No one knew the real Steve Rogers, they were all too caught up in the veneer, bewitched by his charming smile and kind platitudes; all under the spell of the carefully cultivated personality that he presented to the world. If Tony could take the credit the for creating such a sensational musician, he would, but he couldn’t, and why? Because he had been fooled, too. It had been so innocent at first, Steve had been so innocent at first, just a twenty-three year old kid singing his heart out with a battered guitar at a dive bar in Bumfuck Nowhere, America when Tony first laid eyes on him. Steve had flushed so red when Tony complimented him - flirted with him - that the business man had been worried he’d have a coronary. He’d been captivated by the shade of crimson that bloomed across his sharp cheekbones, charmed by the bashful smile on full lips, and the shy nod when Tony’d offered to share his bed for the night - and what a night it had been.
Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that first night with Steve, because how could he? It was one of the best nights of his life - definitely the best lay he’d ever had. Steve had been firm but gentle with his touches, playful yet demanding with his kisses, and Tony was pretty sure he’d forgotten the English language for a good minute when Steve had rutted into him at just the right angle. Rogers was everything Tony believed was good in the world, what he thought was every cute boy-next-door character those cheesy dime-store books described, and - to be fair - Steve was good at playing that role.
God, he was so good at it.
That had been a two years ago, it hadn’t been easy, at first, trying to convince Steve to accept his willingness to help, but after much insistence - and arguing - Tony had finally got through to him. Tony used his position and business connections to the music world to the fullest, managing to get Steve meetings with all the right people, but the man’s success was all his own hard work - that was something Tony would never dare take credit for. Now ‘Steve Rogers’ was a name that was known all across the world, a musician that preformed to stadiums of thousands, with the lyrics and voice that stole the hearts of everyone in his presence - he was America’s Ed Sheeran, every tabloid’s favorite sweetheart, though the man would bashfully deny the compliments.
The - then - twenty-five year old had become a household name within the year of his rise, and at twenty-six Steve had let slip that he was in a relationship with (in)famous Tony Stark, the unforgivingly self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist; the media had lost their shit for a good few months, and while Tony had been a bit surprised by the ambush of reporters, he’d been elated that Steve no longer wanted to keep their relationship under-wraps. Though he understood why, really, he did; had they come out about it before, the world would have taken Steve’s hard work for granted, and likely assumed he’d been on Tony’s ‘casting couch’ - as if he was that sleazy - to get where he was. However, it was after that announcement, and Tony’s delighted confirmation of it, that things began to change, and what a startling change it had been.
It started small, with little - unnoticeable, really - things at first, like things always do.
“I like the blue on you better,” Steve says from behind Tony, his solid six-foot figure towering over Tony’s five-foot-eight - and a half, thank you very much - stature, muscled arms encircling his red Armani clad waist and rests his chin atop Tony’s shoulder.
Tony meets Steve’s gaze through the full-length mirror, pouting like the petulant thirty-five year old his is, “but blue’s your color.”
Steve grins, wide with just a hint of animalistic charm, “I know,” is all he says before kissing the side of Tony’s neck, and pulls away to start on his post morning run shower.
Tony wears a cornflower blue Chanel dress shirt to the office that day.
It escalated, slowly, from there.
“Mr. Stark, you and singer-songwriter Steve Rogers have been together for three years now, any comments on what he’s like in his day-to-day life?”
“He’s perfect,” Tony grins, knowing he probably looks like a love-sick teenager in the body of a thirty-eight year old man, but he couldn’t help it because the truth is: he was. “Absolutely perfect.”
The first time Steve said it, it took Tony a little longer for the word to register, but that couldn’t be helped what with the way Steve all but drilled him into the mattress.
“Such a pretty pet,” the blond rasps against Tony’s jaw, leaving another mark of his claim, just below Tony’s chin - Tony’s office was being remodeled, and he didn’t have another board meeting for two weeks; Steve was taking advantage of the fact Tony had no reason he couldn’t be marked up.
“My perfect little pet, aren’t you?”
Tony moans, loud and wanton, back arching off the bed while he claws at the tangle of sheets, fists almost as pale as the ivory cotton he tore at; Steve’s word shooting a thrill down his spine Tony had never felt before, and punctuates the question with a powerfully jarring thrust into Tony that leaves the man breathless, aching on the precipice of too much and not enough.
“Yes, your…your pet,” Tony cries out in the throws of pleasure, nearing his breaking point and Steve must figure out as much, gripping Tony’s stiffened prick with an unrelenting calloused fist, and jerks him.
“Good,” Steve moans, the crack of skin-on-skin almost deafening as his hips somehow pick up more speed, even in vast expanse of their Malibu home Tony could barely hear over the sound. “Come for me, pet.”
Tony’s release all but explodes within him, short-circuiting his nerve endings as his cock spills itself across his torso, his vision whiting out for just a moment - for just a moment, Tony thinks he passes out. He comes to with Steve still railing into him and whimpers slightly with sensitivity, but Steve doesn’t relent, and instead Tony holds onto his lover for dear life. His hands tremble where they clutch at Steve’s sweaty and muscled back, feeling thick ropes of strength dance under Steve’s golden skin with every move, and Tony would be hard pressed to say he was crying - though he does feel water trickling down his temples - because there was no reason to; he was in bliss.
“Mine,” Steve growls against his ear, teeth pulling at his lobe, hips stuttering.
Tony relishes in the moment Steve fills him, perfect mouth moving to stake their claim on his own, the kiss savage yet so filled with love and adoration it was dizzying - almost as dizzying as the pennies Tony tastes on his tongue when Steve pulls away.
Tony feels something shift between him and Steve, then.
Tony still has moments to himself, like game nights with Rhodey and brunches with Pepper, he’d spend time with his protégés Peter and Riri, or even just tinkering down in his workshop. However, Steve’s with him more often than not, even with their hectic and event-packed schedules, the blond never seems to not be at Tony’s side. Everyone knew Steve and Tony were a packaged deal; because after that night, after Steve had called Tony ‘pet’, a slow-burning change began between them. Steve would take the lead more and more with Tony, from what he wore in and out of their home; what he ate to how he bathed, to taking the reins in the bedroom - sometimes tying Tony up with said ‘reins’.
It’s a change Tony doesn’t fight.
A change Tony doesn’t want to fight.
After that shift, that change, Tony felt…hollow, somehow, when Steve wasn’t at his side. Always told by others he lit up like a Christmas tree when Steve would call or text him, and Tony couldn’t even deny it, because he felt it each and every time. However, Steve doesn’t call Tony ‘pet’ again, and Tony can’t find it in himself to ask why; so when it does happen Tony almost asks Steve to repeat himself, because he must have misheard.
It had been a normal night, at least, what constitutes as a ‘normal night’ for a billionaire and his famous musician of a lover; they’d just gotten back from a charity gala, one of Steve and Tony’s many philanthropic endeavors, when Steve turns on him, and says the word Tony had been - unknowingly - yearning to hear again.
Steve stands tall and authoritative in the middle of their living room, the lights were dimmed enough to make the normally ‘innocent’ looking Steve come across as menacing, but visible enough that Tony wouldn’t be able to mistake the glare in his oceanic eyes for anything else. He felt his knees go weak and skin rise, his hands began to shake, and Tony couldn’t tell if the cold trickle down his spine was of fear or…something else.
“Knees. Here. Now.” Steve folds his arms over the - unfairly sculpted - barrel of his chest, the seams of his shirt probably crying against the strain it causes, “don’t make me repeat myself again, pet.”
Tony isn’t sure what over takes him, but before he knows what’s happening, he’s falling. It’s almost like an out of body experience, the way things suddenly shifted; the way his body jolted to obey. Tony feels the shock of pain radiating up from his knees when they hit the hard floor of their living room, but doesn’t think twice about it before his hands are on the ground, too. Tony cranes his neck, eyes finding his lover’s stern gaze, and feels a shiver tear up his spine; at the raise of Steve’s brow, Tony’s crawling. Fucking crawling. Well, there’s a first for everything, clearly.
Tony stops at Steve’s feet and sits back on his haunches, staring up at the man now seated on their couch, hands twitching on the swell his biceps, “did you have fun at the gala?”
Stark almost scoffs, almost blurting out, ‘did I have fun at the gala’? Well it was boring as all hell, and I’d planned on passing out once we got home, but instead I’m crawling around our living room, how about you? but manages to bite his tongue, “it was fine?”
“You don’t seem so sure,” Steve observes, eyes trailing down Tony’s suit - a suit Steve had picked out for him earlier that very evening, Tony notes - as a frown pulls at his lips, and Tony nearly jumps when a black Louboutin presses against his crotch - against his boner, shit, how long has that been there?
“Wanna try again?”
Tony swallows tongue, hearing throat click, something heavy and…heady coiling in his gut, “Sir, I…I don’t understand…”
Steve’s foot traces over the hard line of Tony’s prick, gaze focused on his crotch, not meeting Tony’s eyes when he speaks, “then let me clarify it for you; how was your night with Stephen Strange?”
“What do you- never mind that, Strange is just a friend, Ste- Sir,” Tony belatedly corrects when Steve fixes him with another darkened glare, feeling a shiver break out over his skin, but is interrupted before he can continue - the rounded point of his dress shoe ghosting over the swell at his crotch, and Tony has to fight back the urge to rut against the friction. He doesn’t think Steve would approve, and he wants nothing more than to please his lover, to obey and isn’t that a thought?
Tony Stark, for as long as he could remember, craved rebellion, lived for it; but here he was, on his knees, wanting to give in.
Wanting to submit.
“You two used to date,” it’s not a question, but something within Tony tells him he needs to answer it anyway, do anything to quell Steve’s jealousy - to please him.
“Briefly, it was nothing serious, I swear, Sir,” he rushes out, almost breathless, even after only just being fondled, I feel like a fucking teenager right now, about to blow my load and he hasn’t even laid a finger on me. “Two egos that big can only stand one another for so long before wanting to throttle the other.”
“Is that why you were basically hanging off him? Like some kind of whore?” Steve’s voice is just shy of an outright growl, his heel grinding down on Tony’s concealed erection, hard and deliciously unforgiving.
Steve sits back on the couch, arms stretching over the expanse of the backrest, the foot not driving him insane folds over the other’s knee, the burning gleam in Steve’s eyes turning into a disinterested one. Tony doesn’t break his gaze away from Steve’s eyes, despite the man staring passively at the foot on his crotch as it slowly swipes over his clothed erection, the sole of his shoe dirtying the midnight colored material.
Tony can’t help but think he’s gorgeous, like this, as he stares up at his boyfriend, hands flexing on his thighs as he fights back the instinct to reach for the man, because how could he not? Steve wears the designer tux like he’s doing it a favor, navy blue slacks and jacket that do just sinful things to his eyes, the Hot Rod red pocket square almost winking at Tony from where it’s folded into his jacket pocket - my color, Tony thinks, feeling something warm swell within his chest.
“Sir I didn’t mean to-”
“I thought you were better than that,” Steve starts, once again cutting Tony off, huffing a long-suffering sigh.
“But maybe I was wrong, I thought you were my pet, my good pet,” Tony’s stomach begins sinking at the genuine disappointment in Steve’s voice, his eyes, and Tony feels his hand begin to tremble, I have to fix this. “Maybe I was wrong, maybe you are nothing more than just another common slut-”
This time, it Tony who cuts in, “Sir I am good, I’m your good pet, I swear just let me-”
The crack of skin-on-skin jolts Tony into silence, his skin stinging, “a good pet does not interrupt their Masters, understood?”
Tony stares up at the blond, stunned, rasps, “y-yes Sir.”
Tony feels it, feels it curling and clawing at his insides, almost making it hard to breathe; Steve must see it too, because his eyes grow mirthful and smirks.
Steve strikes him again, harder.
Oh fuck, is Tony’s last coherent thought, body breaking out into a violent shudder.
His climax hits him so fast it throws Tony off kilter, making him double over Steve’s leg, whimpering and clutching at his calf, whimpering as the blond continues caressing Tony’s over-sensitive cock through the damp material. Tony could have sworn he’d gone blind for a moment, almost giving into the fear until he felt something…warm and soft caressing the buzzing skin of his cheek; Steve. Stark looks up and is met with gentle blue eyes, Steve’s thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone, still throbbing from the strikes, but felt so fucking good against his skin.
“Don’t cry, pet,” Steve coos, leaning forward to press a tender kiss just under Tony’s eye, over the damp trail of a…a tear? When had he begun crying? “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”
Tony nodded, unsteady bit frantic because he needed Steve to know, and reaches forward to clutch at the shoulder pads of Steve’s jacket. Tony’s hands tremble where they hold onto Steve for dear life as he comes down from his high, and Steve just holds him. Somewhere in the back of Tony’s mind, he knew Steve couldn’t have possibly been comfortable in that position, slumped over his thighs in order to hold Tony, but he did, regardless; I love him, I love him so fucking much, Tony’s mind whimpers through it’s slowly dissipating haze.
Tony isn’t sure how or when he’s moved, but when he does come back to his senses, he’s on Steve’s lap, face buried in the crook of his lover’s neck while gentle hands card through his damp hair.
“Did…did I do good?” Tony asks, his voice shaky and tired, but eager to know.
“You did perfect, sweetheart,” Steve cooes, kissing his temple, “so good for me, my good, perfect, little pet.”
“I love you, Steve,” Tony mumbles, nuzzling at the blond’s neck, slowly giving in to sleep.
“I love you too, Tony,” Steve whispers, talented hand still stroking through chocolate locks, the other wrapped around his waist, “sleep now.”