Work Header

Snapped (the Emergency Porn)

Work Text:

Steve was so mad he was shaking.  That arrogant, idiotic, foolhardy, showboating grandstander of a “teammate” of his had almost ruined everything— and Thor hadn’t helped!  It was only the fact that there was nowhere for Loki to go that allowed them to take him into custody in the end, and even then, they caught him trying to slink away to civilization.  And if he had managed it, then where would they be?!

Steve was furious, but not so angry that he was alone in his own head.  As he followed Iron Man into the helicarrier— Stark the younger, and boy, if Steve had thought Howard was immature, that was nothing compared to this!— he caught a flicker of guilt from his soulmate.  He realized that the guilt was a response to his anger and pushed an apology over the bond. Not your fault, he tried to send— although it probably came through as just a rueful “whoops!” sort of emotion.   It’s from dealing with this jerk, not from you.  

The reassurance must not have gone through very well, though:  the feeling of guilt intensified briefly, and then the bond closed off.


He didn’t become aware of the bond again until he was mid-confrontation with Stark.  He had been planning to check on Doctor Banner first, but Stark caught him in the hallway outside the lab, spinning him aside into what looked like a small meeting room of some kind and, ominously, sealing the door behind them.

He met Steve’s eyes challengingly.  “Something you want to say, old man?”

Steve threw Stark’s hands off him and curled his lip.  “You’re smart,” he said scathingly, “so you already know how stupid that was.  Engaging Thor, goading Banner...  Does nothing ever have any consequences for you?”

Stark shrugged, smirked.  “I’m rich,” he said dismissively.  “So— pretty much no.”

And that, that hit a little too close to home.  Steve flashed back to half a dozen entitled assholes who had tried their damnedest to grind him into the dust and saw red.  He reached out and jerked Stark towards him, looking down, his jaw clenching with righteous fire—

— and the bond blew open under the force of an emotion too big to control, like metal bending in the face of a high-pressure blast from one of Dernier’s explosives.  

Lust slammed into him, almost bringing him to his knees.  He let out a strangled gasp, and did actually stagger a step, going sideways until he caught himself on the wood veneer of the conference table and brought himself back upright.  His momentum was gone, his ire burned away by shock. His blood, already pumping fast from fury, heated even hotter and charged in a new direction.  

“What?” he managed, before realizing he was asking the wrong person.   What...? he pulsed along the bond.   What are you...?  

“Sorry,” Stark muttered.   Sorry, Steve felt the bond echo.  “You’re just— you are really hot when you’re pissed off— Jesus, no wonder we won the damn war—”

The bond pulsed with the distinct sensation of a dick, achingly hard, pressing up against silk—

Steve looked down, then jerked his head back up again.   “You?!” he choked.

Stark smiled crookedly.  “Yeah. Sorry.”  Not what you expected— know I’m not what you—

“Well, you’re definitely a bigger asshole than I expected,” Steve snapped weakly, but by then, he was hard, too— and his combat uniform was a lot less forgiving than Stark’s softer, uh...   What the hell are you wearing?!

“Red silk g-string,” Stark grinned.   Wanna see?

Steve tried, but couldn’t choke back the emphatic YES! he thought so loud it echoed.  “How the hell is that even comfortable?”

“Right.  Remind me, of the two of us, which one of us is currently crushing their erection into kevlar?”   And let me help you with that...

Steve groaned.

Stark’s hands were on him, then, opening the catches in the uniform, unzipping all five thousand of Steve’s useless zippers until he could pull Steve out and push Steve’s shorts down around his hips.   God, look at you!  Even your dick is pretty!  

Steve caught the mental image of himself:  splayed out on the conference table, legs spread wide where he sat on the edge, his weight back on his hands as Stark’s dark fingers curled around his cock.  His face, he could see, was ecstatic. His mouth was open, lips pink and trembling.

He took the mental image and flipped it, sending it back to Stark, and now the image was a fabricated one, of Steve's same lips crushed into dark hair, soft red fabric slipping against the side of his face as he took Stark’s cock all the way down.  

It had been a while, but Steve was reasonably sure he could still remember how to follow through, if Stark took him up on the offer.

Jesus fuck!   Stark moved in closer, crushing their mouths together, kissing him like an act of war.  He cupped his hands around Steve’s ass and ground him forward so that their erections pressed together, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.   I want that, want everything— but we can’t right now—

There's time enough, Steve shot back.  He slipped his hands into the tight, dark denim trousers everyone seemed to be wearing these days, the ones that— he noticed now— clung to Stark’s shapely rear, outlining the perfect curve of it just so...   He opened the clasps, dragged them down the same way his own pants were.  The red g-string was nothing more than a scrap of fabric, egregiously distorted around the hard, dark erection Stark was sporting.  Steve snapped the strings with two quick tugs of his fingers and took it, pulling it up to his nose and breathing deep.

Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, you’re kinky as hell!  No one ever said you were—

What makes you think there was anyone left alive who would’ve known?   The thought was bitter, and Steve hoped it didn’t go through cleanly.  He wasn’t sure if it did or not; regardless, Stark responded after a second by snatching the— the panties out of Steve’s grasp, wadding them up, and stuffing them in Steve’s mouth.

You don’t need your mouth to talk to me, anyway, Stark thought dismissively.  

What about your mouth?

...How long can you keep a hickey?

Steve sent a wordless burst of PLEASE over the bond and Stark choked.  He tore at Steve’s collar, giving him access to golden skin, and sank his teeth in over the collarbone, right where it would sting and ache and bruise the most.   Yes, Steve sent.   YES.  Please, please please please—

Stark ground against him again and caught at his hands, moving them until Steve had both of their cocks captured in his grasp.   Yours are bigger, he sent, meaning Steve’s hands.

Steve smirked around the mouthful of panties.

Stark visibly rolled his eyes, then caught Steve’s hair in his other hand and pulled.   He moved up with the increased access to Steve’s neck, biting and sucking until there was a dark bruise there, easily the circumference of an apple.  Steve could see it through Tony’s eyes.

That’s smaller than an apple, Tony corrected.  He sent a mental comparison of the sizes.

What the hell have you been feeding your apples?! Steve shot back.  

Before Tony could answer, Steve squeezed and stroked, pumping both of their cocks together so that Tony groaned.   No fair...

War isn’t, Steve returned.  He pumped them again and again, breathing heavy into the musky, Stark-flavored gag, drooling into it and around it.  Moans rose up in his throat and he let them, groaning at the sweet sucking pain of Tony’s mouth on his neck, his collarbone, his chest...  

He stroked them again.  They were both close already, he knew.  It wouldn’t take long... He slowed his strokes, lightened his grasp.  He rubbed his thumb sweetly under the head of Stark’s cock, trying to make Stark beg.

Stark snarled instead, tightening his grip in Steve’s hair, pulling Steve’s head back even further on his neck.   Do it, he sent urgently.   Do it!  

Not begging, but close enough, Steve decided.  It was hard to think. His mind’s eye was crimson with the wanting.  Desire and ecstasy pulsed back and forth between the two of them, too fast to know who was starting it, who was sending what...  Steve changed grip again and sped up, bringing them off together, catching both of their come in his spread fingers, mixing it together until you couldn’t tell whose was whose.

Tony’s knees gave out.  Steve released him as he tumbled to the floor.  Steve himself was more intact, still upright under his own power, and not at all because he was clinging to the edge of the conference table with his free hand.

They stared at each other, sprawled there, pants loose— Steve was most of the way to naked.  Stunned astonishment, entirely mutual, echoed between their minds.

Eventually Steve had knees again.  He let go of the table and pulled the panties from his mouth, scrubbing at the mess on his other hand with them.  He got most of it, absently cleaning the rest of it with his tongue.

“Hrrrrgh!” said Tony.  Steve blinked down at him dumbly.

...Do you need a hand up?

I need you to stop being hot for approximately three seconds at a time.   Tony rolled to his belly, then clambered to his knees and then his feet.  “And, unfortunately, I need to go help Banner locate the Cube. Good we got this settled, though— that was... good, yes.”

Steve shot him a look as nonplussed as he actually felt.  It would probably be unfair of him to send Tony a vision of himself on his knees, slowly slicking himself and working himself open, waiting, eager, needy...   Christ, Steve had missed this, though.  Those few brief tastes of this power he’d had so many years ago— and many more years than they seemed to him now, too— it was only his own self-discipline that had kept him from becoming an addict.  But Tony, Tony was his own personal vintage, the Rogers Reserve blend, and Steve could taste Tony all he wanted...

Tony paused at the door and turned back, eyes dark.  “Whatever you’re thinking about,” he said, “I want it.”

Steve smiled.  He held up the soiled underpants and then, deliberately, sealed them into one of the pouches at his belt.   Yes, he sent, you do.