Oversexed Sickos: Part 3

Steve carried the coffee, and Morgan carried the pills and the glass of water, walking one careful step at a time.

"Is Daddy okay?" Morgan asked again as they made their slow way down the hall.

"He's okay, but he'll be sore. We've got to take good care of him for the next little while. You're going to help me, right?"

"Yes, Steve," she said seriously. She paused at the bedroom door, looking back at him.

"You want to wake him up?" Steve asked her.

"You do it." Still not too sure, then. Steve left her in the open doorway and set the coffee on the bedside table. Tony was barely visible in the bed, just a tousle of hair sticking out from under a great heap of covers with a little black cat curled on top.

"Alright, Monty. Go find a new spot." Steve tossed the cat on the floor, then put a hand on the blanketed lump that corresponded roughly with Tony's shoulder. "Tony. Swee–"Sweetheart. The endearment came to his tongue automatically, and he bit it off, glancing back at , he chided himself. "Tony, wake up. The aide and the physical therapist are going to be here in a few minutes."

"Hmmm?" Tony shifted, opening his eyes reluctantly. He tried to sit up, but promptly fell back to the mattress with a wince.

"Sore?" Steve put a hand under his shoulders, helping him up against the pillows.

"I am one giant bruise," Tony groaned. "And did I hear you say 'physical therapist?' Those sadists can't leave me alone the day after I—"

"Morgan is here," Steve said loudly. " She brought you some medicine."

Morgan came forward tentatively with her supplies, and Tony was immediately on his best behavior. "I feel better already," he declared, snapping into a split-lipped smile. "Thank you, Morguna."

"You can't spit out the medicine," Morgan warned, repeating Steve's admonition about her morning dose of antibiotics as she dropped pills into Tony's cupped hand. "You have to swallow it even if it tastes bad."

"Yes, Doctor." Tony obediently tossed the pills to the back of his throat, then took the offered water glass from her bandaged hand. They didn't touch; Tony was exquisitely careful, plucking the glass from her by the rim, and it made Steve's heart ache to see him so afraid of rejection that he wouldn't risk even a brush of fingers. He watched quietly as Tony drank all the water in the glass then set the empty cup on the bed stand, trading it out for his coffee. "How's the hand?" Tony asked Morgan. "Still hurt?"

Morgan nodded gravely, "Yes, but Steve put the cream on it. I was very brave."

"You're the bravest," Tony said, just as serious. "And what's Upstate's bravest girl going to do today?"

"I'm going to story time at the library with Olivia. Then we're going to the indoor playground with the big slide."

"Are you?" Tony sipped his coffee, giving Steve a sidelong glance. "Doesn't Steve usually take you to the library on Monday?"

"Steve is tired today. He was up and down all night," Morgan explained, parroting what she'd heard over breakfast when Steve had all but begged Olivia to take her. "He needs to take a nap."

"A nap," Tony said, giving Steve another side-eye. Steve was determined not to blush; it was just a question of mind over matter. "Well, that's certainly one thing to do in an empty house."

"Make sure he takes one while I'm gone," Morgan insisted, and Steve could hear an echo of Pepper, Make sure she takes a nap, Tony.

"Oh, absolutely. Soon as you're gone, I'll make sure Steve goes straight to bed." When he caught Steve's eye he smiled. With teeth.

They left him to wake up with his coffee, but Steve couldn't seem to make him out-of-sight out-of-mind. He could feel Tony's hand on the small of his back as he searched the dryer for Morgan's missing sock. He could smell Tony's aftershave as he brushed Morgan's hair. He could taste Tony's mouth as he drank his own coffee and washed breakfast dishes. And all the while he was strategizing, fantasizing. Once Steve got everyone successfully out the door, he was taking Tony to bed. He had been patient; he had been happy to be patient, but now that the prize was dangling an inch in front of him?

He was patient, not a saint.

Tony kept the tally in his mind: Six. He had six people in his house, and he had to reduce that number down to two to get laid. Two was company. Three was a crowd. Four was a mob, and anything beyond that was ludicrous. Still, he smiled politely (and sometimes gritted his teeth) as the physical therapist pushed his aching limbs through a range of passive motion exercises while he lay on top of Steve's made bed.

"It'll loosen you up, keep you from getting stiff," explained the perky little twenty-something with a pony-tail as she pushed a knee up to his chest. Tony snorted; he couldn't help it. Loose is good, he thought, loose is great. But he didn't want anything to keep him from getting stiff. He'd had enough of that problem to last him the rest of his life…

"You okay, Mr. Stark?" The therapist eased off, mistaking his amusement for pain.

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine. Great."

When she deemed him sufficiently tortured, she handed him off to the health aide. And then there were five.

The aide shampooed his grimy hair, blow-dried it, helped him shave. Tony tried not to see any part of his naked body in the bathroom mirror; he didn't want to examine it, didn't even want to think about it because if he did, he'd chicken out.

"What would you like to wear, Mr. Stark?"

Something easy to take off. "Pajamas. When you leave, I'm going back to bed."

Down to four.

When the aide left, Tony locked the door of Steve's room. That little black bag was somewhere, and so was the lube and the box of condoms they'd bought at the pharmacy. Where would Steve stash shit like that?

"Butt plug, butt plug, who's got the butt plug?" Tony muttered, poking through the drawer in the bedside table: bookmark, loose change, and a Chapstick. Did the man have a toy box? If it was under the bed, it was a lost cause, because Tony was too creaky to get up and down off the floor. And then his eyes fell on the chest of drawers.

Pawing through Steve's underwear drawer felt a little like touching the Shroud of Turin. There were boxer briefs, balls of socks, a couple of knit hats, and some—what was that? Tony pulled out a blue velvet presentation case and opened it: Medal of Honor. Steve had a Medal of Honor hanging out under a pile of boxer briefs. Of course he did. Tony stuck the case back in the depths and kept digging, finally hitting pay dirt in the form of red ribbon handles. And Steve, practical man that he was, had put the bottle of lube and the box of condoms in the bag, too.

Tony took his prize back to the bed, feeling his heart start to race. This was a good idea, he told himself. Really. The plug would loosen him up and hopefully the surprise would distract from…from other things. He laid his materials out neatly on the bed: unboxed plug, lube bottle, box of tissues, and he looked at them, strategizing. He always had to strategize now, even the simplest things: with only one hand, everything had to be planned out. Pants off first, probably, and then he had to get the lube in his hand, which was a problem. Steve had gotten a little flip-top bottle instead of a pump. While jars were enemy number one, flip-tops were enemy number two. There would be a mess if he wasn't careful. Hence the tissues.

Tony pulled his pants and boxers down, then there was a bunch of awkward finagling involving a lube bottle under his chin, and then way too much lube in his hand, a little on his shirt and the quilt. "I own your spring break, Parker," Tony said to himself, thinking how easy life would be with a prosthesis. Still, he'd overcome the considerable challenges, and now he had a (very) well lubricated butt plug in his sticky hand. It was truly a triumph of the human spirit.

He lay on his belly and took some deep breaths to calm his racing heart. Unless you counted that anal catheter, it had been a good long time since he'd taken anything up the ass, but the muscle relaxers would help. Probably. He couldn't seem to let go. At least he was aroused, he thought, half-hard just thinking about it, and he hadn't touched himself at all. Pressing the tapered end of the plug against the delicate ring of muscle, he concentrated on the sensation. Good, right? he thought. So loosen the fuck up. What are you so worried about? Give it up. He pushed, just a little, feeling the tip slide in easily. So he pushed a little more. Stupidly easy. Flexiril was a wonder, just as good as poppers and Steve Rogers wouldn't look askance. He wondered how many refills he could get.

He kept pushing, harder now so his body couldn't push it back out, getting to the widest part of the bulb. The stretch burned, and he lingered over the sensation, imagining it was Steve's cock. Steve was going to stretch him out, make him gape, and he let himself grind a little against the mattress as he kept pushing. A little more and the plug was sliding in on its own, like his body was hungry for it, until it was gone. "Fuck," he sighed, running his fingers over the base, tracing the raised star in the middle. The bulbous shape felt satisfying inside him, and he gave it a tug, feeling the muscles resisting from the other side, sending a warm tingle rolling up his spine. Surely Steve would find the plug amusing even if the rest of Tony was wanting for erotic charm. He'd certainly been into the idea the night before.

Tony put his clothes back on and hid all the evidence, though the lube went into the bedside table instead of the sock drawer, and he hobbled back down the hall on a walker. Steve was standing in the kitchen, talking on the phone with the insurance company.

"So, it's totaled? That's—the frame, right. No, I'm not surprised. I—" Steve's eyes found Tony immediately, and Tony's stomach flipped over. He could feel Steve's gaze, the attentive weight of it, following him as he moved to the kitchen table and sat down.

"Yes, a deer," Steve said to whomever on the phone, eyes on Tony. "You know, I'm not sure. I'll ask." He pulled the phone away from his mouth. "You didn't actually hit the deer, did you?" he asked Tony.

Tony started to answer, but he found his throat wasn't working. The plug against the chair was pressing up into him, making him feel full, sending signals to nerves that hadn't been called for such use in a long time. He shook his head instead.

"No," Steve said, putting the phone back to his ear, still watching Tony. "No, he didn't hit it. Just–that's right. A pen? No, but I can find one. Hold on." Steve started rooting through kitchen drawers. Just put the phone on speaker, Tony wanted to say, and tell Friday to take down the information for you, but he still lacked the power of speech. The palm of his hand was sweating, and he wiped it on his pajama pants, leaving his thigh damp with perspiration and a little lingering lube. He felt like a live wire, coursing with jittery electricity, and he needed to be grounded. Immediately. He was going to come out of his skin waiting for—

Steve emerged triumphant from a drawer with a ballpoint and a pad of sticky notes. "Okay, I found a pen. I'm ready to take down that number if–"

"Good morning!" Olivia said brightly, coming down the stairs with Morgan in tow. "We're headed out! Be back around, I don't know? Four? Do you need me to pick anything up for you while I'm out?"

"Sorry," Steve said into the phone, "just a second. Our daughter is on her way out the door." He pulled the phone away from his face again. "No, thank you, Olivia. Unless you need something, Tony?"

A bottle of scotch? Tranquilizers for his shaky nerves? "No. Have a good time," he said with an effort, his tongue clumsy in his mouth. "I don't need anything." Except for Steve to get off the fucking phone and fuck me stupid with that big—

"See you later, then!" Olivia said, ushering Morgan and her stuffed owl out the front door.

"Bye, Steve! Bye, Daddy!"

And then there were two.

Tony's heart was pounding. It had been fun to make sexual innuendos over coffee. It'd been fun to grope Steve in the car, fun to give him sex toys in a hospital waiting room. It had all been fun. Fun and safe because there couldn't be any follow-through. There had been built-in barriers, and now they were all gone. And it was terrifying. Actually terrifying. Tony was virginally scared of sex, and yet he still wanted Steve so badly he was going to burst into lust-fueled flames right at the kitchen table. He shifted a little in the chair, feeling the plug light up some new nerves. Get off the phone, Steve.

"Bye," Steve called after Morgan as the door closed. "Sorry about that. I'm ready for the case number now. Five-Seven-One—" He repeated the digits as he wrote them neatly on his little yellow pad. "Yes. Thank you. You've been very helpful. Good-bye."

Steve set his phone on the kitchen counter with a click and didn't say anything. Didn't move. They stared at each other. Tony could hear the SUV crunching faintly down the gravel drive. He strained his ears, listening for it until he couldn't hear it anymore, and then he cleared his throat.

"So," he said, voice rusty. "We've got the house to ourselves. For a while, at least. I suppose you want–" He'd planned to say something snappy about naps, but the joke died somewhere on the way up. Steve had rounded the kitchen table and was standing over Tony's kitchen chair, looking down at him. He was smiling; Tony couldn't quite manage to smile back.

"Hi," Steve said.

"Hi," Tony croaked.

"You're nervous," Steve observed, his smile softening, but not fading.

"Incredibly," Tony admitted, feeling small in his chair.

"Why?" Steve reached out to smooth back a lock of hair from Tony's forehead, fingers lingering on the shell of Tony's ear. "It's just me."

"Ha. So many reasons. If I start giving you the list, we'll be here all day."

"Seems like I'm the one who should be nervous. You've done this a lot more." Steve, for his part, did not sound nervous at all. He was just being nice, but that was Steve for you.

"Not in a long time, Steve."

"Bet it's like riding a bicycle."

"It is exactly nothing like riding a bicycle."

"We can wait," Steve offered, neither of them believing it for so much as a microsecond.

"We definitely can't. I feel like…" He didn't know what to say, how to capture the falling, anxious, desperate-for-it feeling. Fortunately, Steve didn't wait for him to articulate it, just took another step towards Tony's chair, snagging him by the chin. He wanted Steve to close the distance, kiss him in the kitchen chair, but Steve just grazed over Tony's split lip with his thumb.

Doomed, Tony thought, parting his lips under the soft stroke of Steve's thumb. I am so fucking doomed. He'd do whatever Steve wanted. If Steve said he wanted Tony over the kitchen table, Tony knew he'd bend right over. Over the back of the sofa? Sure. Wanted to fuck Tony through the kitchen floor? Tony had never liked the pickled wood anyway. Steve would have to scrape him up afterwards because he was so sore, but whatever. The only thing Steve couldn't have was Tony on all fours…

Tony watched Steve sink to the floor between his bony knees. For just a moment, Tony flashed on an image of himself sinking into the shallow water at Steve's feet, but just for a moment, because Steve was bending forward, licking over Tony's half-hard cock, his tongue dragging across the fabric of Tony's sweats, and then he was mouthing at the head. And it was unimaginable. Impossible. How had Tony wound up here? With Captain America blowing him through his sweatpants? He could even feel a hint of teeth, scraping dull through the fabric, and he groaned, shivering.

"Cold?" Steve murmured, gazing up at him with those soft blue eyes.

"Always. I've lost all my insulation."

"Then let me warm you up. Your place or mine?"

"Yours." One word and Tony could barely get it out. Instantly, Steve was off the floor and hauling him out of the chair.

"Can I carry you? I won't treat you like a sack of potatoes this time."

"Faster than walking, I guess. Sure."

Steve swept him off his feet like a bride. It was supposed to be romantic, Tony supposed, but he wasn't sure he liked it; it made him feel out-of-control, but maybe that was the reality. Though Steve kept insisting Tony was calling the shots, it wasn't true, not really. Any control Tony had been given was marginal; he'd decided the terms of his surrender, but Steve had decided long ago that Tony would fall. From there, it had just been a waiting game, and Steve didn't lose waiting games. He was a patient, persistent man.

No one had ever wanted Tony that way before, not even Pepper. There had been no moment she'd decided she would have him no matter how long it might take. There'd been zero inevitability in that relationship, just tentative moves on both sides, each of them ready to retreat at the first sign of serious trouble, each leery of heartbreak. But Steve? His love came with a certainty that thrilled and terrified Tony in equal measure. Our daughter, he had called Morgan over the phone, to a perfect stranger. Our daughter. After four months. It made Tony wonder what Steve called him in the privacy of his own mind.

Steve set him on the made bed, slightly wrinkled after the therapy session, and started undressing with ruthless efficiency while Tony sat on the edge of the mattress. The delicate art of striptease did not appear to be part of Captain America's vocabulary of seduction, not that it needed to be, Tony supposed, not when he looked like that. Christ almighty, but he was beautiful, tall, broad-shouldered, fair as a bucket of milk, with just the right amount of manly chest hair tapering away into the waistband of his tented boxers. And then he took those off, too. In Tony's experience, it was a rare thing for something to be as good as it looked in the commercial, but Steve's cock? As advertised.

"Jesus," Tony muttered to himself. He couldn't believe it was for him. He felt like he did sometimes when he'd arrived too hungry at restaurants: he'd pick a beautiful steak, realizing only when it arrived on the plate in front of him that he'd ordered something too ambitious to comfortably eat.

"What do you want, Tony?" Steve asked, stepping between Tony's thighs.

"I don't know. What do you do?" Tony's stomach was fluttering uncomfortably. Steve's cock was bobbing at the level of his chest, tempting, vaguely intimidating.

"Anything." Anything. Tony believed it, though he couldn't think of what he wanted to ask for.

"Anything? That's dangerous to say to someone with an overactive imagination," Tony hedged, the words sticking a little on the way out of his tight throat. Truthfully, he felt like he might be the one in imminent danger: Steve had put a hand on his chest, fingers splayed wide, and he'd started to push. It was the barest suggestion of pressure, but the message was clear: On your back. He might not know what he wanted, but it sure seemed like the Star-Spangled Man had a Plan. Hopefully, it included novelty butt plugs. Tony was in trouble otherwise.

"You know," Steve said with a smile, "I've been accused of having an overactive imagination myself." He pushed against Tony's chest just a fraction harder, like he was trying to determine down to the micronewton how much force was required to exact Tony's surrender. Tony resisted, not quite willing to give it up, letting the physical tension ratchet up between them until Steve found the tipping point, and he went over, pliant. Steve followed him onto the bed, crawling over the top of him, reaching for the hem of Tony's shirt, and Tony raised his arms so Steve could strip off his tee, feeling a fresh wave of self-consciousness.

"I look exactly nothing like I did six months ago. You know that, right?"

"I know that, Tony," Steve assured him, tossing the t-shirt somewhere on the floor, "I see you everyday. Besides, I love the way you look."

"Liar."

"I'm not."

And fuck if Steve didn't sound like he actually meant it. Steve's hands were certainly all over, fingertips tracing the web of grey scars across the right side of Tony's chest, trailing down his flanks. Steve's mouth started to follow his hands, lips soft on the marred skin, beard soft, too. Pepper had always complained about Tony's beard scratching—maybe the key was length, because Steve's beard didn't scratch; it was strictly soft, though occasionally too tickly, like feathers dragged across the skin. Tony's hand strayed over Steve's shoulders, the back of his neck, his blond head as Steve drifted further south, mouthing at Tony's muscle-less stomach, kissing the sharp points of Tony's hips through his boxers. He hooked his big fingers in the elastic of Tony's waistband, tugging insistently.

"Wait." Steve's head popped up, hearing the urgency in Tony's tone. "Wait. It's not, ah, pretty down there. Lots of scarring in the nether regions." He tried to keep it light, like he was stating an amusing but entirely unimportant fact about himself: I share a birthday with John F. Kennedy. And yeah, one time a Marilyn impersonator sang Happy Birthday, Mr. President for me at my party. He was pretty sure he wasn't fooling anyone.

"Do they hurt to touch?" Steve asked, just as casual. If Tony wanted to pretend they were discussing the weather, apparently he wasn't going to contradict.

"Not really. But they—they're sensitive."

"Okay." Steve wasn't smiling anymore, his expression carefully neutral as he sat up between Tony's spread thighs. "What should I do?"

"Nothing. I just…wanted to warn you." The scars were everywhere down there: spreading over his right hip and butt cheek, twining through his pubic hair, creeping over his testicles, twisting halfway up his cock.

"They won't bother me, Tony," Steve said evenly.

"I know you think they won't, but there are scars all over my ass, and my dick looks like it got stuck in a light socket."

"Still won't bother me."

"You haven't seen them, Steve. They really might."

"They really won't."

"They really—"

"Look," Steve began using Captain America's Voice of Infinite Reason, slow, calm, the one that was simultaneously impossible to argue with and made Tony want to kick Steve in the teeth, "for the sake of argument, let's say they do. Let's say they bother me. I don't see that it changes anything. They aren't going anywhere. I'll have to get used to them; you will have to get used to them. And if you want me to do something about this—" he cupped Tony through his boxers, squeezing gently, "—you'll have to let me take your pants off." Steve's fingers moved back to Tony's waistband, hooking the elastic.

"Well, I know that, Steve," Tony said irritably; Steve had missed the point of the exchange. I want you to hide your disgust. I need you to hide your pity.

"So let me," Steve said, tugging gently. "I want to. Last night, I kept thinking about pulling over and blowing you in the car, right on the side of the highway. "

"I mean, when you put it like that…" Tony acquiesced, feeling that it hadn't been a fair fight. In future, there would need to be rules in place for verbal sparring: heavy petting and the sharing of sexual fantasies were clearly out-of-bounds. And Steve should not be naked. Or hard. Still, fair or not, Tony lifted his hips, letting Steve strip his underwear all the way off. I'm naked, Tony thought, which was stupid, because, duh. But he felt naked in a way he hadn't in a long time. Being naked with Pep had been easy, something he'd long ago stopped thinking about. Being naked with Steve was not easy; he felt very, very exposed, even more so when he bent his knees so Steve could see just what he'd been up to. He waited for Steve's surprised laugh or huff of shocked exasperation, but no audible reaction was forthcoming. Propping himself up on his elbow and stump, Tony examined Steve's face. His expression was completely blank, wiped clean as a chalkboard. Tony wondered if he'd made a mistake. And then he knew he had. Because Steve wasn't doing anything or saying anything or, well, anything. Tony wasn't even sure he was breathing.

"Steve," he started to explain, not knowing what was going to come out of his mouth. How'd you apologize for showing up to the party in a surprise butt plug? How'd you apologize for your ass being nothing but scars and bone? For your dick looking like Frankenstein's monster? For the seatbelt-shaped bruise across your chest? For—"Oh." Steve had the base of the plug in his fingers and was pulling, not hard enough to pull the plug out, but hard enough to make the bulb catch on the inner ring of muscle, exerting a pressure on the nerves before he relaxed his grip, letting it slide all the way back into place. Then Steve did it again. And again. "Oh. Oh, fuck." Tony fell back flat to the mattress, his head filling with white static.

It felt so good that Tony matched the movement, rolling his hips against the mattress. Steve leaned over him, still fucking him deliberately with the plug, and captured his mouth, kissing him with the same direct possessiveness as he had that night in the shop. Tony groaned his pleasure and approval, a drumbeat of yes, yes, yes, pounding through his mind.

"I can't believe you're mine," Steve murmured as he pulled back to study Tony's face, and the declaration made Tony's heart ache. It was too earnest. And the way Steve was looking at him…he was going to say it, wasn't he? Steve was going to drop those three little words. Tony braced himself for the emotional grenade, unsure if he'd survive the impact. He didn't know if he was ready to hear them.

"You want me to fuck you, Tony?"

Then again, maybe not.

"I beg your pardon?" Tony laughed. "Fuck me? I thought the f-word word offended your delicate sensibilities."

"The only words that offend me are 'Los Angeles' and 'Dodgers,' and only in that order. 'Fuck' is fine so long as we both know what it means."

"And what it means, in this context, is that you're going to make love to me with your dick in my ass."

"Yes. If you want me to." Then Steve kissed him again, like he wanted to make sure the answer was going to be 'yes' before he heard it.

"Condoms and lube are in the bedside drawer," Tony gasped when he finally got his tongue back. With one last, devouring kiss, Steve scrambled for the supplies. Tony reached between his legs, intending to pull out the plug when Steve appeared back between his thighs, grabbing his wrist.

"I'll do that," Steve said, quick and eager.

"Okay," Tony said, too surprised to say anything smart, "but I'm warning you, I didn't power wash. I think it's okay, but—"

"It'll be fine." Steve started to tug, like he was worried Tony would change his mind if he didn't do it right away, or maybe he was just too excited to wait. "Relax."

"I'm on muscle relaxers. I'm always rela—oh." There was an obscene sound as the plug came out, a wet squelch that left Tony felt in the pit of his stomach. He was pretty sure it wasn't a sound his body should make around Captain America, but Steve looked thrilled, radiating the kind of joyful awe people usually reserved for the Grand Canyon and newborn babies as he looked at the toy glistening slickly in his hand. It wasn't the response Tony was expecting, not from America's Favorite Boy Scout. I was wearing a novelty butt plug and look like something the cat left dead on the front porch, he wanted to point out. You know this is funny, right? But clearly it was more than funny to Steve. Judging by the hungry look on his face, this was a major turn-on. Steve set the plug on the bedside table, and Tony glanced at it surreptitiously: it looked clean. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what Pepper would have done if he'd set a warm, lubed, and freshly used sex toy on her furniture. No, he shut that line of thinking down. Not Pepper. Not right now. Not with Steve between his thighs.

He watched Steve rip open a little foil packet with his teeth and take out the condom, which was a pity. Steve's cock was too pretty for latex; it was like covering the Mona Lisa in saran wrap. Steve rolled it about halfway down then stopped, looking back at Tony, as if a profound thought had occurred to him.

"Hey, Tony?" Something was happening to Steve's face–his cheeks were quite pink, and the color was spreading. "You can say 'no,' of course, but," he nodded towards his lap, "well, if it were alright with you, I'd just assume…" he trailed off meaningfully.

Tony felt his eyebrows lift; he propped himself up on an elbow. "Steve, did you just ask if you could fuck me bareback?"

"No real reason not to, is there?" The pink color had spread down his neck, staining his chest and creeping further down.

"Nothing other than my rampaging case of herpes."

"You don't have herpes."

"How do you know?"

"I'm your medical proxy. I've seen all your records." Pulling off the condom, Steve leaned over him, kissing Tony's neck, blond beard tickling the tender skin. He slid a hand between Tony's spread legs, fingers caressing the soft ring of muscle so recently vacated by the plug; Tony shivered. "Feels better that way," Steve murmured, "don't you think? Skin on skin?"

"I don't believe this. Captain America is trying to talk me into unprotected sex." He'd nearly succeeded, too. Steve's gently stroking fingers felt scandalously good, particularly when the only action Tony had gotten in months were friendly back rubs.

"Not Captain America anymore," Steve pointed out, nibbling Tony's neck. "These days my only title is Boyfriend-in-chief. So how about it?"

Tony shot one more look at the plug, but he still didn't see any trace of untoward bodily functions. "Okay, sure. Why not?"

"Yeah?" Steve's face lit up with an irresistibly boyish enthusiasm. Tony knew immediately that expression would be trouble; he'd do a lot of things to make Steve smile like that. It made him look 10 years and a couple of wars younger.

"Yeah. But if I catch the clap, I'm blaming you. Just go slow, okay? I haven't done this in a long, long time." Apparently that was all Steve needed, as eager for it as Tony was; he was on his knees between Tony's thighs again, slathering on lube and lining himself up.

"I'll be careful," he promised. "Ready?"

"As I'm likely to be. Oh, ," Tony hissed, closing his eyes as Steve started to push in, slow but steady.

"Hurts?" Steve asked, pausing, reading the discomfort on Tony's face.

"No. No. Just intense." It was more than intense. In actuality, Tony's ass burned like it had just been napalmed, but Steve didn't need to know that. It was hardly surprising, given that he hadn't taken an actual dick in fifteen years, give or take, and Pepper's polite little strap-on had nothing on Captain America. Steve was thick, and the stretch was at the absolute edge of what Tony could take, but he loved it. Wanted it. Needed it. Because for the first time in a long time he didn't feel lonely or scared or sad, not even at the outer edges. The physical challenge made him feel present and alive.

"You sure?" Steve asked, sliding in another slick millimeter.

"I'm so sure. It's good, Steve. You feel good. Keep going."

"Tony," Steve said, fingers trailing gently through Tony's pubic hair, edging towards his cock, "what about this? Can I–?"

"Yeah, but, like, really gentle. Really," Tony said, hating himself a little for the anxious way his voice sounded. "I'm the fine china." He'd barely touched himself in months, mostly hadn't wanted to, hadn't been able to stay hard enough long enough to know what he liked anymore when he did, all he knew was that he was more sensitive now. "The scars—"

"Sensitive. I remember, Tony." Steve touched gently, running his fingers over the scarring on the shaft minutely, like he was reading braille. It was a revelation; Tony felt like he had a brand new dick: the sensitivity of the scars made it feel like he was laced with extra nerves, and he gasped.

Steve's hand froze. "Too much?"

"No. Not enough. More."

Steve spit wetly into his hand and started a loose stroke instead. Immediately, Tony began to fuck Steve's lax fist in tiny, half-abortive thrusts. He couldn't help it; it felt so good, and it had been such a long time since anything had felt good. Steve picked up the movement with his hips, too, just barely thrusting, pushing in a millimeter more each time then pulling partially out. The burning sensation was still strong, but the in and out motion was transforming the burn into something else, something that made Tony's toes want to curl.

"Oh," Tony babbled, "okay, okay, okay. Keep going, Steve. Keep…" he trailed off, panting. He couldn't think straight anymore.

"Still good?" Steve rumbled.

"Oh, fuck," Tony whimpered. It was fortunate Steve didn't object to four letter words. Tony had endured months of sexual poverty, and now he had this embarrassment of riches: Steve jacking him off, fucking him—he could feel the sensations building up, pushing him further and further towards climax.

And then Steve changed his angle and hit it, that one perfect spot, and Tony's eyes rolled back in his head, back arching, fingers twisting the covers. He moaned, loud and desperate, right on the edge of a scream. The sound felt ripped out of him, and he just kept making it. Another thrust, and he was screaming for real. The orgasm was shattering, making his legs seize and then shake all the way down to his toes, though he barely felt himself ejaculate, registering the occurrence only dimly beside his body's fluttering clench around Steve's cock. Steve didn't try to keep going, pulling out as soon as Tony was through, and Tony felt simultaneous loss and relief. He was completely wiped out and wanted to keep going all at the same. But that's what happens when you set a new land speed record, he thought wryly; too bad I didn't have my stopwatch.

He opened his eyes, ready to extend Steve some kind of service, but the offer was rescinded before it was even made. Steve didn't look like he needed any help: he was masturbating, head down, watching himself as he stroked. His hand was covered in Tony's come, the thick liquid oozing over his knuckles, and he was working fast, face screwed up in concentration. After just a minute, he came with a cry, pulsing over Tony's groin and thighs.

There was a beat of silence as they stared at each other.

"Wow," Tony said finally. "That was…" The words eluded him.

"Yeah." Steve rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the mess. "That…was."

Reaching down, Tony collected a little come, slick between his thumb and fingers. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Kinda. I should've asked, I guess, but…I don't know. I didn't figure you'd mind. Not that that's an excuse—" Steve was pinker than ever, blushing furiously, and it was about the cutest thing Tony had ever seen.

"I didn't mind. It was hot. I want you to do it again." And then Tony stuck his fingers in his mouth, tasting salt and sweet and gun metal. Just like he'd dreamed.

I'm in love, he thought, licking theatrically as Steve watched him with absorbed fascination. I'm in love with him.

It was terrifying.

There was nothing better than having Tony asleep in his bed, Steve decided. Nothing. Not even sex.

He touched the hair at Tony's temple, smoothing it away from his relaxed face. Tony had gone down for the count almost as soon as Steve had cleaned him up, and now he was deep asleep. Pretty, Steve thought, combing through Tony's silvery strands. He was so like them pretty. You like them pretty, Nat had teased him once, and he did. He liked them pretty and dark and smart, liked them a little wild.

For a moment, Steve pictured Tony on display for his pleasure, the starry shield profanely bright between Tony's spread legs. Wild enough to last me the rest of my life, Steve thought fondly. Maybe even a little too wild. Steve had meant for their first time to be sweet and tender, like his first time with Peggy had been. But Tony was Tony, and he'd shown up with his own script, one weirder and funnier than anything Steve could have devised, and Steve had gotten caught up. He hadn't meant to fuck Tony at all; he'd planned to give him a leisurely blow-job and put him down for a nap. Ah, Steven, he heard Father Callum say consolingly, the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.

Once he'd taken Tony's clothes off, his whole strategy had flown clean out of his mind. He'd seen the plug, seen Tony's naked body, and he'd started operating purely on lust and instinct. Tony was stunning to him; his body wasn't healthy, but there was an elegance to it, a drama. All those bones so close to the surface created razor sharp lines and planes that made Steve's fingers itch. He wanted to touch them, wanted to draw them with pen and ink. Repeatedly, Steve's mind had strayed to the war and a warehouse he'd slept in once, filled to the brim with canvases, strange and beautiful things the Nazis had deemed 'degenerate,' fit only for ridicule or fire. Each time Steve had looked at Tony's naked body, he'd seen those forbidden images: erotic, emaciated figures signed Egon Schiele or Otto Dix, caught in the beam of his flashlight.

And those scars.

Those scars undid him. Tony was right: they bothered him terribly. They weren't repulsive to him, not at all, but they were shocking. The silver scars were so bright against the flushed skin of his cock, wrapping around like the tendrils of some delicate clinging vine. It was impossible to look at then without wanting to touch them, impossible to touch them without imagining the unbearable pain of their creation. Tony clearly hated them; they were the physical witness of his failure and agony, but they weren't that to Steve. To him, the scars represented Tony's bravery, his resilience, his will to survive. He didn't get to have Tony without the scars, and he felt a certain loyalty to them as a consequence. He wondered if he'd ever win Tony around to his way of thinking. Maybe, maybe not.

Steve's thoughts were interrupted when Tony shifted closer in his sleep, flopping a leg over Steve's thigh and what was left of his arm over Steve's chest, unselfconscious in his sleep.

"I love you," Steve whispered. He'd wanted to say it before as he'd watched Tony lick semen from sticky fingers, but he knew better that to tell somebody he loved them under those conditions, not the first time, at least. "I love you," he said again, just to taste the phrase, just one more time before he too closed his eyes and fell asleep.