"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."
Chin bunched at his neck to see Steve, Tony says quietly, "A for effort," meeting Steve's laughter with a small, crooked smile. More resistance fades away from his form and he lies back fully. Okay, he coaches himself, they're finally doing this. It's okay. He's okay. He trusts Steve. Another widening of his thighs beneath Steve's hand later, he croaks, "Full steam ahead, Cap'n," balls tightening and cock rising in interest.
Steve opens his mouth to apologize for his inexperience in advance, then closes it. It's okay, he tells himself, Tony knows. Surely he's not expecting anything as expert as he could manage - and with Tony, it seems to be less physical and more emotional. Hopefully, it's more the fact that he's the one doing it than the actual skill involved, since...well. Oral sex isn't anything he's done before, just heard it talked about (and, of course, had it performed on him).
The stirring under the towel is reassuring, and Steve tugs the knot free, baring Tony in front of him. He scoots down on the bed till his head is around Tony's hip, then glances up at him, meeting his eyes - and then he remembers something important. "Uh," he starts awkwardly. "When we're, you know, not in a scene. You don't need to ask me to come. You can just...let it happen." Maybe that's what Tony was planning on doing anyway, but it doesn't hurt to actually communicate it, especially since Steve intends to have his mouth too full to give Tony permission.
A hand twined into Steve's hair and his cheek rolled onto his shoulder to see him, Tony first quirks an eyebrow and then softens with a smile. "That's the plan," he says, and after a pause raises onto his elbows for a better view, curious as to how Steve approaches this without Tony in his ear. It also just feels important to be incredibly, undoubtedly aware of whom he's with.
"Didn't know what you might do." Steve tries to shrug the embarrassment off, but it clings persistently as he leans in closer, inhales the clean scent of soap from Tony's shower. He grips the base of his cock with one hand, feeling a little bit like he's staring it down. There's nothing to do but close his eyes and go for it.
He closes his lips around the head first, exploring with his tongue, running it along the sensitive ridge. It feels different, warm and heavy in his mouth, and he's suddenly very conscious of where he has his teeth. The flesh is still yielding, not totally hard yet. He drags the flat of his tongue over the top of the head, trying to figure out the best plan of attack, what it is he's supposed to do. Tony always makes this seem so easy.
"S'how I keep things interesting," Tony trails off as Steve begins. Admiration for Steve swells in his chest, and not just because the man's sucking him off. While Tony has flailed about without any plan these past months, Steve grits his teeth and marches ahead. It's become one of the easiest things in the world to defer authority to him, in bed and out.
On a whim, Tony curls forward, sliding his arms down Steve's back and his stomach brushing the top of Steve's head. Dipping his face low, he mutters, "You're doing great," as he slowly hardens in Steve's mouth.
Steve shivers at the praise, tension he hadn't known he'd been holding onto easing out of his body. The physical contact reassures him, the closeness. Tony isn't up there anymore, he's down here with him, and it encourages Steve. He opens his eyes, eases past the head to swirl along the first inch or so of his length. It's an exploration more than anything, growing used to the feeling of Tony in his mouth, the way he can feel him getting harder as he keeps working. He traces the veins with the tip of his tongue, then tries sucking, his cheeks hollowing out. For a moment, he feels the lure of simply pleasuring Tony, how easy it would be to give himself over, and his face flushes at the idea. But he's getting ahead of himself, as usual; he drags his mind back to the present, focuses intently on Tony's reactions.
Palms smoothed over Steve's spine, the dip before the swell of his ass, Tony imagines siphoning some of that strength, both of muscle and of mind, and sharing it between them. Fear still squeezes his heart, but feeling Steve around and beneath him comforts him. They really were an unstoppable team together, when Tony still played superhero -- co-leaders, in sync. He thinks he could face any future by Steve's side. Tony thinks he could love him, if he just allowed himself to.
But if these past weeks have taught him anything, it's that Steve is flappable, prone to regular human insecurities. So as his erection reaches full, he murmurs quiet reassurances, "Take your time. Don't push yourself." Then, with a chortle, after remembering one of their first times: "No one's gonna walk in on us here."
Steve arches catlike into the touch, the part of his mind that isn't focused on the task at hand greedy for whatever physical intimacy it can get, all the caresses he's been starved for this whole time. He's okay with keeping their distance in public - they don't need pictures of them holding hands on the front page of every tabloid - but in private, Steve's determined to erode the walls Tony puts up when he's not in subspace. He thinks that Tony probably needs this sort of thing as much as he does, but for whatever reason (it's tangled up in Pepper because it's always tangled up in Pepper), he puts a barrier between them. It's strange, having Tony put all his trust in him in scenes, when he's at his most vulnerable, but shutting him out the rest of the time.
As Tony grows harder, Steve bobs his head steadily, and his own cock begins to stir to life once more. Tony's joke catches him by surprise, and he laughs around his erection, his amusement evident in his eyes. The humor makes him feel more at ease, banishes some of the awkwardness. He pauses long enough to look up at Tony and grin. "Good, 'cause I'm not gonna fit under anyone's desk." He doesn't wait for a response, but goes right back to it, his confidence growing with every quiet word Tony speaks.
Those hands glide back up. Tony strives to serve him some way even now, so he digs his fingers into the back of Steve's neck, either side of the spine, thumbs driving hard into the trapezius muscles of Steve's shoulders, massaging. Full-on, firm touches to work out the tension; and to ground himself, same as when Tony laid Steve's hand flat on his waist. "Well," he chuckles, with only some soft, satisfied grunts otherwise, "at least you're gonna fit in me, right?"
Eventually, after falling quiet save for the grunts and periodic reassurances interlaced with humor ("that's good, Steve," "you're a natural"), his toes curl and his thighs tense. The pleasure is centered on his dick, something Tony's felt hundreds of time before, nothing too exciting, but it's Steve, and that makes all the difference.
In the silence, Steve lets a few contented noises of his own slip free, hums and and groans vibrating around Tony's cock. He feels surprisingly gratified by the way Tony tenses under him, the sounds he makes. At least he's not completely awful at this - though in Steve's admittedly limited opinion, it's hard to go wrong with wet heat and suction. But that might be different when you don't have the libido of an overexcited teenager.
The hand around the base of Tony's cock tightens, and he strokes in combination with bobbing his head. He can't bypass his gag reflex entirely, but he's not going to neglect what he can't fit in his mouth, either. The excess saliva drips down, creating a makeshift lubricant for his hand to slide easily up and down.
The first, vocalized groan breaks through, torn from him as pleasure builds in his groin. Hunching over, hands stopping but holding tightly on, one covering the nape of Steve's neck, like that can help alleviate the fear of being alone in the end, Tony grits out, "Steve? I'm gonna come. Pull off now unless you want a mouthful."
Steve continues sucking and stroking, undeterred as ever. With a rush of affection, Tony gasps and spurts his come into Steve's mouth. The orgasm lasts for only a few seconds, quiet compared to his open-mouthed pleas and moans in subspace. His legs splay out, limbs relaxed. After catching his breath, he whispers, "Spit if you need to."
Steve shudders as Tony spills into his mouth, arousal rippling through his body, only pulling off once he's sure Tony's done. He swallows it down even before Tony offers the opportunity to spit - it's not the worst thing he's tasted in his life, but it's not something he wants to hold in his mouth longer than he has to, either. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and kisses him instead, wanting Tony to taste himself on his lips. His tongue delves into Tony's mouth, and he strokes Tony's cheek with one of his hands.
The other arm wraps around his shoulders - Tony might not need aftercare right now, not in the traditional sense, but Steve still wants him to know that he's not alone, that he's right there with him. When he pulls away to catch his breath, he rests his forehead against Tony's. "No point in spitting," he says, seemingly randomly. "I mean, it's already in there, might as well swallow. Used to take tonics that tasted worse than that."
True to his word, Tony has eased down; his hands slip past Steve's chest to his waist, the grip looser, less a frightened demand. He melts into the kiss, accepting Steve in, finally letting go some. Even when Steve rests their foreheads together, the thought of comparing it to Pepper is fleeting and vague. The trust he places in Steve during scenes can be translated to outside of them. Steve holds him, just as caring, either way. Tony might be sinking a little, but he struggles differentiating that from lowering some of his emotional walls. Easy to pretend he becomes a different person when he's under. It gives the illusion of security still when he's his normal self.
As he looks into Steve's eyes, so close he can count the lashes, Tony figures that even if being with Steve ends terribly, bad ideas have never stopped him before. They sure as hell won't now.
With a soft smile he mutters, "Flatterer," and pulls back, only to press the bottle of lube flat to Steve's chest with one hand, expectant. "Coat me up, big guy. Lather the surrounding area to start."
Steve takes the bottle with a surprised blink. "Which way do you want to do this?" He pops the cap and squirts some into his hand, poking an experimental finger into the small puddle, then coating his fingers with it. It feels, well, slippery. "What's the easiest?" There's still an awkward knot in the pit of his stomach, but he's relaxed somewhat. More importantly, Tony seems involved in this now.
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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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The stirring under the towel is reassuring, and Steve tugs the knot free, baring Tony in front of him. He scoots down on the bed till his head is around Tony's hip, then glances up at him, meeting his eyes - and then he remembers something important. "Uh," he starts awkwardly. "When we're, you know, not in a scene. You don't need to ask me to come. You can just...let it happen." Maybe that's what Tony was planning on doing anyway, but it doesn't hurt to actually communicate it, especially since Steve intends to have his mouth too full to give Tony permission.
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He closes his lips around the head first, exploring with his tongue, running it along the sensitive ridge. It feels different, warm and heavy in his mouth, and he's suddenly very conscious of where he has his teeth. The flesh is still yielding, not totally hard yet. He drags the flat of his tongue over the top of the head, trying to figure out the best plan of attack, what it is he's supposed to do. Tony always makes this seem so easy.
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On a whim, Tony curls forward, sliding his arms down Steve's back and his stomach brushing the top of Steve's head. Dipping his face low, he mutters, "You're doing great," as he slowly hardens in Steve's mouth.
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But if these past weeks have taught him anything, it's that Steve is flappable, prone to regular human insecurities. So as his erection reaches full, he murmurs quiet reassurances, "Take your time. Don't push yourself." Then, with a chortle, after remembering one of their first times: "No one's gonna walk in on us here."
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As Tony grows harder, Steve bobs his head steadily, and his own cock begins to stir to life once more. Tony's joke catches him by surprise, and he laughs around his erection, his amusement evident in his eyes. The humor makes him feel more at ease, banishes some of the awkwardness. He pauses long enough to look up at Tony and grin. "Good, 'cause I'm not gonna fit under anyone's desk." He doesn't wait for a response, but goes right back to it, his confidence growing with every quiet word Tony speaks.
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Eventually, after falling quiet save for the grunts and periodic reassurances interlaced with humor ("that's good, Steve," "you're a natural"), his toes curl and his thighs tense. The pleasure is centered on his dick, something Tony's felt hundreds of time before, nothing too exciting, but it's Steve, and that makes all the difference.
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The hand around the base of Tony's cock tightens, and he strokes in combination with bobbing his head. He can't bypass his gag reflex entirely, but he's not going to neglect what he can't fit in his mouth, either. The excess saliva drips down, creating a makeshift lubricant for his hand to slide easily up and down.
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Steve continues sucking and stroking, undeterred as ever. With a rush of affection, Tony gasps and spurts his come into Steve's mouth. The orgasm lasts for only a few seconds, quiet compared to his open-mouthed pleas and moans in subspace. His legs splay out, limbs relaxed. After catching his breath, he whispers, "Spit if you need to."
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The other arm wraps around his shoulders - Tony might not need aftercare right now, not in the traditional sense, but Steve still wants him to know that he's not alone, that he's right there with him. When he pulls away to catch his breath, he rests his forehead against Tony's. "No point in spitting," he says, seemingly randomly. "I mean, it's already in there, might as well swallow. Used to take tonics that tasted worse than that."
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As he looks into Steve's eyes, so close he can count the lashes, Tony figures that even if being with Steve ends terribly, bad ideas have never stopped him before. They sure as hell won't now.
With a soft smile he mutters, "Flatterer," and pulls back, only to press the bottle of lube flat to Steve's chest with one hand, expectant. "Coat me up, big guy. Lather the surrounding area to start."
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