ext_18423 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
simmysim.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cap_ironman2008-08-22 10:11 pm
simmysim.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-08-22 10:11 pm
Entry tags:
Some domestic-type sex
Title: An Intermission
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Steve wants to have sex in Tony's lab and Tony wants to work in Tony's lab.
Author's Note: Not so shockingly inspired by this guy. Goggle sex. x) TY Bone for the beta!
Steve likes the back of Tony's neck. There are, admittedly, more interesting bits of Tony's anatomy, but there's something about that patch of skin, pale and soft and so . . . open for attack.
The man in his arms isn't surprised at the unconventional greeting. He just shifts, head dropping forward as he sighs, and Steve applies more pressure, working the skin between his teeth gently.
"Ah," Tony finally huffs in mild protest, and Steve pulls back to light presses of his lips, a bit of tongue. "Steve," he warns, voice husky with reluctant arousal.
He hasn't had time to get elbow deep in wires and grease since becoming Director of SHIELD, and jumped at the chance for some hands on work. Nick Fury would've never been caught in a lab, bringing to life promising conceptualizations drawn up by newly recruited engineers. It's generally something left to a team of ridiculously qualified mechanics, but Tony had taken a liking to one of the blueprints and whisked them away.
"I like this guy," he'd said that morning, spreading dark blue sheets, riddled with jagged white lines on the kitchen table before vanishing to the lab. "Whoever did this. It makes virtually no cogent sense. It takes balls to submit this to SHIELD. Or any established organization, really."
Never mind he's actually attempting to build it. "I like a challenge."
And Steve likes it when Tony's in his garage. Likes watching him work, he likes the thick brown gloves, the goggles that look just a tad too large for his face. He's only soldering at the moment, detail work between welding, and the image that greeted Steve is so innately, satisfyingly Tony, he didn't even bother to resist the urge to leave at least one --
"The uniforms won't cover that," Tony warns, but it's quiet at best and a minute too late. And, yeah. Steve also likes leaving his mark, so to speak.
But he does release the slightly abused, now bright red skin, bending to rest his chin on Tony's shoulder. Watching him twine wires thinner than strands of hair, weld them together and then slice it in two. He repeats the process three or four more times, each time the strand of fine wires grows thicker.
"He wouldn't submit it unless it worked," Tony says, as if they'd been talking the entire time. "He wants to show us up. He wants us to say it's impossible, so he can prove us wrong. And it works, in theory. The obvious problem is -- it would work, but it'd burn out. The problem is accounting for all that excess energy, he didn't give it any release. He thinks we're going to add a whole separate exhaust, which would make the whole thing worthless, but I think he figured out how to loop it. Just got to tweak. . . ."
Steve makes vague, amused noises of agreement. It's a side Tony rarely shows; not that he hides it, but no one else seems terribly interested in the slightly dweeby man who babbles about accounting for the kinetic energy build up then shifts abruptly into an intense, absorbed silence.
Honestly, Steve thinks the welding goggles are better than any expensive suit.
Thumbs sneak up and underneath the back of Tony's thin sleeveless shirt while sparks dance on metal, reflected in the green tinted plastic over engrossed blue eyes. He works the small of Tony's back in firm circles; almost innocent, almost just a massage, but traveling steadily downward, and if anyone else touched Tony this way, Steve might have to hit them.
"Mmm," he hums, leans into Steve's petting, his gaze still planted on the tiny bits of metal.
His hands slide up and around, palms pressing flat against warm, soft skin. Smooth, scarless skin, flawless skin, he flicks the left nipple, working the right one almost thoughtfully between his pointer and thumb. He's probably stretching the shirt
Tony squirms against him, just once, and the flame hisses to an end, "Steve," he says again, but it wavers.
And so he drags his hands downward, relishing the lithe muscle of Tony's stomach. Too skinny. There's definition there, but it really shouldn't be so pronounced. He makes a note to drag Tony up for lunch before pulling the unresisting body flat against him, and once his hands rest on pronounced hips, all but yanks him close, grinding against his another part of Tony he quite likes.
He really, really likes Tony's ass. It's not a soldier's, not like most of the partners Steve's had. Not rock hard muscle, but it's full, round and firm and Steve makes good use of the standing invitation to grope, fondle, or otherwise grab the area.
"Not that I--" Tony starts, and then stops, and it probably has something to do with Steve fiddling with the button, then zipper, of his jeans. He's showing definite interest in the proceedings thus far, and Steve encourages this, groping him through black boxers, and then properly, once he's gotten them out of the way, stroking steadily.
Tony doesn't drop the torch as much as his entire hand, thumping on the worktable in a tight fist, hips rocking in time, a groan starting from somewhere near his toes.
"Alright," he surrenders, spreading this thighs, discarding his wires and soldering and resting his weight on Steve as he rocks.
He can't help the smile, although he doesn't particularly try, second hand joining the first in his quest to unravel his personal playboy robotics genius. Still stroking, Steve's fingers drop down, past his balls, a firm stroke on the delicate skin directly between his legs.
"Fuhh--" Tony gasps, head flying back onto Steve's shoulder, jerking up onto his toes. Steve smothers his smile in Tony's hair; he can't see it now, but Steve's learned to treat every minute in Stark Lab as if it were being recorded. Two more strokes and Tony's quivering putty in his hands, rocking back; he's remarkably cooperative if you know the right buttons.
Tony chokes on his breath, the gloved hand reaching around, grasping at the back of Steve's neck. He can just make out Tony's eyes, wide and tinted green, then closed tight.
Steve muffles his own groan at the sight, pulling a hand from Tony's cock to reach into his back pocket. He's not one to come unprepared, slicks his fingers without much preamble.
This bit is always intense for Tony. Steve's not surprised when he drops down, chest to the table as the second, third fingers make their way in. Nor is he at the quick breaths, the shaking as though joints and threads are about to snap and crumble, and Tony's going to fall to pieces, right there on the floor, as he's carefully opened.
Steve's been on the other end, just to see -- just to understand what Tony's going through. But he didn't need to bite his lip or close his eyes so tight. It was good, great, even, but . . . No, he hadn't arched his back, muscles quivering. Dropped his head and muffled some breathy, desperate noise. Not just from fingers.
He'd been so sure he was doing it wrong, still isn't positive he isn't being too rough or fast, but every time he asks -- "You're not doing it wrong. You're very, very not doing it wrong."
It's certainly flattering, if not entirely believable. So he waits until Tony's all but impaling himself on his hand, tension gone entirely, until he's practically threatening Steve, before moving forward, arm working its way around to Tony's front, pulling him close as he slowly, slowly enters.
This -- this is always a test of Steve's will. It's like Tony's entire body is starving for it, clamping down hard on each inch he gains. He focuses, rather than on the tight, heat, fuck, so -- so good, rhythmic squeezing, on Tony's thighs, flexing, and Tony's hands, still gloved, the side of Tony's face flushed, eyes hidden. On his lips, slack with heavy breathing, then bottom one up, bitten harshly.
"Jesus," Steve grips the short hairs on the back of Tony's head as he all but devours the other man, tongue moving, claiming, thrusting in a way the rest of his body aches to. Tony immediately opening his mouth, responding eagerly, certainly doesn't lessen the ache.
Finally, he's in. Finally, Tony stops breath in tight, jerky stabs.
"Okay?" Steve pants.
Tony nods once on an inhale, holds it in until Steve nudges in, against his prostate, starts pulling out. It comes out in a wail, thighs spreading even wider, thrusting back as if trying to prevent Steve from ever withdrawing.
Steadying hands on Tony's hips, he thrusts back in. Thrusts Tony onto his toes, another delicious noise from his mouth. Pulls out, and then all he can seem to manage is in and in and in, Tony's hands searching for, and then claiming Steve's in an impressive grip.
"Fuck, Steve," it's in a tight, wet tone he's learned to associate with pain, but how Tony meets each thrust, taking it, spreading for it -- that can't be pain.
Steve likes the table, groaning with each thrust, rapping against the wall in time, affirming Steve's claim, making it known the room, as if it could somehow miss Tony's gasps, and then moans, as Steve shifts, finds that magic spot and nails it, hard.
When Steve realizes Tony's grinding against the table he immediately reaches down, resumes his earlier stroking, and that's it. Tony comes like it hurts. A sob, he spills into Steve's hand, and goes limp against the table as Steve hurries to a finish. Tony moaning deep and raw encouragement until he finally comes, a tense explosion that leaves him panting.
Not enough out of it to squish the man beneath him, he wishes there were some way to pull Tony on top of him without ending up on the floor. He rests his weight on one elbow, breathing heavily against the red mark on the back of Tony's neck, already shaping into a decent sized hickey.
When he finally comes together enough to shift, Steve lifts up enough for Tony to turn, and they're face to face, forehead to forehead after Steve peels off the goggles. "Hey, Shellhead," he greets blue eyes, blinking in adjustment.
Tony smirks, "Hey, Cap."
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Steve wants to have sex in Tony's lab and Tony wants to work in Tony's lab.
Author's Note: Not so shockingly inspired by this guy. Goggle sex. x) TY Bone for the beta!
Steve likes the back of Tony's neck. There are, admittedly, more interesting bits of Tony's anatomy, but there's something about that patch of skin, pale and soft and so . . . open for attack.
The man in his arms isn't surprised at the unconventional greeting. He just shifts, head dropping forward as he sighs, and Steve applies more pressure, working the skin between his teeth gently.
"Ah," Tony finally huffs in mild protest, and Steve pulls back to light presses of his lips, a bit of tongue. "Steve," he warns, voice husky with reluctant arousal.
He hasn't had time to get elbow deep in wires and grease since becoming Director of SHIELD, and jumped at the chance for some hands on work. Nick Fury would've never been caught in a lab, bringing to life promising conceptualizations drawn up by newly recruited engineers. It's generally something left to a team of ridiculously qualified mechanics, but Tony had taken a liking to one of the blueprints and whisked them away.
"I like this guy," he'd said that morning, spreading dark blue sheets, riddled with jagged white lines on the kitchen table before vanishing to the lab. "Whoever did this. It makes virtually no cogent sense. It takes balls to submit this to SHIELD. Or any established organization, really."
Never mind he's actually attempting to build it. "I like a challenge."
And Steve likes it when Tony's in his garage. Likes watching him work, he likes the thick brown gloves, the goggles that look just a tad too large for his face. He's only soldering at the moment, detail work between welding, and the image that greeted Steve is so innately, satisfyingly Tony, he didn't even bother to resist the urge to leave at least one --
"The uniforms won't cover that," Tony warns, but it's quiet at best and a minute too late. And, yeah. Steve also likes leaving his mark, so to speak.
But he does release the slightly abused, now bright red skin, bending to rest his chin on Tony's shoulder. Watching him twine wires thinner than strands of hair, weld them together and then slice it in two. He repeats the process three or four more times, each time the strand of fine wires grows thicker.
"He wouldn't submit it unless it worked," Tony says, as if they'd been talking the entire time. "He wants to show us up. He wants us to say it's impossible, so he can prove us wrong. And it works, in theory. The obvious problem is -- it would work, but it'd burn out. The problem is accounting for all that excess energy, he didn't give it any release. He thinks we're going to add a whole separate exhaust, which would make the whole thing worthless, but I think he figured out how to loop it. Just got to tweak. . . ."
Steve makes vague, amused noises of agreement. It's a side Tony rarely shows; not that he hides it, but no one else seems terribly interested in the slightly dweeby man who babbles about accounting for the kinetic energy build up then shifts abruptly into an intense, absorbed silence.
Honestly, Steve thinks the welding goggles are better than any expensive suit.
Thumbs sneak up and underneath the back of Tony's thin sleeveless shirt while sparks dance on metal, reflected in the green tinted plastic over engrossed blue eyes. He works the small of Tony's back in firm circles; almost innocent, almost just a massage, but traveling steadily downward, and if anyone else touched Tony this way, Steve might have to hit them.
"Mmm," he hums, leans into Steve's petting, his gaze still planted on the tiny bits of metal.
His hands slide up and around, palms pressing flat against warm, soft skin. Smooth, scarless skin, flawless skin, he flicks the left nipple, working the right one almost thoughtfully between his pointer and thumb. He's probably stretching the shirt
Tony squirms against him, just once, and the flame hisses to an end, "Steve," he says again, but it wavers.
And so he drags his hands downward, relishing the lithe muscle of Tony's stomach. Too skinny. There's definition there, but it really shouldn't be so pronounced. He makes a note to drag Tony up for lunch before pulling the unresisting body flat against him, and once his hands rest on pronounced hips, all but yanks him close, grinding against his another part of Tony he quite likes.
He really, really likes Tony's ass. It's not a soldier's, not like most of the partners Steve's had. Not rock hard muscle, but it's full, round and firm and Steve makes good use of the standing invitation to grope, fondle, or otherwise grab the area.
"Not that I--" Tony starts, and then stops, and it probably has something to do with Steve fiddling with the button, then zipper, of his jeans. He's showing definite interest in the proceedings thus far, and Steve encourages this, groping him through black boxers, and then properly, once he's gotten them out of the way, stroking steadily.
Tony doesn't drop the torch as much as his entire hand, thumping on the worktable in a tight fist, hips rocking in time, a groan starting from somewhere near his toes.
"Alright," he surrenders, spreading this thighs, discarding his wires and soldering and resting his weight on Steve as he rocks.
He can't help the smile, although he doesn't particularly try, second hand joining the first in his quest to unravel his personal playboy robotics genius. Still stroking, Steve's fingers drop down, past his balls, a firm stroke on the delicate skin directly between his legs.
"Fuhh--" Tony gasps, head flying back onto Steve's shoulder, jerking up onto his toes. Steve smothers his smile in Tony's hair; he can't see it now, but Steve's learned to treat every minute in Stark Lab as if it were being recorded. Two more strokes and Tony's quivering putty in his hands, rocking back; he's remarkably cooperative if you know the right buttons.
Tony chokes on his breath, the gloved hand reaching around, grasping at the back of Steve's neck. He can just make out Tony's eyes, wide and tinted green, then closed tight.
Steve muffles his own groan at the sight, pulling a hand from Tony's cock to reach into his back pocket. He's not one to come unprepared, slicks his fingers without much preamble.
This bit is always intense for Tony. Steve's not surprised when he drops down, chest to the table as the second, third fingers make their way in. Nor is he at the quick breaths, the shaking as though joints and threads are about to snap and crumble, and Tony's going to fall to pieces, right there on the floor, as he's carefully opened.
Steve's been on the other end, just to see -- just to understand what Tony's going through. But he didn't need to bite his lip or close his eyes so tight. It was good, great, even, but . . . No, he hadn't arched his back, muscles quivering. Dropped his head and muffled some breathy, desperate noise. Not just from fingers.
He'd been so sure he was doing it wrong, still isn't positive he isn't being too rough or fast, but every time he asks -- "You're not doing it wrong. You're very, very not doing it wrong."
It's certainly flattering, if not entirely believable. So he waits until Tony's all but impaling himself on his hand, tension gone entirely, until he's practically threatening Steve, before moving forward, arm working its way around to Tony's front, pulling him close as he slowly, slowly enters.
This -- this is always a test of Steve's will. It's like Tony's entire body is starving for it, clamping down hard on each inch he gains. He focuses, rather than on the tight, heat, fuck, so -- so good, rhythmic squeezing, on Tony's thighs, flexing, and Tony's hands, still gloved, the side of Tony's face flushed, eyes hidden. On his lips, slack with heavy breathing, then bottom one up, bitten harshly.
"Jesus," Steve grips the short hairs on the back of Tony's head as he all but devours the other man, tongue moving, claiming, thrusting in a way the rest of his body aches to. Tony immediately opening his mouth, responding eagerly, certainly doesn't lessen the ache.
Finally, he's in. Finally, Tony stops breath in tight, jerky stabs.
"Okay?" Steve pants.
Tony nods once on an inhale, holds it in until Steve nudges in, against his prostate, starts pulling out. It comes out in a wail, thighs spreading even wider, thrusting back as if trying to prevent Steve from ever withdrawing.
Steadying hands on Tony's hips, he thrusts back in. Thrusts Tony onto his toes, another delicious noise from his mouth. Pulls out, and then all he can seem to manage is in and in and in, Tony's hands searching for, and then claiming Steve's in an impressive grip.
"Fuck, Steve," it's in a tight, wet tone he's learned to associate with pain, but how Tony meets each thrust, taking it, spreading for it -- that can't be pain.
Steve likes the table, groaning with each thrust, rapping against the wall in time, affirming Steve's claim, making it known the room, as if it could somehow miss Tony's gasps, and then moans, as Steve shifts, finds that magic spot and nails it, hard.
When Steve realizes Tony's grinding against the table he immediately reaches down, resumes his earlier stroking, and that's it. Tony comes like it hurts. A sob, he spills into Steve's hand, and goes limp against the table as Steve hurries to a finish. Tony moaning deep and raw encouragement until he finally comes, a tense explosion that leaves him panting.
Not enough out of it to squish the man beneath him, he wishes there were some way to pull Tony on top of him without ending up on the floor. He rests his weight on one elbow, breathing heavily against the red mark on the back of Tony's neck, already shaping into a decent sized hickey.
When he finally comes together enough to shift, Steve lifts up enough for Tony to turn, and they're face to face, forehead to forehead after Steve peels off the goggles. "Hey, Shellhead," he greets blue eyes, blinking in adjustment.
Tony smirks, "Hey, Cap."
no subject
Guh.
No. words. for the hot.
Need cold shower now.
*rereads instead*
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Awww! Possessive Steve is so cute. That totally made me smile!
no subject
no subject
no subject
nnguh isn't it beautiful??
no subject
BUT OMG. YOUR ICON. Sparkly! 8D
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
*Head bursts into flames*
*Cools down*
ZOMG HOTNESS :O LOVE LOVE LOVE
no subject
no subject
no subject
lol ty for the comment!
no subject
It's even more hot to have *Steve* initiate things. I guess he missed Tony working in his lab almost as much as Tony did, but for different reasons. XD LAB SEX, WOO HOO! \o/
no subject
no subject
I think another thing about this fic I like is that it implies Steve is comfortable/secure enough in his relationship with Tony that he doesn't hesitate to initiate sex outside of the bedroom, *especially* when Tony's tinkering in his lab. I'm not that familiar with Captain America in general, but I get the (possibly erroneous) impression from other fanfic writers that he's a bit on the traditional side when it comes to sex, in the sense that it stays in the privacy of the bedroom, with a possible exception for the bathroom. That this Steve is willing to pounce Tony while he's working in his lab (which is probably very restricted access, but still) shows quite a bit of assertiveness, familiarity, and security in their relationship, as well as implying how long the relationship has lasted (and will continue to last), since Tony actually trying to do work is possibly one of the few times he wouldn't want distractions (which is why Steve has to convince him otherwise XD).
no subject
SEE I don't think Steve would be hesitant to have sex outside of the bedroom, any more than any other dude. He's from the 40s, but he's also in his late twenties/early thirties and hung out with cadets most of his adult life. IDK that doesn't exactly equal ~sheepish about sex~ to me, lol. PLUS I mean considering both his and Tony's lives, they'd probably never have time for sex if they had that kind of restriction on it.
Like -- wow okay I'm going to write you a novel here. I could see him avoiding it if he saw it as disrespectful to Tony, as if it was some quick fuck over a table or whatever, but this is just -- a moment. It's not the first time, they're not reassuring each other, it's just, they're together, they've been together and they're having fun, cause Tony is kinda playing hooky~ and Steve is doin it cause he ~can~~~ cause Tony is ~~his~~~ WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WERE SAYING, PRETTY MUCH. Yes, comfortable, security, familiarity I very much wanted to get those across so thank you. :D
AND .. okay, even if it were the first time I think Steve is mature enough to realize if it's the right time and the feelings are right -- the setting really doesn't have that much to do with it. The effort is important. You can show that in ways that don't have to do with ~lovingly leading yr lover to the bedroom.~
And yeah I see Steve as very assertive during sex. He's got firm grounding, that boy, I don't see why that would disappear in the bedroom.
(PS Not many of my friends are into Steve/Tony, I don't talk about it very much, so lol sorry to go off on you. D:)
no subject
SEE I don't think Steve would be hesitant to have sex outside of the bedroom, any more than any other dude. He's from the 40s, but he's also in his late twenties/early thirties and hung out with cadets most of his adult life. IDK that doesn't exactly equal ~sheepish about sex~ to me, lol.
Like I said, it might have been a false impression since I've read more fanfic than I have the actual comics. But in any case, I don't think of it as "sheepish" about sex, more that he considers it something private and he's not an exhibitionist, so to speak. PDAs he might do depending on how secure he feels, and the Steve you've written definitely wouldn't have a problem with PDAs if it won't negatively affect Tony and/or the Avengers. :Db
PLUS I mean considering both his and Tony's lives, they'd probably never have time for sex if they had that kind of restriction on it.
Dude, considering Tony is involved, he'll *make sure* there's time for it. XD
(And don't worry, it's not like I have a lot of friends into slash/fandom either. ;D)
no subject
almost innocent, almost just a massage, but traveling steadily downward, and if anyone else touched Tony this way, Steve might have to hit them.
I love the not-at-all subtle possessiveness in this, which lets you know how intimate Steve finds/intends this gesture to be, innocent-looking or not.
the shaking as though joints and threads are about to snap and crumble
And this, describing Tony as if he's a piece of machinery, is somehow really fitting.
they're face to face, forehead to forehead after Steve peels off the goggles. "Hey, Shellhead," he greets blue eyes, blinking in adjustment.
Tony smirks, "Hey, Cap."
I think I died of the dorky adorable here. Died. This is absolutely the perfect ending.
no subject
Aha I was gonna add a touch of subtlety, but then decided, fuck it. Steve'd be proud he's the only one who gets to tap that ass.
Ahh I'm so glad you said that about the ending, I wasn't sure if it was too cheesy.
Thanks so much for commenting! :D
That. Was, uiopqerqeroie quoq
adhklfjhadfklahafkdshwiueqioruljk
Re: That. Was, uiopqerqeroie quoq
GLAD TO MAKE YOU KEYSMASH! :DD Thank you for the review!
no subject
no subject
re: goggle sex
...and causal little notes of this is sweetly Steve and so typical of Tony; There's definition there, but it really shouldn't be so pronounced. He makes a note to drag Tony up for lunch before pulling the unresisting body flat against him
...and their relationship that Steve knows Tony's body sooo well.
Re: goggle sex
I bet part of Steve really likes how he had Tony in the lab that is sooo important to Tony.
Nffjkgadf YES.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
RIDICULOUSLY HOT, THAT IS!
*fans self*
As much as I love a virginal, blushing Steve, I really like it when he takes control too. rawr!