other even the Princes pause, was unleashed in full force on Strange.


A book drops on its face on a table, pages scrunched and the heavy cover uttering a leathery sigh. It knocks over a glass phial, sending a thin wave of gilded oil upon the wooden board, scattering dried petals where the lid tumbles past. A palm comes down to flatten the renegade cap, a query lost to the warded atmosphere. Berry-stained lips form a second inquiry, putting a degree of force behind the uplifted question mark. Stones glitter at her throat, suspended on a gilded chain starting to shed crimson sparks. She draws a circle from the puddle of aromatic oud mubakhar, and scatters chips of resin and blossoms around her fully. They forge an unbroken line around her.

Sympathy is the greatest force to a mage, the most easily exploited, and the most difficult to escape short of true names and soul-stuff. Know the ties that bind, and one can be infinitely strengthened or exposed to a terrible vulnerability.

The witch understands the premise. Strange is subject to the first, a weird sensation forming somewhere inside himself but not within his physical body. An intangible tug pulls on him, as constant as the webs of magnetism and gravity binding him to the Earth's forgiving surface, and oddly distinctive to senses used to being inundated by it. Liken it to the shock of a car rolling suddenly out of park, or the sensation of dropping at 481 miles per hour on a modern jetliner through a patch of turbulence.

A bubble pops. Crystallized reality bends again to thirteen reflections of her taut mouth and extended fingers, facets reflecting a line of her golden neck and jaw, another the severe inward bite of her corseted torso and jacket, then they all waver and melt to stepping sideways.

Dropped by the spell into the pocket between places and space, the Maximoff girl's appearance goes without fanfare. Her amaranthine-chromed eyes narrow and steadily creep towards a sky-shot indigo as power winds up from a suppressed foundry, fed by the emotional current feeding her oblivion's bleeding edge. The flood has to go somewhere, and it follows her hand in a downward-pointed mudra. Parvati's sacred defense. Rivers divert around Amora and reform in front of Strange, surging into his aura and steadily pouring through it in a scarlet wave. Halfeti rose and sandalwood, cedar, and rosewood lace through, catch, and drag.


He's drowning, inhaling and getting no air past the weight of the Enchantress's lips on his. Sunburnt, kiss-bruised, they tingle and throb and he's so dizzy that his knees begin to buckle.

Wrong…this is all wrong, so very wrong, so why does it feel so good?! Just touch her, the verdant magic whispers to him and those fists begin to unclench by fractions; Just imagine what she can offer you, Stephen Strange, with the experience at her hands and knowledge of everything carnal… Gods below, she's going to burn him from his bones out!

A sharp gasp breaks their kiss as he's subjected to a sudden metaphysical slap upside the head that seems to knock his psyche nearly off its tracks. Finally breathing and above the surface of the miring lust spells, Strange still takes more than enough time to put two and two together and realize that the scent of Turkish rose and cedar has literal talons wrapped around his sternum. With a sound of shock, he's the focus of a draw he can resist no more than a moth to a flame.

Half-divested of his tunic and still shivering in the aftereffects of Amora's touch, he manages to slide away from her along the window and towards the scarlet-clad Witch, stumbling all the way. Nearer to his consort, growing mad enough to place himself beside Wanda yet still between the two women, he's able to straighten tall and take in a few deep breaths before spitting out,

"I said never, Lady Amora."


Oh he nearly fell, she knew it, and had she been not exiled? Had she access to the full strength of her powers? Perhaps he would have fallen prey to the Enchantress' powers and dominion of will. As it was, the foreign magic that circled round him and broke him from her grip wasn't fought against. Merely, Amora released him with a smirk, a hand settling on her hip as she turned round to follow his retreat beside the scarlet clad figure.

"Mmm, you may want to relace yourself.. Doctor.." And her gaze did not just remain on his tunic as she spoke, rather raking over him without pause nor blush. The Enchantress looked as pleased as a cat that had been caught with a bird beneath her claws, and it showed in the glitter of her eyes.

"Nor was that what your body was saying, nor what you said that time against the palm tree.. Shall I go on Doctor?" She smiled coyly, her gaze still burning with amusement. Unaffected from her foray into seducing the Sorcerer otherwise, she appeared unruffled.

"It was delicious, as always, Stephen." She winked, wiggled her fingers and glanced toward Wanda.


The wall curves behind Wanda, pierced by the window onto a street ignorant of the dangers presented between three mystics. She remains in place, a promise of safe haven in all her golden lines and black, smoldering leather. Pupils losing their distinction melt into the backwashed sky-blue hue of her eyes. As one star inevitably gives off its upper corona in a gaseous, plasmic stream to the larger in a binary pair, she silently pours out the stream of energy straight through the soul conduit opened between them.

Whatever this does to her come the morning, she bears the price now. The nearest fruit stand may never be the same after her descent in a fugue state, a zombie for strawberries and oranges. Hand still poised down, she extends the other in a mute offering to Strange if he seeks stability, a foundational pillar to the resolute earth instead of the unpredictable windstorm in a sweater dress over there.

Burgundy petals of her coat conceal the witch's obsidian frame, the easy grace with which she bears her weight on her back foot. Her chin lifts a fraction, her bored tone dripping in the formative accent touched by influences from a hundred places through the centuries. "It hunts by making false reactions. The body says whatever it is made to say, not what you actually feel? Very heavy handed." Insert the equivalent of a verbal yawn in that fermata on a dull chorus. "How disappointing. So primitive."


His aura literally bleeds around him at first, in hues incarnadine, as he glares at the Enchantress across the space between them. Yes, his tunic is unlaced. Right now, Strange leaves it open, silent snub in the face of her observation meant to prickle.

Another step, to block off line of sight as to how he interlaces his fingers within the Witch's grasp and makes it a lesser effort for her to share her energy. Silently, a pulse of thought between them, unheard to any but the Sorcerer and Witch: Enough, Rakshasi, do not tire yourself further. She may still retaliate.

"Yes," he speaks again, voice still rough and smooth, like shadowed whiskey, "very heavy-handed." In a damning show of combined ego and ultimately in the name of peacekeeping, he finally continues, though it seems to near-physically hurt him. "Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Lady Amora?"

Diplomacy is a terrible burden to bear.


The leaking in his aura was noted, and Amora eyed the points where the arcane energy swelled and passed between Wanda to him. A mere glance told her enough, whether he'd noticed her little hint of magic still embedded therein, was another story entirely. His mind was likely too muddled at the moment and the scent of her magic still scoured the air with juniper berries and wine.

Then a laugh escaped her as he attempted diplomacy and she raked a hand through her hair. "No one accused Asgardians of being creatures of subtly darling." She smirked, clearly unruffled by the score between them. It was all a marvelous game to the Enchantress after all, something to entertain the bored beauty when her more favored toys were unavailable.

"But I /had/ come to speak with you in regards to your little charm blocking scrying for certain people. Tis a pity indeed that you sidetracked me. Such a shame." She shifted and waved a hand, swirls of green smoke lacing up her body as she faded out of sight.


As he watches the Enchantress disappear in her usual smoke-slinky manner, he can already feel his body beginning to relax. The end result of fighting the goddess's spells is the feeling of having been run roughshod over and over again. Stress lingers in every line of his body as he sighs and looks back at Wanda.

"Thank…the gods you showed up when you did," he whispers, hating the fact that he nearly lost all self-control with a sizzling level of loathing. "I haven't…told you about our history and you deserve to know it, especially after seeing…that."

That being something Strange will desperately try to forget with all of his willpower.

"Tea. The tea room." It takes him but a few seconds to call up a Gate directly into said room. Hand in hand, Sorcerer and Witch leave the Mirror Dimension. It falls behind them to reveal the empty table, cup of tea and pot still steaming, plate of tea bags untouched.

Mrs. O'Riley will be quite confused as to how the good Doctor left without the door bell jingling. Maybe she's getting old and missed it…? Hmm. She'll talk with that young man the next time he comes in.

While Strange might have missed the lodging of emerald-green magic within his psyche once again, he did not miss the connotation towards the rings he'd recently gifted a certain Princess of Attilan. If Amora was actively involved, he'd need to delve further into this than he originally expected.

But first — tea.

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