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.
Slowly Tony's hands fall away and hang limp at his sides: permission for Steve to thrust with his full length. Tony's ribs heave, lungs shuddering from the interrupted air coming in short gusts through his nose, eyelids fluttering. Saliva drips through the bristles on his chin. His cock twitches from the wonderful abuse, and his body (knees from submitting, thighs from propping himself up, jaw and throat from being plowed open) grows sore in lieu of his soul. Steve takes all decisions out of his hands, each thrust a gift and punishment both. Tony sinks deep into relief.
Something's wrong, part of Steve realizes, but the rest of him is too caught up in a flood of arousal to care. And, hell, maybe it isn't, maybe this kind of thing is normal, but when he'd imagined it, there'd been more reacting on Tony's part. Noises, movement, anything. If he weren't most of the way there, he might go soft, but he'd been focused on his climax from the second Tony first took him in his mouth.
It doesn't take long - maybe about three minutes, all told, and Steve's spilling down Tony's throat with whispered words of apology mingled with his name. And, god, the orgasm is intense, but it's somehow lacking at the same time. Once Steve stops shaking, once his dick is soft and he pulls it out of Tony's mouth (unable to keep from staring at his swollen lips), the feeling of wrongness intensifies. He doesn't bother to tuck himself back in before he sits on the floor in front of him; his legs feel like jelly, and if he's going to reciprocate somehow, he's gonna do it sitting down.
"Tony?" His thumb wipes away some of the mess in his beard, and he cradled his chin in his palm. "You okay?"
Tony holds his head wherever Steve left it, jaw slack and eyes dazed, his whole frame shaking from coughs, thighs trembling but refusing to relax. The only movements from him are involuntary; he doesn't even stop or wipe at the white bead of semen at one corner. His fingers twitch. Come back, Stark, he hears, but everything in him shies away.
Steve's touch shuts Tony's jaw and directs his eyes, but his mouth neglects to cooperate and slurs his words out, his voice wrecked, "M'kay. C-can I si' down, please?"
Oh, god, he did something wrong. Should he have stopped? Something in Steve's stomach twists with guilt, and instead of answering, he bodily pulls Tony into his lap, cradling him against his chest. If he had his phone on him, he'd text Pepper - an awkward conversation, okay, but he's pretty sure Pepper could handle it. She could definitely handle it better than him, because he really wants to panic and run away and pretend this never happened if he ever sees Tony again.
He doesn't know what to say, so he just presses his face against Tony's hair, strokes fingers down the length of his spine. And after a few minutes, when he feels like he can stand again, he rises to his feet, still holding Tony in his arms - still very much in a state where it would be damned awkward to bump into anyone else in the compound - and carries him into his office, gently sets him down on the couch, and goes right back to holding him.
"Please, Tony," he murmurs into his neck, and, "I'm sorry."
Instead of protesting being carried like a bride across the threshold, Tony just lulls his head back and watches the ceiling with its metal rafters and air ducts pass by. Down a level, to the Avengers's main quarters, it changes to a smooth white with painted gray walls. Along the way an attempted swallow sends him into a weak coughing fit. He curls into Steve and mouths an apology, nothing more than the whispered hiss of the S. His body knows, remembers, that now is not the time and here is not the place and this is not the person, but his mind keeps clawing back down and under the peaceful waters, where everything becomes beautifully muted and blurry. So he just nuzzles into the warm collarbone, uncaring whom it belongs to, and sinks.
The first chink appears at Steve's apology. Tony blinks and suddenly he's being held in a different, darkened room: Steve's office. Only moonlight through the window wall illuminates it. "Wha' for?" Tony breathes out.
"Everything," Steve replies miserably, both because his own sins are too numerous to count, and because he's not entirely sure what he did wrong, just that it's his fault. He'd let his excitement carry him away against his better nature, and now Tony's worse, not better, and this was totally the wrong thing to do and he's ruined their friendship.
This isn't how he imagined having Tony in his arms, but Steve closes his eyes and rests his cheek against his hair anyway. He shouldn't even be doing this, he's sure, but Tony's so utterly unresponsive that he doesn't know how to help him.
Tony wiggles closer and slumps, peaceful and boneless, into Steve. From Steve's shoulder Tony watches his agonized face, his own soft and unguarded with a hint of worry marring his brow. Did he do something wrong? Pain blooms anew inside him. He whines, protesting, low in his abused throat, and brushes the back of his fingers along Steve's jaw.
"What did I do wrong?" Steve asks, frowning down at Tony. "I don't understand. I thought- I thought you wanted this." Had he goaded him into doing something he didn't want to do? But his touch seems tender enough, and it makes Steve close his eyes for a second, instinctively leaning into it despite his turmoil.
"God, all I wanted to do was go to dinner with you and have a nice night out." He laughs humorlessly. "Can't even manage that much without screwing things up."
Tony whimpers. His expression folds into lines of distress. "I did want it," he says shakily. "I..." Slowly his brain comes back online, waters disturbed, and the weight of his actions dawns on him. Tony suddenly peels himself away and hunches over, fist held to his mouth, still on Steve's lap. Horrified, he battles a wave of nausea. "M'sorry. It's my fault," he croaks. Why does he keep returning here? He doesn't need to be on-site to run it. Why cling so hard to something he's already ruined once? Look at what that got him; at what that got Steve. Wanda was right.
The sudden movement catches Steve by surprise - he'd been so passive and pliant a moment before, and now he looks like he's on the verge of a breakdown again. They're right back where they started, only with brand new emotional baggage on top of what was already there.
"It's not your fault," he insists stubbornly, and in spite of everything, he runs his hand along Tony's spine, trying to soothe him. It makes his heart sore to see Tony like this. He'd meant to help, but clearly he's only made it worse.
That place of rest and white noise in his head nudges at him from the comforting glide of Steve's hand and Tony shoves back at it. How'd he let himself slip under like that in the first place? He remembers Steve fucking his throat and him giving himself over, but that version of himself should only belong to Pepper. She discovered it. Tamed it. He's hers like that. He has no right to just hand it over to someone else. But she left.
Pepper deserves better. So does Steve.
"False," Tony mumbles. He flexes his fists tight enough that the knuckles crack and his wild eyes dart around. "You don't have all the information. I do."
"Then maybe you should share the information." The words aren't quite snapped, but his frustration is clear. Steve had begged him to let him in, and instead of just telling him what was wrong...
Well. Apparently that had been a bad approach. Is there a good approach? If so, it's not immediately obvious to Steve.
Tony shuts his eyes. He should leave. Not come back. Just fix what and help where he can from the confines of Fifth Avenue with cobwebs and ghosts for company. But he also can't shut himself away until he becomes one of them. He has so much to make up for and he'll run himself into the ground doing it. He can start here with Steve, who deserves better than this mess. Than him.
Tony drops his hands, ignores his heart imploding, and finally admits: "All I feel now, all the time, is pain. Exhaustion. Guilt." He trails off briefly, eyes distant (fifty-seven body count and rising), before he continues, "I'm running on fumes, Steve. I dunno how much more mileage I got. But when I ... when I get taken out of my head by someone I trust, that's as close as I get to happy. That's what just happened," he meets Steve's eyes, remorseful and moonlit, "and I used you to get there. It was selfish, and I'm sorry."
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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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It doesn't take long - maybe about three minutes, all told, and Steve's spilling down Tony's throat with whispered words of apology mingled with his name. And, god, the orgasm is intense, but it's somehow lacking at the same time. Once Steve stops shaking, once his dick is soft and he pulls it out of Tony's mouth (unable to keep from staring at his swollen lips), the feeling of wrongness intensifies. He doesn't bother to tuck himself back in before he sits on the floor in front of him; his legs feel like jelly, and if he's going to reciprocate somehow, he's gonna do it sitting down.
"Tony?" His thumb wipes away some of the mess in his beard, and he cradled his chin in his palm. "You okay?"
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Steve's touch shuts Tony's jaw and directs his eyes, but his mouth neglects to cooperate and slurs his words out, his voice wrecked, "M'kay. C-can I si' down, please?"
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He doesn't know what to say, so he just presses his face against Tony's hair, strokes fingers down the length of his spine. And after a few minutes, when he feels like he can stand again, he rises to his feet, still holding Tony in his arms - still very much in a state where it would be damned awkward to bump into anyone else in the compound - and carries him into his office, gently sets him down on the couch, and goes right back to holding him.
"Please, Tony," he murmurs into his neck, and, "I'm sorry."
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The first chink appears at Steve's apology. Tony blinks and suddenly he's being held in a different, darkened room: Steve's office. Only moonlight through the window wall illuminates it. "Wha' for?" Tony breathes out.
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This isn't how he imagined having Tony in his arms, but Steve closes his eyes and rests his cheek against his hair anyway. He shouldn't even be doing this, he's sure, but Tony's so utterly unresponsive that he doesn't know how to help him.
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"God, all I wanted to do was go to dinner with you and have a nice night out." He laughs humorlessly. "Can't even manage that much without screwing things up."
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"It's not your fault," he insists stubbornly, and in spite of everything, he runs his hand along Tony's spine, trying to soothe him. It makes his heart sore to see Tony like this. He'd meant to help, but clearly he's only made it worse.
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Pepper deserves better. So does Steve.
"False," Tony mumbles. He flexes his fists tight enough that the knuckles crack and his wild eyes dart around. "You don't have all the information. I do."
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Well. Apparently that had been a bad approach. Is there a good approach? If so, it's not immediately obvious to Steve.
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Tony drops his hands, ignores his heart imploding, and finally admits: "All I feel now, all the time, is pain. Exhaustion. Guilt." He trails off briefly, eyes distant (fifty-seven body count and rising), before he continues, "I'm running on fumes, Steve. I dunno how much more mileage I got. But when I ... when I get taken out of my head by someone I trust, that's as close as I get to happy. That's what just happened," he meets Steve's eyes, remorseful and moonlit, "and I used you to get there. It was selfish, and I'm sorry."
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