He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment this drifted onto the track of inevitability, probably because it’s been a slow inexorable slide which had started a year and a half ago, with Gwenaëlle’s whiplash words flaying him to the bone (however funny it was to roll your eyes about picking up the wrong fork in whatever arsehole of the Fade you emerged from, whether you give a fuck about Thedas or take your new circumstances seriously or not—), her claws flexing and digging in and then leaving him contrite.
So few people are capable of making Stephen Strange feel contrite and abashed. He had taken notice.
Perhaps something had shifted underfoot when she’d done up his shirt buttons and not made a big deal out of it, and gifted him those thoughtful gloves, or late-night tea at the Sanctum and portalling her to a nighttime beach in the tropics simply because she liked to swim, or the two of them saving a man’s life together, or her practically clambering into his lap, him handing her a book of Orlesian poetry he’d ripped apart a timeline to bring to her, or any number of small intimacies they’d accidentally slipped into, or, or, or.
It’s been an endless step after step after step to get to this point: Gwenäelle sliding her cold fingers under his shirt and Stephen jolting, interrupting the kiss to yelp against her jaw, “Jesus fucking christ,” and the laughter bubbling in the room.
“Rude,” he adds, the smile audible in his voice. And the solid edge of the corset had been uncomfortable enough that he reaches for the sleek, flattened arch of her ribcage in an attempt to even the odds, and at least get started on carving through the first of those layers to make it more comfortable for both of them, and then, well.
There’s a momentary confusion. He’s never had to fuss with the intricacies of womenswear in this time period before. His brows are furrowed in intent concentration (as if she’s a puzzle to be unravelled, which she is) as he pulls a little away, peering down in the half-gloom, hands splayed against a cage, trying to sort out how to get it off.
no subject
So few people are capable of making Stephen Strange feel contrite and abashed. He had taken notice.
Perhaps something had shifted underfoot when she’d done up his shirt buttons and not made a big deal out of it, and gifted him those thoughtful gloves,
or late-night tea at the Sanctum and portalling her to a nighttime beach in the tropics simply because she liked to swim,
or the two of them saving a man’s life together,
or her practically clambering into his lap, him handing her a book of Orlesian poetry he’d ripped apart a timeline to bring to her,
or any number of small intimacies they’d accidentally slipped into,
or, or, or.
It’s been an endless step after step after step to get to this point: Gwenäelle sliding her cold fingers under his shirt and Stephen jolting, interrupting the kiss to yelp against her jaw, “Jesus fucking christ,” and the laughter bubbling in the room.
“Rude,” he adds, the smile audible in his voice. And the solid edge of the corset had been uncomfortable enough that he reaches for the sleek, flattened arch of her ribcage in an attempt to even the odds, and at least get started on carving through the first of those layers to make it more comfortable for both of them, and then, well.
There’s a momentary confusion. He’s never had to fuss with the intricacies of womenswear in this time period before. His brows are furrowed in intent concentration (as if she’s a puzzle to be unravelled, which she is) as he pulls a little away, peering down in the half-gloom, hands splayed against a cage, trying to sort out how to get it off.
“—Is this armoured leather?”