"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.
The post-orgasmic peace gets tainted by a weighted guilt as the hormonal rush drains from Tony's system. It leaves him feeling cold and alone. He stares uncomprehendingly at his own hand in Steve's. He's been in this situation before, he knows; not with Steve, but another. Pepper. He thought of her for the first time during this scene as he touched himself. How could he forget? They started out like this, he and Pepper, bumping into this dynamic unknowingly then Pepper doing all the hard work (as usual) while Tony reaped the benefits (that's not true, he hears in her voice, you struggled with it, too, but the guilt and his own unraveling mind veils it). Tony knows the difference between the two: Steve is just a friend. Pepper was his world. Differing variables, differing results.
But the emptiness of the office after Steve exited, after that buffer between Tony's self and his diseased head faded, consumed him. The serene plains have turned into a black chasm, and now he's plummeting. He can't stop.
"What?" Steve looks confused at the sudden turn the conversation's taken. With his free hand, he pulls up the edge of the blanket and scoots back under it so that he's leaning against Tony again, supporting him, then tugs the bottom of it down so that he's covered up again. "No, I'm gonna stay right here with you for as long as you want." Obviously he doesn't comprehend what Tony's asking, why he's asking it.
Liar, his broken heart accuses, already knowing the answer. You think that now, but Tony knows better. Even this much is more than he deserves, and sooner or later, just like Pepper and the original team, Steve will see that. With a haunted stare at nothing, Tony lowers his forehead onto Steve's shoulder, demons growling, ravenous in his psyche. They spew hatred and insults; they chide him for being pathetic, for taking advantage of Steve, for needing this. He's dropping, he knows on some level -- a subdrop. As his body crashes he shivers. "Okay," he croaks out.
"Shhh," Steve coaxes. "It's okay, you'll be all right." He rests his chin on top of Tony's head. Not knowing what to do or say, he just holds Tony against him tightly, trying to keep him warm - and, to be fair, he does a better job than most people of giving off plenty of body heat. It's a little stuffy under the blanket, but Steve can live with heat; it's the cold that bothers him. Sometimes his bones seem to radiate it, but he knows it's only his memory playing tricks on him.
The comfort makes Tony ache. He wants for his mother's embrace, her guidance, that childish desire unburied. Nothing has been okay and it probably won't ever be all right, but he hides in Steve, anyway, and pretends. The furnace Steve's body heat creates under the blanket cradles him. Bit by bit, the shivers calm.
By the time Tony's shivers stop, Steve's taken to stroking down his spine, like you might pet a cat curled up in your lap. The repetitive motion soothes even him, the heat trapped inside the blanket makes him sleepy, and he finds himself zoning out again. Eventually, his hand slows, then stills as he dozes off, his head still pillowed against Tony's.
Tony almost nudges his head up into Steve's chin when he feels him doze off, but after a pause he accepts it instead. The brush of the blanket's cotton, the sweat on the back of his neck, Steve's heartbeat -- these things he lets envelop him instead of all his responsibilities, which he'll attend to doggedly, just ... later. His Atlas impression can wait until later.
When Steve wakes up (before which Tony tucked himself away again), Tony cracks a joke about Steve using him as furniture in lieu of a bed. He pulls away first, in full control of his faculties, and stretches. Ordering his mental To-Do list, he thanks Steve with aplomb and drops his eyes before he haltingly adds on that Steve did a good job. Then he takes in a breath and opens his mouth like he means to say something more, but cuts himself off.
Steve offers his bed for the night, just for sleeping, and Tony stares at him. He declines with a crack in his voice that he fixes immediately and escapes with the excuse that he has work at home.
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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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But the emptiness of the office after Steve exited, after that buffer between Tony's self and his diseased head faded, consumed him. The serene plains have turned into a black chasm, and now he's plummeting. He can't stop.
"Are you gon' leave, too?"
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When Steve wakes up (before which Tony tucked himself away again), Tony cracks a joke about Steve using him as furniture in lieu of a bed. He pulls away first, in full control of his faculties, and stretches. Ordering his mental To-Do list, he thanks Steve with aplomb and drops his eyes before he haltingly adds on that Steve did a good job. Then he takes in a breath and opens his mouth like he means to say something more, but cuts himself off.
Steve offers his bed for the night, just for sleeping, and Tony stares at him. He declines with a crack in his voice that he fixes immediately and escapes with the excuse that he has work at home.