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Tony had spent the last night being double teamed by a nice couple from Philadelphia. It was good. Satisfying. She had fucked him with her strap-on and he had forced himself down his throat. After, they laid marks down his back with the riding crop. It had left Tony oozy, fucked out and soft, and he still feels the marks now as he lies on the cushions.
Yeah. Those were good marks. Raised slightly above his skin, he can remember his own little whimpers when they had laid them down, Becca stroking his hair and Charles straddling his ass. He hadn't gotten home until about six o'clock this morning and had promptly fallen asleep on the couch in his living room.
Now, he's lying there, the sun setting outside the window. He aches, all over, his back, his ass, his shoulders. It's not a pleasant ache, not any more. It's not the stretched out low throb of being well fucked. It's more like the twinge of running a lap without stretching.
He feels disgusting. Last night's alcohol is sticky in his mouth, among other things. He draws a hand over his lips, through his hair. He needs to get up. He needs to shower.
But he can't. Instead, he pushes his face into the pillow, shivers. It's cold. It's really fucking cold. "J'vis," he slurs "heating up, please."
The temperature begins to adjust itself accordingly. Tony forces himself to sit up, slumping onto the couch. He rubs a hand over his face, grunts. His hair is greasy, sticking to his forehead, and he -- yeah, it really smells. Last night was fun, but it was active. The stink of dried sweat hangs around him like a cloud and it makes him want to just climb into the shower and wash it all off, as if that'll make it all better, and Tony will be cured.
Instead, he goes to the coffee machine, puts water on to boil. Waits, and then pours himself a cup. It's cheap stuff, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, not going down smooth. He adds some vodka. It doesn't help, but it does wake him up. His bare feet slap against the cool tiles and he resists the urge to drop to the floor and groan like a whale.
He's hungover, yes. Dirty. He looks like he went six rounds with a squid and only just came out victorious. But there's something else, too. He sits back on the couch and asks Jarvis to flick through his messages.
Nothing. The nice couple haven't left a reply. That's okay. That's not -- did he do good? Fuck, maybe he wasn't what they wanted. End of. It's a bit embarrassing, though. Giving yourself over to people who are making faces behind your back.
Don't think about it. It's not worth it. He always gets like this after a scene, so mushy. It's fine. He doesn't need their praise, that's just, no. There are loads of other things he can do to make him happy. First of all, eat some chocolate. Then, watch a film. Bundle up with some blankets, some cocoa. A nice meal. That's all he needs. It's all he ever needs. Yes, most subs like aftercare, but it's never really been a big deal for Tony. He's not like that. He's not as wea -- well, not weak, that suggests that other subs are weak. But he's not as needy, which is fine. Great.
He really wishes they had left a message, though. Just a little 'well done'. Or a 'hope you got home safely.' Maybe even a 'good boy'? It's only polite.
Tony resists the urge to curl up in a ball and cry his eyes out. Christ, he hates this, it's like puberty all over again. He could call someone. Pepper, maybe. She wouldn't mind just sitting with him, stroking his hair. Or --
It's stupid. Ugh. He doesn't need that, and he doesn't need to ask anyone for it. God, imagine that. Tony hates imposing, he hates it. The last thing he needs to do is shuffle over to Bruce or Clint and ask them if they'd be willing to take care of him. He can almost picture Clint's smirk, or Bruce's pity. No, he doesn't have anyone, but what are they going to do about it? He knows they would help, he knows that. But that doesn't stop him from stubbornly drawing his blanket around his shoulders and heading for the elevator in search of company. Company, not someone to stroke his hair and tell him what a pathetically good boy he is. Actual people, to talk to. That normally helps bring him up, if only slightly.
He's in luck. Clint, Steve and Natasha are all seated around the island in the kitchen, drinking, talking. There are cards, too. Perfect. The best excuse for Tony to just sit there and do nothing and maybe fall asleep. If he's lucky, Steve will carry him to his room. It'll be okay. Yeah. It'll be okay. He's okay. Everything's good.
He puts on a brave smile, shuffling forward, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. "Hey," he croaks.
Clint looks up. "The wanderer returns." He says, with a half-smile. "You come to rejoin civilisation?"
Tony smiles tiredly. "Something like that." he says, settling down at the table, folding his arms and resting his head.
He can tell from the brief silence that the group is sharing looks with each other but he doesn't care. Let them. He's too tired, too worn down. What he really wants is someone to talk to him, and then to go upstairs and have a bath. A really warm bath, with, fuck it, with bubbles. Yeah. Yeah, that'll be good.
"Where were you last night?" Natasha says, shuffling her cards. Tony freezes. Does she mean --
"Yeah," Steve picks up "what charity was it, again?"
Tony relaxes. "Uh," he mumbles "community centres for autistic children."
Tony takes Steve's hummed pleasure way too much to heart. The light praise makes him feel like he's floating, and he relaxes further. He knew this was a good idea. He's good. God, of course he's good, why wouldn't he be?
"And how was the dessert?" Natasha says, biting her lip. Tony looks up.
"What?" He asks, confused. The three of them are sharing this look of amusement, none of them meeting his eye. "What -- what dessert? There wasn't, there was no dessert, why -- "
"Tony," Steve says softly "you're still wearing the collar."
Tony blinks, his hand shooting to his neck. Fuck, he had no idea. He doesn't even remember it being slid on. The whole night is a blur, he had dropped so hard he can't pick out the moments. God, how stupid. How fucking stupid of him. He came up here, wearing a collar, how fucking disrespectful, how --
Tony feels his cheeks flush and he drops the blanket in his attempt to twist it round, to snap the buckles. The nice couple won't leave a message but they sure leave their mark. The buckle is fiddly, and Tony's shaking fingers can't quite manage it.
"Here," Steve says, snorting. "Let me do it." He stills Tony with a hand to the back of the neck, the tips of his fingers rubbing softly against his skin. It only lasts a few seconds, and then he's slipping the leather off, but it's enough for him to close his eyes, revel in the touch.
This was a bad idea. Just that little taster is enough to make him beg for more. Tony is silent when Steve dumps the collar in front of him, feeling bare without the blanket. He doesn't want to reach down to get it, that would draw attention to himself, so he stays very, very still, eyes glazing over.
The group chatters around him and it's easy to zone out, just soak in their presence. He debates whether he should drink something or get some coffee, but instead he just sinks back down, rests his head on his hands. The collar hangs in his peripheral vision, but he tries to tune it out.
"So you had fun last night?" Clint asks, sipping his drink. "Who was it?"
Normal, this is normal. It's just sex, why wouldn't Clint ask. He's not taking a dig at him. Is he? Is he taking a dig at him? Tony can't tell. He jerks, blinks. "Uh," he says "who, who was it? Who was, who was what?"
"The lucky lady. Or man? You know, who took you home."
"Oh." Tony says, trying to think. It's like crawling through molasses. "It," he says "the, the Westons? Both. Becca, and Charles."
"Both?" Steve says, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Tony says, and he can't tell if Steve's being skeptical or if he's just mentioning it. He can't help himself asking. "Is, is that a bad thing?"
"A bad thing?" Steve says, looking at his cards "No. Why would it be?"
Tony blinks. He seriously can't tell what Steve means. No one else is picking up on it, so maybe it's not supposed to be a put-down. Maybe he's just genuinely asking why it would be bad for Tony to go with two people. Which obviously it isn't. And Steve knows that. In fact, Tony's seen him with two subs before. So he has nothing against it. This is stupid. Steve was probably trying to reassure him. He needs to relax.
"I need to go," he blurts "I have stuff."
"What?" Natasha says "Stay. We so rarely get your company."
Well, he can't go, not now that a dom has asked him to stay. Tony's head is getting all crossed up. He feels sick. His eyes are going fuzzy. He thinks he's going to cry. Why won't they let him leave?
"Becca Weston." Clint says, wistfully. "Wow. What I wouldn't take for a night with her. You're a lucky man."
What's this? Is Clint jealous? Or is he just saying that to make conversation. Would Clint even want to be with her? They're both doms. Some people like that? Maybe Clint's one of those people. But fuck, hadn't Tony made a joke about that a few weeks ago? Had he? He can't remember, but he knows that he definitely made a joke about something like that at some point. Maybe Clint's digging at him because of it.
"Can I leave." Tony blurts "Do I have permission to go?"
Natasha looks up at him, and then at Clint and Steve. She looks confused, and half smiles. "Do you need permission, Tony?"
Tony's belly is doing summersaults. Yes, yes he does, just because, okay? What kind of question is that, either give him permission or don't, don't do this --
"Are you okay, Tony?" Steve asks. "Are you ill?"
"I'm fine." Tony spits, finally. "I'm fine. I'm just wondering what the fuck I'm doing, sitting here, wasting my time."
The team blinks at him. "No one's forcing you to stay." Natasha says eventually, slowly.
Steve rolls his eyes with a look of irritation. Sub things. He's a melodramatic sub, clearly. Fuck. Fuck is Steve angry? Has he made him angry? Tony feels like the lowest of the low. He wants to leave, but he can't now, not until he's made it up to Steve, or made sure he's not angry. He hovers around his seat, eyes flicking from his feet to the side of Steve's head.
"Steve?" He says, aware that he's making a massive fucking fool out of himself "Are you mad?" He asks carefully.
"No," Steve says, not looking up from his cards. "Go to back to bed, Tony."
He sounds tired, like he's tired of Tony's stupid behaviour, which to be fair isn't unreasonable. But it doesn't answer Tony's question.
"Steve," Tony says again, gingerly laying a hand on his shoulder "are you angry at me?"
Steve flaps Tony's hand away, and it's not even a hard slap, it's barely a slap at all, but Tony stumbles back. Oh he's really done it now, he's really fucked up, because Steve is angry, he's been so, so stupid, really, and that's why the Westons didn't get in touch and it's way no dom ever wants to commit and he stumbles back, folding to his knees, head bowed, tense, quivering.
There's silence, but Tony's holding his breath. He doesn't dare open his eyes. His hands are folded in his lap, tight little fists, and he's trying to hard not to move at all. Is Steve angry at him? Why does it matter? Tony doesn't know. It just does.
Someone clears their throat. "You, you can stand, Tony."
Tony shivers, keeps his head pressed down. It's cold. He wishes he still had the blanket, but it's some feet away and Tony doesn't want to break the pose.
"Tony," the person says again, and it's Natasha "you can stand."
But it's not the permission Tony's looking for. He screwed up, it's only right that Steve is the one to allow him to stand. He doesn't want to risk forgiveness by obeying another dom's command.
He chances a look up at Steve, who's staring down at him, absolutely mortified. His cheeks are red and his mouth has made this 'O' shape, like he doesn't know what to do with his lips. Is Tony... is this right? Is what he's doing right? Or does, fuck, maybe Steve wasn't mad at all. Oh shit. Oh shit, maybe Tony has really fucked up this time.
"I -- " he says, ducking his head again "I'm sorry." He blurts "I didn't mean to make you angry." He shuffles on his knees. "Sir." He adds, to sweeten the deal.
Steve doesn't say anything, and he here's a thunk where someone kicks him. Still, he says nothing.
"Steve," Clint hisses "would you catch a fucking clue?"
Steve blinks rapidly. "Uh," he says "uh that's, that's okay, Tony. That's okay, no, no problem. I wasn't angry, uh, sweetie. Sweetie? I wasn't. I wasn't mad. Sorry. You should stand. Stand. I wasn't mad at you, not at all."
Tony's eyelids flutter. Steve doesn't mean that. He hasn't even ordered him at all. He doesn't -- fuck, this is confusing. Tony curls lower, pressing his forehead to the floor. Is this enough? Usually the back of the neck is enough. Tony can't actually go any lower, short of licking Steve's foot, which he doesn't want to do. But he absolutely will! If, if that's what it takes.
Steve clears his throat. "Tony," he says, his voice a low, hard-hitting register. "Look at me."
Tony's head shoots up, and he stares at Steve unreservedly. He's shaking, he realises, but that's just because he's so fucking confused. He doesn't know what he wants. He wants someone to just not be angry at him, maybe.
Steve holds out his hand and gently strokes down Tony's cheek. Cups his chin.
Tony leans into the touch, eyes falling closed. Yes. This is what he wants, what he needs, someone to just touch him nicely. Steve thumb draws over his cheekbone, again and again, and Tony feels himself sinking under at just that, just the simple touch.
"It's okay," Steve says, quietly. "You haven't done anything wrong. We're sorry, we didn't realise, Tony. We thought you were tired, that's all."
Tony doesn't feel like he needs to respond so he just lets Steve keep up that pressure.
"Come on," Steve says "let me take you up. Guys, I'm folding. Tony? Can you stand? Do you want to stand?"
"Do you want me to?" Tony slurs, looking up at Steve's figure. So tall. Tony could just curl against him, and fit like a glove.
"I would like that, yes."
Tony forces himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. "I'm sorry." He blurts. "I'm sorry for not doing the, for just being stupid."
"No," Steve soothes "no, you're not stupid at all. I'm stupid. I should have seen. Here," Steve swipes one arm under Tony's legs, supports him, holding him against his chest and carrying him "let's go."
Tony lets his eyes fall shut. Steve is so warm. He presses his head against Steve's shoulder, buries close, tries to block out the light. "Wow." He murmurs, because he's never felt like this, or at least never felt like this so strongly. It's like being wrapped in a duvet in front of the fire after a snowstorm. It's like a massage for his brain. Tony flops and lets Steve carry him all the way to the elevator, all the way to his bedroom.
"Here," Steve says "lie down. You just lie down, Tony, I'm going to take care of you."
Tony hums, rolling onto his side. The sheets are soft. He buries his head into the pillow. It's not as warm as Steve. "Steve?" He says, because he doesn't know where he's gone. "Sir?"
"I'm just running a bath." He calls from somewhere -- bathroom, duh. "You just sit tight."
Sit tight. He can do that. He's barely in control of his movements, his arms and legs flopping everywhere. More than anything, he wishes Steve was back here, holding him. That would be good. That would be so, so amazing.
Tony realises, in some distant part of his mind, that he is reaallly far under.
"Tony?" Steve says "This is important. Do you want me to take off your clothes. I mean," Steve is stammering "is that okay? Tony? Do you have a problem with it? I mean, I've done it for subs before, but -- it's different, with you. Obviously."
"Different?" Tony says looking up. He feels his eyes fill with tears. "Why am I different?" He says, voice cracking. "Oh, God, am I, Steve, am I bad? Am I that bad?"
"Jesus, no, Tony. No, you're not bad at all. I just don't want to do something you'll regret in the morning."
"Regret?" Steve's not making sense. "Do you..." oh. Tony curls over with shame. "I'm sorry." He mutters thickly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you can go."
"Go?" Steve says softly, cupping Tony's chin. "Why? Do you not want me?"
"I don't want you to do something you don't want to." Tony murmurs. "It's okay. You don't have to. You don't -- I can sleep. I'll, I'll do something else." Tony pauses. "If," he says "if you could just, just say I'm -- " Tony bites off what he had been about to say, aware that he needs to stop embarrassing himself.
"Tony," Steve says "are you listening to me? I want all your attention."
"Yes sir."
"I want to help you. It's not fair that anyone would leave a sub to drop like this, not fair at all. We can talk about that later. But right now, I need to know if you're willing for me to treat you like I do to my subs. Is that okay?"
It makes things clearer. "So taking off my clothes?"
"I like my subs naked, yes. The more skin to skin contact you get in the gentler the drop."
Tony nods, wide eyes. "That's okay." He says, words mashing together.
Steve frowns. "I'm not sure if you're in the right place to agree."
"No," Tony says, taking Steve hand where it rests on his cheek "please, Steve. Please, please, please. Just, if you want, you can just hold me and stroke my hair. Just please, I didn't know it felt so good, I didn't know."
Steve head tilts curiously. "You didn't know?"
"No, no I had no idea." Tony's feeling slightly desperate, he wants the touch that bad "please. I swear I want it. I want you."
Steve draws back. "Okay," he says eventually "fine. That's fine. I've run a bath, okay? You look like you could use it."
Tony draws back again. "Sorry." he blurts "You're right. I'm disgusting."
"Not disgusting." Steve says patiently, starting to undo his buttons. "Just tired. I can't believe the Westons wouldn't think to fucking bathe you. Who are they? What kind of show are they running?"
Tony shivers at harshness of Steve's words, relaxing, because they're not aimed at him. In fact, they're aimed at the people who did this, so in a way, Steve is praising him, and that's all he needs.
Steve sounds appalled. "Tony, I know I say this a lot, but it never would have happened when I was around. You didn't just leave a sub to their own devices."
"You don't," Tony shudders "just me. I don't, people don't like it, with me. I don't know why. I just, I do it myself."
Steve makes a soft noise, tugging Tony's shirt off his back. He starts on his pants. "You should have said." He says, sounding anguished.
"I'm not yours."
"I would always help a sub, Tony. Always. Doesn't matter who they are."
But he wouldn't help Tony just because he's Tony. No one helps Tony just because he's Tony.
Carefully, Steve stands him up, tugging his underwear over his ass, helping him step out. He walks Tony to the bathroom, sits him on the toilet and wraps him in a towel. Steve's run a proper bath, with hot steam and some bubbles. He turns on the jets and lay a dry mat so Tony won't slip when he gets out.
"Can I see your back?" Steve asks, gently turning him around. He winces. "Did they not soothe them?"
Tony blinks, the bath calling to him. "What?"
"Didn't they soothe them? With ice? Or cream?"
Tony shakes his head. "Can I get in?" he asks "Cold."
"Right," Steve says, and even Tony hears the anger there. "Yeah. You just climb in, Tony."
It's warm, it's so fucking warm, and Tony's been shivering all evening. He sinks into it, not quite recreating the pleasant blur of Steve's warmth but pretty close. He shudders, but mostly in pleasure, a long curling thing from the tip of his head to his toes, working it's way down his body. It tingles. It feels good.
Tony lets his head loll back onto the padded edge of the bath. Steve stands behind him, straightens him so he's sitting vertically. "Head back," he says, tipping Tony's chin up. "That's it. Good boy."
The praise goes straight to Tony's gut and he relaxes wordlessly. Gently, Steve begins to pour water over Tony's hair, smoothing it back from his brow.
Every little touch sends tingles radiating from the point of contact. Tony feels himself spacing out entirely, not sure the last time he ever felt this good. Is this what he's been missing, all these years? Just the touch of another person? It's so good, so, so good. Steve pours shampoo into his hair, and works it into a lather.
Tony can't help it; he moans. Steve's using his fingers in just this certain way where he targets the pressure points on Tony's head, keeps smoothing shampoo away from his forehead, working the muscles in his neck.
"Good boy," Steve murmurs "look at you, Tony. You're such a good boy."
Tony preens inwardly, closing his eyes. Yeah, yes. He is. He is such a good boy.
"And so beautiful." Steve says, massaging his shoulders with soap slick hands. "More than that, even -- such a clever boy."
Tony whimpers. Is he? He's such a stupid, stupid thing, he can do math and he's, well, he's a genius, but everything else is so out of reach, and now Steve's sitting here and he's saying these things --
"Such a good, clever boy. Anyone would be so lucky to have you, Tony. To have you submit to them."
Tony purrs, tilting his head back into Steve's hand, into the perfect pressure. Steve digs the heel of his hand into the back of Tony's neck, presses his thumb over the aching muscles there. "You're so tense," Steve tsks "God, what stupid people. They're so stupid, Tony. They don't know how to take care of subs. They don't deserve you."
"They don't deserve me." Tony mutters, thickly.
"That's right. Because you're such a good, clever boy. Can you say that? What are you?"
Tony thinks. "Uh," he says, trying to push past the deep lassitude. What had Steve just said? "Good," he says "and clever. I am good, and clever."
"Yes you are." Steve says quietly. "Such a perfect boy. Are you starting to feel better? I bet you are."
Tony nods as best he can. "Yes sir." He slurs.
"Head back, sweetheart. I need to wash out the suds."
Tony is happy to comply, happy to just listen. The water is warm, but not scalding. Steve gently works his fingers through Tony's hair, rinses out everything he can. He lets Tony relax back into the water while he grabs the towel, helps him stand.
The towel is big enough that it covers all of him. Steve wraps his arms around him as he leads his back to the bed and that's the best part, really, having Steve so close, holding him so tight. He lays him down on the bed, tells him to lies on his belly, and then drags the towel away.
"Okay," Steve says quietly "where do you keep your cream?"
"Bathroom." Tony says, maybe. The syllables blur together, so it's hard to tell.
Steve's back, and he's shifting Tony's legs apart slightly. "This will be cold, okay? I just need to put some over the weals and then I can hold you."
It's absolutely worth it, then. Steve rubs the cream gently over his inner thighs, his ass and his back, wherever else the crop had hit. By the end, Tony is shivering, trying not to curl in on himself, trying to retain whatever warmth he has left.
"There," Steve says, sounding oddly proud "that's better already, right?"
"Right." Tony says, not daring to ask for more.
"Scoot," Steve says, settling himself onto the bed "c'mon. You get under the covers now, you need to keep warm."
Steve raises his arm, lets Tony crawl beside him, curl up. He strokes his hair back from his head. "There." He says contentedly. "Isn't this nice?"
Steve is literally calling him good boy and stroking his hair this is like all his fantasies he's ever had ever. He's never been so happy in his life.
"I'm sorry if you thought I was angry, earlier." Steve says "I didn't mean to make you -- you know. I would never force a sub to kneel if they weren't mine. Never."
"S'okay." Tony purrs, pushing himself closer to Steve.
"But it's not," Steve says, running fingers through Tony's wet hair "I don't want you to think I was angry with you. Or that I forced you to kneel out of some, some kind of powerplay. I know guys that used to do that, you know? Mess with subs head." Steve makes a noise of frustration. "Honestly, it was my fault. I should have seen what you wanted from the start. Of course you wouldn't ask for it, what sub does? I should have noticed. You were in no place to make demands."
"Steve," Tony whines "stop."
"You're right. You're right, there's no point thinking about that now. Are you comfortable, sweetie?"
Tony shivers. "Yes sir."
"Good boy." Steve says warmly. "Such a good, good boy. When was the last time someone called you that, Tony?"
Tony shrugs, not wanting to think too hard. Steve wraps him arms around him tighter.
Steve chuckles against his, warm breath over his ear. "You're such a good, clever man. And the Westons are stupid, Tony. I don't know why they wouldn't take care of you, but they're wrong. What kind of sick people use a sub and then just kick them out?"
"They didn't even leave a message." Tony slurs, outraged for himself on Steve's behalf.
"Not even a message."
"And," Tony says, dragging up his head "they left the collar on. Which," Tony feels a lump in his throat "which wasn't cool. Because they just wanted people to know, know that -- "
"Yeah," Steve says softly, easing Tony back down. "I understand. That's despicable, Tony."
"No one ever does this for me." Tony says, barely audible. "Steve, I swear I didn't know that this was how it was supposed to go."
Steve makes a pained noise. "Haven't you ever had -- don't you have a regular?"
Tony yawns. "Not to take me under. Sometimes Pep or Rhodey will stroke my hair but, but that's only if they're around and I'm really feeling it."
Steve seems to read between the lines. "I'm sure you submit beautifully, Tony." He says "I'm sure your submission is a gift."
"I've never had a real dom." Tony admits. "I've had relationships, just not -- not proper ones. Where there are rules and agreements and you can trust each other. When if your dom says kneel you know it's for a good reason, where he has the permission and the, the power to do it. Never like that. Never."
"Why's that, Tony?"
Tony curls closer. "I don't know." He says simply. "People don't want me."
"Tony," Steve says softly "that's not true. I know that's not true."
"People use me and they don't, they don't care for me after."
"I would."
"Yeah," Tony agrees "you would."
They fall into silence, after that. Steve just stroking Tony's hair, his arms, his chest. Whispering soothing words.
Tony falls asleep not long after.
Tony wakes up, spread out on the bed. He's naked, but he vaguely remembers Steve helping him out of his clothes last night.
It sends shockwaves of surprise through his body, and then little ripples of pleasure. Steve had put his hands on him. He had stroked him. Now, he's lying on the sheets, bared, with soft yellow light casting shadows on the dips of his body.
He blinks, lazily. Steve. He thinks, quietly. Steve.
Tony rolls, squinting in the light. He doesn't ache so much anymore. Steve had massaged his shoulders, his legs. He feels warm, like he's still in that bath, skin tingling pleasantly. He smacks his lips and covers his eyes with his forearm, groaning.
Steve isn't there. Steve has gone. He left, probably, once he knew Tony was okay. Which is fine. Tony really shouldn't overdo it. He got what he wanted. It's selfish for him to think that Steve needs to stay, in the morning, as if he doesn't have things to do and places to be.
There's a note, on the bedside table, next to a glass of water. Be back soon, making breakfast. Sit tight x.
Tony blinks. Is Steve making him breakfast? Or making breakfast. He doesn't know. Would Steve make him breakfast? Maybe, actually. He said a lot of that stuff last night, a lot of traditional --
Oh, fuck. What exactly did Tony say last night? What did he do? Fuck, fuck, did he -- he did, didn't he, he curled up in Steve's lap and got him to call him 'good boy' like a pathetic fucking thing, like someone who was desperate and couldn't handle -- Jesus, what is wrong with him? Did he really kneel like that in front of everyone? Christ he deserves to be taken out and shot. That's awful. That is literally one of the top five most embarrassing things Tony has ever done, and he has sex tapes.
He hears the door opening and quickly scrambles up, tugging the blanket over his junk, tense. Yeah, it's nothing Steve hasn't seen before, but now he's not stoned out of his mind on a lack a endorphin come down.
Steve smiles at him, carrying a tray. It's so fifties housesub. Tony blinks, muscles bunching even further, and watches him suspiciously. Is Steve serving a collar with the breakfast? That seems like something he'd do. You were so good last night, Tony, here, take this as a token of my gratitude.
(Tony does actually have collars, given to him by many of his conquests. He keeps them in a box at the back of closet and tries to avoid looking at them when he can. But that's another, long, story.)
Steve settles down the tray, climbs onto the bed. "Eggs?" He asks, offering up a plate.
Tony stares at him. "You don't have to do this." He mutters.
"Do what?" Steve says, too innocently, spreading jam over some bread.
"You know what." Tony says behind gritted teeth, head down, spitting out the words like they cost them all he is.
Steve sighs. "Tony," he says "this is what I do, okay? When, when I've had a night with a sub. I give them a bath and I hold them and then I make breakfast. That's my thing. If you don't want to, I can go, but these eggs are really good, so."
Tony looks up. He's not special, why would he think he was special? Steve does this for everyone. And so many other subs have, they've had him call them 'good boy' or 'clever girl' or whatever. They've all been held in Steve's arms and rocked, been made to feel like, like they're the only important thing in the whole world, well, that's, that's fine, why would Tony even feel anything at that, he's important, he's special, he's --
"Tony?" Steve says, so earnest. "I have bagels if you prefer those."
"You do it for all your subs?" Tony asks, trying to sound conversational. Instead, it comes out low, his voice crackling, and it doesn't help that he won't look Steve in the eye.
"When I have one, yes."
"And how often is that?"
Steve shrugs. "When the occasion calls for it. You would have noticed if I was bringing home someone every night."
That's true, actually. It makes him feel a little better, if still ridiculously foolish. Why would he, Steve, why would he -- just stop, stop thinking about it, and eat your damn bagel.
Tony spreads it with jam, takes a bite. It's good. Crunchy. Filled with raisins.
Steve smiles when he sees him eat. "So," he says "the Westons. What was that about?"
"They're key donators." Tony says quietly. "It was... payment. For their services."
Steve stills. "Did they ask you to do that?" He asks, carefully.
"No." Tony says. "It's an investment. So I know I can rely on them."
"You make a habit of selling yourself?" Steve says, biting into his bagel.
Tony's eyes narrow. "Sounding a little bit judgemental there, Cap."
"No," Steve says "curious."
"I don't fuck people for money, if that's what you're asking."
"But the Westons?"
"Not many people want to donate to certain causes. When I can secure funding, I do. They didn't ask for me, I offered. It was an unwritten agreement."
"Would you ever enter a written contract?" Steve says casually, buttering some toast.
"Why?" Tony asks, suspicious.
Steve shrugs. "Nothing. Just something you said last night."
Tony groans. "Oh. God."
"No no," Steve says "it wasn't bad. It's just, you said that you've never had a proper relationship. You know, one where a dom tells you to kneel and you do because you're dating, and you trust them, and you know, you want to obey."
"Right." Tony says "Because the last thing I want is a dom to take advantage."
"You think that?"
"I think that, if I was in a position where I was willing to kneel for everything, then yeah. They would take advantage. But that's real life. So."
"We're not all -- we don't all take all take advantage." Steve says, softly. "Can't you trust us?"
"No." Tony says, shortly. "I've heard too many horror stories. Been on the receiving end of one too many horror stories."
"I'm sorry." Steve says. "I didn't realise."
"It's okay." Tony says quietly. "It wasn't that bad."
Steve looks down. He clears his throat. "If you ever," he says "if that ever happens again, don't be afraid to ask. For, for a comedown. It's what I'm here for."
"Right." Tony says, lacklustre.
"I should go." Steve says. "I'm sorry. For this. Uh, do you want the eggs? I can -- "
"You can take them."
"Right." Steve says quickly, packing up the tray. "Well this was fun. I mean it wasn't, but -- I'm sorry. You," Steve's eyes flick up to meet his "if it means anything to you, you're perfect. When you're under. You're -- really, really beautiful."
Tony feels his cheeks heat. His fingers play with the sheet covering his groin. "Thanks." He mutters thickly.
"And," Steve adds "anyone would be lucky. To have you. To have you willingly submit is -- it's special."
"Special." Tony mutters. "To you?"
Steve nods. Swallows. "To me."
They sit there, in silence. Eventually, Tony looks up.
"Could you," he clears his throat "if you're not busy. If you're not busy could, could you stay?" Tony's voice sound so small, even to his own ears. "We could watch something. Or do something. It's, I don't know. It's up to you. Just, yeah. You don't have to. I have things I need to do anyway, so."
"Tony?" Steve asks, crawling closer. "Tony? Do you... want me to hold you?"
"Yeah," Tony says, exhaling his shaky breath "yeah I would like that. A lot."
"Shh," Steve says "it's okay. You should have said. Come here."
Tony crawls into his arms, rests his head on his Steve's shoulder. It's like a drug, the soft waves of pleasure that come just from being held. Steve strokes the back of his head, rocks him slightly.
"You're such a good boy," he says, making Tony shiver. "Aren't you? Such a good sub."
"Yeah," Tony breathes against his skin "yeah I am."
"Anyone would be lucky to have you, wouldn't they?"
"So lucky."
Steve hums. He gently smoothes Tony's bangs out of his eyes, and then gently lowers them down onto the bed. They face the window, soft light streaming over their bodies.
Steve is a line of warmth behind him, and he is held.