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Afternoon Tea

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“You enjoy living here?”

Amara's lips twitched at the incredulity in Stephen Strange's tone, though she inclined her head before sipping at her cup of tea, the porcelain settling warmly against her palm. “I do, though I could understand why it might surprise you,” she replied with a slight shrug. “You have to understand. On earth, I had—” Amara's voice trailed off for a moment as she clearly struggled to explain herself, though for his part Strange did not interrupt, his attention apt and respectful.

“Not what you might call a 'life'. I'd grown so accustomed to my solitude I didn't even try to reach out to others anymore, if only because of their longevity and the relative comfort for my routine.” He frowned as her explanation finally came to a close, but before he could pose her another question, she continued. “You can't imagine what it's like, never aging but watching everyone else around you...,” her voice trailed off purposefully then as she heaved a quiet sigh, her free hand raking back through her loose, black locks.

“Here, at least, that's different. The Asgardians may well be mortal and susceptible to the aging process, but not so quickly as humans.” She raised her cup again to take a longer, almost contemplative drink as Strange watched her, expression thoughtful as his head tilted just slightly to the side.

“Fair enough,” he finally answered, though Amara briefly caught the glimmer in his eyes as he leaned forward only just. “But why Loki of all people?” Amara laughed at the blanch on his face, light green eyes glittering golden for a moment.

“The circumstances of our meeting and subsequent relationship are far different than your own,” Amara answered, her smile amused as Strange shook his head and settled back into his chair.

“I won't argue that, but...,” his voice trailed off in a sigh before he helped himself to his own tea, no doubt tepid after sitting untouched for several moments. It wasn't long after he'd set his emptied cup to the side that his eyes narrowed at her in concern. “Are you all right?You look ill,” he informed her, though she couldn't deny a curious warmth seemed to seep into her chest, blossoming red on her cheeks and spreading further still with each passing moment. The notion to make a japing remark about him being a doctor and checking on her welfare fled her mind in the same moment it manifested. Her lips parted to answer, though her eyes blinked shut heavily as a sudden wave of nausea passed through her, and while the nausea itself passed half a second later, it left her mind a fogged, overheated jumble, and only then did she realize the heat had spread down to her hips and settled there insistently.

Strange's concern never dissipated, and he even made to stand at her lack of an answer before Amara saw him settle back into his chair, a slightly-shaking hand lifting to his forehead as crimson bloomed across his face. It was only when she caught his gaze that she knew without a shadow of a doubt that their tea had been dosed with an aphrodisiac of some sort, and she couldn't deny how steadily her heart pounded from the look they shared. Whispering his name was clearly a mistake, considering it seemed to draw the pair of them together not unlike magnets a moment later.

Amara gasped at the taste of his tongue in her mouth, her back arching until their chests touched and her hand lost itself in the dark locks cut short at the back of his head. Both their breathing was audible as the kiss came to an end, Amara's eyes blown wide as she fought to refill her lungs with air. We shouldn't, Amara thought helplessly, practically drowning in the thick, syrupy morass that seemed to comprise her thoughts anymore. Strange was sharp, though. He could see the brief flash of her indecision, and even as she somehow managed to turn and even take a step away, he'd returned to her, his breath warm on the side of her neck.

At first, Amara had been so very aware of him pressed against her – of the swollen line of his cock against the back of her thigh – but her attention was abruptly drawn ahead of her where a mirror seemed perfectly poised: showing her the arousal in her own expression and Strange's hand as it flitted around her throat and slid down to cup one of her breasts.

“Amara,” he spoke breathlessly, almost apologetically, though Amara simply shook her head. This was not his doing, and it hardly helped matters anyway. Her moan was low as his hand squeezed, eyes fluttering shut as her head fell back to his shoulder. The effects of the aphrodisiac were not so forgiving, though; Amara could feel something slick and wet trailing down the inside of her thigh, and she sincerely doubted even he was aware of how his hips had developed a rhythm against her thighs, each movement seeming to draw a sharp, punctuated breath from him and against her skin.

There were only a handful of seconds where he pulled back, his hand keeping Amara in place if she tried to step back towards him, but when he returned, she jolted to feel his erection slide between her legs. The sound he pulled from her at the motion was ecstatic and impossibly lewd, and Amara did nothing to hide her soft gasps and groans as their rhythm continued. Perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise to feel the corners of her dress lifting upwards as though by invisible hands, though she could sense the magic even as the hem of her gown continued to rise until it folded itself around her torso where his impatient hands had already spilled her mounds free of the fabric.

He caught her eyes in the mirror then, tacitly asking for permission and apologizing all at once before she nodded and subsequently cried out as he angled himself inside of her and speared her to the hilt in a singular motion. She doubted it had been intentional, thrusting himself inside of her fully in the first stroke, but she'd been too wet to offer much in the way of resistance, and he abused such knowledge as the true, brutal pace began. Every thrust seemed to make her stand up on tiptoes, the motion stealing away any breath she'd been able to regain since its predecessor; fortunately, neither could last long after such a build-up. Her hips ground down to meet his in their own semblance of a synergistic rhythm, though she would never be able to tell if it was the tightening of her convulsing walls around him that set him off, or if the feeling of him losing all control dragged her down with him.

It occurred to her belatedly that he'd not pulled out as he climaxed, her eyes drawn to the beads of liquid lazily sliding down her inner thighs. It would certainly have to be something she took care of, sooner rather than later, though after she'd righted herself and her appearance she couldn't even stomach a look at Strange before slipping out of his chamber, her face burning – though this time decidedly not from arousal, but from shame. Shame that this had happened at all, but also that she'd enjoyed it so much.