Stephen Strange's shoulders were one of the first things she noticed about him, in person — more than a year ago, now, but hard to forget that will be the rifter, and ushering him up through all the staircases in La Souveraineté — in a sort of matter of fact way, a list of facts about him. He wore a neat beard that reminded her of Stark, and he had broad shoulders, and the elements about him added up to a reasonably handsome and generally tolerable man. She had considered his proclivities in the idle sort of way that she tends to, at some point, wonder about everyone she meets, considering less the visceral appeal of what it might be like to fuck him and more the analytical, hypothetical consideration of how he might like to fuck—

theories she has, off and on, reconsidered at several different points in their acquaintance for various reasons,

—her toes curl against his bare back, her thigh against his shoulder, and there is absolutely nothing abstract or mathematical about her current awareness of every part of his body, starting from his mouth and working out. The warm familiarity of growing used to his nearness versus the way he crowds up to her now, the heavy, hot weight of his arm over her hips, and the way she clamps her hand over her mouth against the wail that he provokes, sealing his lips against her wet flesh. She can't seem to decide where to put her hands, biting down on her own lower lip, sinking her fingers into his hair and twisting.

“I— fuck— Stephen—” is immediately much less articulate, thick with urgency; half the fucking reason she likes to be held down is she is never as patient as she promises herself she will be.