Not entirely aware, Tony babbles, "That's it, baby, that's good, thank you, thank you, thank you," encouraging Steve, unable to lift himself anymore; he just bounces on Steve's lap from the shallow thrusts that jab home. "Keep talking, Steve," he gasps, "oh, oh, fuck." Tony can't reach for his neglected dick without falling flat on Steve's legs, and right now his brain can't process any solution, so he keens, loud and needy, his head and eyes rolled back. Seeking relief, his hips jerk in an aborted little thrust up into nothing and then just as much back down onto Steve.
"You like it when I talk, huh?" Steve's breathless as he starts to get worked up. He's not sure how much sense he can even make right now, but his skin prickles with arousal at the thought of Tony getting off on him talking. "Next time we're at the complex, I'm gonna lock the door and bend you over my desk. God, your ass is perfect for that, like it's begging to have my dick in it. It curves just right, 'specially when you got it crammed into those tight jeans like you were trying on earlier. You take me on another shopping trip like that, and I'm gonna make you suck me off in a dressing room, make you wait till we get home to come." He rambles on, images vivid in his mind, and it makes him put more force into his thrusts, more need behind the motion.
Tony is nodding, head loose and lolling -- maybe in agreement, maybe senselessly, maybe just responding to Steve's tone and the low frequency that seeps in through his ears and reverberates in his skin. The soles of his feet tingle, the tops stretched and nerves too-long pressured in this position, but it's secondary to all the shaking and the pressure in his balls, which feel keen to explode. "Jus' ... jus' a lil more," he slurs, surrounded by Steve from each and every angle by skin and voice. As his hole flutters around Steve in anticipation, Tony falls into a litany of Steve's name under his breath.
Half his mind yearns for just one touch to his dick, but the other half has been tugged under at Steve's mercy. Tony can't demand any more of him, not when he knows he can come from only this.
A whimper catches in Steve's throat, a sign of how much closer he's getting, how much of his blood flow is being redirected to his erection. He feels every little move Tony makes, every spasm of his muscles. It takes a long moment for him to gather up words that slip through his fingers like fish in a pond. "I- I wanna watch you fuck yourself, open yourself up for me. I wanna come back after a day of training and find you waiting for me in bed, so hard you're leaking, all lubed up and ready to go. I..." he falters. His imagination is limited right now, and he strains for more.
"I want you in every way possible," he grunts. "Everywhere. You, and no one else. In your workshop, in the shower, in bed at night and again when we wake up. Up against the windows of a goddamn penthouse. In one of your ridiculous cars. On one of the cars. On vacation somewhere, just the two of us in some fancy house. In every room of this house and the compound and- fucking everywhere, Tony, I just want you."
Release comes gradually, agonizingly and yet sweetly slow, built up and up until his body simply can't hold any more. "Oh, Steve," Tony coos, split open and rammed into, but cushioned by the emotion in Steve's voice. I just want you. Tony gains the strength just long enough to lift his head to glimpse and see him, before everything collapses into a single point and then explodes. He shouts and arches, writhes on Steve's lap, and comes and comes and comes; it lands on his belly and thighs, on top of Steve's dried patches, some onto Steve himself. It wrenches everything out of him, and then wrenches out even more, until Tony is whimpering and twitching in the aftermath, body absolutely spent but still trying. By now his arms have given way and his back rests on top of Steve's legs, possibly bending Steve inside him at an uncomfortable angle.
Tony trails dazed, unseeing eyes along the canopy, momentarily forgetting himself, becoming only a collection of fried nerves. When he comes back, he shuts his eyes. He's too weak to move.
Steve just stares in wonder at the spectacle unfolding in front of him: the way Tony looks and sounds and feels, the hot come spattering against his skin, the feeling of Tony milking his aching cock as his muscles tighten. It's a moment that stretches into an eternity and leaves Tony spent and collapsed and Steve painfully close.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he mutters. Steve plants his feet flat against the bed and brings his knees up, propping Tony up so that he's at a more natural angle. "Just a bit more, okay?" He can't imagine how Tony must feel, utterly fucked out and hollow. He looks incredibly debauched, and Steve takes a certain perverse pride in being the one responsible for all of this. "Just-" He keeps thrusting, Tony bobbing on his lap from the force, looking like a puppet with cut strings. "C'mon," and he's urging himself just as much as he is Tony, willing himself to cross the finish line like he's in the Kentucky Derby.
With a shudder and a shout, he arches his back and comes, still rocking his hips automatically, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out. Stars explode across his vision, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe till he inhales with a deep rush. He pushes his knees up more, nudges Tony so he falls forward across his chest, his cock slipping out on the way. Tony's weight is solid and comfortable - no matter how messy they both are - and Steve's breath slows to match his, in and out at the same time.
Bounced on Steve's lap and groaning, Tony tries to respond further; he achieves at best partly curling some of his fingers. His head lolls forward. Fucked out now, he feels all the discomforts: the itching of dried come, the prickling of his feet, and the soreness reaching deep inside and all throughout. Each thrust against his prostate draws out a tiny wince, one time a sharp whine. Steve finishes, and Tony flops onto his chest gracelessly, arms akimbo and legs folded to either side like a dead frog. Face smushed and too tired to handle any of his problems himself, he grumbles, inarticulate.
After a peaceful, sleepy moment of breathing together, Tony turns his face into one of Steve's pecs and blows a weak raspberry. It's really his only way of communicating currently.
Steve almost drifts into a haze of contentment, but then Tony ruins it by blowing a raspberry against his skin. Steve rolls his eyes, but manages to reach up and comb his fingers through Tony's hair. "That a complaint?" he asks. He's not sure what a guy who just came as many times as Tony would have to complain about, but he also knows how Tony is. Undoubtedly he's found some flaw to critique.
"I tried," he adds, a little defensively. Or maybe it's because he got too emotional in the middle of everything and scared Tony, and he's expressing derisive scorn for Steve's vulnerability. He's pretty good at interpreting what Tony says (and, more importantly, what he doesn't say), but there's not a whole lot to work with here.
Steve's fingers through his hair untangles something in Tony that he wasn't even aware of. Minutely he shakes his head. (He wasn't complaining -- well, not about the performance, at least. His current helpless state, maybe.) Contented for now with the renewed affection, Tony presses a sloppy kiss into Steve's skin.
"Mmm." He hums lightly, mollified by the kiss. Steve keeps petting Tony's hair. He's aware that they're both a mess, and eventually it's going to bother him, but he doesn't feel like moving right now, not when it feels more like they're one puddle of Steve-and-Tony. "'s good." He pauses for a moment as a thought strikes him. "Are you under right now?"
The concerned and confused glance Tony throws Steve's way might indicate enough. If not, then the brief look of distress his face twists into as he realizes the truth will.
Steve's all but forgotten what he asked of Tony earlier, but he remembers the second his expression changes. Steve himself looks chagrined. "Not like that," he clarifies. "Just wanted to know if- just in case." One shoulder lifts slightly, the barest hint of a shrug, and he smooths the skin between Tony's shoulderblades to calm him. "'s all right."
Tony wanted to answer no, of course not, he has better control than that, thanks; but as soon as he thought to, the words faded and jumbled into I don't know, which simply does not happen: he is either in subspace or out of it. No in-between, no lines blurred, and yet here he is in full control of his faculties but still content to wile away the night covered in sweat and come as long as Steve keeps petting his hair. That dissonance is what flashes the distress across his face. Though, no surprise, really -- a lot of things don't make the same sort of sense as in the age of Pepper. Besides, Steve says it's all right, and his palm is wide and warm on Tony's back. Tony melts and murmurs something like a thank-you.
Steve leans up just enough to brush his lips against Tony's forehead, a benediction of sorts. He's mostly worried about needing to take care of him if he starts dropping, and it doesn't seem like that's going to happen. So for the moment, everything is all right. The world isn't ending, Tony isn't having an emotional breakdown, so he's perfectly happy to just stay here like this. It's a calm, peaceful moment, and they don't exactly get to enjoy many of those.
And now he's got all weekend to immerse himself in nothing but debauchery - the idea blows his mind - and, honestly, he doesn't know what he did to deserve any of this.
The only problem is, as he discovers a few minutes later, his bladder isn't quite as happy to stay in bed, especially with the weight of a full-grown man on top of him. "Tony," he groans, and nudges him slightly. "Tony, I need you to get off for a moment."
Drifting in and out of a light, uncomfortable sleep, Tony groans and thinks, But I already got off like five times, before Steve's actual meaning sinks in. "'Kay," he whispers and with great effort moves an arm, which only travels about five inches and then flops, leaden. "Nnnnuh," he says.
Steve just sighs and gently rolls Tony off of him, shifting him onto his back. "I'll be back in a moment," he promises. Hopefully the door he spotted in one corner leads to a bathroom and not to something weird and excessive.
As it turns out, it's only a half bath, but that's all he really needs for the moment. Steve takes a leak, then does his best to wash up a bit with a damp washcloth. He wets another one and brings it out to Tony - a matter of habit, honestly. "Shoulda picked one of the rooms with a full bath," he mentions as he settles back onto the bed, leaning on one elbow as he rubs the cloth over Tony's abdomen. "A bathtub." It would be nice to soak in a hot bath, he thinks, although he'd probably have to make sure Tony didn't drown.
It blows his mind a little - he took baths in a washtub growing up, and here he is now complaining that the bathroom attached to his room doesn't have a tub? He hates himself a little for it, honestly. Every place he's been in since he woke up in this time is unspeakable luxury compared to his old life. Even people who aren't Tony Stark take their everyday conveniences for granted. He's definitely getting too soft.
When Steve returns, Tony lies exactly as he left him, boneless and appearing to be unconscious if not for the weak flexing of his toes to shake off the last of the numbed prickling. He blinks open his eyes long enough to softly meet Steve's and smirk. Then, soothed by the warm washcloth and care, finally comfortable enough now that Steve's back but more so just that exhausted, he quickly, readily falls asleep.
Once he's done and the washcloth is tossed aside, Steve curls up next to Tony on his side, pillowing his head on the other man's shoulder, sprawling an arm and a leg out over him. He couldn't tell you whether he's claiming Tony or protecting him - maybe an equal measure of both - but it feels good, whatever it is. Tony's heartbeat and the sound of his even breathing lull him to sleep, and he doesn't try to fight the urge, not as comfortable in mind and body as he is right now.
Come morning, Tony wakes with an incredible laziness. He woke up predawn once solely because he fell asleep so much earlier than normal, but darkness and a super soldier blanket enticed him back down. Now, though, he lacks both. "Steve?" he croaks. Steve probably left for his morning marathon, he thinks, so Tony lazes in the dusky light like a spoiled house cat. Eventually he picks himself up, noting a small twinge of soreness, and begins the day. He considers in the bathroom whether that is something retired people actually do or not -- spend minutes in bed doing nothing with no nightmarish interruptions or pressing concerns, or at least delaying them for a time. Still work to be done, but Tony has cleared the weekend relatively well for Steve's visit. Either way, Steve can't expect them to be joined at the hip (or dick in ass) the whole time. Right?
Dressed in a t-shirt and sleep pants, Tony shouts, "Marco!" into the hallway and waits for any answer. Was Marco Polo a thing yet in the 1940s? he wonders as he texts Steve, Come to the kitchen if you can find it. If you're not already there. Anyway, follow the smell of coffee and thoroughly sexed billionaire, you stallion you.
Steve slips out of the bedroom while Tony's still asleep for his morning run. On the weekend, in an area like this, it's quieter - never quiet, not in New York - and he manages to get through it without too many interruptions. (That's one of the benefits of the compound: nobody stops him for autographs while he's trying to exercise.) The air is thin and cold, but it could be worse, especially in January. By the time he gets back to the house, he's worked up enough of a sweat under his coat that he needs to shower again.
He goes in search of a gym first - isn't terribly impressed by what he finds, but he improvises a quick workout - then hunts down the bathroom he found earlier. His phone sits abandoned outside the shower, and he doesn't even think to check for messages. Tucking the entire bundle under his arm, he starts to head back in the direction of their bedroom, but stops when he scents coffee on the air. Following his nose, he ends up in the kitchen, and he abandons his dirty clothes on a chair to come up behind Tony and wrap his arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck.
"Morning," he murmurs in Tony's ear, grazing the rim with his teeth. Steve apparently thinks nothing of wandering around the house with just a towel wrapped around his waist.
The whole of the kitchen exudes warmth: more close-quartered than any of Tony's later homes, an orange ceiling that tints the light fixtures golden, and an older, homey feel with an outdated steel stove and oven, the counter of which Tony stands in front of, his back to the entrance. To their left, on the counter beneath the windows, the coffee machine dings and fills a mug. As for Tony, Steve has caught him in the middle of cracking open an egg over a bowl of pancake mix. The bag nearby proudly claims itself gluten-free. In hindsight, Tony would have gotten the ingredients to whip up some breakfast from scratch, since he finds it meditative, similar to building trinkets for people in the workshop, but he didn't think beyond (a) invite Steve inside for a weekend, and (b) don't freak out.
"Mornin', stallion," Tony greets with a small smirk. Something about his stance has loosened overnight, his shoulders not quite as squared when Steve holds him as the days before, softer overall, his bedhead fresh, clothes plain, and baking with his own hands. "I've taken the liberty of making us some breakfast. What's your opinion on pancakes?"
The atmosphere of the kitchen is wholly unlike Tony - there are no sleek, modern appliances, none of the open areas that he's come to associate with him. It feels more like something Steve's used to, and even though he doesn't quite realize it, it makes him relax just a little more. He's content to rest his chin on Tony's shoulder and try to stay out of the way while he cooks.
"I love pancakes," Steve admits frankly - although in truth, you'd have to try pretty hard to find a breakfast food (or any food) he won't eat. But he is definitely partial to a good pancake in any of its variations. "You got bacon?" And he wouldn't mind some of those eggs, either. And fruit, and- yeah, okay, the guy has an appetite. "Is there juice in the fridge?" he adds, as reluctant as he is to leave Tony behind.
A cozy warmth has engulfed Tony's heart, an airiness his head -- the relief of not being alone, the (still tentative) hope that this can work, and the wonder at landing someone like Steve Rogers. Lightning can strike twice, that's scientifically proven, he muses. "Juice and bacon both. Hand 'em here. You can thank the chef with a kiss," Tony says while mixing the batter and then makes an exaggerated and playful kissy-face at Steve on his shoulder.
Steve wrinkles his nose at Tony's exaggerated expression, but his eyes and mouth make his amusement clear. Obediently, he leans in and meets Tony's lips, though he has to resist the urge to linger, to deepen the kiss and distract Tony from cooking. After last night, they both need the calories from breakfast.
When he pulls away, it's to cross over to the refrigerator. Steve hands the bacon over first, then takes the container of orange juice out. He takes a long swig, then remembers his manners and opens a couple of cabinets till he finds them. He pours himself a glass of juice and puts it back in the fridge, then carries both juice and the mug of coffee back to the stove.
"I'll thank you with more than that later." He winks as he slides the coffee onto the counter next to Tony.
The puckered mouth against Steve's smooths out, becomes pliable, and Tony's eyes crinkle at the corners with happiness. When Steve pulls away, Tony clears his throat and concentrates on buttering up the pan. The kiss banished all lingering thought on his tablet, opened to morning news articles, on the table behind him. (Sometimes he still needs to remind himself that the world doesn't fall apart if he's not watching it for a few minutes; that, honestly, it's probably better off without his brand of protection, considering what Ultron turned into.) Right now, he only needs to make sure the batter won't stick.
Cooking meals was something he did for Pepper. Self-taught after the disastrous "bee-tee-dubs I'm dying" omelette, partly to prove to her he could and partly out of necessity after he stopped hiring personal assistants, it ended up as a boon when he could wine, dine, sixty-nine her. He enjoyed it, waiting on her after she survived a long day in high heels at the office, returning the favor for all the years she took care of him. The cooking started with her, as most things, but he likes servicing his partner, Tony is discovering. It's not just with Pepper.
A second skillet onto the stove later, he twists the temperature knobs up and grins as he catches the coffee mug. "More than coffee?" he says, feigning ignorance.
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Half his mind yearns for just one touch to his dick, but the other half has been tugged under at Steve's mercy. Tony can't demand any more of him, not when he knows he can come from only this.
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"I want you in every way possible," he grunts. "Everywhere. You, and no one else. In your workshop, in the shower, in bed at night and again when we wake up. Up against the windows of a goddamn penthouse. In one of your ridiculous cars. On one of the cars. On vacation somewhere, just the two of us in some fancy house. In every room of this house and the compound and- fucking everywhere, Tony, I just want you."
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Tony trails dazed, unseeing eyes along the canopy, momentarily forgetting himself, becoming only a collection of fried nerves. When he comes back, he shuts his eyes. He's too weak to move.
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"C'mon, sweetheart," he mutters. Steve plants his feet flat against the bed and brings his knees up, propping Tony up so that he's at a more natural angle. "Just a bit more, okay?" He can't imagine how Tony must feel, utterly fucked out and hollow. He looks incredibly debauched, and Steve takes a certain perverse pride in being the one responsible for all of this. "Just-" He keeps thrusting, Tony bobbing on his lap from the force, looking like a puppet with cut strings. "C'mon," and he's urging himself just as much as he is Tony, willing himself to cross the finish line like he's in the Kentucky Derby.
With a shudder and a shout, he arches his back and comes, still rocking his hips automatically, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out. Stars explode across his vision, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe till he inhales with a deep rush. He pushes his knees up more, nudges Tony so he falls forward across his chest, his cock slipping out on the way. Tony's weight is solid and comfortable - no matter how messy they both are - and Steve's breath slows to match his, in and out at the same time.
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After a peaceful, sleepy moment of breathing together, Tony turns his face into one of Steve's pecs and blows a weak raspberry. It's really his only way of communicating currently.
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"I tried," he adds, a little defensively. Or maybe it's because he got too emotional in the middle of everything and scared Tony, and he's expressing derisive scorn for Steve's vulnerability. He's pretty good at interpreting what Tony says (and, more importantly, what he doesn't say), but there's not a whole lot to work with here.
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And now he's got all weekend to immerse himself in nothing but debauchery - the idea blows his mind - and, honestly, he doesn't know what he did to deserve any of this.
The only problem is, as he discovers a few minutes later, his bladder isn't quite as happy to stay in bed, especially with the weight of a full-grown man on top of him. "Tony," he groans, and nudges him slightly. "Tony, I need you to get off for a moment."
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As it turns out, it's only a half bath, but that's all he really needs for the moment. Steve takes a leak, then does his best to wash up a bit with a damp washcloth. He wets another one and brings it out to Tony - a matter of habit, honestly. "Shoulda picked one of the rooms with a full bath," he mentions as he settles back onto the bed, leaning on one elbow as he rubs the cloth over Tony's abdomen. "A bathtub." It would be nice to soak in a hot bath, he thinks, although he'd probably have to make sure Tony didn't drown.
It blows his mind a little - he took baths in a washtub growing up, and here he is now complaining that the bathroom attached to his room doesn't have a tub? He hates himself a little for it, honestly. Every place he's been in since he woke up in this time is unspeakable luxury compared to his old life. Even people who aren't Tony Stark take their everyday conveniences for granted. He's definitely getting too soft.
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Dressed in a t-shirt and sleep pants, Tony shouts, "Marco!" into the hallway and waits for any answer. Was Marco Polo a thing yet in the 1940s? he wonders as he texts Steve, Come to the kitchen if you can find it. If you're not already there. Anyway, follow the smell of coffee and thoroughly sexed billionaire, you stallion you.
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He goes in search of a gym first - isn't terribly impressed by what he finds, but he improvises a quick workout - then hunts down the bathroom he found earlier. His phone sits abandoned outside the shower, and he doesn't even think to check for messages. Tucking the entire bundle under his arm, he starts to head back in the direction of their bedroom, but stops when he scents coffee on the air. Following his nose, he ends up in the kitchen, and he abandons his dirty clothes on a chair to come up behind Tony and wrap his arms around his waist, kissing the back of his neck.
"Morning," he murmurs in Tony's ear, grazing the rim with his teeth. Steve apparently thinks nothing of wandering around the house with just a towel wrapped around his waist.
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"Mornin', stallion," Tony greets with a small smirk. Something about his stance has loosened overnight, his shoulders not quite as squared when Steve holds him as the days before, softer overall, his bedhead fresh, clothes plain, and baking with his own hands. "I've taken the liberty of making us some breakfast. What's your opinion on pancakes?"
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"I love pancakes," Steve admits frankly - although in truth, you'd have to try pretty hard to find a breakfast food (or any food) he won't eat. But he is definitely partial to a good pancake in any of its variations. "You got bacon?" And he wouldn't mind some of those eggs, either. And fruit, and- yeah, okay, the guy has an appetite. "Is there juice in the fridge?" he adds, as reluctant as he is to leave Tony behind.
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When he pulls away, it's to cross over to the refrigerator. Steve hands the bacon over first, then takes the container of orange juice out. He takes a long swig, then remembers his manners and opens a couple of cabinets till he finds them. He pours himself a glass of juice and puts it back in the fridge, then carries both juice and the mug of coffee back to the stove.
"I'll thank you with more than that later." He winks as he slides the coffee onto the counter next to Tony.
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Cooking meals was something he did for Pepper. Self-taught after the disastrous "bee-tee-dubs I'm dying" omelette, partly to prove to her he could and partly out of necessity after he stopped hiring personal assistants, it ended up as a boon when he could wine, dine, sixty-nine her. He enjoyed it, waiting on her after she survived a long day in high heels at the office, returning the favor for all the years she took care of him. The cooking started with her, as most things, but he likes servicing his partner, Tony is discovering. It's not just with Pepper.
A second skillet onto the stove later, he twists the temperature knobs up and grins as he catches the coffee mug. "More than coffee?" he says, feigning ignorance.
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