A domestic evening
The Littlest Treasure of the 107th
The sun was barely up over the Manhattan skyline, but inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was already thick with a syrupy, protective warmth. Steve Rogers sat up in the massive bed, his bare chest a wall of solid muscle, and looked down at the bundle of silk and cashmere tucked against his side. Tony was still fast asleep, but something was different today. The way his thumb was hooked near his mouth, the soft, rhythmic puff of his breath, and the total, boneless slackness of his limbs told Steve everything he needed to know.
"Hey, Buck," Steve whispered, his Brooklyn accent low and gravelly. "He’s back in the nursery."
Bucky Barnes, who had been dozing on the other side of the bed, opened one eye. A slow, predatory but affectionate grin spread across his face. He shifted closer, his metal hand resting gently on the mattress near Tony’s hip. "Yeah? How far back today, Stevie?"
Steve reached out, his large hand cupping Tony’s head. The omega let out a tiny, high-pitched chirp in his sleep, his nose scrinkling. "Real far. Look at those eyes movin' under the lids. He ain't thinkin' about math or engines today. He’s just our little guy."
"Perfect," Bucky rumbled. He sat up, stretching his arms. "I’ll go get the warm milk. You get him changed and into somethin' soft. I saw that yellow onesie you bought—the one with the little bears on the feet. Thought it’d look real cute on him."
Steve chuckled, a sleazy, satisfied sound. "I was thinkin' the same thing. Go on, get the bottle ready. I’m gonna wake up my prize."
As Bucky headed to the kitchen, Steve leaned over Tony, his scent flaring—sandalwood and raw alpha dominance—to gently coax the omega toward consciousness. He began to nuzzle Tony’s neck, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin. "Mornin', sweetheart. Mornin', my little prince. Time to wake up for Alpha."
Tony’s eyes fluttered open. They were wide, glassy, and filled with a profound, innocent vacancy. He didn't look like a genius billionaire; he looked like a soul that had been scrubbed clean of every worry. He let out a soft, gurgling coo and immediately reached up, his small hands patting Steve’s cheeks.
"Dere," Tony whispered, his voice tiny and lisping. "Alpha dere."
"That's right, baby. Alpha’s right here," Steve cooed, his voice dropping into a patronizing, sweet drawl. He scooped Tony up, marveling at how the man seemed to shrink in his arms when he was like this. "You’re so small today, ain't ya? Just a tiny little thing for me to take care of."
Tony nuzzled into Steve’s chest, his eyes already drifting shut again. He was completely gone, submerged in a state of total regression where the only things that existed were the warmth of his alphas and the safety of his home.
Steve carried him to the changing table—a custom-made piece of furniture that looked like an antique dresser but was padded with the softest velvet. He stripped Tony out of his pajamas, his hands sure and dominant. He didn't care that Tony was a grown man; in Steve’s mind, this was the natural order. Tony was his property, his treasure, and if his treasure needed to be a baby for a while, Steve would be the best damn father-figure Brooklyn ever produced.
"Look at you," Steve murmured, pinning Tony’s wrists gently above his head with one hand while he reached for the powder with the other. "Such a good, quiet boy. You like it when I take charge, don't ya? You like not havin' to think about a single thing."
Tony kicked his legs feebly, a bubbly laugh escaping him. "Alpha tickle!"
"I’ll do more than tickle ya if you don't stay still," Steve teased, his voice laced with that reckless, dominant edge. He finished dressing Tony in the yellow bear-footed onesie, then fastened the silver collar back around his neck—a reminder that even in his most vulnerable state, he belonged to Steve.
Bucky walked back in, carrying a glass bottle filled with warm, sweetened milk. He leaned against the doorframe, his blue eyes dark with appreciation. "God, Steve. He looks like a doll. You sure he’s real? Sometimes I think you just manufactured the perfect omega to keep us happy."
"He’s real enough," Steve said, picking Tony up and settling him against his shoulder. "And he’s hungry. Come here, Tony. Uncle Bucky’s got your breakfast."
They moved to the living room, where the plush rug was covered in soft pillows. Steve sat down, leaning against the sofa, and pulled Tony into his lap. Bucky sat cross-legged in front of them, holding the bottle out.
Tony’s eyes locked onto the bottle, and he let out a needy, whimpering sound. He reached for it with both hands, but Bucky pulled it back just an inch, a playful, sleazy smirk on his face.
"Wait a minute, doll," Bucky said. "You gotta ask nice. You know the rules. We don't give treats to boys who don't mind their manners."
Tony looked up at Bucky, his lower lip trembling. He looked toward Steve for help, but Steve only tightened his grip, his thumb stroking Tony’s jaw. "You heard him, sweetheart. Tell Bucky what you want. Use your little voice."
"P'ease," Tony whispered, his face flushing a deep, beautiful pink. "P'ease, Bucky. Milk?"
"That's a good boy," Bucky cooed, finally leaning in and pressing the nipple of the bottle to Tony’s lips.
The room fell into a peaceful silence, save for the rhythmic sound of Tony sucking on the bottle. Steve held him firmly, his large hand splayed across Tony’s stomach, feeling the way the omega relaxed deeper into his hold with every swallow.
"He’s so easy like this," Steve remarked, looking over at Bucky. "Makes ya wonder why the world ever let 'em think they should be in charge of anythin'. Look at him. He was born to be held and fed."
"Damned shame it took 'em this long to figure it out," Bucky agreed, reaching out with his metal hand to stroke the bottom of Tony’s bear-covered feet. "But he’s ours now. We’ll make up for lost time. Won't we, Tony?"
Tony finished the bottle, letting out a soft, milky sigh. He slumped against Steve’s chest, his eyes rolling back in a daze of pure, submissive satisfaction. Steve pulled the bottle away and handed it to Bucky, then began to rhythmically pat Tony’s back.
"There we go. Get that air out," Steve murmured. When Tony let out a tiny, soft burp, both alphas chuckled.
"Big man," Bucky teased, pinching Tony’s cheek.
For the next few hours, the penthouse was a blur of gentle play and overwhelming dominance. Steve and Bucky sat on the floor with Tony, rolling a soft ball back and forth or showing him the pictures in the gold-foil fable books Steve had bought. Tony didn't say much—his vocabulary had shrunk to a handful of words—but his joy was evident in the way he chirped and leaned into every touch.
At one point, Tony got frustrated because he couldn't get a wooden block to stay on top of another. He let out a sharp, frustrated cry and swiped at the blocks, knocking them across the rug.
Steve’s demeanor changed instantly. The soft, cooing Alpha vanished, replaced by a stern, unyielding authority. He grabbed Tony’s hands, holding them firmly. "Hey. We don't throw things in this house. You hear me, Tony?"
Tony froze, his eyes filling with sudden, fat tears. He looked up at Steve’s hard jaw and the flash of dominance in his eyes, and he began to tremble. "S-sorry. Alpha sorry."
"You better be sorry," Steve grumbled, though his voice softened just a fraction as he saw the omega’s distress. "You’re a sensitive thing, and I don't like seein' you act like a brat. Now, you’re gonna sit in Bucky’s lap and think about how to be a good boy while I clean this up."
He handed Tony over to Bucky, who took the omega with a knowing look. Bucky wrapped his massive arms around Tony, pinning him in place. "You heard the boss, doll. You gotta keep those hands to yourself. Why don't you put your head down and take a little time-out?"
Tony buried his face in Bucky’s neck, sobbing quietly. It wasn't a cry of pain, but of pure, submissive overwhelm. He loved the boundaries; he loved knowing exactly where the line was and that his alphas would always be there to pull him back across it.
"He's breakin' my heart, Stevie," Bucky said, though he was smiling. He pressed a kiss to the side of Tony’s head. "Look at him. He’s so sorry he can barely breathe."
Steve finished stacking the blocks and knelt in front of them. He reached out, wiping Tony’s tears away with his thumbs. "Alright, that’s enough. Come here, baby. Alpha’s not mad anymore. I just want you to be a polite little prize."
Tony lunged back into Steve’s arms, his small hands clutching at Steve’s shirt. "Be good. Tony be good boy."
"I know you will," Steve whispered, his voice returning to that thick, sleazy warmth.
By the afternoon, the excitement had worn Tony out. He was rubbing his eyes, his movements becoming slow and clumsy. Steve carried him back to the bedroom, but instead of putting him in the bed, he sat in the large velvet armchair by the window, keeping Tony tucked against his chest.
Bucky followed, bringing a soft, fleece blanket. He draped it over the both of them, then sat on the ottoman at Steve’s feet, resting his arms on Steve’s knees.
"He’s almost out," Bucky noted, watching the way Tony’s breathing slowed.
"Yeah," Steve said, his voice a low rumble. "He had a big day. Lots of learnin' how to be small."
Steve looked down at Tony, his heart swelling with a dark, possessive pride. This was the vision of domesticity he had always wanted—the old-fashioned, Brooklyn dream where the Alpha was king and the Omega was a cherished, mindless treasure. He didn't miss the Iron Man; he didn't miss the snarky, fast-talking genius. He loved this Tony—the one who needed him for every breath, every meal, and every moment of comfort.
"You think he’ll remember any of this when he wakes up?" Bucky asked quietly.
Steve shook his head, his fingers tracing the line of the silver collar. "Maybe a little. A feelin' of bein' safe, maybe. But it don't matter. We’ll know. And we’ll be here to do it all over again the next time the world gets too loud for him."
Bucky reached up, his metal thumb brushing over Tony’s knuckles. "He’s a lucky little bastard, ain't he? Havin' us to keep the monsters away."
"We’re the lucky ones, Buck," Steve replied, his Brooklyn accent thick and heavy with satisfaction. "We got the prettiest, sweetest thing in the city right here in our laps. And we’re never, ever lettin' him go."
Tony let out a final, soft sigh, his head falling back against Steve’s bicep. He was deep in a dreamless, regressed sleep, safe in the fortress of his alphas' arms. Outside, the world continued its frantic, complicated pace, but inside the penthouse, time had stopped. There was only the scent of sandalwood, the weight of a sleeping boy, and the quiet, immovable dominance of the men who owned him.
"Sleep tight, my little treasure," Steve whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.
"Night, doll," Bucky added, his hand never leaving Tony’s side.
The Brooklyn boys sat in the fading light, guarding their prize, content in the knowledge that Tony Stark was exactly where he was meant to be: small, silent, and perfectly kept.