"Yeah, Tony, we all know the argument." He sighs dramatically. It's not like he hasn't heard this a hundred times before already, after all. "You're just jealous because he got to do a photoshoot shirtless and riding a horse on a beach - and let me tell you, you don't have enough hair for it to stream in the wind." He pats said hair affectionately, though.
"Does the world really need another spread of sexy Tony Stark photos?" Steve teases him. "Would you want to pose buck naked on a bearskin rug next to a fireplace?"
Tony switches gears; he relaxes his eyes, lashes long and low, a smirk wicked on his face, and cocks his head in the same way as before: an invitation to kiss. With a sinuous arch of his back he rolls his hips into Steve's lap. "Why? Is that something you've dreamed of, Captain?" he purrs. The soreness only adds a husky rumble. "Spreading me out and sketching a portrait? Maybe keeping it in the pocket of your uniform?" He leans closer, just an inch. "A lil' something to warm you on those long missions, sneaking glances when you can? When you think no one else can see?"
He shudders at the sound of Tony's voice, at the way he rolls his hips against him - oh, god, is he in over his head - but then the words sink in and he flinches. As much as he wants to keep pushing and pushing and see how dangerously far it gets him, he knows that if he doesn't gently correct it now, Tony'll keep doing it.
"Just Steve," he says quietly, awkwardly, like he feels guilty for interrupting Tony's playful seduction (and he does, because nobody's bothered to do this with him before, and he likes it). "Please."
And before he can say anything else stupid, he kisses Tony again, rolls his hips up against him as he holds him down. Kissing is good, he decides, because it keeps his mouth occupied. And speaking of mouths-
"Wanna make you come," he mumbles against Tony's lips. He didn't get to earlier, and turnabout is fair play, right?
Micro shifts in his expression: smirk losing a level of intensity at Steve's plea, his lips parting before they kiss, which Tony melts into, a soft whistle of a whine in the back of his misused throat. But when Steve mumbles what he wants, fear spikes through Tony and he pulls back, eyes wide. His pleasure belongs with Pepper. He can kneel and he can suck Steve off, but the thought of someone else touching him, someone not the woman he loves, leaves Tony shriveled.
"Later," he says, choked, and jumps to his feet. He stands still for a moment, growing cold, then strides a few steps toward the windows, facing them instead of Steve. God, what is he gonna do? What has he started? He runs a nervous hand through his hair and then harshly clutches the strands at his nape.
Steve stands up and zips his fly, comes up behind Tony. His arousal has deflated, leaving just the awkwardness behind. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I thought you'd want-"
He shakes his head and stares out at the rooftop garden, shoving his hands in his pockets. He wants to see Tony come undone, wants to feel the satisfaction of pleasing him. But he won't push it.
"I'm gonna take a shower. If you still wanna come by later..." Which is stupid, of course he doesn't, but Steve plunges ahead anyway. "I won't do anything you don't want. Platonic, just like I said."
Tony nods, the motion tiny and slow at first, and then strong and decisive, almost frantic. "Yeah. Yeah, I should finish up in the lab. See you in a few?"
"No problem." Steve sounds relieved - at least he hasn't fucked up entirely. Maybe. If he has, at least he's given Tony an easy out. He can drive back to the city, and they can never mention any of this again.
He turns around and walks out of the office, letting a whoosh of air out of his lungs once the door closes behind him. Christ. All of this is still hard to wrap his head around, and Tony keeps throwing curveballs at him.
The shower Steve takes is cold and long and practically enough to freeze him again, but he needs to get his goddamn libido under control. He doesn't want to get hard again when they're trying to be platonic - and, yeah, it's practically guaranteed to happen anyway, but at least he's trying to have a shred of restraint. He pulls on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers for bed, then heads back out to his room to wait for Tony. If he comes, anyway.
Over an hour later, Tony stands at a crossroads. He fixed the electrical side of the lab floor and finished prep work for the parts coming in. Try as he might he can find no further chore, nothing to delay the decision: does he drive back or take up Steve's offer? For some reason he thinks of his mother and how, when he was still small and attached to her skirt, she brought him with her to church. He doesn't have specific memories, but he has imagined ones from her telling him the stories: he pictures her with a wide-brimmed summer hat that she removes inside the chapel. He pictures her trying to shush a squirming boy who'd fall asleep on her lap. He pictures her bowed blonde head in a prayer and her breathy, lilting voice, always close to a lullaby, at a confessional.
Forgive me, Pepper, he echoes and turns the way to the living quarters, the lab floor dark and lonely behind him. He detours for a shower and washes off the sweat and grime of manual labor. Towel folded around his waist, jeans slung over his shoulder, A-shirt back on, and sneakers hanging from his fingers, Tony rushes through the hallway of Avenger dorms. He ducks past each open door like a one-night-stand on his walk of shame and only breathes easy at Steve's. There, Tony pauses.
Steve left it open a crack. Tony stares at it. Platonic, he reassures himself and raps softly on the door. "Ca-- uh. Steve? I'm comin' in," he warns but waits for confirmation.
"'S fine." Steve's fiddling with his phone - more to keep his hands busy than anything else - and he sets it aside on the nightstand when Tony enters.. "You can keep calling me Cap the rest of the time," he offers, well aware that it's habit for Tony - that it's meant as a fond nickname, even. "Just, uh, in bed-" He doesn't offer an explanation for it. "Or wherever," since they've already proven that activities of that sort aren't limited to bed. "If it even happens." Which it might not, after earlier, and this is probably the kind of situation where he needs to stop talking sooner, rather than later. Mostly, he just wants to recapture that fleeting sensation of security with Tony in his arms and his face pressed against his neck.
He idly notices the damp hair, the towel around his waist, and thinks that it's a good thing he showered beforehand. For some reason, a bit of grease and grime - the scent of hot metal and oil and a touch of sweat - makes him even more appealing, not that Tony has to try too hard in that department. Yeah, this platonic thing is going to work out really well.
After he shuts the door, Tony drops his shoes and jeans into an ungraceful heap. His bangs lie flat but curling halfway down his forehead, probably one of the few times, if not the first, Steve has ever seen them unstyled. "No mixing business and pleasure. Got it," Tony says. He strides to one of the dresser drawers and starts opening each one by one. "Don't suppose you have any pants I could sleep in? Preferably with an elastic waist or drawstrings?"
Steve has to admit, Tony's unstyled look is surprisingly endearing. Maybe it's because it's an unguarded side of himself, one he doesn't let many people see. Whatever the case, Steve's fingers itch to comb through them.
"Top left drawer," he offers. He's got sweatpants and pajama pants, the latter of which are thinner fabric and probably more suitable. Or there are some mesh shorts, if he wants to show off his legs. "You know, I could have private things in there." He doesn't, mostly because he doesn't have a lot in the way of personal belongings, but it's the principle of the thing that matters.
Tony unfolds the pajama pants and holds them in front to gauge the fit: several inches too long, but they won't slip off, at least. "Steve," Tony says with a bored look. He steps into the pants and pulls them up under the towel, which he bunches and tosses aside on top of his jeans. "I had your cock down my throat. Your privacy's already out the window."
"That's not the same as checking my internet history," he protests, more on general principle than the actual contents of his history, which people would find both tame and boring. And Tony probably has, and certainly could if he wanted to. "Or reading my diary." If he had a diary, which he doesn't. (He does have a sketchbook with far too many pictures of Tony, but he doesn't keep that in his underwear drawer.)
"Please. Like you'd have anything incriminating or scandalous, anyway, Captain Boy Scout," Tony says. He approaches the side of the bed, but then just stands there in thought, still, eyes on the covers.
"I had some pamphlets when I was younger!" he insists. "A couple of postcards." Nothing overly scandalous by today's standards, but the little smudged booklets had some smutty stories that he got off to more than once. Steve might be a visual person, but for some reason, words have always worked better for him than pictures or video. Maybe it's because he'd rather imagine the situation in his mind's eye.
"You okay?" He glances up at Tony, a slight furrow in his brow. It's not too late to back out if he wants.
Tony gasps out a small "sure" and lifts his eyes without turning his head. Another hushed moment passes, those guarded dark eyes locked on Steve from their corners. Then, Tony straightens, his shoulders back and chin up: the knowledgeable showman. "So. How do you feel about a crash course in non-sexual BDSM?"
Steve cants his head slightly, studying Tony. "I thought that was tying people up and stuff." Which, hey, if Tony wants to be tied up, Steve can do that, but he's not sure how it'll help him.
He shrugs off the confusion. "I told you earlier I'd do whatever you needed, just as long as you told me about it first. So, yeah, I want you to explain what I'm getting into here." Because, god, he never wants to freak out about accidentally breaking Tony again. He doesn't think Pepper will appreciate it if he has to call her for help.
"Oh, boy. All right," Tony mutters and kneels by the bed, elbows on it as he waggles a finger. "First of all, no. I mean, yes, the B in BDSM stands for bondage, but that's not the point here, okay? The point is, you're the boss. It's domination," he motions to Steve, "and submission," and to himself.
"Should I be taking notes?" he cracks. But it's apparent from the look in his eyes that Steve is paying attention and filing all this away, and that he's determined to do the best job he can for Tony. His posture isn't quite as relaxed as it was a moment ago - it's more intent, more focused.
"Hey!" Tony points at Steve. He's not smiling. "No commentary from the peanut gallery, unless it's legitimate questions. This is serious stuff. Don't take submission, any submission, my submission lightly. I'm putting my full trust in you." On those two words he strains, a tiny tremor. He swallows and curls his hand back. "That's what it is. I go into my head place, called -- um. Subspace. And I'm clay in your hands. I'm free from ... worry. Guilt. Any responsibility, because it all goes on you. You take my ability to make decisions; it's yours. What I can say, what I can do. I don't have to think. I can just--" Cut off, his eyes drift low, a little unfocused, that space calling like a siren's song. Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. "... obey," Tony finishes quietly.
He's not taking Tony's trust lightly - would probably be incapable of taking anyone's full trust lightly, but especially not Tony. Steve reaches out for Tony's hand and wraps his fingers around it, his thumb resting in the hollow of his palm. His gaze is dark and serious, all sign of joking gone. "Stay with me a little longer, then." Because it doesn't take some kind of BDSM expert to tell that Tony's losing it as he talks, that he wants to slip away. And Steve would let him, but he doesn't understand nearly enough yet.
"Tell me what I need to do afterwards." He squeezes Tony's hand. "How to bring you out of it the right way. Anything I shouldn't do while you're in it." Because he's focused on not damaging him - that's Steve's biggest concern, that he'll somehow hurt him through his inexperience, not physically, but emotionally. It's obvious that this is more psychological than physical, and that's a harder place for Steve to go - especially with someone like Tony, whose psyche is strewn with metaphorical landmines.
Tony snaps his head and sucks in air, shaking the comforting image of Pepper away. "Right. Right, sorry." He squeezes back, just once, and keeps his hand there. "Uh. Safewords. People use them to end a scene immediately. Or the traffic light system, probably easier. You can ask me my color. Green is fine, keep going. Yellow, cool your jets. Red, cease and desist. For example, I don't -- I don't wanna be touched. Sexually. If you want a little hanky panky, sure, but don't try to return it. Please. That's a big red. Yellow is, like, feeling up my thighs. Not necessarily a no-fly, but it's bordering on the open war zone. Got it? Good. Um..." He scrubs at his face. His voice has begun to rasp again, all the talk aggravating his throat. He feels like he's just vomiting out the words but there's still so much to explain. "I'll come out of it on my own. Just ... just let me sleep."
"You'll tell me beforehand if you definitely don't want anything sexual, right? Like right now." Since he's just said that, yes, it might happen again. "Because I liked what you were doing earlier, on my lap-" Before he fucked things up. "And, I mean, I don't want to keep you from doing that kind of thing. And I want to know if I can kiss you, or if it's a, uh, scene where you'd rather I didn't." It's a lot to absorb, but Steve's remarkably good at retaining information, thanks to the serum.
"You can email me some links to read tomorrow, okay?" Because he wants to know more, but he also wants to know that he's getting the right information, without Tony having to sit there and spell it all out for him.
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How dare you.
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"Just Steve," he says quietly, awkwardly, like he feels guilty for interrupting Tony's playful seduction (and he does, because nobody's bothered to do this with him before, and he likes it). "Please."
And before he can say anything else stupid, he kisses Tony again, rolls his hips up against him as he holds him down. Kissing is good, he decides, because it keeps his mouth occupied. And speaking of mouths-
"Wanna make you come," he mumbles against Tony's lips. He didn't get to earlier, and turnabout is fair play, right?
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"Later," he says, choked, and jumps to his feet. He stands still for a moment, growing cold, then strides a few steps toward the windows, facing them instead of Steve. God, what is he gonna do? What has he started? He runs a nervous hand through his hair and then harshly clutches the strands at his nape.
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He shakes his head and stares out at the rooftop garden, shoving his hands in his pockets. He wants to see Tony come undone, wants to feel the satisfaction of pleasing him. But he won't push it.
"I'm gonna take a shower. If you still wanna come by later..." Which is stupid, of course he doesn't, but Steve plunges ahead anyway. "I won't do anything you don't want. Platonic, just like I said."
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He turns around and walks out of the office, letting a whoosh of air out of his lungs once the door closes behind him. Christ. All of this is still hard to wrap his head around, and Tony keeps throwing curveballs at him.
The shower Steve takes is cold and long and practically enough to freeze him again, but he needs to get his goddamn libido under control. He doesn't want to get hard again when they're trying to be platonic - and, yeah, it's practically guaranteed to happen anyway, but at least he's trying to have a shred of restraint. He pulls on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers for bed, then heads back out to his room to wait for Tony. If he comes, anyway.
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Forgive me, Pepper, he echoes and turns the way to the living quarters, the lab floor dark and lonely behind him. He detours for a shower and washes off the sweat and grime of manual labor. Towel folded around his waist, jeans slung over his shoulder, A-shirt back on, and sneakers hanging from his fingers, Tony rushes through the hallway of Avenger dorms. He ducks past each open door like a one-night-stand on his walk of shame and only breathes easy at Steve's. There, Tony pauses.
Steve left it open a crack. Tony stares at it. Platonic, he reassures himself and raps softly on the door. "Ca-- uh. Steve? I'm comin' in," he warns but waits for confirmation.
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He idly notices the damp hair, the towel around his waist, and thinks that it's a good thing he showered beforehand. For some reason, a bit of grease and grime - the scent of hot metal and oil and a touch of sweat - makes him even more appealing, not that Tony has to try too hard in that department. Yeah, this platonic thing is going to work out really well.
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"Top left drawer," he offers. He's got sweatpants and pajama pants, the latter of which are thinner fabric and probably more suitable. Or there are some mesh shorts, if he wants to show off his legs. "You know, I could have private things in there." He doesn't, mostly because he doesn't have a lot in the way of personal belongings, but it's the principle of the thing that matters.
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"You okay?" He glances up at Tony, a slight furrow in his brow. It's not too late to back out if he wants.
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He shrugs off the confusion. "I told you earlier I'd do whatever you needed, just as long as you told me about it first. So, yeah, I want you to explain what I'm getting into here." Because, god, he never wants to freak out about accidentally breaking Tony again. He doesn't think Pepper will appreciate it if he has to call her for help.
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"Tell me what I need to do afterwards." He squeezes Tony's hand. "How to bring you out of it the right way. Anything I shouldn't do while you're in it." Because he's focused on not damaging him - that's Steve's biggest concern, that he'll somehow hurt him through his inexperience, not physically, but emotionally. It's obvious that this is more psychological than physical, and that's a harder place for Steve to go - especially with someone like Tony, whose psyche is strewn with metaphorical landmines.
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"You can email me some links to read tomorrow, okay?" Because he wants to know more, but he also wants to know that he's getting the right information, without Tony having to sit there and spell it all out for him.
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