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.
"What is it?" Steve looks amused. He's still too sore to encourage Tony to go at it again, though he knows Tony doesn't realize that. Slipping two fingers under Tony's chin, he tips his head up. "Is there something you want?" He brings his own lips down to brush against Tony's, although he doesn't try to deepen the kiss yet.
Tony's toes curl in the stockings during the brush of their lips and something loosens up again in his frame. During the silence, he's returned enough that inaction for too long disturbs him. He needs Steve's attention and direction. "Jus' wanna be good for you," Tony says, lost to everything outside of this.
"Mm, you're already good for me," Steve hums against his lips, his hand skating down to cup his ass through the skirt. "You wanna rub my back, though?" He doesn't really want to move from the bed right now, and it seems like a good way to keep Tony occupied for a little bit.
At the praise Tony presses himself to Steve even closer and, eyes half-lidded, mouths at Steve's lips. Pleasure twines through his bones from being called good and makes him want to do more to keep it, so he nods eagerly and scoots away. Steve chooses to roll over rather than sit up. Tony straddles the small of his back, the skirt's form-fitting part pushed into the creases of his thighs. He trails his hands over Steve's back and shoulders, thumbs sometimes rubbing in, to check for tension and knots. Then, he begins by digging the heels of his palms into Steve's trapezius muscles, smoothing them up until they're softer, his fingertips clutched over the inside of Steve's shoulders to work them on the way downward.
Steve is surprisingly tense, especially for someone who's just had sex, but it's a tension that he holds all the time without even thinking about it. He groans as Tony works at his muscles. He wants to arch up into the strokes, like a cat. Sometimes, he feels like he can never get enough touch, that he wants the heat of Tony's hands soaking through his skin all the time, whether it's having their fingers entwined or his palms pressed flat against his back. It's the closest he can come to chasing away the chill that lingers in his bones.
Tony has mapped out the human muscular system in his mind's eye as a guide. Layered next to the spine here, corded around the neck there--he pushes and pulls at each group; has to practically throw his weight into his arms to manipulate Steve's tense, serum-enhanced muscles. Steve guides him, too, with every sigh and groan, even more than the mental map, because he'll know what he likes best. Either way, it's something for Tony to focus on that rewards effort. Ever-so slowly, Steve's upper back gives way to Tony's hands. He keeps working at it, digging in his palms and thumbs, rolling his knuckles. He must lose track of time again, because he comes around to his skin misty with sweat, his arms and wrists aching, a small chill in his bones from an adrenaline crash--and a clearer head, his racing thoughts more ordered and tame, or at least not as immediate and all-consuming as usual. The fact that he even acknowledges the differences tips him off: he's coming back to his senses.
He's seated atop Steve's thighs, his hands flat on either side of Steve's lower spine. Blearily, Tony looks up along the slopes and ridges of Steve's resting form. "Steve?" he tests his voice out.
Steve's never actually had a massage before, and the rhythmic movements lull him into something like a trance. When Tony stops, his muscles are pleasantly sore, but much more relaxed. Steve himself feels more relaxed, looser, almost lighter, like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders.
He turns his head to glance back over his shoulder, blinking slowly. "Hmm?" Tony is, he hopes, gradually coming out of it; he doesn't usually address him directly while he's under. "'s feels good."
Tony stares back at Steve, nodding dumbly but also with a wondrous awe, before it registers that he should speak. "Uh," he begins and shuts his eyes to try and rebuild his composure, but his usual walls are flimsy beneath his grip--then, he realizes that his grip on them is flimsy, too. "I think I'm comin' out of it?"
"Yeah, I think so." Steve laughs breathlessly. "You done with the massage?" He wonders if the subdrop will hit Tony soon, and if he needs to be prepared for that. Even though Tony claims that isn't an issue with him, Steve has his doubts. Neither of them have ever been awake for this part before. "Come back up here," he encourages him.
Nodding, Tony crawls up and flops onto his stomach beside Steve. He shivers a little, teeth chattering once. "Wow, you, uh," he slurs, partly into the pillow, only one glazed, chestnut eye peeking out from it at Steve, "really did a number on me, huh? Dunno if I've ever been that far gone before."
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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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He's seated atop Steve's thighs, his hands flat on either side of Steve's lower spine. Blearily, Tony looks up along the slopes and ridges of Steve's resting form. "Steve?" he tests his voice out.
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He turns his head to glance back over his shoulder, blinking slowly. "Hmm?" Tony is, he hopes, gradually coming out of it; he doesn't usually address him directly while he's under. "'s feels good."
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