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A couple times a week, Tony wakes up to a mug of his favorite roast and the quiet super soldier who made it. Barnes never says much, just sits beside him at the edge of the bed and waits, calm, until Tony finishes his coffee, collects the empty mug and disappears to do whatever it is Barnes does during the day.

Tony's never good on just one cup, but it's not really about the coffee.

Since the first couple of...incidents, Tony's stopped gulping down his drink too quickly, and Barnes no longer avoids Tony's gaze. It's...a thing. A different thing. Kind of a nice thing. They don't exactly talk about it, but Tony doesn't mind (he adores Barnes for not talking about it, actually--that the sniper's content to just be there in this odd fragile solidarity they've established).

At first, it'd been the heat of the the post-mission rush; the Winter Soldier dragging Tony off to fuck, and Barnes bringing him 'I'm sorry my psychopathic alter-ego fucks you until you can't stand' coffee in the morning. Later, it'd started happening without the preamble of being in possible mortal danger.

It's a pretty nice setup. Tony gets pulled apart with delicious machine precision, and he and Barnes have finally become comfortable being in the same room.

Neat, clean, simple.  

Until Barnes surfaces, during.

Tony knows immediately what's happened; the rhythmic, punishing pace stutters, crashes to a halt. When he opens his eyes, Barnes is staring down at him, confused, flushed, and a little frightened. It's obvious the Brooklyn boy hadn't been present for any of the actual…tryst? Affair? (one of the sterile, pretty words for the rough fucking Tony gladly takes after every mission)


The anxious shake in Barnes' voice should be a detractor, but Tony's too far gone.

"It's okay, you're okay," he rasps, "keep going--fuck, please--"

He's about to really start begging, but Barnes' brow wrinkles, his lips parting slightly, bewildered and uncertain...and then he pulls his hips back, snapping forward again to sink back inside.

Tony groans at the slick draw. "Good, yeah--there you go, sweetheart, give me more, come on..."

Past his own weirdly frantic relief, Tony notices how quickly the sniper's adjusting to this...scenario, sees the moment the confusion melts away, how those storm-blue eyes stop checking for injuries and start cataloging his reactions. The hands on Tony's hips grip tighter, dragging him forward again to meet the steadily increasing pace with which Barnes is driving into him.

There's something endlessly erotic about being the Winter Soldier's toy, but being really looked at by James Buchanan Barnes, being seen, is a whole different animal. More intense, in its own way, almost to the point of discomfort, but Tony's all about pushing limits.

He grins up breathlessly. "You think about this, Barnes? What I'd feel like?"

Something pinches in Barnes' expression, his grip loosening. If Tony didn't know any better, he'd say he's seeing disappointment.

"I shouldn't be doing this," the sniper grits out, pained and, fuck, sad. Guilty.

"No, hey, wait," Tony gasps, reaching--okay, nope, still tied to the headboard, shit, "don't--God, Barnes, don't make me beg--"

"You're not fucking me," Barnes says, but he's still inside, not moving away from where Tony's ass is practically hanging off the end of the bed, "You didn't ask for this."

Tony rolls his eyes (partially in mild exasperation and partially because Barnes' thumbs are apologetically caressing the skin between his hipbones and it feels nice).

"I definitely just asked for it, Tasty Freeze--"

"Tony, you were in the middle of--"

"A consensual bondage fuck. Winter likes his rope," Tony interrupts. "If you're stopping for me, then don't. If you're stopping for you, then untie me and we can have the awkward conversation. Or no conversation, I'm okay with no conversationoohfuck--"

It knocks the metaphorical wind out of him, the suddenness of Barnes' thrust, the returning dig of metal and flesh fingers into his hips.

"Don't like awkward conversations," Barnes grunts, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Tony's surprised laugh cuts off into something throatier and breathless, punched out by the hard, rolling pace Barnes sets.

It's good, so good, from the fullness to the drag and slap of flesh on flesh, to the view; the undulation of Barnes' abs, the flex in his arms and pecs as he effortlessly pulls Tony by the hips to meet his thrusts.

The way Barnes' eyes trip worshipful and disbelieving all over Tony's body, rove warm over his face.

When Tony cums, Barnes leans in to lick the sounds from his mouth, metal hand wrapped carefully (and so, so perfectly) around Tony's spurting cock.


Tony still wakes up to a cup of his favorite roast the next morning, but he drinks it reclining against Barnes' bare chest.