“We both know why you invited me, so let’s have it. Proposition me.”
“Oh I love it when you talk dirty.”
Stephen scowls at the grin on the Atlantean king’s face. Namor, face flushed with drink and revelry, approaches him unsteadily. “I don’t appreciate what you said. You called me the court jester in front of everyone.”
“Because you amuse me, Strange.” Namor proclaims this as if revealing a great truth of life, love, and the universe. He slips fingers into the belt loops of the sorcerer’s trousers and draws him closer. “I want you.”
Stephen’s expression doesn’t lighten but neither does he protest. “Can you even get it up in your current state?”
“As long as you remain handsome, do that thing you do with your hands, and shut up, then anything is possible.”
- - -
The next morning, Strange’s sweater has vanished. He takes one look at the green, scaly halter top Namor offers in compensation and teleports out of Atlantis without a shirt.