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Stephen shouldn’t be here.
It doesn’t matter that he’s not risking an incursion, this universe being considerably offset from its neighbors. It doesn’t matter that the Stephen Strange of this world is long dead. It doesn’t even matter that only a handful of people even know about these trips.
Tony knows, and that’s danger enough.
This Tony Stark is nothing like the one Stephen knew, decades ago. His armor is gleaming white and sparkling crystal, rather than red and gold. It goes well with the ruthless, calculating look in his eyes, so unlike the warmth of the Tony Stark who’d sacrificed himself to save Stephen’s universe. This Tony Stark rules his world with an iron fist, and the first time Stephen found himself here, he should have found the resistance—if there was one—and lent them his aid.
But the first time Stephen fell into this universe, he was physically, magically, and emotionally exhausted from a battle that had only just ended. He wasn’t sure he could say it had been won, not given the casualties. He landed almost at Stark’s feet, and the man had put him to bed and then, when Stephen was more coherent—not entirely coherent, but more—taken him to bed.
Stephen shivers just remembering it. He hadn’t had to think at all. There were no decisions for him to make, no choices to pick through. There had only been pleasure and a kind of release that he hadn’t experienced in years.
Stark hadn’t been able to stop Stephen from stepping between universes to return home.
Stephen hadn’t been able to stop himself from coming back.
The gaps between his visits keep growing shorter. It hasn’t even been a week since he was here last. When Tony rakes his gaze up and down Stephen’s body, arousal stirs immediately.
“I don't know why you keep going back,” Tony says. He steps forward, reaching for Stephen’s belts. “They don’t appreciate you. They take and take and take and give you nothing in return.” The belts fall away and Tony unwraps Stephen’s outer tunic. He pushes it off his shoulders, leaving Stephen in the thinner linen tunic beneath. “No matter how short the interval, you come to me worn and tired every time.”
“They need me,” Stephen says weakly, even as Tony goes to one knee and helps him out of his boots. This isn’t service, he knows. Tony likes stripping him bare, likes being fully armored while Stephen is barely covered and vulnerable.
Tony scoffs, rising to his feet once he has Stephen barefoot and stripping him out of his under-tunic, leaving Stephen dressed only in his pants. “With that attitude, you’ll let them use you until you’re used up. I bet they’ve done it before.”
Stephen can’t help but think of his universe's Tony Stark.
This Tony sees it in his eyes, gaze sharpening. He cups Stephen’s face in his hands. “Stay,” he croons. “Stay with me.”
“So I can give everything to you?” Stephen asks. He’s under no illusions.
“The difference,” Tony murmurs, stepping in close, “is that I give back.” He kisses Stephen, as deep and commanding as he always does, and Stephen melts into it, the surrender coming automatically. It’s intoxicating, and addicting, and he’s never going to be able to give it up. Never.
When Tony pulls back, he lets his hands slide down from Stephen’s face to rest heavily on his shoulders. Stephen meets his gaze for one long, endless moment.
And then he sinks to his knees.