"Dickening?" Steve snorts his amusement before his lips meet Tony's, soft and gentle, his arm slipping around his waist as he relaxes. "Is that what the kids call it these days? Is that what anyone calls it?" He pulls Tony in close. It's strangely reassuring to know there's an area where Tony's just as inexperienced as he is.
"It's what I called it. Just now," Tony defends good-naturedly. He nudges Steve's hands down to his ass. "Go on and cop a lil' feel. I caught you staring."
"You mean when you told me to look at your ass?" Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't think that counts as catching me in the act." Not that he hasn't done it often enough without Tony asking him to, but he's not going to mention that. Instead, he squeezes Tony's ass, letting his fingers dig into the muscle under the fabric. "I hope your bedroom's close."
"Irrelevant context," Tony murmurs, smirking, near Steve's mouth. Back arched, he rolls his ass into Steve's grip, hands teasing along Steve's sides, until he suddenly pulls back, switching from seductive to self-satisfied, practically sitting on Steve's palms if he doesn't let Tony's ass go. Now that he's accomplished distracting Steve from any nerves, they can get this show on the road. Plus, riling Steve up sexually is a nice bonus. Tony likes that he can. "Take a right down the hallway. Then, go up the stairs, take another right, it's fourth door on the left. I'll meet you there."
In Steve's opinion, it's perfectly relevant, but he's not going to mention that when Tony's being so obligingly distracting. He's a little disappointed when Tony pulls away, but it's obvious that he's got something in mind, and whatever it is, there's a good chance Steve will enjoy it. "Okay, but if I get lost, you're gonna have to send a drone out to find me," he jokes as he picks his bag up from where he abandoned it on the floor. He pecks Tony's cheek fondly, then ambles off.
Thankfully, he doesn't get lost - the directions are straightforward enough, and he has a good memory - and he's alone in Tony's bedroom soon enough. Steve sets his bag down in a corner and sits on the edge of the bed, alone with his nerves again. To take his mind off of everything, he starts undressing, neatly folding each piece of clothing as he takes it off and setting it on a chair.
In a bathroom down the corridor the other way, Tony picks at his towel-dried bangs, wondering if he feels like styling his hair. Normally he does, so it only needs touch-up in the morning, but he's already spent the past ten minutes getting clean and then cleaner. He might also be stalling his return, because he keeps remembering how he visited Pepper at the Tower before he met with Steve, and how he told her about Steve and him dating. She seemed happy for him. Tony is, too -- he's happy with Steve, or at least he could be. Just hard to shake that kernel of hurt and abandonment; and now here he is again, letting someone in.
In the end, he tames the cowlick on the back of his head but leaves the rest down and curling. Nearly fifteen minutes total later, Tony enters his bedroom in nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist and a soft smile, his hair fresh and wispy, smelling faintly of cedar, heavy and earthy. "Someone's eager," he says to Steve, who sits naked on the canopy bed with grey-green curtains. (Nothing in the room feels like Tony, all antiquated and impersonal, wooden furniture and wallpaper with Celtic designs: a guest room.) Breezing past, Tony pulls a bottle labeled as a water-based lubricant out of the nightstand -- "Think fast!" -- and chucks it to Steve.
Steve blinks as a bottle comes flying at him, but catches it thanks to super-soldier reflexes. "I didn't expect you to take so long," he admits. His nudity makes it obvious that he's not quite as eager as he might have been earlier, but it's not like it takes much to get him worked up. "You should've told me you were showering," he adds with a half-smile. "I would've joined you." The thought of Tony in the shower definitely appeals, not that it's something he's imagined before (it is, and frequently).
He turns the bottle of lube over in his hands, not really looking at it. He knows how this works in theory, but practice is another thing entirely, and - well, they aren't going to just do this right away, are they? Steve sets it down on the bed, pats the coverlet on the other side of him. "Sit down, Tony."
"Some things, Rogers, are not meant to be seen," Tony says cryptically, but plops down beside Steve, head tilted to the side, eyeing him, assessing where to start.
"Okay, okay." Steve waves it off, letting his hand drop into his lap. "So. Here we are. In- is this really your room?" Even the colors don't seem like Tony. It's oddly impersonal, and this is coming from a guy who's mastered the art of the impersonal living space. "Or is this just the room where you bring all your-" He tries, and fails, to come up with salacious modern slang. "Yeah. Just forget I said that." God, this would have been slightly less awkward back at the compound. He feels like Howard's ghost is watching them.
Surprised hurt flashes in Tony's eyes before he clams up again. Half-turned to Steve, he folds one leg on the bed and tightly crosses his arms. "No, no. Go on. It's a valid question. Ask it."
"It was a dumb joke, Tony." Explaining it doesn't make it any better. "I didn't mean it, just like I didn't mean the thing about the sex dungeon earlier. I'm just nervous, and when I'm nervous, I put my foot in my mouth." Not that he doesn't do it the rest of the time, but it happens more often when he's nervous. "I don't know what to do, Tony." Tony's acting like he just expects them to go at it, and Steve...well, Steve's the big dumb romantic who likes to build up to things.
With a conscious effort, Tony tears down some of the emotional walls built from overthinking in the shower. After a deep breath, voice warmer, he says, "Okay. First thing's first," and waits until Steve meets his eyes, leaning in or down to catch them, squinting to focus on every micro change in Steve's expression that he can catch, every nervous tic or moment of hesitation. Firm and serious, he slowly asks, "Is this something you want?" even as his heart leaps into his throat.
He leans in closer to Tony, till their shoulders touch; he always feels better with even a little physical contact. Doubly so when there isn't a barrier of cloth between them, and he can feel the warmth of Tony's bare skin against his. "As far as I know," he admits, and he's hoping that Tony is just talking about sex, and not their relationship as a whole. "I mean, I think about being inside you, and-" As if on cue, his cock twitches. He's imagined it more than once this week - never the awkward beginning phases like this, always just the bit where he's buried deep in Tony.
"Yeah," he finishes, a little throatier. "I want you. Like we talked about."
"Good," Tony says, curt, and straightens his spine, shoulders back, like a proud man facing a firing squad. When he answers back, fear squeezes his throat and he squeaks, however sincere, "Me, too," because he's thinking beyond the physical to what this all, including inviting Steve into this place, symbolizes for him and about Pepper's carefully-worded concern that he might end up hurt with how highly he thinks of Steve Rogers. He guesses she'd know all about that.
Tony suddenly, jerkily scoots farther onto the bed and lies flat on his back with his eyes locked onto the canopy spread above. With a shaky breath, he crooks his fingers at Steve to come over.
"You look like you're about to lie back and think of England," Steve remarks as he settles next to Tony. He's on his side, propping his head on his hand. "I know I'm not the most experienced guy around, but I'm pretty sure you don't usually skip straight to the main event." A hint of Brooklyn tinges his self-deprecating tones, and he lets the lube drop to the bed between them, reaching out to stroke Tony's shoulder. "And I'm definitely not gonna do it if you aren't even hard."
"Well, you're right about everything but one: I'm gonna think of America, land of the free," Tony quips, though the reassurances do the trick; his shoulders slowly relax into the mattress and his head turns to Steve, humor dimly sparking. Steve won't hurt him, physically or emotionally, not unless Tony fucks it up. He wonders how many times he'll have to tell himself that before it really sinks in, or if Steve will finally tire of waiting before then.
Steve isn't stupid. Tony knows that. Steve's picked up on the distance Tony places between them by now, the lack of meaningful touches outside of sex, using humor or subspace as an escape from true, conscious connection. Inviting Steve inside was an attempt to overcome that mental hurdle.
Steve groans and buries his face in Tony's shoulder. "If you start singing that goddamn song while we're having sex, I may actually murder you, just so we're clear." He peeks up, and there's the barest hint of a smirk. "And if you're thinking about anything other than me, then I'm probably not doing it right." Though his hand isn't on Tony's shoulder, he keeps touching him, little caresses to soothe him, to ease him into the physical intimacy without the barrier of subspace to cushion him.
"Although while we're being all technical about things," he adds, a little hesitantly, "why's it feel good to, ah, be on the bottom? Assuming that, you know, it does." Clearly someone hasn't googled the right terms, or really read much about gay sex at all. (He probably should have, he realizes belatedly.)
Tony lifts his head from the pillow to get a better view of Steve's face as he considers his answer. Meanwhile, his hand has smoothed down Steve's arm to his wrist, thumb rubbing circles on the bone. He tugs that hand caressing him to lie flat and wide at his waist, Steve's arm a brand stretched across his stomach. Tony likes those best, the full-on touches, heat centered in one spot: focal points. "A variety of reasons for me," he whispers. Unsaid: both physical and emotional. Afterward, his voice picks back up its normal volume and confidence. "But main culprit's the prostate gland, located in and a little up." He demonstrates with his free hand near his pelvis, above the towel, two fingers stuck out and then bent up. "Strike that bad boy enough times and I'm seeing stars ... and stripes," he tacks on, because it's too easy not to.
"Mm," Steve hums thoughtfully, processing this information. He rubs his thumb along the ridge of Tony's hip, brushes his lips over his clavicle. The problem with doing things the way they have - falling into everything backwards - is that he doesn't know Tony's body the way he should know a lover's, the way he wants to. Tony's always focused on his pleasure, and Steve knows that it arouses him. But Steve wants to be able to return the favor, so to speak. "Good to know."
"I'll need to be stretched first," Tony says thoughtfully, chin tilted up for Steve, mentally ticking through the points he should bring up -- like how they fought together on the field, Tony providing details and information for Steve to best plan around. Visibly wrapped up in his thoughts with a scrunched brow and pursed mouth, he barely reacts to Steve's touches. Steve first, in his mind. Tony has to arm him with the right knowledge; any pleasure he derives from this will be secondary, a bonus, albeit an incredible one. "Lots of prep involved. I can walk you through it, or you can watch me, if you're a visual learner. Or a voyeur."
"You did say we should talk about voyeurism." There's a warm amusement in his eyes. "But I'd rather do it myself. I'm a hands-on learner." His hand strays to Tony's towel-covered thigh, kneading through the fabric. "I can watch you some other time." Steve doesn't think he's necessarily a voyeur - he doesn't have any interest in watching anyone else, just Tony. He presses closer, tucks his head in right under Tony's chin, the length of his body pressing against Tony's. "You sure you can, uh, take it all?"
The thigh muscle beneath Steve's hand twitches with the first brief shot of arousal. Tony snorts at Steve's question, but spreads his legs wider in invitation, one arm holding Steve, the palm idly massaging his spine. "With a generous amount of stretching and lube, yes. That's a good rule of thumb, by the way: always use more lube."
As confident and collected as he sounds, a nervous sweat is breaking out at his temples, breath a little shallow. Steve wouldn't ever hurt you, Tony tells himself again, and again.
"A generous amount of stretching." Steve sounds a little dubious as he glances down between them. "Just sayin', I think there's only so much you can stretch." Not that he's ever tried that sort of thing. But neither has Tony, so it's not like there's exactly a precedent. "Sounds messy. And slippery." So was sex with- what was her name? Marla, the USO girl. And slippery definitely isn't bad.
As close as he is, he feels Tony's chest rise and fall more than he sees it, the subtle change in breathing. Steve keeps rubbing, reassuring more than sensual, not trying to make it to bare skin. "But I'll use plenty of lube."
Tony nods, eyes shut. "Good," he murmurs. The physical, he's no fear of; many women have played with his ass before. Pepper has pegged him, the first person he trusted enough with something thicker than two fingers. The actual, physical sensation he's already grown used to, the fullness and the pressure -- no, it's the whole taking-it-a-step-further thing. Another step into territory unknown, this relationship they're nurturing, the familiar falling more and more behind; but Steve has yet to lead them wrong. Steve's old pro at facing unknown futures, Tony remembers. Along with Steve's reassuring rubs, Tony talks himself back from the cliff's edge.
He swallows. He breathes. "So, this is gonna sound backwards, but ... it'll be easiest this first time if I come once beforehand. It'll make my body relax for the, uh, initial penetration, and trust me when I say getting it up again won't be a problem when you start hitting home."
"Hey, if you say it will, then I believe you." And if he screws it up, Steve thinks wryly, then this won't have been a totally wasted effort. "You know your body better than I do - although, to be honest, I'd like to know it better." He lifts his head up just enough to look up at Tony through his lashes, then spoils the entire attempted coquette attempt by laughing. "Sorry, that was terrible. I'm awful at flirting." Which is the sort of thing that pretty much goes without saying, but Steve says it anyway.
Slowly, he lifts the towel and slides a hand up Tony's thigh - the top of his thigh first. "You have any problem with me using my mouth on you?" While he speaks, he traces idle circles with his fingertips. "'Cause I've been wanting to do that."
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Thankfully, he doesn't get lost - the directions are straightforward enough, and he has a good memory - and he's alone in Tony's bedroom soon enough. Steve sets his bag down in a corner and sits on the edge of the bed, alone with his nerves again. To take his mind off of everything, he starts undressing, neatly folding each piece of clothing as he takes it off and setting it on a chair.
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In the end, he tames the cowlick on the back of his head but leaves the rest down and curling. Nearly fifteen minutes total later, Tony enters his bedroom in nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist and a soft smile, his hair fresh and wispy, smelling faintly of cedar, heavy and earthy. "Someone's eager," he says to Steve, who sits naked on the canopy bed with grey-green curtains. (Nothing in the room feels like Tony, all antiquated and impersonal, wooden furniture and wallpaper with Celtic designs: a guest room.) Breezing past, Tony pulls a bottle labeled as a water-based lubricant out of the nightstand -- "Think fast!" -- and chucks it to Steve.
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He turns the bottle of lube over in his hands, not really looking at it. He knows how this works in theory, but practice is another thing entirely, and - well, they aren't going to just do this right away, are they? Steve sets it down on the bed, pats the coverlet on the other side of him. "Sit down, Tony."
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"Yeah," he finishes, a little throatier. "I want you. Like we talked about."
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Tony suddenly, jerkily scoots farther onto the bed and lies flat on his back with his eyes locked onto the canopy spread above. With a shaky breath, he crooks his fingers at Steve to come over.
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Steve isn't stupid. Tony knows that. Steve's picked up on the distance Tony places between them by now, the lack of meaningful touches outside of sex, using humor or subspace as an escape from true, conscious connection. Inviting Steve inside was an attempt to overcome that mental hurdle.
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"Although while we're being all technical about things," he adds, a little hesitantly, "why's it feel good to, ah, be on the bottom? Assuming that, you know, it does." Clearly someone hasn't googled the right terms, or really read much about gay sex at all. (He probably should have, he realizes belatedly.)
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As confident and collected as he sounds, a nervous sweat is breaking out at his temples, breath a little shallow. Steve wouldn't ever hurt you, Tony tells himself again, and again.
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As close as he is, he feels Tony's chest rise and fall more than he sees it, the subtle change in breathing. Steve keeps rubbing, reassuring more than sensual, not trying to make it to bare skin. "But I'll use plenty of lube."
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He swallows. He breathes. "So, this is gonna sound backwards, but ... it'll be easiest this first time if I come once beforehand. It'll make my body relax for the, uh, initial penetration, and trust me when I say getting it up again won't be a problem when you start hitting home."
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Slowly, he lifts the towel and slides a hand up Tony's thigh - the top of his thigh first. "You have any problem with me using my mouth on you?" While he speaks, he traces idle circles with his fingertips. "'Cause I've been wanting to do that."
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