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Thrust Issues

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"When was the last time you slept?"

At Tony's words, Steve jerked in his harness, blinking rapidly. He'd been sitting upright, staring into space, like his brain had been trying to doze off but hadn't bothered to tell his body. Even with the cowl up, Tony could see the shadows around his eyes.

Steve was clearly trying to smile but, exhausted, he didn't quite make it. His mouth just twitched. "Isn't that my line?"

"Humor me," Tony told him.

They were all tired, the Avengers, but Steve looked practically dead. Hell, Steve hadn't even protested when Clint had slid into the pilot's seat of the Quinjet for their return trip from Project PEGASUS' upstate facility, and usually Steve at least mustered up an objection to that one. The flight so far had been unnervingly quiet; everyone had been a little subdued since Carol had stormed off after they'd finally broken the mind control on the Squadron Supreme, sure, but a Quinjet full of Avengers almost always made more noise than this. They'd been in the air for half an hour and the only thing anyone had said aloud had been Clint radioing air traffic control. So there was that, and then there was Steve.

And the thing about Steve was that -- in Tony's vast experience -- Steve didn't get this tired. Courtesy of the serum, he didn't need as much sleep as most people, and Tony had watched Steve push himself for days on end. But Tony supposed that even a super-soldier had to run out of energy sometime. And when Steve's reserves were tapped out, it clearly took a lot to fill him back up.

Steve's face screwed up in thought and he tipped his head back against the Quinjet bulkhead and slumped into his seat. "Two, three days, maybe?" The words were a slurred mumble. "The night before Freeman called us about the downed jet. Got four hours then."

Jesus. Well, that would do it, Tony thought. Steve had been awake for going on sixty hours and in that time they'd been in combat twice. After the Squadron Supreme had accused them of being fakes, Duane Freeman had given them forty-eight hours to get to the bottom of it before he pulled the Avengers' security clearance, and apparently Steve just... hadn't slept. Even Tony had caught a nap or two in the meantime.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Wanda and Thor exchange concerned glances. They all cared about Steve.

"You could sleep now?" Tony glanced out the window; he could make out the Quinjet's flashing wingtip against the darkening, clouded evening skies. It wasn't much of a view. "It's another hour 'til Manhattan."

But Steve shook his head -- although at his energy level, it was really more a matter of letting his head fall forward and swing down. "Can't," he mumbled. "Team leader. Still an active mission. I can wait another hour."

Ordinarily, Tony thought Steve might have agreed, but he probably wanted to double down on doing things by the book. Since Carol had just left in a huff after him questioning her about her Binary powers one too many times, he was probably concerned about any of his actions making him anything less than perfect. God. It hadn't been Steve's fault -- if Tony was right about all those times he'd caught her sneaking drinks and hiding it, if Tony was right about everything that had rung too many alarm bells, then it hadn't been anyone's fault -- but this wasn't exactly the time to broach the subject.

"Okay," Tony said, on a sigh. "If you say so, Cap. Another hour."

Steve's eyes slid shut, and Tony decided not to say anything.

Steve was the last one out of the Quinjet. As the other Avengers headed across the mansion's hangar, finally starting to converse with each other, Tony stayed behind, just to make sure Steve didn't trip over his own feet on the way out.

"I fell asleep," Steve said, dazed and half-awake, as he shuffled down the ramp.

"Yeah, Winghead," Tony said, not bothering to hide the fondness in his voice. It probably got lost in the vocal filters, anyway. He patted Steve on the shoulder as Steve's boots finally hit the hangar deck. "You needed it. Go get some more sleep, okay?"

"Okay," Steve echoed, and, God, he must have been exhausted, because he didn't even complain as Tony herded him toward the stairs. But five feet from the doorway, he stopped and frowned like he was trying to remember something. "Wait. Is it Tuesday?"

Yep, Steve was definitely dead on his feet. "No, it's Wednesday. Why?"

If Steve had been any other man, Tony was positive he would have said something extremely obscene. But because he was Steve, that meant that Tony just got to watch his face fall, dejected, and that was even worse than any obscenity. Steve looked like he was about to burst into tears.

"It's my night for monitor duty," Steve mumbled, swaying on his feet. "Team leader. My duty. Have to watch the alarms. I have the first shift." His face rapidly crumbled into utter misery, his gaze anguished. "And-- and Warbird had the second shift, so I guess I have both."

Oh, no, no, no. That was cruel. That was cruel and unusual punishment, and there was no way Tony was going to let Steve be subjected to that.

"Steve," Tony said, and it took Steve half a second to react to his own name. Yeah, he was out of it. Tony put his hand on Steve's shoulder again and squeezed ever so lightly; the metal of his gauntlet scraped against the mail of Steve's shirt. "Go to bed. Go on. I've got this."


"I've got this," Tony repeated. He tipped his faceplate up so he could give Steve his best encouraging smile. "I need to stay up anyway. Quinjet maintenance. I can watch the monitors at the same time. Go get your eighteen hours of beauty sleep. I promise not to wake you up for anything short of the end of the world."

The hopeful look on Steve's face was practically heartbreaking, a bright and shining joy. His expression was so very unguarded, a rare sight to see on him. It made Tony wonder how often Steve actually got anything he wanted.

"I can sleep?"

Tony smiled again. He knew this one was the ridiculously fond smile he tried to keep off his face, so as not to give any of his more romantic feelings away, but Steve was probably too tired to notice. "Yeah," Tony said, softly. "You can sleep. Everything's going to be all right. Stand down, soldier."

Steve's mouth twitched, but this time he managed to summon a gentle, genuine smile in return, the one that always made Tony feel warm all over. "Is that an order, Shellhead?"

"You bet," Tony told him, and Steve just grinned wider.

Stumbling a little, Steve turned towards the door, and Tony flipped down his faceplate and watched him go. He turned up the audio gain to listen to Steve's footsteps on the stairs -- he wasn't about to rule out Steve actually falling -- until they turned into quiet footfalls across the floor below. Tony smiled to himself. Steve was going to be okay.

With a few quick commands, he had the feeds from the monitor room piped into his HUD. There was something to be said for multitasking. Now he could keep an eye on all the threats of the world -- not that there was going to be anything else tonight -- and fix up the Quinjets at the same time. Win-win.

A wireframe globe spun at the corner of his vision, with Avengers Mansion a blinking blue dot. No activity on either the global or local alarms. Good. They'd had enough for one day.

Tony turned back to the nearest Quinjet and suppressed a yawn. No naps for him. It was time to get to work.

Two hours later, Tony had just about finished the maintenance checklist on the first Quinjet when the alarms went off. Lights flashed, and the HUD spanning his field of vision blinked red with his least favorite sentence: PERIMETER ALERT: AVENGERS MANSION DEFENSES BREACHED.

The foundations of the mansion shook.

Today was not his lucky day.

Tony swore, levered himself out from beneath the Quinjet, and slammed the alert button on the wall that would trigger emergency all-call on the active team's identicards. He brought up the exterior camera feed and winced as he saw four very familiar shapes. Thunderball raised his ball and chain, swinging out to strike the main door again, and it splintered under the impact. Behind him were Bulldozer, Piledriver, and of course the Wrecker.

It was the Wrecking Crew. Goddammit, he did not want to rebuild this place again already. He was having enough financial problems lately as it was.

"Avengers!" Tony called into the intercom. "The Wrecking Crew are bashing their way in! Get up and get downstairs, on the double!"

He took the stairs two at a time as the mansion shuddered and shook. The Wrecking Crew were probably inside already. The smashing noises sounded much closer. And, sure, Tony reinforced the mansion to stand up to super-strength every time he put it back together -- he couldn't not, when the Avengers lived here -- but that didn't mean the place was going to weather a concerted effort to demolish it. Thank God he was already armored up.

The team had gotten the message. Vance and Angel -- who for some reason were both still dressed -- were halfway down the stairs when Tony hit the second-floor landing. Thor was close behind them, and even better, Thor was in armor. Had he slept in the armor? He had Mjölnir clenched in one fist and Tony grinned to see it. Oh, yeah, that would scare the living daylights out of the Wrecker, all right.

"Coming through!" Clint yelled, and he brushed past Tony and leaped down half the stairs at once. He was wearing purple pajama pants and fuzzy bunny slippers, but he had his quiver on his back, and his bow in his hand, already nocking an arrow.

Wanda followed Clint at a dead run, and crimson energy crackled around her fists. The flowing red dress she was wearing might have been a nightgown, but given her usual fashion sense, it was difficult to tell.

There, that was everyone--

Wait. Where was Steve?

All the doors in the hallway had been left ajar, hastily flung open, except one: Steve's. Steve's door was still shut.

That meant that Steve was still asleep. He'd been so exhausted that even a call to assemble hadn't woken him.

Tony hated to do it, but right now the Avengers needed Steve more than Steve needed to rest. Downstairs, there was a dire-sounding crunching noise. Wood splintered. Someone was yelling. Tony glanced back at the stairwell, then at Steve's door again. He'd just have to get Steve up himself.

"The mansion's under attack!" Tony called out, and he pounded on the door heavily enough to make it rattle and creak in its frame. "I need you on your feet, Avenger!" He slammed his armored fist against the door again.

From inside Steve's room, there came a very heavy thud.

"Ow," came Steve's voice, slow and muzzy. "Huh?"

"It's the Wrecking Crew!" Tony yelled. "They're downstairs! We need you, Cap!"

There was a brief pause.

"On my way!" Steve called back after a moment, but he didn't sound any more awake. Tony could barely make out some shuffling and creaking noises within the room. "Boots," Steve mumbled. There was a soft slithery sound. "Gloves." A metallic ringing noise. "Shield." Another, longer pause, like Steve was checking himself over. "Boots, gloves, shield. Okay."

Tony could feel his mouth curve in a smile beneath the faceplate. Steve was awake and ready to go. Steve had this.

The door swung open, and Steve burst out into the hallway. He had the shield in one hand. His other hand, red-gloved, was flung out, pointing in the direction of the stairs.

"Follow me!" Steve cried out, his voice ringing with command.

Dumbfounded, Tony just stared.

Steve did not, in fact, have this.

Oh, he had his boots. He had his gloves. He had his shield -- the wrong shield, since he'd grabbed the round prototype Tony had made him a few weeks ago, the one that had wreaked havoc on the sitting room when Steve had tried to throw it. But an unbalanced shield was not the major problem here.

Other than the boots and gloves, Steve was completely naked.

Steve was naked, and Steve was hard.

Having been a full-time superhero for over a decade meant that Tony was more than passingly familiar with some of the more inappropriate effects of combat adrenaline rushes -- sometimes you got erections. Granted, fighting in a form-fitting suit of armor had reduced their frequency somewhat for him, but he was well aware of the phenomenon. It was weird, it was purely physical, and it didn't mean anything. He could ignore it.

It was much, much more difficult to ignore when it was Steve's.

Steve was standing right in front of him. His cock was jutting out, flushed, dark with blood, and it was -- there was really no other word for it -- gigantic.

Steve's cock was bigger than Tony's. Steve's cock was bigger than any cock Tony had personally experienced. For fuck's sake, it was bigger than anything Tony had ever seen in porn. It was bigger than anything Tony had ever dreamed about. Jesus. It didn't even look real, at that size; it looked like some kind of Photoshop accident made flesh. Tony wasn't sure whether hung like a horse was a fair description, or if Steve was actually bigger than a goddamn horse. If he had said he was, Tony would have believed him. Good lord.

He'd known Steve for a decade and he'd never known about this. It wasn't really the kind of thing that came up in conversation, true, but Steve was one of his best friends. How had Tony never known? He was frozen, stunned, and the thoughts whirling through his head were tinged with both lust and something weirdly akin to betrayal. Steve knew everything about him. How the hell had Steve kept something like this a secret?

No, he told himself, he was being ridiculous. This wasn't about him, and it wasn't for him, much as he wanted it to be. God, he really wanted that to be for him. Right now.

Tony could feel his jaw begin to ache in an odd kind of anticipation. His mouth watered. Could he fit that in his mouth? Could anyone? Christ, how had Steve been hiding that all these years?

God, if only Tony had known about this--

Well, honestly, he'd already had a crush on Steve for most of his life, so it wouldn't have changed much of anything. His fantasies sure would have had a lot more detail in them, though. And he'd probably have practiced more deep-throating.

Neither of them had moved. Tony was still staring at Steve's cock. Steve was -- unbelievably -- getting even harder. The head of his cock was smooth and shining, damp, half-hidden by foreskin. Of course he was uncut.

Tony wondered how sensitive Steve was.

He wondered if Steve had to jerk off with both hands, or if he could actually fit his fingers around that monster. Maybe. He had big hands. He could picture Steve teasing himself, getting even harder. God, what if he got bigger?

Tony's armor was starting to get more than a little uncomfortable in very delicate places. Trapped against the unyielding metal, Tony's cock ached and throbbed. Even so, he was glad for the armor. Steve couldn't see how much Tony was... moved.

Even more luckily, Steve couldn't see Tony's face.

It occurred to Tony, distantly, that he ought to say something. Steve clearly didn't even know he was naked.

"Uh," Tony said. His voice echoed, quiet and weak, within his helmet. "Steve? Pants?"

It occurred to Tony that maybe he also ought to stop staring at Steve's dick.

He watched Steve glance down at himself, and then blink, and then stare, goggling, wide-eyed. He did an actual double-take. It was comical, almost, like something out of an X-rated cartoon. Now they were both staring at Steve's enormous cock, at least. Tony wondered if this was one of those things that was going to be quaintly funny in retrospect. Right now surreally bizarre was winning, but unbelievably fucking hot was giving it a run for its money.

Tony could feel his face growing hot. This was getting more and more awkward by the second.

He waited for Steve to look away, to blush -- though honestly Tony wasn't sure if there was enough blood elsewhere in his body for him to be capable of that -- because if there was one thing that everyone who actually knew him knew about Steve, it was that he was awfully private when it came to matters of a more intimate nature. The Avengers' good-natured discussions about their love lives, depending on who was on the team, could get detailed -- could, in fact, get pretty goddamn raunchy -- and Tony knew a lot more about certain of his teammates' preferences than he had ever wanted to know... but not about Steve. Steve never joined in the oversharing games. As far as Tony knew, the only people who knew anything about what Steve did in bed were the women he dated. And there hadn't been all that many of those.

Oh, it wasn't like Tony hadn't imagined it, furtively and feverishly. But Steve had never said. And so, of course, now that such a personal subject was unavoidable, of course Steve was going to be embarrassed. For God's sake, Steve was standing here, naked, in the middle of the second-floor hallway, and he was hard enough to pound nails. This was the stuff a thousand humiliating nightmares were made of.

From downstairs, there was another crashing noise, this one even louder, and the mansion rattled around them as if they were in the midst of an earthquake.

With effort, Tony dragged his gaze up to Steve's face. Hesitation rippled across his features for an instant, and he glanced back longingly in the direction of his room, and Tony wondered if he was going to retreat. But then Steve's expression firmed, determined, and he clenched his jaw and lifted his head. Whatever Steve felt -- and he probably was embarrassed, he had to be -- he wasn't going to let it affect him.

"There's no time for pants," Steve said. His voice was perfectly calm, crisp, still commanding. "Not when the mansion's under attack. Come on!"

Well. Apparently Steve had bigger problems than his dick. Tony seriously admired his ability to compartmentalize.

Steve ran towards the stairs. Stunned, Tony followed, trying desperately not to think about how Steve's gorgeous ass was flexing as he moved, as he pushed forward with grace and smooth, confident balance. Tony felt like he was watching either a work of art come to life or the filthiest porn he'd ever seen, and he couldn't tell which. Maybe both. God, even from this side of him he could still see Steve's enormous dick, bouncing between his thighs as he ran.

Christ. Okay. Right. Wrecking Crew. Tony needed to focus.

Halfway down the spiral staircase, Tony found Clint in position, crouching, ducking back behind the curve of the staircase for cover as he reached for his quiver and grabbed another arrow. Clint glanced over at Steve, blinked once, and then went back to his bow, as if somehow Steve Rogers naked wasn't automatically the most interesting thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

Tony supposed that not everyone could be madly in love with Steve.

"Well, this is different," Clint said, and then he followed it up with, "Hey, Tin Man, don't just stand there gawking. You're in my line of sight."

Act normal, Tony reminded himself. Be normal. They had a fight to win.

Once Steve had leaped clear of the stairs, Tony made his way down. He dragged his gaze away from Steve's perfect body and tried to take in the scene.

It was a mess. Furniture was ruined, tables broken, vases smashed. Pictures hung askew. The carpets were scorched. There were several man-sized holes in the drywall, and the plaster moldings were so much dust.

Thor and the Wrecker were tangling, crowbar versus hammer. Vance and Angel were taking on Piledriver. An arrow whizzed over Tony's shoulder and caromed off Bulldozer's armored head, uselessly. Wanda followed up Clint's arrow with a hex, and that at least made Bulldozer stagger.

And Steve, of course, went right for Thunderball, the guy with the giant demolition ball on a chain. The surprise of an unexpectedly naked Captain America bought Steve a second at most; Thunderball stared at him, but then quickly recovered, grinning a sinister grin and swinging the ball and chain over his head.

"Decided to make my job easy, huh?" Thunderball rasped. "You're usually in that nice reinforced uniform. You want to see how much this will hurt your bare flesh?" He sneered, his gaze traveling downward. "Seems to me like you got some parts you'd like to protect."

Hearing a line like that, literally any other man on the planet would have moved to protect his dick, first and foremost. Hell, Steve was holding a goddamn shield. But, Steve being Steve, he saw through the feint and just raised the shield high, like he wasn't completely naked, and he blocked the fall of the demolition ball with a low grunt of effort.

Steve probably sounded like that in bed, didn't he? Sex definitely needed some amount of physical exertion, and Tony had been fighting and training with Steve long enough that those noises were familiar. So he probably didn't sound very different, say, taking his cock in hand. Would he be showy? He couldn't not be, with a dick that size. Fucking his fist would have to be a production of its own. He'd probably try to hold off--

A hex flew by his ear in a blur of crimson magic that gave the suit sensors fits, and Tony ducked and swore. That was close. He'd almost been a casualty of friendly fire.

He needed to pay attention, was what he needed to do.

Thunderball drew back his weapon for another blow, and Tony was grateful that in here he didn't really have the clearance to get as dangerous as possible -- but that was going to change if he started breaking through the ceiling. And he was right; Steve was unprotected. He'd grabbed the prototype shield, the one he couldn't even throw safely. Tony couldn't be sure it was going to stand up to this.

Tony's heart was in his throat as Thunderball lashed out again--

--and Steve jumped backwards, nimble as always, and landed lightly. Tony was definitely not watching his dick bounce. Jesus, Steve was still hard. How was he still hard? Tony had to wonder, really, if that meant something about his stamina in bed--

Okay, no. He had to focus. After the battle was over, he could lock himself in his room and jerk off for hours, but right now he needed to fight. Steve needed backup.

Tony raised his hands and took a few steps, heading for Steve's side--

"Watch out!" Wanda yelled.

Tony was dimly aware of the warning. It had to be for someone else. Wanda was all the way on the other side of the room.

"Iron Man!" Thor roared. "Behind you!"

Too late, Tony charged his repulsors and started to turn. The last thing he saw was the Wrecker, a foot away from him, crowbar flashing out. There was a terrible ringing noise as the HUD went blank, and then the ringing was inside Tony's skull, and then there was only darkness.

"Shh," Steve said, from somewhere next to him. "Don't get up yet, okay?"

Tony struggled to open his eyes. When he did, he found that he was lying in the mansion infirmary. The world was fuzzy and warm and soft, red-tinged, like he'd been hit by one of Wanda's hexes. Steve was at his side, and there was a warm, strong hand bracing Tony's shoulder, stopping him from getting up. What the hell had happened?

And then it all came back. He remembered now. They'd been fighting the Wrecking Crew. Steve had been... naked.

Tony smiled dreamily in remembrance. That had been great.

His eyes finally focusing, Tony blinked and took a better look at Steve. Steve was wearing his entire uniform, not just the boots and gloves.

Steve was dressed now.

That was unfortunate.

"You're wearing pants," Tony informed him. His voice came out of him slightly slurred.

"Yeah, Tony." Steve's voice was fond and a little soft, like he was humoring him. "I thought that would be for the best." His hands gently nudged Tony back into the mattress. "You should lie back down. Hank McCoy came by to check on you, and Wanda put a healing hex on you. So you probably feel a little funny, but that concussion of yours is going to be gone in hours rather than weeks. You do need to stay still for it, though. Don't worry. You've got a hard head. You'll be fine." He smiled. Something about the smile was tired.

Tony squinted and tried to take all this in. His brain didn't seem to be working right. But Steve didn't seem worried. That was good. "Okay," Tony pronounced. Even saying that took a lot out of him. He wanted to go back to sleep.

He was very comfortable. He realized he was wearing the t-shirt and sweatpants he'd been wearing under the armor. Someone had taken him out of his armor at some point. He hoped it had been Steve.

"We got the Wrecking Crew," Steve told him. "It's taken care of. Everyone else is fine. You were the only casualty." He grimaced. "The foyer is a bit of a mess, but as far as we can tell, the mansion's still structurally sound. Damage Control is coming by in the morning. They weren't too pleased about me calling them in the middle of the night, but I figure that's why they earn the big bucks, right?"

The mention of morning tripped something in Tony's magic-fogged brain, a thin knife of worry slicing through the haze. Morning. Sleep. Was it nighttime? Steve needed to sleep. He'd woken Steve up, for the fight. No wonder Steve looked tired. Had Steve slept?

Tony glanced over at the chair Steve had been sitting in; he'd left a well-thumbed paperback book open face-down on the little table next to him. He'd clearly been reading.

"What time?" Tony forced out.

"What time is it now, you mean?" Steve asked. One of the reasons Tony loved him was because he always knew exactly what Tony meant. "It's just past four. There's nothing you need to be up for yet. Nothing you need to be up for at all until you feel better, okay? They told me you could go back to sleep if you wanted."

With effort, Tony reached out and got a hand on Steve's forearm. The leather of his gloves was cool and smooth under Tony's fingertips. "Did-- did you sleep? You need sleep."

Steve glanced away and back again. "I, uh," Steve said, abashed. "It's no big deal. I just. You were out cold and I wanted to-- well. I'm just glad you're okay."

"You should sleep," Tony told him. "And stay here. With me."

He yawned, and then the world went away again.

When Tony awoke again, the world was much clearer. Steve was standing next to the doorway like he'd only just come in, and Clint and Wanda were behind him, crowding in from the hallway.

Tony pushed himself up and squinted. Nothing was red anymore, and his head felt a little cottony, but everything was basically fine.

"See," Steve said to Clint, "I told you, he was going to be awake already." He turned back and smiled. "Hey, Tony. Doing better?"

Tony nodded. The movement didn't make his head want to fall off, so he was probably all healed. "Great, thanks." He glanced at Wanda. "And I hear I have Wanda to thank for it."

Wanda grinned, wide and pleased. "It was me and Beast, but you're welcome."

"Just don't make a habit of it," Steve added. It was his serious-team-leader voice, but his eyes were soft with concern.

"Okay," Tony said, looking between the three of them. "So what time is it now, and what have I missed?"

"It's ten," Steve said. "You haven't missed much. Damage Control hasn't been by yet. They should be here soon."

"You missed a team meeting," Wanda said.

Tony frowned. "It's not Saturday." He was pretty sure about that.

"It was a special meeting." Wanda looked away and bit her lip. "The captain wanted to... apologize to the rest of us. He was concerned about his, ahem. Attire. That it had been inappropriate, and that he had sexually harassed us."

Clint stuck his head around the edge of the doorframe.

"That he had sexually harassed us with his monster horse dick," Clint contributed, helpfully.

Tony had been doing so well not thinking about what was in Steve's pants, but, God, now he couldn't not think about it. It was like the advanced version of knowing that everybody was naked under their clothes. He knew that Steve was just standing right there, and in his pants there was his dick, and his dick was inhumanly massive, and Tony couldn't not know that.

He wondered if he was ever going to get a chance to see it again.

He'd gotten a concussion because he'd been thinking about Steve's dick, and the only thing he could think of now was that he wanted to see it again. God. There was really something wrong with him.

"Hawkeye." Steve's face was getting redder, like somehow the shame was finally hitting him. He hadn't blushed at all, before, but Tony supposed there was time for embarrassment now that it wasn't life-or-death stakes. "That is definitely inappropriate."

"I'm just saying," Clint said. "If I were packing that, I wouldn't be apologizing for anything. Ever."

Very purposefully, Wanda raised her foot and stepped on Clint's toes.


"Cut it out," Wanda said. "He doesn't want to talk about it." And then she linked her arm through Clint's and started to pull him away. "Come on, Clint. We have somewhere else to be, remember?"

"What do you mean?" Tony heard Clint asking, as Wanda hauled him away. "We don't have anywhere to--"

"They need to talk," Wanda said, and that was the last thing Tony heard.

Steve's cheeks were still a little pink, and he dragged his hand over his face and sighed, like he was trying for composure and couldn't find it.

"I am sorry, you know," Steve said. The words were quiet. "I really didn't mean for... that... to happen, last night, and I hope you can forgive me."

Tony guessed that was a no on him getting to see Steve's dick again.

"It's not a problem," Tony said. He made himself smile. "It was an accident, and no one holds it against you. I certainly don't. And, hell, if that had been the worst thing that had ever happened to us, we'd be lucky." He smiled wider, trying to put Steve at ease; Steve smiled weakly back. "Besides, you've already seen me in a thong. Sometimes these things just happen when you're an Avenger, right?"

Steve snorted, the tiniest of laughs. "Okay. If you're sure you're okay with it."

"I am a hundred percent okay with it," Tony said, which was true, albeit not in the way Steve thought it was. "It's over. Done. Forgotten."

Okay, the forgotten part was definitely not true.

The computer panel on the wall flashed. Someone was at the front door, or what was left of it.

Steve glanced over. "That's probably Damage Control."

"I've got this," Tony said, and he slid off the bed and stood up. "No rest for the wicked, right?"

"Right," Steve echoed, a little dubiously. He hooked a thumb into his belt and stepped back.

Tony kept his gaze above Steve's waist, tried not to watch Steve's gloved fingers spread over his thigh, and thought that wicked was the least of the words that he deserved right now.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

He'd see Steve in the hallway, or supervising the repairs with Damage Control, or in the kitchen for breakfast, or downstairs while he was working on fixing Vision up, or at the head of the table in the briefing room, and Tony's instant, immediate thought was Steve has an enormous dick. Ten years of steadfast friendship, of teamwork, of camaraderie, and Tony's idiotic, puerile, one-track mind had reduced it to this. And Tony smiled and nodded and his mouth said all the right things, all the normal things, but in his head was a pounding drumbeat, a solitary note: dick dick dick.

A week passed.

Every time he caught sight of Steve, desire and low-grade terror coiled together in his gut. Dick dick dick. He was hyperaware of where he was looking when Steve was in the room, trying to keep his eyes away from anywhere lower, trying to remember to make normal eye contact so Steve wouldn't think he was completely crazy. He rehearsed what he was going to say to Steve two or three times before he said it. What if one of these times he opened his mouth, what he was actually thinking came out? It was like some kind of Pandora's box. A Pandora's box of dick. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so goddamn awful. Tony couldn't even say it would be funny if it had happened to anyone else, because he wouldn't want anyone else to go through this. It would be funny if it happened in a book, maybe. To a fictional character.

Two weeks passed.

When he shut his eyes, Steve's huge dick haunted him, a ghostly afterimage. When he went to bed, he wondered if Steve was in his room, touching himself. Sexual frustration had become the background radiation of Tony's life. At this point, the supervillains -- not that there were that many -- were almost a welcome reprieve.

So Tony was lying here, in the middle of another lonely and sleepless night, his hands determinedly clutching the edge of his sheets while his cock throbbed in frustrated arousal. He'd be damned if he was going to lie here and jerk off thinking about Steve's dick. He already tried not to think about real people, people he knew, and this would be so much worse; he knew Steve hadn't liked that it had happened, had been ashamed, hadn't wanted Tony to know. How could he even think of using the unwillingly-given memory of one of his best friends to get himself off?

This needed to stop.

And it wasn't like Tony's life wasn't stressful enough right now. He didn't need this, on top of everything else. The world had thought the Avengers had been dead for a whole year, and that meant Tony was trying to pull himself together and put together a whole new company out of the ashes. Stark Solutions was in a precarious state, his cousin Morgan was waiting to pounce on any sign of corporate weakness like a circling vulture, and there were at least three different people trying to kill him -- or maybe Iron Man, he hadn't decided. He was barely getting any sleep anyway. This obsession wasn't helping.

On the occasions he saw Steve, it honestly didn't look like Steve was doing any better. The Sensational Hydra had manipulated his public image to try to cause a Skrull invasion panic in Steve's name, and that was the kind of thing that was guaranteed to give any superhero nightmares. And, for God's sake, Steve had lost his shield. Everyone knew how he felt about that. The guy was miserable, and he looked just as exhausted as Tony.

So Tony most definitely should not lie here and jerk off to thoughts of Steve's amazingly huge dick. There were so many reasons this was a bad idea.

On the other hand, Steve wasn't ever going to know, was he?

Tony was under a lot of pressure. This was nature's stress relief. Steve couldn't begrudge him that. He could almost imagine Steve telling him so, blue eyes huge and pale and earnest. His fantasies were just fantasies, Steve might say, and they couldn't hurt anyone in the privacy of his own mind. Steve would probably be glad that he was taking care of his needs; he knew Steve hated to see any of the team suffering. Besides, forbidding himself the indulgence was probably making it worse. He just needed to get it out of his system. Then everything could go back to normal.

Okay, Tony told himself. Just once.

He was already sliding his hand under the covers, smoothing his palm over his stomach, easing his cock out of his boxers. It fit neatly in his hand, the way Steve's cock wouldn't. He could feel his cock twitch and throb at that, leaking pre-come, and he cradled it gently against his fingers. He wanted to take his time with this. If he was only going to let himself do this once, he wanted to make it count.

His mind was already calling up the well-worn memory, his new obsession, the sight of Steve's cock as he'd stood there in front of him. He wasn't desperate enough to pull the armor's onboard visual logs. That would have been invasive. This was enough. In his memory Steve's size wasn't incongruous anymore. It wasn't unusual. It was just the way Steve looked. Peak human in every dimension. It suited him, really, when Tony thought about it like that.

Oh, it wasn't like he hadn't known Steve was big. Back in the days when Tony had had a hand in designing all the uniforms, he'd been aware that Steve's gear was... generously cut. And, sure, even when Steve was wearing clothes, it was pretty obvious he had something going on. So Tony had known he was big. That wasn't a secret. It was just that in Tony's experience, guys who were big when they weren't hard tended not to get much bigger. But apparently in this as in so many other ways, Steve was an exception to the rule. He was big, and he got gigantic.

Tony licked his lips. He let his fingers travel lightly up the shaft of his cock, sliding over the head, so sensitive that he gasped in the silent darkness. Steve was uncut, of course, so he was probably ridiculously sensitive. If Steve let Tony touch him, he'd have to be gentle, more gentle than he was with himself. He imagined wrapping his hand around Steve's cock -- God, it would probably take both hands, and that thought made him groan aloud -- and sliding his fingers around Steve's huge girth, up and down, teasing the foreskin over the massive head.

The funny thing was, before two weeks ago, Tony wouldn't have said that he had any kind of size kink. For him, sex was generally pretty great no matter what, and if he happened to be with a guy, it didn't so much matter how much he had to work with. It wasn't like anybody could help what they were born with. So some guys were small, and that was fine, and average was fine too, and large was great, sure, but not having it wasn't a deal-breaker. He'd been with a couple guys who'd been impressively well-hung, a size Tony would have described as maybe you ought to consider a career in porn. And honestly, neither of them had been particularly good in bed; it was like they'd expected the fact that they were amply endowed to make up for any other personal deficit.

Then there was Steve. Steve was so far off the edge of the normal distribution that there weren't even words for it. This wasn't large. This wasn't even extra-large. This was are you sure that belongs on a human? But Steve wasn't your ordinary guy with a big dick. He wouldn't be like the others. Steve was Steve, so Tony already knew what Steve would be like in bed. He'd be caring. He'd be kind. He'd want to make sure his partner was having a good time, above all else. And he'd let his partner touch him all they wanted if that was what made them happy. And, honestly, whatever size Steve was was fine by Tony, because, well... he was Steve.

So, no, Tony didn't have a size kink. He had a Steve kink. Which was unfortunate, because that one was unfulfillable.

Steve was straight, of course Steve was straight, but here in Tony's head, he didn't have to be. He'd look at Tony the way he had once looked at Peggy or Bernie or Sharon. Steve would smile, rapt, joyful, and he'd watch Tony's hands on him. Just like that, Steve would say, his voice warm, brimming with praise, and he'd moan, low and wanton, and he'd push himself up against Tony, easy and trusting, and he'd let Tony take him apart.

Alone in his bed, Tony groaned and squeezed his cock a little tighter. He slid his other hand underneath the covers to roll his balls in his palm, just the way he liked. Did Steve like that? Probably. His balls were just as big as the rest of him. But Steve had big hands. Everything was proportional. If Steve got his hands on Tony he'd probably make him feel small in comparison--

Tony's cock jumped in his hand and, oh fuck, something about that thought was really doing it for him. It wasn't so much the idea of being made smaller, but that Steve could just have him, that Steve could encompass him, that there was so much of Steve that Tony could have all he wanted and still not have all of him. Could he fit Steve's cock in his mouth? Would Steve let him try?

He'd definitely want to try. Tony was half-conscious of his mouth falling open, his body supplying the sensation of other blowjobs, the weight and heft of another man's cock on his tongue. And with Steve there would always be more, more, more. Steve's cock would stretch his mouth wide, that was for sure. He imagined Steve watching, and his hand on himself sped up, hips hitching as he rose up, as he fucked his fist, needy and greedy and lonely.

Would Steve fuck him?

The very thought of it, drifting through Tony's head, was so incredibly hot that he had to stop and back off, panting. He wanted this to last a little longer. He hadn't done that -- well, not with anything other than toys -- in a couple years, but, Jesus, with Steve it would be amazing. Steve was so huge, but he would go slow, go easy, and he'd work Tony open before sliding into him with his enormous cock, filling him up more than anyone else ever could. Oh-- oh God--

So much for making this last. Tony's hand was tight over his cock, just where he needed it, thumb swiping up and over the head. Blindly, needing something, anything, he slid his other hand back and down, fingers sliding into the cleft of his ass. He was dry, of course, too desperate to stop for lube, so this was as far as he was getting, but it was enough. He smoothed two fingers over his hole, clenched and flexed and clenched again -- God, that always felt so good, even just touching himself there -- and a hot spiral of sensation flashed up within him, from his ass to his balls to his cock, and he shut his eyes and imagined it was Steve's hand, Steve's cock, and he trembled and shuddered and came, blissful release racking his body.

The image of Steve's cock still danced behind Tony's closed eyelids, and he sighed and breathed out and enjoyed a good three seconds of peace before reality came crashing down on him.

What had he done? Panic settled into him. He'd lain here and he'd thought about Steve and he'd jerked off and it hadn't helped, it wasn't going to help, because he still wanted Steve.

And Steve wasn't going to fuck him. Steve was straight. If Steve was going to fuck anyone it was probably going to be Sharon, because it was always Sharon. Tony supposed they made it work somehow. It was probably a little tricky for Steve to find someone who could take him, at his size, but he must have managed. Maybe that was why he always kept getting back together with Sharon. Maybe that was what did it for her: Steve and his enormous dick.

Maybe Tony also had a size kink after all.

He sighed, and he threw his arm over his face like it could block out the images in his head. Steve wasn't for him, Steve wasn't ever going to be for him, and that was just the way it was.

This had been a terrible idea. And he still couldn't stop thinking about Steve's dick.