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Patron of the Arts

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Steve knocked on the door to Tony's private office, portfolio in his other hand, feeling a mixture of foolishness and excitement. There was no reason to feel foolish; it was what he'd wanted, after all. What they'd both wanted. But apparently thinking about it was a little different than doing it.

Because, see, there was this thing about sex and superheroing that he'd never quite gotten the courage to admit to anyone he'd dated, before Tony. He thought maybe you had to be a superhero to understand, and talking about sex with superheroes he wasn't dating somehow devolved into a discussion of who could do what crude things with their powers. But, no, for him, it was-- well, it was a kink thing. It was a relief to have a word for it, nowadays, instead of being a confused, awkward teenager watching the heroine get tied to the railroad tracks every week in the pictures, feeling a spike of furtive, inexplicable desire. He'd liked to lie in bed, hand down his pants, imagining the ropes around him, the gag in his mouth, imagining himself being forced to give in, to acknowledge his utter helplessness and powerlessness. That had always gotten him off blindingly fast.

And then he became Captain America, and two things went wrong with his favorite fantasy. He could probably have dealt with one. He couldn't handle both.

After Rebirth, his body wasn't his body anymore. And it wasn't that he minded his glorious new body, in most respects, but he went to think about his usual scenario, once, right after, about the ropes, about the gag, and it seemed so silly. He was big. He was strong. There wasn't going to be a cackling mustachioed villain tying him to the railroad tracks any time soon. He was so far beyond normal humans that it... wasn't a threat. And if it wasn't a threat, it wasn't exciting.

The other problem -- and maybe the worse of the two -- was that it wasn't exactly unusual, either. It became... ordinary. Being bound and gagged wasn't a fantasy scenario, a thing to be examined endlessly inside his own mind, a thing to be savored. Being bound and gagged was a goddamn ordinary Tuesday, the way supervillains worked. It had taken a hell of a lot of allure away from the fantasy. It was already his day job.

But that didn't mean he didn't still have... yearnings. He just didn't even know what to do with them, anymore. They didn't even work right, in his head.

And then he'd fallen in love with Tony, and, some time thereafter, into bed with him.

The first time had been good. Not great, not spectacular, just... good. Steve knew intellectually that it often took time for people to figure each other out in bed, but he had held out the hope, secretly, that Tony would just know, that he would see it in his eyes or in the way he held himself, that he would know exactly what Steve wanted and find a way to give it to him. And, well, he hadn't. But he was a genius, and he'd at least known that something was up.

"So," Tony had said, rolling over and cuddling up to him, afterwards -- he was a great cuddler, and Steve knew he was going to love that about him. "What am I missing?"


Tony's gaze turned almost competitive. "I want to be good-- not even good. I want to be the best you've ever had. You deserve the best."

"You are--" he tried to say, but Tony cut him off.

"But there's something you wanted," Tony said. "Something you wanted, and you didn't get it." He smiled. "I want you to have it."

He couldn't just say it, could he?

Steve frowned. "I don't know how to say it. It's okay, really," he assured Tony. "I don't need anything different." It wasn't like he was unhappy without it. He'd been getting by just fine. "I don't know if there even are words for it, anyway."

Tony's hand curled teasingly down Steve's chest. "Try me. I know an awful lot of words for this kind of thing."

Tony loved him. Tony wasn't going to judge him.

Steve took a deep breath and found the courage to speak. "I want you to do things to me."

But even then Tony hadn't known -- how could he have?

"I think I'm going to need a bit more information." Tony was smiling, of course; Tony was gently coaxing him. "We did a lot of things to each other just now. Was there something else you wanted specifically? Whatever it is, I'll do it. I'm willing to try it."

And it was sweet that Tony was willing, but he didn't know. And what if he thought it was strange, or wrong, or too much for him?

He'd asked, Steve reminded himself. He'd wanted to know.

"I want you to do things to me," Steve had tried again, "and I-- I don't want to be Captain America. When you do them."

Perplexed, Tony frowned. "I'm not following you."

Steve shut his eyes and turned his face away, not wanting to see the censure that he knew would follow. "The first thing I ever remember that turned me on was watching cliffhangers in the theater and imagining I was the one tied to the railroad tracks."

Tony breathed a sharp little breath, and his hand settled in Steve's hair. "Oh, my God," he murmured, and he sounded the furthest thing from disgusted. "You are amazing, you are wonderful, you have no idea how much I have wanted that to be true for my entire life. Please let me show you kink--"

But Tony didn't get it. Steve shook his head, eyes still shut. "But it doesn't work. It doesn't work, anymore, in my brain, because I'm Captain America, because I'm strong, because they always tie me up now. Do you get it? I know I can't have it like that and it all falls flat. And I want it, I want to feel like that, but I can't have it anymore--"

"Shh, hey." Tony's fingers slid through his hair; his thumb rubbed a circle behind Steve's ear. "We'll work something out. You can definitely have this. Is it just the bondage that gets you going, beautiful, or would you still like the domination without it?"

Steve opened his eyes and turned his head; next to him, Tony was bright-eyed and eager, smiling at him like Christmas had come early and this was the best gift anyone could ever have gotten him.

Well, that answered the question of whether Tony would be into it.

"I don't understand," Steve said, because couldn't you only get to feeling like that if you were tied up? Were there other ways? Had he just... missed them? "Are there things like that that aren't... bondage? What else is there?"

And Tony smiled again and kissed him and said, "Oh, we're going to have so much fun together."

Boy, it turned out that there were a lot of things out there.

They had a word for everything, these days. Tony had given him some information, and then he'd winked lewdly and said he understood that Steve was more of a visual thinker, and then holy God, the pornography he'd shown him. It was everything that had ever been in Steve's mind, in his most private thoughts, his secret desires acted out by strangers, bound spread-eagled or bent down on their knees, hands behind their backs, sometimes blindfolded. Sometimes there was no rope at all, and still they stayed, waiting. They always looked so happy, too, drunk on pleasure, and secretly Steve was glad of that, because that meant that was what Tony liked, rather than some simulation of terror. He'd spent one breathless, dazed night going through the book of photos, jerking off so many times that he couldn't get hard again -- which for him was a feat -- and the next night Tony had leapt on him, pinned him to the bed, and stroked him agonizingly slowly while demanding to know which photos he liked best, not bringing him off until he had an answer.

So in the end they'd settled on this. They were... playing pretend, except there was a different name for that these days too. Steve wasn't Captain America. Steve was an aspiring artist -- he could sure do that -- and Tony was his patron. It wasn't scheming baddies at the train tracks, but it wasn't actual supervillains either, and that way hopefully he wouldn't be put in mind of his usual job. And Tony could-- Tony could make him do what he wanted. Tony had sounded so incredibly delighted by that part. He'd said he'd had ideas about the bondage, too, but they could try this while he was waiting to source adamantium.

Steve clutched his portfolio tighter and pictured Tony just making him do things to him. He pictured Tony doing whatever he wanted to him.

It was all about belief, Tony had said. It was about trust -- that, Steve had for Tony in spades already -- and belief. He just had to... believe Tony was this man who had power over him, the same way he had to believe it wasn't true when it was an actual villain.

Tony had grinned at Steve and assured him he was very, very good at being rich and in charge.

And to be honest, Steve thought, waiting here for Tony to open the door, he had his doubts. Oh, he was sure Tony would give it his all, but Tony... was nice. He'd met him as Iron Man first, true, but then he'd met him as Tony Stark, owner of Stark Industries, and Tony had been nothing if not generous and caring. Equal. And from what he'd heard from Tony's friends and actual employees, Tony was scrupulously fair with them, above and beyond what anyone expected from a man in his position. He knew everyone's names, right down to the janitors and security guards; he knew their husbands' and wives' and children's names. He was an honest, decent fella, right down to the bone.

The problem was, Steve wasn't looking for decency right now.

He shifted his weight. Tony still hadn't opened the door.

"Come in," Tony said, muffled by the door. His voice was an odd combination of bored and brusque. He never sounded like that with Steve. He was always so happy to see him, even if he was engrossed in a project.

Steve opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him -- making sure to lock it -- and Tony didn't so much as look up. He was dressed elegantly, perfectly, expensively in a charcoal gray three-piece suit, one that Steve had always liked the look of on him, the way it clung to his figure. He was behind his desk. His head was bent over a pile of papers.

"One minute," Tony said, and he gave Steve the barest glance, like Steve was-- well, like Steve was beneath him.

Even when he'd been in the Army, even when he'd actually had to take orders, people had always given him a certain amount of respect. Him, Captain America. Everyone, even the generals, even the president. Steve had thought maybe they couldn't help it.

But Tony's gaze just passed right over him, like Steve was no one, like Tony had all the power in the room and he expected Steve to know that. This wasn't Tony Stark, kind and unfailingly caring. This was Tony Stark, better than you.

It should have been humiliating. It should have angered him. And it did, a bit, but it wasn't quite humiliation, and it wasn't quite anger. It was -- well, it was a turn-on, that was what it was. Heat flooded his body, rushed down his spine like a river, settled low in his belly, and God, if Tony would just look at him he'd see how hard Steve was already, just from the idea of it.

And then Tony swept the papers off the desk and into the drawer, looked up, and gave him the blandest of bland smiles. He could see how worked up Steve was already -- he had to see it! -- but he just... ignored it. His gaze was a quick evaluation and a dismissal. And Steve had dressed up for this -- not as nice as Tony, but still relatively nicely -- in button-down shirt and slacks, and he could just see Tony take it in and... judge him. How in God's name was being ignored this arousing?

"And you are?" Tony asked. His tone was curt. Arrogant. He looked for all the world like he didn't even know him.

Steve tucked the portfolio under one arm, stepped forward, and held out his hand. "I'm Steve Rogers, Mr. Stark. We spoke earlier about the portrait you wanted to commission."

Tony's face brightened, the merest tinge of recognition -- God, he was good at this -- and he stood up, leaning forward to return Steve's handshake, then he settled back into his huge, plush chair, like half a second was all he could spare him. His grip was firm.

"Ah, yes," Tony said. "I remember now." His gaze focused on the portfolio. "I take it you've brought samples."

Steve held out the portfolio. "I'm afraid I don't have formal portraiture represented in my current portfolio, Mr. Stark, but I wanted to give you an idea of my style; I can of course provide you with references--"

Tony waved him imperiously into silence, and Steve shut his mouth, then was half-shocked at himself the fact that he'd done it at all, just like that, without thinking.

He watched Tony set the portfolio in front of him and page through it. Tony hadn't actually seen what Steve had put together for this, and he could see the facade slip, just a little; Tony was trying to affect an uninterested gaze, but Steve knew Tony loved seeing his art. The first few pages were still-life sketches in charcoal, all flowers and fruit, technically competent but not very exciting, and then a couple of ad designs from when he'd been moonlighting on that commercial art job a few years back that Steve had thrown into the portfolio as additional padding before the really interesting stuff started, and then came the sketches of the Avengers. Carol in uniform after a battle, asleep with her head on the briefing-room table. Hank McCoy in his lab. Wanda reading a book, the pages illuminated by a point of light balanced on her fingertip. There were a few sketches of action, too -- Monica and Jen sparring, Clint launching a volley of arrows, Jan zipping around Thor as he swung his hammer.

Tony tapped the page. "This is good," he said, and he'd managed to moderate his actual reaction down to something more like grudging pleasure, but delight still shone in his eyes. "Very dynamic. There's a lot of life in these. A lot of personality. Yes, I think you'll do nicely."

"Thank you," Steve said, and he bit his lip as Tony turned the page again.

The next page was all Tony. In armor, out of armor, halfway in armor. Tony in a ripped shirt and worn jeans, grinning at him with one gauntlet on. Tony with a soldering iron in one hand, leaning over a circuit board, tongue poking out from between his lips as he worked. Tony in a suit, looking into a mirror and adjusting his tie. A head and torso, where the face was clearly Tony, and he was bare-chested, but the rest of the drawing faded into discreet nothingness.

Tony's eyes were a little wider. "Yes," he repeated. "Very nice."

He was still looking at Tony's face, but he knew Tony had reached the last page, because for an instant he was Tony again, Steve's Tony, his face bright in surprise.

Yeah, Tony had definitely gotten to the naked pictures.

What Steve had drawn was nothing so classy as nudes. No, what Steve had drawn was unquestionably in the category of dirty pictures. There were quick sketches of gagged mouths and bound wrists, and then -- because, given that they both knew where this was going, why the hell not? -- an erection, a hand curled about the base of it. (Steve's, actually. He'd modeled for himself.) The center of the paper was devoted to a drawing of, well, the two of them. He was on his hands and knees on Tony's bed, facing away, and Tony was entering him slowly, head thrown back in bliss, the elegant line of his throat sketched out in the sweep of a pencil, one rough hand gripping Steve's hip, digging in. The viewer of course had an excellent view of Tony's cock sliding into him, and the barest glimpse of Steve's cock and balls dangling between his own spread legs. From the angle of his arm it was clear Steve was jerking himself off.

It was half-memory and half-imagination, because they had done that but they hadn't taken pictures, and then there was the one aspect that was all imagination: Steve had drawn himself with a collar and leash, the other end of the leash in Tony's hand.

He watched Tony swallow hard and struggle to compose himself.

"I'll be keeping this," Tony said, his voice rough. "I'll need to peruse your work at my leisure, you understand."

Oh, God, Steve thought, and his cock jumped in his pants, and Christ, could he ever picture that.

"Of course," Steve said. "I understand."

Tony closed the portfolio and set it down at the side of the desk, next to his briefcase, the one that Steve was positive didn't contain papers. Like anyone would do with something they were taking home from the office. Well, it wasn't like they weren't going home together.

"You have an excellent imagination," Tony said, like he was paying him a compliment from on high, like he should be honored. "Very inspirational."

Steve's mouth was dry. "I would have called it aspirational, myself."

Tony leaned back in his chair, gaze still trained on Steve. "You seem like a clever guy, Rogers."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"Mmm," Tony said, absently. "So if I were to tell you that I found your work exceedingly inspirational, you'd understand what I meant, yes?"

Steve met Tony's gaze and smiled. "I'd understand exactly what you meant, Mr. Stark."

"Good," Tony said, and now it felt like praise, like a reward, and Steve glowed. "Then there's a matter I'd like your assistance with."

"I'll do anything you want," Steve breathed, and God, he meant it, and he watched Tony's eyes grow dark with lust.

Tony nodded. "Then come over here."

Steve stepped to Tony's side of the desk, and it was obvious now that Tony was incredibly, massively hard, as Tony spun in his chair to face him. Tony had been waiting for him, just like this. Ready to do what he wanted to him.

"Your mouth," Tony said, and it wasn't a question, it wasn't a request, and that was exactly how Steve wanted it.

Steve dropped to his knees.

He mouthed at Tony's cock through the fabric of his trousers, and Tony groaned, low and needy. "Oh, God," Tony breathed. "Steve." Then his voice steadied a little. "Can I call you Steve?"

"You can call me anything you want, Mr. Stark," Steve said, a fervent promise. He felt so light, like he was floating, like he was flying with Tony.

Tony chuckled, like a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. "Can I call you names?"

They hadn't mentioned this, and Steve hadn't known, hadn't known what it would do to him to even think about Tony doing that, Tony who already called him so many wonderful things, calling him names because he loved him, reminding Steve that in this place he had the upper hand, that he could make him feel this--

Steve's cock jerked again, and he moaned helplessly. "Oh, Tony, please."

Tony petted his hair a little; he'd broken character. "Okay, good to know. For next time, okay?"

Steve dragged down Tony's zipper with his teeth and imagined a next time, imagined already that they could do this again, imagined Tony calling him a cocksucker, telling him he belonged here, and that nearly did it for him then and there.

"Yes," Tony said, harshly, like he was directing him. "Just like that. Take it."

And then Tony was directing him. His fingers curled into Steve's hair, and he was holding Steve's head down, fucking up roughly into his mouth, using him, like he was just a mouth, and Steve was harder than he'd ever been in his entire life. The rhythm of it pounded through him and he fell into it. He felt the helplessness then, the way he'd always wanted to, and he knew that he was Tony's and Tony could do what he wanted with him. He was somehow far away from it; everything inside his head was warm and calm and bright, and he was doing what Tony wanted, and he didn't have to think about any of it. Everything was simple. Easy. He couldn't say how long it went on. Time stretched out before him. There was nothing but this.

Tony lifted Steve's head away. He hadn't come; his cock was huge and heavy, dark with blood. Steve wondered vaguely if he'd done something wrong. Tony smiled down at him, like he wasn't supposed to, and he swiped at the mess of spit and pre-come on Steve's lips with the pad of his thumb.

"Look how sweet that got you," Tony murmured, still smiling a real smile. "Pretty far down, huh? You with me?" he asked, and waited for Steve to nod. "Come on, up you get."

Pushing the chair away, Tony stood, and he helped Steve up when he couldn't quite find his feet.

"Strip," Tony said, gone back to that commanding presence, a kind of commanding tone that Steve had never seen in him before, even in the field, and Steve's hands were on the buttons of his shirt before he could even think about what he was doing. "All of it."

When he'd gotten out of his clothing and pushed it all, haphazardly, into a pile on the floor, he looked up to find that Tony was now bare-legged and carefully draping his suit jacket over the chair. Tony was wearing a shirt, a tie, and -- as he slid his underwear off -- absolutely nothing else. It was a very good look on him -- anything was, really -- but Steve tilted his head, confused, feeling like he was drunk, like he could even get drunk, knowing he wasn't quite processing right.

Tony lifted his head, archly, and he was back in the game. "Questions?"

"I thought," Steve said. "I thought you were going to." He gestured helplessly at Tony and then at himself. "Use me." He'd pictured Tony fucking him, of course he had; he'd pictured Tony probably keeping all his clothes on and stripping Steve bare, and so far they'd managed... the last part.

He had no idea what Tony was planning, he realized, and God, that just turned him on even more.

Tony's grin was dark and possessive. "Oh," he murmured. "Don't you worry about that. I'm planning on it."

And then Tony was stalking toward him, pushing him back until Steve backed into the desk. Their mouths met, and Tony kissed him heavily, roughly. Steve brought his hands up to embrace Tony, the way he always did -- and Tony's fingers tangled with his and batted his hands back down.

"No," Tony said, brows drawn together in annoyance.

Tony put a hand in the middle of Steve's chest and pushed, and Steve, easy and compliant, just went, tipping backwards, sliding across polished wood to stop in the middle of the desk. He felt vulnerable, exposed, off-balance, and somehow it was all good, because he knew Tony was in control. Tony had him. Tony had a plan. Steve was dimly aware of wood creaking, and a soft noise of exertion -- and then Tony was straddling his chest, smirking down at him, his weight pinning him to the desk.

Oh. Oh.

Tony shoved his shirt-tails out of the way and gave his own cock a few rough strokes. "I could jerk off on your face," he said, contemplatively, like he was the sort of man who had a list of things he could do to prove he was the biggest man in the room. "That's artistic, right?" He smirked again. "Performance art. I could make you walk out of here wearing it."

Breathless with need, the only response Steve could summon up was a whispery, low groan, and his hips jerked up off the desk without him really intending to. Everything was still slow and easy, a world where there was nothing but this.

"But that's not what I really want," Tony continued, idly, like he hadn't even noticed the effect he was having on him. "You see, I want to get fucked. So I'm going to ride you until I come. Your task here is not to come. Can you do that for me?"

"I can try," Steve said, because he wanted to be good, he did, and maybe he could hold off, but he was terribly fast, especially when he was inside Tony, and he knew Tony knew that. He'd gotten good at bringing his partners off with his mouth or his hands, making sure they were never unsatisfied, and one of the benefits of the serum was that he was always up for a second round, but he just never had a lot of stamina to begin with. He was too sensitive for it.

"You're going to do better than try," Tony said, sharply, and Steve shivered.

He waited for Tony to move off him, to get the lube, to slick himself up and work himself open, but instead Tony only shifted his weight, reached around behind himself, and, after a few seconds, brought forth a lube-covered plug, which he tossed on the floor like he didn't care where it ended up.

Christ, Steve thought, and he bit his lip. Tony had prepared, Tony had been ready, Tony had gone off and worked that into his ass and had been sitting there, like this, this entire time.

Tony grinned, sharp and knowing, and then he eased himself down on Steve's cock. Steve could just barely see -- God, he wanted to see -- but he could feel Tony's ass ripple tight around the head of his cock. But instead of sinking down, Tony pulled all the way off him, setting the tip of Steve's cock against his slick entrance, teasing him with the sensation, the promise of his body, just out of reach.

Steve whimpered. "Please."

"Please what?" The question was lazy but sharp-edged. It didn't sound as if Tony had any particular answer in mind except abasement.

"Please, sir," Steve breathed, and Tony's eyes lit up, cruel, but cruel in a way that didn't quite hurt, or if it did, the pain was what he wanted. Whatever Tony wanted him to say, he'd say it. "Please, Mr. Stark, please, please let me, I'll be good, I won't come--"

"Be good," Tony said, the words somewhere between an idle echo and a command. "Yes."

And then Tony sank down all the way in one easy slide, and Steve gasped and tried to rise up into the hot wet clench of Tony's body. He bit his lip and balled his hands up into fists so he wouldn't reach out for Tony's hips and drag him down the way he wanted. It was wonderful and he knew already that he wasn't going to be able to last. But he had to. He'd promised.

Tony smiled again -- either at the pleasure or seeing the agony of it on Steve's face -- and reached out with one idle hand to the corded muscles of Steve's arms, observing the shaking strain. "Good," he purred, with a smirk. "Hold still. Just like that." He shifted on Steve's cock, back and forth, gaze gone abstracted for a minute, and Steve bit his lip again as Tony tightened around him. "Ah, that's the angle. Perfect. Don't come."

"But can I," Steve panted, "can I come when you're done?"

He was sweating already. The awful, amazing thought occurred to him that maybe Tony wouldn't let him--

Tony shrugged, like it didn't interest him. "I suppose. As long as you're quick about it and don't inconvenience me."

Oh, he'd definitely be quick.

Balancing himself perfectly, Tony rose up and sank down again, fucking himself on Steve's cock, like Steve was just there to be a toy, like all he could do was serve him, and Steve's mind fuzzed away into quiet satisfaction. Tony gasped. His eyes fluttered shut, and he smiled.

"Yeah," Tony breathed. "That's good, that's good, that's the way."

Tony rode him masterfully, setting a rhythm that had to be hard for himself, because he was doing all the work, as Steve lay here, shaking, trying not to thrust up as Tony moved around him, tight, tight, tight. Steve tried to look away, tried to focus on the collar of the shirt Tony still wore or the way his tie draped, because if he looked at Tony's cock, huge and heavy, bouncing between them, or worse, Tony's bright, avid face--

He felt the familiar tightness gathering within him, so soon, his balls drawing up, and God, the way Tony felt around him -- this was all going to be over very, very fast. "I can't," he panted out. "I can't, Tony, I can't, I'm going to, I can't."

Tony slowed and gazed down at him. "You can," he said, and his voice was all steel. "You can and you will."

Steve turned his face against the unyielding wood of the desk and groaned; the desk creaked alarmingly as Tony started moving again, and Steve wondered hazily if it was going to break under them. It wouldn't be the first time he'd broken furniture. He squeezed his eyes shut, because, God, if he looked at Tony he was going to come--

"Hey." A hand tapped his jaw, and he opened his eyes. "Look at me." Tony was gasping; he was close. His thighs were shaking, and the head of Steve's cock was clearly hitting him just right, but he couldn't keep the rhythm he needed, not on this surface. Tony was biting his lip, hissing out a command. "Fuck me. I need you to move. You know how I like it."

Steve didn't need to be told twice. He brought a hand up to steady Tony, who dropped his palms flat to the table and was half bent over him, sweat-dampened hair curling on his forehead. His bright eyes went wide as Steve snapped his hips up hard, two, three times -- ah, God, he had to hold on--

And then Tony was coming, untouched, spattering Steve's stomach, shaking and clenching down, so tight, and Steve had to hold on, he had to--

"Good," Tony breathed. "Good, good. So good. Such a good ride. You did it right. Come on. You deserve it."

Steve was halfway between flying on the praise and sinking into the agony of denial, but then Tony bore down on him again, just right, and Steve sobbed and came and came and came, riding the wave of pleasure, cresting and then cresting again, coming as Tony sank down around him.

"Wow," Tony said, in his normal voice, soft and kind, sounding impressed and more than a little dazed. "Was that twice? Good God. Are you all right there?"

Steve smiled dreamily up at him. "M'great. Perfect."

Tony eased gingerly off him and then ruffled his hair. "Yeah, you look perfect. Guess that got you really worked up, huh?" There was the sound of a drawer opening. "Hold on, let's get everyone cleaned up and move the cuddling over to the couch."

"Mmm-hmm," Steve said, vaguely, as Tony wiped a cloth over him. He felt like he'd agree to almost anything right now.

Tony chuckled. "Still pretty sweet, aren't you? Come on."

Steve's legs were a little shakier than he was expecting, and Tony seemed to find it amusing that he had to support Steve's weight all the way across the office. But soon enough they were settled on the couch, Steve basically sprawling all over Tony -- not that he seemed to mind. Tony just snagged a blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over both of them.

"So that was a success, I think," Tony said, his fingers slipping through Steve's hair.

Steve smiled. "I think so." He couldn't really think, still; it didn't seem like a problem. Nothing seemed like a problem. "Was worried for a minute we were going to break your desk."

He could feel Tony's laugh more than hear it. "All of my furniture has weight and durability ratings that most people would consider overkill. In case Iron Man needs to show up. I could fuck you in the armor and the desk could handle it."

The sound that escaped Steve's mouth then was an entirely unexpected gasp of breathless need.

Tony chuckled again. "Oh, you like that idea?"

"I like that idea," Steve managed. "And I liked what did. Did-- did you like that? What we did?"

Tony lifted Steve's hand and pressed a kiss to his fingers. "I loved it. The roleplaying's a good game, and you get off on it, and I get off on you getting off on it, and it's nice to be a little mean sometimes. When it's not real."

"Of course not," Steve agreed, because Tony would never.

"I meant it about keeping the pictures," Tony added. "That was a nice surprise. Thought I was going to come in my pants right then."

"Well, you know," Steve said. "I did think it was best to prepare for the job I wanted."

He tilted his head back just enough to see Tony smile.

"You're a real charmer," Tony said, fondness shining in his eyes. "I think I'm gonna keep you."

"Same to you," Steve told him, and Tony's arms went around him tight, and he was held fast, and it was just like he'd always, always wanted.