Tony stares at his reflection. His confidence and go-get-'em attitude spiraled down the shower drain at some point while he washed his bizarrely smooth legs, which he had professionally waxed yesterday. The whole time earlier at the Museum of Sex in Manhattan where he surprised Steve on a date, Tony could feel every thread in the fabric of his trousers every time he took a step; the increased sensitivity was impossible to ignore. Now smooth nude nylon kisses every bare inch, latched up to his thighs to black garters and hidden beneath a glossy, wine red pencil skirt that hugs his ass and stomach but drapes down his back thighs and flutters above his knees. Uncomfortable in a myriad of ways, Tony shifts between his two feet, which are decked in killer, shiny heels that wedge his toes into a point.
I look, and feel, ridiculous, he thinks. He tucks his hands farther into the opened cuffs of his black dress shirt, the collar the same, clavicle enticingly in view with the hint of the reactor scar.
He's doing this for Steve, he repeats to himself; Steve, whom he left in his room with the assortment of toys Tony restocked the past month: cock rings, dildos, anal plugs, gags, specialized ropes, and a light flogger, all fairly tame. "Find your weapon of choice while I slip into something more comfortable," Tony said to Steve, still all swagger and at the top of his game. He meant to wow Steve into a flustered blush, like he's supposed to, which the MoSex failed at; Steve just appeared more interested and curious than flustered. Tony knew the day would come, no one stayed innocent for long around him, but he liked that he could rile the big guy up with a bat of his eyelashes. It gave him a sensation of control. He doesn't know why panic beats in his chest when he sees that ounce of power slipping away. It shouldn't matter.
The outfit, long planned, was his last ditch effort at preemptive seduction: show some leg and a tightened calf from heels and jut out his hip, and meowza, 1940's sensibilities overloaded. Thing is, when Tony tries to summon whatever femme fatale spirit to possess him, he comes up empty. He feels neither sexy nor dangerous.
No turning back now, he decides and stabs his way down the hall to his bedroom in a power walk that'd make Pepper proud. In the open doorway, Tony leans against the frame with crossed arms, defensive in every muscle and ready for a fight, eyes challenging Steve above cheeks flushed with humiliation. Tonight, it seems, will not be an easy night.
Steve's not flustered by the way Tony looks in a skirt, but he's clearly very interested in the sight in front of him. The heels make Tony's stocking-clad legs curve just right, mimicking the look in the pinups he'd been eyeing earlier, and the skirt hugs his ass. Steve's already naked and already semi-hard, and he draws in a sharp breath at the sight of him. Tony looks damn good, but he can tell by the tense lines of his body that he'll have to fight him every inch of the way.
"Come over here, Tony," he says calmly. "Stand in front of me." Steve's seated at the end of the bed, the toys still arranged neatly behind him. Whatever he's thinking about using, only the lube is immediately apparent, but it's safe to assume that he has some plan of attack in mind. His pupils are already wide and dark, but without the glazed, unfocused look that he gets when he's concentrating on his own pleasure. Instead, he turns his focus elsewhere - in this case, entirely on Tony. It's not unlike being pinned by a predator's gaze.
Tony sniffs, head tilted thoughtfully and mouth pursed comically tight. The wine red skirt brings out the flecks of amber in his eyes. Nonchalant, he turns them elsewhere: Steve isn't the focus of Tony's need to hiss and spit this time, but rather it's everything, which only happens to include Steve. Tony's choice, he said before, and Tony agreed to this scene already. He agreed to it, and yet -- "Nah," Tony dismisses the order, irreverent, even though his body reacts favorably. "I'm fine over here, thanks."
Steve rises to his feet slowly and crosses the room. His fingers are wrapped around something in his hand, and when he reaches Tony, he runs the hand up under his skirt, caressing his thigh. "You look gorgeous, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, leaning closer. "I could pin you up against the wall and fuck you right here." But he doesn't, doesn't try to intimidate him by physical proximity - Steve's amused when he notices that the heels put them eye to eye.
Instead, he rolls a cockring down over Tony's dick and steps back, smiling innocently. "Do those shoes hurt your feet, Tony?"
Unflinching, stubbornly sticking to his selected space and stance, Tony faces Steve head-on. It's important to show how unaffected he is, despite the flicker of something in his eyes. A minor grunt signals the metal cockring fitting around his now-hardening dick. (No underwear as requested.) "Nope," he lies through clenched teeth, afraid to let anything more slip past.
"Well, that's good." Steve sits back down on the bed, leaning back on his hands and looking wholly relaxed, apart from his cock. "I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable." Reaching back among the array of toys on the bed, he finds a bullet vibrator and switches it on, pressing it against the base of his cock. He shudders as a quiet hum fills the silence of the room. "You don't mind if I go ahead without you, then?"
Briefly Tony narrows his eyes before he switches gears and slaps on a falsified smile. "Be my guest. Have a ball, or two," he says graciously and saunters to a vintage armchair across from Steve. When he crosses his legs at the knee, it reveals the bare back of a thigh; he's waxed all the way up. His forming erection slides the front of the skirt higher, the garters on full display. Tony slouches back and twines his hands over his stomach, smug. This game favors experience.
What Tony doesn't realize is that Steve, with his lack of experience, will do the wholly unexpected. Tossing the vibrator aside to rattle in a corner somewhere, he stands up, crosses over to the chair, and simply picks Tony up, throwing him over his shoulder for the brief distance to the bed.
He's not as gentle as he could be when he lets Tony down, either, the other man bouncing on the mattress stomach-first. "Tony, Tony, Tony." Steve sits down next to him, tugging the skirt up to reveal his bare ass. "This is a lot easier if you just listen to me, you know." He runs a hand over the smooth skin, smiling a little. He's never used a flogger before, but there isn't much to figure out, he reckons. They're all soft and floppy, and Steve strokes Tony's ass with the tails first before he draws back and hits him with it. The weighted ends make a satisfying noise as they smack Tony's skin.
"Did you really think I'd let you just sit there?" It's more of a rhetorical question than anything else, especially since Steve swats him again once the words are out of his mouth.
As Steve prowls wordlessly toward him, Tony's smug smile falls more and more until he's holding up a hand and cautioning, "Steve--" which of course stops nothing, because with a squawk he's lugged over Steve's broad shoulder and deposited onto the bed all the same. So stunned and so very incredibly turned on, sprawled there, he nearly forgets all about what he's wearing. But then he glares hard over his shoulder, face and neck beet red -- yet he doesn't try to roll over, even with the skirt pushed up into a mass of ruffles on his back. This, at least, he's not fighting.
"Well, I -- nnh," there's the second smack, "certainly didn't think you'd go King Kong on me," Tony scoffs, but his dilated eyes and breathless voice are betraying him.
God, he could fuck Tony right now, sprawled on the bed like this, his ass and thighs on display. His cock aches as it grows fuller, and for a moment he's tempted to do just that. "I'm not gonna climb up the Empire State Building with you, that's for sure," Steve retorts. "Everyone in New York would be able to see up your skirt." The flogger makes another solid thwack as it strikes again. "I just want you on show for me." There's the edge of a growl in his voice there, something possessive.
He pauses for a moment to pick up the thinnest of the plugs and the lube. Steve knows that Tony wants to be full, that having anything small in his ass will drive him crazy. Although he's never tried anything like this before, there's no time like the present.
"Did you open yourself up earlier?" Steve shudders as he imagines Tony preparing himself, working his fingers into his ass, stretching himself out just for Steve.
The flogger hits and growl combined strike Tony somewhere deep. He swallows and unconsciously shifts his hips; the satin of the skirt whispers against his trapped cock with little friction. Quietly the submissive part of him answers, Yours, only yours, but he stomps it back down. Not yet, he tells it, and drops his head to hide his face.
Steve reaches for something. Tony misses what. "If I say no?" he risks asking for no reason other than to be difficult: in the shower while cleaning, he worked himself up to three fingers.
Steve swats him with the flogger again just for being a smartass, a little harder this time. He knows it's not really a punishment for Tony, that he gets too much enjoyment from it, but it offers Steve a safe outlet for his frustration. "Then you're not gonna be having much fun in a moment."
This time, he puts the flogger on Tony's lower back, within easy reach, and starts lubing up the plug. Once he has it thickly coated, Steve pulls Tony's thighs apart and nudges his hole with the blunt tip. It goes in fairly easily, the flared base nestling in place.
"You gonna stand like I told you to now?" Steve's breath is already coming faster. God, he wants to absolutely wreck Tony.
Tony bites back a moan, ass clenching involuntarily, the red marks from the flogger quickly fading back to white. Shoulders hunched, obviously struggling within himself, he takes precious seconds to answer. Finally, his back bows underneath the weight of the flogger like it's Thor's hammer and Tony disjointedly, shakily nods. He wants this. He wants this, and he hates that he does, but what's new there? He hates a lot about himself. Just one tick in a long list.
Steeling himself (like iron, you're supposed to be made of iron), Tony lifts onto his hands and knees, the flogger sliding off, and awkwardly scoots backwards. He stands in the heels with a hiss.
"There you go," Steve murmurs softly, in an encouraging tone. He reaches around and gently tugs the skirt back into place, smoothing it down carefully, his palm sliding flat over Tony's fabric-covered ass. There's tension in Tony's body that has nothing to do with standing in heels, and Steve wants him to know that everything's okay. He's almost tempted to do a color check, but he doubts that Tony would say anything but green - that he'd never say anything else unless something was seriously wrong.
"Take a few steps back," Steve instructs him, still in that gentle tone of voice. "I don't wanna get anything on your skirt just yet." He smiles a little. For his first run of the night, he has every intention of making Tony watch him pleasure himself. It might not be effective in taking him under, but Steve's willing to spend some time on that once he bleeds the edge off his own arousal.
Tony's cheeks glow a faint pink as Steve smooths down the skirt. With a tight frown and eyes trained on the rumpled sheets, he steps back and out of reach of the bed. The plug shifts; it leans whichever way inside depending on his step. External issues blur like pictures going out of focus. Steve's got you, he thinks, soothed by the gentleness. It's your choice. It's not weak. "Planning on a mess, are we?" Tony quips stiffly and then huffs and shoots Steve a dry look. "Go nuts. This thing's not even designer." He might even have to throw the skirt in the trash afterward. Golly, that would be a crying shame. Of course he'd buy another one if Steve wanted him to, because apparently he's either already whipped or a bit of humiliation gets him hard.
Steve just smirks at him. "You wouldn't say that if you had to wash it, would you?" While that's not strictly within the bounds of what they usually do - not that they have much of a 'usually' established - Steve's well aware that he could make Tony wash it by hand for a punishment if he really wanted. Even if it's dry clean only. The point isn't getting the skirt clean, but making him clean up a mess himself.
He doesn't try for the vibrator again. It had felt nice enough, but now Steve wants to be able to focus on talking to Tony. "I think you'd look better in black stockings," he comments as he starts stroking himself. "They'd really show off your legs more." Not that he's the greatest fashion critic ever. "I like the skirt, though. It hugs your ass just like those jeans you like to tease me with."
Arms crossed, Tony fidgets in place. The skirt is stretched obscenely over his erection and the ruffled hem is lifted outwards. He lowers his eyes to Steve stroking himself, where they stay. Why isn't Tony the one stroking (or better yet, blowing) him? "Uh-huh. Ten outta ten circulation, too. Really frees my willy," he mutters.
Steve's gaze is glued to the tented fabric, where he can see the head of Tony's cock clearly outlined. "Mmm," he agrees, not entirely paying attention to what he's saying. He imagines blowing Tony, sucking him off until he begs to come, then fucking him through a couple of dry orgasms. At least the cockring means he won't have to worry about pushing him too far.
His own balls start to tighten, and Steve groans, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "Gonna make you ride me later," he mumbles as he strokes faster, tightening his hand around his erection. "Gonna-" He gasps and tenses suddenly, and just like that, he's shooting off, spilling over his hand and thighs and stomach. It makes him feel better, releases some of the tension that's been building up. He's been horny ever since he drove here in anticipation of the night's activities, his skin tight and prickling and sensitive.
Gesturing for Tony to come back over, Steve smiles lazily at him, smug and momentarily sated. "Clean me off, sweetheart." He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs open so Tony can kneel between them. "With your tongue."
As Steve comes Tony blows air out his nose like a caged bull. He glares at nothing until that damned endearment, sweetheart said so sincerely, frays the tangle of knots inside of him. Haltingly, he kneels between Steve's legs on the carpet. The skirt drapes over his legs and the heels stick up. The plug rubs against his insides at a new angle. With a crease in his brow that says he's fighting to keep a hold of himself, Tony licks a long, purposeful strip up Steve's stomach, his cock against his jaw, vying for control via seduction. But the more he licks, the looser his posture becomes, the crease smoothing out and the licks less firm, more like a dog lapping at its master's fingers.
"That's it," Steve encourages him. He runs his fingers through Tony's hair, softer after a shower, and feels him relax more and more as he keeps licking. "You're so good at this, darling." All of his endearments have just an edge of Brooklyn to them, an old habit he can't manage to shake.
"Maybe when you're done, I'll let you suck me off." He offers Tony his dirty hand to lick, still combing the fingers of the other through his hair in a soothing motion. Steve's dick is still soft, but they both know that coaxing it back up isn't hard. "Or do you wanna do something else?"
Eyelashes fluttering, Tony shivers at each compliment, a burst of endorphins in lieu of his normal cockiness. ("Of course I'm good, I'm the best," or something along those lines, he might say.) He accepts Steve's fingers mindlessly, lips wrapped around them all, sucking and licking them clean, but then suddenly at the question he slows and stills and his shoulders stiffen, trance broken. While frozen like that, saliva builds in the corners of his mouth. Almost lost himself there, he thinks.
Tony blinks open his eyes and narrows them up at Steve. In light warning, he bites down on Steve's knuckles: he's not gone yet. His submission is a privilege given. Steve needs to work harder than that for it.
"Guess that's a no on sucking me off, then," Steve says sweetly, although there's an undercurrent to his tone that wasn't there before. If Steve has to work for Tony's submission, then Tony has to work for the privilege of pleasure. He curls his fingers inside Tony's mouth, pushing them in and forcing his mouth open - not enough to hurt him or make him gag, but enough to be uncomfortable. The other hand tightens in his hair.
"At this rate," he continues, "your dick is gonna fall off before I let you come. Get flat on the bed and open your shirt." Steve pulls his hand from Tony's mouth, wiping the mix of saliva and come on his shirt. "On your back, head on the pillow."
Jaw forced wide open and head tilted up, Tony stares steadily back at Steve -- not angry, just firm. Almost immediately he misses the gentle petting and compliments, but a need to prove some point drives him. What point he's trying to prove, he doesn't know. It's all tangled up into an indiscernible knot, a mess of motives and ideas twisting together. The part of him hardened into gold-titanium alloy shouts that he's meant to be by Steve's side, not at his feet, while its sister part crushed under debris and a body count brings down the gavel and determines that this should be his place, him kept down by the better hand. But the tiny, quiet part that just wants rest -- that part wants to slump into Steve's hold and warmth and let every other part wilt away. No guilt, no fractured mind, no past demons frowning their judgment from over his shoulder, no ten thousand things pulling him in different directions, just ... Steve.
All that together results in a subtle eye roll from Tony and then him shimmying backwards onto the bed. The heels make it awkward, scraping and sliding across the sheets. Finally situated, he plucks open his shirt buttons; the separated sides lie limp on him. "You're gonna make me wear this get-up all night, aren't you?" he grumbles as he unbuttons.
"At least until I get to fuck you in the skirt." Steve turns to watch Tony unbutton his shirt, his eyes following his fingers as they move. "That's kinda the whole point, Tony." And the more he acts up, the longer he has to wait for that to happen. "Though if you start behaving, I might let you take the shoes off."
Not that Tony's going to have much of a choice shortly. Once he settles into place, Steve puts a blindfold over his eyes, making sure it's secure. After that, he grabs restraints from the table and fastens Tony's arms spread-eagled, one at each corner of the bed. There's a longer pause and some shuffling around before Steve finds the flogger again, and he stands next to the bed, looking down at Tony in silence.
"Behaving," Tony scoffs under his breath, because oh, he could act out so much worse than this, but soon quiets. Blindfold on, his sensory inputs narrow. Sound and touch strengthen in sight's stead: his cock head pushed into satin and made more stubborn by the ring, the plug shoved inside him, the stockings a constant second skin. Tony allows Steve to spread and restrain his arms, leaving his chest vulnerable, because he trusts Steve as a leader, lover, friend, and dominant. Tony trusts him because he's seen the flaws beneath the icon. The humanity. He thinks, So what if Steve learns the figurative and literal ropes around the bedroom? He's still Steve. Plus, Steve's confidence comes with undeniable benefits to Tony. See: his current predicament.
He turns his head to the side where he thinks Steve stands. After a few beats of silence, Tony drawls, "The suspense is killing me." He just can't leave well enough alone.
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I look, and feel, ridiculous, he thinks. He tucks his hands farther into the opened cuffs of his black dress shirt, the collar the same, clavicle enticingly in view with the hint of the reactor scar.
He's doing this for Steve, he repeats to himself; Steve, whom he left in his room with the assortment of toys Tony restocked the past month: cock rings, dildos, anal plugs, gags, specialized ropes, and a light flogger, all fairly tame. "Find your weapon of choice while I slip into something more comfortable," Tony said to Steve, still all swagger and at the top of his game. He meant to wow Steve into a flustered blush, like he's supposed to, which the MoSex failed at; Steve just appeared more interested and curious than flustered. Tony knew the day would come, no one stayed innocent for long around him, but he liked that he could rile the big guy up with a bat of his eyelashes. It gave him a sensation of control. He doesn't know why panic beats in his chest when he sees that ounce of power slipping away. It shouldn't matter.
The outfit, long planned, was his last ditch effort at preemptive seduction: show some leg and a tightened calf from heels and jut out his hip, and meowza, 1940's sensibilities overloaded. Thing is, when Tony tries to summon whatever femme fatale spirit to possess him, he comes up empty. He feels neither sexy nor dangerous.
No turning back now, he decides and stabs his way down the hall to his bedroom in a power walk that'd make Pepper proud. In the open doorway, Tony leans against the frame with crossed arms, defensive in every muscle and ready for a fight, eyes challenging Steve above cheeks flushed with humiliation. Tonight, it seems, will not be an easy night.
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"Come over here, Tony," he says calmly. "Stand in front of me." Steve's seated at the end of the bed, the toys still arranged neatly behind him. Whatever he's thinking about using, only the lube is immediately apparent, but it's safe to assume that he has some plan of attack in mind. His pupils are already wide and dark, but without the glazed, unfocused look that he gets when he's concentrating on his own pleasure. Instead, he turns his focus elsewhere - in this case, entirely on Tony. It's not unlike being pinned by a predator's gaze.
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Instead, he rolls a cockring down over Tony's dick and steps back, smiling innocently. "Do those shoes hurt your feet, Tony?"
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He's not as gentle as he could be when he lets Tony down, either, the other man bouncing on the mattress stomach-first. "Tony, Tony, Tony." Steve sits down next to him, tugging the skirt up to reveal his bare ass. "This is a lot easier if you just listen to me, you know." He runs a hand over the smooth skin, smiling a little. He's never used a flogger before, but there isn't much to figure out, he reckons. They're all soft and floppy, and Steve strokes Tony's ass with the tails first before he draws back and hits him with it. The weighted ends make a satisfying noise as they smack Tony's skin.
"Did you really think I'd let you just sit there?" It's more of a rhetorical question than anything else, especially since Steve swats him again once the words are out of his mouth.
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"Well, I -- nnh," there's the second smack, "certainly didn't think you'd go King Kong on me," Tony scoffs, but his dilated eyes and breathless voice are betraying him.
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He pauses for a moment to pick up the thinnest of the plugs and the lube. Steve knows that Tony wants to be full, that having anything small in his ass will drive him crazy. Although he's never tried anything like this before, there's no time like the present.
"Did you open yourself up earlier?" Steve shudders as he imagines Tony preparing himself, working his fingers into his ass, stretching himself out just for Steve.
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Steve reaches for something. Tony misses what. "If I say no?" he risks asking for no reason other than to be difficult: in the shower while cleaning, he worked himself up to three fingers.
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This time, he puts the flogger on Tony's lower back, within easy reach, and starts lubing up the plug. Once he has it thickly coated, Steve pulls Tony's thighs apart and nudges his hole with the blunt tip. It goes in fairly easily, the flared base nestling in place.
"You gonna stand like I told you to now?" Steve's breath is already coming faster. God, he wants to absolutely wreck Tony.
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Steeling himself (like iron, you're supposed to be made of iron), Tony lifts onto his hands and knees, the flogger sliding off, and awkwardly scoots backwards. He stands in the heels with a hiss.
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"Take a few steps back," Steve instructs him, still in that gentle tone of voice. "I don't wanna get anything on your skirt just yet." He smiles a little. For his first run of the night, he has every intention of making Tony watch him pleasure himself. It might not be effective in taking him under, but Steve's willing to spend some time on that once he bleeds the edge off his own arousal.
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He doesn't try for the vibrator again. It had felt nice enough, but now Steve wants to be able to focus on talking to Tony. "I think you'd look better in black stockings," he comments as he starts stroking himself. "They'd really show off your legs more." Not that he's the greatest fashion critic ever. "I like the skirt, though. It hugs your ass just like those jeans you like to tease me with."
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His own balls start to tighten, and Steve groans, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "Gonna make you ride me later," he mumbles as he strokes faster, tightening his hand around his erection. "Gonna-" He gasps and tenses suddenly, and just like that, he's shooting off, spilling over his hand and thighs and stomach. It makes him feel better, releases some of the tension that's been building up. He's been horny ever since he drove here in anticipation of the night's activities, his skin tight and prickling and sensitive.
Gesturing for Tony to come back over, Steve smiles lazily at him, smug and momentarily sated. "Clean me off, sweetheart." He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs open so Tony can kneel between them. "With your tongue."
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"Maybe when you're done, I'll let you suck me off." He offers Tony his dirty hand to lick, still combing the fingers of the other through his hair in a soothing motion. Steve's dick is still soft, but they both know that coaxing it back up isn't hard. "Or do you wanna do something else?"
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Tony blinks open his eyes and narrows them up at Steve. In light warning, he bites down on Steve's knuckles: he's not gone yet. His submission is a privilege given. Steve needs to work harder than that for it.
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"At this rate," he continues, "your dick is gonna fall off before I let you come. Get flat on the bed and open your shirt." Steve pulls his hand from Tony's mouth, wiping the mix of saliva and come on his shirt. "On your back, head on the pillow."
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All that together results in a subtle eye roll from Tony and then him shimmying backwards onto the bed. The heels make it awkward, scraping and sliding across the sheets. Finally situated, he plucks open his shirt buttons; the separated sides lie limp on him. "You're gonna make me wear this get-up all night, aren't you?" he grumbles as he unbuttons.
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Not that Tony's going to have much of a choice shortly. Once he settles into place, Steve puts a blindfold over his eyes, making sure it's secure. After that, he grabs restraints from the table and fastens Tony's arms spread-eagled, one at each corner of the bed. There's a longer pause and some shuffling around before Steve finds the flogger again, and he stands next to the bed, looking down at Tony in silence.
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He turns his head to the side where he thinks Steve stands. After a few beats of silence, Tony drawls, "The suspense is killing me." He just can't leave well enough alone.
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