"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.
"Okay," Tony whispers, voice tiny. He shuts his eyes and sways a little on his knees. His thoughts wind down already. For two months he's shouldered all this burden, alone and lonely, and his body quivers with the desire to release it. Something tethers him still, though; maybe it's Steve, and his own need to always prove himself to the Captain, but Tony can't think of anyone safe who would do this for him now. And he's addicted. "Can we start?" he pleads.
Steve nods, although he's not entirely sure he's ready. This should be easy enough, though, right? He has the beginning of an idea in his head already - thanks, Tony. One corner of his lips quirks up into a smile.
"Take your shirt off, then get up on the bed," he tells Tony. He releases his hand after one last squeeze, then moves over on the bed, leaving plenty of room for him. In fact, he slips off the other side completely and stands at the foot of the bed to watch him for a moment.
The coiled tension Tony carries with him everywhere, always ready to be on the defensive or to attack if provoked, visibly melts from him. His head droops looser and a grateful whimper escapes. In his mind's eye Pepper's form blurs, still prominent, and Steve edges into the frame, Tony's thoughts refocusing onto him like a camera. A bit clumsy, disjointed, Tony removes his shirt and crawls up.
On the bed he sits there, legs folded beneath himself and knees splayed, shoulders rounded. Bits of belly fat fold from slouching and he holds his head down. A pale circular scar marks his chest.
Steve hums thoughtfully as he studies Tony. "On your back," he decides finally. "Rest your head on a pillow, and cross your arms behind your head." He doesn't wait to see if Tony obeys - knows that he will - and instead busies himself with the lamps around the room. Once he has them arranged to his satisfaction, he drags a chair over to the side of the bed and sits down with his sketchbook and a few different pencils. With his sketchbook propped on a folded leg, he glances up at Tony to make sure he's holding the pose.
"Spread your legs a little more," he decides. "A slight bend at the knee-" He reaches out to demonstrate with the closer leg, and while his fingers linger just behind the knee, he shows no inclination to touch anywhere else.
The physicality overtakes him piece by piece. Instead of death tolls Tony hears the thud of his pulse through his arms and into his skull. Crossing them there instead of at the hands or wrists defines his triceps, and beneath them the armpits are trimmed and torso waxed hair-free with just a sculpted trail below his protruding naval. Instead of a pervasive hurt, Tony feels his body stretched out, ribs lifting high and slow. When Steve adjusts his legs Tony lays both feet on the covers. His thigh muscles harden to fight gravity. He breathes out his autonomy and all the mistakes that came from it. Instead, he savors every little strain, dictated by someone safe, throughout his being. Before he sinks too far, Tony whispers a barely-there "thank you," easy to miss.
There's a soft smile in response, a lingering caress on his calf, and Steve sits back in his chair and starts to sketch. A few quick warm-ups on a corner of an already-used page - the shape of the pose, drawn out until he think he has it down - and then he flips to a clean page to start roughing out the sketch itself.
While Steve doesn't fall into subspace the way Tony does, the act of drawing is soothing, meditative. The only sound in the room comes from the scratch of graphite against paper. Sometimes he'll smudge a bit with a finger, sometimes he'll use a kneaded eraser to remove a stray line here or there. He's drawn Tony from memory so many times that it seems strange to have the real thing in front of him, laid out in a pose.
As the minutes pass and the tiny strains begin to mount from holding the same pose, Tony begins to fall away. He becomes not Tony Stark, ex-Avenger, mass murderer, but rather a collection of limbs for Steve's use. His brain, with all its creations and obligations and doubts, fades to a serene white. He loses his sense of time, absorbed by the growing aches; the desire to just be good. The underside of his arm, where his head lies against it, itches from the buzzed hairs. The fingers of that arm start tingling, the blood flow restricted from being wedged in. Slightly raised, supported only by his thigh muscles, his knees wobble. Past the thirty-minute mark, against his (against Steve's) will, one of Tony's feet slips an inch.
He's not so absorbed in his work that he doesn't miss Tony's foot moving. Ordinarily, he might ignore it, but he has the feeling he's supposed to keep Tony in line.
"Drop the pose," he says quietly. "You're doing a good job, Tony." Steve takes the opportunity to massage the cramps from his own fingers, to stretch aching wrist muscles. He'd rub Tony's muscles for a moment, but he isn't sure how it fits in with his role.
He gives him a few minutes of rest, and then - "Back in the pose." He waits for Tony to find it again, and then makes a few minor corrections, positioning him more carefully than he ordinarily would.
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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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"Take your shirt off, then get up on the bed," he tells Tony. He releases his hand after one last squeeze, then moves over on the bed, leaving plenty of room for him. In fact, he slips off the other side completely and stands at the foot of the bed to watch him for a moment.
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On the bed he sits there, legs folded beneath himself and knees splayed, shoulders rounded. Bits of belly fat fold from slouching and he holds his head down. A pale circular scar marks his chest.
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"Spread your legs a little more," he decides. "A slight bend at the knee-" He reaches out to demonstrate with the closer leg, and while his fingers linger just behind the knee, he shows no inclination to touch anywhere else.
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While Steve doesn't fall into subspace the way Tony does, the act of drawing is soothing, meditative. The only sound in the room comes from the scratch of graphite against paper. Sometimes he'll smudge a bit with a finger, sometimes he'll use a kneaded eraser to remove a stray line here or there. He's drawn Tony from memory so many times that it seems strange to have the real thing in front of him, laid out in a pose.
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"Drop the pose," he says quietly. "You're doing a good job, Tony." Steve takes the opportunity to massage the cramps from his own fingers, to stretch aching wrist muscles. He'd rub Tony's muscles for a moment, but he isn't sure how it fits in with his role.
He gives him a few minutes of rest, and then - "Back in the pose." He waits for Tony to find it again, and then makes a few minor corrections, positioning him more carefully than he ordinarily would.
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