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.
The worry lines persist, but Tony lets his head fall to the pillow, his hair mussed and sticking up in the back. Tense and trembling all over, he stammers, "S-so--so tight, sir," because Steve's body grips his cock in a painful vice, but Tony has lost the ability to distinguish hurt from good, and after his denied orgasm, he's resting on a hairpin trigger. Already he's back at the precipice, balls raised and round and full. He begins chanting Steve's name over and over, reverential.
"Yeah, honey, yeah." Steve's voice is strained, but shit, it feels good, and he lets one hand fall to his cock. It seems to get harder every time Tony's dick hits his prostate, although it might just be in his imagination. "C'mon, wanna feel you come inside me, let go, it's all right. You did a good job." The words are slurred as he jerks himself off and fucks himself on Tony's cock, but still more or less understandable. Waves of pain wash over him, intermingling with the pleasure, but he couldn't stop if he wanted to.
Tony writhes in every part save for where Steve holds him down, his heels pushing into the bed and wearing a tear into the stockings. Each wild tug of his arms clinks the chains on the bedposts. Clamped onto his cock, the ring and Steve's body restrict easy relief. Steve's name on Tony's ruined lips dissolves into mindless sobs of "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't!" and it builds and builds and builds till bursting, liable to explode, and finally -- whiteout. There's a scream, sounding distant, the voice destroyed. It might be Tony's. In that single instance, he doesn't know if anything belongs to him anymore.
The orgasm wrenches itself out of him, violently. It seems to last a millennium to his addled mind. He's whimpery and weak afterward. Spots of tears glimmer at the corners of the blindfold.
The way Tony moves underneath him makes the head of his cock drag over Steve's prostate again and again, and Steve strokes himself faster and harder, arousal spurring him on. Even after Tony comes, looking like a wet dream come to life, he stays hard inside Steve, thanks to the cockring, and Steve keeps moving desperately. He whimpers as his muscles tense - half from another spike of pain, half from anticipation - and forces his hips back down one last time. God, he can feel it as he clenches around Tony again and again, his cock spurting and jerking in his hand. The intensity of his orgasm makes him shoot ropes of come all the way up to Tony's chin, all over his bare chest.
Steve's dazed as he comes down from the high of his own orgasm, but as he moves to pull off of Tony, his muscles resist, and he has to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. Taking slow breaths, he relaxes, releasing him inch by inch. The cockring, thankfully, has an easy release; he doesn't have to roll it over the head of Tony's cock, just feel behind him until it snaps free.
He topples over on the bed with a grunt and inches his way up to Tony. As little as he feels like moving right now, he knows he needs to take care of him first. "Hey," he murmurs, brushing a kiss against his damp forehead. "That was great." With trembling hands, he frees one wrist, then the other, stretching to reach the restraints, then pulls the blindfold off. The plug's still in him, but Steve just needs a moment to cuddle and, you know, not move. He rests his chin on Tony's shoulder and closes his eyes.
All of the blindfold's edges are damp. When Steve removes it, a fresh tear rolls down Tony's temple. Tony blinks up at Steve through the wet lattice of his eyelashes and then closes his eyes again. His arms lie stretched out in the same spread-eagle position with the fingers sometimes twitching like they're still restrained (they are in a way, except this time it's all mental). Between Tony's legs the dildo has been sucked in more. His cock has completely softened.
He bumps his head lightly against Steve's, then lets it loll on the pillows like a drunkard. His eyes are glazed, dream-like, whenever he peeks them open. He is so very deeply under: he's in a half-conscious hypnotic state, breathing like someone fast asleep even as his eyes roam and he blinks in slow motion.
Steve brushes his lips against Tony's jawline, taking a moment to just bask in the afterglow. He tastes a bitter drop of semen on his skin and snorts, amused in a juvenile sort of way. "Guess I wasn't too far off when I said I was gonna come all over you." He's still breathless, and he doesn't expect Tony to respond, not with how far under he is. He's mostly talking to himself, which is probably kind of weird, so he shuts up and lets himself just enjoy this.
About ten minutes later, he stirs slowly and looks down at Tony - and his body. Specifically, his cock, which is dirty in an entirely different way than he'd expected. What the fuck? he thinks, because somehow Steve hadn't put two and two together and realized that the pain he felt was associated with blood. "Shit," he hisses under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit-" and then he rolls over, and there's another "shit". Not that he hasn't had his fair share of suppositories, which were unpleasant in their own way, but this is a new and not really exciting experience for him, right down to the sloshing in his ass. As much as he tries to tighten and hold it in, it doesn't really work as he hobbles to the bathroom, and there's a trail behind him. God, he hopes Tony has a good cleaning service.
He doesn't even look at the toilet afterwards, just flushes everything down, and he grabs some washcloths and towels, running a couple under the faucet. Moving is easier as he keeps going, or else he's just ignoring the pain (probably that one), and he staggers back to the bed to start cleaning Tony off, wiping him down gently with warm damp cloths.
When Steve returns, Tony has moved. He's twisted himself reaching in the direction of the ensuite bathroom like he tried to get up and follow Steve, his flower toward Steve's sun, but his motor functions quit halfway through. One of his hands dangles over the edge of the bed, fingers weakly curled. After being jostled, the dildo sticks awkwardly out from his body. Tony tracks Steve across the room from the moment he reenters; keeping Steve in his sight is the single most important task in the world. Tony might have crumbled if not for the faint sounds he caught through the open crack of the doorway.
Noticing the washcloths, he rolls onto his back to expose his sullied front. He knows the routine. Steve's come has dried into thick, sticky globs while the lube, mixed with the smears of blood, shines over Tony's crotch and backside. The dildo slips out more. His face contorts briefly, but his eyes remain, enthralled, on Steve's.
"Hey, you." Steve smiles at Tony as he sits down on the edge of the bed. With a little wiggling and a few whispers of "relax" to Tony, he works the toy the rest of the way out and tosses it over the other side of the bed. He starts at Tony's neck and works his way down with broad swipes. At least his chest and stomach are easy enough to clean, and he's still faintly proud of that part (and a little amused, and a little turned on).
He uses the second washcloth on his cock, and it turns the reddish-brown of dried blood. Steve's not squeamish when it comes to, well, basically anything produced by the human body, but he does wince at his own goddamn stupidity. He can't imagine what Tony's going to say when he comes out of it. As messy as he is, it really doesn't take too long to clean him off, and Steve gives him a nice rubdown with the towel - not that he's particularly wet, but it seems like a nice thing to do, especially with Tony's fancy soft towels.
Both towels and washcloths are unceremoniously dropped on the floor, and he goes back to the bathroom to wash his hands, leaving the door open. Once he's done with that, he promptly snuggles back up to Tony, kissing his cheek. "You did good, sweetheart," he reassures him. Steve knows what Tony likes when he's under. Speaking of which- "One sec," and he clambers over Tony to get to the other side of the bed and rummage through his overnight bag, dropped by the closet. He takes out a simple white box tied with a ribbon and brings it back to bed with him, tugging the ribbon loose and popping the lid off.
"Look what I got." Steve tilts the box to display an array of expensive chocolates, purchased just before he met up with Tony earlier today. He plucks one out and holds it in front of Tony's nose so he can smell the aroma, then presses it against his lips. "Just for you."
Tony greets him back with a tiny "hi." He does his best to aid Steve with minimal instruction, tipping his chin up or lifting his arms and legs, and shivers and sighs and basks in the care. Cleaning his cock draws out pained, sipped breaths no matter how gentle Steve is; it's sore and oversensitive. The moment Steve cuddles up, Tony is responding, cooing, nestling into him. He makes a wounded noise like an excitable dog told to stay behind when Steve crawls off him, but he waits. His mouth opens before Steve even holds the chocolate out.
Steve is the one who presses the chocolate in, hand-feeding him, Tony's lips brushing along his fingers. Rolling the piece on his tongue, letting it melt more than chew it, Tony wriggles onto his side and curls in closer to Steve, the center of his world. "Goo' t' me," he says, garbled.
"Just taking care of you, honeybunch." Steve wonders for a moment if Tony would notice if he started using increasingly bizarre pet names, and decides that he's probably too far under for that. He kisses him softly, savoring the taste of chocolate. Steve knows how much Tony likes having his sweet tooth indulged, even if he rarely does it himself.
Holding the next piece of chocolate between his teeth, Steve leans in, and as they kiss, it melts slowly between them. When Steve pulls back, his lips are smeared with chocolate, a sticky-sweet layer on top of the skin.
"I meant to put the collar on you," he admits with a little chagrin, "but I forgot. 's hard to keep everything straight sometimes." In the heat of the moment, Steve sometimes loses track of his battle tactics, the plans he'd laid down in his head getting sidetracked by spontaneous inspiration. Sometimes, as he's discovered, the results of that are less than ideal - much like on a battlefield, in fact.
Tony has a matching stain of chocolate after the kiss. Head resting on the pillows, he swallows the piece and licks his own lips clean. Then he frowns, considering Steve's admission. When he answers, it comes seconds later than normal, than if he weren't under, all mental processes slowed. What will be an obvious and simple solution later, Tony now needs to drag out of the depths. "Y'can put it on me now," he offers and sits up onto his hip, legs folded to his side on the bed. The skirt a pile of ruffles around him, Tony bares his neck for Steve to buckle the collar, which Tony left atop his bedside table, onto him.
Steve's more surprised at Tony taking the initiative than anything else, even if it is slower than it would be otherwise. But the collar, he knows, makes him feel safe and secure, and it makes sense he would enjoy having it on even after a scene's over. "All right," he agrees with a soft smile.
It's easy enough to lean over and snag the collar from the table, and Steve caresses the smooth leather surface for a moment before he places it around Tony's neck, making sure it's snug against his skin and the buckle sits at the base of his throat. "Should've worn a white shirt," he teases him with a throaty chuckle. As much as Steve would rather keep Steve Rogers and Captain America two separate people, he has to accept the occasional bleedthrough to other parts of his life - including stupid patriotic jokes.
"I can next time?" Tony says meekly, needing to please. Nuance doesn't translate well to him right now. If Steve says he should've worn a white shirt, he should've worn a white shirt.
"I'll tell you ahead of time," Steve promises, knowing what Tony needs to hear right now. "Don't worry about it, the black shirt looks good on you." He kisses the lightly stubbled skin of Tony's throat, just above the Adam's apple. "Everything looks good on you, dumpling."
The slight, chastised hunch of his shoulders fades away. Said black shirt still hangs opened from them. "Thank you," he whispers sincerely, then pauses, then scoots forward and nestles up to Steve however he can. He's not as deep anymore, but subspace is so freeing that he often subconsciously delays his return.
Steve wraps an arm around Tony's shoulders, then pulls him back down to the bed, tangling their legs together. He runs the ball of one foot along the stockings, enjoying their silky smoothness, and smiles to himself. "You're welcome, buttercup," he coos, and feeds him another piece of chocolate. Now he's being over the top on purpose.
Tony accepts the chocolate easily, but right after, he ducks his head beneath Steve's chin, arms curled to his chest, hiding in him. He wants to savor this. Being like this, with Steve.
Taking the hint, Steve sets the box of chocolates aside and rests his head on the pillow. He doesn't mean to doze, but he eventually drifts a little with Tony warm and half-draped over him. When he comes back to himself, he blinks slowly and looks down at Tony, who hasn't moved.
"Hey, shortcake." His voice rumbles in his chest a little, still rough from sleep (or not-quite sleep, as the case may be.) "How you doin'?"
As Steve dozed, Tony dared not move a muscle. He waited patiently for Steve to wake. When he does, Tony presses his ear to Steve's chest so he can listen to the thump, thump, thump of his heart, which becomes the metronome for Tony's mind. "'M doing good," he slurs.
He'd expected Tony to protest being called shortcake; the fact that he doesn't, and his slurred speech, means that he's still under. Steve reaches up to stroke Tony's hair, frowning slightly, wondering if he should be concerned. It's been less than an hour, all told, so he's probably overreacting - on the other hand, if he spends this long in subspace, what will the subdrop be like? Logically, it seems like the two should be connected.
"Yeah?" Steve doesn't really know what to say, what to do. Waiting it out might not be the best option, but it's the only one he's got. "Just lemme know if anything doesn't feel right, okay?" Because obviously Tony is a completely reliable source right now.
Tony sighs dreamily at the hand stroking his hair. Vaguely he wonders how could anything not feel right, but he whispers back, "Okay," anyway, because Steve said to.
Time passes in silence with the both of them lying there. Tony has lost any sense of it. Thump, thump, beats Steve's heart beneath his ear, and Steve's hand strokes his hair. Eventually, with Steve staying awake, the drive to be good has Tony nuzzling the bridge of his nose up against the underside of Steve's chin.
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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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The orgasm wrenches itself out of him, violently. It seems to last a millennium to his addled mind. He's whimpery and weak afterward. Spots of tears glimmer at the corners of the blindfold.
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Steve's dazed as he comes down from the high of his own orgasm, but as he moves to pull off of Tony, his muscles resist, and he has to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. Taking slow breaths, he relaxes, releasing him inch by inch. The cockring, thankfully, has an easy release; he doesn't have to roll it over the head of Tony's cock, just feel behind him until it snaps free.
He topples over on the bed with a grunt and inches his way up to Tony. As little as he feels like moving right now, he knows he needs to take care of him first. "Hey," he murmurs, brushing a kiss against his damp forehead. "That was great." With trembling hands, he frees one wrist, then the other, stretching to reach the restraints, then pulls the blindfold off. The plug's still in him, but Steve just needs a moment to cuddle and, you know, not move. He rests his chin on Tony's shoulder and closes his eyes.
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He bumps his head lightly against Steve's, then lets it loll on the pillows like a drunkard. His eyes are glazed, dream-like, whenever he peeks them open. He is so very deeply under: he's in a half-conscious hypnotic state, breathing like someone fast asleep even as his eyes roam and he blinks in slow motion.
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About ten minutes later, he stirs slowly and looks down at Tony - and his body. Specifically, his cock, which is dirty in an entirely different way than he'd expected. What the fuck? he thinks, because somehow Steve hadn't put two and two together and realized that the pain he felt was associated with blood. "Shit," he hisses under his breath. "Shit, shit, shit-" and then he rolls over, and there's another "shit". Not that he hasn't had his fair share of suppositories, which were unpleasant in their own way, but this is a new and not really exciting experience for him, right down to the sloshing in his ass. As much as he tries to tighten and hold it in, it doesn't really work as he hobbles to the bathroom, and there's a trail behind him. God, he hopes Tony has a good cleaning service.
He doesn't even look at the toilet afterwards, just flushes everything down, and he grabs some washcloths and towels, running a couple under the faucet. Moving is easier as he keeps going, or else he's just ignoring the pain (probably that one), and he staggers back to the bed to start cleaning Tony off, wiping him down gently with warm damp cloths.
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Noticing the washcloths, he rolls onto his back to expose his sullied front. He knows the routine. Steve's come has dried into thick, sticky globs while the lube, mixed with the smears of blood, shines over Tony's crotch and backside. The dildo slips out more. His face contorts briefly, but his eyes remain, enthralled, on Steve's.
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He uses the second washcloth on his cock, and it turns the reddish-brown of dried blood. Steve's not squeamish when it comes to, well, basically anything produced by the human body, but he does wince at his own goddamn stupidity. He can't imagine what Tony's going to say when he comes out of it. As messy as he is, it really doesn't take too long to clean him off, and Steve gives him a nice rubdown with the towel - not that he's particularly wet, but it seems like a nice thing to do, especially with Tony's fancy soft towels.
Both towels and washcloths are unceremoniously dropped on the floor, and he goes back to the bathroom to wash his hands, leaving the door open. Once he's done with that, he promptly snuggles back up to Tony, kissing his cheek. "You did good, sweetheart," he reassures him. Steve knows what Tony likes when he's under. Speaking of which- "One sec," and he clambers over Tony to get to the other side of the bed and rummage through his overnight bag, dropped by the closet. He takes out a simple white box tied with a ribbon and brings it back to bed with him, tugging the ribbon loose and popping the lid off.
"Look what I got." Steve tilts the box to display an array of expensive chocolates, purchased just before he met up with Tony earlier today. He plucks one out and holds it in front of Tony's nose so he can smell the aroma, then presses it against his lips. "Just for you."
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Steve is the one who presses the chocolate in, hand-feeding him, Tony's lips brushing along his fingers. Rolling the piece on his tongue, letting it melt more than chew it, Tony wriggles onto his side and curls in closer to Steve, the center of his world. "Goo' t' me," he says, garbled.
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Holding the next piece of chocolate between his teeth, Steve leans in, and as they kiss, it melts slowly between them. When Steve pulls back, his lips are smeared with chocolate, a sticky-sweet layer on top of the skin.
"I meant to put the collar on you," he admits with a little chagrin, "but I forgot. 's hard to keep everything straight sometimes." In the heat of the moment, Steve sometimes loses track of his battle tactics, the plans he'd laid down in his head getting sidetracked by spontaneous inspiration. Sometimes, as he's discovered, the results of that are less than ideal - much like on a battlefield, in fact.
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It's easy enough to lean over and snag the collar from the table, and Steve caresses the smooth leather surface for a moment before he places it around Tony's neck, making sure it's snug against his skin and the buckle sits at the base of his throat. "Should've worn a white shirt," he teases him with a throaty chuckle. As much as Steve would rather keep Steve Rogers and Captain America two separate people, he has to accept the occasional bleedthrough to other parts of his life - including stupid patriotic jokes.
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"Hey, shortcake." His voice rumbles in his chest a little, still rough from sleep (or not-quite sleep, as the case may be.) "How you doin'?"
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"Yeah?" Steve doesn't really know what to say, what to do. Waiting it out might not be the best option, but it's the only one he's got. "Just lemme know if anything doesn't feel right, okay?" Because obviously Tony is a completely reliable source right now.
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Time passes in silence with the both of them lying there. Tony has lost any sense of it. Thump, thump, beats Steve's heart beneath his ear, and Steve's hand strokes his hair. Eventually, with Steve staying awake, the drive to be good has Tony nuzzling the bridge of his nose up against the underside of Steve's chin.
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