Steve laughs. He's so much better than okay. The weight of Tony on top of him is like an anchor, what he's been looking for since he woke up in the twenty-first century. He's solid and warm and real and fuck, Steve thinks he's in love. Which isn't exactly a revelation, since he's been well aware of his non-platonic feelings for Tony for quite some time now, and, hell, they're dating. But this is the first time he's been able to feel it as a bone-deep certainty and know exactly what it is, to face it and not pretend it's something less. Steve isn't the sort of man who loves lightly, who does anything lightly. It should worry him, but here and now, all he feels is happiness.
Okay, happiness and arousal.
"I'm great," he says after a pause that's just a little too long, but the grin he gives Tony is one of pure unadulterated bliss - not that Steve's a good liar at the best of times, but especially not right now, not with Tony. "You- you're perfect."
Tony briefly ducks his head, lashes lowered, almost bashful, before he wryly yet fondly says, "Now tell me that when I'm not playing the buns to your hotdog. In the meantime, where were we?" Eyes shut, he rotates his hips to feel Steve at every point of contact; and then with his thighs and a sigh, he lifts an inch and slides back down.
"Lot better than anything you'll get from a street cart," Steve retorts with a smile and those pure Brooklyn vowels. Not that he hasn't eaten his fair share of street cart food, but in his defense, he pretty much has a vibranium stomach and-
And when Tony moves, his stomach twists. It's a whole hell of a lot more intense than a blowjob; Tony's muscles are tight around him, every last inch. Steve's chest rises and falls, his fingers dig into the sheets, and he wants more. "Keep it comin'," he urges.
"Keep it or keep you coming?" Tony asks slyly, already setting a steady pace: slow when lifting up, but quick and direct when smacking his ass down. Every time, his thighs tremble.
Soon enough, Steve's rocking his hips up to meet Tony's ass when it comes down. He tries to push the pace a little, but it seems Tony's determined to draw this out - and he can't blame him, honestly. "Yes," he grunts, simple and direct. In the back of his mind, a vague idea begins to form about turning the tables on Tony during a scene someday, and he wonders if it would work.
The repeating jabs of pleasure that shoot right to Tony's balls and brain scramble whatever they were just talking about. What was Steve's "yes" for? Eh, who cares. Tony's caked in Steve's semen and their skin satisfyingly claps together. He has Steve all to himself for a full weekend, too. "Okay. Okay," he pants, tone airy. "I hereby ... permit you to bend me over any available surface over the course of this weekend." Head falling back, he tries to stroke himself, just a little, but the other arm still holding him up trembles terribly. He snaps his hand back down and pitifully whines.
Blissful nothingness tugs at his edges again. Tony resists it, but wonders whether it's truly an altered state of mind or just the complete security he feels right now.
"We might need some more lube." Hell, if Tony tries to keep up with Steve's libido, he's going to need a cushion to carry around afterwards. And probably during, for that matter, because the way his hips roll up is anything but gentle. If he weren't so aroused, he might snicker at the sound their skin makes when it slaps together, but all he can think about is the way his cock is buried in Tony's ass.
Steve notices the way Tony reaches for his erection but doesn't quite make it. "You need some help there?" He raises his eyebrows, waggles them invitingly.
"More lube, got it, s'on the list," Tony mumbles, near nonsensical. Another dry orgasm is creeping up and sapping his strength. He tries to push through it and keep pistoning himself on Steve's cock, but he can't ignore his baby-deer shakiness because that's all he is now from the continual bursts of endorphins, yet still he chases after more like a true addict, as long as it's with Steve -- Steve, who is a giant, beautiful dick of a troll. With his head tipped back, Tony doesn't catch the eyebrow waggling, but the voice and words are hints enough. "Oh, I dunno," he says, somewhere between a growl and a laugh until, "do I need to revoke your all-access paaa-ass!" he shouts at the end when his body snaps and stills and tightens around Steve's cock. Precum beads through his slit, his balls heavy, only teasing at the edge. Tony collapses backwards onto one forearm against Steve's leg, mindful enough to contort and keep Steve inside him more or less upright. He swallows past a throat dry from panting. He feels he might shake apart into the air molecules around them.
Steve tries to swear, but it comes out as a garbled moan, his brain incapable of forming actual words when Tony tightens around him. All his nerve endings light up like a Christmas tree as his body instantly leaps the rest of the way up the theoretical mountain. Muscles coil and tense as he arches his back, a whimper catches in his throat, and then suddenly, blissfully, after what seems like an eternity, everything releases. Fabric rips as his fingers clench (Steve is apparently not kind to bedsheets), and he whites out for a moment.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he mumbles when he comes to, his eyes still staring up at the ceiling, gaze wholly unfocused. It might be blasphemy, but sometimes the situation calls for it. This is one of those moments. He tries hard to drag his attention back and ends up just floating in a blissed-out haze.
Tony groans helplessly. He tries to lift up his head in protest (feels the flood inside again, feels it seeping out around Steve's softened cock), but it just flops back down, limp on his neck. "Please don't go," he slurs, all higher cognitive functions like wit ground to a halt. "I still need... I need to..." His cock still stands pink, full, and leaking. He clenches around Steve to keep him in, like that'll keep him hard. "Jus' one more round. Please. Please fuck me, Steve!"
It's become a sweet torture, his skin thrumming with need but his bones and muscles already giving up, his mind a storm of sparking chemicals. Tony has always pushed the limits.
"I'm trying," Steve growls in between clenched teeth. His muscles feel like limp noodles, but somehow he summons up the strength to start thrusting up into him again. Shuddering from overstimulation, he pushes past the barrier of too much. Tony needs him to do this, and he can't let him down. He can't break his trust. Steve tells himself that over and over, and it gets easier; his hips rock faster and harder. In response to the friction (or maybe Tony's begging, or maybe both), his cock slowly fills again.
"You- you look gorgeous," he pants. "Oh, god." Tony's like a work of art in his arousal-blurred mind - a pornographic one, but still beautiful, something he never thought he'd see, never thought he'd have in front of him like this.
Not entirely aware, Tony babbles, "That's it, baby, that's good, thank you, thank you, thank you," encouraging Steve, unable to lift himself anymore; he just bounces on Steve's lap from the shallow thrusts that jab home. "Keep talking, Steve," he gasps, "oh, oh, fuck." Tony can't reach for his neglected dick without falling flat on Steve's legs, and right now his brain can't process any solution, so he keens, loud and needy, his head and eyes rolled back. Seeking relief, his hips jerk in an aborted little thrust up into nothing and then just as much back down onto Steve.
"You like it when I talk, huh?" Steve's breathless as he starts to get worked up. He's not sure how much sense he can even make right now, but his skin prickles with arousal at the thought of Tony getting off on him talking. "Next time we're at the complex, I'm gonna lock the door and bend you over my desk. God, your ass is perfect for that, like it's begging to have my dick in it. It curves just right, 'specially when you got it crammed into those tight jeans like you were trying on earlier. You take me on another shopping trip like that, and I'm gonna make you suck me off in a dressing room, make you wait till we get home to come." He rambles on, images vivid in his mind, and it makes him put more force into his thrusts, more need behind the motion.
Tony is nodding, head loose and lolling -- maybe in agreement, maybe senselessly, maybe just responding to Steve's tone and the low frequency that seeps in through his ears and reverberates in his skin. The soles of his feet tingle, the tops stretched and nerves too-long pressured in this position, but it's secondary to all the shaking and the pressure in his balls, which feel keen to explode. "Jus' ... jus' a lil more," he slurs, surrounded by Steve from each and every angle by skin and voice. As his hole flutters around Steve in anticipation, Tony falls into a litany of Steve's name under his breath.
Half his mind yearns for just one touch to his dick, but the other half has been tugged under at Steve's mercy. Tony can't demand any more of him, not when he knows he can come from only this.
A whimper catches in Steve's throat, a sign of how much closer he's getting, how much of his blood flow is being redirected to his erection. He feels every little move Tony makes, every spasm of his muscles. It takes a long moment for him to gather up words that slip through his fingers like fish in a pond. "I- I wanna watch you fuck yourself, open yourself up for me. I wanna come back after a day of training and find you waiting for me in bed, so hard you're leaking, all lubed up and ready to go. I..." he falters. His imagination is limited right now, and he strains for more.
"I want you in every way possible," he grunts. "Everywhere. You, and no one else. In your workshop, in the shower, in bed at night and again when we wake up. Up against the windows of a goddamn penthouse. In one of your ridiculous cars. On one of the cars. On vacation somewhere, just the two of us in some fancy house. In every room of this house and the compound and- fucking everywhere, Tony, I just want you."
Release comes gradually, agonizingly and yet sweetly slow, built up and up until his body simply can't hold any more. "Oh, Steve," Tony coos, split open and rammed into, but cushioned by the emotion in Steve's voice. I just want you. Tony gains the strength just long enough to lift his head to glimpse and see him, before everything collapses into a single point and then explodes. He shouts and arches, writhes on Steve's lap, and comes and comes and comes; it lands on his belly and thighs, on top of Steve's dried patches, some onto Steve himself. It wrenches everything out of him, and then wrenches out even more, until Tony is whimpering and twitching in the aftermath, body absolutely spent but still trying. By now his arms have given way and his back rests on top of Steve's legs, possibly bending Steve inside him at an uncomfortable angle.
Tony trails dazed, unseeing eyes along the canopy, momentarily forgetting himself, becoming only a collection of fried nerves. When he comes back, he shuts his eyes. He's too weak to move.
Steve just stares in wonder at the spectacle unfolding in front of him: the way Tony looks and sounds and feels, the hot come spattering against his skin, the feeling of Tony milking his aching cock as his muscles tighten. It's a moment that stretches into an eternity and leaves Tony spent and collapsed and Steve painfully close.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he mutters. Steve plants his feet flat against the bed and brings his knees up, propping Tony up so that he's at a more natural angle. "Just a bit more, okay?" He can't imagine how Tony must feel, utterly fucked out and hollow. He looks incredibly debauched, and Steve takes a certain perverse pride in being the one responsible for all of this. "Just-" He keeps thrusting, Tony bobbing on his lap from the force, looking like a puppet with cut strings. "C'mon," and he's urging himself just as much as he is Tony, willing himself to cross the finish line like he's in the Kentucky Derby.
With a shudder and a shout, he arches his back and comes, still rocking his hips automatically, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out. Stars explode across his vision, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe till he inhales with a deep rush. He pushes his knees up more, nudges Tony so he falls forward across his chest, his cock slipping out on the way. Tony's weight is solid and comfortable - no matter how messy they both are - and Steve's breath slows to match his, in and out at the same time.
Bounced on Steve's lap and groaning, Tony tries to respond further; he achieves at best partly curling some of his fingers. His head lolls forward. Fucked out now, he feels all the discomforts: the itching of dried come, the prickling of his feet, and the soreness reaching deep inside and all throughout. Each thrust against his prostate draws out a tiny wince, one time a sharp whine. Steve finishes, and Tony flops onto his chest gracelessly, arms akimbo and legs folded to either side like a dead frog. Face smushed and too tired to handle any of his problems himself, he grumbles, inarticulate.
After a peaceful, sleepy moment of breathing together, Tony turns his face into one of Steve's pecs and blows a weak raspberry. It's really his only way of communicating currently.
Steve almost drifts into a haze of contentment, but then Tony ruins it by blowing a raspberry against his skin. Steve rolls his eyes, but manages to reach up and comb his fingers through Tony's hair. "That a complaint?" he asks. He's not sure what a guy who just came as many times as Tony would have to complain about, but he also knows how Tony is. Undoubtedly he's found some flaw to critique.
"I tried," he adds, a little defensively. Or maybe it's because he got too emotional in the middle of everything and scared Tony, and he's expressing derisive scorn for Steve's vulnerability. He's pretty good at interpreting what Tony says (and, more importantly, what he doesn't say), but there's not a whole lot to work with here.
Steve's fingers through his hair untangles something in Tony that he wasn't even aware of. Minutely he shakes his head. (He wasn't complaining -- well, not about the performance, at least. His current helpless state, maybe.) Contented for now with the renewed affection, Tony presses a sloppy kiss into Steve's skin.
"Mmm." He hums lightly, mollified by the kiss. Steve keeps petting Tony's hair. He's aware that they're both a mess, and eventually it's going to bother him, but he doesn't feel like moving right now, not when it feels more like they're one puddle of Steve-and-Tony. "'s good." He pauses for a moment as a thought strikes him. "Are you under right now?"
The concerned and confused glance Tony throws Steve's way might indicate enough. If not, then the brief look of distress his face twists into as he realizes the truth will.
Steve's all but forgotten what he asked of Tony earlier, but he remembers the second his expression changes. Steve himself looks chagrined. "Not like that," he clarifies. "Just wanted to know if- just in case." One shoulder lifts slightly, the barest hint of a shrug, and he smooths the skin between Tony's shoulderblades to calm him. "'s all right."
Tony wanted to answer no, of course not, he has better control than that, thanks; but as soon as he thought to, the words faded and jumbled into I don't know, which simply does not happen: he is either in subspace or out of it. No in-between, no lines blurred, and yet here he is in full control of his faculties but still content to wile away the night covered in sweat and come as long as Steve keeps petting his hair. That dissonance is what flashes the distress across his face. Though, no surprise, really -- a lot of things don't make the same sort of sense as in the age of Pepper. Besides, Steve says it's all right, and his palm is wide and warm on Tony's back. Tony melts and murmurs something like a thank-you.
Steve leans up just enough to brush his lips against Tony's forehead, a benediction of sorts. He's mostly worried about needing to take care of him if he starts dropping, and it doesn't seem like that's going to happen. So for the moment, everything is all right. The world isn't ending, Tony isn't having an emotional breakdown, so he's perfectly happy to just stay here like this. It's a calm, peaceful moment, and they don't exactly get to enjoy many of those.
And now he's got all weekend to immerse himself in nothing but debauchery - the idea blows his mind - and, honestly, he doesn't know what he did to deserve any of this.
The only problem is, as he discovers a few minutes later, his bladder isn't quite as happy to stay in bed, especially with the weight of a full-grown man on top of him. "Tony," he groans, and nudges him slightly. "Tony, I need you to get off for a moment."
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Okay, happiness and arousal.
"I'm great," he says after a pause that's just a little too long, but the grin he gives Tony is one of pure unadulterated bliss - not that Steve's a good liar at the best of times, but especially not right now, not with Tony. "You- you're perfect."
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And when Tony moves, his stomach twists. It's a whole hell of a lot more intense than a blowjob; Tony's muscles are tight around him, every last inch. Steve's chest rises and falls, his fingers dig into the sheets, and he wants more. "Keep it comin'," he urges.
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Blissful nothingness tugs at his edges again. Tony resists it, but wonders whether it's truly an altered state of mind or just the complete security he feels right now.
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Steve notices the way Tony reaches for his erection but doesn't quite make it. "You need some help there?" He raises his eyebrows, waggles them invitingly.
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"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he mumbles when he comes to, his eyes still staring up at the ceiling, gaze wholly unfocused. It might be blasphemy, but sometimes the situation calls for it. This is one of those moments. He tries hard to drag his attention back and ends up just floating in a blissed-out haze.
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It's become a sweet torture, his skin thrumming with need but his bones and muscles already giving up, his mind a storm of sparking chemicals. Tony has always pushed the limits.
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"You- you look gorgeous," he pants. "Oh, god." Tony's like a work of art in his arousal-blurred mind - a pornographic one, but still beautiful, something he never thought he'd see, never thought he'd have in front of him like this.
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Half his mind yearns for just one touch to his dick, but the other half has been tugged under at Steve's mercy. Tony can't demand any more of him, not when he knows he can come from only this.
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"I want you in every way possible," he grunts. "Everywhere. You, and no one else. In your workshop, in the shower, in bed at night and again when we wake up. Up against the windows of a goddamn penthouse. In one of your ridiculous cars. On one of the cars. On vacation somewhere, just the two of us in some fancy house. In every room of this house and the compound and- fucking everywhere, Tony, I just want you."
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Tony trails dazed, unseeing eyes along the canopy, momentarily forgetting himself, becoming only a collection of fried nerves. When he comes back, he shuts his eyes. He's too weak to move.
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"C'mon, sweetheart," he mutters. Steve plants his feet flat against the bed and brings his knees up, propping Tony up so that he's at a more natural angle. "Just a bit more, okay?" He can't imagine how Tony must feel, utterly fucked out and hollow. He looks incredibly debauched, and Steve takes a certain perverse pride in being the one responsible for all of this. "Just-" He keeps thrusting, Tony bobbing on his lap from the force, looking like a puppet with cut strings. "C'mon," and he's urging himself just as much as he is Tony, willing himself to cross the finish line like he's in the Kentucky Derby.
With a shudder and a shout, he arches his back and comes, still rocking his hips automatically, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out. Stars explode across his vision, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe till he inhales with a deep rush. He pushes his knees up more, nudges Tony so he falls forward across his chest, his cock slipping out on the way. Tony's weight is solid and comfortable - no matter how messy they both are - and Steve's breath slows to match his, in and out at the same time.
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After a peaceful, sleepy moment of breathing together, Tony turns his face into one of Steve's pecs and blows a weak raspberry. It's really his only way of communicating currently.
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"I tried," he adds, a little defensively. Or maybe it's because he got too emotional in the middle of everything and scared Tony, and he's expressing derisive scorn for Steve's vulnerability. He's pretty good at interpreting what Tony says (and, more importantly, what he doesn't say), but there's not a whole lot to work with here.
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And now he's got all weekend to immerse himself in nothing but debauchery - the idea blows his mind - and, honestly, he doesn't know what he did to deserve any of this.
The only problem is, as he discovers a few minutes later, his bladder isn't quite as happy to stay in bed, especially with the weight of a full-grown man on top of him. "Tony," he groans, and nudges him slightly. "Tony, I need you to get off for a moment."
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