Actions

Work Header

(Not for) Public Consumption

Work Text:

Tony sneaks up on Steve in the kitchen, where he’s sweeping up the already perfectly clean floor with a broom that he doesn’t recognize, but then, all of his cleaning supplies are strangers to him. Steve’s in one of his ten thousand heathered gray t-shirts, the letters of which stretch across his chest, distended slightly across his pecs. Tony loves shopping for clothes, and always insists that Steve also make a purchase, which inevitably turns out to be a gray t-shirt with words on it. Every brand, any store, from the most basic Gap right on up to Marc Jacobs will have a gray t-shirt with some words on it. Steve has amassed quite the collection in their three years of dating, two of living together. He keeps them all, too. Pretty soon he’s gonna need a second drawer just to hold all those t-shirts.  

Tony cranes his head away to blink his eyes without lowering the camera, because Steve is studiously ignoring him. Talking, then, to attract attention. Totally doable. Tony is a bang-up whiz at talking. Steve pushes the broom, and Tony dips the view to catch the flicker of movement, right at the edge of where the shirt cuff hugs his biceps. Forget sex tape, right now Tony would gleefully record a documentary two hours long consisting of nothing but long, slow, pandering shots of every vein in Steve’s arms. PBS would probably buy it. 

“Are you sweeping that floor or trying to wax it with the broom? It’s gotta be clean by now.”

Steve’s profile casts a shadow against the wall as Tony turns on the overhead lights. He furrows his brows down at the pushbroom, resolutely keeping his eyes off the camera, probably on purpose. Goddamn tease. Tony berates him, “And even if it wasn’t, in case you’ve forgotten, we pay other people to do that. Steve, yoo hoo.” He snaps his fingers. Steve continues to ignore him. He whistles to get his attention, which he knows will piss him off. “Hey, kid, put the broom down.”  

“First of all," he says, "I'm not a dog. Second, the floor is dusty,” Steve explains, to the dustpan. “And what’s more, Tony, I am perfectly capable of sweeping up a little dust; there’s no reason for it to sit there until Tuesday.”

Tony lowers his head, bringing the focus over to Steve’s hands, wide and strong, busy with their task. His nails look freshly trimmed. Even his cuticles are attractive, it’s preposterous. A couple of seconds on the hands, which themselves are just about level with his ass, which, with a slooo-ow pan to the right, he can catch the sweep of in the lens. Nice. 

"Nice," he says, out loud. Ah, sweatpants. Fashion bloggers might decry the sartorial crime of sweats and t-shirt, but Tony would wager good money, high-stakes, back-room, Vegas-level money, that if they could see Steve’s ass in said sweatpants and t-shirt, they would change their minds post haste. They’re the blue ones. Tony fucking loves the blue ones, which Steve has had since his crew days at college, and have lost most of their elasticity in the butt, and cling in a completely delicious way to the two curves of it…Tony stands a little straighter and gives a tiny salute to the wall. God bless knitwear. 

He licks his dry lips, because how does he even get this, to look at this when he walks into his - admittedly now spotless - kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. The camera lingers as Steve shifts. 

“Seriously, Tony? While I’m cleaning the kitchen?” Oops. The camera jerks up, too far, shit, into mussed blond hair, and then he overcompensates, simultaneously trying to zoom out and pan down.

“Piece of shit,” Tony mutters, because this is clearly a deficiency in the camera’s settings, to go all weird and jerky when he’s attempting to catch the lines of Steve’s body in a sensual, artistic manner. Documentary rather than porno. There. He’s got Steve’s, hmm, okay, frowning face in frame. Tony wiggles the fingers of his right hand, just out of the sightline of the lens.

“Wave hello, sweetheart.”

As he peeks up from behind the lens, Tony catches the way Steve rolls his eyes. “Gonna have to look up from where you’ve got that thing pointed.”

“Thing, Steve? That’s awfully harsh. C’mon, baby, give us a wave.”

“You, you mean,” Steve says. He turns to face Tony, hands resting atop the broom as he leans forward. The sweats move with him. God, he wore those on purpose. He had to have, knows what they do to him. A couple of pieces of worn out cotton and an elastic waistband, and Tony is like a prisoner. A test subject. A drooling dog. He swallows the spit suddenly flooding his mouth. 

Tony keeps his voice level as he snorts. “I’m affronted, Steve, that you won’t wave to your adoring public.”

“Right now my adoring public consists of one person, who just so happens,” he sets the broom aside, leans it against the counter, and Tony’s camera skitters across the lines of his neck and his pecs, his glorious, glorious pecs. See, a lesser man would be jealous of his partner’s ridiculously perfect body. Tony is fit enough, but his appeal is cerebral, and in his stunning personality. Both of them can’t be equally hot, it would violate the rules of thermodynamics, or, something. But fuck if he’s gonna follow Steve’s crazy paleo diet when he’s at the office, where he subsists on a steady diet of black espressos, glazed doughnuts, and schwarma from the place on Seventh.

Steve turns, and Tony pivots to follow his ass...waist...back...shoulders…. into the front room. There’s a lot of good parts to linger on, though the camera jostles shakily. And they’re going into the front room, which. That’s kinda disappointing. He was hoping for the kitchen, though the tile hurts his knees lately. He’s only forty-four, he can still fuck in the kitchen. What about carpet? Could you carpet a kitchen? No, that would be a terrible idea. Then Steve would have to vacuum instead of mop, like some kind of awful Stepford wife. He says he doesn’t mind, which Tony finds hard to believe. Why clean your own house? When you can pay people? To do it for you?

Sunlight slants through the blinds, illuminating the left side of Steve’s face into a lens flare. It’s very Into Darkness, though Tony misses his chance to make that reference because Steve interrupts him.  

“What model is it, then?”

“Sony HDR-CX260V. Seems to be doing the job so far. After the last time,” he coughs into his hand, “I decided to downgrade from the hands free.” Tony goes arty for a second, lingering on the shell of Steve’s ear, where the lobe curves away in an enticing arc. Tony adds licking, biting, and sucking of either or both earlobes to the evening’s agenda, although that might be tricky to film.

Steve’s mouth moves an eighth of an inch in either direction. “Was that because of the, uh - trouble with the voice commands?” The camera sweeps along his arm, light catching the golden hairs of it before he twists the rod to close the blinds. Deliberately. He’s preening, showing off for Tony, like a goddamn Abercrombie model. Unacceptable that he’s all the way across the room, even more that he’s wearing pants. Naked. Everyone here needs to be a lot more naked.

Tony protests at the mention of his failed attempts at upgrades. “There was a perfectly solid reason, which was to be able to touch you.” He waves his right hand, then his left, in front of the camera. “Now we’re down to only the one, which, if you think about it, kinda puts you at a disadvantage, because my hands are magic.”

It’s an utterly sound argument. And yeah, the voice controls had worked perfectly - of course they did, he designed them - but, and it pained him to agree here, Steve was right. Tony had been trying to get the camera to capture a particular angle of penetration, with Steve on his back and his legs in the air, and after yelling ‘Down, down, down!’ and the autopan failing to work, he’d given up hope that it’d be able to see -- really, he needed to attach a light of some kind to project into the darker spaces. The only other option was a coal miner’s helmet, and that might illuminate the shadows, but it would be a major boner-killer. Tony knows, he’s tried it -- that last time he’d compensated by tucking his head head down into his chest, an angle unpleasant to experience but that would be gorgeous in the replay, at which point the camera had decided that it was ready to recognize his commands. The abrupt pan down nearly gave him whiplash. Tony had reeled forward, acutely seasick, and had to stop fucking Steve so he could lie flat on his back for fifteen minutes before he could so much as stand up and go to the bathroom.

Steve had been comforting, as he detached the camera and set it aside, and went to the kitchen for fizzy water and soda crackers, He petted his hair in slow, soothing circles, and although he tried to reassure Tony that it was completely fine and normal to get motion sick while you tried to make a sex tape, his mouth had quirked up at the sides, and a flood of giggles had erupted from him three separate times. The thin line of his mouth tells Tony that he’s trying to restrain that same laughter now.  

“I’m not saying a word,” Steve tells him. He nods at the camera. “You’re awfully far away over there, and unless I’ve forgotten what you said two minutes ago, I’m pretty damn sure I was promised at least one hand’s worth of touching.” God, he’s bossy. Tony itches all over when Steve gets like this, like he’s trying to provoke him into losing control. He’s in control. Look, he’s doing his breathing stuff, his hand is level, the camera is steady. Tony’s in charge of the situation.  

“Can’t you like, I don’t know, do a little pirouette for me, sweetheart?” He shuffles backwards cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to avoid hitting the wall. There’s a chair back there, he should sit in it before his legs give out.

Steve cocks his head, hand on his hip. He puts his front foot at angle to the one in back and executes a tired swing around.

You’d think he’d like the attention a bit more. Tony may have to goad it out of him. “Steve, seriously, you’re like a bored stripper.” And then, suitably affronted, Steve takes another turn, more slowly, so that Tony can pan down and zoom in on his ass from a slightly lower angle.

“Better?” From across the room, even, Steve’s voice has gone husky.

Tony’s comes out low, too. “God, yes.” He exhales the breath he’d been holding in, heat flooding into his cheeks. “I just want to sit here,” the camera shakes as he backs into his leather Eames chair, “and film you taking off that shirt, and your sweatpants, and your underwear.” He puts his feet up and leans back to take in the view, going wide to capture Steve's face in frame with the rest of him.

“Underwear?” Steve asks, with a hand placed solemnly over his heart. A confused look crosses his face, sunlight glinting off his hair. “I think, gosh--” and here he flashes Tony a smile that positively radiates goodness, a toothy white smile that proclaims him to be the kind of man who buys shitty carnations from hustlers at backed-up intersections on a frighteningly regular basis and gives the change to homeless vets. A smile that coaches soccer, fosters kittens, and eats up all of your mother’s atrocious cooking with gusto, which turns from sweet to dirty in a matter of an instant, as he blinks, hooks a thumb into the waistband of his sweats and looks down in mock puzzlement, “--I think I must have forgotten to wear underwear. Oops.” The elastic snaps back into place and the sound of it is enough to send Tony reeling in his chair.

“Okay, now that is criminally unfair.” Tony’s gotta remember how to breathe, otherwise his short-term options are limited to full-scale heart attack or to stand and lunge to rip Steve’s shirt off, and either way it’s gonna involve putting the camera down, and goddamn it, after the motion sickness debacle, this is going on film if it kills him.

Steve shifts his weight from foot to foot, and, mother of Christ, turns his back to face the camera. Hands find his waist and slip down, palms skirting over the taut muscles of his backside. His lower back arches slightly and, with a stroking motion, he eases the waistband down a sliver in the back, just enough for Tony to see where his tan line begins. “Like I said, I must have forgot my underwear.”

Cause of death, Tony thinks, will be this coy Boy Scout act. That’s going on the coroner's report, maybe his tombstone. He has enough presence of mind to zoom in, though he’d rather set his teeth to the sweet curve of Steve’s asscheek and bite. Instead he promises, “I’ll stop doing laundry forever. We’ll throw them all away, and you can go commando all the time. I’ll set fire to the washing machine if that’s what it takes.”

“Even in jeans? I’m pretty sure that’s gonna chafe.”

Tony’s response is completely sincere. “Holy Christ, Steve, especially in jeans. I’ll talc you myself every morning before I go to work. I’ll buy fucking stock in Johnson & Johnson.” Tony sincerely hopes that iMovie can cancel out the static caused by his heavy breathing. He’s sounding positively asthmatic over here. “Seriously, babe, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to breathe if you keep talking like that.”

Steve pushes his pants a bit further down his hips, and, okay, Tony is definitely going to have to edit out the noise he makes. It’s undignified. He sounds about fifteen, like he’s just discovered that with enough of your mom’s peach-scented body lotion, you can wriggle a finger into your ass while you jerk off, and thrusting between those two poles of sensation feels good enough to ensure that your socks stay crusty from then until your first day of college.

His cock lies against his thigh, the shape of it only now becoming visible through the denim, whereas Steve’s sweats leave nothing to the imagination. Tony doesn’t need a zoom feature to see the thick line of it, the flare at the head pushing the soft fabric that much further away.

“Unzip your pants,” Steve suggests, to the camera, and to Tony behind it. He lifts his free hand up to show his helplessness. “I’ve only got the one, baby, you, uh, wanna help me?”

Steve crosses over to Tony with a few long strides full of purpose. Tony keeps the camera aimed at his stupidly tight ass, which swivels into crotch, then, as Steve kneels into the frame, his face. His lashes are a dark sweep against his cheeks. Really, that face requires a professional to capture it. Why shouldn’t he book them one, have some work-appropriate photos made...of Steve posing in a suit...no, walking in the woods. Hiking along the ridge of the canyon, dressed in a plaid button down, or one of those damn gray t-shirts and his threadbare khakis, looking off contentedly into the distance, a large dog perched on the rocks in front of him. He’ll have to procure a dog. Maybe he could borrow one. Or rent? He makes a mental note to ask Pepper about the relative difficulties of renting vs buying in re: dogs. Professional photos which he can house in heavy silver frames, and put out on his desk for everyone to see. People might ask, "Who's that hot guy in the plaid with the German Shepherd?" and Tony would oh-so-casually say, “Oh that? That’s my boyfriend, walking our dog on Palos Verdes.” And in response to their questions about Steve’s age, he’d tell the truth, why not? Youth was hardly something to be ashamed of. “Yeah, he’s twenty-eight, but hey, it keeps me young, right?”

And for the private collection, a series of photos also taken by a professional, a discreet one that he could pay off with large rolls of twenties, of Steve unbuttoning that plaid shirt, unzipping his preppy khakis, posing naked on a windswept cliff. Obviously they’d get rid of the dog for those. That’d be weird. Too German.  

“Tony? I’ve told you that a pet is a serious responsibility, you know, you shouldn’t get one on impulse.” God, how much of that went straight from his brain to his mouth? Stupid verbal tics.

“Borrow, Steve, I can borrow a dog. Think of it as really, really limited short-term foster care.”

“And then when people ask you about your dog, what’re you gonna say?”

“Ummm, that it died?” Why are they having this conversation, when Steve is perched so prettily on his knees?

Steve huffs, but it’s fond. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? A pain in the ass.” He shoulders Tony’s legs apart, a hand on his zipper for Tony to focus the camera on, which he draws down achingly slowly, the top button still fastened. Fly opened but cock untouched, Steve kneads Tony’s thighs and strokes his thumbs along the muscles there.

“I’d love to be the biggest, and ultimately the, ah--” and there’s one of those fifteen year old noises bubbling free once more, but Tony can’t bother to care when he answers, “--only pain in your ass. Your ass is perfect. It’s maybe my favorite thing about you. Have you considered having a bronze cast made of it?”

Steve’s fingers stroke just to either side of his open zipper. The camera sags as Tony slouches into the touch. When he speaks again the coy act has dissipated entirely. His voice is low, deep, fabulously seductive. “Maybe favorite? Only maybe? Not like you to be indecisive. And no, I don’t think I’ll bronze it. That strikes me as tacky.” He smiles and edges his thumb inside Tony’s boxers and runs it up the length of him.

“Oh, shit, Steve.” Tony’s glad the camera is catching what he does next, because his own eyes have rolled into the back of his head. When he looks down again he’s hard in one of Steve’s strong hands, closed firmly around him. The other rests on his hip, holding him there. Fuck, this is hot. His dick and Steve’s face in the same frame, the contrast of nasty and sweet already enough to set him off. The single hard stroke he gives to Tony, the dark sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek. A heartstopping combination of innocence and debauchery, of wanton pleasure as he takes Tony in his hand and proceeds to wipe his face with him. Like before it even breaches his lips he has to feel it on his cheeks, his forehead, before dipping down, the head bumping the tip of his nose, and dropping a soft kiss there.

For his part, Tony’s entire body has ratcheted up the tension, like with each shrug of his shoulders or grit of his teeth he can avoid looking, and if he can’t see, then he’s got a better chance of not blowing his load immediately. He places the odds at seven to one, still narrower if Steve jacks his hand again.

“You fucking tease.” The camera shakes in his grip.

“Mmm,” Steve says, or rather, moans, into the base of Tony’s cock. What begins as a kiss turns into licks, Steve laving his tongue across the exposed triangle of his boxer shorts, his balls only just concealed by the thin barrier of fabric. Tony vaguely remembers that he was supposed to be in charge of this thing, given that he’s the one holding the camera. Somehow that’s been turned on its head.  

“Nnngh,” he jerks his head back up, pointing the camera down, though really it’s not able to capture much more than the tousled top of Steve’s head, because Steve’s hands are flying as he yanks the jeans down to his shoes. “Take this shit off.” There’s that bossy tone he loves so much. Obediently, he kicks the jeans aside, grateful that he’d been walking around barefoot and so doesn’t have to stop Steve in order to remove his socks. They’re not making porn, for fuck’s sake.

To look at him, from afar, you’d probably think that Steve sucked cock like a champ. You’d be right. Once more he has to remember to hold the camera up and let it look, rather than allowing his arm to fall to the side and dropping it, because Steve has moved down his body still further; tonguing at his balls, and then, sweet mother of Christ, doing this trick of his where he tilts his head back and opens his mouth crazy wide, sucks them super super super fast, so fast it vibrates them against his lips and Tony’s free hand flies out into Steve’s hair because he wants to touch it, soft, only now grown long enough for him to thread fingers through and tug.

Steve’s subsequent moan reverberates all the way up his shaft, high enough up that his stomach muscles clench.

“You,” Tony coughs, scratching at Steve’s scalp, trying to find the voice that he’s lost. He knows he’s being uncharacteristically quiet because Steve peeks up, a question in his heavy-lidded eyes, you good, we okay, you still want this? Of course he wants. When it comes to Steve, Tony only ever ever wants. It would take a severe head cold and a variety of broken limbs, full body traction, for him to keep his hands off Steve. Even then he would manage to find a way.

“Yes,” he breathes, “you’re amazing, baby, that feels amazing. You need me to hold still for you? I can do that, I can, oh God,” he tells him and immediately breaks his own promise. He thrusts up mindlessly, as Steve nuzzles his pubic hair and then raises his head. His pink tongue darts out to moisten his already shiny lips, and Tony might actually cry from sexual frustration as he scrambles to keep Steve’s face in frame. His dick twitches in the open air, but he keeps his cool. Anything for art, right?

Steve looks up at Tony, all false sincerity. “Think you can try?”

“Do or do not,” he begins, and there’s no stopping Steve from cracking up this time, “Don’t, don’t! Not the Yoda voice!”

Tony smiles to hear Steve laugh. “Okay, okay. But the sentiment remains. I’m worried about your, you know, gag reflex.”

"Are you? Suppose there’s a first time for everything,” Steve grumbles, but he’s smiling while he says it, and then he’s tucked his hand around the base of Tony’s cock and is using that for leverage to angle his neck up and closing his lips around the head and goddamn how did Tony get so lucky.

The camera is a heavy weight in his left hand, and he drops it to his side for a moment, the lens pointed right at the side of Steve’s face. He must notice the camera, because he goes with it, and uses his hand to shift Tony’s cock in his mouth, so that it presses hard against the inside of his cheek, the shape of it visible through the skin. Without pause, he repositions himself and sinks back down with practiced ease. It’s all going to look amazing in the replay, he decided, as his abdomen seizes up with each quick upstroke.

“Do it again, sweetheart. That felt so good.” The words are a struggle to get out, and his eyes are practically crossed. Steve’s breath flits over his groin, hot, before he obeys. His hand, the one free hand, roves from the back of Steve’s neck, buzzed hairs prickly beneath the pads of his fingers, to the top of his head, where he’s got enough to fist in his hand. Each time pulls on it, Steve shudders, and the shiver passes through him to Tony. When he draws his head back, some seconds later, brow furrowed in concentration, lips stretched so wide they look about to break, Tony holds him there with his fingers splayed taut over his skull, a thumb pressing into his forehead.

“Baby, hang on, hang on. Just a sec, okay, you gotta stay there for me." With effort, he hoists the camera back up above his shoulder so the lens is from his perspective and can see what he sees; this glorious visual that’s hotter than porn he’s fucking paid for, of Steve’s red, ruined mouth, and his own cock disappearing, the head of it hidden by the wet clench of lips and tongue. Tony shifts his own hips up, slow as he can manage on shaky thighs, and Steve fucking takes it, Tony’s cock teasing the entrance to his throat.

Steve’s eyes water, as he draws in shaky breaths through his nose, and when Tony has finally looked his fill, he lifts his thumb away and Steve slowly eases up with a wet cough, before resting his head on Tony’s thigh and panting. He gives Tony’s cock a fond little pat. “That was so fucking hot, Steve,” Tony tells him, “I could watch you do that all day. You good?” he asks. Steve’s arms hang loose over his calves, The nod is small, but enough to notice. Tony peers through the lens again, checks the time (31:49) since he first found Steve in the kitchen.

“‘M good,” Steve mumbles, and then, as he lifts his head, coughs before saying, “But, um, I’d be a whole lot better if you were fucking me right now.” His cheeks go pink as he says it, and that is...Christ.

“That’s fucking adorable, you know that?” Tony asks. “Are you honest to goodness blushing right now, princess? Even now, after all this time, after all the things you let me do to you, you still have it in you to blush?” He zooms in on Steve’s face, flushed from the exertion of vigorous cocksucking, sure, but even more so from the embarrassment of speaking his desire out loud. Like he’s afraid to own it, or to admit it to Tony, who violates him in new and creative ways most weeknights and twice on Saturdays, and is intimately familiar with the shades and nuances of Steve’s desires, his debauchery. Maybe it’s a Catholic thing, where he’s ashamed, and yet even then, that makes it hotter? 

“God that’s hot.” He puts the camera back on the side table, and and pulls Steve into position over the chair. “Up you go.” The camera won’t catch it, but he leans over for a kiss anyways. Steve’s lips are puffy and swollen, and his tongue feels thick in Tony’s mouth. “Mmm. You taste like me. Also hot.”

Steve shrugs, noncommittal, and licks his lips. “I like the way you taste.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Here, arms here on the seat. Are your knees okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve shifts on the floor, “I think so.”

“You think so or you know so, as in, yes, they’re okay?”

“Tony, it’s not a big deal, c’mon. Get over here.”

“I’m getting you a blanket, wait a sec.”

The camera jostles as he grabs a fuzzy white blanket from the back of the living room couch which he folds longways into thirds. Steve’s draped over the chair, elbows on the seat. The position presses his upper body forward, pushes out the sweet fuckable curve of his spine. Knees creak and joints click as Tony slides in behind him, places the blanket down so Steve can find his way onto it.

“Good,” he says, picking up the camera, "now take this shit off." Where the fabric was, Tony touches. The shirt comes off, and he slides a hand down Steve’s back, feels the muscles respond, sheathed in their fascia beneath. His hand is dark against the pale flush of Steve’s skin, and he follows the sweat with the lens down, down, down to where the dimples flare out into his perfect, perfect ass. He tugs on the waistband of the sweats, "These too," and Steve gasps a little as he pulls those down too, Tony thumbing over the crease with impatience. 

The visual goes blurry, closes into Steve’s upper arm as Tony leans down, presses his chest to Steve’s back. With a hum, he draws Steve’s earlobe between his teeth and bites ever so softly. It’s delicious, like the rest of him. He pulls the camera forward, extends it to an arm’s length away so it can capture Steve’s face, the look Tony loves and knows so well -- of pleasure so keen it hurts, his mouth tipping open as Tony makes him come apart.

“Sweetheart, come on, look up,” Tony coaxes, as he slides one hand up Steve’s strained neck to tip his head upward, expose the underside of his chin. He pitches his voice low against the heated skin of Steve’s neck. “You wanna hold this for me so I can eat you out?” He shuffles forward, hips slotting along the underside of Steve’s bare ass, and grinds down. With his left arm outstretched, Tony repeats the question, as Steve wrenches free to lower his forehead onto the leather seat.

When he speaks, his voice comes out raspy and ruined. “Don’t, ugh, don’t have to. I’m ready for you.”

“But I want to,” he says, finding position against the underside of Steve’s earlobe. He bites it, as he promised himself earlier. “I want to hold your ass cheeks apart and lick that pretty little hole of yours until you sob.”

At that, Steve lets out a strangled sound. Tony takes that as a sign to continue. Fingers drift from neck to shoulder, rove across the dozens of hard muscles in Steve’s back, before his hand comes to rest on Steve’s ass, a thumb skirting between the tight cheeks of it, where, as promised, he’s already soft there. Pliant, and, as his thumb pops in smoothly, a little hiss leaving Steve’s mouth as it does, and open, and wet. He sits up straight to get a better view from his own eyes, and with a swivel, the handheld camera also comes back to his perspective, held at a slight distance from his body so he can pull back and hold Steve’s ass cheeks apart with one hand. 

Below him, against the tan leather of the chair, Steve turns a sweaty cheek to look up at him. His face has gone completely pink. “All ready? Jesus, you were telling the truth.” Tony says, hungry now to feel Steve around him. “What’d you do, finger yourself in the bathroom?” He purses his lips to make his mouth wet and then, into the narrow space that he can prise open with only the fingers of one hand, Tony lets loose a steady stream of saliva. The effect of that small amount of moisture is instantaneous. It brings life back into the lubricant, and in a matter of seconds his middle and ring finger clamped together are sinking past that tight ring of muscle. The camera jerks up at the sound of Steve’s little moans, jerks back down almost immediately as he rocks himself on Tony’s fingers, swallowing them to the knuckle. Each time Steve bears down, Tony adds a little twist on the outward motion, scrapes against the sensitive spots inside.

His lower back arches obscenely, practically presenting himself to be fucked, and Tony can’t play around much longer; fingers draw out, Steve whines a soft ‘no-o’ at the loss, and then, as Tony leans back and nudges his cock in place, making sure to capture in frame the way just the tip of his cock is dipping inside, until Steve heaves himself backwards and opens so sweetly, impaling himself on Tony: desperate. Sweat drips into his eyes; carefully, he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. 

Steve exhibits absolutely no patience. He's not even waiting for Tony to set the pace, using his arms to rock himself against Tony. “Look at you. Yeah, you got it. Go ahead, baby, move,” Tony’s now sweaty hand roves across the expanse of Steve’s back as he rolls his own hips, once, twice, his body tense with arousal.

“Did you get off?” He thrusts, out of breath even though Steve’s done all the work. Asking these kinds of questions is guaranteed to drive him mad, a dangerous skirt to the edge of orgasm, because that’s how his brain works. The words between them paint pictures in the air and in the screenshot of his mind, of Steve perched on the bathroom counter, legs askew, each foot pressed against a different corner of the wall, tongue tensed in concentration. His fingers would have had to have been soaked with slick to penetrate himself at that uncomfortable angle. And as he opened himself, he would have touched himself -- pecs and stomach and nipples and balls -- all that pleasure reflected in his face, infinitely repeated in the mirrors.

“When you touched yourself, earlier. Did you use your fingers only? Or,” he swallows, pans the camera to capture the place where they’re joined, the motion of it smooth only for the rolling undulations of Steve’s hips, because his own thighs are shaking, “were you more prepared for that? Maybe you got yourself a toy to play with while you got yourself ready for me, hmm? What did you get up to?” As punctuation, he slams into Steve as he fucks back onto Tony’s cock, and the movement shoves them together, so deep that Tony can feel his own spit collecting against the base of his cock. It’s nasty, and unnecessary, but when has that ever stopped him before. As Steve rocks himself back and forth, Tony drags a hand over his back. He coughs with a loud noise, so that Steve is sure to hear, and spits again, the moisture seeping down the flat plane of Steve’s tailbone and down, wet and warm against his own cock.  

Coherent speech is unlikely at this point, but Steve makes a valiant effort. “Fingers, and, I didn’t, Tony, I waited. I was good, good for you, and can you just -- oh, fuck, fuck." The words trail off into a groan. One hand steadies the camera, as the film sweeps up and down the line of Steve’s spine, from the base of it where Tony has him by the hip and won’t let him gain more than an inch or two of separation, because his balls have never been so hot, like his cock could just keep going deeper inside, like Steve could swallow down to his thighs and up to part of his stomach, and the more flesh he had, the more he would try to cram into Steve.

“Good boy, Steve. When do you come?” He grabs Steve’s upper arm and pulls his face back into frame. When he hides, tries to cover his red, sweat-streaked face with his shoulder, Tony wrenches it away yet again. “When?” he repeats, as his fingers dig into the muscle of his upper arm.  

A broken heaves works its way out of Steve’s chest, a sound that sends the audio sensor scrambling to understand, green lines stacking atop one another as his voice crescendos. “Steve,” he says, voice hoarse “answer me.” Tony lets go of the arm to palm one firm asscheek, cups his hand to frame it as he looks, watches. Like this, he can see Steve with his own eyes, and touch him, fuck him, enter and take him, but all those realities are magnified by the video camera in his hand, secure in the knowledge that all this sensation will live on, that the burnt heat that ranges all the way down to his balls, Steve’s ass actively sucking him in, that he can feel and see the whole scope of it now, and see it again, doubled, refracted, in the camera lens. And later still, when Steve is tucked away in bed or out on an evening run, Tony will play back this footage, slouched down low in this same chair, and the anticipated feedback of sensation and voyeurism sends his head spinning.

“W-when you say,” Steve stammers, “when you say I can.”

Tony walks his knees forward still closer. The hairs of his thighs itch between their sweaty legs, as he wriggles himself there, pins Steve between his body and the chair, and as his muscles scream at him to let go and move, he drives himself all the way in, and stays there. Stops. Steve howls. As he looks down through the lens, Tony catches the shiver of his lower back as it arches, as he tries to create the friction necessary to push him over the edge. The leather seat squeaks wetly in protest. 

“When I say you can what, Steve? What’s the matter, you afraid? Say it, baby. Say you come when I say you can.”

“Yes," he gasps, "yes, yes. When you say I can come, that’s when, I-I, Jesus, Tony can you just, please…”

The request floats away, ignored or unheard, Tony can’t say which, as he holds Steve down by the center of his back, pins him to the seat of the chair. His face is thrown to the side, flushed humid and red as he pants, “When you say so, when you say so--”

“Damn right.” Tony draws himself up, picks the left knee, then the right, up off the ground. His calves prickle with the fresh blood, like his legs belong to a stranger. It’s almost an out of body experience, save for the places where they touch. He seeks more contact, as his free hand reaches around to find purchase on Steve’s sweaty hip. “Mine,” he says, and it's savage, full of possessive heat, as he punctuates the words with every thrust, as Steve clenches, moans, and just fucking takes it, like he was made for nothing else but to take Tony’s cock, and then Steve moans again, as Tony punches it out of him, because that he definitely said that last thought out loud.

Steve’s getting close, those fluid movements erratic. The camera jolts in his hand, and God, Tony could just hold himself here on shaky legs and capture it all, let Steve do all the work, his hands white knuckled on the arms of the chair, triceps working overtime as he pushes himself onto Tony, and that’s good, it’s good, so good, except that Steve’s face-down, lost to his own selfish pursuit of pleasure, and Tony wants to see him come, wants to see it now and a hundred more nights from now, his O-face, his abs contracting, a huge load spilt all over that perfect body.

He shoves Steve away roughly, cold air flooding in as he makes space between their bodies. The hairs of his legs prickle, sticky with their commingled sweat. Steve glares over his shoulder, twists his neck to scowl at Tony. Accusatory, like he took him to the edge and left him there. Like Tony would stop, leave him gaping and wanting to just jerk off on his back and leave him to deal with himself. As if this were porn, as if capturing the moment of Steve’s surrender wasn’t the whole goddamn point. The rest is completely incidental. Yeah, he’ll come from this, but he’ll come even more, even harder when he plays it back, the computer set up at the foot of the bed, this moment slowed to syrup, as Steve bears witness to his own debauchery, and Tony stretches his body atop Steve’s own and whispers in his ear not to look away, as he makes him feel it in his ass, sure, but in his fucking head that much more.

That’ll be the best part. Steve whines, high in his throat, as Tony grabs his shoulder and hauls him up off the chair. “Get on your back,” he demands, “Wanna see you,” and by God Steve can move fast, because Tony barely has time to swivel around before Steve is flat on his back, legs spread, his feet tense and curled on the floor. He wobbles, the camera catches a brief shot of his ass molded to the hardwood, and as Steve reaches for him, his damp hairline, the aroused dark of his eyes, his full lips describing a thousand shapes of silent pleasure.

Tony’s cock throbs; Steve’s so close, and so close to coming,

“How do you want to get off?” he asks. Steve’s eyes are glazed over when he looks down the length of his torso. Tony holds up his dominant hand, wiggles the fingers like a suggestion or a promise. “This? You want my fingers on you?”

The voice that answers him is shattered. “In me.”

“Say it,” he says, and Steve whimpers the words out loud. “Your fingers, your cock, I don’t care, something, any-anything.” And then almost silent, breathless. His name like a prayer. “Tony.”

“I’ve got you, baby. It’s gonna be so good,” he tells Steve, as he slots one, two, three fingers into his ass, and immediately curls them forward with a tug. It takes some coordination but he turns from the shoulders to get an artsy look at Steve’s feet, his heels as they rise off the hardwood and he tenses his calves up on tiptoes. The right hand continues to shove in, twist, pull, and tug. Steve’s hands flutter to his stomach, as if he’s ready to touch himself, but Tony wants to see all of him, to have all of him. He’s got every indication that Steve can come only from this, from the relentless scrape of three, hell, why not, now four fingers in his ass.

“Hold your legs up,” Tony says. As soon as he’s said it, Steve obeys. He grabs the back of his thighs and shifts upward. Inside he gets tighter, clenches, and Tony has to push with even greater force to keep all four fingers in. He ducks his head to follow the lens, bypassing the visual of Steve’s - admittedly gorgeous cock - to linger on the sight of his hand as it rides Steve’s ass, the rim of it red and stretched tight, so tight, as if it any moment he might break. And Tony will be the one to break him, every day, every night. He is Tony’s to destroy, and his body is Tony’s to have, and in return, Steve surrenders: his trust, his goodness, his heart. It goes both ways. Steve breaks him, too.

“Keep them like that, just like that.” He wishes for a third hand, an overhead camera mount, a tripod. For perfect hands-free technology so that he could hold Steve’s head up, make him watch himself, but lacking that, he must settle instead for command. “Look up, baby, look look look,” Steve’s head jerks up and begins to immediately drift back down, as if the weight of it is too heavy for his neck.

“No,” Tony snaps, although he doesn’t still his hand. “You can’t come if you don’t watch. So. Watch, look,” he digs his hand into Steve’s flesh, past his knuckles and it would be easy enough to curl his thumb under, add that into the mix, but the lube’s in the bathroom, from earlier he supposes, and Steve’s on the edge. They’ll just have to save that for another time, preferably when he’s got the tripod mount set up.

Tendons bulge out of Steve’s neck. His mouth opens and closes in  - pleasure? Pain? God, it must be hurting him, to hold himself open, to feel so stretched and full like that, only the wetness from before. He’s holding back only because Tony hasn’t said he can come yet. His head tips back, eyes flutter closed, and each time Tony works his hand forward, each and every time he snarls a quiet no and Steve leans his neck up and looks, exactly like Tony told him to.

“Eyes open,” he says, and Steve’s trying, Tony can tell, through the strain of arousal, though they only stay at half-mast and keep fluttering closed, “watch, watch yourself. God, you’re so fucking hot, Steve, so good, are you ready --”

As if to prove he hasn’t had the sass fucked out of him yet, and by fuck if Tony won’t make him pay dearly for it later, Steve manages to scrape together a retort. “Been fucking ready,” he heaves, “so ready, let me, can I--”

And here’s a pretty dilemma, whether to try and catch his face as his cock jerks out of frame or the other way around, and as he’s making a set of extremely imprecise mental calculations, he gives Steve’s prostate a series of short, hard, taps and with a verbal permission so quiet it barely registers on the mic, he says, “Come for me, then, now, give it to me.”

He reacts wildly, catches the first spurt before refocusing on Steve’s convulsing stomach, his face - as he hovers over it, catching it straight on - twisted into an expression of the most agonizing pleasure. Tony talks him through it, praising him, tells him how good he is, how good he feels, and as he contorts and writhes, Tony milks it all out of him. The camera rests heavy on his shoulder as he looks down at the mess he’s made of Steve’s stomach. Now, finally at the end of it all, his own cock clamors for attention. Slowly, so slowly, and gentle, gentle, he withdraws his fingers; easing them all out until his pinky pops free, and then out a little more until he can squeeze out his ring finger, middle, pointer. Steve’s pliable, but he never really gets loose, and Tony wriggles his wrist as he moves it back. At a word, Steve releases his legs to the ground with a sigh. Tony hasn’t told him to, but he rests on his forearms and pushes himself up to look at Tony’s erection.

“You need some help with that?” Even fucked into oblivion, Steve can still tease. Next time he’s gonna have to punch fuck the sass out of him, swear to God.

“Don’t fucking move,” Tony says, hand already quickly moving between his own legs. “Stay right the fuck there, what, no, don’t…”

Steve sits up a little taller, and in doing so, makes the slick mess on his stomach move with him. It carves a line across the channeled muscles of his abdomen, and seriously, this had better not be the way that Tony croaks, with his forty-something heart attack, because his come-stained boyfriend with the perfect body and the face of a teen heartthrob pushes himself up onto forearms and winks at the camera and then, Jesus God, he can’t even, he opens his fucking mouth, as if daring Tony to shoot his load that far, as if he was asking to have his mouth fucked and his face covered, and he has enough presence of mind to look down, whoops, look down with the camera and see his hand stripping his own dick, a dark blur over Steve’s pale stomach, and to look back, with his eyes and his screen both as Steve licks his lips, and Tony can see the back of his top teeth, a face he makes unconsciously. Strong hands come to Tony’s hips as he fucks his hand and the empty air, the space between them.

“Do it,” he pants, “come on me, come on, Tony, give it to me, come on…” and more in this vein and thank fuck Steve is moving him, guiding Tony even more than he’s touching himself, and Steve says, “make a mess of me, want you to,” and that is it, Tony is done, Steve’s firm grasp and his own punishing pace, and the camera sees it all as his eyes slam closed and he comes, hard and powerful, adding to the mess of Steve’s torso, and on one final, majestic, practically adolescent spurt, hits him in the fucking chin.

The orgasm pushes out of him with a howl, worthy of any canyon coyote, as his hand clenches around the grip of the camera, only dimly aware that he’s swinging it all over the place, but it doesn’t matter because he’s coming, coming, coming down, and all the feeling rushes back into his extremities as he collapses on the floor, next to Steve, the movie camera clattering to the side.

 Out of the corner of his eye, he can just discern the red light that indicates it’s still going, that lets him know that this conversation is being recorded, along with a fabulous view of his sweaty hip. Steve grabs his gray t-shirt to wipe across his chest, eyes it with a grimace as he swipes it cautiously over his chin. He chucks it to one side of the room and lies back down, snuggles his head against Tony’s chest and rubs his thumb across his wrist. Tony is wiped out, trying to remember how to breathe. Probably he should get his cardio in other ways besides fucking Steve senseless. Treadmill desk? Zumba? Hiking? 

“You can come running with me,” Steve says, because, again, out loud. “There’s that couch to 5K app I put on your phone, and I know for a fact you haven’t used it once.”

Tony slides his arm under Steve, and sweet Christ he’s heavy, where it immediately loses most of the sensation he’d regained in the interim.

“Next thing I know you’re gonna get me one of those, what’re they called…” he gestures vaguely at his wrist.

“Fitbit,” Steve answers. “They track the number of steps you take per day, and you can program to do all sorts of monitoring of your biochem, like, in addition to the pedometer function, how long you sleep, and your sleep quality, and resting pulse, and…”

Tony stops him with a hand over his mouth. “Too much talking,” he says, “where do you get this energy from? You must be nuclear powered or something. Made in France.”

“Huh?” Steve pushes his face into Tony’s chest, radiating contentment. His own eyes grow heavy as he tries to explain his thought process. “Nuclear,” Tony tells him, “they have more nuclear plants in France than any other country in the world. Wind, Germany’s got more of that.”

“Don’t fall asleep.” Steve pokes his index finger into the softness of Tony’s belly. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are,” Tony mumbles, sleepily. “What do you want to eat?”

“Pancakes?”

“If you make them. And,” he raises a hand as Steve pushes himself up to a crouch, cracking the vertebrae of his neck in a way that makes Tony wince, “ugh, that noise.”

“Sorry,” Steve stands, extends a hand to the old guy on the floor, and with more clicking of knee joints and far less fluid grace, stands. 

“You’re making shirtless pancakes, I assume?” he yells after Steve's retreating back. “Because those are my favorite kind of pancakes.”

Steve hollers back, "Naked pancakes, but no bacon in that case." 

He leans over to find his own jeans, and, what the hell, brings the camera, too. Bacon is bad for his heart anyways.