FIC SNIPPET: Want You for My Own (Steve Rogers/Tony Stark) NC-17
Last week I posted about my awesome new notebook, and then thefourthvine said UNLESS YOU GET STEVE SOLD IN MARRIAGE TO TONY TO PAY HIS LONG-DEAD FATHER'S DEBTS, THE NOTEBOOK WILL HAVE WON.
This isn't quite that scenario, and it's just a piece, and I make no guarantees I will finish it--though there is already more on my hard drive-and also it involves one person essentially owning another and having as-consensual-as-it-can-be-in-that-situation sex with them, so if that bothers you, please skip.
Basically, blame thefourthvine and Justin Bieber.
A while ago in a universe not quite like this one…
Steve wants to hate Tony Stark the first time he sees him, because he an arrogant jerk with artfully messy hair and an attitude problem-several of Steve's least favorite qualities in a person, all wrapped up in one tidy package. Stark waltzes into the Pentagon warehouse like he owns the place, wearing an expensive suit and an air of entitlement, and dismissively sizes up the auction items one after the other, until he stops abruptly where Steve is standing next to an armored tank, trying to disappear into the background. No such luck. Stark zeroes in on him immediately.
"Who's this? He come with the tank?" Stark asks. The ice cubes in his drink clink against the glass as he gestures toward Steve with it.
"Lot 14838," the bored quartermaster reads from his clipboard. "Rogers, Steven. Part of a classified experiment designed to create superpowers. Only test subject to survive the procedure, but went into a vegetative state for sixty-eight years. No superpowers evident, experiment considered a failure." He holds the clipboard out to Stark, who glances at it but doesn't take it.
"I hate when people hand me things," he says offhandedly to the quarter master, eyes on Steve the whole time. Steve stares back at him, unwilling to let on how scared he is--this is the third time he's been here in the auction house with the rest of the unwanted military assets, but the first time anyone's really taken a serious interest in him. Stark's eyes roam up and down Steve's body, catch on his chest, his thighs. Steve's been awake long enough to get used to his new body, and the reaction it gets from others, but he feels a wave of goosebumps roll up his arms now.
"Seems mentally stable, but no guarantee there won't be future side effects of the experiment. He's been working off the cost of the infusion for the last sixteen months," the quarter master continues, flipping through the papers on the clipboard. "Mostly in the commissary. Pay it off, he's yours."
"I'll take him," Stark says, and then moves blithely on to the crates of night vision goggles and helmets, as if he hasn't just completely upended Steve's life.
~*~
They take a limo to the airport, where Steve understands Stark's private plane is waiting to take them to California. While they're in the car, Stark says, "A few things," and then ticks them off on his fingers. "Call me Tony, don't steal from me, and you can't have a cat, because I hate 'em. Got it?"
Steve nods. It would never occur to him to steal or get a cat anyway.
"Good," Tony says. "More to follow as I make them up, though you'll find I'm not big on rules." His phone chimes and that's the end of the conversation.
Steve stares out the window and tries to focus on the positive. He could have been snatched up by some evil despot, or one of the many scientists who would love to give the super soldier experiment a try themselves. He's read enough newspapers since he woke up to be pretty sure Tony Stark is neither. Maybe this won't be so bad.
The Stark Industries plane is waiting for them at the airport, and someone tries to take Steve's duffel but he gives the guy a look and doesn't let go. Everything he owns is packed in it. He tosses it on the floor in front of one of the seats and props his feet on it. Stark-Tony-glances at it but doesn't comment.
Steve's never been in a private plane before-hasn't been in a plane at all, ever-and he lets himself look around and enjoy the experience, the belly-drop rush of the takeoff, the wonder of watching the world pass by beneath him. Eventually they get above the clouds, which are interesting for about ten minutes, and then he starts to get drowsy. He hasn't been sleeping much lately, worrying about what would happen once he went on the auction block. Tony is busy the whole time, doing something on his computer, and probably won't notice a quick nap. He doesn't seem particularly interested in Steve at the moment.
There's another limo waiting for them when they land, and a driver who looks at Steve for two seconds, expressionless, and then asks, "Where's the rest of it?"
"This is it," Tony says, folding himself into the back seat and reaching for the drink that's waiting for him. "His name's Steve. He might be a mute."
"I'm not a mute," Steve says immediately, as the driver's hand on his arm gently urges him to get into the car next to Tony.
"I stand corrected," Tony says, and seems happy about it. He holds up his glass and raises a questioning eyebrow, but Steve shakes his head. Whatever's about to happen, he'll feel more comfortable being sober for it.
~*~
Tony lives in a big, strange house clinging to a cliff in Malibu. Steve's never been to California, and the only ocean he's seen is the grayer, rougher version on the east coast. Everything seems brighter here, like a movie. It even smells different. He thinks he likes it.
The house is frighteningly high-tech, with all sorts of data flitting across every reflective surface, and a robot butler named Jarvis. ("Artificial intelligence," Tony corrects him, with not a little pride.) The furniture is sleek and rounded and spotless, modern and off-putting. Steve, still in his uniform, and still sometimes trying to adjust to it not being 1943 anymore, feels completely out of place.
Tony tells him to choose a bedroom-not Tony's bedroom, a small relief-and vanishes down a hallway, chatting with Jarvis as he goes. Steve checks out all the spare rooms, finds every one of them is nicer than any place he's ever lived or slept, and ends up choosing based on which bathroom he likes better. He goes for the one that has a huge glass shower with a mystifying number of showerheads and controls.
After he unpacks and put his few belongings away, he sits on the bed for a while, not really sure what to do, until he hears Tony again, somewhere nearby, still talking to Jarvis. He braces his shoulders and makes himself venture into the living room. Tony's perched on the edge of the couch, fingers working swiftly on the surface of a tablet computer that's unlike anything Steve's ever seen, even on television. He's changed into jeans and a thin long-sleeved T-shirt that looks like it cost more than all of Steve's clothes combined.
"Do you have a job for me?" Steve asks him, deciding not to beat around the bush about it. His skills-all listed in the file the quarter master handed to Tony during the transaction-are pretty sparse, but he's a quick learner.
"Not really," Tony says. He doesn't look up. "Just whatever I need done around here."
Steve figures he has a pretty good idea what Tony wants done, and it's probably Tony himself. "What are my wages?" he asks. Under the law, he's allowed to work off his contract doing any kind of work, including domestic help and companionship.
"Hundred bucks an hour," Tony says, in such a way that Steve's fairly certain he just pulled the figure out of thin air.
Steve's stunned by the number. It's incredibly high, more than he could have hoped. Even if Tony deducts expenses for his keep, it's still a small fortune, comparatively. Working for the government, he'd had little hope of ever making any headway toward buying his freedom-his pay barely covered his few meager expenses the military didn't already handle. There was almost nothing left at the end of each month to put toward his contract, and Steve had resigned himself to being the property of the United States government forever.
But now…
"You have the run of the house," Tony says, still not looking at Steve. "Ask Jarvis if you need anything. If he can't help you, Happy probably can. Stay out of my workshop downstairs." He stands up and hands the tablet to Steve, who takes it reluctantly, terrified of how fragile it seems, certain he's going to drop it.
"Jarvis, order us some dinner, let me know when it gets here," Tony continues, pausing to pick a glass up off the table and drain its contents. "Steaks, I think." He lifts an eyebrow at Steve, who nods. "Steaks it is."
"What should I do?" Steve asks, as Tony heads for the stairs, and presumably the workshop Steve is forbidden to enter. What Steve could possibly do here in this place full of technology that's nearly a century beyond him is a mystery, but he's supposed to be working.
Tony shrugs, doesn't look back. "Whatever you want."
Steve stares after his retreating back for a second, dismayed, then glances down at the tablet and sees a spreadsheet, then realizes it's his spreadsheet-his name is right there at the top-a record of his contract, which is so big, so many millions of dollars it makes him feel a little faint. Tony has helpfully laid out Steve's assumed earnings and subtracted them from his balance going forward. Steve's short-lived hope evaporates when he sees the projected length of time it will take him to pay off his contract, even at Tony's generous wage: twenty-one years.
~*~
Tony fucks him that night, and Steve wants to hate that, too, but he doesn't. He sees the way Tony looks at him-has been looking at him the whole time-recognizes the not-so-subtle glances at Steve's mouth as they talk over dinner. Steve's not stupid, and he's not completely inexperienced, and he knows this is probably why Tony bought out his contract in the first place.
Tony's far from unattractive, handsome and graceful and lean, but his smiles don't actually make it to his eyes, and he uses sarcasm to push back whenever Steve asks him anything about his life that he hasn't already voluntarily revealed. He's an ugly person in a pretty shell, but Steve's not in a position to be picky-available partners have been few and far between for him. It's not like he has to fuck Tony's personality, and Tony himself certainly isn't interested in Steve for any less shallow reasons.
When they stand up from the table and Tony crowds into Steve's personal space, Steve lets him, crowds him back a little, and just like that he's agreed to service him in the bedroom, too.
Steve kneels at the foot of Tony's big bed, between Tony's spread thighs, and sucks his cock, thoroughly and leisurely, because it's been too long since he had the chance to take his time. Tony leans back on one arm, a glass of whiskey in his other hand, and watches Steve with hooded eyes. He talks his way through the entire thing, telling Steve what a nice mouth he has, bossing him around a little, and Steve's hard and aching the whole time but doesn't touch himself, just lets it build. Tony comes in his mouth and doesn't warn him, just takes for granted that Steve will swallow, but he's right about that, so it's not really an issue.
Steve isn't expecting Tony to reciprocate, so he's surprised when he sets his drink aside and nudges Steve up onto the bed, gets him on his back on the soft blankets. He's even more surprised by what happens next, by the way Tony kneels over him and runs his hands down Steve's chest, over his stomach, drags his palms down the big muscles of Steve's thighs. Steve has a moment where he feels himself getting sucked in, responding to the way Tony's looking at him, and then he remembers that Tony is admiring something he paid a large sum of money to own. He remembers he's a rich man's plaything, and nothing more.
Tony sucks sharply on his neck, bites his nipples, and it's all a little rougher than what Steve's used to, rougher than what the smooth strokes of Tony's hands had led him to anticipate, but it's not terrible. Steve's more than ready by the time Tony slides down and drops his mouth down around his cock. Tony straddles Steve's thighs and holds his wrists, pinning his hands to the bed on either side of his hips; makes Steve lie there and let him do whatever he wants, as slowly as he wants, as roughly as he wants. Steve isn't sure how long it takes him to come, and by the end he's not even sure if it still feels good or not, and his orgasm is a relief either way.
By then Tony's hard again. He gives Steve a second to catch his breath and then smacks him on the thigh as he rolls away and says, "Hands and knees." His voice is a little hoarse, which gives Steve a hot, slick jolt of desire in his belly, though he'd sooner walk across hot coals than let Tony anywhere near his cock right now. Before Steve can even make his limbs cooperate, Tony's back with a bottle of lube.
Tony takes a few minutes to prep him, pushing into him with slick fingers, and it's a welcome touch. Steve arches his back and feels himself getting hard again, but before it gets really good Tony stops, and then he feels the blunt pressure of the head of Tony's cock. Steve blows out a long breath and lets him in, and it seems to take forever for him to get all the way inside. He feels huge and hard, much bigger than what Steve had in his mouth earlier, and Steve makes himself relax, tries to focus on the things Tony's saying, disjointed declarations of how good it feels, how hot and tight Steve is, and that seems to distract him enough to stop thinking about it until Tony's all the way in, hips pressed up against Steve's ass. Tony only gives him a second to acclimate before he starts to move.
Steve's only done this a few times, and not found it particularly enjoyable, but now he suspects maybe that was because the others didn't really know what they were doing, because what Tony's doing to him is-he can't breathe, he can't think, it's not at all like he remembers. His arms start to shake and he has to go down on his elbows, push his face into the blankets, and Tony doesn't stop, he's relentless, driving into him over and over, one hand pressing flat against the small of Steve's back, the other curled around the top of his thigh. Steve digs his fingers into the mattress and tries to say something, to beg Tony to stop or not stop, he's not sure.
He feels Tony groping him, searching, then closing his fist around Steve's cock-too tight, not slick enough-and Steve lurches forward but Tony's hand is hard on his hip, tugging him back to meet his next thrust. His fingers twist around the head, too much sensation, and Steve gets one hand under him, tries to pry at Tony's grip, but Tony fucks into him again and again, and Steve comes all over their tangled fingers.
That's when Tony finally lets him go, gives a few last thrusts and then goes still, pulsing deep inside, swearing into Steve's shoulder blade. Tony stays like that for a minute, his panting mouth open against Steve's back, his wet fingers twitching against his hipbones, until he recovers enough to finally back away, leaving Steve to wince and then collapse onto the bed.
It takes Steve a little while to come down from what has been the best sex of his entire life--which is based on, granted, a painfully small sample size-and he spends the time marveling at the turn his life has taken. Tony flops down on the bed next to him, still catching his breath. Maybe this won't be so bad, living here, Steve thinks. He lifts his head and cracks an eye, watches Tony run his hand through his hair. He almost opens his mouth and says something, almost thanks him for noticing him, for bringing him here. A few seconds later, he's glad he held his tongue.
"Don't fall asleep here," Tony says, once he's refilled his drink and leaned back against one of the dozen pillows on his bed.
"Got it," Steve says, and fumbles around on the floor next to the bed, tugs just his boxer shorts on before he walks out, carrying his clothes, straight to his own bedroom, without looking back.
Maybe not the end? Or. Something?
This isn't quite that scenario, and it's just a piece, and I make no guarantees I will finish it--though there is already more on my hard drive-and also it involves one person essentially owning another and having as-consensual-as-it-can-be-in-that-situation sex with them, so if that bothers you, please skip.
Basically, blame thefourthvine and Justin Bieber.
A while ago in a universe not quite like this one…
Steve wants to hate Tony Stark the first time he sees him, because he an arrogant jerk with artfully messy hair and an attitude problem-several of Steve's least favorite qualities in a person, all wrapped up in one tidy package. Stark waltzes into the Pentagon warehouse like he owns the place, wearing an expensive suit and an air of entitlement, and dismissively sizes up the auction items one after the other, until he stops abruptly where Steve is standing next to an armored tank, trying to disappear into the background. No such luck. Stark zeroes in on him immediately.
"Who's this? He come with the tank?" Stark asks. The ice cubes in his drink clink against the glass as he gestures toward Steve with it.
"Lot 14838," the bored quartermaster reads from his clipboard. "Rogers, Steven. Part of a classified experiment designed to create superpowers. Only test subject to survive the procedure, but went into a vegetative state for sixty-eight years. No superpowers evident, experiment considered a failure." He holds the clipboard out to Stark, who glances at it but doesn't take it.
"I hate when people hand me things," he says offhandedly to the quarter master, eyes on Steve the whole time. Steve stares back at him, unwilling to let on how scared he is--this is the third time he's been here in the auction house with the rest of the unwanted military assets, but the first time anyone's really taken a serious interest in him. Stark's eyes roam up and down Steve's body, catch on his chest, his thighs. Steve's been awake long enough to get used to his new body, and the reaction it gets from others, but he feels a wave of goosebumps roll up his arms now.
"Seems mentally stable, but no guarantee there won't be future side effects of the experiment. He's been working off the cost of the infusion for the last sixteen months," the quarter master continues, flipping through the papers on the clipboard. "Mostly in the commissary. Pay it off, he's yours."
"I'll take him," Stark says, and then moves blithely on to the crates of night vision goggles and helmets, as if he hasn't just completely upended Steve's life.
~*~
They take a limo to the airport, where Steve understands Stark's private plane is waiting to take them to California. While they're in the car, Stark says, "A few things," and then ticks them off on his fingers. "Call me Tony, don't steal from me, and you can't have a cat, because I hate 'em. Got it?"
Steve nods. It would never occur to him to steal or get a cat anyway.
"Good," Tony says. "More to follow as I make them up, though you'll find I'm not big on rules." His phone chimes and that's the end of the conversation.
Steve stares out the window and tries to focus on the positive. He could have been snatched up by some evil despot, or one of the many scientists who would love to give the super soldier experiment a try themselves. He's read enough newspapers since he woke up to be pretty sure Tony Stark is neither. Maybe this won't be so bad.
The Stark Industries plane is waiting for them at the airport, and someone tries to take Steve's duffel but he gives the guy a look and doesn't let go. Everything he owns is packed in it. He tosses it on the floor in front of one of the seats and props his feet on it. Stark-Tony-glances at it but doesn't comment.
Steve's never been in a private plane before-hasn't been in a plane at all, ever-and he lets himself look around and enjoy the experience, the belly-drop rush of the takeoff, the wonder of watching the world pass by beneath him. Eventually they get above the clouds, which are interesting for about ten minutes, and then he starts to get drowsy. He hasn't been sleeping much lately, worrying about what would happen once he went on the auction block. Tony is busy the whole time, doing something on his computer, and probably won't notice a quick nap. He doesn't seem particularly interested in Steve at the moment.
There's another limo waiting for them when they land, and a driver who looks at Steve for two seconds, expressionless, and then asks, "Where's the rest of it?"
"This is it," Tony says, folding himself into the back seat and reaching for the drink that's waiting for him. "His name's Steve. He might be a mute."
"I'm not a mute," Steve says immediately, as the driver's hand on his arm gently urges him to get into the car next to Tony.
"I stand corrected," Tony says, and seems happy about it. He holds up his glass and raises a questioning eyebrow, but Steve shakes his head. Whatever's about to happen, he'll feel more comfortable being sober for it.
~*~
Tony lives in a big, strange house clinging to a cliff in Malibu. Steve's never been to California, and the only ocean he's seen is the grayer, rougher version on the east coast. Everything seems brighter here, like a movie. It even smells different. He thinks he likes it.
The house is frighteningly high-tech, with all sorts of data flitting across every reflective surface, and a robot butler named Jarvis. ("Artificial intelligence," Tony corrects him, with not a little pride.) The furniture is sleek and rounded and spotless, modern and off-putting. Steve, still in his uniform, and still sometimes trying to adjust to it not being 1943 anymore, feels completely out of place.
Tony tells him to choose a bedroom-not Tony's bedroom, a small relief-and vanishes down a hallway, chatting with Jarvis as he goes. Steve checks out all the spare rooms, finds every one of them is nicer than any place he's ever lived or slept, and ends up choosing based on which bathroom he likes better. He goes for the one that has a huge glass shower with a mystifying number of showerheads and controls.
After he unpacks and put his few belongings away, he sits on the bed for a while, not really sure what to do, until he hears Tony again, somewhere nearby, still talking to Jarvis. He braces his shoulders and makes himself venture into the living room. Tony's perched on the edge of the couch, fingers working swiftly on the surface of a tablet computer that's unlike anything Steve's ever seen, even on television. He's changed into jeans and a thin long-sleeved T-shirt that looks like it cost more than all of Steve's clothes combined.
"Do you have a job for me?" Steve asks him, deciding not to beat around the bush about it. His skills-all listed in the file the quarter master handed to Tony during the transaction-are pretty sparse, but he's a quick learner.
"Not really," Tony says. He doesn't look up. "Just whatever I need done around here."
Steve figures he has a pretty good idea what Tony wants done, and it's probably Tony himself. "What are my wages?" he asks. Under the law, he's allowed to work off his contract doing any kind of work, including domestic help and companionship.
"Hundred bucks an hour," Tony says, in such a way that Steve's fairly certain he just pulled the figure out of thin air.
Steve's stunned by the number. It's incredibly high, more than he could have hoped. Even if Tony deducts expenses for his keep, it's still a small fortune, comparatively. Working for the government, he'd had little hope of ever making any headway toward buying his freedom-his pay barely covered his few meager expenses the military didn't already handle. There was almost nothing left at the end of each month to put toward his contract, and Steve had resigned himself to being the property of the United States government forever.
But now…
"You have the run of the house," Tony says, still not looking at Steve. "Ask Jarvis if you need anything. If he can't help you, Happy probably can. Stay out of my workshop downstairs." He stands up and hands the tablet to Steve, who takes it reluctantly, terrified of how fragile it seems, certain he's going to drop it.
"Jarvis, order us some dinner, let me know when it gets here," Tony continues, pausing to pick a glass up off the table and drain its contents. "Steaks, I think." He lifts an eyebrow at Steve, who nods. "Steaks it is."
"What should I do?" Steve asks, as Tony heads for the stairs, and presumably the workshop Steve is forbidden to enter. What Steve could possibly do here in this place full of technology that's nearly a century beyond him is a mystery, but he's supposed to be working.
Tony shrugs, doesn't look back. "Whatever you want."
Steve stares after his retreating back for a second, dismayed, then glances down at the tablet and sees a spreadsheet, then realizes it's his spreadsheet-his name is right there at the top-a record of his contract, which is so big, so many millions of dollars it makes him feel a little faint. Tony has helpfully laid out Steve's assumed earnings and subtracted them from his balance going forward. Steve's short-lived hope evaporates when he sees the projected length of time it will take him to pay off his contract, even at Tony's generous wage: twenty-one years.
~*~
Tony fucks him that night, and Steve wants to hate that, too, but he doesn't. He sees the way Tony looks at him-has been looking at him the whole time-recognizes the not-so-subtle glances at Steve's mouth as they talk over dinner. Steve's not stupid, and he's not completely inexperienced, and he knows this is probably why Tony bought out his contract in the first place.
Tony's far from unattractive, handsome and graceful and lean, but his smiles don't actually make it to his eyes, and he uses sarcasm to push back whenever Steve asks him anything about his life that he hasn't already voluntarily revealed. He's an ugly person in a pretty shell, but Steve's not in a position to be picky-available partners have been few and far between for him. It's not like he has to fuck Tony's personality, and Tony himself certainly isn't interested in Steve for any less shallow reasons.
When they stand up from the table and Tony crowds into Steve's personal space, Steve lets him, crowds him back a little, and just like that he's agreed to service him in the bedroom, too.
Steve kneels at the foot of Tony's big bed, between Tony's spread thighs, and sucks his cock, thoroughly and leisurely, because it's been too long since he had the chance to take his time. Tony leans back on one arm, a glass of whiskey in his other hand, and watches Steve with hooded eyes. He talks his way through the entire thing, telling Steve what a nice mouth he has, bossing him around a little, and Steve's hard and aching the whole time but doesn't touch himself, just lets it build. Tony comes in his mouth and doesn't warn him, just takes for granted that Steve will swallow, but he's right about that, so it's not really an issue.
Steve isn't expecting Tony to reciprocate, so he's surprised when he sets his drink aside and nudges Steve up onto the bed, gets him on his back on the soft blankets. He's even more surprised by what happens next, by the way Tony kneels over him and runs his hands down Steve's chest, over his stomach, drags his palms down the big muscles of Steve's thighs. Steve has a moment where he feels himself getting sucked in, responding to the way Tony's looking at him, and then he remembers that Tony is admiring something he paid a large sum of money to own. He remembers he's a rich man's plaything, and nothing more.
Tony sucks sharply on his neck, bites his nipples, and it's all a little rougher than what Steve's used to, rougher than what the smooth strokes of Tony's hands had led him to anticipate, but it's not terrible. Steve's more than ready by the time Tony slides down and drops his mouth down around his cock. Tony straddles Steve's thighs and holds his wrists, pinning his hands to the bed on either side of his hips; makes Steve lie there and let him do whatever he wants, as slowly as he wants, as roughly as he wants. Steve isn't sure how long it takes him to come, and by the end he's not even sure if it still feels good or not, and his orgasm is a relief either way.
By then Tony's hard again. He gives Steve a second to catch his breath and then smacks him on the thigh as he rolls away and says, "Hands and knees." His voice is a little hoarse, which gives Steve a hot, slick jolt of desire in his belly, though he'd sooner walk across hot coals than let Tony anywhere near his cock right now. Before Steve can even make his limbs cooperate, Tony's back with a bottle of lube.
Tony takes a few minutes to prep him, pushing into him with slick fingers, and it's a welcome touch. Steve arches his back and feels himself getting hard again, but before it gets really good Tony stops, and then he feels the blunt pressure of the head of Tony's cock. Steve blows out a long breath and lets him in, and it seems to take forever for him to get all the way inside. He feels huge and hard, much bigger than what Steve had in his mouth earlier, and Steve makes himself relax, tries to focus on the things Tony's saying, disjointed declarations of how good it feels, how hot and tight Steve is, and that seems to distract him enough to stop thinking about it until Tony's all the way in, hips pressed up against Steve's ass. Tony only gives him a second to acclimate before he starts to move.
Steve's only done this a few times, and not found it particularly enjoyable, but now he suspects maybe that was because the others didn't really know what they were doing, because what Tony's doing to him is-he can't breathe, he can't think, it's not at all like he remembers. His arms start to shake and he has to go down on his elbows, push his face into the blankets, and Tony doesn't stop, he's relentless, driving into him over and over, one hand pressing flat against the small of Steve's back, the other curled around the top of his thigh. Steve digs his fingers into the mattress and tries to say something, to beg Tony to stop or not stop, he's not sure.
He feels Tony groping him, searching, then closing his fist around Steve's cock-too tight, not slick enough-and Steve lurches forward but Tony's hand is hard on his hip, tugging him back to meet his next thrust. His fingers twist around the head, too much sensation, and Steve gets one hand under him, tries to pry at Tony's grip, but Tony fucks into him again and again, and Steve comes all over their tangled fingers.
That's when Tony finally lets him go, gives a few last thrusts and then goes still, pulsing deep inside, swearing into Steve's shoulder blade. Tony stays like that for a minute, his panting mouth open against Steve's back, his wet fingers twitching against his hipbones, until he recovers enough to finally back away, leaving Steve to wince and then collapse onto the bed.
It takes Steve a little while to come down from what has been the best sex of his entire life--which is based on, granted, a painfully small sample size-and he spends the time marveling at the turn his life has taken. Tony flops down on the bed next to him, still catching his breath. Maybe this won't be so bad, living here, Steve thinks. He lifts his head and cracks an eye, watches Tony run his hand through his hair. He almost opens his mouth and says something, almost thanks him for noticing him, for bringing him here. A few seconds later, he's glad he held his tongue.
"Don't fall asleep here," Tony says, once he's refilled his drink and leaned back against one of the dozen pillows on his bed.
"Got it," Steve says, and fumbles around on the floor next to the bed, tugs just his boxer shorts on before he walks out, carrying his clothes, straight to his own bedroom, without looking back.
Maybe not the end? Or. Something?