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Wong’s breath comes harder, heart pounding, the taste of Stephen’s lips on his tongue. Strange faces him, black and red robe hanging slightly open, revealing a svelte chest dusted with hair. He too is dazed, stardust gray eyes unfocused.
“This isn’t what I had in mind when you asked to see me in the bedroom,” Wong says.
“What did you think?” Stephen replies.
“That you needed me to change a lightbulb or something.”
“Wong, something is getting screwed tonight, and it’s not a bulb.”
There were more kisses, Wong thinks, staring at the ceiling, holding his breath. There were more kisses, and then Strange pushed him back on the bed, and they kept kissing, like the sorcerer was a drowning man searching for air, and deft, trembling fingers undid the buttons of his nightshirt and soft lips trailed more kisses down his chest, perking his nipples. Wong holds his breath because if he lets go, he may wake up. This has to be a dream. And then Stephen tugs his pants down.
The valet blushes, embarrassed with how quickly he’s become aroused. It’s been a long time since he even thought about sex. Stephen, kneeling at the foot of the bed, gives him a warm smile, one that does not appear often and fills Wong’s heart with hope. Scarred, comforting hands run up his thighs, and Strange licks a stripe up Wong’s cock from the base to the tip, and Wong thanks every god he’s heard Stephen invoke throughout the years they’ve lived together.
It makes sense Stephen is good with his tongue. Wong has heard the myriad spells that pour from his lips like quicksilver. It confirms Clea’s shouts of yesteryear were sincere. As the sorcerer works a very different brand of magic, Wong feels like shouting himself, leaning on his elbows to watch Strange, eyes closed, concentrating on blowing the valet’s cock and his mind. Stephen reaches up, takes Wong’s hand, and places it on his own head, making a satisfied sound when it curls in his hair.
The scent of peaches fills the air, and by the time Wong realizes what that means, Stephen withdraws from him, breath hitching as he removes slick fingers and spirits a condom from the bedside stand. The valet is confused when Strange eases it onto his cock, but when he notes the desperate urgency in the magician’s eyes and in his voice — “Wong, please” — coherent thought nearly abandons him. Stephen straddles his hips, holding Wong in position, and lets out a relieved breath when they join.
He’s tight. He’s so tight. Wong grasps his waist hard, fingers digging into his flesh, trying hard not to come then and there. Stephen gives a shaky gasp. His robe falls off his shoulders, revealing pale skin that feels hot to the valet’s touch, heated by lust and heated by magic. Strange sighs as he adjusts to the burn, familiar even after years of celibacy, and experimentally rolls his hips. Both men moan with pleasure, and Stephen remembers how it goes.
Strange falls into a rhythm, riding Wong in earnest, face flushed and hands shaking as he braces himself on the valet’s arms. Wong can’t help the little cries and moans that leave him — he hasn’t felt this good in ages — and then he hears the name Stephen repeats over and over as he moves. “Wong, Wong, oh please, Wong, oh fuck, Wong—” The sorcerer yelps as the valet rolls them over, pinning Strange beneath him, lifting his legs and burying his face in his neck.
Thin yet strong fingers grip his scalp as Stephen clings to him, body arching with pleasure. Wong fucks him, each thrust reaching deep. Strange, reduced to cries and whimpers, holds him tight, sobbing as Wong nips his neck and leaves a mark. The valet loses rhythm, losing himself in the moment, the heat, the blind fever. He prepares an apology for when he comes early, he can’t help it, but then Stephen shouts and spills between them. Wong comes inside, barking a curse into pale skin.
After a moment, the valet pulls out and collapses next to Strange. He peels off the condom, ties it closed, and drops it in the waste bin. He would rather flush it away, but his legs refuse to listen to him. The sorcerer panting beside him is in a similar state, coated in sweat and glistening semen. Wong sits up and nudges him when he realizes Strange is dozing off. “Stephen. Stephen, wake up. We need to talk about this.”
The sorcerer grumbles tiredly. “What is it?”
“We need to talk about what this makes…us,” Wong says, a hand on his heart.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Stephen rolls onto his side. “I’m tired.”
Wong grabs his hip and pulls him over, frowning. “No. We’re not doing that. I don’t want to wake up in this bed alone.”
Strange looks confused. “You think I’d leave you?”
“Stephen, I know you would.”
Pain darkens the magician’s face and he looks away, unworthy. “Wong,” he slowly says, “I need you. I need you as an assistant and as a friend…and as, well, more. I know what has come between us. That is the past. I want to move on.” He takes Wong’s hand. “I want to do it with you.” Wong touches Stephen’s cheek, feeling tension not only in his trembling hand but over his entire body. He doesn’t need a third eye to know Strange is sincere.
The valet leans in and presses their lips together. Stephen is chaste, asking permission with his caution. Wong cups his face, urging him to partake. Strange’s arms wrap around his back, hands gripping his shirt. They only break when they need to breath. “We’ll talk about this more in the morning,” Wong murmurs.
Stephen nods. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
The valet laughs, surprised, stroking his cheek.”Don’t. You’ll burn the kitchen down.”
Strange smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I have you.”
- - -
“I have bruises on my scalp. I look like a turnip.”
“I love turnips. Can we have some for dinner?”
“How about I teach you how to cook turnips?”
“Do you think I can do it?”
“It’s the simplest thing in the world. Slice them, boil them, serve.”
“Well. That is ea—”
“Oh, and no magic.”
“What?”
“No magic. Not to cut them, not to cook them, not to wash dishes.”
“That’s no fun.”
“That’s my job… oh no. No, I see the gears turni—Stephen! You still have shaving crea… forget it.”