"I desired dragons with a profound desire."
-C.S. Lewis, Of Other Worlds: Essays and Stories

Tony groans, shoulders pressed against the solid body behind him as he arches his back.

"That's it," says a voice so deep it seems to vibrate through him. His cock twitches in his fist, hard and aching, slick with precum. "Show me what brings you pleasure."

Tony does, gasping as his left hand fondles his balls and his right hand pumps, ending with a twist and occasionally swiping his thumb around the head of his erection. The voice murmurs in his ear all the while, a litany of praise and filth that drags him closer to the edge.

"Please," Tony breathes, barely aware of what he's saying. He's sprawled naked against the body at his back, untouched anywhere else except by his own hand. But he can feel the attention on him like a physical caress. The heat radiating from his companion combined with his own exertion has him sweating and feeling overheated. "I – I'm going…I – close, S – "

"Not yet," the voice says darkly, and Tony squeezes the base of his cock as a bolt of arousal shoots through him. "You're not coming until I say you can."

He tries to suppress a whimper, throwing his head back on a cry of desperate frustration, hips shifting restlessly. His muscles are tensed, struggling to hold back his orgasm. Tony isn't allowed to cum, but he isn't allowed to stop touching himself either.

"Please," he begs shamelessly, eyes closed and brow furrowed. "Ple – "

Tony wakes with a gasp, eyes flying open and staring blindly at the dark ceiling of his bedroom as he tries to remember where he is and what's happening. He's tangled in his bedsheets, hair damp with sweat, and breathing harshly as though he's been running for miles.

His bedroom. He's in his bedroom and he'd been sleeping –

The dream comes back to him all at once, just as he's registering how hard he is, the faint, teasing friction of the sheets twisted against his crotch. His hips buck up, and his hand flies down to press the heel of his palm against the obviously tented sheets. Tony's so close to the edge, he only has to rub a few times before he spends himself, breath catching at the force of it.

He sinks into the mattress, exhausted and near boneless, struggling to remember who the other person had been. It's been so long, he barely remembers the last time he had a sex dream. And really, this one had been so…tame, for how worked up he'd gotten. No actual sex, no glimpse of the other person. Tony had basically been dreaming of masturbating, just with someone watching.

The voice had been familiar, though. Tony knows it, it's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite figure out who it is.

He'll figure it out eventually, he thinks as he slides off his boxers, tossing them to the floor and shifts out of the wet spot, resolving to clean everything in the morning. Or he'll forget, and maybe skip out on some faint awkwardness on his part.

It's a sex dream. Nothing to get worked up about.

In the beginning, Tony had only visited the Sanctum for answers and, after receiving too few of those, a distraction from his memories. Soon enough it becomes comforting, of all things. This place so soaked in magic that even he can feel it brushing against his skin sometimes. And yet, it is a safe haven and retreat from the pressures of the real world, the steel and chrome and glass of the compound, or the tower, or his company.

And then there's the dragon.

Too often he finds Strange statue-still, gazing into the distance. It worries him. Because the better he gets to know him, the more he cares, the more he realizes that something is wrong.

Well, of course something is wrong. Half the universe had dissolved into dust, including the dragon sorcerer. Bringing everyone back doesn't somehow mitigate all of the trauma. And Tony doesn't even want to think about what Strange had seen in over 14 million timelines. He has no idea how Strange is still sane. He'll get lost in his head, yes, but he's not a gibbering mess that Tony can see.

Assuming, of course, that the measure for sanity in dragons is similar to humans. How would he know? He's friendly with aliens and cyborgs and AIs, all sorts of beings he would never have even dreamed existed before Iron Man and the Avengers. But that hardly makes him an expert on what's normal for other species, or interspecies relationships.

Tony has tried waiting for him to come out of it on his own, even wandering off to chat with Wong. When he came back those first couple of times, nearly an hour later, Strange hadn't moved an inch. He'd asked Wong if that was normal, and when the inscrutable man had actually expressed worry, well, Tony's concern had ratcheted up several notches.

He tries actively gaining his attention next few times he stumbles across the dragon like this, nudging him, calling his name, or just talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. It works better than waiting, but even then Strange only reacts maybe half the time. And he's rarely so small that Tony can pick him up or move him to snap him back to the present.

What it ends up coming down to is Tony, exhausted from refusing to sleep when the nightmares won't stay away, just curling up against Strange's side. He doesn't have the energy for prolonged monologuing. Doesn't think he can do much more than stare blankly into space, but at least he can keep Strange company while they both disassociate.

Despite the hard floor, it's surprisingly comfortable to sit there and let himself go lax. Strange radiates heat like a furnace, and Tony hates feeling cold. For several traumatic reasons. The scales aren't exactly soft, but the give of flesh and muscle beneath helps. At least their edges aren't sharp.

He dozes off without meaning to, and when he blearily opens his eyes, it's to see Strange with his head bowed to read a floating, magical tome.

"Good evening, Sleeping Beauty."

The deep voice vibrates through Tony, pressed as he is to the dragon's side.

"Now there's a nickname I haven't used for you yet," Tony mumbles as he stretches. "How long have you been aware, Maleficent?"

The dragon grumbles at this latest name. "Only about an hour, perhaps."

"You could've woken me, y'know," Tony responds as he yawns, feeling a little bad for keeping him.

"But you were finally quiet." There's a glint of humor in Strange's iridescent eyes. "I couldn't stand to ruin such a rare blessing."

Tony scowls and kicks at one of his legs.

"That will hurt you more than it will hurt me," his companion observes, and there's the slightest edge of a purr to his words that Tony has come to associate with the dragon's amusement.

"Shut up," he pouts.

But neither of them make any move to separate themselves.

It becomes something of a habit. Tony will end up leaning against Strange, working with a tablet in hand, speaking quietly, or dozing off, feeling warm and safe and protected. Sometimes, Strange will even drape a wing over him, first with the Cloak and then, occasionally, without. And Tony knows without being told just how much Strange has come to trust him, to let himself become so exposed and vulnerable, with his scars and weakness bared within arms' reach. Tempting as it is sometimes, he never reaches out to touch. Respects Strange – cares for him – too much to do so without invitation.

More and more often they end up in this position, despite Strange less and less often becoming statue-still and lost in his head.

One evening, as Tony rests against the dragon, lingering endlessly on the edge of sleep while the minutes stretch slow and sticky like taffy, Strange murmurs, "You can call me Stephen, you know."

Tony means to respond, honestly, but he searches for a response, for the energy to speak, and the moment passes him by. He lets it go. He hasn't slept in days, tense and unhappy from nightmares, stress, arguing with politicians and fighting with Ross. He's so tired. He just needs to rest here for a moment.

Stra…Stephen – not a name he would associate with dragons, he doesn't think, but what does he know? – must assume he's asleep. He speaks in a murmur, then. Paints images of a world, silent and unspeakably alone. Shrinking slowly, worn away by time, until the atmosphere is stripped away and it is little more than another rock in the vastness of space. Until even that rock is gone, and there is just hanging motionless in space, distant stars the only glimmer of light, and silence beyond anything that can be imagined. Where hibernation is the only defense. Not even a defense, because awareness is so far gone that life or death are meaningless.

Tony's heart aches. Anywhere, anyone else, and this would have triggered a panic attack. But this is Stephen, whispering his secrets to him. Does he do this every time Tony is asleep? Or does he know, somehow, that Tony is listening this time, trapped in a body leaden with exhaustion, but still awake enough to hear?

The day after his nearly forgotten sex dream, Tony visits the Sanctum bearing plenty of takeout. Ever since he'd first seen the nearly empty kitchen, he's been worried about how the sorcerers were eating. Especially when he takes into consideration the energy Stephen must burn, not just when casting spells, but also with how often he shifts size.

His coordination is extremely impressive, Tony acknowledges on a tangent. He's never seen the dragon stumble, no matter how he's moving, or how often he alters his size. But then, if he's been alive for centuries – millennia, as he's hinted – he supposes that it would be second nature by now.

Stephen might have shown him the mirror dimension, for moving around unnoticed by the average person, but it doesn't settle Tony's concerns about their food budget. These days, he tries to bring something to eat whenever he shows up. He's still not sure whether he's using the food as an excuse to visit, or vice versa.

Tony doesn't bother to call out anymore when the Sanctum lets him in. Stephen will usually find him right away, or Tony will find Stephen if he's distracted. If no one's around, they'll let him know somehow, and he'll leave whatever he brought in the kitchen and come back some other time.

This time he follows the sound of conversation, too low for him to make out until he's just outside the study door. The tension – the underlying strain – causes him to hesitate. He hovers out of sight as the almost-argument filters out from behind the closed door.

"Some of the Masters are becoming concerned that you're stuck."

"London and Hong Kong have always thought I was. I don't – "

"Other Masters, Strange. As well as most of our students at Kamar-Taj."

"It hardly matters to me what they think. I didn't think you particularly cared either." Stephen's tone is dismissive, and Wong sounds even tenser because of it.

"It's not their opinions that worry me, it's your well-being."

Silence for a long moment, and then, "I'm fine."

Tony can almost hear Wong's disbelief. He himself has to suppress a snort, not wanting to give away his eavesdropping.

"You are not yourself."

"This is myself," Strange snarls. Tony's heart automatically races in response, instinct reacting to such a dangerous predator, no matter that he knows Strange wouldn't deliberately harm him.

"Your full self, then. Your whole self. You're hiding, Strange, whether you'll admit it or not, and if you're not careful you really will be stuck."

Tony sneaks away, then. He probably shouldn't have been listening in the first place, and he has no idea what they were arguing about, but it sounds personal. And it makes him worry even more for Stephen's well-being. Is this how Pepper felt when he came back after being Iron Man? How she still feels, even if they're no longer together?

He unpacks the cartons of food on the kitchen table, his thoughts elsewhere. There's something familiar, something itching at his memory ever since he'd listened in on Stephen's conversation. But his curiosity about what they were talking about has his attention split. He's frustrated and distracted –

Tony drops the carton of eggrolls. Oh, God, he thinks almost hysterically as his entire body flashes cold and then hot. Stephen's voice. He'd gotten off to Stephen's –

The Cloak zips into the kitchen and Tony violently shoves down anything to do with his epiphany, burying it as deep as possible, knowing that Stephen would be right behind his loyal piece of fabric.

He turns to greet the dragon, striving for normal. The other's pause and searching glance says that he wasn't quite as successful as he'd hoped, but nope, he's not thinking about it. By the time Tony gets home, he's so deep in denial that he's almost forgotten why he feels exhausted and unhappy.

He remembers almost immediately, of course. He buries his hands in his hair and yanks with a frustrated growl. It's just a dream. It means nothing. It's not like he's never had dreams about his friends before. So yeah, all of them were human, and okay, this dream was a bit different than those dreams. But it's just a dream, that's all. It's all symbolism; quite a few one-night stands in his younger days had been into new age-y, psychic, dream symbolism stuff. He'd picked some of it up through osmosis and used it quite successfully to pick up more one-night stands. Plenty of people dream of doing things they would never, ever do in real life. None of it is literal (oh God, he's fairly certain this is literal).

Deny, deny, deny.

Tony manages to avoid Stephen and the Sanctum for a couple of weeks. His denial lasts a few weeks longer before he collapses in his workshop, screams in frustration as music blasts his eardrums, and gives in.

How had this happened? How had he fallen in love? And it had to be love, because he's never been into bestiality or had a furry kink.

That's prejudiced, isn't it? Stephen isn't a beast, not in the way people would automatically assume. He's just as intelligent as any human. More so, actually. Or should it be that humans are nearly as intelligent as dragons? Maybe dragons consider humans beasts instead. The unconscious presumption that equates shape and species with something lesser. Beloved pet rather than equal.

But Tony, who considers few people his equal in intelligence, has come to see Stephen as his equal in all ways. And maybe that's where the trouble began. Where he slipped and started falling.

Where does he go from here? He can't assume that Stephen would reciprocate. It's almost certain he doesn't, in fact. Why would he? Did dragons even have the capability? Did they feel as humans felt?

And even if they got so far as a relationship, what would that look like? Tony is surely not sexually appealing to Stephen, in any case. He tries to consider how the mechanics of sexual activity might work, and his mind shies away. He vaguely remembers Stephen having human-shaped clones among his dragon-shaped clones during the fight on Titan when they struggled to restrain Thanos. If Tony asked, would he be willing to take on a human shape?

But that would be denying who and what Stephen was, wouldn't it? That would be saying that Stephen wasn't enough. That he needed to change. And Stephen was already so damaged, Tony couldn't do more to hurt him.

Sex isn't an absolute requirement in a romantic relationship, he knows. Tony has had so much sex in his life, more than enough, no strings or feelings attached. He likes sex, but when he seriously considers what a relationship with Stephen might be like, he's sure can do without it, can work around the lack.

Tony gives in and acknowledges that he's so fucking gone on Stephen, any relationship would be worth it.

He just wishes he knew what Stephen felt. If he would consider starting something with him. His feelings for the dragon are so unlikely, it seems impossible that they would be reciprocated. So he keeps putting off talking with him or confessing. Tony does try to test the waters by asking about dragon families and dating, but what Stephen remembers is unhelpful.

"I'm not sure," he says slowly. "Probably proof of being able to provide for your mate? That's how it is for most beings, isn't it?

"But I'm not anything like a typical dragon anymore," he murmurs, and doesn't elaborate on his meaning.

Months pass with nothing really resolved, except for Tony's hard-won acceptance of his own feelings. He spends as much time as he can with Stephen and chickens out of actually saying anything. Wong and the Cloak are definitely on to him, and Tony can basically feel both of them rolling their eyes at him, but he's just grateful there are no strange or judging looks for the direction of his affections. He supposes interdimensional sorcerers and sentient outerwear have just seen so much weird shit that this isn't anything outstanding or completely unnatural.

He's finally trying to broach the topic of feelings and relationships when everything gets turned on its head. Well, that's kind of a lie. He's trying to figure out how Stephen might react to such a talk, trying to test the waters with unusual subtlety, but not actually commit to anything yet. So he can just brush it off if Stephen reacts unfavorably (it would kill Tony to see disgust in his eyes should a cross-species relationship be unpalatable, and maybe that's hypocritical because he did not react very well upon first realizing his own feelings, but he can't help it).

Except Tony's starting to realize that it would take something like a sledgehammer to the head before Stephen even began to suspect anything. And anyway, it's bad timing. Stephen and Wong have been looking worn-down and tense, more and more often being out or unavailable when he stops by.

Of course, then the sorcerer behind all of that captures him and uses him as a hostage to get to Stephen. He manages to get suited up sans helmet right before getting tangled up in magic bands, with either a blade or a noose across his bare throat. God, sometimes he really fucking hates magic.

Especially since this sorcerer is so unbelievably stiff and uptight that he gagged Tony within a minute or two of tying him up. He feels uncomfortably violated, and he's having trouble managing an escape route when he's limited in communicating with his suit.

It doesn't help that the drama playing out in front of him is hard to watch and harder to look away from. Dragon facial expressions are almost impossible to read, but Stephen's eyes are broadcasting every emotion he feels, and he's feeling quite a lot. The verbal jabs between Stephen and this Mordo are pointed and personal. The pain and feelings of betrayal seem to saturate the air between them.

Tony tries not to feel jealous of the intimacy, because that's absolutely ridiculous and he has more important things to focus on.

"Return to your true self, Strange! Hiding behind that will do you no good."

"This is my self," Stephen snarls, obviously fed up with how often he must say it.

"I brought you in to Kamar-Taj; you think such obvious lies will sway me? I know better than to believe that you are stuck in that form."

"That doesn't make this any less true, Karl. You're so desperate for what you perceive as my vulnerability. You don't trust your strength against a dragon, so you'll coerce me with an innocent hostage. Just to continue your zealotry?"

Mordo flinches, that last comment appearing to have struck a nerve. "Innocent," he repeats in disbelief. "You believe this man is – "

"Innocent, insofar as your self-appointed mission goes. Unless you somehow think that Tony Stark has taken up magic?"

"Perhaps not. But the natural laws must be protected and upheld. And if there are unavoidable casualties along the way, then so be it."

Stephen roars in fury. "Unavoidable – "

"Still a spineless coward even after taking on that shape. You're a disgrace, Strange. Change! Change back, or his blood is on your hands."

Tony's hands clench into fists, confused about why everyone is so concerned with Stephen's form, and angry that he's being used to coerce Stephen. The nanobots of his suit are moving sluggishly, too slow for him to bust out until the dragon gives him some sort of signal and a better distraction.

And then he's not thinking of anything at all, because Stephen is twisting, shrinking, and then suddenly there's a man standing before them. A familiar man he'd only seen a glimpse of on Titan. A gorgeous man, tall and slender, clothed in blue robes with a bright red Cloak on his shoulders. A man with a striking goatee, distinguished silver-streaked hair, and piercing eyes a familiar blue-green-gray. His mind goes blank, little clues snapping together all at once.

Human. He's human. Tony is going to fucking kill him, and then bring him back, just to kill him again for the confusion and panic he'd put him through. Fuck, was it all a lie? No. No, every word about the slow death of his world, the blurring of his memories was true, Tony knows it. So he's…what. An immortal human? Who can change into a dragon? What?

He tunes back in just in time to hear Stephen say, "Who made you judge, jury, and executioner? Yes, perhaps the bill always comes due. It'll happen as it must without your interference. You're not some divinely chosen debt collector. That's not natural balance, that's your own biased interpretation of it!"

Unfortunately, Tony's mind can't quite focus on what's playing out in front of him, too distracted by his thoughts. "But Thanos used Soul and Power to slam you back into your body! Dragon body!" he blurts, realizing the main reason why he'd never questioned Stephen's species. And then realizing that Mordo had been distracted enough to forget about maintaining the gag.

The jarring dissonance of his big mouth is enough to make both sorcerers pause, and Tony takes advantage, using his nanobots to create a spike aimed at Mordo's hand instead of trying to parry the blade of magic itself, and then twisting his hand so that he can blast the man's very solid mass with a repulsor.

Then it's a desperate two on one scramble as Tony tries to avoid fucking magic attacks, and Stephen struggles to keep Mordo from stealing his magic.

They're panting and bleeding by the time they manage to subdue the sorcerer and knock him unconscious. The moment Mordo has been portalled away, Tony rounds on Stephen and suppresses a scream of frustration.

"I'm going to kill you," Tony bellows. His suit has retreated back into its housing, and he winds his hands into the front of Stephen's robes and shakes him, gently, not sure that the scars and damage from his wings were limited to just his hands.

Stephen's hands come up to cover his, and Tony can feel an intermittent tremor. He drinks in sharp cheekbones and narrow eyes, memorizing the way a stray lock of hair falls over his forehead. He's noticeably taller, the utter bastard, and the bewildered, innocent look on his face does not absolve him.

"Tony…what…?"

"You couldn't have mentioned that you were human, too?!" He's let go of Stephen in order to flail his arms, and he knows it looks ridiculous, but he can't stop himself.

"Of course I – " Stephen snaps automatically, and then pauses, actually giving it some thought. "I…hm. I must have. Did I really not…?"

"I definitely would have remembered that," Tony says through gritted teeth. He really wants to keep shouting, and it would be perfectly justified, but he needs to calm down before he says or does something he regrets.

"I guess you were never around when I shifted back," Stephen thinks aloud.

"Obviously."

"But surely talking about my career as a neurosurgeon would have tipped you off."

Tony counts to ten slowly, trying to calm down.

"Except…I…don't really talk about it anymore. And I've given up on having people refer to me as Doctor while I'm a dragon."

"Neurosurgery?"

"Until my car accident," he says, holding up his scarred, shaking hands with a bitter twist to his lips.

"And all that talk about being the last dragon…?"

"Ah." Stephen looks something close to small and vulnerable. Tony hadn't meant it as an accusation, hadn't thought it a lie, but the other man had obviously taken it as such. "That's…reincarnation, of a sort. I was given a chance to be reborn mortal, this time around."

Tony sighs, exhaustion dragging at his edges, and adding to the cocktail mixture of adrenaline, frustration, relief, and attraction that surges through his veins. It's a potent combination that fuels a false courage. "Fuck it," he mutters, and dives forward, dragging Stephen into a violent kiss. A stray thought flits through his mind, that he's glad that this probably means he's less likely to have to give up sex.

Stephen stiffens in surprise, and then submits to him with a surprising ease. Tony devours him; they're pressed together, chest to thigh, and the kiss is all teeth and tongue.

It gentles eventually, reaching a softer natural end. Tony pants, lips resting on Stephen's racing pulse point, is erection pressed against Stephen's thigh, feeling Stephen's hardness against his abs.

"You," Stephen murmurs, still rather breathless. "You really…When I was a dragon? When you thought that was all I was?"

Tony had thought he was beyond blushing by now. "Shut up," he mutters into Stephen's throat, refusing to look up.

"Tony."

The sheer emotion, the confusing clash of feeling packed into his name, has him meeting Stephen's multihued eyes. His breath catches in his throat at what he sees there.

Stephen looks at him like he's everything.

Tony kisses him again before he can say anything else.

I barely met my goal to get this out before Endgame destroys us all. Good luck!