[ he can practically hear it, the way she'd cut herself off mid-sentence, reorganize and reconfigure words, mentally throw her hands up. it makes him smile. ]
worse things to be
[ that's harmless enough. if she wakes up and sees it she probably won't cut his dick off.
stephen puts his phone down, rolls back over. if his phone doesn't go off again he's just gonna go back to sleep. ]
[ a long pause before the next message, because stephen uses voice to text exclusively, it's two in the morning, and it gives him time to consider further whether this is a good idea. ]
dont you bloody well tell me to go to bed stephen strange, you don't get to play at paternal soothing after you asked me for clarification, that was clearly not a message meant for you, now turn on your stupid phone and call me because we are going to have words.
there's a minute of radio silence, and then a ring of light appears in her flat, sparks fizzing open out of nowhere, and stephen (in his columbia university tee, mussed hair, stephen's a huge fan of sleep why do people not respect this enough) leaning in over her—over his shoulder his own tiny room in the down, its dark corners, the cloak—
taking her face in a scarred hand, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth. ]
[She has all of two seconds to be shocked and then (quietly, secretly) delighted; then he's stepping through, all mussed and sleep-worn, more casual than she's ever seen him before. His mouth is on hers in a second, and she moans softly, her head tipping as she surges up into it.
She tastes of tequila and mint, dressed in a silk nightgown with her hair down and a half-forgotten book lying on the covers. Her room is painted red, subtle gold highlights, too big for any one person, the opulence such a contrast from his own tiny room. One hand darts up, gripping his shirt tightly, trying so hard to stretch this moment out.]
You're an ass.
[She whispers it against his lips, and her anger has faded now.]
[ it's tender. there's no other word for it. no other word either for how he lingers against her lips, stalling for the length of a few slow breaths. this close, his vision muggy in the warm tones of the room, he can see the low long sweep of her eyelashes, the moue of her mouth, things he tries not to think about on his own and does anyway, on occasion. a private conspiracy, all to himself. photographic memory is good for keeping things you shouldn't. ]
... another time.
[ his voice low, reluctant. but she'll regret sending those texts, after all; she might regret inviting him in. they've been careful in their avoidance of awkward mornings and stephen—he's given up too much in life to want to fret about things said and not meant.
he slips back. winks, cheesy. and shifts back through the portal, just as the circle closes outright. ]
[The wink, silly as it is, is what makes it all right. She goes from surprised that he'd refused her to scowling at him, rolling her eyes for that cheesiness. And then he's gone, just like that, and she doesn't know if she's happy or displeased by that.
At least it means she's left alone to process . . . whatever the hell that was on her own. She presses her fingers to her lips, staring down at her sheets for a long while.
She texts him one final time, and then she does indeed go to bed, because the room is spinning.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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he's complicated.
I didn't set out for any of this to be complicated.
I think we're friends.
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worse things to be
[ that's harmless enough. if she wakes up and sees it she probably won't cut his dick off.
stephen puts his phone down, rolls back over. if his phone doesn't go off again he's just gonna go back to sleep. ]
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Better things to be. I don't have friends.
And he's
It's different with him.
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different how
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But still, I enjoy spending time with him. I enjoy how he makes me feel, and I enjoy the hours we spend together. It's a weakness. A liability.
And I can't afford that. not after all that's happened already.
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idk if you noticed but am a wizard and have never been a liability to anyone actually
go to bed x
1/?
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He'd encouraged it.]
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&done
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there's a minute of radio silence, and then a ring of light appears in her flat, sparks fizzing open out of nowhere, and stephen (in his columbia university tee, mussed hair, stephen's a huge fan of sleep why do people not respect this enough) leaning in over her—over his shoulder his own tiny room in the down, its dark corners, the cloak—
taking her face in a scarred hand, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth. ]
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She tastes of tequila and mint, dressed in a silk nightgown with her hair down and a half-forgotten book lying on the covers. Her room is painted red, subtle gold highlights, too big for any one person, the opulence such a contrast from his own tiny room. One hand darts up, gripping his shirt tightly, trying so hard to stretch this moment out.]
You're an ass.
[She whispers it against his lips, and her anger has faded now.]
Stay. Stay . . .
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... another time.
[ his voice low, reluctant. but she'll regret sending those texts, after all; she might regret inviting him in. they've been careful in their avoidance of awkward mornings and stephen—he's given up too much in life to want to fret about things said and not meant.
he slips back. winks, cheesy. and shifts back through the portal, just as the circle closes outright. ]
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At least it means she's left alone to process . . . whatever the hell that was on her own. She presses her fingers to her lips, staring down at her sheets for a long while.
She texts him one final time, and then she does indeed go to bed, because the room is spinning.]
you owe me dinner for a stunt like that.
make it within a few weeks.