Arms crossed, Tony fidgets in place. The skirt is stretched obscenely over his erection and the ruffled hem is lifted outwards. He lowers his eyes to Steve stroking himself, where they stay. Why isn't Tony the one stroking (or better yet, blowing) him? "Uh-huh. Ten outta ten circulation, too. Really frees my willy," he mutters.
Steve's gaze is glued to the tented fabric, where he can see the head of Tony's cock clearly outlined. "Mmm," he agrees, not entirely paying attention to what he's saying. He imagines blowing Tony, sucking him off until he begs to come, then fucking him through a couple of dry orgasms. At least the cockring means he won't have to worry about pushing him too far.
His own balls start to tighten, and Steve groans, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "Gonna make you ride me later," he mumbles as he strokes faster, tightening his hand around his erection. "Gonna-" He gasps and tenses suddenly, and just like that, he's shooting off, spilling over his hand and thighs and stomach. It makes him feel better, releases some of the tension that's been building up. He's been horny ever since he drove here in anticipation of the night's activities, his skin tight and prickling and sensitive.
Gesturing for Tony to come back over, Steve smiles lazily at him, smug and momentarily sated. "Clean me off, sweetheart." He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs open so Tony can kneel between them. "With your tongue."
As Steve comes Tony blows air out his nose like a caged bull. He glares at nothing until that damned endearment, sweetheart said so sincerely, frays the tangle of knots inside of him. Haltingly, he kneels between Steve's legs on the carpet. The skirt drapes over his legs and the heels stick up. The plug rubs against his insides at a new angle. With a crease in his brow that says he's fighting to keep a hold of himself, Tony licks a long, purposeful strip up Steve's stomach, his cock against his jaw, vying for control via seduction. But the more he licks, the looser his posture becomes, the crease smoothing out and the licks less firm, more like a dog lapping at its master's fingers.
"That's it," Steve encourages him. He runs his fingers through Tony's hair, softer after a shower, and feels him relax more and more as he keeps licking. "You're so good at this, darling." All of his endearments have just an edge of Brooklyn to them, an old habit he can't manage to shake.
"Maybe when you're done, I'll let you suck me off." He offers Tony his dirty hand to lick, still combing the fingers of the other through his hair in a soothing motion. Steve's dick is still soft, but they both know that coaxing it back up isn't hard. "Or do you wanna do something else?"
Eyelashes fluttering, Tony shivers at each compliment, a burst of endorphins in lieu of his normal cockiness. ("Of course I'm good, I'm the best," or something along those lines, he might say.) He accepts Steve's fingers mindlessly, lips wrapped around them all, sucking and licking them clean, but then suddenly at the question he slows and stills and his shoulders stiffen, trance broken. While frozen like that, saliva builds in the corners of his mouth. Almost lost himself there, he thinks.
Tony blinks open his eyes and narrows them up at Steve. In light warning, he bites down on Steve's knuckles: he's not gone yet. His submission is a privilege given. Steve needs to work harder than that for it.
"Guess that's a no on sucking me off, then," Steve says sweetly, although there's an undercurrent to his tone that wasn't there before. If Steve has to work for Tony's submission, then Tony has to work for the privilege of pleasure. He curls his fingers inside Tony's mouth, pushing them in and forcing his mouth open - not enough to hurt him or make him gag, but enough to be uncomfortable. The other hand tightens in his hair.
"At this rate," he continues, "your dick is gonna fall off before I let you come. Get flat on the bed and open your shirt." Steve pulls his hand from Tony's mouth, wiping the mix of saliva and come on his shirt. "On your back, head on the pillow."
Jaw forced wide open and head tilted up, Tony stares steadily back at Steve -- not angry, just firm. Almost immediately he misses the gentle petting and compliments, but a need to prove some point drives him. What point he's trying to prove, he doesn't know. It's all tangled up into an indiscernible knot, a mess of motives and ideas twisting together. The part of him hardened into gold-titanium alloy shouts that he's meant to be by Steve's side, not at his feet, while its sister part crushed under debris and a body count brings down the gavel and determines that this should be his place, him kept down by the better hand. But the tiny, quiet part that just wants rest -- that part wants to slump into Steve's hold and warmth and let every other part wilt away. No guilt, no fractured mind, no past demons frowning their judgment from over his shoulder, no ten thousand things pulling him in different directions, just ... Steve.
All that together results in a subtle eye roll from Tony and then him shimmying backwards onto the bed. The heels make it awkward, scraping and sliding across the sheets. Finally situated, he plucks open his shirt buttons; the separated sides lie limp on him. "You're gonna make me wear this get-up all night, aren't you?" he grumbles as he unbuttons.
"At least until I get to fuck you in the skirt." Steve turns to watch Tony unbutton his shirt, his eyes following his fingers as they move. "That's kinda the whole point, Tony." And the more he acts up, the longer he has to wait for that to happen. "Though if you start behaving, I might let you take the shoes off."
Not that Tony's going to have much of a choice shortly. Once he settles into place, Steve puts a blindfold over his eyes, making sure it's secure. After that, he grabs restraints from the table and fastens Tony's arms spread-eagled, one at each corner of the bed. There's a longer pause and some shuffling around before Steve finds the flogger again, and he stands next to the bed, looking down at Tony in silence.
"Behaving," Tony scoffs under his breath, because oh, he could act out so much worse than this, but soon quiets. Blindfold on, his sensory inputs narrow. Sound and touch strengthen in sight's stead: his cock head pushed into satin and made more stubborn by the ring, the plug shoved inside him, the stockings a constant second skin. Tony allows Steve to spread and restrain his arms, leaving his chest vulnerable, because he trusts Steve as a leader, lover, friend, and dominant. Tony trusts him because he's seen the flaws beneath the icon. The humanity. He thinks, So what if Steve learns the figurative and literal ropes around the bedroom? He's still Steve. Plus, Steve's confidence comes with undeniable benefits to Tony. See: his current predicament.
He turns his head to the side where he thinks Steve stands. After a few beats of silence, Tony drawls, "The suspense is killing me." He just can't leave well enough alone.
Steve just rolls his eyes at Tony's running commentary. "Do you always have to remind me why gagging you seems so tempting?" He turns back to the table and finds a set of what he recognizes as nipple clamps, joined together by a chain. Picking them up, he leans over and sucks one of Tony's nipples into a stiff peak, rolling his tongue over the surface, and when he pulls back, he fits the clamp on the delicate skin. He repeats the process with the other nipple.
"I know you could be worse, darling," he drawls, dragging the soft fur of the flogger down his stomach. "That's why I haven't punished you yet. All I'm doin' now is making it more unpleasant for you. You coulda had my cock down your throat already, have your ass stuffed nice and full instead of the smallest toy you got." Steve tugs the skirt up for a moment and rubs the fur against the sensitive skin of his dick. "You think you're making me work for it, but you're only hurting yourself, Tony." He pulls away for a long moment, then - carefully - hits Tony across his cock and balls, watching carefully to gauge his reaction.
"You occasionally forget?" Tony quips back, playfully incredulous, as Steve selects the clamps, but the words lose themselves to the air, Steve deeming them less important than working Tony's nipples. Jaw tight, Tony grumbles, "M'not a girl, Rogers," but his voice is smaller, the insecurity peeking through. He knows guys can be just as sensitive, but he's wearing a skirt and pantyhose and he just needed to get that little factoid out there. Thankfully Steve ignores it. The clamp pinches his nipples in a light sting, the only point past which Tony will respond to stimulation there. He fidgets and the cuff chains clink against the wooden bed posters. The shoes have slipped off his heels just from lying down flat, but he begrudgingly keeps them on.
Then, Steve talks more. Each word niggles doubt deeper into Tony's brain. Steve sounds so certain, so in control, and the promises underneath crack the ground Tony stands on. Has he underestimated Steve again? Tony thought this charade was meant as the punishment. Hell, the best punishment Steve could muster up before was a lot of push-ups. Tony frowns as he considers this new development. Maybe he should tread more carefully until he better understands the terrain. He shouldn't play straight into the lion's den if he's not already there, right? That's basic battle tactics.
Suddenly the flogger hits and Tony jumps with his whole body and a startled yelp, the leather cuffs squeaking against his wrists and the heels sliding off until they dangle by his toes. Not a peep more.
"I know what you like." The words are a soft whisper in Tony's ear, lips brushing the skin. "I know you want me to swat your ass till it's red 'cause it gets you hard. So ask yourself, which one of us is working right now?" Steve lets the soft leather side of the flogger trail over the inside of Tony's thigh, and his own cock twitches, taking an interest in the proceedings. Truth be told, he improvises nearly all of this on the fly, but he's damn good at pretending he knows what he's doing until he hits his stride in a scene. He might still be new to this, but Steve knows that when Tony pushes him, he has to push right back and make sure that he's the one in control - hell, it's a lot like the struggles they have during missions.
"I want to give you what you want." Now he's at a more normal distance, but his voice is still a casual drawl, at odds with the sharp yank he gives the chain dangling between Tony's nipples. "But you gotta earn it. Are we clear?"
The hit to his cock has cracked Tony's composure and allowed Steve's whispering to seep in; Tony barely registers the groan that rumbles out of his chest at the imagery of Steve spanking him. He unconsciously thrusts into the air and turns his knees outward, inviting any touch. But none comes, none but what Steve deems him worthy of, and finally the reasons not to fall in line wither under the blindfold and the restraints and the toys stuck on- and into him.
Steve just wants to help. Tony wants to give in. When Steve yanks at the clamps, the sound that drips out of Tony is more like a certain, familiar whimper. He nods, body still coiled tight.
"Good." Steve takes the clamps off and sets them aside, then carefully straddles Tony's chest just below his arms, scooting up till he can press the head of his cock to his lips. He's still only semi-hard, but once Tony starts sucking, he knows from past experience that it won't take him long to get all the way there.
"Open." Although his voice is quiet, it's still unquestionably an order. Once Tony complies, Steve moves closer again, pushing his cock past lips and teeth. He leans forward and grips the headboard for balance, dropping his head enough that he can see Tony. "Suck."
Before Steve commands it Tony already has his mouth partway opened, anticipating it from the weight on him and the musk. There's a short, quiet moan, air vibrating against Steve's cockhead, and Tony dutifully wraps his lips around the shaft, head forced still so that Steve can control the depth. He sucks as told along the foreskin, lapping at the tip, with that wrinkle between his eyebrows. He's concentrating, maybe overly so, and trying to empty everything else out of his head. His fingers rhythmically flex, too, as a physical mantra to hold himself back and not push his mouth forward onto Steve's cock; to not take more than is given. With Tony's head raised on the pillow at this angle, when Steve does press forward he'll sooner hit the top back of Tony's throat and choke him rather than push down it, but Tony doesn't care: just one of the many things that he trusts Steve so very much with.
"God," Steve gasps at the first few swipes of Tony's tongue. It's a feeling he'll never get used to, the wet slide of tongue over the head of his cock. He wishes they could do it more often than the once a month he manages to steal away, but their schedules don't allow for much more, not with the commute, and not with Tony's busy life. (Steve's life is relatively calm - or at least pretty routine - in comparison.)
He presses in a little more, another inch - not thrusting yet, just letting Tony work him over till he gets harder. "Love it when you suck me off," he groans. "How hot and wet your mouth is, how I know you just wanna swallow my cock and feel me come down your throat. You're so good with your tongue, sweetheart. I could let you lick me all day."
Each word helps. They give Tony something outside of himself to focus on. They render him as helpless to their will as the cuffs and Steve's weight, but at the same time, Steve's praise buoys him and keeps his head above the water. Slowly, over the time he suckles Steve, Tony's fingers unfurl and his brow smooths out until the moment when something cracks open and Tony gives more than he takes. Steve may have figured out by now that it's not subspace, not yet, but simply Tony allowing himself his softer side, the one that cooks Steve meals and lounges with him in the morning light, the person hidden beneath the name Tony Stark.
As if it's his sole purpose, Tony entices Steve to harden. When the foreskin retracts enough, he rolls his tongue against the sensitive underside of the exposed head and between the cleft of the glans and tilts his chin up to open his airway, a willing and eager receptacle for Steve to angle himself above and ram down.
Steve encourages him with a moan deep in his chest, and now his hips start working, slow and shallow at first, his erection sliding in and out of Tony's mouth. Once more of his length is sufficiently wet, he pushes farther in, hitting the top of Tony's mouth and still going, down into the soft tissue of his throat. "Fuck," he pants, "oh, Tony, you feel fucking amazing like this." Steve casts his gaze down to make sure that Tony's still breathing okay, that he hasn't managed to cut off his air somehow.
"I'm gonna fuck your mouth," he continues breathlessly, thrusting as he talks, "and then I'm gonna start working on your ass. It looks so good in that skirt, all wrapped up for me like a present, and, god, your legs. You could be a pin-up with those legs. I wanna take pictures and jerk off to 'em when I'm all by myself upstate, just think about coming all over that smooth skin." He's rambling now, only half-aware of what he's saying, focusing more on getting off than anything else. "Sometimes I just wanna mark every inch of you and let it dry there, Tony. I- I just want all of you. Wanna keep you safe and-" His words fail him, crossing from dirty to emotional, and Steve lets the sound of his harsh breath take over instead, occasionally grunting as he rocks his hips.
Prior to this, Tony explained to Steve how he could communicate a safeword or his colors while gagged. He introduced a hand gesture: middle and index fingers bent under his thumb and pinky and pointer fingers up, the heavy metal sign of the horns. On one hand signals yellow; on both, red. But Tony's hands are splayed out and open above the cuffs. Jazz hands for green, he said as a joke, but unconsciously mimicking the gesture now, his fingers stretched but still, he looks more like a man surrendering. His throat clicks instead of allowing moans, voice strangled, and spit slicks the O of his lips. He arches only once in a heave, gag reflex constantly teased, but quickly brings it back under control with deep, practiced breaths through his nose.
Green, his hands still say. Green, green, green. He cradles Steve on his tongue, does all the little tricks with it and the muscles of his throat that drive Steve wild. When Steve stops talking, Tony sucks harder, needier. Wet, sloppy squelches fill the silence between breaths.
Tony works at him expertly with tongue and mouth and throat, and Steve feels a familiar ache in his balls as they tighten, as he watches Tony through lowered eyelashes. His lips are swollen and wet, his cheeks hollowed as he sucks, and Steve can see the muscles of his throat fluttering. The experience of watching him is almost as arousing as the act itself; he'd never dreamed that Tony would want him, of all people, to debauch him like this, that he would trust him so deeply. It's as intensely emotional as it is sexual, and Steve loves both parts of it.
As his rhythm grows faster and more erratic, he doesn't bother to warn Tony - he's learned by now that Tony doesn't care where he comes. (Steve's toyed with the idea of pulling out and coming on his face, but, god, he's too enamored by the way he keeps milking him with his throat as he comes, that little bit of extra stimulation on top of everything else.) Steve unconsciously holds his breath for the last few seconds as every muscle in his body strains in anticipation, everything but his hips stilling, and then it all releases in a rush, pumping down Tony's throat, the arms holding him up going slack (thankfully before he breaks the bed), his head and shoulders drooping.
He pulls out before Tony can choke on everything and rolls off of him, ungracefully collapsing on the bed. Steve tugs the blindfold up and smooths sweaty hair back from Tony's forehead, his mind soaking in a post-coital fuzziness. "So good," he murmurs to Tony, his voice slurred. He can see how hard he is, knows that he should do something soon, but he just needs a little break.
Tony's big, dazed, chestnut eyes blink back at Steve. A wet splotch curves along the bottom of the right with only a smattering on the lashes of the left: not the first time it's happened. (It can be an involuntary physical reaction when deepthroating someone as thick as Steve, Tony explained; he's not weeping, big guy, don't worry.) Weak coughs spasm in his chest, but he otherwise looks content and lazy. He smiles a tiny smile, barely a lift of his messy lips, and watches Steve recuperate.
But soon his erection is making itself known. Tony feels it like a deep, persistent itch, his thoughts fuzzy at the edges, and he mewls softly. For some reason, his brain latches onto an inconsequential detail and he croaks out, "The heels fell off," like a confessional. Both of the shoes lie flopped onto their sides past his stocking-covered feet.
Steve nuzzles into Tony's neck and drapes an arm over his chest, stealing a moment to cuddle with him. "'sokay," he mumbles. "Just there to make your legs look good when you're standing up." Not that they don't look good anyway, but, as Tony knows, there's a particular graceful curve that heels draw out, the kind that the slit in his skirt is meant to display. Now that he's on the bed, their purpose is done. (They are nice shoes, though, Steve has to admit.)
He pulls back to study Tony after another couple minutes of cuddling. His posture is loose and his gaze is wide and dark, but he doesn't quite have the subtle tells that Steve's come to associate with subspace, just the vulnerability he's started to show around him. Steve kisses Tony, tasting himself in his mouth, and then pulls back enough to kiss the tip of his chin. "You want me to take you under?" he asks, his tone low and quiet. He knows what the answer will be even before he asks, but Steve's always cautious - sometimes too cautious for Tony's taste.
"You really like it, huh?" Tony whispers before he rests his cheek on Steve and they lapse into comfortable silence. The feminine clothes, he means -- with how Steve rambled about Tony's legs just now and how he admired the pin-up girls exhibit in the MoSex, Tony wonders if wearing the skirt and everything is really all that bad. Despite his own feelings on it, the look makes Steve happy. A bit of pride seems like a small price to pay, and if Tony's honest he enjoys the little flush of humiliation from being tasked to cross-dress. Plus, waxed hair-free, his legs are mindbogglingly more sensitive.
When Steve pulls back and kisses him, Tony fidgets his hips and whimpers. The cockring has kept him hard, along with the past week of obedient self-deprivation, and the plug is still slotted maddeningly into his ass. "Is that not what we're already doing?" he rasps, voice wrecked, honestly confused. He consented earlier, at the start of this.
Steve smirks at Tony just before he pulls the blindfold back down. "Just wanted to double-check, sweetheart." There's always that moment of insecurity in a scene when he wonders if he's doing it right, when he just needs to make sure that Tony's okay with everything, no matter what he's already consented to. He knows that this is mild for Tony, but some part of him fears crossing a line nevertheless.
(Frankly, he's a little surprised Tony isn't a lot deeper by now, and that makes him worry that he's doing something wrong. But he pushes the concern aside - Tony would have stopped him if he was doing anything he didn't like - and keeps going.)
Usually, he'd reward Tony by letting him come, but Steve needs to help him sink all the way down, to let go of all his fears and anxieties and guilt. He slides off the bed again and studies the dildos before settling on one that's long enough to hit Tony's prostate, but won't be nearly as thick as he wants right now, only a little thicker than the plug he already has in him. Sitting down again, he uncaps the lube and smears a generous glob of it over the dildo. "I'll take care of you, Tony," he promises sweetly as he eases the plug out.
Tony's head lolls back on the pillows like he's tipsy. With the heels off, he plants his feet flat and raises his knees for Steve, quick to trust and obey. The plug requires some coaxing; he's tightened since. "I know you will," he murmurs, though Steve's reassurance relaxes him more. He's not in subspace, but all his excess layers are peeling away, down to the sweet, pliable center. "I'm sorry I make this so hard sometimes. You're so good to me. You deserve better."
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His own balls start to tighten, and Steve groans, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "Gonna make you ride me later," he mumbles as he strokes faster, tightening his hand around his erection. "Gonna-" He gasps and tenses suddenly, and just like that, he's shooting off, spilling over his hand and thighs and stomach. It makes him feel better, releases some of the tension that's been building up. He's been horny ever since he drove here in anticipation of the night's activities, his skin tight and prickling and sensitive.
Gesturing for Tony to come back over, Steve smiles lazily at him, smug and momentarily sated. "Clean me off, sweetheart." He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs open so Tony can kneel between them. "With your tongue."
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"Maybe when you're done, I'll let you suck me off." He offers Tony his dirty hand to lick, still combing the fingers of the other through his hair in a soothing motion. Steve's dick is still soft, but they both know that coaxing it back up isn't hard. "Or do you wanna do something else?"
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Tony blinks open his eyes and narrows them up at Steve. In light warning, he bites down on Steve's knuckles: he's not gone yet. His submission is a privilege given. Steve needs to work harder than that for it.
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"At this rate," he continues, "your dick is gonna fall off before I let you come. Get flat on the bed and open your shirt." Steve pulls his hand from Tony's mouth, wiping the mix of saliva and come on his shirt. "On your back, head on the pillow."
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All that together results in a subtle eye roll from Tony and then him shimmying backwards onto the bed. The heels make it awkward, scraping and sliding across the sheets. Finally situated, he plucks open his shirt buttons; the separated sides lie limp on him. "You're gonna make me wear this get-up all night, aren't you?" he grumbles as he unbuttons.
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Not that Tony's going to have much of a choice shortly. Once he settles into place, Steve puts a blindfold over his eyes, making sure it's secure. After that, he grabs restraints from the table and fastens Tony's arms spread-eagled, one at each corner of the bed. There's a longer pause and some shuffling around before Steve finds the flogger again, and he stands next to the bed, looking down at Tony in silence.
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He turns his head to the side where he thinks Steve stands. After a few beats of silence, Tony drawls, "The suspense is killing me." He just can't leave well enough alone.
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"I know you could be worse, darling," he drawls, dragging the soft fur of the flogger down his stomach. "That's why I haven't punished you yet. All I'm doin' now is making it more unpleasant for you. You coulda had my cock down your throat already, have your ass stuffed nice and full instead of the smallest toy you got." Steve tugs the skirt up for a moment and rubs the fur against the sensitive skin of his dick. "You think you're making me work for it, but you're only hurting yourself, Tony." He pulls away for a long moment, then - carefully - hits Tony across his cock and balls, watching carefully to gauge his reaction.
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Then, Steve talks more. Each word niggles doubt deeper into Tony's brain. Steve sounds so certain, so in control, and the promises underneath crack the ground Tony stands on. Has he underestimated Steve again? Tony thought this charade was meant as the punishment. Hell, the best punishment Steve could muster up before was a lot of push-ups. Tony frowns as he considers this new development. Maybe he should tread more carefully until he better understands the terrain. He shouldn't play straight into the lion's den if he's not already there, right? That's basic battle tactics.
Suddenly the flogger hits and Tony jumps with his whole body and a startled yelp, the leather cuffs squeaking against his wrists and the heels sliding off until they dangle by his toes. Not a peep more.
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"I want to give you what you want." Now he's at a more normal distance, but his voice is still a casual drawl, at odds with the sharp yank he gives the chain dangling between Tony's nipples. "But you gotta earn it. Are we clear?"
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Steve just wants to help. Tony wants to give in. When Steve yanks at the clamps, the sound that drips out of Tony is more like a certain, familiar whimper. He nods, body still coiled tight.
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"Open." Although his voice is quiet, it's still unquestionably an order. Once Tony complies, Steve moves closer again, pushing his cock past lips and teeth. He leans forward and grips the headboard for balance, dropping his head enough that he can see Tony. "Suck."
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He presses in a little more, another inch - not thrusting yet, just letting Tony work him over till he gets harder. "Love it when you suck me off," he groans. "How hot and wet your mouth is, how I know you just wanna swallow my cock and feel me come down your throat. You're so good with your tongue, sweetheart. I could let you lick me all day."
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As if it's his sole purpose, Tony entices Steve to harden. When the foreskin retracts enough, he rolls his tongue against the sensitive underside of the exposed head and between the cleft of the glans and tilts his chin up to open his airway, a willing and eager receptacle for Steve to angle himself above and ram down.
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"I'm gonna fuck your mouth," he continues breathlessly, thrusting as he talks, "and then I'm gonna start working on your ass. It looks so good in that skirt, all wrapped up for me like a present, and, god, your legs. You could be a pin-up with those legs. I wanna take pictures and jerk off to 'em when I'm all by myself upstate, just think about coming all over that smooth skin." He's rambling now, only half-aware of what he's saying, focusing more on getting off than anything else. "Sometimes I just wanna mark every inch of you and let it dry there, Tony. I- I just want all of you. Wanna keep you safe and-" His words fail him, crossing from dirty to emotional, and Steve lets the sound of his harsh breath take over instead, occasionally grunting as he rocks his hips.
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Green, his hands still say. Green, green, green. He cradles Steve on his tongue, does all the little tricks with it and the muscles of his throat that drive Steve wild. When Steve stops talking, Tony sucks harder, needier. Wet, sloppy squelches fill the silence between breaths.
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As his rhythm grows faster and more erratic, he doesn't bother to warn Tony - he's learned by now that Tony doesn't care where he comes. (Steve's toyed with the idea of pulling out and coming on his face, but, god, he's too enamored by the way he keeps milking him with his throat as he comes, that little bit of extra stimulation on top of everything else.) Steve unconsciously holds his breath for the last few seconds as every muscle in his body strains in anticipation, everything but his hips stilling, and then it all releases in a rush, pumping down Tony's throat, the arms holding him up going slack (thankfully before he breaks the bed), his head and shoulders drooping.
He pulls out before Tony can choke on everything and rolls off of him, ungracefully collapsing on the bed. Steve tugs the blindfold up and smooths sweaty hair back from Tony's forehead, his mind soaking in a post-coital fuzziness. "So good," he murmurs to Tony, his voice slurred. He can see how hard he is, knows that he should do something soon, but he just needs a little break.
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But soon his erection is making itself known. Tony feels it like a deep, persistent itch, his thoughts fuzzy at the edges, and he mewls softly. For some reason, his brain latches onto an inconsequential detail and he croaks out, "The heels fell off," like a confessional. Both of the shoes lie flopped onto their sides past his stocking-covered feet.
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He pulls back to study Tony after another couple minutes of cuddling. His posture is loose and his gaze is wide and dark, but he doesn't quite have the subtle tells that Steve's come to associate with subspace, just the vulnerability he's started to show around him. Steve kisses Tony, tasting himself in his mouth, and then pulls back enough to kiss the tip of his chin. "You want me to take you under?" he asks, his tone low and quiet. He knows what the answer will be even before he asks, but Steve's always cautious - sometimes too cautious for Tony's taste.
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When Steve pulls back and kisses him, Tony fidgets his hips and whimpers. The cockring has kept him hard, along with the past week of obedient self-deprivation, and the plug is still slotted maddeningly into his ass. "Is that not what we're already doing?" he rasps, voice wrecked, honestly confused. He consented earlier, at the start of this.
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(Frankly, he's a little surprised Tony isn't a lot deeper by now, and that makes him worry that he's doing something wrong. But he pushes the concern aside - Tony would have stopped him if he was doing anything he didn't like - and keeps going.)
Usually, he'd reward Tony by letting him come, but Steve needs to help him sink all the way down, to let go of all his fears and anxieties and guilt. He slides off the bed again and studies the dildos before settling on one that's long enough to hit Tony's prostate, but won't be nearly as thick as he wants right now, only a little thicker than the plug he already has in him. Sitting down again, he uncaps the lube and smears a generous glob of it over the dildo. "I'll take care of you, Tony," he promises sweetly as he eases the plug out.
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