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Drunk a Lot of Drink Me

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There were Valkyries at the party.

This wasn't an unusual thing; when Thor and his four friends were on the invitation list, there were always one or two extra shield maidens brought along to fill out the party's numbers. Never the same ones, as far as Steve could tell, but always fiercely lovely, always more than a little bit wild, and always clustered around Tony like moths to a flame.

Not that Steve could blame them, really. Tony's charm was legendary when he bothered to exert it, and for the entertainment of a party of statuesque warrior maidens, he was far more inspired to do so than for his everyday teammates. It was something of a treat to watch, actually. All the more so with the mellowing effect of the liquor that Thor had brought with him from Asgard to celebrate his… Thursday, or whatever the excuse was. Steve couldn't remember, and wasn't actually bothered much. Thor had parties whenever he could convince the rest of them that there was anything approaching a reason to do so, often with the enthusiastic support of Tony and Clint, and sometimes even Natasha.

There were a lot of parties at Stark Tower. If Evil knew how many, there'd probably be a lot more 6 am attacks for the Avengers to contend with.

"I wish I knew what it was like," Steve sighed, watching one slim brunette put Tony's repulsor gauntlets on and then rise gently, expertly into the air. Below her, Tony watched with the perfect rogue's grin.

The silver haired lady on the sofa beside him smiled and refilled Steve's cup. "To be foolish and young?" she asked, arch and amused, "Or perhaps you mean intoxicated and desperate for attention. Though you seem rather more sensible than that to me."

He smiled at her, easier than he'd ever felt with any woman who hadn't bloodied his nose in the sparring ring or shot him at least once. She was smiling back, her eyes a ruddy sort of tawny in a lovely, ageless face that held no trace of derision or judgment or scorn. Or of expectation. She was only amused, laughing behind her smooth brown skin, but not laughing at him. For Steve, she was only refilling his glass with the pale, nearly-clear liquor they'd been drinking all night.

"Tony's not desperate," Steve said, precise and possibly a little bit drunk, "He's always…" he closed his eyes to remember the phrase. "The King of Couth, the Sultan of Smooth, the Raja of Rad, the Commissar of... of.... Coolth. Or something."

"Or something," she agreed, and lifted her own glass. Somehow her smile didn't slip when she drank.

"I might be a little…" he admitted, pleased all over again with the crisp taste of apples and honey and bright, golden light as it burst over his tongue. "Tipsy. I'm sorry if that's boring you."

She smiled, and sipped at her own drink. "I'm flattered, actually, and intrigued. What is it that you see there with your lovely soft eyes, hmm?" She leaned close, turned Steve's chin back toward Tony's entourage with one finger, and then lay her face alongside his, brow to cheek so that their gazes more or less aligned. "What is it my liquor shows you?"

"Everything I'm not," Steve found himself breathing words he never would have allowed himself to think if he weren't buzzing with drink and aching from that lonely, distant place that couldn't quite find its way in the brave new world they'd avenged. He saw boldness, ease, quick delight, and laughter without fear or shame. He saw a flame so bright, so dazzling, and without a single qualm for outshining every other light for miles, half mad with the surety of being entirely beautiful no matter who might resent it. "Wish I knew what that was like."

"Oh, sweetling," she laughed gently and turned quick to kiss his cheek with cool, soft lips. "You've really no idea, have you?"

~*~

Later, that would be what Steve remembered first: that look of fond amusement in the golden eyed lady's face, just tinged with sorrow, or perhaps exasperation as she patted his face, and told him to go to bed.

Knowing good advice when he heard it, Steve had gone to bed, fairly relieved that between Tony's antics and Thor's, his exit went largely unnoticed by his teammates, and his tipsiness unremarked. Natasha might have smirked at him, but she had a Valkyrie of her own to talk to, so that might just have been natural smugness.

He'd undressed just like on a normal night, if perhaps a little less steadily on his feet. He had still folded and hung up his pants, put his shirt and socks in the hamper, belt coiled neatly on the dresser, pocket change stacked next to it on the key card. He'd brushed his teeth, drinking extra water because that was what Pepper kept telling Tony he should have done when he wandered the Tower hung over, and then he'd gone to bed, hoping the wistful, half-pleasant buzz would keep the nightmares away just this once.

It had. There was no lurching, heart-rattling waking on that night, no twist of sheets knotted like ropes about him, no ghost of strangled shouts in an aching throat when he awoke. There had been no nightmares in his sleep under that sweet liquor's weight.

But that didn't mean there were no nightmares at all. Because when Steve woke up, he really, really had to pee, and also, he was a girl.

The realization of that fact was pretty damned immediate, given the absence of a familiar, fleshy tumble between his legs as he swung them over the bed and stood. Looking down in startled horror pretty much sealed it as fact; there were breasts -- not pectoral muscles, actual breasts that curved heavily down along his ribs, nipples pebbling pinkly in the cool air as he stared. On him. He was naked, he couldn't feel his prick, and there were tits on him!

The combined forces of gravity and his bladder conspired to distract Steve from his impending panic attack though, and by the time he'd scrambled into the bathroom to sit – to sit! – on the john, the clear, concisely tactical part of his brain had wrenched the controls away from the panicky, bleating animal part, and shoved it hard into a closet. Panic wasn't going to help anything. He had a situation to resolve here.

Something had changed last night. 'Obviously...' a sarcastic part of his mind chimed up. He ignored it firmly, ticking down the facts and resisting the urge to curl his arm over the breasts -- his breasts! -- so they'd be a little less distracting. Something had changed last night. There had been Asgardians around. He had been tipsy enough to talk about himself to a beautiful stranger.

He remembered what he said, every word clear as day; 'I wish I knew what that was like.' And he'd been looking at Tony at the time. But draped around Tony like cats on a branch had been the Valkyries. And Steve hadn't actually said what he meant, or whom he'd been talking about to the lady, had he? No. Because it hadn't occurred to him that he might be doing anything more than spinning nonsense and Asgardian wine into irrelevant fancies that wouldn't mean a damned thing once he'd sobered up and was still himself, God Damn it all!

Steve sighed, scrubbing both hands over his face, startled again, briefly, to feel the narrower jaw and the lack of morning stubble thereon. His lips felt the same, mostly, and his hair... he stroked his hands back along his skull, and found it longer now, slipping in waves between his knuckles as he pinched a bit and brought it forward to squint. No longer the crisp, military high-and-tight he'd had before, but not so long as Natasha's chin-length tumble of curls, either. A little lighter than the hair he was used to, more like his mother's wheat gold than his own sandy color.

Magic. No wonder Tony hated it.

"Jarvis?" Steve managed not to flinch at the higher, smoother tone of his voice. Still resonant, if tentative, but the more delicate notes of it were clear in the tiled expanse of the bathroom.

"Yes, Miss?" came the reply, and a little bit of Steve's carefully cultured hope for an easy repair to this misunderstanding curled up and died. Jarvis, the keenest, most observant mind in the tower; Jarvis, who missed nothing, and forgot even less, didn't recognize him. Another breath, shaking and cold in his belly.

"Are the Asgardians still at the Tower?"

There was a hesitation, and then a quizzical note in Jarvis' voice that took the withered remains of Steve's hope and crushed it flat. "Aside from yourself, Miss, there is only Prince Thor, who is sleeping in his quarters. Would you like me to wake him?"

"No!" Steve bit off the yelp too late. "No, I'll just..." he took another shaky breath, and smiled as if for a gushing fan. "It's fine. Thank you." Then he busied himself with sorting out the mortifying necessity of what, exactly to do with the toilet paper – it had all been theoretical before, whereas it was hot, damp, and quite startlingly sensitive now that he had to put theory into practice. Nothing at all like the briskly efficient squeeze and two shakes he was used to.

Then he stood to face the mirror, and to see just what, exactly, he'd gotten himself into this time. His artist's eye had always appreciated Dr. Erskine's work, of course; the proportions of the Super Soldier body were ideal as any Renaissance master's work. Having spent most of his life in a fragile, wheezing, pint sized body, Steve had never bothered with shyness over enjoying what the mirror showed him once he'd been given something worth appreciating. It didn't feel like vanity to him, so much as due praise for the skill of the dead genius who'd chosen Steve Rogers, 4'10", 4F, and 40 pounds underweight, as the canvas for his masterwork.

But this was... Steve made himself close his mouth. Then he looked away, blinking furiously as his face flooded with mortified heat. Then he gave himself a shake and told himself to stop being an idiot. It wasn't as if he was staring at a naked stranger. This was... he took a deep breath, dared a glance, and managed to make it stick. This was the same as his recent body; a work of idealized art, beautiful by design... and yet it was so entirely different.

The girl – no, the woman in the mirror was as perfect as the man had been, but the differences were riveting, electric. A bit shorter, less breadth to the shoulder and ribcage, but with a generous, elegant curve between the pinch of waist and the sweep of hip. The planes of her stomach were still defined, but softer now, with a slight, smooth swell beneath her navel, just above where dark blond hair began to curl down toward the join of her thighs. Steve put a shaking hand over that little curve of skin, and had to catch his breath at the sudden, lurching spasm of pleasure that touch set off inside him; like, and yet somehow unlike the eager twitching of a cock on the rise.

And once he'd begun to touch, Steve found he couldn't quite make himself stop. Ghosting his hands, -- smaller, finer boned than the broad, square paws he'd grown to know, but still strong, he thought, still clever, -- up along his ribs to cup at the round heaviness of breasts, each somewhat bigger than these hands could cover, but not so much as to be silly. His thumb grazed first one, then the other nipple, and he felt the eager clutch inside him again as they hardened further under his touch. A rosy flush spread across the cheeks, making the blue eyes piercing in the harsh fluorescent light, and as Steve watched it, the delicate pinkness bloomed on the creamy flesh of the...his...her breasts.

A ragged noise caught in his throat, and the throb between his legs was so fiercely hungry it bordered on pain. Steve clapped a hand down over the curving mound, and gasped again as his fingers slipped into a welter of slick flesh, all softness and drizzling heat. Not all velvet soft though, he learned with a gasp; there was a hard, sizzling spike of pleasure just where his instincts told him to look for his cock. It rolled like a pearl under his questing finger, and dragged another desperate noise out of him before he could swallow it back. Perversely, all Steve could think as his fingers stroked and stumbled through this dazzlingly unfamiliar dance was 'Good God, Rogers, either get into the shower, or go do this in a bed like a damned adult!'

He glanced at the shower, already thinking that the bed was probably a safer alternative, given that he had no idea what to expect from this... equipment, and didn't really want to slip and break his head open, then have to explain his new... situation to the inevitable SHIELD medical personnel, who would then call Fury, who would then need an explanation of his own. But what Steve saw in the shower drew him up short with a renewed horror, and cut short the potential embarrassment with a jolt of actual, here-and-now, ice water over the head mortification.

It wasn't his shower. This was all glass and steel, spigots all over the place, and a key pad mounted to the wall beneath the shaving mirror, so that a man who thought too quick wouldn't have to lose a moment between having an idea and getting it down. Steve choked back an undignified sound, and reached for a scarlet bath sheet with shaking, damp fingers.

Tony's room. He was in Tony's room, and that was, as Clint was overly fond of saying, SO not okay!

'You've really no idea, have you?' the Asgardian lady's words rose into Steve's mind as he forced himself to turn, to look back into the bedroom, where sure enough, a dark-haired man sprawled over the bed like he was laying claim to the world by proxy. Steve could see by the turned-back rumple of blankets where he'd been lying, and his sex did that clenching spasm again as he realized that he'd been well within Tony's reach there. That, in fact, Tony's hand was peeking out from under the blankets just about where his chest... breast would have been.

And that was when Steve remembered the look on his drinking partner face; the almost-sad amusement in her eyes as she'd tilted his head to kiss his cheek, and he just knew what was going to happen next. Because for all that Tony and Bruce liked to complain about magic being against all the rules, Steve had noticed that it did have rules, and those rules tended to be pretty easy to anticipate if you just stepped back and took a hard look at where the magic had come from.

And this magic had come from a wizardess... or maybe a goddess, who'd heard an awkward, out of place idiot wish out loud for something he shouldn't even have been imagining, given what he'd already been granted in his lifetime. But she'd given it to him all the same. Steve had been looking at Tony when he'd spoken. Tony, who loved women, even if he didn't love them. Tony, who recounted his exploits and sexual adventures with all the relish of a sailor with something to prove, and who'd seem like a braggart if it weren't that the press often carried the stories even farther than he did, and supplied photographic proof to back it up. Tony, whose taste for beauty was indiscriminate to the point of ill-judgment. It was a simple, elegant, and entirely damn wrong answer to a problem that had been barely even a problem at all, until Steve had got drunk and then opened his big, dumb yap.

He was going to have to get Tony to sleep with him in order to set things right. It was like Dr. Strange had said after the last time Loki had turned Natasha into a rather terrifying cow; permanent transformation of a living sapient took so much power it was almost never possible by magic alone, especially when the subject was unwilling. Spells like these -- spells that changed a person into something they weren't supposed to be, always had an expiration clause on them. Either time, and for a goddess, who knew how long that could be, or else there'd be a key -- a loose thread that could be pulled to set things back the way they belonged.

Or to make them stay that way forever... He shook his head, shivering as soft curls bounced tickling along his neck. No. That had to take a lot more than just a drunken ramble and a kiss. No, this had all the hallmarks of old Mrs. Goldstein's favorite yarn about how you should be careful what you wished for on account of how you just might get it, and then where would you be?

'Slipping naked into bed with Tony Stark' was apparently the answer to that question, and Steve had to smother a snicker -- not a giggle, darn it! -- as he let the towel slip free and pulled the blankets over himself once more. Tony made a soft, sleepy grumbling noise as Steve nudged his hand out from under his shoulder, and in a sudden, squirming flop, insinuated that hand right over Steve's ribs, callused thumb just brushing the underside of one breast, and oh hell, did it ever feel different from when it had been Steve's own hand touching him there! Just that light, innocent pressure made Steve want to gasp and wriggle, the slide of dream-soft cotton over his tightening nipples a maddening tickle that had him wishing he dared to pinch it away.

Well... why not? Whatever shape his body might take, it was still his, wasn't it? And not even the nuns had managed to make Steve think that his own body wasn't his to handle as he'd liked, bruised knuckles and punitive Our-Fathers or no. And if he was going to try and get Tony interested in this unfamiliar body of his, then Steve figured he'd better take a moment to get the lay of the land first, as it were.

Tony was pinning Steve's right arm down, but ambidexterity was useful for more than throwing shields and punches. It didn't take him long to work out just where he wanted most to put that left hand and its long, agile fingers to use. And oh, but it was wetter than before, slick and hot, and eager, and Steve had to bite his lip hard as his fingers swept through the wet folds and circled the bright, fierce little kernel above them. So much sharper-feeling than a prick in his hand; more immediate, more sensitive, skirting almost on the edge of pain without yielding a scrap of that demanding urgency that just made him want to rub harder, faster, deeper.

Steve could feel his heart charging against his ribs, could feel the muscles in his thighs winding up trembling-taut to try and stop himself from thrusting against his hand. His wrist was starting to cramp from the angle, and he was close, so very close to coming that at first the hand curling around to knead gently at his breast was nothing but another factor of 'oh, yes please' in his building release.

But then Tony's beard scraped a blaze along Steve's shoulder, and a muzzy, wicked chuckle heated his ear as those callused fingers found and fondled her nipple. "Mmmm... and whose little girl are you then?" The words buzzed from Steve's ear straight down his spine, and he came, the welter between his legs pulsing and spasming like a wounded thing under his clutching fingers. He was vaguely aware of the sudden, startled clench of the hand on his breast, of the wakening jolt of the body pressing half over his, of the hiss of breath through locked teeth, but there was a racing flood of sensation over the top of all those things, and it was all Steve could do to stay afloat in it.

He was still gasping when Tony shoved him square onto his back and hefted himself over the top, hands clamped hard around Steve's biceps, knees spread to pin his thighs down, teeth fiercely white in a bloodless face as he snarled, "How did you get in here?"

There was something animal and furious in that voice, and it set off a kind of aftershock to Steve's orgasm. Would have been nice to use those few extra, breathless seconds to think up some kind of plausible lie, but not even the super serum could manage that, apparently. Tony gave him a shake – how strange that he was even big enough to do that now – and Steve took a breath to steady himself for the truth, or as much of it as seemed safe just then.

"I woke up here," he said, his voice lighter, softer than before. Tony's eyes narrowed, bullet-hard, so Steve kept trying. "There was a party last night? You don't remember. I'm not surprised. There was mead, and everyone was drunk...?" But no, even as Steve wove the half-truths together, he could tell it wasn't going to work. Tony's expression neither wavered nor softened in any measure of welcome or interest. Even feminine, soft and willing in his bed, Tony Stark had no use for Steve Rogers, it seemed.

His eyes heated with... tears? Oh dear God, no! Steve squirmed, grateful for the distraction of pain as Tony's fingers clamped down hard again. He knew he wasn't really trapped, knew that even in this smaller body, he could still overpower Tony if he needed to, but the anger that arose with that brief hurt was just what Steve needed to shove away the looser, sloppier pain of rejection. "Guess you don't remember after all," he said, and turned his head to consider the door. "I'll just go then..."

But Tony didn't take the hint. "Go where, exactly?" he asked, still in that hard, sharp voice.

'To Thor's room, to find out what I have to promise to get that woman from last night to fix this horrible mess,' Steve didn't say. Nor did he say, 'But first to my room to get some damned clothes!' He didn't really want to say anything at all, given the temper building in his guts, but even angry, he knew if he just threw Tony off and made for the door, he'd have the rest of the Avengers, hung over but ready to defend their home and teammate before he could say 'Jarvis'.

So instead, he made himself blow the anger out on a long breath. "Does it matter?" he grit through his teeth, then gave a sidelong slither that toppled Tony to the bed with a startled grunt, and freed Steve just enough to roll away and sit up.

Keeping half an eye on Tony, he considered the door with a grimace. He'd really rather have had something more decent on before he went wandering the halls, but his choices appeared to be a) the scarlet towel that barely covered his rear, b) the sheet from Tony's bed, currently being held down by Tony himself, who didn't look at all inclined to cooperate with Steve removing it, or c) to steal Tony's clothes from the floor and hope they'd come close to fitting. Or d) to wander out into the hall naked, and hope the shock value of it would be enough to slow people down.

"Damn it," he sighed, and bent to scoop the towel off the floor.

"Hey. Don't." Tony caught his wrist first. Not a furious, restraining clench this time, but more of a desperate grab, fingers clinging, but somehow softer as he righted himself from the sprawl Steve had toppled him into. "Don't go away mad, huh?" he said when Steve turned to glare. His fingers closed a little more firmly, but his thumb smoothed across the bones of Steve's wrist in something like an apology as he flashed his mountebank's grin. "I'm sorry I was a douche just now. You just startled me is all." Tony's eyes weren't smiling though, they were hard, sharp, and fixed on Steve's face with something that looked a lot like hunger. It was the eyes, more than the cardboard smile, that made Steve sit still and listen instead of yanking free and stalking off.

"I thought all the girls went off to sleep in Thor's suite last night, if they didn't go back to Asgard... but I was pretty drunk," Tony added that last quickly, like he didn't want to hear what Steve might say to it. Then he chuckled wickedly and slid a little closer, knee spread carelessly, shamelessly, and Steve couldn't help it -- he looked.

Tony's prick was already halfway to hard, curling up from his strangely hairless groin to lie along the crease of his thigh. It twitched as if in greeting, and Steve felt himself go scarlet. Tony laughed again, his breath stirring unfamiliar curls over Steve's ear as he slipped in close behind. "I must have been pretty damn drunk indeed if I left you in a state like that..." he said, smoothing his hand up from Steve's wrist to his shoulder, brushing curls out of the way, and then oh damn, he was kissing the curve of Steve's neck, his beard scratching rough, but his lips and tongue so hot against sensitive skin. Steve shivered, clenched deep inside, and just barely managed not to whimper.

"Couldn't have been that good a night for you if I can't even remember it," Tony said, then traced the line of Steve's neck from shoulder to ear with his tongue. "Stay and let me make a better impression?" He kissed the invitation into Steve's ear, and it was impossible to even pretend that he didn't want this, didn't want Tony, and everything he seemed to be offering now, Asgardian magic be damned.

But... he half turned, guilt-driven and honor-fueled, caught Tony's chin and stared him hard in the eye. "You don't have to," Steve said, as close to his tone of command as he could get with the unfamiliar voice.

Tony's eyebrows went up, surprised. Then they knit down with what could only be fond exasperation, and Steve found himself strangely glad he didn't get a clanging eyeroll on top of the answer. "Well, thanks for that, but seriously, I can't imagine not wanting to." Tony smoothed a palm along Steve's shoulder, then around to cup the back of his neck, warm and solid and strong. "You are gorgeous when you come," he said, eyes flicking down to Steve's lips then back up to stare, earnest and blue, "and I'd really like to see that a few more times before we let clothes come between us..." Then he tilted Steve's head and pulled him close, and his lips were soft beneath the scratch of his beard, and his tongue was hot and wet, Steve was kissing back, unable to swallow the hungry noise this time as he opened the kiss wider and welcomed Tony inside.

When they fell back into the bed, panting and entwined, Tony pulled free enough to nibble a line of promising heat along Steve's jaw. "So I need you to spot me on your name, beautiful," he said, palm spread over Steve's collarbone as if to anchor him down. "Mead, and all, you know?" There was an edge of laughter to that, but Steve put an end to it with one sure grab, a twisting pull, and a good hard rub with the heel of his hand – just the way he liked it... liked it himself. Tony's eyes didn't quite cross, but they did lose all focus for a second or two.

"You sure it matters?" he asked, scratching lightly through the close-cropped fuzz on Tony's balls, and winning a full body shiver for his pains.

"Fuck yeah," Tony nodded, head thrown back, breathless and grinning. "Want to know what name to scream later. Adjectives just don't cut it."

Steve laughed then, and startled himself by answering, "Sarah." The strangeness rattled him for just a second, but his mother's name had been haunting the back of Steve's mind since his first look at this face in the mirror. And it felt less strange, borrowing that name, than making a new one up would.

Tony smiled like he'd won a prize, not a trace of doubt or suspicion left on his face as he rolled back on top and leaned in to kiss Steve's ear and purr, "Well, Sarah. Lovely to meet you. Mind if I make you scream now?"

Steve had to laugh at that. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said, smoothing his palms along Tony's sides, and taking some pride in the shiver that won him. Then pride leaked away into a jolt of heated tongue as Tony licked his way down from Steve's collarbone to suckle and tease nipples that just couldn't possibly have always been that sensitive. The noise that came out of his mouth was ragged and pleading, and there wasn't a damned thing Steve could do but let it out and arch upward for more.

Tony gave a practiced wriggle, and suddenly his prick was sliding along the wet notch between Steve's legs, blunt head nudging that taut, hot place he'd discovered with his fingers earlier. He chuckled as Steve arched up against him, then dragged back and did it again, pressing heavy and smooth and back and forth until Steve's head was full of stars and his hands full of Tony's flexing rear.

He was panting and dizzy, spiraling up toward another orgasm when Tony shifted his angle on the downstroke, and that blunt head nosed inside. The sudden, piercing stretch was a shock, and Steve couldn't help flinching, breath sharp in his throat. 'Oh. That.', he remembered suddenly as Tony froze, panting and wary above him. Somewhere in a Brooklyn cemetery, a ferociously celibate nun was rolling in her grave, but all Steve felt was horny, hungry, and impatient as Tony held them both there, neither pushing onward, nor withdrawing, just keeping a steady pressure that made Steve want to squirm and cuss. It wasn't too big. Steve's own was bigger, and anyway, babies' heads fit through there, didn't they? So it couldn't be too damned big, and Tony had to know that, so why wouldn't he just get on with it?

But there was something in Tony's expression that held the words back. He didn't look worried, or solicitous, he looked... considering. "You haven't done this before, have you Sarah?" He said, gentle in a way Steve hadn't ever heard him before, and all he could do was shake his head in answer, blushing horribly.

"It's all right," he tried not to stammer. "I don't mind if it-" But then Tony eased himself out, took Steve's face in both his hands, and kissed him, long and sweet, until the burn of frustrated humiliation faded away.

"You know, it doesn't have to hurt," he broke away to murmur once Steve had completely forgotten what he'd been saying. "The first time," Tony smiled at Steve's surprised, and frankly doubtful expression, and kissed his nose. "That's just an old fart's tale that assholes tell themselves so they don't have to consider their partner's comfort. Can I show you what I mean?"

Steve had to put some effort into not imagining Tony doing this with other virgin girls, but he managed to nod all the same. Then Tony was moving all at once, crawling around sidelong, putting his legs up on the pillows, knees bent tight, and his head resting on the thigh Steve had only just realized he'd splayed out shamelessly wide. He left it there, nervous and blushing, but figuring it was far too late to worry about shame at this juncture.

"That thing you were doing with your hand felt nice..." Tony invited as he slipped a finger inside, easy as that. Steve arched up, shocked at the feeling of it, blunt and agile, larger to feel than it looked, but not the least bit unpleasant, especially when that inner clench happened again. Then he licked -- licked! Tongue hot and firm and thick through the folds, softening just enough so over that hard, hot point that made Steve's hips jerk and thrust.

Tony's smirk at his reaction was so knowing and smug Steve had no choice but to wipe it off his face by way of a firm grip on his prick and a couple tight, twisting strokes. He was irrationally happy at the noise Tony made then, and figured it made them about even. Until Tony upped the ante on him with two fingers, more tongue, and it was all Steve could do to hang on and keep himself from howling.

"You know, men have to do it like this," he said, lifting his tongue away and curling his fingers upward inside, so Steve couldn't help writhing into the sensation, "Takes time ... to stretch things out so it... doesn't ...hurt..." Tony punctuated this with swipes of his tongue, deep and hard and focused now on that rigid knot of sensation. "Get things nice and... slick... make it good... for both..." His fingers stroked inward, upward over and over, and there were three of them at it now, and the stretch was so, so good, and Steve was making the most undignified noise in the world, but he couldn't seem to care because Tony's prick was leaking precome down his wrist, and the musky salty smell of him was making Steve's mouth water and good God, he wanted to taste it, but Tony sucked on that amazing place just then, sudden and hard and so, so good, and Steve was shouting, coming, arching up off the bed as the current of pleasure jolted through him and his sex seized and seized around Tony's fingers.

Steve's face was wet when he came fully to himself again. Tony had shifted himself around again, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist, but grinning, eyes bright and warm with something like pride. "See?" he asked, leaning down to kiss, letting Steve taste his own unfamiliar sex all over Tony's tongue, "gorgeous when you come, just like I said."

And Steve couldn't stop himself from chuckling at that, even as he felt his cheeks flushing with pleased embarrassment, even as a part of him reminded the rest that what was happening right now wasn't real, and wouldn't withstand the collapse of the Asgardian lady's spell. It might as well have been a dream... but dreams were better than nothing, weren't they? Especially dreams where Tony was holding him gently, kindly, waiting while Steve got his breath back, even though his prick was leaking hungrily, impatiently all over Steve's thigh.

Steve fidgeted his hips, a little surprised to find that yes, he did want more. Tony's answering grin was much more than genuine as Steve steered him neatly between his thighs and tilted up to take him in. "Mmmm, ready to try that again?" he asked, as though he didn't already know.

Steve was on the point of cussing at him for being a tease when the last flicker of good sense not yet fucked out of his head remembered what could easily go wrong with the scenario. "Wait," he yelped, pressing a hand to Tony's arc reactor. "A skin. Do you have a skin?"

Tony's eyes registered confusion for a moment, then his eyebrows climbed in amused surprise. Steve braced for sarcasm, but Tony only kissed his nose and rolled up to brace on his hands. "Oh yeah. Only I can't actually get you pregnant. Heavy metal poisoning when I was younger – fertility's the first thing to go."

Steve shook his head, remembering his own medical reports, and the warnings about what the serum had done to his fertility. "You're not the one who has to carry the baby around if you're wrong," he said, hoping this wasn't going to put an end to things. "Besides..." he tapped his fingers on the arc reactor's warm cover and smiled. "Playboy?"

That made Tony laugh out loud. "And I'm actually clean too, but I get why you might not believe it." Then he rolled away.

"I'm sorry," Steve fumbled, cursing himself silently, "I didn't mean to-"

But Tony only grinned over his shoulder, then went back to rummaging in his bedside drawer. "No, Sarah, sweetheart. It's all good; better safe than sorry, right? Anyway, I work hard for that reputation, so it's good to know people actually buy it."

Steve hiked up on his elbows, confused. "What do you-"

"This'll help me last a bit longer anyway," Tony went on, tipping a wink over his shoulder. "I wouldn't want to embarrass myself after waiting all this... ah. There it is. Knew I still had one."

Still had one? Steve hiked an eyebrow of his own as Tony turned to crawl back across the bed, a foil packet dangling from his teeth. "Don't genius playboys usually use protection?"

His grin tilted a bit, and there might have been something a bit vulnerable in his eyes for just a moment. Then he was sitting back on his heels and tearing the package open. "This playboy doesn't have a lot of time to get around anymore," he said after spitting the packet off the end of the bed. "The billionaire philanthropist superhero gig is a real timesuck. Seems like I only get laid when beautiful creatures like you appear magically in my bed."

"That's not..." Steve stammered, flustered and shamed. "I didn't mean-"

"Shhh," Tony said, and smoothed a hand along his ribs to cup a breast with gentle reverence. "It's kind of a secret. The tabloids don't know I've broken up with them yet, and I'm trying to let them down easy."

Steve leaned up, tangling the rising sarcasm in a kiss that went quickly from apology to promise as Tony's thumb found and rolled Steve's sensitive nipple. The noise he made would have been mortifying if Steve had cared about much of anything except getting Tony settled between his thighs again.

For once, Tony was inclined to cooperate without complaint. "I'd offer to let you be on top," he said, kissing his way along Steve's jaw to his ear, "but I don't trust you to go easy on yourself. You have a stubborn mouth, and I just bet you're the type who always has to get your way..."

Steve pulled back and hooked an amused eyebrow at him. "That kind of flattery usually work well for you in bed, Stark?"

Which made Tony laugh and admit, "Not recently, no." And then he was lifting Steve's thigh in his hand, pushing inside Steve's body by torturous degrees that were not quite pain, not quite stretch, and absolutely not quite enough. Steve was trembling with sensation, wanting to writhe and rut for more, but still stung by Tony's all too true assessment; he wanted his way just then so badly he could taste it. So instead of taking what he wanted, Steve bit his lip, willed himself to be patient, to trust Tony, and to wait for the fullness and the awkward stretch to bloom once more into pleasure.

"God, you're so perfect," Tony groaned as his hips finally, finally pressed down against Steve's. He kissed Steve's lower lip free from the grip of his teeth, laved the bruised flesh gently for a moment while he untangled one of Steve's hands from the knotted sheets and guided to his face.

"Tonyyy..." Steve whined, rutting his hips as he sucked two fingers wetly into his mouth. He was going to lose his mind if the damned man didn't do something soon! But then Tony pulled back his hips, cock sliding almost free as he steered Steve's wet fingers down between them, to rest above that hot, taut point of pleasure just above where they were joined.

"Here," he breathed. "You manage this. I'll drive..." and then he did, rolling down, pressing inside in a sudden slide that made Steve's eyes flutter closed. It was as good as his tongue had been, it was better than Steve's fingers, and it got better yet as they found their balance and rhythm, just as they'd learned to do in battle, each movement understood and met in instant kind. It was perfect. It was exactly right. It was obvious. It was so exactly what Steve had hoped, imagined it would be, that his orgasm came on all at once, as a shock of sensation; unexpected, potent, and almost painful in its intensity.

Tony fucked him right through it without slowing once, just heaved his belly up a little when Steve tugged his hand from between them, then settled into a lower, faster angle. Steve traced the lines of working muscle in Tony's back then, one hand still wet as his rhythm began to falter, as his cock swelled that much more, as his balls drew up, prickling hard and tight against Steve's body.

Staring down from the shadow of his tangled, curling hair as if he couldn't quite believe he was really there, Tony hissed as he juddered to a stop then -- not air between clenched teeth, no, this was a letter, a syllable. A name, though maybe not the right name, bitten off quick and smothered in the flesh of Steve's collarbone before the sound could escape. Steve shuddered himself, almost like an aftershock as he felt Tony's prick jump and pulse inside him, and he didn't even care that Tony was biting his collarbone hard enough to bruise, or maybe blood.

The pain was good. It helped anchor him down to the facts – he wasn't some pretty blonde in Tony Stark's bed, bashful, buxom and bruisable, he was Captain America. In half an hour his skin would be creamy and smooth again, showing no more sign of Tony's mark than if this had all been a sweetly aching dream. It was a good thing to remember, an important thing to remember, but Steve still held on, stubbornly cradling Tony against his chest as the tremors and tension melted out of those wiry shoulders by shivering degrees.

"'Nother thing the tabloids don't know," Tony sighed into the crook of his neck as their skin began to cool, and his cock softened with shivering flutters inside Steve's body. "Tony Stark is a secret cuddler." He rolled to the side then, plucking the condom off as his prick slipped free. He knotted the rubber and flung it away, then wiped himself on the sheets and nudged up spoonwise at Steve's back, one arm under Steve's cheek, the other curled warm and strong over his ribs, just beneath the swell of breasts. "Don't tell anybody, huh?"

Steve let out a shaky laugh but snuggled gratefully close and reached for the blanket. "Who'd believe me?"

~*~

Steve woke up in his own room, in his own bed, in his own body several hours later.

He knew this because the sun was pouring in through his open blinds, and Tony's bedroom windows faced west, not east. He knew this because the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was not the sleekly modern furniture of the Stark Tower Penhouse master suite, but the sketchbook Steve had left on his own bedside table the night before. He knew this because he could feel the shorts and thin tee shirt he'd put on the night before between him and the warm cotton sheets. And he knew this because he had a hard on that was leaking precome all over his sweaty hip.

Which had to mean it all had been a dream. Damn it.

Steve rolled onto his back, swallowing against a relief that felt about as huge as disappointment in his throat. An amazing dream was for the best, really – the best of all possible solutions, if Steve was going to be reasonable about it. No awkward entanglements to trip the team up when so much depended on them working seamlessly together; no painful explanations of how things 'weren't like that, really', no struggle to maintain a friendship already too fragile under the weight of a crush it was never meant to bear.

It almost felt like cheating, getting out of his mistake that easily, dreaming the pleasure while leaving the consequences behind when he awoke. Steve would have felt guilty over it if he hadn't been aching hard and randier than he'd been in his entire life just remembering his fantasy-Tony's attentions.

And that was just more proof, wasn't it? Because if any of that had been real, if he'd actually come three times already that morning, Steve was pretty damn sure he'd have woken up sore, not hard, horny, and ready to go all over again.

And... well, why not?

"Jarvis, cut cameras, secure doors and activate noise cancellation," Steve instructed, as he always did before indulging himself. He waited for the tangible silence, and for the faintly echoing click from the other room, and only then reached into the humid warmth of his blankets and pressed shivering into his own palm. At least that edge would come off fairly easily, and it would hardly have been the first time Tony had featured in Steve's private fantasies. He might blush a bit when he had to greet Tony with a straight face down in the common area later, but Tony had never seemed to notice it in the past, and Steve figured the odds of hangover this morning were actually higher than usual for everyone but Thor. He should be able to get away with a bit of self-indulgence with the Avengers none the wiser for it.

He'd just about settled into his rhythm when a sudden hammering on Steve's door startled a yelp out of him. His enhanced hearing caught a muffled, frantic voice, just loud enough to bleed through the soundproofing as he scrambled out of bed, but he couldn't make out the words, only the timbre of alarm. Steve took five precious seconds to struggle into a pair of sweatpants, hoping the hang of the thicker fabric might camouflage his erection, then he ran for the door.

"Steve! Steve, come on, dammit," the shouting resolved into words as he skidded to a stop and began to work free the locks. "Jarvis says you're in there, now open the damn door!"

Steve froze, doorknob in his hand, mind whirling to guess what, outside improbable, implausible, impossible dreams being somehow real, could bring a frantic Tony to his door. But reasoning aside, the threat of Jarvis was a real one, and so Steve took a breath, summoned up his nerve and his best blandly confused poker face, and flung the door open.

"Tony, what's wrong? Is there an emergency?" And he had to stop. Because Tony was barefoot outside his door, dressed only in scarlet briefs and a robe he hadn't bothered to belt closed, his hair standing in a riotous pillow-twist, his blue eyes wide and anxious.

"You left," was all he said.

Steve caught his breath against the sudden, twisting sensation of freefall. Then he blinked. "I just... I woke up here," he said, and only then realized he was repeated himself. Repeating his dream self, and he could read in the widening of Tony's eyes that he, this rumpled Tony of waking, had remembered the words too.

So it hadn't been a dream then after all, had it? Steve's cock gave a lurch inside his pants as Tony wet his lips with a quick, nervous tongue and lurched a half step across the threshold. "Damn it Steve, why'd you leave?"

"I didn't..." Steve tried, his voice cracking around the impossibility as he stepped back to let Tony come in. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to-"

Then Tony lunged at him, clumsy with sleep or hungover, nearly toppled until Steve caught his arms to steady him, but instead of griping at being 'manhandled' like he usually would have done, Tony only caught the thin, stretched out collar of Steve's sleep shirt in his fist and dragged it low and to the right. Steve shocked still, trying to ignore the press of Tony's body against his own, the weight of that one hand on his hip while the other thumbed insistently at a spot beneath Steve's collarbone. A spot that stung just a little, that ached just a bit, and that, when Steve finally made himself duck his head to see, was undeniably the fading remains of a bite mark.

"I thought it was a dream," he heard the words, knew it was his own voice speaking them even as his own hands smoothed up the back of Tony's arms to his shoulders as if he was about to push the man away, or drag him impossibly closer.

Tony made a giddy sound, and suddenly his hands caught Steve's face, callused palms against morning stubble, tipping his face down so Tony could kiss him right there in front of the open door. Could kiss him deeply, thoroughly, and with the same sweetly indulgent care he had before when Steve had been softer, slighter, and naked in his bed. Steve let go a sound that wasn't any more dignified than some of his earlier ones had been, just lower on the scale, and then another when Tony's tongue just followed that sound right in.

"Knew it was you," Tony breathed between kisses. "Your eyes, your lips, those three goddamned freckles over your left hip... don't know how you did it... but ... didn't need to. I'd have... I would have... with you... any time." Then suddenly he pressed back, used his grip on Steve's hip to give a chiding little shake, and said, "Any time, Steve. All you had to do was ask." He toed up for a kiss, quick and sloppy, then shook him again. "Or seem like you were gonna ask." Another kiss. "Or like you were fucking thinking about asking." Another. "Or were even the slightest bit open to being bent my way, because dammit, Steve!" One final kiss then, and a shake harder, more almost actually annoyed than the others. "Really! Any damned time!"

Steve licked his lips as Tony stood down, staring expectantly and for once waiting for Steve's answer instead of filling in one of his own. He wondered if it was crazy to think he could still taste the ghost of his other self, of the woman he'd been in Tony's kisses, wondered if he would find the same haunting flavor lingering on his fingers, or his prick.

And Steve meant to explain then, as the silence stretched out long and brittle, how he was used to not asking for things he shouldn't want, didn't deserve, couldn't stand a chance at getting. He meant to explain how he valued the team's balance too much to risk it all on something as shallow as a hopeless little crush, and how he never imagined Tony with fellas at all, let alone with himself, only.... Only what actually came out of Steve's mouth sounded a lot more like, "Do. Tony. I want to have... Tony, can we...? Do you want to-"

"Fuck yes, I do!" Tony grinned lunging them both back toward the open bedroom door. Steve caught him up tight without thinking twice, and surrendered himself to the waking kiss and whatever would be coming along with it; eyes open, and not even remotely drowsy as Jarvis swung the apartment door shut behind them and locked with a pointed *click*.

~* End *~