Steve realizes what's happening only because it's a haunted look he's seen on so many faces, the men (the boys) the war chewed up and spat back out. These days, shellshock doesn't mean what it used to, but Steve sees it written on Tony's face, engraved deep in the shadows under his eyes, coiled in the tension of his muscles. He's heard a lot from Sam about how they actually treat it now instead of just ignoring it and sending guys back out.
But that's the problem, isn't it? Tony's kept going out, and they've all assumed he's fine when he's not. (Not that Steve's fine, but that problem isn't going away.) He's a civilian who's been through situations that would break a soldier - that would break anyone - and nobody's stopped to consider his emotional well-being because it's the sort of thing they all studiously ignore around here.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to hold Tony's attention. "I'm here, okay? Just...just take a deep breath." His hand drops to Tony's shoulder again, giving him a physical anchor to ground himself with.
Tony briefly imagines, as he watches Steve's mouth form the words, the fit of his own mouth against it. He clamps his eyes shut with a grimace and draws another, smoother breath in.
He doesn't know why Tony's closed his eyes, but he figures it's so he can concentrate - hopes it's so he can concentrate. God, Sam would know what to do with something like this. All Steve can do is wait it out, so he grabs Tony's other shoulder with a solid grip, bracing him.
"Whatever's going on in your head, it's not real." Not the camera flashes that sound like gunshots going off, not the scarlet red that paints his memories, not the chill that sinks to his very bones sometimes. "C'mon, Tony, you can do it."
Shoulders hunched beneath Steve's hands, Tony huffs, hisses in more air, and grits out through his teeth, "I know I can do it. I've been doing it since New York."
There's a moment where Steve feels warm skin and muscle shift under his hands, and, okay, that's incredibly distracting. Steve has to take a breath of his own to calm down for a moment.
"New York? You mean-" Since he went through the wormhole. Steve can't say he's surprised; he's more surprised that it hasn't been happening longer. "Tony, you never said anything."
"Gosh, didn't I?" Tony snaps. Glaring, he finally drops his arms, veins thrumming with anger and fear and hurt, but Steve's hands anchor him in place. "Or did you just block out my entire spiel of otherworldly threats that we can't handle? I know--" He clicks his teeth shut and softens his edge. "I know I don't deserve it anymore. But you have to trust me on this. Nothing of what we're doing here is gonna be enough. No training, no tech, no ... no superbot. What I saw, I--" he chokes, flinching back, ghost images of bodies laid over the room: Natasha's dead stare split by the model's wireframe, Clint's broken arm hanging off the edge of a desk, Thor's armor dulled and cape shredded, the Hulk's mass a twitching skewered heap. Gone. Scattered. Because of him.
Reports say that Sokovia relief efforts have recovered fifty-seven dead bodies with over a hundred people still missing, some of them children. Tony stayed awake with various news articles displayed on a tablet, its glow the only light, his head propped up by one hand. "Avengers Withdrawn from Public Eye," a headliner read. So much for together, he thought.
"I mean about you." Of course there are threats coming. Steve's father was lost to one war, and he watched another loom inexorably over the horizon before he went to fight in it. Now he's in a different century, and it's still one thing after another. "I know there's more coming." There's always more coming, always another battle to fight. "And - shit, what am I supposed to do, just wait? Maybe you think it won't be enough, and maybe you're right about that. But we're still gonna fight, Tony. I'm still going to fight. It might be a losing battle, but I can't stand there and do nothing, no matter what the threat is - no matter how many aliens we face, no matter what fate throws at us. Whether or not anyone else is by my side, that's their choice."
When it comes down to it, that's all he has to offer the world, isn't it? A lot of muscles and enough stubbornness to stand up to anything and anyone, no matter how much bigger than him it is. He'll never escape the war, and he's okay with that, because he doesn't know who he is outside of it. Doesn't know if he can be anything outside of it.
Tony swallows thickly, still held in place. Reel yourself back in, Stark. You know where that path leads you. "No. No, you're right. Sorry. It's just a ... problem I have. Anxiety, yay! Fun for all."
"Looks like a bit more than anxiety from over here." His voice is soft, full of concern, and the light of the hologram reflects in his eyes. Steve remembers a dark night in London, the bombed-out shell of a pub, the guilt he'd felt - the guilt he still feels - from losing Bucky.
"I- I don't know what to do to help, Tony. I'm grasping at straws here, okay?" He scrubs his face with a hand, lets it fall to his side instead of back to Tony's shoulder. "You're shellshocked, you have anxiety, you don't wanna tell anyone, but for god's sake, let me in. You keep everything locked up in your head, and..." Steve falters. "I don't wanna lose you." His own shoulders slump at the admission, at the vulnerability.
Steve's hand radiates heat on his shoulder. Tony stares at a spot on Steve's jaw. His chest feels scraped raw on the inside, the bone and muscle graft want to collapse, and he catches his body incrementally tipping closer. He just wants to rest, and Steve is a brick wall; he never backs down despite the weight. Tony trails his eyes over to Steve's mouth again, and then, he's just gone. Throw him a scrap of affection and he lifts his chin for more, hungry, lips parted and eyes hooded; head tilted just so. He still maintains that foot of distance between them, whatever Steve's grip dictates, but in that and the silence anticipation shakes his bones. His mouth tingles with it.
When it comes to feeling tension (sexual or otherwise), Steve has the approximate emotional sensitivity of a brick. He's not the kind of guy who picks up on hints easily - in his defense, there were no hints to pick up on before the serum, and afterwards, he only had eyes for Peggy.
But even he can feel the electricity that runs between the two of them, the hunger in the look that Tony gives him. It catches him by surprise, because in all his conflicted emotions and sexual confusion, Steve hasn't considered the possibility that Tony might be interested in him.
Steve is pretty much the Worst Person on the Planet at making first moves, but everything in Tony's body language says that, yeah, it's all up to him now. He closes the distance between them, rests a tentative (possibly shaking, but he won't admit it) hand on the small of Tony's back, and just stares for a long moment.
Don't say anything, Rogers, he tells himself, and somewhere even farther in the back of his head, there's a running Latin catechism, the familiar litany keeping him from losing all self-control. It's around et dimitte nobis debita nostra that he gives up and captures Tony's lips in a kiss that is shamefully messy and unpracticed, but no less intense for his lack of skill.
The start of Steve's name whispers past before they kiss, before Tony groans in satisfaction and beautifully opens up. He unwinds and hesitantly crowds his body into Steve's space, uncertain of what he can have, lower back arching under Steve's hand and fingers skimming around Steve's waist. Teeth clumsy between them, Tony corrects the angle of their kiss and then teases the tip of his tongue against Steve's mouth and opens his to invite Steve in. Letting him in, because how else can he? He desperately seeks that connection after the isolation; he doesn't otherwise know how. Dimly, Tony knows that the heat enveloping him should come from someone else, but Steve stands before him, and his heart aches and pleads for help.
Tony gives and Steve takes it all hungrily, soaking up every bit of touch he can and then some. It's different than the handful of kisses he's had before - the scrape of Tony's beard against his skin, the body under his hands planes of muscle instead of soft curves, the masculine scent of Tony - but in a good way. A very good way, and Steve doesn't need much encouragement to press closer to him, to fit their bodies together. He licks his way into Tony's mouth, feeling out the foreign territory, changing his angle subtly. God, he never wants this to end.
The hum of the fluorescent lights above, and the heat feebly attempting to warm the floor from open vents -- both sound louder in comparison, but between them, the soft smack of lips and tongues wins out. Tony focuses on the wetness on the inner edges of his mouth, from Steve's tongue licking past and Tony wrapping his lips around it; the hard mold of Steve's body, which he rocks his hips into once; their shared breath. He can lose himself in these familiar motions. Just become another warm, lonely body instead of Tony Stark, or Iron Man, or the man who destroyed the Avengers.
With a gasp he pulls away, eyes dilated, and lowers himself first to one knee and then both. "Steve," Tony says, looking up the length of Steve's body to his face, seeking his full attention.
"Uh," Steve replies eloquently. He's imagined something like this before (vaguely, in the dim way that he knows things like this happen between people), but nothing compares to the reality of having Tony Stark on his knees in front of him, looking up at him like he's his entire world.
(Something in the back of Steve's mind - probably his better judgment - says that this is a bad idea, that this isn't a solution to any of their problems. The part of him that hasn't gotten laid for decades tells his better judgment to shut the hell up.)
He cups Tony's cheek gently, like he can't believe this is actually happening, running his thumb over his skin, his lips. Christ. He shouldn't do this, but he's in too deep to back out now. And he wants this, as the bulge in the front of his jeans proves. Steve sucks in a shuddering breath. "I, uh. Haven't done this before. Just so you know." Not that there's a whole lot involved on his end, he's well aware of that.
Tony massages his thumbs in little circles on the jut of Steve's hipbones. On the pass of Steve's thumb over his lips Tony kisses it and nips lightly at the pad of the finger, causing the skin to briefly stick. He smirks, but fondly, just a twitch. "Don't worry. You got the easy part," he says. "Maybe the best part."
Something almost like a whimper catches in Steve's throat, sounding strangled. Tony makes all of this look so easy - and for him it must be. The flirting, the seduction, all the little touches and looks, everything Steve's never been able to get quite right. His own inexperience makes him self-conscious, even if it doesn't seem to matter to Tony.
But he's thinking too much, so he threads his fingers into Tony's hair - still a little damp at the roots from sweat, the gelled strands part as he runs the pads of his fingers over his scalp. "Oh yeah? Prove it." His grin has a sharp, aroused, anxious edge to it - if his pupils weren't so wide and dark, he might look like someone about to have a nervous breakdown. As it is, he mostly looks impatient and horny.
Tony stretches into Steve's hand, back arched like a cat's after a nap, and the sound he makes similar to a purr. Confident in his skin, as much on his knees as he is commanding a room. "You asked for it. By the by, your hand? Great spot. You'll want the handhold for this ride. Don't be afraid to move me, either," he suggests throatily and flicks the jeans button open. With both hands he unzips the fly, and, heavy eyes still on Steve's face, reaches in.
As if he wasn't already putty in Tony's hands, Steve definitely is now, eyes glued to the curve of his spine, that little noise going straight to his cock with a jolt of pleasure. Even his voice sounds like sex. Steve, meanwhile, is still that 105-pound awkward kid trapped in the finest body science could give him. Part of that very fine body happens to include one hell of a libido - a little tension, a little kissing, the barest hint of petting, and he's ramped up and ready to go, his erection already hard and heavy.
"Right," he croaks. He already feels like he oughta call a priest in and ask for last rites, and never mind that a priest wouldn't exactly approve of what's going on. He definitely never felt like this with that USO gal.
"Easy there, champ. I got ya," Tony murmurs in reassurance while he kneads the bulge and heated cotton. Those round, softened eyes search Steve's face. Whatever he finds satisfies him, because he finally bows his head and works Steve's briefs down enough to pull his erection, framed by the V of the fly, out. There, Tony pauses.
He shudders at the touch, the motion rippling through his entire body. "Famous last words." There's the hint of a breathless laugh puffing out with those words, another push to the challenge. Typical Steve Rogers - as scared as he might be, he's got bravado way beyond his weight class.
But when Tony hesitates, Steve gives the back of his head a nudge with that hand. Please don't give him too much time to think about this, Tony, or he might realize what's going on here.
Pepper, Tony thinks. He squeezes his eyes shut at the nudge and fingers loose around the base of Steve's dick laps the bulbous head into his mouth. The taste and musk overcome his senses and he licks into the slit and sucks on the head. Everything else, for now, fades away: the caving in of his weakened heart, the fatigue deep in his bones, the self-loathing that boils in his gut, present but blessedly muted. With a grateful whimper, he slides his lips farther down and tries to shove everything remaining out.
Been almost three decades since Tony faced down another man's dick, much less sucked one off, but he finds this better. Pepper ruined him that way; he can't touch the plush lips and soft curves of another woman without feeling the difference, the inferiority. But here he can at least pretend to be okay.
"Fuck," Steve swears emphatically, almost reverently, and he can already feel the tension begin to seep into his muscles. He's never felt anything like this before, the heat and the suction and Tony's tongue, and if he still had a weak heart, he would already be dead from just this. (Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, or else he never would have made it through his teenage years alive, but it sure as hell feels like something that would kill him, even now.)
"Oh god, Tony, that's so good, that's-" His vocabulary is woefully inadequate for describing something like this, especially when it seems like all the blood in his brain has drained down to his dick. Steve gives up on words and just moans instead, fighting a battle between the instinct to let his head fall back and wanting to watch Tony do this, because he's not sure it'll ever happen again.
Pressed into hard flooring Tony's kneecaps begin to ache, but he just shifts a little, wrapping his free hand around the back of Steve's calf with the first stirrings of his own arousal. The sounds out of Steve's mouth blanket his mind and Tony whimpers again, spurred on to swallow down Steve's dick, throat fluttering and fighting a gag. Saliva builds; pools over his tongue and the suction grows wetter, more obscene. He soon swallows enough, throat swollen around his Adam's apple, for his mouth to press against his fingers and any noise from him to be reduced to choked gasps. Fervent, he rolls his tongue against the hot weight of Steve's dick blocking his throat. Drool seeps into his beard and his thoughts at last white out, content to be a hole.
He can't even think about moving Tony's head like he suggested earlier - isn't sure he could. Steve's barely ventured into the world of online porn (more like dipped a toe in and accidentally clicked on the wrong thing and ended up in a hellscape of weird fetishes), and he honestly has no idea that this is a thing people do, that they're even capable of. Tony's throat is tight around him, tighter than anything he's ever felt before, and everything's wet, and it's instinct more than anything else that guides him to roll his hips, thrusting into Tony's mouth. Once he's done it once, it's easy to keep going, his last shred of conscious thought devoted to being gentle with him. Steve brackets Tony's head with both hands, holding him still while he fucks his mouth.
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But that's the problem, isn't it? Tony's kept going out, and they've all assumed he's fine when he's not. (Not that Steve's fine, but that problem isn't going away.) He's a civilian who's been through situations that would break a soldier - that would break anyone - and nobody's stopped to consider his emotional well-being because it's the sort of thing they all studiously ignore around here.
"Hey," he says softly, trying to hold Tony's attention. "I'm here, okay? Just...just take a deep breath." His hand drops to Tony's shoulder again, giving him a physical anchor to ground himself with.
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"Whatever's going on in your head, it's not real." Not the camera flashes that sound like gunshots going off, not the scarlet red that paints his memories, not the chill that sinks to his very bones sometimes. "C'mon, Tony, you can do it."
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"New York? You mean-" Since he went through the wormhole. Steve can't say he's surprised; he's more surprised that it hasn't been happening longer. "Tony, you never said anything."
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Reports say that Sokovia relief efforts have recovered fifty-seven dead bodies with over a hundred people still missing, some of them children. Tony stayed awake with various news articles displayed on a tablet, its glow the only light, his head propped up by one hand. "Avengers Withdrawn from Public Eye," a headliner read. So much for together, he thought.
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When it comes down to it, that's all he has to offer the world, isn't it? A lot of muscles and enough stubbornness to stand up to anything and anyone, no matter how much bigger than him it is. He'll never escape the war, and he's okay with that, because he doesn't know who he is outside of it. Doesn't know if he can be anything outside of it.
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"I- I don't know what to do to help, Tony. I'm grasping at straws here, okay?" He scrubs his face with a hand, lets it fall to his side instead of back to Tony's shoulder. "You're shellshocked, you have anxiety, you don't wanna tell anyone, but for god's sake, let me in. You keep everything locked up in your head, and..." Steve falters. "I don't wanna lose you." His own shoulders slump at the admission, at the vulnerability.
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But even he can feel the electricity that runs between the two of them, the hunger in the look that Tony gives him. It catches him by surprise, because in all his conflicted emotions and sexual confusion, Steve hasn't considered the possibility that Tony might be interested in him.
Steve is pretty much the Worst Person on the Planet at making first moves, but everything in Tony's body language says that, yeah, it's all up to him now. He closes the distance between them, rests a tentative (possibly shaking, but he won't admit it) hand on the small of Tony's back, and just stares for a long moment.
Don't say anything, Rogers, he tells himself, and somewhere even farther in the back of his head, there's a running Latin catechism, the familiar litany keeping him from losing all self-control. It's around et dimitte nobis debita nostra that he gives up and captures Tony's lips in a kiss that is shamefully messy and unpracticed, but no less intense for his lack of skill.
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With a gasp he pulls away, eyes dilated, and lowers himself first to one knee and then both. "Steve," Tony says, looking up the length of Steve's body to his face, seeking his full attention.
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(Something in the back of Steve's mind - probably his better judgment - says that this is a bad idea, that this isn't a solution to any of their problems. The part of him that hasn't gotten laid for decades tells his better judgment to shut the hell up.)
He cups Tony's cheek gently, like he can't believe this is actually happening, running his thumb over his skin, his lips. Christ. He shouldn't do this, but he's in too deep to back out now. And he wants this, as the bulge in the front of his jeans proves. Steve sucks in a shuddering breath. "I, uh. Haven't done this before. Just so you know." Not that there's a whole lot involved on his end, he's well aware of that.
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But he's thinking too much, so he threads his fingers into Tony's hair - still a little damp at the roots from sweat, the gelled strands part as he runs the pads of his fingers over his scalp. "Oh yeah? Prove it." His grin has a sharp, aroused, anxious edge to it - if his pupils weren't so wide and dark, he might look like someone about to have a nervous breakdown. As it is, he mostly looks impatient and horny.
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"Right," he croaks. He already feels like he oughta call a priest in and ask for last rites, and never mind that a priest wouldn't exactly approve of what's going on. He definitely never felt like this with that USO gal.
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But when Tony hesitates, Steve gives the back of his head a nudge with that hand. Please don't give him too much time to think about this, Tony, or he might realize what's going on here.
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Been almost three decades since Tony faced down another man's dick, much less sucked one off, but he finds this better. Pepper ruined him that way; he can't touch the plush lips and soft curves of another woman without feeling the difference, the inferiority. But here he can at least pretend to be okay.
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"Oh god, Tony, that's so good, that's-" His vocabulary is woefully inadequate for describing something like this, especially when it seems like all the blood in his brain has drained down to his dick. Steve gives up on words and just moans instead, fighting a battle between the instinct to let his head fall back and wanting to watch Tony do this, because he's not sure it'll ever happen again.
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