Sitting in bed, the blue BDSM collar that Steve gifted him a couple weeks back loose in one hand, Tony stares at his lit phone. It's far past most sane people's bedtime, but as evidenced by extensive research on psychological trauma and its physiological effect on the human brain he's begun conducting (personal project), he's not exactly sane. Most sane people don't accidentally create a genocidal robot because they got spooked, either. Tony grips the collar tighter. The silver buckle digs hard into his palm and banishes the worst of the thoughts. Wearing the collar has served as a reminder, for the most part, like tying a string around his finger to not forget: he's with Steve now (not Pepper, not Pepper, despite his heart seeking her on automatic for comfort). He buckled it on one night after failing to sleep and woke up with red imprints from the buckle on the back of his neck, but he'd fallen asleep. He'd slept. After that, whenever he has trouble, Tony fastens it on and sleeps on his side with a pillow wedged between his neck and shoulder to cushion it -- his preferred position, anyway. It calms him, having something tangible.
He misses Steve. He admits it. Over a week has passed since he could last see or speak with Steve outside of a professional capacity, but he can't out of the blue and in the dead of the night just call, can he? What would he even say? Thinking of you, wish you were here? Ugh. Too sappy. They're no where near that level yet. Really, the safest bet is sex and jokes.
So Tony sends Steve an image via text: a selfie of him wearing the blue collar, just of his neck, the O-ring resting in the hollow of his throat. Only the edges of his shirt, the tip of his raised, bearded chin, and the background of shiny silk sheets are otherwise visible. I wear it to go to sleep sometimes. Lil factoid to keep you company on those lonely nights, reads the accompanying text.
Steve tries to give Tony space, he really does. He doesn't want to be the clingy boyfriend, no matter how undeniably clingy he is. He doesn't want Tony to think he's needy. Besides, backing off has worked so far, so as much as he might want to try otherwise, he leaves Tony alone, apart from the odd text, usually couched in a business question.
The selfie of Tony wearing his collar is the last thing Steve expects to get, but he can't deny the very physical reaction it gets from him. He thinks back to when he'd given it to Tony, when he'd straddled his abdomen and jerked off on his chest, come glistening everywhere, Tony blissed out and completely in tune with him. It's definitely a memory he's savored more than once, and he wonders if Tony feels the same way.
But Steve, being Steve, doesn't immediately go down the innuendo route, unlike any other person. Does it help you sleep? he asks instead.
Startled out of that same memory, Tony peers at his phone, the only thing lit in his bedroom. His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Well it's not the most comfortable accessory in the world but, unknown to Steve, here Tony falters, hesitating, yeah. It does. He surprises himself. Originally he wore it to chastise himself for thinking of Pepper first, or so he told himself. Another pause, nothing sent, the blinking dots on Steve's end the only indication. Tony thinks about adding on something about Sleeping Beauty syndrome to lessen the sentimentality, which is stupid, because Steve's seen him at his lowest point and his most vulnerable. Admitting this should be nothing. What is he so afraid of? (The answer: these days, nearly everything.)
Steve won't hurt you.
Before he can reconsider, Tony taps the send button and the new bubble pops up in their conversation. He feels breathless, the collar suddenly too tight and too thick around his throat.
Good, Steve types and sends, then pauses. I wish I could be there with you, and he erases that before he hits send. Same for I wish you were here with me and What are you wearing? (he can tell what Tony's wearing from the picture and he knows he'll make fun of him if he asks).
It looks good on you, and he deletes again. Steve reaches over and turns the bedside lamp on, sits up and scoots in so he's in the puddle of low light. The picture he sends Tony might be a little grainy, but the fact that he's hard is undeniable; it's a close-up of his waist and upper thighs, the bulge of his erection straining at the cotton fabric of his pants.
Tony swallows, the smooth leather caressing his jugular. His own dick perks up, interested. Now this is familiar grounds. How long it'd take you to stop blushing to send that? Very photogenic btw.
Oh, I don't need to be there physically to help. I'm creative like that. After a pause Tony shifts onto his back, splays his legs open, and fondles himself through his sleep pants with a sigh, the covers shoved past his knees. He remembers to finish the message and send, Is your door closed and locked?
No, Steve wants to say, I'm taking pictures of my dick with the door wide open so anyone walking by can see. But he holds back on the snark, because this is going exactly where he hopes (and fears) it's going, and he doesn't want to derail it.
I know you don't need to be here, but that doesn't stop me from wanting your hot little lips wrapped around my huge, throbbing member.
...does anyone actually call it a member? Oh, god, Steve's ears are red again.
As Tony reads along, his mouth pulls back more and more in a grin with just a hint of teeth -- the smile that Steve has missed with its lifted cheeks and shining eyes, a smile that's reemerged in the past couple weeks once or twice before. All right, you human disaster, just call me. ;) You can tell me how to touch myself.
Steve just rolls his eyes at the text, although a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He's a little embarrassed, but Tony seems to be taking it well, or at least as well as he deals with all of his lack of experience. He taps the screen to call Tony, then puts it on speaker; he's probably going to want his hands free for this.
"Bold of you to think I'll be any better at doing this out loud," he says dryly once Tony picks up, forgoing any sort of greeting. "Or maybe just optimistic, I'm not sure which." Although it's a lot like a scene, just without Tony actually there. And it's the immediacy of Tony's presence that drives him forward when they're together, that specific posture Tony adopts when he's under and waiting for Steve's orders. It's so easy to picture in his mind, and he holds the image there for a moment, trying to summon up the feeling of dominating him.
"First I want you to take off the rest of your clothes and take a picture of yourself for me. Make sure you're hard, and that the picture shows your cock and the collar." Steve's voice drops down into that particular tone, the one he knows Tony will react to. Maybe that's why he wanted to do this over the phone.
"You got less time to overthink this way. You always trip yourself up," Tony explains with some background noise, mainly rustling, also on speaker. He quiets to hear Steve speak, though, and ends it with a little moan. (Okay, it might be the voice.) After more rustling and sighing, the phone jostles, like something brushed directly against the mic. The texted picture soon follows Tony, breathy, saying, "Best I could manage without a selfie stick." It's revealed as a top-down view of Tony's naked body slouched against a wooden headboard, head tilted far back to show off the collar, only his chin again in view. Past the angled view of his waxed torso and tiny dusky nipples, Tony's cock, a hand loosely gripping it at the base, stands at attention, nearly pointing right at the camera.
He's right, of course; Steve knows that he overthinks because he's nervous and awkward (see: his earlier attempt at sexting). At least he's lucky in that Tony is remarkably patient with him. (It fails to occur to Steve that it's because Tony is attracted to him and, therefore, very much invested in all of this.)
Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the picture, shoves a hand under his waistband to rub his cock through his underwear. The phone is close enough that it picks up a few moments of shuddering breaths before Steve forces himself to focus enough to speak again. "You jerk off since the last time we were together?" he asks.
Tony's eyes flutter shut. He grips his cock, but he doesn't stroke it or even squeeze, the only thing stopping him being loyalty. If he were a decade younger abstaining might've posed more of a problem, but his libido has aged with him. He's found things (people) more fulfilling and important. "Nope. M'all yours, big guy," Tony mutters.
"Good," Steve says quietly, almost shyly. They've both agreed that a D/s lifestyle isn't what they want at all, but at the same time, he finds the thought of Tony's pleasure belonging only to him exhilarating. "You- do you think you can do that, darling? Save your orgasms for me?" He's not sure if this is the right time to ask, how clear Tony's mind is, but he'll mention it again later to gauge his interest. He knows he couldn't promise the same, but he has the serum to thank for what's apparently a permanent teenager's libido. He thumbs the head of his cock, shivering pleasantly at the sensation.
The endearment hits Tony somewhere deep and low, warmth spreading in his gut, but the question itself jolts him down to his toes. Mind already soft and pliable, he readily answers in a small voice, "Y-yeah. Yes. I, uh... I can do that," while the conscious part, the part still full of self-preservation, worries at the implications.
That's the voice Steve's used to hearing, and he knows he's succeeded into getting him at least partway into subspace. It sends a thrill down his spine, being able to do it at a distance, even if part of him worries about what'll happen afterwards. But right now, his own arousal is making its need known, and Steve tugs pants and underwear down around his knees, freeing his erection from the confines of cloth.
"I know you can," Steve says softly, gently. "You're so good, Tony. I want you to stroke yourself, nice and slow. Imagine I'm there watching you get yourself off. I wanna do that sometime, just sit there and watch you." He squeezes himself on the upstroke and lets a quiet groan slip free. "You're gorgeous. Touch your nipples with your other hand. Rub 'em till they're nice and hard, okay?"
Steve's gentle tone appeases any worry for now. Settled into an in-between state, mind slowed but not stopped, Tony shoves all else aside but physical sensation and Steve's voice. At his first slow, full stroke, abiding to Steve's instructions, he thunks his head back against the headboard and groans, which he exaggerates, painting the picture for Steve through noise: Tony slouched back, naked but collared, legs splayed open. He notes to bring up voyeurism in detail later, too. "Okay," he confirms, raspy, and rolls one nipple between his fingers. Behind his closed eyelids, the image of Steve forms as prompted. Steve sits in a far chair, hungering and muttering awed compliments; or he patrols the bed like a general assessing his troop. Tony slips down flat onto the bed with a keen, no exaggeration needed.
"Yeah," Steve murmurs under his breath, stroking himself in time with the mental image of Tony, forcing himself to keep his pace slow. He doesn't know what to say, can't quite focus on it enough, but at least that means he's not overthinking things, either. "You hard enough to be leaking yet?" He is, but that doesn't mean Tony's the same way. "I want you to get some on the pad of your thumb, smear it over your bottom lip so you can taste it. Imagine me kissing you and licking it off slowly."
After tweaking his nipples into nubs, Tony moves that hand down to his balls and perineum. He needs to work himself up more to follow those orders, so he caresses his sack and ghosts his fingertips along the fine hairs behind it, but the image of Steve moves across and over him and prompts another: Steve inside him. Tony gasps. "Wait. J-just a sec. M'trying. Wait, wait, please. Steve?" He needs to be leaking to fulfill that. It takes him longer. He can't fail.
"Shh," Steve soothes him, "take your time." He really needs to remember that not everyone has his libido, and that Tony will do everything he possibly can to obey his orders. "I can wait, sweetheart. I know you can do it, that you can get hard and aching for me." Talking like this still sounds awkward to his ears, and he's privately glad Tony isn't here to see how much he's blushing. But he's also working himself over while he talks, and the arousal takes some of the nervous edge off.
"Nnh, I can. I can," Tony mumbles. In lieu of Steve's physical presence, the collar anchors Tony down just enough. It and his cock become focal points of heat, deep red in his mind. Stroking still (nice and slow, like Steve said) with his hand, he fondles himself with the other, rubbing his sack and brushing one finger down, back, until it touches the rim of his hole. "Steve?" he groans, though his voice quivers with a little fear. He's never had a guy that way, and especially not anything as big as Steve, but he wants to try it, he wants to feel Steve inside -- or so his halfway-under brain thinks.
"Yeah?" He can hear the question in Tony's voice, but he can't figure out what he's asking with that tone. "You need to go faster?" Steve tries to sound gentler, softer. Tony wants to do everything he can to please him, and Steve needs him to know that he's good enough, that he doesn't need to worry about failure. He doesn't want to accidentally do something wrong and break him entirely, to ruin the trust he's carefully placed in his hands.
"No, uh, I was jus' ... thinking 'bout next time." Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter and calls upon the necessary words through the fog. "You wanna watch me, right? That's voyeurism, by the way, and that's good, 'cause I like putting on a show, but I was thinking you can watch me finger myself open?" With the way he's under, that comes out less seductive and more suggestive. "So you could, uh..." Tony shudders, torn between considering his words and the approaching orgasm, finally leaking precum. He tightens his hand and rubs along his rim. The next words he moans out, voice small, swiping his thumb across his cockhead and losing himself to the moment and begging, "Fuck me, please?"
"Shit," Steve swears emphatically; the thought of just being in Tony, feeling him hot and tight around him, makes all his muscles tense as arousal surges through him. The sound of skin moving quickly against skin is just barely loud enough for the phone to pick up, and then there's an audible moan, long and obscene. It's followed by what would be silence, except for the sound of Steve breathing heavily.
He's thought of having sex - hell, he's thought about it since the first time Tony went down on him. But he hasn't pressed the issue at all because it makes him nervous, because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing - even more so than usual - and he doesn't know if Tony can stay with it enough to talk him through it (and of course he's assuming that Tony has experience, because he's Tony). He knows how it works in theory, but the practice makes him worry.
"I'd love to," he pants. "Wanna- wanna feel you come with me inside you, Tony." Steve keeps stroking his spent cock, though it's slow and lazy, and even that much stimulation makes him shiver. "Want you to come for me."
Briefly releasing his cock, Tony smears the precum across his lower lip, which he draws in with his teeth, tasting it, his imagination a wonderful boon: Steve kissing him, fucking him, Steve's moan influencing the fantasy. Tony returns to stroking with breathy "yeah"s and then, at Steve's last order, he dips deeper into subspace, just until he comes, till he feels it in his mind as much as in his crotch. "Yes, sir," he slurs.
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He misses Steve. He admits it. Over a week has passed since he could last see or speak with Steve outside of a professional capacity, but he can't out of the blue and in the dead of the night just call, can he? What would he even say? Thinking of you, wish you were here? Ugh. Too sappy. They're no where near that level yet. Really, the safest bet is sex and jokes.
So Tony sends Steve an image via text: a selfie of him wearing the blue collar, just of his neck, the O-ring resting in the hollow of his throat. Only the edges of his shirt, the tip of his raised, bearded chin, and the background of shiny silk sheets are otherwise visible. I wear it to go to sleep sometimes. Lil factoid to keep you company on those lonely nights, reads the accompanying text.
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The selfie of Tony wearing his collar is the last thing Steve expects to get, but he can't deny the very physical reaction it gets from him. He thinks back to when he'd given it to Tony, when he'd straddled his abdomen and jerked off on his chest, come glistening everywhere, Tony blissed out and completely in tune with him. It's definitely a memory he's savored more than once, and he wonders if Tony feels the same way.
But Steve, being Steve, doesn't immediately go down the innuendo route, unlike any other person. Does it help you sleep? he asks instead.
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Steve won't hurt you.
Before he can reconsider, Tony taps the send button and the new bubble pops up in their conversation. He feels breathless, the collar suddenly too tight and too thick around his throat.
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It looks good on you, and he deletes again. Steve reaches over and turns the bedside lamp on, sits up and scoots in so he's in the puddle of low light. The picture he sends Tony might be a little grainy, but the fact that he's hard is undeniable; it's a close-up of his waist and upper thighs, the bulge of his erection straining at the cotton fabric of his pants.
Pictures are worth a thousand words, right?
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About five minutes. But I'm glad you approve. Too bad you aren't here to help take care of it.
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I know you don't need to be here, but that doesn't stop me from wanting your hot little lips wrapped around my huge, throbbing member.
...does anyone actually call it a member? Oh, god, Steve's ears are red again.
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"Bold of you to think I'll be any better at doing this out loud," he says dryly once Tony picks up, forgoing any sort of greeting. "Or maybe just optimistic, I'm not sure which." Although it's a lot like a scene, just without Tony actually there. And it's the immediacy of Tony's presence that drives him forward when they're together, that specific posture Tony adopts when he's under and waiting for Steve's orders. It's so easy to picture in his mind, and he holds the image there for a moment, trying to summon up the feeling of dominating him.
"First I want you to take off the rest of your clothes and take a picture of yourself for me. Make sure you're hard, and that the picture shows your cock and the collar." Steve's voice drops down into that particular tone, the one he knows Tony will react to. Maybe that's why he wanted to do this over the phone.
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Steve sucks in a sharp breath at the picture, shoves a hand under his waistband to rub his cock through his underwear. The phone is close enough that it picks up a few moments of shuddering breaths before Steve forces himself to focus enough to speak again. "You jerk off since the last time we were together?" he asks.
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"I know you can," Steve says softly, gently. "You're so good, Tony. I want you to stroke yourself, nice and slow. Imagine I'm there watching you get yourself off. I wanna do that sometime, just sit there and watch you." He squeezes himself on the upstroke and lets a quiet groan slip free. "You're gorgeous. Touch your nipples with your other hand. Rub 'em till they're nice and hard, okay?"
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He's thought of having sex - hell, he's thought about it since the first time Tony went down on him. But he hasn't pressed the issue at all because it makes him nervous, because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing - even more so than usual - and he doesn't know if Tony can stay with it enough to talk him through it (and of course he's assuming that Tony has experience, because he's Tony). He knows how it works in theory, but the practice makes him worry.
"I'd love to," he pants. "Wanna- wanna feel you come with me inside you, Tony." Steve keeps stroking his spent cock, though it's slow and lazy, and even that much stimulation makes him shiver. "Want you to come for me."
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