"Shit," Steve groans once the door clicks shut, audibly this time. "Oh, god, I gotta lock the door next time." He scoots the chair back a little to give Tony more room, runs his hand through his hair in a brief caress.
"Deeper," he orders finally. "Let me fuck your mouth." Steve spreads his legs wider, as wide as he can manage under the desk, bracing his feet flat on the floor.
His lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, Tony straightens his head out and pushes it forward on command. Steve's cock tickles the back of his throat and a pitched whimper vibrates through, stomach heaving. He battles the gag reflex down and spreads his knees, bracing himself, lurched forward with his hands still locked at his back, like he's ravenous for Steve's prick; like it's all he ever wants. Steve will slide wet and easy from the saliva gathered at the corners of Tony's mouth, his lips wrapped around Steve in vice and covering his teeth. Those thin lips will conform to every bump and ridge and vein, every slick pop in and out of Steve's thrusts, head slightly bobbing from the force despite his efforts to hold still, until they swell and his cheeks ache.
"Yeah," he breathes, though it's more than half a moan. "That's it." His cock slides down Tony's throat till he can't take any more, till Tony's nose brushes coarse hair. Steve gives him a moment to adjust to the intrusion before he starts rolling his hips forward. It takes a few thrusts to get the trick of it; it's not quite the same angle as when he'd been standing. It feels different on his dick, the pressure in slightly different spots than before.
Steve lets his chin drop to look at Tony - what little he can see of him. There's something about the way he looks, utterly debauched, cheeks hollowed around him, drool in his beard and all, that turns him on more than anything else. "Bob your head," Steve tells him, and it's a little harder to force the words out. The hand that isn't in Tony's hair grips the armrest, white-knuckled.
Tony complies in short little jerks and bursts, crackling gasps scraping by Steve's cock. He stutters, moving only by his neck, before he settles into the pace and mirrors Steve's thrust so that he pulls back as Steve pulls back and they meet again together. Steve's pelvis smashes Tony's nose, ragged breaths whistling in one nostril; and Tony sinks and sinks more each time and then he's gone. He's floating. He's light-headed. Black spots dance at the edge of his consciousness and he doesn't care. He welcomes them.
In his jeans, the hard line of Tony's cock juts out, stretching to his hip, like a steel rod carelessly shoved down their front. Tony barely feels it, or much of anything.
Steve tenses suddenly, then holds Tony's head still with the grip he has on his hair, tugging roughly at the strands. He bucks erratically into his mouth, fast and hard and then his climax sweeps over him in a rush and he's seeing stars as he shoots down Tony's throat. His knees hit the desk, but he doesn't care; he's focused only on his pleasure at the moment.
And then it passes, and he sags limply in his chair. "Stop," he remembers to gasp out as he catches his breath. He slowly pries his fingers free, and a few strands of dark hair come with them.
Something resembling a moan gargles out in serrated pieces during Steve's orgasm. Woozy, Tony wobbles on his knees as he's freed and he lulls his head and eyes back, wrecked voice shuddering as he tries to swallow. Some excess spit and semen lodges in his throat and he chokes and gargles until painfully the blockage falls. He slumps forward then, body bowed, wheezing, too breathless to even cough, scalp throbbing, with his hands obediently held back. Slowly, he brings his eyes up to Steve. His jaw hangs loose enough for a finger to slip in and a tear track already dried and sticky streaks down one side of his face, which holds nothing but reverence.
Steve basks in the post-orgasmic glow for a minute, but then he remembers about the whole aftercare thing. Tony's still under, still pliant and dependent on him, and he can't just leave him hiding under his desk. He pushes the chair back from the desk with his feet. "C'mon out from there," he coaxes Tony gently. "Stand up." He's discovering that he needs to be literal with his orders, because Tony will only do exactly what he's told - no more, no less.
While he's waiting for Tony to obey, Steve puts everything back in order and then stands up himself, reaching for the bottle of water he's got sitting on the corner of his desk.
With a relieved, quiet groan, Tony crawls out on all fours. He staggers once, but stands as told, which fully reveals his state: dreamy face, ruined mouth, trapped erection, and all. "Was I good?" he rasps.
Steve's gaze flicks to the erection, but he doesn't say anything about it, doesn't try to do anything. Instead, he closes the distance between them and kisses Tony on the lips, lingering, reassuring.
"You were fantastic," he murmurs. He drapes an arm around Tony's shoulders and leads him to the couch, tugs him down onto the cushions. Pulling the blanket off the back, he wraps it around both of them, arranges Tony so he fits into the curve of his body. "I love it when you suck me off, Tony." Steve uncaps the bottle of water and holds it up to Tony's lips, tilting it so the water laps against his skin. "Drink."
As he's led and on the couch, Tony presses close, unconsciously seeking the contact and nuzzling Steve's shoulder. He shifts his hips on the cushions with a low, uncomfortable whine but sinks into the warmth and rolls his head along that broad shoulder to watch Steve, doe-eyed. The water he accepts readily. He swallows with difficulty, whimpering (some of it trickles into his beard), until the water glides soothingly down and he melts into Steve's care.
Steve smiles as Tony drinks the water (who doesn't need aftercare now, Tony?) and once he's had enough, he caps the bottle. He can just reach the minifridge if he leans over slightly, and he opens the door and takes a small container of grapes out. Maybe he's stashed them in there for this particular situation, or maybe it's just one of the snacks he keeps around. They've already been taken off the vine, and it's easy to pluck one out and place it against Tony's lips. "Eat," he tells him.
Tony already has his head tilted back, eyes closed, and mouth opened by the time Steve places the grape. He pulls it in with his teeth and lingers his lips around Steve's fingertips, which will slide easily out; he doesn't pull back himself, messily suckling on Steve's fingers just as much as on the juice that squirts across his tongue. Once Steve draws his hand away, Tony chews properly, swallows, and blinks the slow blink of the contented. He'll repeat this each time.
The way Tony sucks on his fingers is incredibly distracting, and Steve can't help but compare it to the way he'd just sucked his cock. (It's almost like Tony has some kind of oral fixation or something.) Tony seems content to just lie back and let himself be fed without showing any signs of coming back up from his self-induced trance. Eventually, Steve sets the container aside and settles back against the couch. Maybe he really does just come out of it when he sleeps; it seemed to work well enough before. If that's the case, Steve'll just stay right here till he dozes off.
Tony settles the same, but into Steve, his limbs loose and his heart expanded to full in his chest. Slowly his body crawls back from the natural high, but like before, his mind refuses to follow. After a time he squirms at the hips, all the little aches and pains returning from the fog. He's hard. It hurts. Mind still gone, any fear or guilt gets displaced far away from him. Still leaned into Steve's side, legs splayed out, Tony calls, voice feather-soft, "Steve?"
"Mmhm?" Steve's half-dozing himself thanks to the combination of post-orgasmic bliss and the warmth of Tony's body next to him. He rarely gets to relax and just let his guard down like this, and it's nice. Almost domestic, if domestic were a word that could ever be used to apply to a situation like this. (It isn't.) "Everything okay?"
Tony's face cracks. Wrong, something keens inside of him, and aching, he writhes in his body, turned into Steve, mouthing at his shirt. "M'hard," he slurs into the fabric. His thoughts screech with static.
Yeah, I know, Steve thinks. His arm encircles Tony's shoulders, holds him close, but he panics a little internally. Tony doesn't want him to touch him; he's made that very clear repeatedly. And just because he's in an altered state of mind doesn't mean that Steve can take advantage of it, no matter what Tony says or does. He's not totally sure Tony's capable of changing his opinion on consent right now, and he's still stuck in the mindset of taking orders.
"What do you want?" he asks anyway, stalling for time more than anything else.
Whining, Tony twists his upper body into Steve's side, arms tucked up, trying to hide; to find shelter. His legs spread wide, his feet slip across the carpet, and he gyrates his hips on the couch, growing desperate. All he can think is Steve and fix it, fix it, fix me. "I don' know. I don' know. Please..." he begs.
His cock twitches again at the sound of Tony begging, and Steve can feel his resolve melting away. He kisses Tony again, plunging his tongue into his mouth, his own frustration evident. But when he pulls away, he thinks he has a plan. Maybe.
"Tony, I'm gonna step out for a minute, okay? And when I'm gone, I want you to jerk off until you come. Is that all right?" He knows Tony's not good with questions in this state - hell, he hopes the orders aren't too complicated - but he just wants some kind of verification.
Tony groans long and hard around Steve's tongue, eager in meeting it, and he nods dazedly, gratefully, at the instructions, hips stilling save for involuntary twitches. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."
Steve's hand lingers on Tony's cheek, but he eventually pulls it away to stand up. "You did a good job. You deserve to be rewarded." He smiles down at Tony and hopes his expression doesn't betray any of the uncertainty he feels, hopes that he's doing the right thing. He crosses over to the desk and grabs his phone - at least he can find something to keep him occupied, even if it's just frantically googling for advice - then walks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him. Steve leans against the wall, still uncertain about leaving Tony alone like this, but he seems coherent enough right now that he thinks he'll be all right.
Only a few seconds later, a gasping, shuddering moan batters against the closed door from the inside. It tapers off into quiet, only to be replaced by breathy sighs.
Well, now Steve's hard again - not that it usually takes much to get him there, but hearing Tony moan like that? There's no way he could hear it and not be aroused. He just hopes nobody walks by and asks what's going on in his office (and why he's out in the hall). Steve tugs at the hem of his shirt, trying (and failing) to hide the obvious bulge in his jeans. It's fine, this is fine, surely people have other places to be right now.
The sighs, punctuated by soft grunts, continue for over a minute. A heavy pause later, a familiar, slick, repetitive sound grows faster and louder mixed with pants and gasps. It finishes with a shivering shout.
When Steve reenters the office, he'll find Tony slouched and boneless on the couch, his legs spread far out in front. The blanket has bundled up behind his neck, still wrapped around one side of his body, from him slipping down. His dick hangs limp and exposed from his jeans fly, the briefs' waistband shoved underneath, and spots of semen decorate one of his inner thighs with his right hand and fingers streaked in it. Lethargic and unfocused, Tony opens his eyes.
Steve's gaze lingers on Tony's crotch when he comes back in; it might be rude, but he can't help it. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he looks away again as he goes to fetch a box of tissues from his desk.
When he sits down again, he picks up Tony's wrist and gently wipes his hand clean. The process takes a couple of tissues, and he lets them fall to the floor; he'll pick them up later. "Maybe I should start keeping wet wipes in here," he jokes, more to have something to say than anything else. He doesn't drop Tony's hand immediately, but holds it for a moment, his fingers running over the skin.
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"Deeper," he orders finally. "Let me fuck your mouth." Steve spreads his legs wider, as wide as he can manage under the desk, bracing his feet flat on the floor.
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Steve lets his chin drop to look at Tony - what little he can see of him. There's something about the way he looks, utterly debauched, cheeks hollowed around him, drool in his beard and all, that turns him on more than anything else. "Bob your head," Steve tells him, and it's a little harder to force the words out. The hand that isn't in Tony's hair grips the armrest, white-knuckled.
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In his jeans, the hard line of Tony's cock juts out, stretching to his hip, like a steel rod carelessly shoved down their front. Tony barely feels it, or much of anything.
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And then it passes, and he sags limply in his chair. "Stop," he remembers to gasp out as he catches his breath. He slowly pries his fingers free, and a few strands of dark hair come with them.
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While he's waiting for Tony to obey, Steve puts everything back in order and then stands up himself, reaching for the bottle of water he's got sitting on the corner of his desk.
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"You were fantastic," he murmurs. He drapes an arm around Tony's shoulders and leads him to the couch, tugs him down onto the cushions. Pulling the blanket off the back, he wraps it around both of them, arranges Tony so he fits into the curve of his body. "I love it when you suck me off, Tony." Steve uncaps the bottle of water and holds it up to Tony's lips, tilting it so the water laps against his skin. "Drink."
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"What do you want?" he asks anyway, stalling for time more than anything else.
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"Tony, I'm gonna step out for a minute, okay? And when I'm gone, I want you to jerk off until you come. Is that all right?" He knows Tony's not good with questions in this state - hell, he hopes the orders aren't too complicated - but he just wants some kind of verification.
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When Steve reenters the office, he'll find Tony slouched and boneless on the couch, his legs spread far out in front. The blanket has bundled up behind his neck, still wrapped around one side of his body, from him slipping down. His dick hangs limp and exposed from his jeans fly, the briefs' waistband shoved underneath, and spots of semen decorate one of his inner thighs with his right hand and fingers streaked in it. Lethargic and unfocused, Tony opens his eyes.
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When he sits down again, he picks up Tony's wrist and gently wipes his hand clean. The process takes a couple of tissues, and he lets them fall to the floor; he'll pick them up later. "Maybe I should start keeping wet wipes in here," he jokes, more to have something to say than anything else. He doesn't drop Tony's hand immediately, but holds it for a moment, his fingers running over the skin.
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