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.
Steve runs his fingers through Tony's hair. It's softer than normal, all the product rinsed out in the shower, and the bedhead is something he finds impossibly endearing. Leaning against the counter, he gives Tony some room to work on the stove.
"I'd bend you over the table if I didn't have to worry about the pancakes burning." Steve smirks over the rim of his glass. That's another reason for putting some physical distance between him and Tony: if he keeps touching him, they'll both end up distracted, and right now, Steve wants breakfast slightly more than he wants sex. "I didn't know you could cook," he adds. It's a hidden side of Tony, one he's never really considered. He's offered smoothies and snacks after missions before, but he hasn't cooked a real meal for any of them.
Tony resists leaning into the touch and purring, but just barely; if Steve ordered him down right then, Tony might very well shatter his kneecaps on the tile flooring. His guard briefly lowered, Steve's next comment blindsides him and Tony squeaks in the back of his throat. He chances a glance down Steve's bare torso, immediately regrets it, and then hides behind drinking his coffee. Note to self: Steve is morphing when sexually poked from a pill bug into a grizzly bear. Thankfully, Steve changes the subject so Tony can stop teetering between feelings of "oh, God, yes, please" and "oh, God, my body is not ready."
Eyes kept safely low, he spreads the melting butter with a spatula. "Uh, yeah. Not earning any Michelin stars, but my stuff generally turns out edible. Put the milk away? I'm done with it."
It's amazing what feeling wanted can do. For the first time, Steve knows absolutely that Tony welcomes his advances, no matter how ridiculous they might be, and it gives him confidence, or something like it. Besides, Tony'd encouraged him last night, telling him to bend him over any available surface all weekend. He's just following orders, as it were.
"Better than mine." Steve picks up the milk jug and takes it back over to the fridge. "I can just about manage a sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Gotta tell you, frozen dinners are a godsend." Or anything else that's been pre-prepared. He buys them in bulk and nukes one when he gets hungry. "You need anything else while I'm over here?"
Tony wrinkles his nose. Frozen dinners, ew. If he stops himself long enough to be in the kitchen, he wants something palatable. "Nah. Sit down. Look pretty," he says and pours in the first puddle of batter. He sizes it according to his preferences, but pauses to consider Steve's and fills the skillet up instead. "Three mega cakes enough for you, Shaggy?" The sense of control and peace that cooking earns him settles into the hollow of his bones, similar to tinkering with a car engine but with an added flood of warmth from doing it for someone else; from making someone else, Steve specifically, happy.
Good God, you really are a housewife, Tony thinks, a running joke he started with Pepper after she moved in. He stuffs down the clearly incorrect yet insistent voice telling him this is all too feminine.
"I'll do my best." Steve sits down at the table, strategically arranging his towel so that it covers what's necessary, but hints at what's underneath, then turns so that the sun illuminates his pecs. He might have a skewed perception of his own appearance, but he at least knows what Tony is likely to find appealing on an aesthetic principle.
"Perfect," he agrees, closing his eyes to bask in the sunlight, and then- "Shaggy?" Must be another reference he's missing.
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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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"I'd bend you over the table if I didn't have to worry about the pancakes burning." Steve smirks over the rim of his glass. That's another reason for putting some physical distance between him and Tony: if he keeps touching him, they'll both end up distracted, and right now, Steve wants breakfast slightly more than he wants sex. "I didn't know you could cook," he adds. It's a hidden side of Tony, one he's never really considered. He's offered smoothies and snacks after missions before, but he hasn't cooked a real meal for any of them.
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Eyes kept safely low, he spreads the melting butter with a spatula. "Uh, yeah. Not earning any Michelin stars, but my stuff generally turns out edible. Put the milk away? I'm done with it."
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"Better than mine." Steve picks up the milk jug and takes it back over to the fridge. "I can just about manage a sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Gotta tell you, frozen dinners are a godsend." Or anything else that's been pre-prepared. He buys them in bulk and nukes one when he gets hungry. "You need anything else while I'm over here?"
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Good God, you really are a housewife, Tony thinks, a running joke he started with Pepper after she moved in. He stuffs down the clearly incorrect yet insistent voice telling him this is all too feminine.
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"Perfect," he agrees, closing his eyes to bask in the sunlight, and then- "Shaggy?" Must be another reference he's missing.
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