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In Twin Rivers

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In Twin Rivers, Tony springs for a hotel room. It’s a backwater, rent-by-the-hour piece of work with a flickering neon sign. Vac ncy. Vac ncy. Vac ncy.

Sidestepping the tracers on his bank accounts is as simple as swapping code. JARVIS manages it easily from the remote unit Tony cobbled together a week ago. Steve goes in to pick up the key, drops his stuff on one of the beds, and heads right back out to locate dinner for them both.

Once inside the room, Tony avails himself of a shower that has surprising staying power in terms of temperature. He scours his skin red and sends what must be half the hair on his head swirling down the drain, but afterward his whole body prickles as he stands in front of the noisy window unit. The air blasts in frigid, clearing out the swelter of the summer night. He guzzles an entire water bottle from the mini-fridge in one go, gasping when he finally takes a breath.

He dresses in the last set of clothing he has left, a blue polo and sweats, and sags into the chair by the room’s table, tinkering with the innards of his gauntlet before he even sits down.

It’s mindless work. Every five seconds, his thoughts return to Steve.

Twenty-six minutes later, the door opens and shuts. Steve slings a plastic Walgreen’s bag of sandwiches and other paraphernalia onto the dresser by the door and shrugs his jacket off. Runs a hand through his hair. His eyes meet Tony’s halfway through and his hand stills. He watches Tony mutely for a long moment, then kicks off his boots and heads into the bathroom. The shower starts up.

Tony’s pulse pushes up a notch. He rubs at his eyes.

After a second, he stands up and tosses the gauntlet onto the nearer of the beds. He shoves his sweats off and walks out of them, pushing the bathroom door, and then the sliding shower door, open.

Steve stands naked under the stream, his head tilted back, water flooding down his throat and chest. His eyelashes are heavily beaded. His mouth opens, then shuts on a burst of air that sends droplets flying. Tony pulls his shirt up just as Steve blinks his eyes open. Faces him. Tony steps into the tub, forgetting the polo entirely, and drags Steve to him by the nape.

Their mouths meet, and Steve’s back hits the tile. His skin is too slick to get a grip on, and the water batters Tony’s shoulders, drenching the shirt and sending a wave of gooseflesh down his spine. Steve huffs through his nose, hands fisted in the fabric over Tony’s ribs, pulling him in. He kisses like he’s the one who thought of it, deep, dragging tongue and careless teeth. His feet slip—Tony flings out, grabs the door. The glass rattles loudly and water splashes out onto the floor. The edge of the door bites into Tony’s palm, metal digging in somewhere. He struggles to shut it, but then Steve slides down to the floor of the tub, knees up, pulling Tony along into his lap.

They kiss, desperate and anxious, for whole seconds.

Tony pushes up on his knees. His dick presses right against Steve’s abdomen, slippery, a coarse prickle from the hair circling Steve’s navel. He bites through the gasp, struggling with his shirt. The sodden fabric is plastered to him, an almost midnight-blue now, and Steve’s hands trip and bump over his body, fighting to get past this last article of clothing. Tony finally succeeds in dragging it over his head just as Steve rises up, arching away from the wall to kiss him again.

It hits Tony belatedly that he can’t wait anymore. His insides hurt with it, have been hurting since the cabin, the sliver digging in further and further. Everything’s tender and swollen, and he doesn’t care anymore that this might make things even more unbearable. The pull Steve has on him is getting scarier by the minute, aching like a bone contusion. He just wants, he’s tired of waiting, he’s tired of Steve looking at him, of looking at Steve, of knowing what he can have if they could just stop getting shot at, hunted down, zeroed in on for one day. Steve’s name catches against his teeth and he sucks in a breath, coughing when water goes down the wrong pipe, but even that’s not enough, not with Steve’s hand pushing between them, wrapping around him, stroking upward punishingly.

Tony groans, weaves his hands through Steve’s sopping hair, and rocks into it.

Steve rises up on one elbow, curling his foot around Tony’s leg. It makes it harder to move, but Steve’s free hand flattens to his back and forces him forward, up, never flagging as he jerks Tony off. His teeth clip at Tony’s clavicle and Tony hears the wet sputter of air indrawn through water, but Steve only sucks more firmly, laves with his tongue in a hot, moist rush entirely different from the water. Tony grunts, hips stuttering forward, arching for more purchase. The shower stream washes over his face, tasting metallic where the water drips into his mouth. He shakes his head to clear his eyes, and right then, Steve pulls away from Tony’s chest and looks up.

“Oh, god,” Tony whispers. Steve slides that hand up his spine, over his nape. He grips Tony’s hair and urges him down. Tony’s elbow bumps hard against the soap dish; the tub squeaks obscenely against their skin, and then Steve fucks into his mouth with his tongue and twists his hand, thumb slipping over the head of Tony’s dick, and that’s all she wrote: Tony goes down in a sheer white haze, choking on shower water and Steve’s taste, trembling hard enough to smack his elbow again.

He collapses openmouthed against Steve’s shoulder, rasping painfully. The water drums, oddly loud in the aftermath. He can feel Steve still hard, trapped between their bodies. Steve’s hand is still locked around him. His fingers twitch once, twice. He’s breathing just as hard as Tony, and right in the middle, he utters a particularly pained huff. His muscles all lock up at once, and then Tony is rising, fighting for purchase on the tub floor, knees hurting and body too shaky to cooperate. He clings to Steve, feels the harried way Steve struggles around him and shuts the water off, and then he’s off his feet as Steve forces the shower door open again and steps out onto the tile. The floor is one giant puddle; Steve slips a little on his way through it, hitching Tony higher in his arms.

He crosses the room in two quick strides and drops Tony, dripping wet, onto the bed nearest to the door.

Tony lands hard enough to knock half the air from his lungs, and the rest forces itself free when Steve’s body follows, landing heavily atop his. Steve finds his mouth immediately; the kiss is brutal, urgent in a way Tony fully understands. He opens his legs wider and shoves a hand between their bodies, but Steve snatches his wrist with a snap, fingers cinching enough to burn. Steve pulls back for one relentless moment and looks Tony directly in the eye. Water falls from his hair onto Tony’s cheek. He lets go of his wrist and plies Tony’s mouth ruthlessly until all Tony can do is try to keep up. Steve’s hands drag up his bare sides without finesse, stinging with the friction of damp skin, forcing his torso straight and shoving a shiver through to his core, and in the instant Tony’s grip goes lax in surprise, Steve worms himself free.

“No,” Tony grits out, reaching after him. But Steve doesn’t go far, doesn’t even leave the bed entirely, just tilts until that long reach of his finds the Walgreen’s bag. Napkins, potato chips, and plasticware fall to the floor unheeded, and finally Steve locates what he wants and cranes back with two items in hand.

Tony blinks. He grabs for the bottle, wrapping both legs around Steve to clench him close. “Oh, yes, come on—”

Steve lets him have the lube but twists away with the other item, evading Tony’s grip with the practice of a born fighter. He drops it on the bed beside Tony’s head and worries it open, and the thought that he stopped, that he took the time to grab lube and a box of condoms off the shelf in the drug store is so fucking hot Tony nearly loses it again. He’d been expecting an overall lack of closure tonight, quick and unsatisfying and repeated as many times as they could stand it, and loving the idea because it’s the most they could possibly get out here in ass-backwards nowhere, but—

He’d forgotten to factor in Steve.

They resituate themselves in near-silence, grunts and breaths as Steve works his arm under Tony’s knee and Tony hunches up the bed, scrabbling until he finds the headboard. It’s attached to the wall instead of the bed, like in most hotel rooms, but the edge is solid against the heel of his hand and Steve is warm and wet against the rest of him. Steve’s fingers clench around the condom packet and the bedspread as he thumbs the cap back on the lube and slicks his fingers. His tongue flickers at the corner of his lips, it’s so damned hot, and despite Tony’s state of arousal, he’s not getting it up again for at least another hour, but he doesn’t give two fucks about that. He pries the condom from Steve’s fingers, lurches up, tongues dirtily into Steve’s panting mouth until Steve has to pause, has to kiss him, has to bring all that weight down to bear on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve’s arm tremble where it braces against the mattress. It’s beautiful. Steve gives another shudder like he’s just suffered a wicked chill, all the way up through his shoulders until they hunch and Steve’s mouth drops even further open for Tony’s plundering.

But he can’t distract Steve forever, and he doesn’t want to. Steve hitches Tony’s leg higher, up on his arm, and leans back to put the slick where it’s needed. Tony manages the condom just fine until Steve takes it from him, and the awkwardness is hurried, over and done without fuss, Tony gripping the headboard and rolling his hips into each push of Steve’s fingers inside him. Steve’s gaze trips down Tony’s body and back up again lightning-quick as he works him open. Water beads at Steve’s throat, or is that sweat? There’s no way to tell in this light, so Tony reaches, trails his fingers through it and brings it to his mouth. Salty. Steve’s eyes rivet themselves to his hand, and then abruptly he lunges forward, bending Tony sharply at the waist, and licks it out of Tony’s mouth. Tony’s grunt is muffled against Steve’s lips, and they kiss awhile longer, sloppy, broken each time Steve rubs against Tony’s prostate.

Eventually, it’s not going to get any better; Tony squirms pointedly, curling his knees until his heels bump Steve’s back. The bedspread is damp in a widening circle beneath his body, and he knows the friction will be painful when they really get going. He can’t wait.

“You’re good” slips from Steve’s mouth, “you’re ready? Are you—” Tony nods fervently and Steve nods with him, glancing yet another kiss over his mouth, and then pulling upright to line himself up.

Getting Steve into him is illuminating. Tony coughs out a breath, heaves in another one, and it shakes back out of him like the whole world is quaking. He squeezes Steve’s bicep and shifts his hips against the burn, trying to find that next second where everything loosens, lets go. It’s been a while since he’s done this and the discomfort thrums teasingly, just this side of too much. Steve grips his thigh in warning and eases forward a little more, until Tony shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. As he huffs, he feels lips press gently to the inside of his knee, feels Steve turn his head and press his cheek there instead, feels the flutter of Steve’s breath over his skin.

Steve’s got to be so hard it’s hurting, and he’s been that way much longer than Tony, while Tony’s orgasm loosened every muscle, and still he holds back, checks himself each time Tony winces, stops the thrust and kneads Tony’s thigh soothingly. But he’s breathing hard, Tony can feel it, hear its restless rasp. Steve’s sweating much more visibly now, his brow shiny with perspiration, and suddenly Tony just wants him to get on with it, get close and tight, fuck the daylights out of him, shove him into freefall again if he can.

“Go,” he hisses, anticipating Steve’s hesitation, clamping a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and forcing himself up enough to kiss him. He didn’t know he could still bend that way, but, needs must, and Tony is nothing if not an opportunist. His groan as he falls back is knocked out by the rush of feeling when Steve thrusts forward, seating himself fully, filling Tony up so damn much he can taste it in the back of his mouth. He exhales in a whoosh, blinking at the ceiling. But the pain has taken a definite backseat now and is swiftly losing ground, and Steve, now that he’s moving, is not stopping. Tony lets go of him, feeling drugged, and grips as best he can to either side of the headboard, vision graying with each flood of sensation.

Steve begins to speak. It’s Tony’s name, over and over again, interspersed with words he can’t make out, or maybe they’re gibberish. Steve presses those words into his throat, into his chest, into his ribs as he bends sideways and mouths his way along them. Tony shivers, stiffens; his muscles jerk uncontrollably each time Steve thrusts in, as though they’re tethered directly to the nerve clusters inside him, and then it’s too much to keep his teeth gritted. He hears more sound, rhythmic huffs and half-words, and realizes they’re coming from him.

Steve misses the mark once, then again, again, his movements not as controlled as they were. Tony slaps at his arm, squeezes hard until Steve’s eyes dart up. Their depths are feverish. Tony can’t get the right words out, but Steve’s expression contorts; in one swift ripple, he gets an arm under Tony and sits up, lifts him into his lap. The next thrust slams down dead center and Tony keens. He thinks he’s clutching Steve too hard, leaving bruises, but he can’t get his muscles to obey him, and then it doesn’t matter because Steve’s kissing him and it’s a fight to think of anything except all the ways Steve is in him, tongue and dick and, fuck, his heart, always the heart.

“Tony,” Steve hisses on the tail of a kiss. Tony’s never heard him sound so helpless, so taken apart and amazed at it at the same time. He clenches around Steve as he withdraws, and Steve’s mouth drops open around a fragile moan. That’s it, then, that’s the goal: Tony does it again and again, merciless, each sound that he drags out of Steve a direct thrum into the center of him. He’s not hard again yet, but he has no fucking idea how, what with all that Steve’s doing to him. The heat saturates his entire body, building and building with no outlet. It’s the best kind of arousal, Tony’s favorite kind, nicking at overtaxed nerves and thudding against his insides. He clenches down on Steve again, holds it on the withdrawal until Steve’s moan becomes pained, then latches onto the soft skin just beneath Steve’s chin and sucks.

Steve comes with a raw abandon that leaves Tony breathless, too. He shakes for absolutely ages, his hands clamped into the tender flesh of Tony’s sides, thighs like iron underneath him, neck so rigid the tendons stand out in relief. Tony tongues one of them and Steve’s throat clicks in a rough swallow. The kiss, when Steve can manage to give it, barely has form, and is a little bit fraught, as though Steve can’t find what he’s really after.

Tony takes over and draws it up for him, slow and aching.

After what seems like an eternity, Steve bows out of the kiss, breathing heavily over Tony’s sternum. His eyelashes brush Tony’s throat. Tony can’t really help himself: he kisses Steve again and again: the side of his face, his temple, the curve of his cheekbone. It’s impossible to detach completely, not when Steve is so close. Steve shudders, a lengthy full-body twitch. He sways forward, and then Tony’s on his back again, the wet bedspread uncomfortably cold.

Steve pulls out of him slowly, wincing along with Tony and inhaling deeply once they’ve parted. He strips off the condom, then tips onto his side, pressed against Tony on the narrow bed. Tony wraps a leg and one arm around him, relishing the harsh dip and swell of Steve’s ribs as he struggles to level out his breathing. He runs his hand over Steve’s flank, palming the spot Steve’s wound has since healed. Not a single inch of his skin is out of place, no bruising, no tender flesh. Tony sweeps upward again, and Steve convulses.

“Oh, god, stop,” he moans weakly, one arm flung over his eyes. And yet he twitches closer, not away. Tony continues his trek, watching goosebumps ripple in the wake of his hand. Steve catches Tony’s arm up and presses the inside of his wrist to his mouth. Tony feels the brief brush of teeth. He rubs his thumb across Steve’s cheek.

“I was right about you.” It comes out with a whimpery quality Tony hadn’t planned, but really, that’s all it can be. “It’s so much worse now, I can’t even...” Because now that he knows the whole of it, he just wants more. He’s barely a minute past it and it’s already been too long, he can’t wait to cleave himself to Steve again, sweat and saliva and everything else, and the reality is painful: he can’t just fold himself into Steve, which may be the only way to douse this pang.

Steve makes a low sound and turns toward him, slinging a leg around him, hugging him close. He kisses Tony again, lingering and sweet. Beyond familiar now.

“Do you need to sleep?” Steve asks after a bit.

Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, just beginning to dry in spikes that throw shadows across his eyes. “No.”

Steve nods. His eyes trail down, then flick back up, holding Tony’s gaze. “Good.”