Tony was gone, had been gone for weeks on one of his business trips, and wasn’t due back for another week, and Steve missed him. He’d always missed Tony (or, well, Iron Man, before he’d known) when they weren’t together, even when they’d first become friends, thought about what he’d say, what he might do, what quip he might make about whatever Steve had gotten himself into, and if he was really in trouble, what Iron Man might think of to get out of it. It had helped him out of some tight spots, too.
But ever since they had gotten together, it had gotten so much more intense, turned wistful desire into needy, aching longing. He couldn’t sleep as well without Tony there in bed beside him, warm and curled up around him or snuggled sturdy and soft and solid under his arm or pressed into his chest the way Tony did when he got cold, his face all pressed up against Steve’s shoulder like he was trying to burrow his way into him. He missed Tony sleepily kissing him while Steve was on the way to shower after his morning workout and Tony was dragging himself out of bed, on his second cup of coffee after he’d chugged the first one in the shower, tasting like coffee and toothpaste before he started getting dressed for work, usually talking on speaker phone and carrying on what always sounded like four or five conversations at once while he did it. He missed Tony, his sympathetic presence, his bright sarcasm, even the way he could get alternately cold and closed off and warm and empathetic and sweet by wildly vacillating turns, his strange sense of humor, his off-kilter jokes, even his incessant working. The way he touched Steve, a hand on his knee, his warmth against him on the sofa, falling asleep on his shoulder during team movie night (regular, like clockwork, unless it was one of three or four movies Tony always stayed awake for, or a new one he really wanted to see), his hand on his shoulder during the day, a soft brush over the top and back of his head somehow right when Steve needed it. No one touched Steve like that other than Tony, no one. The way Tony always seemed willing to listen to Steve’s problems, would talk them through with him and somehow always made Steve feel better, even when he was just bluntly agreeing with Steve that it was a problem. Tony flying him in battle, in the suit—it was never the same when he wasn’t there.
Tony dozing on the couch, Tony trying not to laugh at his jokes so his eyes crinkled up, Tony sparring with him, Tony working while Steve drew, Tony’s cold feet against his legs in bed, Tony straightening the books and coasters on the coffee table absently every time he walked by, Tony humming off key, Tony running his hands through his hair so it stuck up everywhere, Tony falling asleep over a project and looking blearily at Steve when he nudged him awake, Tony tying his tie with absent practiced hand gestures while he held his phone to his shoulder with the pressure of his head and talked a mile a minute, the way he always straightened Steve’s tie when he was wearing one, the way he was always certain to put his cufflinks away, Tony curled up in the dressing gowns he wore, especially the old ugly soft one he wore when his muscles ached. The way Tony kissed him. The way Tony touched him, a soft finger behind his ear, drawing down along his neck, his hand up under his shirt.
His bed felt cold without Tony in it, and he couldn’t bring himself to stay in Tony’s suite in the mansion without Tony there, even still. But his own room felt strange and cold and lonely and empty and unfamiliar, and he missed Tony’s presence inhabiting it almost as much as he did in Tony’s rooms. Tony had given Steve a bottle of the cologne Tony wore (it was called STARK, because of course it was), and when he was gone, Steve always splashed a little of it on his pillow because he loved the way Tony smelled, and it reminded him of him, but it wasn’t Tony.
He knew it was, well, it was needy. Clingy. He wasn’t even a great boyfriend the rest of the time, he knew that. He disappeared without warning, failed to talk about things that were bothering him, prioritized work, avoided problems, could never put things into words, went running instead of telling someone he was upset with them, sulked over modern music he didn’t like and the lack of soda fountains, was always popping off without warning and coming back three days later feeling better and accomplished that he’d foiled the Serpent Society again and done some good work on his own to find Tony fretting, wild, out of his head with worry. It was kind of rich for him to turn desperate and lonely and insecure the second Tony went off to do something he needed to do, especially when Tony was much better about telling Steve when he’d be gone.
The worst part of it was how damn randy he got. He tried not to be a pill to Tony about wanting sex when he figured Tony didn’t feel it, but he and Tony had sex, well, once or twice a week, if things were slow. And it wasn’t like sex was the main thing he missed about Tony. It wasn’t even important, not at all. He wanted Tony there with him, he wanted to talk to him, he wanted his voice and his warmth and his arms around him and he wanted Tony to hug him and laugh with him and go out with him and be with him on missions and at his side. It made him feel shallow, like a bad person, a bad lover, to even think about sex with how much he missed Tony at the same time, like an ache inside of him that could only be eased with the real, living, solidity of Tony there with him, and was only slightly relieved by hearing his voice on the phone, for a while.
It put him in a nasty mood, though, feeling so sexually wanting, unfulfilled, all the time, like he couldn’t go without. He could, it was just that it felt like the second Tony was gone and his body realized he really couldn’t be with him, even for a quickie, it went into withdrawal or something and tormented him with the desire for what he couldn’t have. He was never usually this horny, despite how much Tony turned him on with practically zero effort. It was like Tony being away made him want him all the more. He tried to work it out, went running, hit the bag, worked out, filled up his time, but he could feel himself getting more and more frustrated, more and more snappish with the people around him, and this time, after he snapped at Jan twice in the same day for really nothing, he had come up here, to his own bedroom that felt so strange and unfamiliar now that he slept in Tony’s bed most nights, and decided he’d better do something about it.
Steve masturbated just about twice every day, usually. He barely even thought about it in his morning shower, just got a hand around the half-erection he usually got from a good workout, under the water and warm and slick and slippery with soap, and gave himself a few, quick easy strokes until he was coming. It never took long. Did the same thing when he was getting ready for bed at night, though sometimes at night he slipped a finger or two inside himself, too, while he had his other hand on his dick. He’d rubbed one out in the shower that morning just like he did every day, and he might have thought about Tony’s laugh and the warmth of him pressed against Steve’s chest, warm and soapy, his hand on Steve’s thigh while he got one hand around Steve’s dick and jacked it for him, just a little bit while he did, but, well, he was lonely. And clearly that wasn’t cutting it.
So he was going to do this, he was going to be indulgent and do this one more time, today, and he was going to think about Tony while he did it, and then he was—he was going to tell him, afterwards, because Tony would like knowing that, Steve knew he would, that Steve had needed to jack off to thinking about him.
Steve started by taking off his pants, folding them over a chair, then hesitated and stepped out of his briefs, too. He felt a little strange, standing there with his dick hanging out in nothing but his shirt, but without a partner he always felt too cold without his shirt, so he just lay down on the bed like that, tried to settle into a comfortable position, and took a deep breath. He took his dick in his hand and tried to think of how Tony would do it. Obviously there was no point to thinking about how he would make love to Tony, how Tony would bite his lip, his face screwing up, would smile unexpectedly up at him how soft and sweet, how long Steve would finger him, how he would touch him to make it good for him, how he would suck softly at Tony’s shoulders and his nipples and kiss up his wrists and arms and press kisses into the hollows at his elbows, how he might press his cock into the hot slick space between Tony’s thighs if Tony didn’t feel like he could take a cock in his rear just then, how Steve might pet his hair as Tony sucked him off or return the favor, so … so he’d think about how Tony would touch him, with Steve on his back, just like this.
Tony—Tony often liked to work him up slow. He’d pay attention to the underside of the head, where Steve was sensitive, press his thumb between his foreskin and rub his tip gently, circling it slowly, especially when they were just getting started, before Steve was so godawful sensitive there. He’d roll Steve’s balls in his other hand, pressing the heel of his palm against the bottom of his shaft with the other one while he teased him with his fingers and thumb, and when Steve was wet and sticky and dribbling precome all over, then Tony would close his hand around his cock and stroke him slowly, pulling down his foreskin then pushing it back up. For a fella who was cut and didn’t have one himself, Tony sure did know exactly how to do it to someone who had one, and Steve wasn’t sure if Tony had just picked it up that damn fast from watching him and or experimenting or if he’d had experience before him. Still, half the tricks Tony had used on him Steve hadn’t even known before.
So Steve did that, stroked his thumb along the underside of his cock, teased it over the head, got his other hand down and played with his balls, and thought about Tony kneeling over him, his warmth on his neck, feathering over his face, the way he’d say, something, something dirty and sweet at the same time, like. Damn, what would he say, Steve was terrible at this part. Maybe, That’s it, peaches, you get so wet for me, it’s so pretty. Something like that?
Just thinking it, thinking about Tony’s sweet clever lips forming the words, framed by his dark dramatic facial hair, his wryly mischievous little smile, almost self-deprecating and the way he let his lashes flutter over his eyes as he stroked him, looking up through them at Steve’s face, the nickname, the slight, slight sting of embarrassment that always shot through Steve’s whole body whenever Tony mentioned how much he leaked, Tony calling him pretty, made his cock throb in his hand, made Steve feel hot and lightheaded and dizzy with arousal. Oh, he thought, oh, and stroked himself a little more.
Tony would always stroke his thighs, too, his hips, so after a while Steve lay off teasing at his balls and stroked his hand down over his thigh. The warm rush of sensation, soft and pleasurable, that brought almost surprised him. It still didn’t feel as good as when Tony did it, but he was somehow half-expecting that it wouldn’t do anything for him if Tony wasn’t the one doing it. Steve rubbed the inside of his thighs a little more, still playing more gently with his cock than he ever usually did when he was jerking himself off, then traced that hand over his hips (that was a little more awkward to do to yourself), pushing up his t-shirt as he went, then he shoved it up high under his arms and reached up to suck on his thumb and finger and bring them down to tug on his nipple.
Tony had discovered how sensitive Steve was in his nipples the very first time they’d ever had sex together, and even though all of Steve’s partners had enjoyed playing with them to some extent, he teased them and touched them and fondled them and kissed them more than anyone else Steve had been with, until Steve had come just from that, and more than once. Tony would—he would pinch them, drag his thumb around the areolas, rock the pad of it over the tip, pull on them a little. He would suck them, too, but Steve wasn’t up to trying that, even if he could have somehow contorted himself to do it. Tony would also press his hand over them, rub the heel of it up against the hard little nub, as peaked and needy and throbbing as they felt after Tony had been at them, and that felt really, really good when he did it, too, so Steve did that some more, tracing a hand over his pecs, squeezing them, then returning to teasing his nipples.
He kept at that for a long time, stroking himself with one hand, trying to imagine the sweet things Tony would say (he’d call him beautiful, call him sweetheart, tiger, cupcake, sport, babydoll, honey, sugar, sweetness, handsome, gorgeous, sunshine, he’d call him sunshine), the way Tony would touch him, until he could feel himself hard and leaking in his hand, and of course Tony would probably have his mouth on him by now, but Steve couldn’t do that, either, so he just stroked himself a little more quickly, tugged at his nipple and tried to imagine Tony straddling his knees and maybe—maybe crossing his arms and smiling at him and saying, saying, uh, Come for me, sweetheart, I know you can do it, you come so easily, so quickly, you just love being touched, even when you’re the one to do it, come for me and show me you can do it so damn easily without my even touching you, huh? And his eyes would be so soft and fond and loving, teasing Steve because he knew the humiliation that made him flush red also settled hot and sparking in his gut, turned him on, made his cock so hard it was easy to come and—Steve ran his thumb over his head, just lightly, the way Tony did it, and came with a gasp, spurting it all over himself.
Tony always stroked him through it, so Steve did that, too, got his hand off his tingling nipple and brought it down to wrap both hands around himself as he writhed and panted and pleasure rocketed through him, sweeping him away. And then he was coming down, and pressing his face into the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut as he breathed in Tony’s scent, his cologne, but it—it wasn’t the same, he thought, hand still on his cock, sticky with come, as he panted, whined through a throat that suddenly felt tight and hot and aching, because, because then Tony would have kissed him, would have kissed him, and there was no one to kiss him now, and oh, God, Rogers, this was pathetic, he had just had a fantastic orgasm and he was all mooning and tears because Tony wasn’t there to kiss him, and—Steve rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, his prickling eyes against the fabric already hot from his head, uncaring of the way he was smearing come all over himself, and he let his hips push down into the bedspread and rocked his tingling, throbbing, oversensitive, twinging cock against the covers until he came again, raw and almost painful, gasping and breathing in Tony’s scent, and—
Tony would have put his mouth on his chest, would have licked the come off all over him. Tony would be straddling him now, kissing his shoulders and down his spine, rubbing his hands up and down his sides and—
Steve really missed him. He knew he’d be back soon, but it just wasn’t the same. He pressed his face into the pillow and felt hot and tight and miserable and sorry for himself, even as the relaxation of his orgasms swept through his whole body, untightening his muscles and making him feel good, soft and warm and relaxed and pleasantly tingling, and eventually Steve relaxed and realized that … that he actually felt better.
He’d talk to Tony on the phone that night, and tell him all about it, that he’d thought about him while he tugged himself off, and Tony would probably like that, and tell him things he could do to himself next time, and Steve didn’t feel great, it wasn’t the same as sex with Tony, but he felt good, the pleasant humming warm kind of good orgasm always made him feel, and he wasn’t feeling as desperate anymore, so that was something.
Steve sighed, pushed himself to his feet, thinking about taking a shower, and then thought, Tony would never let me leave the bedspread like that, all messy with come, Christ, and then smiled and laughed to himself as he leaned down to pull the coverlet off, pulled on a pair of boxers, and headed for the laundry. He’d do that first.