He's in the middle of leaving a series of tiny love bites on Tony's neck when Tony really starts pulling harder on his hair, and there's something about that touch of pain that only makes him harder. Steve's fingers dig into Tony's hip, and his movements grow more urgent, more erratic.
Groaning Tony's name, he arches his back and spurts long, hot strands of come between his legs, all over his clothed thighs. He hasn't noticed yet that Tony is hard, too intent on taking his own pleasure.
Tony bites back a groan when Steve's come shoots onto his inner thighs. Releasing Steve's hair and refolding his leg to hide his straining crotch, he tugs up the blankets for good measure. He just needs Steve to leave for a morning jog or whatever. "Worked it outta your system?" His voice quivers and cracks.
"At least for the next five minutes." Steve's tone is dry. "Can't guarantee anything if you stay here." He knows what his libido is like, and he knows what Tony is like, and the two of them are a bad combination. Or good, depending on how you look at it.
"You can have another pair of pants," he offers. Since the only thing worse than a walk of shame would be a walk of shame with actual evidence of said shame. "Or a shower, if you want. Well, more like and a shower, it's not an either/or kinda thing." Yeah, he's babbling again.
Tony screws his eyes shut. Oh my God, Rogers. Just get up. Leave. Soul pulled in opposite directions, he resists the more basic instinct of rolling over, displaying his body, and going all soft and sir, please. Now that he's found this outlet and Steve's proven himself, Tony wants to indulge. Cars, women, alcohol -- subspace. Any relief, varying throughout the years, that he can get his dirty mitts on... Wow. He probably needs therapy.
Weak, he hears Howard Stark chide. He shoves back at that particular demon, down, down, down. Thanks, Dad. Really helpful. Over the edge priorities claw at the lingering peace, black writhing pits beyond the serene white. Through his teeth Tony grits, "I have jeans. I'm not walking out of here in pants recognizably not my own."
"Hey, it's not like all my pants are covered in the Stars and Stripes." He does have a pair like that (and some boxers), because literally everyone gives him flag-related gag gifts. And, yes, he knows that it's easy to tell because of the size difference, it's a joke. Just to make that clear, he adds, "You're welcome to borrow my Snuggie, too."
He's also welcome to just stay here and cuddle with Steve some more. It's much warmer and more comfortable.
Addled brain slowly connecting the dots, Tony realizes jeans plus circus tent Snuggie equals concealed stiffy and blurts out, "Yup! I require it. Post-haste, soldier. One patriotic Snuggie."
Steve just stares for a moment before muttering "It was a joke" under his breath. But he tucks his own junk away and hauls himself up with a dramatic groan. If Tony wants the Snuggie, then he can have it.
He crosses over to the dresser and digs through a drawer for a moment before he pulls out a seemingly unending bundle of patriotic fleece, and he tosses it over to the bed in a billow of stars and stripes. "I'd better have it back in time for my next Netflix binge," he warns.
Tony sits up the moment Steve leaves the bed, his back to him. He inspects the fleece till he finds the collar and sleeves and slips it on. Standing, he steps out of the soiled pants, giving Steve the quickest view of his ass in black briefs before the Snuggie drapes down. "Next time I'm on site. Promise," he says, because he knows without a doubt that he'll come back, and he also knows he'll send Steve an e-mail of links about dominance containing no other message in it.
Steve tosses him a lazy salute. Now that he's out of bed - and now that Tony's no longer there - he's not inclined to get back in. But he does shamelessly enjoy that brief glimpse of Tony's ass, smiling to himself as he remembers grinding against it just a few minutes ago.
"I'll be waiting." Maybe a bit too eagerly, but Steve can't be blamed for his overactive libido.
Tony gives a fleeting smile, rigid in every sense of the word, and a tingle travels up his spine. Out of Steve's sight he flattens his erection to his left hip to trap it behind the jeans, which he yanks up from the floor. He coughs to hide a pained grunt. Steve's presence somehow envelops him, the remembered body heat like hot wax poured over his hunched shoulders. He shoves his sneakers on and darts to the door. Halfway through, he backpedals, squeaks out a thanks, and flees.
Consumed by escaping temptation, he completely forgets about his A-shirt still wrinkled on the carpet beside Steve's bed.
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Groaning Tony's name, he arches his back and spurts long, hot strands of come between his legs, all over his clothed thighs. He hasn't noticed yet that Tony is hard, too intent on taking his own pleasure.
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"You can have another pair of pants," he offers. Since the only thing worse than a walk of shame would be a walk of shame with actual evidence of said shame. "Or a shower, if you want. Well, more like and a shower, it's not an either/or kinda thing." Yeah, he's babbling again.
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Weak, he hears Howard Stark chide. He shoves back at that particular demon, down, down, down. Thanks, Dad. Really helpful. Over the edge priorities claw at the lingering peace, black writhing pits beyond the serene white. Through his teeth Tony grits, "I have jeans. I'm not walking out of here in pants recognizably not my own."
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He's also welcome to just stay here and cuddle with Steve some more. It's much warmer and more comfortable.
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He crosses over to the dresser and digs through a drawer for a moment before he pulls out a seemingly unending bundle of patriotic fleece, and he tosses it over to the bed in a billow of stars and stripes. "I'd better have it back in time for my next Netflix binge," he warns.
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"I'll be waiting." Maybe a bit too eagerly, but Steve can't be blamed for his overactive libido.
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Consumed by escaping temptation, he completely forgets about his A-shirt still wrinkled on the carpet beside Steve's bed.