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Steve let out an impatient huff, rubbing his head against his pillow.

Tony had been gone for three weeks already, wouldn’t be back for another two, and while Steve wished he were home, they talked every day, they texted, they video conferenced—Steve knew soldiers who would’ve given half a year’s pay to be able to do that during the war—and if it wasn’t easy, at least it was bearable.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was sitting around, counting the minutes until Tony came back. He got to know the people around him better, caught up on what had happened while he was frozen, explored the city, fought in five battles, trained, and more often than not, he went to bed, tired and relatively happy, and that was fine. Good even.

It was just when . . .

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

He’d never known he could miss something so much, could want something . . . so much.

Steve hadn’t had much sexual experience when he and Tony got together, kisses mostly and some light petting. He’d seen pictures, of course, pin-up girls and more explicit photos some of the men carried around, had even guiltily thought once or twice (or a hundred times) about what it’d be like, first with a woman, and then later, when he’d realized that some of the feelings he got when he was around other guys weren’t completely platonic, with a man. The men hadn’t been shy about sharing tales either. You couldn’t be surrounded by large groups of men with barely any women in sight without hearing stories about what they’d gotten up to the last time they’d had leave. He’d thought he’d known what to expect. And then he’d met Tony.

Tony hadn’t cared how much experience he’d had, had never asked or hinted that Steve’s performance was lacking in anything. Sex was fun with Tony; he made Steve smile, and he wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself. He wasn’t shy about what he liked either and refused to let Steve be, asking for what he wanted and expecting Steve to do the same. He did things to Steve that left him limp and breathless, and then encouraged Steve to return the favor, whispering filthy, detailed instructions that turned Steve’s hands clumsy and made his heart race.

Steve tossed the covers back, too warm all of the sudden.

He’d never thought about how frequently they had sex until Tony left, and his body clamored for things it couldn’t have anymore. Tony wanted sex when he woke up, before he went to bed, liked to be promised sex for eating his lunch and playing nice with his Board of Directors, and it wasn’t a hardship, because bribing Tony was rewarding himself.

But Tony wasn’t around. Steve had gone from having sex two or three or four times a day to no times a day, and it was horrible.

He’d never ached like this before, his body empty and sullen and chilled because it knew exactly what it was missing and Tony wasn’t pressed against his side.

And sure, there were things he could do to alleviate the worst of it. He hadn’t spent so much time in his bedroom with the door locked since he was a teenager. But it was like using a bucket to bail out a sinking ship. Yes, it got rid of some of the water, but the sea just kept rushing in, and he was going to drown, he already knew it. It was just a matter of time.

He rubbed his hand against his stomach, tracing the muscles the same way Tony did when he was next to him, drifting lower with each pass until they slid beneath the elastic of his boxers.

Steve remembered how embarrassed he’d been the first time Tony had put his fingers inside of him, how uncomfortable he’d felt, how he’d been positive he’d never like it.

Except he had. He’d liked it so much that just the thought of Tony pushing him down on the bed was enough to get him hard, so much that he needed two hands to masturbate nowadays, and he still wanted more.

His eyelids fluttered closed as he gripped his cock, his knees coming up without conscious decision.

There were times when Tony preferred to take it slowly, demonstrating a type of patience he never displayed in any other part of his life. He’d thoroughly prepare Steve, finger by finger, so that when he pushed inside, it was slow and easy, pleasure mounting with each well-placed thrust as Tony’s hands and mouth took him apart.

Steve wormed his boxers down around his knees, his breathing picking up as he stroked himself, stopping completely for a second when he pressed one dry finger inside.

Other times, Tony barely did anything before he was shoving his way in, demanding and impatient. Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t love those moments. He wanted the hurt of Tony stretching him open, because with his healing abilities, it never got easier, and Steve didn’t want it to. He liked the small pain, liked how huge it made Tony’s fingers seem at first until the dull sting became an even greater need. He wanted Tony’s cock driving into him, forcing him open, again and again until he was left used and utterly sated, wanted everything to throb and ache, so that each time he moved, he could feel the reminder of Tony inside of him.

“Fuck,” Steve gasped, jerking as he pushed his finger in deeper, careless and greedy.

The worst and best times were when Tony teased him, used his fingers and tongue to accentuate the emptiness and then denied him, no matter how much Steve asked and then ultimately begged to have him inside him. It always took longer to come then, but the orgasms themselves were devastating, leaving him shuddering and weak but still unfulfilled. Steve would push Tony on his back then and ride him, each thrust of Tony’s cock a victory, and he wouldn’t let up until he was satisfied, until neither of them could handle anymore.

He added another finger, shuddering as he started to fuck himself and biting his lip to keep the moan contained. It burned, but not enough. Not even close to enough.

Maybe it should’ve embarrassed him how much he enjoyed all of it—Tony flush against him, the feel of giving way to the press of Tony’s cock, Tony’s hand holding him down while he coaxed the most humiliating sounds out of him. But it was hard to hold onto a sense of shame with Tony as a partner, when he could see the expressions on his face that ranged from desperate to delighted to awed, when he could hear the ridiculous endearments that slipped out without Tony seeming to even realize.

Both hands sped up, and he turned his head, muffling his voice against the pillow. Tony, he thought. Tony, Tony.

He wondered what Tony would say if he were home, if he walked in on Steve and saw how much he wanted him. Would he add his fingers to Steve’s, stretching him wider until he was begging him to stop, too full for once? Or would he just watch? Curl Steve’s legs up against his chest so he’d have an unimpeded view of the depraved things Steve did to himself when Tony wasn’t there to do it for him? Would he whisper, “C’mon, Steve, is that all you got?” and goad him to doing even more?

The thought made him groan, too loud for the empty room, his back arching as he came and his legs trembling as he pushed his fingers in as deep as they could go.

Once it was over, however, he found himself staring up at the ceiling again, restless and alone. The orgasm had been better than most recently, but it hardly seemed to matter, the pleasure already fading away, leaving a sense of vague disappointment in its wake. He ran his hand through the cooling mess on his stomach, turning his palm up so he could glance at the traces on his fingers for a long moment before looking away, closing his fingers into a loose fist.

Two weeks to go.

He covered his eyes with the back of arm, his body still humming with desire.

Just two more weeks.