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.
Tony releases the pose with a weak whimper. He flops his arms down, melts at the praise, and flexes his numbed fingers. Feels nothing outside of his body, the cotton beneath his fingertips, the stillness in this bubble of time and space. With his legs lowered, nothing hides the beginning stirs of his cock. He blinks open dazed eyes that trail along the ceiling with the same aimlessness of before. Eventually they land on Steve, where they just watch, subservient and so willing. At the next order Tony slurs, "Yes, sir," and bends his arms and legs again, his obedience effortless.
Of course Steve notices his cock - can't help his own reaction, but once he has Tony settled again, he can at least hide it with the sketchbook on his lap, and the work of drawing consumes him enough that the problem goes away on its own, thank god. He's working on the finer details now, and that requires more attention than before. (He wishes he could sketch Tony naked and aroused - but, then, he might not have enough patience to finish the drawing.)
It takes him another fifteen or twenty minutes until he's satisfied with the sketch. He holds it up to compare to the subject, does a few quick corrections, then sets the sketchbook aside. "Relax, Tony. Well done." He pauses, then adds, "I'm going to rub some of the soreness out of your muscles, okay? Just...color code if I go too far." Not that he has any intention of doing that, but he wants to be extra sure.
His hand prickles and thigh tremble quicker this time, but while it twitches, his cock at least stays deflated. Tony passes the minutes in a haze until Steve's voice again washes over him. His arms uncross, leaden by his head, which falls between them to the pillow. When his eyes open the lashes stick together from almost-sleep and he gazes at Steve through them, utterly suggestible; this is what Tony meant by his full trust. He's so slowed down, existing just to obey and please, that he may allow what his conscious mind would not. So while he nods in answer, the colors swirl around him, nebulous.
Steve stretches out next to him on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. Tony's arms are limp and pliant, and he brings one down to his side, gently massaging the forearm, rubbing feeling back into the skin. He keeps glancing up at his face to try and judge his reaction, but there is none; true to his word, Tony is too far under for anything to reach him. It's weird, like he's been hypnotized.
He has to push himself up and lean over Tony to do the same for the other arm, and he talks just to fill the silence. "Maybe sometime you can do this for me. Not, you know, modeling, but it'd be nice to have a backrub after a long day of training, huh?" Something definitely less platonic, since Steve knows damn well he couldn't survive Tony putting his hands all over him without getting painfully hard. He doesn't really expect an answer from Tony - he can tell he's too far gone to really process what he's saying. He just wants to say something.
Small, voiceless whines grow into relieved sighs. Slowly Tony focuses his eyes on Steve leaning over him -- Steve, Tony's current vanishing point, where everything from without and within converges. Different from his usual laser focus, here the lines blur, easy to rotate and rearrange, so long as Steve is centered to them. "S'nice," Tony breathes out, but whether he's agreeing to the idea or complimenting the arm rub remains unclear.
Once the kinks are worked out of Tony's arms, Steve moves down to his legs, kneading his fingers into his calves, never venturing any higher than his knees. Every move is careful and deliberate, and he can see where it would be nice to lose yourself in something like this, can understand some of the appeal it holds for Tony.
"Anywhere else?" he asks when he's done with both legs. "Or are you ready to sleep?" Tony seems half-asleep already, so he can guess what the answer might be.
He knows he could (finally, blessedly) sleep (without ghosts or nightmares following him), but-- "D'you want me t'sleep?" Tony asks Steve in return. His eyelids droop, then lift, simple to comply.
Steve just nods. "Get under the covers," he tells him. "I'll turn the lights out." Normally it would just be a simple matter of reaching over and switching off his bedside lamp, but he's got the overhead light and a couple other lamps on from his sketching, and he climbs out of bed to putter around the room and turn them off.
He leaves the lamp by his bed for last, and he slides under the covers next to Tony. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, and bends close to kiss his forehead. "I've got you." Steve reaches over and clicks the lamp off, then wraps his arms around Tony and settles in for the night.
The covers pulled up under his arms, Tony lies facing the edge of the bed with his hands tucked near his face. The kiss gently closes his eyes and his lips move, soundless and vague. He squirms back into Steve's embrace, bending himself at the waist. Secured and cared for, Tony sleeps.
Steve buries his nose in the short hairs at the nape of Tony's neck, inhaling the scent of him and marveling at how completely bizarre his night has been. This is the last thing he'd expected when he'd gone to Tony's workshop earlier, but somehow, he feels comfortable like this, even content. It takes him less time than usual to fall asleep, and it's a sound sleep, without any of the usual tossing and turning.
Although he wakes up early, as is normal, he just smiles sleepily and lets himself be dragged back down into slumber. When he wakes again, the sun slants across the bed, illuminating Tony's curled up form. The other man is still pressed against him, and it's then that Steve realizes he has a problem. His erection is nestled right up against Tony's ass, and it's not going away anytime soon.
Tony shifting between sleep cycles probably hasn't helped; he tends to shimmy his hips to either roll forward or back. Now, he sleeps halfway on his back, twisted at the waist. His arm crosses over Steve's at his middle and his legs are still pulled up, which rounds his ass against Steve's problem. Mouth parted, face slack, his eyes lie still beneath the lids.
Steve just lets his head fall back against the pillow and sighs. As much as he'd like to get up and take another cold shower (for an hour or two), Tony has him effectively trapped, and he doesn't want to wake him. God knows the man probably needs every second of restful sleep he can get. So he stubbornly ignores his erection, inhaling through his nose, breathing out through his mouth, trying to relax again.
Tony's bare torso really doesn't help matters. He finds his gaze lingering on the dusting of dark hair just below his navel and sighs again. Why did this seem like such a good idea last night?
Over twenty minutes later, Tony's lungs fill to capacity, diminished as it is, and exhale the air as a groan. Thoughts of Pepper flutter at the edges of his consciousness but they vanish as soon as he opens his eyes. For the first time in months, he feels rested. Balanced. Settled, like everything bad has been scooped out.
A masculine arm circles his waist. Something, also, digs into the crack of his ass. Sleepily Tony covers the arm with his own hand even as his brow furrows. "Steve?" he calls softly, lethargic.
Somehow, Steve's managed to space out, halfway back to dozing off again. He's still aroused, but it's an arousal that's blurred by sleep, almost dreamlike. "Huh?" he responds to Tony, and, unthinking, slowly rolls his hips against him. He's almost aching by now, and the movement brings him back to himself with a sharp shudder.
Right. Yeah. That.
"You doing okay?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep, arousal pitching it a little lower. He's not sure if he wants Tony to let him make his escape or to indulge him.
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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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It takes him another fifteen or twenty minutes until he's satisfied with the sketch. He holds it up to compare to the subject, does a few quick corrections, then sets the sketchbook aside. "Relax, Tony. Well done." He pauses, then adds, "I'm going to rub some of the soreness out of your muscles, okay? Just...color code if I go too far." Not that he has any intention of doing that, but he wants to be extra sure.
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He has to push himself up and lean over Tony to do the same for the other arm, and he talks just to fill the silence. "Maybe sometime you can do this for me. Not, you know, modeling, but it'd be nice to have a backrub after a long day of training, huh?" Something definitely less platonic, since Steve knows damn well he couldn't survive Tony putting his hands all over him without getting painfully hard. He doesn't really expect an answer from Tony - he can tell he's too far gone to really process what he's saying. He just wants to say something.
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"Anywhere else?" he asks when he's done with both legs. "Or are you ready to sleep?" Tony seems half-asleep already, so he can guess what the answer might be.
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He leaves the lamp by his bed for last, and he slides under the covers next to Tony. "Go to sleep," he murmurs, and bends close to kiss his forehead. "I've got you." Steve reaches over and clicks the lamp off, then wraps his arms around Tony and settles in for the night.
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Although he wakes up early, as is normal, he just smiles sleepily and lets himself be dragged back down into slumber. When he wakes again, the sun slants across the bed, illuminating Tony's curled up form. The other man is still pressed against him, and it's then that Steve realizes he has a problem. His erection is nestled right up against Tony's ass, and it's not going away anytime soon.
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Tony's bare torso really doesn't help matters. He finds his gaze lingering on the dusting of dark hair just below his navel and sighs again. Why did this seem like such a good idea last night?
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A masculine arm circles his waist. Something, also, digs into the crack of his ass. Sleepily Tony covers the arm with his own hand even as his brow furrows. "Steve?" he calls softly, lethargic.
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Right. Yeah. That.
"You doing okay?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep, arousal pitching it a little lower. He's not sure if he wants Tony to let him make his escape or to indulge him.
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