"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.
Tony lies back and stuffs one of the pillows under the small of his back so that his hips are propped up. He cards his fingers through his bangs to push them back, the ends tickling his forehead, but they flop back down. He sighs, but for just this moment his hair is the worst concern on his mind. He's actually okay. He's out of subspace, but nothing matters so much as what's happening inside these Victorian bed curtains and making Steve's cock fit.
"Hn. Missionary for now. Later, we'll see," he says and twists his arms back to grab hold of the headboard, legs bracketing Steve. "Go ahead and poke around. Just one finger."
Steve kneels in between Tony's thighs and squeezes more lube into his hand, spreading it behind his balls and over his perineum before he starts circling Tony's hole with his finger. He pauses, then angles the bottle and squirts the lube directly onto him. "It's not too cold, is it?" Because, you know, that's clearly the most important thing going on here.
Breath deep and slow, eyes shut, Tony focuses on keeping his muscles loose. Good sex is as much in the mind as in the body. The lube feels cool, but warms quickly due to body heat -- until a load of it is dumped onto his ass and he jumps, hole puckering, mostly from surprise. Well, he remembers belatedly, he did tell Steve always more lube, the goober. "No, Steve," he half-laughs, suddenly giddy. "I'm fine. I promise. If something goes bottoms up I'll call out red."
"You had to go there, didn't you?" Steve rolls his eyes at the pun, though he can't hide his amused smile. He's glad Tony's relaxing enough to joke with him, although with Tony, it's always tricky to tell if the jokes are genuine or a thinly-veiled coping mechanism. Steve likes to think he's gotten good at telling the difference, or at least better. "You know, we didn't call it missionary position." That's a term he knows thanks to the internet. "It was just plain old sex. Things were a lot simpler back then." And Steve was a lot more - well, he wasn't naive, Bucky shared more than enough tales of his own exploits for Steve to know what went on between a man and a woman. He was simpler.
And now he's pressing his fingertip against the ring of muscle, steeling himself in much the same way that he did before he sucked Tony off. Thanks to the lube, his finger breaches easily, sliding inside, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath. It's not the same as fingering a woman, that's for sure.
"Sounds boring," Tony jabs, lighthearted. Excess lube rolls down his crack and he briefly regrets not covering the pillow with the towel before Steve's finger presses in and his every thought hones in on that. The muscle clenches in protest. Tony commands it back open. With the endorphins from his orgasm still coursing through his system, his body readily obliges. "Deeper. In to the next knuckle. It's not a Chinese finger trap, don't worry," he gasps. He wants to rush ahead, hurry up and connect their bodies, as a physical declaration of his newfound conviction, but he's holding back. They can't rush the prep, and Steve needs guidance and patience, so Tony orders himself to keep his head below the clouds -- for now. Later that might change. In the bat of an eye he could give himself over fully; connect his conscious self with the sequestered submissive. The line between the two has thinned.
The emotional sensation dizzies him. It's a whirlwind of hope and affection and humor. He still loves Pepper, always will, but he finally feels like he can be happy with someone else. With Steve.
Steve breathes a little harder as he imagines what it might feel like to have that muscle squeezing around his cock. There's a hell of a difference between that and his fingertip, though, and he doesn't want to hurt Tony by rushing in. But still- "God, Tony," he gasps. "You feel amazing." He doesn't even bother responding to his stupid joke, just pushes his finger in up to the second knuckle, then, without prompting, goes all the way in. He works the digit in and out, shifting angles slightly every time, trying to figure out the best angle of attack, so to speak.
You feel weird, and frankly, my dear, I'm loving it, Tony thinks, but that's not as sexy so he refrains from speaking it aloud; and besides, after he grows accustomed to the penetration again, he'll be singing Steve's praises. For now he breathes and keeps calm, his face the picture of scrunched concentration. The multitude of nerve endings that Steve's finger slides against makes Tony aware of every millimeter, until one angle up barely brushes that sweet spot.
Oversensitive from orgasm, Tony squeaks, high-pitched. Too bad his dick is still uninterested in these proceedings. "There. Ya feel that? Little walnut-sized thing? That's the gland of glory."
Steve does feel it, and thanks to his enhanced muscle memory, he'll be able to remember it and hit it whenever he wants. Theoretically, anyway. "The gland of glory?" he echoes with a raised eyebrow and a bit of an amused snort. "I'll just trust you on that one." It's sure enough to get a reaction out of Tony, and that's what matters to him.
"You want another finger yet?" Wide eyes dark with arousal glance up at Tony, and Steve wonders if he's being impatient. He probably is, but his own cock is taking a definite interest in these proceedings. He wants to bury himself in Tony, to press against every inch of bare skin he possibly can and soak up his presence till he can't hold any more, because deep down he's terrified that this will end in the worst way possible.
"Yup, yup, sure do," Tony says with a small anticipatory shiver. Getting harder to have patience after that pleasurable jolt. To encourage, he hooks his heels onto Steve's shoulders.
Steve squirts more lube on his middle finger, then thrusts it in with the other one. There's a moment of resistance - almost enough to make him pull back - but then his finger eases in. He idly rubs Tony's thigh with his free hand, trying to help him relax. "You been on the giving end before?" he asks out of sheer curiosity. Watching Tony as he stretches him out makes Steve wonder what it feels like, and he's pretty sure it's something he wouldn't mind exploring. "With a man, I mean."
Brow furrowed, hands flexing on the headboard and eyes locked hungrily on Steve's erect cock (almost, almost), Tony answers, "Nope. Just women. Why? You curious?" Delirious from endorphins and emotions, he giggles and smacks his head back onto the pillow. Forty-five-years-old with his history of sex, he still has firsts, and he's popping those cherries with Steve Rogers. "It can blow your mind harder than I can blow your dick if you ever convince me."
Steve keeps working at it, trying to hit that same spot with his fingers with every thrust, twisting his fingers to loosen the muscles. He glances at his cock, then at his fingers, and slowly starts to press a third lube-slick finger in. His own breath is coming faster as he imagines his dick in place of the fingers, and he shifts restlessly on the bed. "I gotta convince you?" he asks, although he's only half paying attention at this point. "How hard's that gonna be?"
Every so often when Steve thrusts his fingers into that spot, Tony jumps at the hips and clenches down, grimacing, approaching overstimulation, the good kind of torturous. His cock remains stubbornly soft, but he doesn't need ejaculation to reach a magical orgasm, he's discovered. Steve adds a third finger and Tony cries out sharply once, mouth open, the stretch visceral, thighs trembling, ankles shaking on Steve's shoulders. "Uh," he says intelligently, words scattered between their heavy breaths and the squelch of the lube, "w-we talkin' outside or ... or inside a scene?"
Before very long, if this keeps up, his brain will shut down any processing of coherent words. Then, when everything becomes too much, he'll finally grow hard again.
Steve's learned by now that there's a point where trying to engage Tony in conversation is useless - which is fair, he can't exactly get his brain to work when Tony's got his cock in his mouth. "We'll talk about it later," he promises with a smile, petting Tony's thigh. "No need to get ahead of ourselves here." That's what he's telling himself right now, because he really wants to fuck Tony, but he knows he needs to stretch him out more.
"Right, the matter at hand, or ... or on hand -- yours, s-specifically, ah," Tony stammers, each jab into his prostate a pleasure so sharp that it hurts. "Oh," he repeats, wincing, scrunching up at his stomach. "Oh, shit," and his entire body contracts and clamps down, a supernova in his nerves that stretches seconds into infinities. Existence whites out.
Tony is already collapsed and boneless on the bed once the world fades back in for him. Dazed, he slowly blinks at the canopy above and tries to regather his wits.
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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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"Hn. Missionary for now. Later, we'll see," he says and twists his arms back to grab hold of the headboard, legs bracketing Steve. "Go ahead and poke around. Just one finger."
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And now he's pressing his fingertip against the ring of muscle, steeling himself in much the same way that he did before he sucked Tony off. Thanks to the lube, his finger breaches easily, sliding inside, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath. It's not the same as fingering a woman, that's for sure.
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The emotional sensation dizzies him. It's a whirlwind of hope and affection and humor. He still loves Pepper, always will, but he finally feels like he can be happy with someone else. With Steve.
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Oversensitive from orgasm, Tony squeaks, high-pitched. Too bad his dick is still uninterested in these proceedings. "There. Ya feel that? Little walnut-sized thing? That's the gland of glory."
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"You want another finger yet?" Wide eyes dark with arousal glance up at Tony, and Steve wonders if he's being impatient. He probably is, but his own cock is taking a definite interest in these proceedings. He wants to bury himself in Tony, to press against every inch of bare skin he possibly can and soak up his presence till he can't hold any more, because deep down he's terrified that this will end in the worst way possible.
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Before very long, if this keeps up, his brain will shut down any processing of coherent words. Then, when everything becomes too much, he'll finally grow hard again.
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Tony is already collapsed and boneless on the bed once the world fades back in for him. Dazed, he slowly blinks at the canopy above and tries to regather his wits.
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