A\N: Hah, what'dya know? I actually wrote a sequel. Too bad I'm incapable of writing actual emotional development. I blame my childhood.
When Tony awoke on the floor it was because his body was aching. He was getting too old to sleep wherever he pleased—and, besides that, he was sore because of the spanking of the night previous and the rough sex that succeeded it.
His neck was sore; his back was tight, his thighs and hips, and all in between were littered with bites and scratches, bruises and rug burn. His lips were split from the bruising force that Steve had used to kiss him when he had reached his peak.
The corners of his mouth felt tight and stretched at the same time; his throat felt incredibly raw—all these things he deemed to be a light consequence for having given Steve his best go at fellatio.
His scalp hurt from having his hair pulled and it was probably the least uncomfortable thing he'd felt, waking up that morning, as Tony very much enjoyed having people—more specifically, Steve—grab a handful of his dark-colored tresses and yank almost hard enough to pull it out.
Of everything that hurt, his thoroughly-spanked ass was probably the worst.
As Tony tried to sit up, he was met with a scorching, stinging pain that radiated up his spine, filling him with feelings of shame and arousal—not regret, though. Never regret. If he lived long enough for his hair to turn silver and a child born of him to have some rug-rats of their own, Tony would probably… no definitely; he would definitely never regret anything from last night.
Not what he said, not what he did; not what Steve did, nor how he treated him so rough and possessively. It was fucked-up and perfect at the same time, and he never wanted to forget it.
Tony felt himself aching for an entirely different reason then and he shifted onto his stomach to bury his face into the bend of his arm. Just thinking about the night before and in as much detail as he could recall—Steve's grunting, his strong hands bearing down on Tony as he struck him with his belt, over and over. Steve's wild, almost unrecognizable eyes never breaking contact with his own as he took him roughly and gripped his hips tight; as he thrust and thrust, breathlessly unrelenting and astoundingly precise.
Tony's fingertips delicately traversed the pale expanse of skin that stretched out across his lower abdomen; careful not to agitate any of the marks that surely marred the flesh there.
Fine hairs tickled his palm as he slid his hand down further still. Passed his navel, passed his protruding hipbones, between his legs and… ah, there—! It felt so good… so, so good to have a hand touching himself that wasn't as calloused, or big.
Up and down, up and down.
He closed his eyes and bit his lip. As he worked his hand in a repetitious motion, Tony almost came close to climaxing. But then, it didn't feel that good and he suddenly missed Steve's hands; wanted them on him now.
That's when it hit him… where was Steve? He should've been on the floor with him. Or, at least, in the armchair beside where they were. Tony stopped his ministrations altogether and sat up more carefully than before to look around the penthouse for the missing blonde. And found that he was nowhere to be found.
Tony grunted as he crawled towards the leather lounger and used the armrests to help him to his feet. Immediately upon standing, he felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. Dizziness, however, wasn't nearly as bad as the sensation of something trickling down his legs. Tony shuddered, knowing exactly what it was and how it got there. And then, he was suddenly coming to the abrupt realization that Steve must've left him right after he was finished—right after Tony had passed out; before the moon had even begun its descent on the horizon and before sun even thought to rise.
Tony knew that Steve felt ashamed. In how he treated him, what they had done, who he had done it with and why it happened. And in his usual, old-timey fashion, Steve was going beat himself up over this until he either found something else to angst about or he died.
Tony didn't want that; didn't want Steve to regret what happened last night. The best night of sex of his life and, with his childhood idol no less—there was no way he would ever want to forget that nor did he want Steve to because, fuck, he wanted the super-soldier to do it again… and again… and again, until the thought of having sex with anyone else made Tony physically ill. Yeah, he wanted it that much.
Pulling himself together, Tony showered. Not because he felt gross—he actually felt the exact opposite of that; battered and used, Tony felt like he belonged to Steve, in a way, and that turned him on so much—but because it probably wasn't socially acceptable for a billionaire to leave his or her home unclean and smelling of sex, wearing the same frumpy clothes from yesterday and hickeys all over their skin.
Once dressed and properly groomed, Tony was out in the city looking high and low for Steve.
He found him in a diner a ways down the road. Sitting in the very back, fully dressed and smelling heavily of Tony's soap and cologne—apparently, he'd used the facilities before he ran out on Tony—and not touching any of the food he ordered.
Tony asked the silver-haired waitress skulking behind the counter to deliver two steaming cups of coffee to Steve's table and put a shitload of bourbon in his—because, knowing Steve, this was going to be a real talk. Like, with emotions and crap.
Steeling his nerves, Tony approached Steve's table as quietly as he could. With the super-soldier's broad-back facing towards him, the dark-haired man was sure that Steve didn't see him. And so, when he stood behind the blonde, he confidently reached forward and went to cover Steve's eyes—he was genuinely surprised when he found himself bent over the table, his cheek smashed against the cool surface while his arms were forced behind his back.
His shoulders ached as Steve pinned his elbows together. Tony panted, half-aroused and half-pained as he struggled against the knee pressed against his sore back. "Good morning to you too, Sunshine..." He grunted when Steve didn't yet let up.
At hearing him speak, Steve's mental processors came back online and suddenly, the super-soldier was backing away; apologizing curtly to Tony and the startled patrons before he went into his pocket to pay the bill and leave.
Tony rubbed his sore wrists but despite just being manhandled by him, he still found the brazenness to grab Steve by his forearm to stop him from going. "We need to talk." The billionaire said sternly. Tony hated himself then for sounding like all the women in the past whose hearts he broke.
Perhaps, this was karma or something? He found finally something good in Steve—like all those before had found in him—and now he was going to be cast off like he was trash because he didn't mean a damned thing to the blonde. That what they did together was a mistake.
Tony felt ill then. And no matter how much he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling. The shoe definitely felt worse on the other foot. Guiding Steve into the seat across from him, Tony sat down and carded his fingers through his hair. The soreness in his scalp made him quiver and that's when he remembered that he was still half-hard in his trousers. Tony shifted around in his seat before meeting Steve's hard stare.
His clear ocean-blue eyes were as unyielding as his posture; his jaw as tense as his hands, which were resting on the table-top and balled into fists—Steve looked like he was a moment away from bursting out of his skin.
Tony felt heat creep up his neck as he recalled that same look of intensity on Steve's face from last night. How focused he was… how it seemed that the only thing in the entire universe Steve could see was Tony. Writhing and moaning—words a jumbled mess as they were torn from his throat from the onslaught of pleasure and muffled against the cloth Steve had stuffed in his mouth.
Tony almost forgot where he was, and that he'd just stopped Steve from going so they could talk, as he was too busy discreetly touching himself under the table to notice that there were children in the restaurant whom he could potentially scar for life. When the waitress appeared at his side and put the steaming mugs of coffee down on the table, Tony snapped out of his haze, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Claiming one of the cups for himself, not entirely sure which was spiked but not caring, Tony slammed the murky black contents as if it didn't burn.
The super-soldier, after politely gesturing for the server to leave, took the remaining mug and cleared his throat. "What is it, Stark?"
So, they were back to the surnames-thing…? Well, fuck, that wasn't good.
Tony knew, at that moment, that this wasn't going to be something they were going to resolve in one sitting. The dark-haired man sighed before pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes and groaning tiredly. "Don't give me that, Steve; you know what—you know exactly why I'm here." Another intake of bitter coffee and Tony continued: "Last night, I do recall manhandled, in the X-rated way, until I was sore and bruised." Steve's face colored in shamed as he hid his face in the rim of his cup. Tony rolled his eyes. "And you know what I discovered when I woke up earlier? I was alone… on the floor. You know what sleeping on the floor does to a man's back? Of course you don't, you've never had a bad night's sleep. But, still…!" He hit his fist on the table—not in the dramatic, movie-way that made everyone in the diner gasp; no, just in a way that would get his point across. "I don't mean to sound like a girl, Steve, but… fuck… couldn't you have at least left me a freakin' letter, or something?"
A lump must've developed in Steve's throat because the blonde refused to speak; shaking his head vaguely, the super-soldier cast his gaze down into the dark depths of his coffee. Caught between looking repentant and irate, he fidgeted and waited for Tony to finish talking before he decided he would leave—because, obviously, that was the polite thing to do. Although, if Steve really wanted to be polite, he wouldn't have done what he did last night.
Tony scrubbed his face. "So, what…? Do you regret it—wish that didn't happen?"
Silence enveloped them for a whole the next ten minutes as Tony waited for an answer. In that time, Tony's head swam with the sounds of plates and cutlery clattering, people prattling, machinery buzzing and the string of bells hanging over the door jingling upon the arrival of a new patron. He drank more and more to quell his oncoming headache.
Steve exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging like there was a heavy weight on them as he gripped his mug tightly in his grip. "No." He responded truthfully, his voice cutting through the tension. Tony's attention fixed on him, and Steve suddenly found his courage diminishing. "But… that doesn't make it right. I'll never—never do that again." He vowed.
Tony raised a brow, leaning forward against the table. "Never do what again; the spanking or—?"
"Neither…!" Steve said with resolve.
Tony tsk'ed as he tried to hide his disappointment with his usual arrogance. The younger man surveyed Steve for any sign that the blonde would change his mind. "Neither? Are you sure—because, last night, you promised…"
Steve growled. "Tony! What I said stands… never again."
His tone made Tony shiver, and this time, the dark-haired man couldn't suppress it. "Never…? Not even—" His foot, which had somehow found its way out of his shoe, snuck up Steve's leg. His toes followed the seam of the older man's trousers; up, up, up, until Steve was trembling with the build-up of energy. "—if I beg you for it, like last night?"
There was a split-second of stillness as Steve grappled with his self-control. For that time, Tony was sure the blonde was going to reject him. Then, he was being seized by the collar of his shirt and hauled from the diner.