"I love you in every universe"

You were Tony Stark’s daughter—sharp-tongued, stubborn, pride thicker than the Compound’s reinforced walls, and currently burning with enough jealousy to melt the entire facility.

Stephen Strange stood across the room at yet another one of your father’s parties—silver streaks at his temples, that infuriating sharp jaw, dark knowing eyes, and an ego so massive it practically outshone every light in the room. He was older. Decades older. And tonight, he let every woman within ten feet fawn all over him—laughing too low, leaning in too close, letting them touch his arm, brush his chest, giggle at every damned thing he said.

And you? You stood there glaring. Arms crossed so tight your shoulders ached. Scowling so hard your face felt stuck. Every time someone drifted near him, you drifted closer—hovering, sipping your champagne like it personally offended you, staring them down until they shifted uncomfortably and wandered off. Every time he smiled at someone else, something twisted tight in your chest. And every single time you looked his way. Stephen was already looking at you—smirking. That slow, lazy, I know exactly what you’re burning up over and I’m loving every second smirk.

Eventually you couldn’t take it anymore. You turned on your heel and stormed away, down quiet hallways toward the kitchen—empty, cool, blessedly silent. You marched to the counter, grabbed a glass, filled it with water so hard it sloshed over the sides, leaned against the marble, and scowled at the floor.

“Running away from the party… or standing guard like a very cute, very territorial little bodyguard?”

You jumped so hard that water splashed your chest, spun around—and there he was, leaning in the doorway, arms folded, that damned smirk stretched wide across his face.

“I’m not running from anything,” you snapped, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. “And I’m not territorial. I just have standards. Watching you stand there preening like a peacock while every woman throws themselves at you? It’s embarrassing. That’s all. I was embarrassed for you.”

“Embarrassed, are we?” Stephen strolled inside and clicked the door shut, sauntering toward you like he owned the house—and honestly, the way he looked at you, you’d almost believe he owned you too. He stopped so close his chest nearly brushed yours, and suddenly you could smell him: warm, rich, something like sandalwood and dark spice, filling your senses until you could barely think. “Or embarrassed that you’ve been staring at my mouth all night? Wondering exactly what it feels like?”

Your face burned hot. “You’re absolutely disgusting. And old. Practically ancient. Shouldn’t you be resting instead of letting them all hang off you? You’ll strain something.”

Stephen gasped—loud, dramatic, hand flying to his chest.

“Old? Ancient? I am appalled. Here I was thinking I looked distinguished. Timeless. And you see… old.” He stepped impossibly closer, looming over you, voice dropping to that smooth, taunting purr. “Though for the record? ‘Old’ means stamina. Experience. Knowing exactly what I’m doing so I don’t waste your time. Whereas boys your age? They’re still rushing through the motions just to finish. So tell me—does that scare you? Or are you just worried you’ll tire me out?”

“I’m worried you’ll tire yourself out!” You shoved hard at his chest—he didn’t budge an inch. “You’ll be huffing and puffing and begging for a nap before we even get started! Stamina my ass! Five minutes, tops! And then you’ll need a cane just to get around!”

Stephen leaned down, face inches from yours, lips barely brushing yours, eyes dark and delighted.

“Five minutes,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “And a cane. Keep running that mouth, sweetheart. One of these days… I might just call your bluff. And then where would we be? You’d be embarrassed. I’d be proven right. And I’d very much enjoy watching you eat every single word.”

“I’d like to see you try!” you breathed—barely a whisper—eyes locked on his mouth, burning, aching, furious that you wanted him to close that last fraction of an inch so badly it hurt.

“Oh, I intend to—”

“Y/N?”

Tony’s voice rang out—clear and close—from the hallway. You jerked back, chest heaving, face flaming, lips swollen and trembling. Stephen didn’t even flinch—just stepped back slowly, hands behind his back, looking perfectly composed.

“Coming, Dad!” you called out, voice shaking a little.

Stephen leaned in, quiet enough only you heard: “Later. Keep making those jokes. I’ll be counting every single one I prove wrong.” Then he winked. The absolute bastard.

You stormed past him without another word, wanting to scream and kiss him and throttle him all at once. You hated him. You absolutely, undeniably, completely hated him.

********

Later that evening, Stephen found you, wrapped a firm hand around your wrist, and tugged you along.

“Come with me,” he murmured, low and rough. “Now. Before you bite someone’s head off.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you hissed, yanking uselessly at your wrist. “You’re just going to stand there being smug and ancient and make fun of me. And if you get winded on the way? Don’t ask me to carry you.”

Stephen chuckled—low, dark, delighted—and didn’t let go. “Such concern. But don’t worry—I’ve plenty of breath left, and I plan on using every last bit to prove you wrong. Choose—walk away… or let me see exactly how much attitude you still have behind closed doors. And if you’re very lucky… I might even let you try to make me shut up.”

You glared at him—furious he could read you so easily—and didn’t pull away again.

He led you through quiet corridors, straight to your bedroom door, pushed it open, stepped inside, pulled you with him—kicking and muttering—and locked it with a soft, definitive click. He leaned back against the door, arms folded, watching you with that infuriating smirk.

“Well?” Stephen tilted his head. “Go on. Tell me again how old I am. How tired I’ll get. How I’ll need a nap halfway through. I’m listening.”

You stood there, chest rising and falling, pride warring with the throbbing, aching need between your legs—and finally you snapped.

“Fine!” You stepped right into his space, jabbing his chest. “You’re old! Ancient! You talk way too much! And I still say you’ll be exhausted in five minutes flat! That’s what I think! Happy?!”

Stephen’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, utterly triumphant.

“Five minutes,” he repeated low, voice rough and thick. “Noted. Now—you had plenty of fire out there. Let’s see what else those hands are good for. And let’s see if you can actually make me shut up.”

He reached for you—but you caught his wrists, shoved him back hard, and walked him until his legs hit the edge of your bed. You pushed him down onto the mattress, stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“I’m doing this,” you snapped. “And you? You’re going to be quiet. For once in your long life. Just. Shut. Up.”

Stephen leaned back comfortably, hands behind his head, legs spread wide—thoroughly entertained.

“Oh, I’m going to be quiet? That seems unlikely. Go on then. Big talk. Show me what you’ve got. And try not to look too eager on your knees for an old man.”

“I said shut up!”

You undid his belt with sharp, angry movements, yanked his trousers and briefs down just enough to free him—thick, heavy, already half-hard and throbbing, leaking clear fluid at the tip that made your mouth water despite every ounce of your pride. You glared up at him, spat into your palm, wrapped your hand firm and tight around him—and stroked. Hard.

Stephen hissed, head falling back, one hand fisting tight in your sheets—but his mouth kept going.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you? Can’t wait to wrap your pretty hand around this old man’s cock after all those jokes? Look at you—practically salivating. Go on—tighter. Unless you’re already nervous you can’t handle it?”

“I’m not nervous!” You stroked faster, harder, twisting your wrist, dragging your thumb firm and rough over his sensitive, swollen tip—pressing circles, rubbing the fluid slick and warm down his length.

Stephen groaned—deep, guttural, cracking just a little—his hips jerking up off the mattress. “Fuck—that’s it—don’t stop—all fire and attitude—and your hand feels perfect. Wonder how long you’ve been imagining this? Keep going—harder—if you can make me lose control… I might even apologise for being so old. Though I should warn you—this ‘fossil’ has plenty of stamina. You’ll tire out long before I do.”

“I won’t tire out!” You stroked him relentlessly—fast, slick, perfect rhythm—while your other hand drifted lower, cupped his heavy, warm balls, and rolled them in your palm, teasing him from both ends. Stephen’s breath hitched hard, his thighs tensed and shook, his cock throbbed and pulsed heavy and hot in your grip—but he still wouldn’t shut up.

“Fuck—yes—right there—squeeze harder—trying so hard to break me—and you’re still pretending you hate every second? Adorable. Keep going—I’m not stopping you. And I’m still not shutting up.”

“You’re impossible!” You stroked him with everything you had—fast, rough, relentless—working him over until he groaned loud and raw and arched completely off the bed—and then he caught your wrists suddenly and pulled you abruptly to your feet.

He stood towering over you—flushed, breathless, chest heaving, cock still throbbing hard and heavy—that damned smirk wrecked but unbroken, eyes gleaming dark and hungry.

“Beautiful,” he panted. “Absolutely beautiful. You tried everything, didn’t you? And I’ll admit—you almost had me. Now—turn around. Get on all fours on the bed. Ass up. Face down. I want you exactly like that.”

You froze, face burning. “I— what?”

“You heard me.” Stephen’s voice dropped lower. “All fours. And remember—walls are thin. Your father is not far away. Think you can stay quiet? Or are you going to give the whole place a show?”

“I’ll be quiet,” you snapped—though your voice shook. You turned, climbed onto the bed, hands and knees sinking into the mattress, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten. Five minutes. That’s all you’ve got. Then you’ll be begging for a rest. And maybe a walking stick.”

Stephen’s laugh was dark, rough, and utterly delighted. He stripped off his clothes, then knelt behind you, gripping your hips hard and guiding you exactly where he wanted you

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Noted. And we’ll see who’s begging by the end of it.”

He hiked your dress up over your hips, dragged your underwear down your legs, and tossed it aside. Then he ran his hands over your ass—squeezing hard, spreading you open, dragging his fingers slowly and taunting through your soaked folds—making you shudder and arch back instinctively before you could stop yourself.

“Soaking wet,” he murmured, pressing the thick, weeping head of his cock slow and torturous through your folds—coating himself. He rubbed small circles over your sensitive bud, teasing you mercilessly, barely pushing inside before pulling all the way back. “All this just for me? All because you had your hands on me? And you pretend to hate me? Pretend I’m nothing special? Go on then—keep pretending. I love it when you lie.”

“Just—get on with it—”

Stephen pushed inside—slow, thick, inch by throbbing inch—stretching you wide, pressing deeper and deeper until he was buried to the hilt, balls deep inside you, groaning loudly against your back. He was huge. Thick. Heavy. Filling you completely, pressing so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

You bit down hard on your lip, fighting every instinct to arch and cry out—forcing your voice cold, flat, utterly unimpressed.

“Is that it?” you said, over your shoulder, as dismissive as you could manage. “That’s… adequate. Honestly? Bit of a let-down, really. For all that big talk? You’re useless. I’ve had better.”

Stephen looked at you and chuckled, low and amused.

“Adequate? Bit of a let-down? Fascinating.” Then he stopped moving completely. Just stayed buried deep inside you, perfectly still, heavy and throbbing and filling you—and said nothing. Just waited.

You froze. Tried to breathe. Tried to pretend you didn’t feel every pulse, every inch of him sitting there deep inside you. Tried to pretend you didn’t ache. But he was there, and he wouldn’t move. Seconds ticked by—long, torturous, agonising seconds.

“Well?” Stephen murmured, calm and taunting and perfectly still. “Nothing to say? Still adequate? That’s fine. We can stay right here as long as you like. I’m perfectly comfortable. Got all the time in the world. Old man’s pace, remember? No rush.”

“Stephen—”

“Yes, sweetheart?” Calm. Smug. Still not moving. “Changed your mind? Or is it still adequate?”

“I— just—move—”

“Beg nicely. Admit it’s better than adequate. Admit you need me.”

“I don’t need you!”

But then your hips moved on their own accord. Before you could stop yourself—you were pushing back. Slow. Shaky. Desperate. Rolling your hips, sinking back onto him, taking him deeper, grinding against him, moving yourself on his cock because he wouldn’t do it for you. You gasped, and kept going—rocking back, taking him deep, fucking yourself back onto him, desperate and shameless, faster and harder with every passing second, breath coming in ragged gasps, pride completely shattered. You didn’t care anymore. You just needed it. Needed him.

Stephen let you. Just knelt there, hands resting lightly on your hips, letting you use him—watching your every move.

“Look at you,” he growled, every word thick with dark, wicked delight. “So proud. So stubborn. Telling me it’s adequate. Telling me I’m old. Telling me—loud and clear—that you don’t need me. And yet? Here you are. Fucking yourself back onto my cock because I wouldn’t move. You can’t stop. Because you do need me. Exactly this. Exactly here. Deep inside you. Go on then—keep lying. Tell me again you don’t need me. While your body screams a very different story.”

“Shut up—you’re—such an—asshole—” you gasped, rocking back to meet every inch of him, heat coiling tight and blinding in your stomach.

“Say it again,” Stephen teased. “Tell me you don’t need me. While you’re clamping down so tight around me. While you’re shaking and sobbing and fucking yourself back onto me for all you’re worth. Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me.”

“I hate you—” you sobbed, grinding back hard, every stroke dragging that perfect friction. “I hate you—I hate—”

It built fast. Every drag of him inside you felt sharper, hotter, overwhelming. You bit down hard on your forearm, sobbing muffled, broken cries, rocking back harder, faster, chasing that peak—and Stephen finally moved. Drove into you—deep, hard, perfect.

“Now,” he commanded. “Let go.”

And your body obeyed.

Pleasure tore through you like lightning—searing, blinding, all-consuming. Your whole body arched, your pussy squeezing tight around him, knees buckling—and the word ripped out of you, shattered, helpless, completely beyond your control:

“Fuck, Daddy!”

Stephen froze for a split second—then groaned loudly and gutturally, thrusting deep and hard, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Say it again,” he commanded, leaning over your back, mouth close to your ear. “Say it again. Loud and clear. Look at me when you say it. And don’t you dare take it back.”

You were still trembling, chest heaving, face burning—mortified, exposed, and completely unable to lie. You turned your head, looked back at him—eyes dark, blown, and honest—and said it again, clear and steady and entirely your choice:

“Daddy.”

Stephen groaned again—low, broken, satisfied—and thrusted deep once more before pulling out and turning you gently onto your back. He guided you up the bed, sat back against the headboard, and patted his lap—throbbing hard and ready again, his eyes dark.

“Come here. Ride me. And while you’re at it—tell me again how you don’t need me. Go on. I dare you.”

You hesitated for a moment before slipping your dress up and over your head, dropping it aside to sit bare-chested before him—every curve, every inch of you laid open, just for his eyes. Then you straddled him, sinking down slowly, taking him deep inside you, gasping as he filled you completely, stretching you wide and warm. Stephen’s hands settled heavy on your hips, his gaze dropping—fixed on where you were joined, watching his cock disappear inside you, glistening wet and slick with every slow, perfect movement you made.

“Go on,” he teased, thumbs brushing slow, taunting circles right over your sensitive skin, pressing just hard enough to make you jolt. “Say it. Tell me you don’t need me. Tell me who was desperate. Tell me who screamed that name when they fell apart. Go on. I’m listening. And look at you—swallowing me down so perfectly. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Keep moving. Show me exactly how badly you need me, and how badly you wanted to be right here.”

“You’re—the most annoying—man alive,” you gasped, rising slow and then sinking all the way down, taking him deep, rolling your hips so his length dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and let your breasts sway right in his face—nipples hard and peaked, skin flushed and burning. “And I didn’t need you! I wanted to! And—and you were being absolutely useless! Making me do all the work!”

“Useless? Is that what we’re calling it?” Stephen laughed, and then he leaned forward, took one hard nipple straight into his hot mouth, and sucked—hard, wet, relentless—while his hands guided you faster, grinding you down harder onto him. “I was testing you. Testing your pride. And look what happened. You broke. You needed it so badly you had to take it yourself. Now ride me—properly. Grind those hips. Show me exactly what you’re so proud of. And don’t you dare slow down—not until I say so.”

You gasped, arching into his mouth, your rhythm faltering, then picking up—bouncing harder, rolling deeper, dragging him through you with every desperate stroke, your slick coating him, making every slide wet and loud and shameless. “I’m—not—breaking—”

“Then why are you trembling?” Stephen breathed against your skin, releasing your nipple only to nip along your jaw and down your throat. “Why are you clutching at me like this? Why does your pretty little pussy keep squeezing me so tight? Like it’s trying to milk me dry. Go on then—pretend you don’t love it. Pretend you’re not desperate. Grind right there—yes—exactly like that—don’t stop—you look incredible like this. Bouncing on my cock, all flushed and breathless, pretending you’re in charge when we both know exactly who’s really in control.”

“I am—in charge!” you gasped, sinking all the way down and rolling your hips slowly, rubbing yourself against him, watching his eyes darken further, watching his composure crack all over again. But then he opened his mouth to tease you again—and you’d had enough. You stopped moving, reached up, curled your fingers tight into his hair, yanked his face hard to yours—and kissed him silent.

It was fierce, burning, every ounce of your frustration spilling into it—teeth clashing, lips parting, kissing him hard and hungry like you were trying to swallow every taunt right out of his throat. You kissed him until he couldn’t speak, until he groaned deep and broken into your mouth, until his jaw went slack and he forgot every clever word he’d been about to say. You poured everything into it—the jealousy, the stubborn pride, the desperate need you refused to admit out loud—and you kissed him until he was the one left breathless, dazed, completely silenced.

When you finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his chest was heaving, and he was staring up at you—stunned, flushed, his usual smug smirk completely wrecked. But then it returned—slow, wicked, and delighted.

“Someone’s been holding back,” Stephen teased, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. “Couldn’t stand one more word, could you? Had to shut me up the only way that works. Kissed me senseless just to make me be quiet. And you know what the funniest part is? It worked. You kissed me straight into silence. Took the words right out of my mouth—and replaced them with that. Clever girl. You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime.”

“Stop talking!” you snapped, shaky and fierce.

Stephen let out a low laugh—dark and delighted and utterly undone by you—his breath hitching sharply, gaze dropping to your lips, eyes hungry and hot and entirely yours.

“Do it again. Kiss me quiet every time I tease you. Every time I tell you how badly you want this. Every time I tell you who’s really in charge. Kiss me until I can’t speak. I dare you. Because we both know you will—and we both know exactly how much you loved silencing me like that.”

You glared, chest heaving, cheeks burning—and didn’t let go of his hair.

“I didn’t love it,” you snapped, rolling your hips hard. “I just— you talk too much. And I can shut you up whenever I want. And I did.”

“Can you?” Stephen chuckled, low and rough. “Because it looked an awful lot like you needed to. Like you couldn’t stand hearing the truth one more second, so you kissed it right out of me. Go on then—prove me wrong. Kiss me again. Shut me up again. Show me who really calls the shots.”

And you did—leaned right back down and kissed him hard, silencing him completely, pouring every last bit of frustration and fire into it until he could do nothing but hold you tight and groan into your mouth, defeated and delighted.

When you pulled back, you rocked against him slowly, and Stephen’s hands slid down to grip your hips, guiding you up and down his length, watching where you moved together. His voice dropped, low and rich and dark with want.

“That’s it,” he said lowly, eyes locked on yours. “Take what you want. Use me. But don’t pretend you’re not falling apart for me. Look at you—riding me so good, making such pretty, quiet little sounds—but don't forget that the walls in this place are thin. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could hear how much you love this. How much you love being filled up by this ‘old man’. Keep going. Harder. Faster. Show me exactly how well you take it. Show me exactly what you’ve been hiding all night.”

You did—you rode him harder, deeper, grinding down so he hit that perfect spot every single time, your slick dripping down onto his thighs, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your head falling back, every movement unashamed and greedy and entirely his. “Stephen— I—”

“Say it,” he commanded, thumbs pressing into your ass, pulling you tighter, guiding you deeper. “Say you need it. Say you love it. Say it. Right now.”

“I need it!” you gasped, grinding down hard, your nails digging into his chest, your walls clamping around him so tight it made his hips jerk up to meet you. “I love it—I love how you feel—I love how deep you go—please—Stephen— don’t make me stop—”

“Never,” he groaned, eyes fixed on yours, dark and burning and triumphant. “Now cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Let go—and scream it quiet.”

You shattered—silently, mouth pressed hard to his shoulder, body convulsing, trembling all over, clinging to him as pleasure tore through you, wave after blinding wave, your hips stuttering, rolling, taking every last inch of him through it all. Stephen held you steady, thrusting up into you through every tremor, murmuring dark praise against your skin, watching you fall apart, waiting—until you were still gasping, still trembling. Then he took over completely, driving up into you hard and deep one last time before groaning your name, spilling himself inside you while you slumped forward onto his chest, spent and breathless and utterly ruined.

********

He held you long after—tangled together, breathless, spent—brushing hair from your face, tracing lazy lines down your side, that damned, infuriating smirk back in place.

“Well,” Stephen started, kissing your forehead, voice rough and thick and smug, “I believe we established several things this evening. One: I am not too old. Two: I have plenty of stamina—and the self-control to make you ride me until you break. Three: you absolutely, undeniably do need me, no matter how loud you shout otherwise. And four? You call me Daddy when you fall apart. And then you say it on purpose. Who was right? Hmm? Who was right all along?”

You buried your burning face in his chest and mumbled: “You’re still old. And you’re still an asshole. And I still hate you.”

Stephen laughed—warm, deep, entirely too pleased—and held you tight.

“Sure you do. Hate me all you want. Just remember—you’re the one who rode me until you broke. You’re the one who calls me Daddy when you fall apart. And you’re the one who keeps coming back. So I think we’re even. And for the record? Your dad would absolutely kill me if he knew. So this stays quiet. Understood?”

You lifted your head, smirking through flushed cheeks.

“Aw,” you teased. “Is the big, strong, experienced old man scared of my dad? How cute. Fine. I won’t tell him. But only because you’re… marginally adequate. And don’t get used to the name. And don’t get used to the kisses. I only do that to shut you up.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow at you, then let out a little laugh.

“Marginally adequate. Kissing me just to silence me. And lying through your teeth. But fine. Deal. Keep it quiet. And keep calling me that name. And keep kissing me to shut me up. Because we both know you want to. And we both know you’d miss me running my mouth if I ever actually stopped.”

You glared. He smirked. You leaned in and kissed him quiet again. And you both knew—you were absolutely, completely his. No matter how much you complained about his age. No matter how much you pretended to hate it. No matter how hard you tried to lie.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, he didn't let you go. He kept his arms wrapped around you, thumb brushing slow, steady circles over your hip, eyes dark and soft and searching yours.

"You can keep pretending all you want," Stephen said, voice low and quiet. "Keep calling me old. Keep telling me you hate me. Keep kissing me just to shut me up. I don't mind."

"You should mind," you muttered, resting your forehead against his chest. "It's true. You are old. And you do talk too much. And I do hate you."

Stephen chuckled, the vibration rumbling deep beneath you.

"Keep telling yourself that. But we both know the truth, don't we? We both know exactly what you reach for when you're jealous. Exactly who you come running to when you're angry. Exactly whose name you scream when you fall apart. You don't hate me. You never have. You just hate how much you need me. And that's fine. I'm old, remember? I've got plenty of time."

You opened your mouth to snap at him—and the words died on your tongue. Because he was right. And you hated it. And you loved it. And you couldn't bring yourself to say a single thing that wasn't the truth.

"You're insufferable," you said instead, quiet and fierce, leaning closer until your lips brushed his. "Arrogant. Infuriating. And far too pleased with yourself."

"And yet," Stephen whispered, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, "you're still here. Still holding onto me. Still calling me yours—even if you use a different name to say it."

Your heart gave a sharp, traitorous thud.

"Maybe," you admitted, so quiet he almost didn't catch it, eyes dropping to his lips. "Maybe I like you a little. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Don't let it go to your head."

Stephen smiled—soft, genuine, nothing like the smug smirk he wore all evening. He leaned in and kissed you slow and deep and thorough, like he had all the time in the world, like he knew exactly what you meant to say even if you wouldn't say it out loud.

"I won't," he promised against your lips, voice warm and thick and happy. "And for the record? I like you too. Even when you're jealous. Even when you're yelling. Even when you're lying about not needing me. Especially then."

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, and for once, you didn't argue. You didn't call him old. You didn't say you hated him. You just looked at him—really looked—and let him see it all.

"Good," you said simply. "Because you're stuck with me now. And if you tell anyone I said that? I'll deny it. And I'll tell everyone you needed a nap halfway through."

Stephen laughed—bright and loud and entirely unashamed—and pulled you close, tucking your head under his chin, holding you tight.

"Deny it all you want," he murmured. "I'll know the truth. And so will you. Every time you call me that name. Every time you kiss me quiet. Every time you come running back. We both know. And that's enough for me."

You snuggled closer, closing your eyes, listening to his heartbeat slow beneath your ear.

"Stephen?"

"Mmm?"

"…You're still old."

Stephen squeezed you tight, laughing quietly into your hair.

"And you're still mine. Go to sleep, trouble. Before your father realises we're both missing."

You smiled, eyes already drifting shut, and mumbled one last thing — soft and quiet and only for him.

"Yours. Even if you are ancient."