"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."
Steve abandons what he's doing for the moment and crawls up the bed to kneel next to Tony's torso. "I told you before, you don't have to apologize," he reminds him softly. "I don't deserve better, and even if I did, I want you. That's the important part." His voice is full of emotion - more emotion than Tony would probably be comfortable with outside subspace. In lieu of stroking his forehead, Steve leans down and kisses him, long and sweet. Even without the haze of arousal clouding his thoughts and leading him around by the dick, he loves Tony so much that it's a nearly palpable ache.
"Besides," he adds, and his tone is a little less sappy and a little more sassy, "nobody expects you to be easy, Tony. If you were, it wouldn't be as fun." And speaking of fun, Steve's about to troll him mercilessly.
Kissing Tony's forehead first, he moves back down between his thighs and starts to work the dildo in, adding more lube as he goes. "I thought that would keep you nice and open," he comments casually, like it isn't the first time in his entire life he's used an anal plug. "Guess I gotta keep stretching you out till you're ready to take me, hmm?"
Tony chuckles, relieved and hoarse, but he can't help but remember Pepper and how easy he could dip to his knees for her. Not always, but he never fought her on it. He wanted to worship her. It felt right to be beneath her. That's neither here nor now, though. The thought trickles out of him, through the growing crevices in his mind, like the patter of rainwater. (He never quite managed to sink as deep with her either, not like he sinks with Steve like it's an out-of-body experience and Tony almost can't recognize himself in all the whimpering and want.)
He tilts his head to try and catch a glimpse beneath the blindfold (he wants to see, wants to watch Steve), but it's fitted to the contours of his cheekbones and nose so not even light peeks through. He spreads his feet apart to leverage his hips higher. "Guess so. Gonna touch me this time?" he chastises airily.
"Maybe." Steve's grin is audible in his voice, like he's the Cheshire Cat. "You'll have to wait and see, won't you?" Or not, as the case may be, and the blindfold itself should help build up anticipation for that. Not that Tony exactly needs any help getting harder, but the thought of teasing him like that excites Steve, too.
This is the first time he's used a dildo, too, and it feels like a strange disconnect, having something else between himself and Tony. He frowns slightly at the angle and grabs the second pillow from the head of the bed. "Lift your hips up," he tells Tony, and once he complies, slides the pillow underneath his ass. Now it's less awkward; the dildo doesn't have the same flexibility as flesh, doesn't conform the same way his cock or fingers would. He watches Tony as he works it in and out slowly, trying to figure out when he hits the prostate. (It's probably better Tony can't see his face screwed up in concentration as he changes the angle of the dildo slightly every time. He's too self-conscious about it.)
A sharp inhale flows into a long, wiggly moan. After the first night that Steve fucked him, Tony brought up the sad neglect his cock endured then: sure, he can ejaculate without being touched if his prostate is stimulated hard enough, but it can be a tiring, painful (in a good way, he admits) experience. At the time, Tony figured that'd be the end of it. Steve knew better now. Big guy was still learning. Surely he wouldn't think to venture into edging or denial just yet -- though after Steve's display earlier, Tony has no doubt he could. Steve has been remarkably good at performing domination by the seat of his pants, his sharp tactician mind translating just as well from battlefield to bedroom. Tony's vowed not to underestimate him again.
Once a pillow props up his ass, he stretches out his legs to either side. "Please?" he tries like a test. Maybe if he's good, Steve will have mercy. Part of him, though, doesn't want Steve to. Part of him wants to be driven wild, flung out of his mind -- the dildo bumps against its target inside. Tony twitches in his lower body and sighs.
Steve huffs a laugh, dragging his fingertips over Tony's smooth inner thigh, enjoying how it feels without any hair there. Not that he doesn't enjoy the body hair that Tony doesn't have groomed away, but this is something of a novelty for him.
He admits that not touching Tony the first time was a mistake that, in retrospect, was embarrassingly obvious. (Steve still feels the burn of shame for that one. Maybe Tony doesn't care about his inexperience, but part of Steve refuses to believe that.) This time, it's deliberate. His free hand roams everywhere but Tony's erection, tracing the lines of the garter, lingering maddeningly on his pelvis. All the while, he keeps fucking Tony with the toy, hitting his prostate with nearly every thrust.
The huffed laugh forms an excitable dread in Tony's stomach which only grows with every passing moment that Steve avoids his dick. The skin of his inner thighs is particularly sensitive hairless. They tremble under Steve's fingertips. His worry grows. Oh, God, Steve is really teasing him, isn't he? The dildo jabs against his sweet spot, suctioning in and out, but it's too thin for the stretch that Tony loves, and he thinks back to Steve whispering into his ear that he's gotta earn his pleasure. Tony both fears and craves this. After so many thrusts and ghost touches around his pleading cock (it's been a month, jacking off with Steve over the phone isn't the same or enough), with him powerless without his hands or his vision, it builds into a desperation that crowds everything else out, everything except Steve and what Tony can do to appease him.
"Steve? Honey? You're not -- not forgetting me, right?" he gasps. He's teetering at the edge of a long drop, a welcoming abyss, entranced by the nothingness but afraid of the plunge. He's built so much of himself back up since they first started doing scenes, back when Tony threw himself into subspace for the sheer relief of it. He's reinforced all his walls. There's the crux of it, enough finally peeled away to reveal the truth: underneath the excuses of pride and strength and how submission isn't that, he's scared of being vulnerable again, of being hurt, because he's already made himself so raw for Steve, as raw as he made himself for Pepper, who in the end left him.
"Of course not," Steve soothes him, surprised by the question. He'd been planning on pushing him more with just the dildo, but his plan (whatever small scraps of a plan he has, anyway) can work just as well touching him. There's a desperate fear in Tony's voice that's too real, and Steve knows better than to try and push past it. "It's all right."
Although it takes a moment to find a position that's comfortable, Steve finally lowers his head and brushes a kiss against the head of Tony's cock, dips his tongue into the slit and laps away the precome. "See? I got you, darling." Steve licks up and down his length like he's a piece of candy, tongue tracing the veins that stand out, even while he keeps working with the dildo. Eventually, he takes him into his mouth, sucking in earnest, waiting for those telltale signs that he's about to come.
Tony keens like a pitiful dog, high-pitched in the back of his sore, abused throat, and slurs, "Thank you, thank you," and finally, beautifully starts to sink. Steve will take care of him, like Steve said. Tony squirms on the sheets with a little mewl, cheek resting on his pillow, so much that Steve will have to hold him in place or risk dislodging the dildo and his mouth. It only takes a couple minutes before the whimpers and pleas increase and Tony's body tenses, back arching from a dry orgasm, on the verge of shooting, desperate, but needing just that bit more of a push to burst past the cockring.
It's a little difficult to hold Tony down, but Steve manages to pin him with his free arm over his hips to stop him from wriggling. He grins around Tony's cock as Tony starts to beg, pleased with his own skill. It's only as Tony's back arches that Steve lets his cock drop from his mouth and pulls the dildo out as clenched muscles do their best to hold onto it. Tony's left empty and aching on the verge of release, and it's the most goddamn beautiful thing Steve's seen all night.
Tony cries out an elongated, broken litany of no, no, no as he's denied release and he tries to buck his hips, which Steve holds down fast, which in turn wrenches a guttural moan from him. He's so vocal when he's under, every hitched breath a gust. The tide of his orgasm recedes just out of his reach, and he trembles for want of it. "Steve?" Tony pants, a plea and a question. He doesn't know what to do, how to be good for Steve: his mind's only directive.
"Shh, shh, I'm just havin' a little fun, that's all." He glances up at Tony's hands out of reflex, but his fingers are simply curled. (It's silly to check when Tony's capable of safewording normally, but some part of him is paranoid about accidents, about pushing him just that tiny bit too far.)
Licking his lips nervously, he reaches for the lube. First comes the toy he grabbed earlier - a plug just a little wider than the dildo, giving Tony more of what he wants, but still not enough. He eases it in slowly until the flared base presses close against Tony's ass.
Even now, he can admit that what comes next probably isn't the best idea he's had, but he wants to know what it feels like, and fucking himself with a toy while Tony watches just seems strange to him, like it skews the dynamics of their scene. Using Tony for his pleasure just makes sense.
"I'm gonna need you to keep holding on for me, okay?" Steve croons as he straddles Tony's thighs. "I know you can do it, darling." The lube is cold and makes a squelching noise as he smears it over Tony's cock, making sure there's plenty of it everywhere. "Just keep being good."
There's a small, sweet "okay" that breaks down into more whimpering and wriggling. "Tha'z good, tha'z good, thank you," he slurs out his gratitude for every blessed touch, every gift Steve deems him worthy of. If Tony were in his right mind, he'd see the signs of where this is heading and act accordingly, but as it stands he trusts Steve to know the way for him. Just hold on and keep being good becomes Tony's whole reason to be. He can't fathom any future, distant or close. He exists in an eternal present, drool and tears dried on his face and his cock aching and his hole eager and clenching and Steve, Steve, Steve atop his thighs.
The worst part of all this is that Steve knows that you're supposed to prep beforehand - he just doesn't realize how vital it really is. He assumes that it's something that can be overcome if everything's slippery enough and the other person isn't as big as he is - and, to be honest, he's too damn impatient to stretch himself out. Rising up, he feels for Tony's cock, holds it steady as he blindly tries to fit it in the right place. It takes some confused squirming, but eventually, he gets everything lined up.
The first five seconds are pure bliss resounding through his body, a moment of ohgodyes before his muscles protest against the intrusion. "Fuck," Steve swears through clenched teeth, but because he's Steve Rogers, he tells himself that he can do this and -
"Fucking Christ!" What Steve refuses to accept are tears glint in the corners of his eyes, his body clenching tight around the head of Tony's cock. Even then, his own erection remains stubbornly hard, finding some kind of pleasure in all the pain. He sucks in deep breaths, trying to make himself relax. It'll be fine, everyone has a rough first time, this is probably normal.
The initial push inside doubles Tony into himself. He shouts and pants and pull the cuffs' chains taut and bends up his knees. Above the blindfold his brow grows deep, worried lines and his teeth chatter, brain confusing pain and pleasure. "Steve?" he calls again, shivery, with an ounce of fear wiggling its way in. Something is wrong, Steve's pained cursing hints at that, but Tony only feels it on some undefinable, subconscious level. He doesn't know what it is or how to act on it and it can easily fade back into the warm haze of subspace with a single reassurance. This is the deepest he's ever sunk. He's a piece of clay on Steve's pottery wheel, fully malleable, far past the point where he can be trusted with his own consent. He groans.
Steve forces a little more in, and now he's past the head. Gravity is at least nominally on his side here, and although it hurts like hell, he manages to slide the rest of the way down with only a whimper of pain escaping. "Oh god," he pants, wide-eyed, because although it hurts, there's something satisfying about being filled by Tony's cock, feeling him buried deep inside. It's still not a good idea, but it's that much closer to being bearable.
"Tony," he gasps. He's just going to stay still for a moment while his body adjusts. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. I'm fine." At least, he's fine while he's not moving. As soon as he tries to lift up a little, his body protests again, and he bites his lower lip till he tastes blood. Relax, he tells himself, trying to will his muscles looser. He keeps moving, and it gets easier - or at least the balance of pain and pleasure shifts towards pleasure. It still hurts, but his cock is hard, and then suddenly he hits the prostate on one roll of his hips, and the curses that slip from his lips are entirely different.
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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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"Besides," he adds, and his tone is a little less sappy and a little more sassy, "nobody expects you to be easy, Tony. If you were, it wouldn't be as fun." And speaking of fun, Steve's about to troll him mercilessly.
Kissing Tony's forehead first, he moves back down between his thighs and starts to work the dildo in, adding more lube as he goes. "I thought that would keep you nice and open," he comments casually, like it isn't the first time in his entire life he's used an anal plug. "Guess I gotta keep stretching you out till you're ready to take me, hmm?"
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He tilts his head to try and catch a glimpse beneath the blindfold (he wants to see, wants to watch Steve), but it's fitted to the contours of his cheekbones and nose so not even light peeks through. He spreads his feet apart to leverage his hips higher. "Guess so. Gonna touch me this time?" he chastises airily.
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This is the first time he's used a dildo, too, and it feels like a strange disconnect, having something else between himself and Tony. He frowns slightly at the angle and grabs the second pillow from the head of the bed. "Lift your hips up," he tells Tony, and once he complies, slides the pillow underneath his ass. Now it's less awkward; the dildo doesn't have the same flexibility as flesh, doesn't conform the same way his cock or fingers would. He watches Tony as he works it in and out slowly, trying to figure out when he hits the prostate. (It's probably better Tony can't see his face screwed up in concentration as he changes the angle of the dildo slightly every time. He's too self-conscious about it.)
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Once a pillow props up his ass, he stretches out his legs to either side. "Please?" he tries like a test. Maybe if he's good, Steve will have mercy. Part of him, though, doesn't want Steve to. Part of him wants to be driven wild, flung out of his mind -- the dildo bumps against its target inside. Tony twitches in his lower body and sighs.
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He admits that not touching Tony the first time was a mistake that, in retrospect, was embarrassingly obvious. (Steve still feels the burn of shame for that one. Maybe Tony doesn't care about his inexperience, but part of Steve refuses to believe that.) This time, it's deliberate. His free hand roams everywhere but Tony's erection, tracing the lines of the garter, lingering maddeningly on his pelvis. All the while, he keeps fucking Tony with the toy, hitting his prostate with nearly every thrust.
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"Steve? Honey? You're not -- not forgetting me, right?" he gasps. He's teetering at the edge of a long drop, a welcoming abyss, entranced by the nothingness but afraid of the plunge. He's built so much of himself back up since they first started doing scenes, back when Tony threw himself into subspace for the sheer relief of it. He's reinforced all his walls. There's the crux of it, enough finally peeled away to reveal the truth: underneath the excuses of pride and strength and how submission isn't that, he's scared of being vulnerable again, of being hurt, because he's already made himself so raw for Steve, as raw as he made himself for Pepper, who in the end left him.
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Although it takes a moment to find a position that's comfortable, Steve finally lowers his head and brushes a kiss against the head of Tony's cock, dips his tongue into the slit and laps away the precome. "See? I got you, darling." Steve licks up and down his length like he's a piece of candy, tongue tracing the veins that stand out, even while he keeps working with the dildo. Eventually, he takes him into his mouth, sucking in earnest, waiting for those telltale signs that he's about to come.
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Licking his lips nervously, he reaches for the lube. First comes the toy he grabbed earlier - a plug just a little wider than the dildo, giving Tony more of what he wants, but still not enough. He eases it in slowly until the flared base presses close against Tony's ass.
Even now, he can admit that what comes next probably isn't the best idea he's had, but he wants to know what it feels like, and fucking himself with a toy while Tony watches just seems strange to him, like it skews the dynamics of their scene. Using Tony for his pleasure just makes sense.
"I'm gonna need you to keep holding on for me, okay?" Steve croons as he straddles Tony's thighs. "I know you can do it, darling." The lube is cold and makes a squelching noise as he smears it over Tony's cock, making sure there's plenty of it everywhere. "Just keep being good."
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The first five seconds are pure bliss resounding through his body, a moment of ohgodyes before his muscles protest against the intrusion. "Fuck," Steve swears through clenched teeth, but because he's Steve Rogers, he tells himself that he can do this and -
"Fucking Christ!" What Steve refuses to accept are tears glint in the corners of his eyes, his body clenching tight around the head of Tony's cock. Even then, his own erection remains stubbornly hard, finding some kind of pleasure in all the pain. He sucks in deep breaths, trying to make himself relax. It'll be fine, everyone has a rough first time, this is probably normal.
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"Tony," he gasps. He's just going to stay still for a moment while his body adjusts. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. I'm fine." At least, he's fine while he's not moving. As soon as he tries to lift up a little, his body protests again, and he bites his lower lip till he tastes blood. Relax, he tells himself, trying to will his muscles looser. He keeps moving, and it gets easier - or at least the balance of pain and pleasure shifts towards pleasure. It still hurts, but his cock is hard, and then suddenly he hits the prostate on one roll of his hips, and the curses that slip from his lips are entirely different.
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