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There hadn't even been an attempt at originality in this kidnapping. They'd waited until he was in a public place, swarmed him with armed men, overwhelmed his security guy (he really hoped they hadn't hurt Johnson too badly, he was a good guy), grabbed him and tied him up in the back of a van. Honestly.

Not that you'd expect much originality from eco-terrorists. Or had it been insane cultists? He had tuned out the leader's ranting as they he bounced along in the back of the van. At least his lack of attention hadn't resulted in getting kicked in the ribs like that time a few months ago.

The point is, this shit was BORING. The van had stopped, and he was pretty sure all the lame kidnappers had gotten out and left him locked in. They'd been smart enough to search him for electronics, thoroughly (he really needed to build that wetware internal 4G uplink one of these days), and there was nothing on the floor of the van for him to amuse himself/escape with. So now he'd propped himself up against the side, trying to find a position that didn't make his tied-up arms ache and there was NOTHING TO DO. The average kidnapping attempt on him was resolved in 5 hours 12 minutes. So that left a probable four and half hours of SITTING IN A VAN BLINDFOLDED.

There was only one way to pass the time: sexual fantasies.

Kidnapping was conducive to fantasizing, actually. (Not about his kidnappers, ew.) Each of the five kidnappings in the last year and a half had resulted in a few weeks of Steve following him around in a hyper-vigilant attempt to make sure he didn't disappear into thin air. The last four--since they'd started dating--had also resulted in accompanying thank-god-you're-back-never-leave-again sex.

A group of wannabe supervillains zapped his armor and dragged him off to their lair--a warehouse in Long Island for chrissake--for a few hours, and Steve had let Tony fuck him on the floor of his workshop twice a day for a week.

Ordinarily, Steve would never agree to sex in the pool--something about being naked on the roof where their teammates could walk in or a low-flying helicopter could catch them was too much. But after a rival business tycoon had nabbed Tony and roughed him up a bit before he'd escaped, there had been truly noteworthy aquatic fucking.

This time, Tony was having a hard time deciding how best to take advantage of Steve's inevitable guilt/worry/lust. He mulled over his options, tapping his foot against the floor of the van in thought. There were a few role play scenarios he'd had in mind for a while. Or else he had a wicked idea involving Steve and stockings and garters. So many choices.

Ultimately, he decided on a whole lot of sucking Steve off. There was normally a pretty even balance in their relationship, blow-job-wise, unfortunately. Not that Tony didn't appreciate Steve's willingness and oral skills. But Steve, being younger and super-powered, could have way more orgasms than Tony. And Tony could happily suck him off pretty much every time they had a spare half hour together. (Or ten minutes, for that matter--again, young!). But some instinctual urge for fair play meant that Steve would only let Tony blow him as often as he was blown. Which blew.

Post-kidnapping hovering Steve, though, would cheerfully submit to Tony's urge to have Steve's cock down his throat as often as he liked. Tony would accompany this advantage-taking with soothing words and reassurance, of course. (He'd never admit that these were as much for his benefit as Steve's.)

By the time the back door of the van burst off its hinges and he heard Steve's relived shout of "Tony! Thank god!" he was ready with all sorts of elaborate plans. Though he should probably let Steve get them home first.