[ Life around the Sanctum Sanctorum has been falling into a routine, in the months and years after Thanos. They have a habit of taking in strays: Doctor Stephen Strange had been one of them himself, and their doors remains open to any passing witch or magician or warlock who needs a safe place to land from, say, hunters or demons or men of letters with interesting ideas about witch trials.
Our artist–in-residence program, he’d called it once, light, as the Sanctum spun up the extra guestroom for Rowena MacLeod. It’s there for her private use whenever she feels like stopping by and staying with them. They’re not teammates, exactly, and although he’d joked about forming a coven, that’s not it either.
Still: Colleagues of a kind. Friends, eventually.
It still bristles a little, sometimes, that he lost his position as Sorcerer Supreme, but Stephen’s learned to swallow that bitterness until it turned to humility. He’s still behind in his magic studies, besides; Wong had years and years of experience before him, and then five more years of experience while he was dust and Wong wore the role and performed the duties. Stephen Strange has some catching up to do.
So he goes back to being an intellectual sponge, soaking up knowledge. He practices portal magic until he could do it in his sleep. He astral projects most nights. It isn’t the same obsessive frenetic pace as when he was trying to repair his hands, perhaps, but he’s still intent on becoming ever better. Sometimes he knocks on Rowena’s door, brings her a spell and asks her to take a look at it; using her innate inborn talent where Stephen’s skills are the product of concentrated study. Mostly he reads and practices late at night, in libraries or the warded practicum room in the basement.
This latest book, though.
Tantric sex magic had felt like a joke at first. Perhaps one of the novices had slipped it into the shelves?
But the more he pores over it, the more plausible it seems. He researched and cross-referenced and spoke to one of the other Sanctum masters, and came out of it with the appalling realisation that it’s real, and therefore an entire branch of magic is currently sitting untapped in his arsenal. The wards against his nightmares have been crumbling lately, and maybe he needs to freshen up which spells he uses.
He’d opened the book to a particular page, on how to harness those— energies— and how to use them to power enchantments. He had read each line, quite carefully. Then he’d slammed the book shut and put it away and tried not to think about it.
He goes back to it a few days later. Then puts it away again.
He couldn’t go to Wong. The man was like his best friend, but dear god, Wong would never. And he can’t go to any of the others at the Sanctum: they’re all apprentices, novitiates, it would feel appallingly like misusing his position. Like if he’d ever gotten entangled with an intern under his supervision at the hospital.
But there is one person under this roof, one coy and flirtatious friend, who is not technically a member of their mystical organisation.
One evening, Stephen conjures a glass of whiskey and downs most of it in one fell swoop, tucks the book under an arm, and then marches through the Sanctum until he reaches Rowena’s door, and knocks sharply on the wood. ]
( given the easy pattern that they fell into now, magical discourse, banter, and flirtation, it almost seemed strange to think it hadn't always been that way. but when rowena's being hunted, it makes her on edge and pricklier, at least until the reassurances of the sanctum had made her feel safer. and calmer.
this time, when she visits, it's for a friendlier reason, wanting to utilise some of their resources and cross-reference some of her notes with the library. there have been times when their books have saved her days of working through a spell, and though she enjoys the work and puzzle herself occasionally, it's made for a simpler spell than her own work.
plus, she enjoys getting to ruffle a certain sorcerer's feathers. particularly when he needs her help.
it's late when he knocks at her door, rowena's room lit by candles as she makes her preparations for the evening, kneeling on the floor. she'd not yet begun the spell, a general ward she placed, and feeling his magic outside she lowers her hands, a small gesture opening the door to him.
she raises her brow, not yet getting up from the floor )
It's a little late.
( except they've chatted far later, though usually more clothed and both in the library )
[ Stephen takes a step over the threshold, not batting an eye at the door moving by itself, but then he abruptly stops and runs aground a little at the unexpected sight of Rowena in a silky chemise — or is it technically a negligee? he never really knew the exact specific names for lingerie — why is he thinking about classification —
If he were here for any other reason, this might have merited an embarrassed postponement and granting her privacy back. Maybe I’m sorry, this can wait until tomorrow or I’ll let you get, er, decent; but tonight’s end-goal is decidedly different. The late hour and soft, dim atmosphere and candlelight flickering on her face feels more appropriate to what he’s eventually going to ask. The man’s not in full sorcerer regalia tonight, either; just a comfortable black sweater over a shirt over grey sweatpants, like any other night she’d run into him in the kitchen making tea at midnight. ]
A little. I don’t sleep well.
[ His gaze bypasses the line of her bare thighs and goes straight to the beginnings of the ward sketched on the floor, so similar to the very thing that had brought him to her door tonight: the spells he’d carved into his bedposts, etched onto the floorboards, a brick wall of dense charmwork to keep his mind protected. The mortar, however, had been crumbling.
With a familiar air of professional curiosity: ] What are you working on?
( she'd painted one piece in red before he'd knocked, a celtic sigil of luck combined with protection. an unusual combination, particularly before sleep, but rowena was trying something new with it: protection on its own hadn't been enough to ward her from her nightmares; she hoped a little luck might help.
the jar sat beside her with the brush resting in it, and with his question, she picks it up again, wiping off some of the excess paint before leaning closer to the floor to paint her second sigil: safe travels )
It's a spell I cast each night, one to ward my own dreams.
( something that she doesn't admit often, though with his admission of poor sleep (and the growing trust between them) she'd admit that much even if she wouldn't talk about the content of her dreams.
besides, warding dreams warded any intrusions, not just recurring nightmares )
Though your appearance tells me I might not be sleeping just yet.
( not that rowena could assume why. she pauses her painting of the sigil, her head tipping up slightly in curiosity. tell her she's wrong, stephen )
[ The corner of his mouth curls into a smile. There’s a sly joke potentially waiting in response to her question: if they do their job right, no, they won’t be sleeping anytime soon, but —
But his flirtatiousness has grown old and rusty over the years since his accident and since becoming a sorcerer, even if it’s easier with Rowena, the way she keeps nudging and teasing at the friendly boundaries between them. Mostly he’s surprised into a laugh by the sheer happenstantial coincidence of it, because who could have predicted? ]
Y’know, that’s actually the exact reason I’m here? I do the same thing; there’s a particular demon in the dream realms, Nightmare, who’s taken a disliking to me. I have to ward my sleep against him. It’s a great time, I’m always redoing the spells and refreshing them after it’s been a while and they’ve been fading.
( her head tilts slightly and though rowena listens to his words it isn't the biggest part that catches her attention. she replaces the paintbrush into the jar, rocking back on her heels so that she can stand. he towers over her, even more now that she's barefoot, but even now something that's alive in her energy makes up for that lack of height )
You came to me for help with your warding?
( a small gesture of her fingers pushes the door closed behind him from where she's stood in her circle, her preparations now abandoned in curiosity of his own wishes )
For your nightmares specifically or just to help you sleep? There are potions I could craft for that, or a spell...
( leaving him with many different options, even if she wants to know what his first thought had been )
[ There’s a safer path here where Stephen takes that out. Pivot to asking for soporifics, sleeping potions, perhaps just getting her to inscribe whatever wards she’s been trying in the hopes they do something for him, too: luck, safe travels. He could just leave it at that, and not irreversibly change their dynamic.
But the door’s closed behind him and the night’s wreathed in comfortable darkness. In for a penny and in for a pound, doctor. So he clears his throat and continues: ]
Help with the warding, yes, and from the sounds of it, perhaps we can kill two birds in one stone and assist you with yours, too. I’ve been reading up on an alternative power source which might be able to amplify the spellwork.
What are you warding yours against? [ he asks after a moment, his voice quieter. What do you see? He doesn’t really need to know, but it feels more personal to ask, to bridge that gap between them; trying to understand a little bit of what’s plaguing her, diagnosing the root cause, rather than launching right into the rest of the blunt proposition without preamble. ]
( the thought of offering him a spell or potion is lost from her mind when he mentions powerful magic, drawing rowena to the idea. she was powerful already but given the source of her nightmares... more power would only help to strengthen her warding.
she's about to question on it when he asks about her nightmares, and her eyes widen slightly. there's clear reluctance in her expression, and rowena doubts that he'd turn from her now if she refused to tell him, but as the pause draws out she finds herself answering instead, words even quieter than his )
Lucifer. The devil.
( she can't make her eyes meet his for more than a second before she quickly looks away, clear in how little she wants to talk about it with her shift back in topic )
[ Stephen swallows. This isn’t what she’s used to from him; the sorcerer is usually quick, brusque, confident, but tonight there’s an uncustomary hesitance and delicacy to whatever he’s about to say. Hear him out, etc. ]
First off, this comes with the requisite disclaimer that if you’re not interested or even enthusiastic, there’s absolutely no obligation to participate in the ritual, and I bring this to you only out of scholarly-minded interest as a fellow arcane practicioner who might be amenable —
[ He’s rambling. He knows he has a tendency to ramble on these few occasions when he’s nervous. Finally, exasperated with himself, forcing himself to just fucking get on with it already, Stephen cracks open the book to the relevant page and holds it out for Rowena to take. ]
—Magic powered by erotic energy. It’s one of the few specialties I haven’t tried yet.
( the moment he says the words she can understand the hesitation, though she doesn't comment on it for the moment, taking the book from him to look over the specific spell )
I've used similar rituals before, never for this purpose.
( she'd not even thought of it for this purpose, though it would also entail someone being in on her nightmares. stephen already was, knowing she didn't sleep well from their mutual periods of middle-of-the-night awakeness, even if they'd never discussed them before.
she looks back up at him, a small smile forming on her lips )
If you wanted to have sex with me you also could have just brought a drink with you and not an excuse.
( she teases. it's the vaguest yes, i'm interested you could get. rowena also knows he wasn't making an excuse to have sex with her, but that he's genuinely hopeful that it would work, something she also now is. the sex is a happy bonus )
The spell is simple enough, and I believe I have everything we need with me. Most of the power comes from us, with a few oils.
( et cetera. magic things. she hands the book back, stepping out of her circle and picks up two of her candles, moving them to her dresser to both keep them out of the way and use them for other mood lighting )
[ Rowena’s reaction startles him into a surprised laugh, because after all of his stammering preamble and making such a big deal out of it, of course, ]
Of course you’d have done something like this already —
[ It’s not a mockery, or shaming the woman for her history. More like he’s prude-shaming himself. She’s older, quite literally more experienced, and has a deeper well of magical ritual to pull from. So Stephen shakes his head, rueful and amused, and sets the book down on a nearby coffeetable. It’s not an eldritch lectern, but. When needs must. While she fusses with moving the candles around, he adds, ]
And a drink can actually be arranged.
[ What follows is a flourish, a charming little spell he’d used before to smooth over other social interactions, plucking her favourite drink order out of her mind, a brief telepathic skimming of the surface for small purpose. Two glasses materialise, one in each hand — a lemon drop martini for himself — and he glances at what was summoned for Rowena: ]
Hmm. An eighteen-year-old single malt whiskey. Is that right?
( rowena can tell from his tone what he means, that the isn't shame towards her but almost reverence, that he perhaps should have come to her with this sooner. or more confidently, but she can overlook it. sex magic isn't a widely known or used thing, and it's certainly a complex form of magic -- witches with little skill had no hope of being able to harness anything, even if they could build to climax. rowena had harnessed the power many times, and she had no doubts about stephen's capabilities either.
she smiles when she turns back around from gathering the supplies from her cabinet at the drink he has waiting for her, nodding at his choice. well-remembered, stephen. she places her candles on top of the cabinet, taking the drink with another smile and sipping some of it )
So you do listen to what I tell you.
( a tease at how sometimes he hasn't listened (or wanted to) about her magical theory, not when it contrasted with what he knew. both of them could be rather stubborn, she did the same. though she operated on the belief that she was right and her witchcraft wasn't entirely used as his magic was )
How simple would you like tonight to be? The more involved we are the more powerful the spell will be-- ( multiple orgasms, she means ) but even once would have enough power from us.
[ After handing over Rowena’s drink, Stephen considers her over a deep swig of his. It’s weaker than hers, but still fittingly classic, sophisticated, and a little sweet-and-sour. The alcohol conjuration was both an opportunity to show off, but also a way to take the edge off a little, smooth over the conversation, loosen him up and ease the way he usually kept people at an aloof distance. The man is an island. Sometimes he has to remind himself that it’s okay to forge connections, to let down his guard a little.
He weighs her question, and in the end, the answer’s fairly easy: ]
I don’t know about you, but I’m dreadfully tired of nightmares. If there’s any chance we can build those wards even stronger, then I’m all for taking it. And selfishly, [ his expression turns a little warmer, with an impish smile, ] the more involved we are, the more enjoyable it’d be for us both. One can mix business and pleasure, after all.
( she takes another sip before placing it on the dresser and stepping over to him )
If sex isn't enjoyable, there's little point in it.
( even magically powerful, she'd much rather enjoy the act than do it just for service. she could find other spells of power in that case. with stephen, she doubts it would be anything but enjoyable, especially with their shared reason for doing this.
rowena rests her hand on his, gently sliding the glass from it so she can free his hand, placing it also on the dresser. as she leans into him, she rests a hand against his cheek. the first brush of her lips against his is light, feeling out the kiss, before she quickly deepens it. no room for awkwardness here )
[ Whatever he’s about to say next — some wry and playful agreement, something — is distracted by Rowena closing the distance and kissing him.
And just like that, they’ve altered the foundation of their friendship.
There’s a brief moment where Stephen seems to hover on the brink of some last hesitation, an over-analytical part of his brain still overthinking it, reminding him, This is the first time you’ve kissed anyone in years, before he conscientiously sets that part of him aside. Compartmentalises, shuts the door, turns the key.
Rowena dives in and it’s a good counterpoint to all his wary caution; he soon follows suit to match her in kind, hungry mouth opening against hers with a slide of tongue, his suddenly-free hands reaching up to catch the line of Rowena’s jaw, her neck, drawing her to him and losing himself in the kiss. ]
( many thing happen: it begins with a warmth, a flutter around her heart as he pours himself into the kiss. her hand falls from his cheek, clutching at his sweater as the kiss deepens, and that warmth grows, filling her chest and beginning to pool between her legs. for all of his quick words and sharp tongue, he's a delightful kisser, and his professions of enjoyable sex become even more believable.
the kiss breaks briefly, panted breath from her before rowena leans in again, capturing his lips, and he'll feel a loosening in his pants, a light brush of her magic undoing the fastenings.
her hands don't touch him, loosening instead from him to grasp his hands, guiding them to her thighs, and starting to brush under her slip. where, he'll find, she doesn't wear underwear for bed )
[ Stephen gives a strangled laugh at the sensation of his drawstring loosening, Rowena’s magical signature humming around him, so much closer than their usual experimentation and arcane training. ]
Usually I’m the one using telekinesis for personal benefit,
[ he says, even as his hands go under the smooth, cool silk of that navy slip, rucking up the lace around the edges. He makes an appreciative noise against her mouth when he reaches the curve of bare skin and thigh, pleasantly surprised to find no scrap of fabric to navigate. And this, too, is an unexpected surprise: how low he has to duck his head to kiss her at all, how disorienting that gap between them is. He’s so accustomed to seeing Rowena in those towering heels that he hadn’t even realised how short the woman actually is; this is the first time he’s seen her so stripped down, in more ways than one.
Guided by her touch, he ducks even lower to allow his hands to drift. They aren’t as nimble and dexterous as they used to be, but still good enough for this, at least for a time: one hand remains on her thigh while the other slips between her legs, searching out the seam of her, a finger eventually brushing against her clit. ]
( she rests one hand on his shoulder, keeping her gaze on his as his fingers seek her out, a soft sound falling from her. rowena sways into his hand, a small rock against him, encouraging his touch )
I've experimented with it in many forms over the years, pleasure especially. ( when you get to her age, sometimes you need a little more than just a decent fuck.
especially if you had no lover. one day she'll tell you all about enchanted sex toys.
as her fingers brush over his shoulder he'll feel a tingle, sensing that magical signature again, an almost electric jolt running from her fingers down his back, a pleasurable touch of her magic )
[ That buzz of magic sparking down Stephen’s spine punches a hitch of indrawn breath out of him, a small gasp, and it instantly sets the mind to wondering. What else could she do with her magic, so mathematically precise, just straddling the line of electricity nipping his skin? He’s so often been the preeminent sorcerer in a room, arrogant and learned, and it’s unexpectedly delightful to find himself on the back foot for once. Her age is indeed a benefit. ]
I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, [ ha ] of mingling magic in the bedroom before, so you’ll have a few things to, ah, show me—
[ Rowena rocks into his hand as he finds the right angle. He’d been a surgeon, he’d played the piano excellently, he had once prided himself on being able to turn women into a quivering mess with nothing but his fingers alone: so he starts the leisurely circling, feeling her become wetter, his touch more slippery, the woman rising up on tiptoe into the press of his hand. The height difference means it’s not the optimal angle, however, and so he pauses to kiss her again, murmuring against her lips, ]
This might call for relocating. If you get on the bed, I can scribe the wards.
[ Because they’ll need that circle amended, the pentagram drawn to harness all the energy they’ll soon be generating. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no masters or kings when the ritual begins.
Our artist–in-residence program, he’d called it once, light, as the Sanctum spun up the extra guestroom for Rowena MacLeod. It’s there for her private use whenever she feels like stopping by and staying with them. They’re not teammates, exactly, and although he’d joked about forming a coven, that’s not it either.
Still: Colleagues of a kind. Friends, eventually.
It still bristles a little, sometimes, that he lost his position as Sorcerer Supreme, but Stephen’s learned to swallow that bitterness until it turned to humility. He’s still behind in his magic studies, besides; Wong had years and years of experience before him, and then five more years of experience while he was dust and Wong wore the role and performed the duties. Stephen Strange has some catching up to do.
So he goes back to being an intellectual sponge, soaking up knowledge. He practices portal magic until he could do it in his sleep. He astral projects most nights. It isn’t the same obsessive frenetic pace as when he was trying to repair his hands, perhaps, but he’s still intent on becoming ever better. Sometimes he knocks on Rowena’s door, brings her a spell and asks her to take a look at it; using her innate inborn talent where Stephen’s skills are the product of concentrated study. Mostly he reads and practices late at night, in libraries or the warded practicum room in the basement.
This latest book, though.
Tantric sex magic had felt like a joke at first. Perhaps one of the novices had slipped it into the shelves?
But the more he pores over it, the more plausible it seems. He researched and cross-referenced and spoke to one of the other Sanctum masters, and came out of it with the appalling realisation that it’s real, and therefore an entire branch of magic is currently sitting untapped in his arsenal. The wards against his nightmares have been crumbling lately, and maybe he needs to freshen up which spells he uses.
He’d opened the book to a particular page, on how to harness those— energies— and how to use them to power enchantments. He had read each line, quite carefully. Then he’d slammed the book shut and put it away and tried not to think about it.
He goes back to it a few days later. Then puts it away again.
He couldn’t go to Wong. The man was like his best friend, but dear god, Wong would never. And he can’t go to any of the others at the Sanctum: they’re all apprentices, novitiates, it would feel appallingly like misusing his position. Like if he’d ever gotten entangled with an intern under his supervision at the hospital.
But there is one person under this roof, one coy and flirtatious friend, who is not technically a member of their mystical organisation.
One evening, Stephen conjures a glass of whiskey and downs most of it in one fell swoop, tucks the book under an arm, and then marches through the Sanctum until he reaches Rowena’s door, and knocks sharply on the wood. ]
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this time, when she visits, it's for a friendlier reason, wanting to utilise some of their resources and cross-reference some of her notes with the library. there have been times when their books have saved her days of working through a spell, and though she enjoys the work and puzzle herself occasionally, it's made for a simpler spell than her own work.
plus, she enjoys getting to ruffle a certain sorcerer's feathers. particularly when he needs her help.
it's late when he knocks at her door, rowena's room lit by candles as she makes her preparations for the evening, kneeling on the floor. she'd not yet begun the spell, a general ward she placed, and feeling his magic outside she lowers her hands, a small gesture opening the door to him.
she raises her brow, not yet getting up from the floor )
It's a little late.
( except they've chatted far later, though usually more clothed and both in the library )
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If he were here for any other reason, this might have merited an embarrassed postponement and granting her privacy back. Maybe I’m sorry, this can wait until tomorrow or I’ll let you get, er, decent; but tonight’s end-goal is decidedly different. The late hour and soft, dim atmosphere and candlelight flickering on her face feels more appropriate to what he’s eventually going to ask. The man’s not in full sorcerer regalia tonight, either; just a comfortable black sweater over a shirt over grey sweatpants, like any other night she’d run into him in the kitchen making tea at midnight. ]
A little. I don’t sleep well.
[ His gaze bypasses the line of her bare thighs and goes straight to the beginnings of the ward sketched on the floor, so similar to the very thing that had brought him to her door tonight: the spells he’d carved into his bedposts, etched onto the floorboards, a brick wall of dense charmwork to keep his mind protected. The mortar, however, had been crumbling.
With a familiar air of professional curiosity: ] What are you working on?
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the jar sat beside her with the brush resting in it, and with his question, she picks it up again, wiping off some of the excess paint before leaning closer to the floor to paint her second sigil: safe travels )
It's a spell I cast each night, one to ward my own dreams.
( something that she doesn't admit often, though with his admission of poor sleep (and the growing trust between them) she'd admit that much even if she wouldn't talk about the content of her dreams.
besides, warding dreams warded any intrusions, not just recurring nightmares )
Though your appearance tells me I might not be sleeping just yet.
( not that rowena could assume why. she pauses her painting of the sigil, her head tipping up slightly in curiosity. tell her she's wrong, stephen )
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But his flirtatiousness has grown old and rusty over the years since his accident and since becoming a sorcerer, even if it’s easier with Rowena, the way she keeps nudging and teasing at the friendly boundaries between them. Mostly he’s surprised into a laugh by the sheer happenstantial coincidence of it, because who could have predicted? ]
Y’know, that’s actually the exact reason I’m here? I do the same thing; there’s a particular demon in the dream realms, Nightmare, who’s taken a disliking to me. I have to ward my sleep against him. It’s a great time, I’m always redoing the spells and refreshing them after it’s been a while and they’ve been fading.
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You came to me for help with your warding?
( a small gesture of her fingers pushes the door closed behind him from where she's stood in her circle, her preparations now abandoned in curiosity of his own wishes )
For your nightmares specifically or just to help you sleep? There are potions I could craft for that, or a spell...
( leaving him with many different options, even if she wants to know what his first thought had been )
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But the door’s closed behind him and the night’s wreathed in comfortable darkness. In for a penny and in for a pound, doctor. So he clears his throat and continues: ]
Help with the warding, yes, and from the sounds of it, perhaps we can kill two birds in one stone and assist you with yours, too. I’ve been reading up on an alternative power source which might be able to amplify the spellwork.
What are you warding yours against? [ he asks after a moment, his voice quieter. What do you see? He doesn’t really need to know, but it feels more personal to ask, to bridge that gap between them; trying to understand a little bit of what’s plaguing her, diagnosing the root cause, rather than launching right into the rest of the blunt proposition without preamble. ]
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she's about to question on it when he asks about her nightmares, and her eyes widen slightly. there's clear reluctance in her expression, and rowena doubts that he'd turn from her now if she refused to tell him, but as the pause draws out she finds herself answering instead, words even quieter than his )
Lucifer. The devil.
( she can't make her eyes meet his for more than a second before she quickly looks away, clear in how little she wants to talk about it with her shift back in topic )
Tell me about the spell.
( the powerful magic he'd read up on )
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First off, this comes with the requisite disclaimer that if you’re not interested or even enthusiastic, there’s absolutely no obligation to participate in the ritual, and I bring this to you only out of scholarly-minded interest as a fellow arcane practicioner who might be amenable —
[ He’s rambling. He knows he has a tendency to ramble on these few occasions when he’s nervous. Finally, exasperated with himself, forcing himself to just fucking get on with it already, Stephen cracks open the book to the relevant page and holds it out for Rowena to take. ]
—Magic powered by erotic energy. It’s one of the few specialties I haven’t tried yet.
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I've used similar rituals before, never for this purpose.
( she'd not even thought of it for this purpose, though it would also entail someone being in on her nightmares. stephen already was, knowing she didn't sleep well from their mutual periods of middle-of-the-night awakeness, even if they'd never discussed them before.
she looks back up at him, a small smile forming on her lips )
If you wanted to have sex with me you also could have just brought a drink with you and not an excuse.
( she teases. it's the vaguest yes, i'm interested you could get. rowena also knows he wasn't making an excuse to have sex with her, but that he's genuinely hopeful that it would work, something she also now is. the sex is a happy bonus )
The spell is simple enough, and I believe I have everything we need with me. Most of the power comes from us, with a few oils.
( et cetera. magic things. she hands the book back, stepping out of her circle and picks up two of her candles, moving them to her dresser to both keep them out of the way and use them for other mood lighting )
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Of course you’d have done something like this already —
[ It’s not a mockery, or shaming the woman for her history. More like he’s prude-shaming himself. She’s older, quite literally more experienced, and has a deeper well of magical ritual to pull from. So Stephen shakes his head, rueful and amused, and sets the book down on a nearby coffeetable. It’s not an eldritch lectern, but. When needs must. While she fusses with moving the candles around, he adds, ]
And a drink can actually be arranged.
[ What follows is a flourish, a charming little spell he’d used before to smooth over other social interactions, plucking her favourite drink order out of her mind, a brief telepathic skimming of the surface for small purpose. Two glasses materialise, one in each hand — a lemon drop martini for himself — and he glances at what was summoned for Rowena: ]
Hmm. An eighteen-year-old single malt whiskey. Is that right?
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she smiles when she turns back around from gathering the supplies from her cabinet at the drink he has waiting for her, nodding at his choice. well-remembered, stephen. she places her candles on top of the cabinet, taking the drink with another smile and sipping some of it )
So you do listen to what I tell you.
( a tease at how sometimes he hasn't listened (or wanted to) about her magical theory, not when it contrasted with what he knew. both of them could be rather stubborn, she did the same. though she operated on the belief that she was right and her witchcraft wasn't entirely used as his magic was )
How simple would you like tonight to be? The more involved we are the more powerful the spell will be-- ( multiple orgasms, she means ) but even once would have enough power from us.
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He weighs her question, and in the end, the answer’s fairly easy: ]
I don’t know about you, but I’m dreadfully tired of nightmares. If there’s any chance we can build those wards even stronger, then I’m all for taking it. And selfishly, [ his expression turns a little warmer, with an impish smile, ] the more involved we are, the more enjoyable it’d be for us both. One can mix business and pleasure, after all.
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If sex isn't enjoyable, there's little point in it.
( even magically powerful, she'd much rather enjoy the act than do it just for service. she could find other spells of power in that case. with stephen, she doubts it would be anything but enjoyable, especially with their shared reason for doing this.
rowena rests her hand on his, gently sliding the glass from it so she can free his hand, placing it also on the dresser. as she leans into him, she rests a hand against his cheek. the first brush of her lips against his is light, feeling out the kiss, before she quickly deepens it. no room for awkwardness here )
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And just like that, they’ve altered the foundation of their friendship.
There’s a brief moment where Stephen seems to hover on the brink of some last hesitation, an over-analytical part of his brain still overthinking it, reminding him, This is the first time you’ve kissed anyone in years, before he conscientiously sets that part of him aside. Compartmentalises, shuts the door, turns the key.
Rowena dives in and it’s a good counterpoint to all his wary caution; he soon follows suit to match her in kind, hungry mouth opening against hers with a slide of tongue, his suddenly-free hands reaching up to catch the line of Rowena’s jaw, her neck, drawing her to him and losing himself in the kiss. ]
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the kiss breaks briefly, panted breath from her before rowena leans in again, capturing his lips, and he'll feel a loosening in his pants, a light brush of her magic undoing the fastenings.
her hands don't touch him, loosening instead from him to grasp his hands, guiding them to her thighs, and starting to brush under her slip. where, he'll find, she doesn't wear underwear for bed )
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Usually I’m the one using telekinesis for personal benefit,
[ he says, even as his hands go under the smooth, cool silk of that navy slip, rucking up the lace around the edges. He makes an appreciative noise against her mouth when he reaches the curve of bare skin and thigh, pleasantly surprised to find no scrap of fabric to navigate. And this, too, is an unexpected surprise: how low he has to duck his head to kiss her at all, how disorienting that gap between them is. He’s so accustomed to seeing Rowena in those towering heels that he hadn’t even realised how short the woman actually is; this is the first time he’s seen her so stripped down, in more ways than one.
Guided by her touch, he ducks even lower to allow his hands to drift. They aren’t as nimble and dexterous as they used to be, but still good enough for this, at least for a time: one hand remains on her thigh while the other slips between her legs, searching out the seam of her, a finger eventually brushing against her clit. ]
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( she rests one hand on his shoulder, keeping her gaze on his as his fingers seek her out, a soft sound falling from her. rowena sways into his hand, a small rock against him, encouraging his touch )
I've experimented with it in many forms over the years, pleasure especially. ( when you get to her age, sometimes you need a little more than just a decent fuck.
especially if you had no lover. one day she'll tell you all about enchanted sex toys.
as her fingers brush over his shoulder he'll feel a tingle, sensing that magical signature again, an almost electric jolt running from her fingers down his back, a pleasurable touch of her magic )
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I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, [ ha ] of mingling magic in the bedroom before, so you’ll have a few things to, ah, show me—
[ Rowena rocks into his hand as he finds the right angle. He’d been a surgeon, he’d played the piano excellently, he had once prided himself on being able to turn women into a quivering mess with nothing but his fingers alone: so he starts the leisurely circling, feeling her become wetter, his touch more slippery, the woman rising up on tiptoe into the press of his hand. The height difference means it’s not the optimal angle, however, and so he pauses to kiss her again, murmuring against her lips, ]
This might call for relocating. If you get on the bed, I can scribe the wards.
[ Because they’ll need that circle amended, the pentagram drawn to harness all the energy they’ll soon be generating. ]