Tony’s skin pulls tight around the curves as he sits, lighting an itch that flakes away sweat-salty under his blunt fingernails. The flightsuit is a damp wad on the floor. Going to be a bitch if it dries that way but he’ll worry about it once he can bend without wincing. A shower wouldn’t go wrong either, but again, the moving, the wincing.
Chairs are nice, though. Stable, weight-bearing. Fucking cold on his bare ass – he makes a mental note to look into getting something put down here that's not made out of leather or metal. Or maybe he could structure a warming mechanism into the chair. Put it on a range beacon connected to the armor, even, so it would be nice and toasty by the time he got in from a mission.
His hand stalls partway through an idle sketch of a remote-triggered heating coil as one of his computer notices pings.
See, these are the dilemmas that make heroing so much more frustrating than average joe billionaire-ing. Regular old Tony Stark, hedonist and provocateur, wouldn’t hesitate over the little camera icon blinking at him from the bottom of the screen. But now Tony is also Iron Man, symbol of right and good and yadda yadda yadda. Now he’s got a deep, obnoxiously polite voice in his head saying ‘what would Captain America do?’
Trouble is, the answer keeps coming out ‘Captain America wouldn’t have a security camera rigged in his own bedroom to watch himself get undressed’ so it’s not really helping much.
Ok, wait, time out. That came across wrong. It's not like Steve's is the only room that's rigged with cameras. Hell, there's barely an inch of the mansion Tony doesn't have eyes on one way or another, although Bruce was smart enough to find the ones in his room and disable them. He's got a feeling Clint and Natasha both let the cameras be in favor of using them as their own personal surveillance system, paranoid bastards. Thor doesn't seem to be aware that his room has a door, let alone cameras, but Tony doubts he'd do anything about it if he did - privacy isn't one of those concepts Thor seems to grasp.
The soft hum of equipment working diagnostics and cleaning the armor soothes him, familiar as a heartbeat. There’s a panel on the left thigh that’s riding loose from one of the loadbearing beams of the building Tony didn’t quite manage to keep Dr. Doom from throwing him through. Or possibly it was from the high-rise collapsing on top of him. Any which way, it’ll need repairs and he’s still too wired to go to bed, so he might as well wait around down here and see what the full damage is.
The little camera eye blinks at him. Beeps again just in case he hadn’t been waiting, attentive as a teenage girl expecting a phone call, the first time.
The real dilemma is Steve, who grew up before security cameras were even an idea, let alone the embedded pinhole kind Tony has sunk into the ceilings and walls, but who also spends an awful lot of time getting friendly with JARVIS and probably knows more about the house than anyone besides Tony himself. Puts the odds close enough to fifty-fifty on whether Steve's oblivious or he knows Tony could be watching at any time and just doesn't care.
Blink-blink-blink goes the little camera icon.
'Not no' has always been close enough to 'yes' for Tony anyway. He orders JARVIS to pull up the video feed, lifesize.
Long shadows cast out from the bedside lamp Steve’s turned on, the only light in the room. The files Tony scanned off of the SHEILD server about the physical capabilities modified by the super-serum mentioned increased low-light visual perception, but he still feels like Steve’s setting the mood.
He has a rich fantasy life, ok? This brain has made him billions of dollars, don't knock it.
Steve is sitting at the foot of the bed, cowl pushed back. The light catches on his hair, painting an entirely too apt halo around his head; throws deep cuts of shadow under his cheekbones and the hang of his brow.
His boots are paired up, facing forward like good little soldiers with the belt coiled next to them. Tony’s never had a particular thing for feet – he tries not to rule anything out of his repertoire but it's not at the top of his playlist. Still, there’s something about the pale arch of Steve’s where he’s got one ankle braced on a knee as he finishes peeling off his sock, all soft and vulnerable, completely at odds with the big white star in the middle of Steve’s goddamn masterfully sculpted chest.
Yeah, Tony’s hard now.
Alright, look, confession - Tony has been masturbating to Captain America since he was thirteen. It had been sort of a gradual thing. He'd been a Cap fan as a kid - because, hey, who wasn't? - and then as he'd gotten older he’d started noticing things about his idol that had less to do with saving the day and justice for all and more to do with the fact that leather is damn flattering on legs built like those.
He had discovered girls well before that, so Cap – he can't think of it as Steve, too reverse-pedophilic - wasn't his very first sexual awakening or anything, but stumbling across an old photo his father had stuffed in the back of a closet with America’s hero himself, muddy and exhilarated-looking, the uniform clinging to him loveingly, that was the very first time Tony had looked at a man and thought "Yeah, I could go for that."
Then there were those couple of months right after his parents… well, suffice to say he spent seventy-eight thousand dollars on an escort who happened to have a very authentic Cap costume and the bright blue eyes to go with it. He’s pretty sure that was just a security blanket grief-reversion thing but… Anyway.
It’s not his fault he has a conditioned psycho-sexual response to the vanilla-flavored Boy Scout-cicle that recently became his roommate, is what he’s saying. So he’s not going to feel too bad about it that the one guy who might wish Tony would spontaneously stop existing even more than Nick Fury also happens to be the man who turns his libido’s crank. Not like he hasn’t had weirder obsessions.
Cap rolls his shoulders as he stands, raises his arms on a stretch that pulls his back into a long, lean curve, chest straining against the costume. A flick of Tony’s fingers pulls the alternate feed up in front of him so he can appreciate the way that particular arch makes Steve’s pert, perky ass tip up like an offering. The visual winds its way under his skin, domino effect with all the years of material backed up in his brain's mainframe; that ass bared for him, legs open and slicked up the middle, or loose and fucked out, used so good and still ready for more because, fuck, Cap's gotta have one hell of a recovery time. Tony's seen it in action in the field, if not the way he'd like to.
As if he's reading Tony's mind - he almost laughs at how red-faced Steve would get if he knew even the tamest preteen fantasy that ever scrolled its way across Tony's brain pan - Steve goes for the fastenings of the pants and starts working them off. More like skinning himself, really - modern fabrics have done a lot for the breathability and movement of the uniform, with the side effect of making it cleave to Steve's body like a fresh off the assembly line brand of sin.
Naked underneath, no room for a spare thought let alone underwear between him and the suit. His skin's not even damp, could go for hours and hours without breaking a sweat and Tony has thought of far too many ways to test that stamina. In the name of science and all that. Strong thighs with a faint sprinkling of nearly invisible blond hair, darker the further up where it nestles between his thighs around the heavy hang of his cock. Thick, uncut, not quite soft.
The workshop’s always on the chilly side, nice enough after a couple of hours in the armor, coolant system or no. Now that Tony’s come back down to temperature, though, the kiss of cold air feels more like a bite, pulling his nipples up, eager, and sizzling against the fire eddying in Tony’s blood. Most of his attention on the video, he trails his fingers down his chest, skirting wide of the reactor and feathering a tease just close enough to where the head of his dick pressing against his abs to make himself shudder.
Steve hasn't even pulled the gloves off yet. He folds the pants carefully and stacks them next to the boots - like SHIELD’s special-ops dry cleaning team or what the fuck ever isn’t going to take care of it anyway. The red material makes little shadows against Steve's thighs as he straightens, as if he's dragging his fingers over the pale skin, digging in a little just to feel it before he works his way up to wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking.
The contrast is gorgeous; cardinal red against the duskier shade of the head peering out from the circle of those thick fingers, a splash brighter when the downstroke pulls the foreskin back just enough. Just once, a fingertip swipes over the head, trail of wet shining after it as Steve's whole body jerks in answer. Tony's felt firsthand the rough texture built into the gloves to give them grip, leather and that kevlar weave that Fury’s so damn fond of. Can just imagine it catching dry at the slit, so intense it's not pain and not anything else either. Fuck, like Tony didn't already have enough dirty thoughts about those gloves to fill a very smutty encyclopedia.
Cap should look ridiculous, national icon from the waist up, top shelf porn all the way down. He doesn't. He looks good enough to eat with a spoon, jacking himself steady and rough.
A moan spills out of Tony when he finally wraps his fingers around his own cock, staining the silence of the lab like ink in water. Soundproofing was the first modification he'd made when it looked like he wasn't going to be able to avoid the New York mansion the way he always had before; a concession to keeping his one night stands from waking up and coming to look for him every time something accidentally blew up in the middle of the night. Still, it feels obscene, being so loud with a house full of hyper-vigilant fighter-types just a couple of floors up.
With Steve up there, twenty four feet up, another eighteen down the hall, around the corner, hook left and bam, Captain Fucking America's bedroom. Five hundred and thirty four inches, give or take between him and where one of his biggest sexual bucket list items is standing. With super-serum enhanced hearing, no less.
Tony slumps a little further into his chair, making himself take it slow with an effort that rattles his nerves in their sockets as Steve releases his grip and lets his dick smack against his stomach. He's not ready for it at all when Steve up and peels off the gloves like he's taken up burlesque in his spare time. Fucking bites the fingertip of the one he was jerking off with and pulls it off that way. A little flash of tongue like he’s got to taste the precome staining the fabric and what the hell even is that? Tony does a fine enough job pretending Steve's putting on a show for him without Steve actually putting on a damn show.
The gloves join the rest, neat and tidy, and then those long, powerful fingers are plucking at the catches of the uniform, revealing inch by slow inch of firm chest and stomach. And alright, clearly Tony's got to check up on what Steve's been doing in his personal time because no way did Mister Norman Rockwell Jr. come up with that shoulder-shrug slow-slide-out-of-the-shirt thing all by his lonesome. Natasha's bound to know some kind of deadly ninja-stripper skills. Why she'd be teaching them to Steve he can't imagine. Why Steve would be practicing them in the middle of the night after a mission in the uniform is another really good question. Tony's going to think about them at some point when he has bloodflow above the waistline.
Now, see, here's where things get murky because in the costume Steve is Captain America, but once the Star-Spangled Stud outfit hits the floor he's... well, yeah, ok, he's still Captain America - Steve distilled down to the most evil essence of his nature would still help little old ladies cross the street and rescue kittens stuck in trees and it’s not like costume changes any of that - but he's also Steve Rogers, an actual person, and one that, in point of fact, Tony doesn't get along with very well. Or, at all, actually. Whatever, splitting hairs; the issue is, getting his fetish on over Cap is one thing, doing it over Steve, the man who actively dislikes him - which is the Steve-world equivalent to plotting-assassination levels of hatred in a regular human - is maybe a little creepier than Tony is 100% comfortable with being.
On the other hand, though, there is his dick, and it has a long and storied history of not giving a flying fuck what Tony is comfortable with.
Steve pretty much makes the decision for him when he crawls up to rest in the middle of the - red, white and blue, because Tony's an asshole - coverlet and spreads his legs like a skin-rag centerfold. This is one of those moments Tony's really glad he has the cameras set up for angles.
It's also one of those moments he regrets not putting in microphones too because the way Steve's mouth falls open when he fists his cock again has to be one damn pretty sound.
Tony pauses to fumble the lube out of his desk drawer - what? Stress relief is important to his inventive process - and drizzles some sloppily over his hand, never once taking his eyes off the patriot porno in front of him. Keeps pace with Steve's relentless rhythm as he strokes himself hard and quick.
Steve's other hand is sunk into the shadow between his sprawled legs, rolling his balls and giving them little tugs like he does want it to end too soon. Muscle ripples through his thighs, tensing in his abs as he fucks his own fist, fluid and confident in a way Tony would have never imagined Steve could be with anything sexual. Cap? Sure, he's born to be in charge, but Steve? Any time he's thought about Steve in bed - antagonism has never stopped him from wanting to sleep with somebody before, Tony's not about to let it start now - he's pictured him as the blushing virgin, all thumbs and stuttered words. That might be a blush on Steve's cheeks - they're deep pink, at least - but there's not one damn thing going on on that video feed that anybody could mistake for virginal.
Slinking down until he's just barely sitting on the edge of the chair, Tony splays his knees wide and gets a hand up between his legs. Like he was saying before, he tries not to rule anything out when it comes to fucking - top, bottom, both at the same time, it's all good in its own way. He favors women by default, so he tends to be on the giving end more often than the receiving - with a couple of notable, fairly kinky exceptions - but there's no way to look at a specimen like Steve's cock and not appreciate what it'd feel like holding him open so wide he could barely breathe around it.
He takes two fingers from the get go, all bite and burn, just to pull himself back from the fast-building edge. Goes for broke and really arches into it, moans just to get that same raunchy thrill from before clawing up the ladder of his spine. It's a crying shame he doesn't have an audience too.
Steve's got his feet planted on the bed, that sweet ass of his lifting off the mattress with every punchy jerk of his hips, really fucking going at it. There's color rising under his skin, a flush that speckles down toward his belly and darkens his heaving chest. He must be getting close because there's no chance Steve tired yet, not after the paces Tony's seen him put himself through in the gym without even the common decency to get winded. Tony's wrist twinges, failing spectacularly at keeping up with the militant precision of Steve's movements.
He gets so hung up on watching the main attraction, the flex of muscle and the fat, dark cockhead shining wetly from between Steve's fingers, that he almost misses Steve talking. Doesn't notice it until Steve throws his head back, throat bobbing in a sleek arch, and the shine of his tongue sweeping out over his lips finally draws Tony's attention to the twitchy babble falling from Steve's mouth. It's hard to make out what he's saying, only the tiniest movements of his lips giving away that he's making sound at all. He scrapes the bottom one between his teeth, pulling it free on this pretty, soft pout and something that Tony's wildly overactive, admittedly narcissistic imagination insists is Tony's name.
Alright, that's it, tomorrow Steve's room is getting a full audio set-up.
Steve looks stunned by it when he actually comes, eyes and mouth both shock-wide, back pulled into a sharp bridge. He stripes his own stomach and all the way up his chest like a champ, milky-thick and glistening in a filthy parody of the red and white bars of the Cap uniform. Rockets right into the top five hottest things Tony's ever seen so fast there’s probably tire-marks.
Nobody could blame him for following right after, not with that kind of visual stimuli playing XXX ping-pong with his synapses.
The chair sticks uncomfortably to Tony's skin as he slumps back against it, sweating all over again. That sore spot on his ribs is making itself known with a vengeance with every draw of cool air, but he's aching in a better way than before, worn out and ready to fall into bed and actually sleep for a change.
Diagnostics have shut off by now so he's got a whole report he could go through, but if there was anything urgent JARVIS would have bugged him about it by now already and the rest can wait the handful of hours it'll take before he wakes up wired all over again.
He takes a couple of lazy swipes at the mess cooling on his stomach with an oil-rag, lingers more than he should strictly let himself get away with when it comes to shutting down the feed to Steve's room. Normally he doesn't even like to spend too much time in the afterglow of people he's actually slept, with let alone watching one of them stretch out and relax, get comfy. Intimate enough to make Tony’s teeth itch, but that doesn't make it any easier to look away from the sated smile curving Steve's lips.
Steve says something to the ceiling and rolls smoothly to the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor without even a drop of the come on his skin marring the bed clothes. Light immediately spills out from the bathroom doorway, was probably asking JARVIS turn on the shower for him, Tony guesses. For a guy who's scared of the microwave, Steve's gotten comfortable with having an AI butler damn quick.
Alright, Tony's cutting the feed now. Really, he is, now. Right now. Riiiight n-
Hold the phone. Did... did he just... did Steve...
Tony reaches out and rewinds the video a couple of seconds, watching like a hawk as Steve stands up and makes his way around the end of the bed. Just to be sure he pulls up the other cameras too, setting them to the same time loop and running through that section again. Then one more time on the chance that he's hallucinating.
Nope. No two ways about it. No denying the incontrovertible evidence right there in his own equipment. Steve looked at the cameras. Every single one of them. Then just before he disappeared into the bathroom, one blue eye locked on the one positioned above and a little to the left of the doorframe.