God, Steve simultaneously wants to fuck and cuddle, and he isn't sure which side to listen to. His plans get revised yet again, and he hooks his fingertips into the collar, tugging gently. "C'mon. We're going back to my room." The others should still be busy - and if they aren't, that's their problem, not his.
With a perplexed frown Tony first protests, "But I just got down here and comfortable," and then pushes himself up, because Steve's room equals Steve's bed, at least. Once on his feet, Tony flaps a hand at the collar, visibly collecting himself. "Guessing this stays on and obvious? Bit of parading after all?" he assumes.
Steve just grins at Tony before he sweeps him into his arms in a bridal-style carry. Sure, he could settle for a bit of parading, or he could go all out, and right now he's feeling more than mushy enough for the latter.
He turns his head to kiss Tony while he fumbles for the doorknob, shifting Tony's weight slightly to free one hand, and they're out in the hall by the time he comes up for breath. Steve doesn't worry about closing the door behind them; someone will grab it later. He's too wrapped up in Tony.
Thrown for a loop (mentally and physically, to be honest), Tony squawks and flings his arm around the nearest stable element, which happens to be Steve's neck, while the kiss cuts off Tony's followup look, a bewildered almost-smile that rounds one cheek. Out in the hall, after the kiss, his suit jacket and phone forgotten on Steve's desk (let the imagination of whomever finds it run wild), Tony quietly studies Steve's face. Prior experience tells Tony he should still be on his knees in Steve's office, halfway to Steve's dick down his throat, but maybe—well, there are different variables here, he guesses. For one, he's not acting like a right brat about submitting, and two—and point two hits Tony in a jolt, but two—this marks the first time they'll really scene or have sex since Steve's impromptu pop-culture love confession, a single instance of sexting aside.
Steve looks so happy. Tony makes him happy, and he hasn't even really done anything, but why argue with results? How I learned to stop worrying, Tony huffs to himself and sinks into Steve's hold, relaxing against him. He and Steve might, on the outside, be a prime example of why the M.A.D. doctrine persists, but so far, so good, right? Steve trusts him. Steve loves him. Tony lo—trusts him right back. At least for now, Tony can push aside any and all trimmings and just enjoy the literal ride.
Granted, patience is not his strongest virtue, and he's pretty sure Steve's jawline was chiseled by Michelangelo in heaven, so the moment they pass through Steve's bedroom door Tony nuzzles that jaw, squirming in Steve's arms. He brushes both his lips and beard up along it and ends with a tiny lick, just the tip of his tongue, on Steve's earlobe.
Steve feels a surge of smug satisfaction (among other things) when Tony wraps an arm around his neck - he always relishes catching Tony off-guard - and he practically radiates it through the kiss and through the way his lips stay curved in a goofy smile the whole short walk to his bedroom. He loves the way Tony relaxes in his arms, the way he feels against his chest; it's one of those perfect moments where everything comes together in just the right way.
And then they're in Steve's bedroom - this time, he makes sure to kick the door shut - and Tony's lips find his jaw, and god, just that tiny lick makes his dick twitch in his pants. He sets Tony down on the bed carefully and sits next to him, cupping his cheeks in his hands, stroking his thumbs over that carefully trimmed beard before he closes the distance between them and kisses him again. He wants to kiss him till he's breathless, wants to whisper his love in between kisses. Steve wants, practically overflowing with the sensation like a bowl brimming with water, and he wishes he could share it with Tony.
"They can't get our new rooms done soon enough," he murmurs in between kisses. "I need to be able to do this all the time."
Eyes turning dreamy with his face between Steve's hands, Tony kisses leisurely back with just a small tease here and there, like a nibble on Steve's lower lip. He's stretched out on the bed, leaning back on his hands, body open. He's stopped trying to control where this is headed and how fast it heads there, the teasing nibbles and looks more questions, requests, than anything. "I will occasionally need to get out of bed, stallion," Tony reminds him breathily, close to Steve's mouth, even as he spreads his thighs in invitation, another hinted request: can he have contact of the full-body kind now, please?
Steve pulls his legs up onto the bed and shifts closer to Tony, not quite touching, but still close. "Like the shower?" Another kiss. "Or in the kitchen?" He gives Tony a small nibble of his own, lingering a little longer. "Or while watching a movie?" Now he presses close, and a sigh of contentment escapes as he shudders, pleasure rippling through his body. "I'd like you to soap me up sometime," he confesses softly. "Have your hands all over my body, cleaning me off and taking care of me. You'd be good at it, wouldn't you?"
Back when Steve got beat up by the Wrecking Crew, Tony led him to a bath to clean off the blood and grime after patching him up. He only washed Steve's hair then—with Steve's back all messed up, best to limit excess pull on those muscles—and he washed it while full of witty admonishments (words a playful scold, but hands so deft, gentle, thorough), but Tony still entered a peaceful trance doing it. Once other words died down and it was just the light sloshing of water and sudsy scrubbing, Tony whispered, "I like this sorta thing," and then more boldly continued, "and being pampered, being pampered's great, but this is nice, too. I, uh... I like being able to ... take care of. People," he finishes, quieter again, the words loaded with admittance. They hadn't really talked since that time over text about Tony's personal likes and dislikes. He was trying to open up: an olive branch and sacrificial offering of himself to make up for the terribly vulnerable spot Steve had bared to him the night before. As you wish. The scales tipped way harder on Steve's side still, but for right then, that little offered bit had to be enough.
Now, the thought of getting to do that, of being good like that for Steve, along with finally feeling the hard line of Steve's body against his, chucks Tony's thought processes straight off the cliff. "Yessir, s'good, the best," he rattles off, eyelashes lowered, then leans forward for another kiss, legs spreading farther.
Steve grins against Tony's lips. He remembers that conversation, of course, and a few other hints he's dropped once or twice. It's been something he's avoided up till now for a couple reasons - largely because Tony's spent more time acting out and testing his limits, and service hasn't fit in there, but also because Steve's been afraid, up till now, of doing things that sounded too much like what Tony had told him of the routines he'd established with Pepper. He hadn't wanted to be too much like Pepper, to evoke those memories. (He'd wanted to make sure Tony wanted him specifically, and not just someone to take him under.)
His hand finds Tony's length and strokes him a couple times through the fabric of his pants, giving him more of what he wants. Steve loves the feel of expensive cloth over hard, hot skin, loves the way Tony looks in those suits that fit him like a glove. Granted, he finds him attractive in everything (and nothing), but there's a certain flair he has when he's dressed up like this - something Steve will never be able to pull off in the same clothes.
"You know, I could use a massage right now," he offers. "Work all the kinks out of my back. Why don't you take my clothes off and help me out?"
"Izzat an order?" Tony slurs with a loose smirk, the combination of submissive and confident turning out endearingly clumsy on his face, and scoots out from underneath Steve just enough to sit up and use his hands. He trembles a little (wants Steve to touch him more, fuck him silly, make him come long and loudly, but he wants to do this, too, for Steve, who remembered what Tony likes) and reaches for the buttons on Steve's vest, starting from top to bottom. "I dunno, sounded a lil' wishy-washy. You should try being more assertive, like me," Tony cracks, the words and his grin at the end a (very manly) teehee like it's a inside joke (and to the outside world, it really is, one shared between them), his head lowered, focused on his task.
Once he frees the last button, Tony slides the vest off Steve's shoulders and down his arms, hands flat against Steve the whole way, feeling every ridge and curve of muscle, reverent.
Steve sighs with contentment as Tony slides his palms over him, leaning into the touch like a cat. No matter how much Tony gives him, he's always hungry for more contact, seeking out every bit he can and wringing it dry. The way Tony treats him makes him feel less like a stranger in someone else's body and more in tune with himself, more comfortable in his own skin.
"I'll keep that in mind," he teases back. He's not trying to be assertive right now, and they both know it - he doesn't want to be. Steve just wants to have this moment between the two of them, cozy and intimate and perfect.
Tony hums noncommittally. Steve's tie he leaves hanging loose around his neck. Next, Tony plucks open Steve's shirt buttons, comfortable but purposeful. He's familiar with service. He's good at it, too. So much of this dynamic with Steve has been fraught with blindness and self-doubt and the fear that comes from them. Getting to do this, right now, feels like Steve is the one doing Tony a service. The resulting sureness and ease soaks through Tony's whole posture. He's so grateful—for this, and the second chance at companionship. Grateful for Steve ... just being Steve.
"On your stomach, if you please, Captain," Tony whispers; it's a respectful use of Steve's title. He removes Steve's tie and shirt like a subject removing his king's cloak and folds them individually and with great care, setting them aside with the folded vest, while Steve gets comfortable.
Steve settles on his back first, smirking up at Tony. "You forgot about my pants." He's already toed his shoes off, and the tent in the fabric provides a strong hint as to why Steve might want to get completely naked (though, honestly, he wants to feel Tony's hands everywhere, that reverent touch roaming over his thighs and calves). "I meant all my clothes."
What a horndog, and that's saying something coming from him, thinks Tony with a subtle but fond eye roll and smile. "Oh, did you?" he answers, too innocently to be sincere. The folding done, he flicks an appreciative gaze along Steve, then crawls over and straddles his lower legs. "Right, my bad. My mistake," he says, acting chagrined, and undoes Steve's pants. He slides down Steve's slacks and underwear together, but pauses with faked surprise after Steve's cock leaps free. "Eager for your happy ending, are you?" Tony says, scandalized, like he isn't modeling his own tented pants. His look is warm; he feels so relaxed (happy) and in the moment, tuned to only Steve without even falling into subspace yet.
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He turns his head to kiss Tony while he fumbles for the doorknob, shifting Tony's weight slightly to free one hand, and they're out in the hall by the time he comes up for breath. Steve doesn't worry about closing the door behind them; someone will grab it later. He's too wrapped up in Tony.
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Steve looks so happy. Tony makes him happy, and he hasn't even really done anything, but why argue with results? How I learned to stop worrying, Tony huffs to himself and sinks into Steve's hold, relaxing against him. He and Steve might, on the outside, be a prime example of why the M.A.D. doctrine persists, but so far, so good, right? Steve trusts him. Steve loves him. Tony lo—trusts him right back. At least for now, Tony can push aside any and all trimmings and just enjoy the literal ride.
Granted, patience is not his strongest virtue, and he's pretty sure Steve's jawline was chiseled by Michelangelo in heaven, so the moment they pass through Steve's bedroom door Tony nuzzles that jaw, squirming in Steve's arms. He brushes both his lips and beard up along it and ends with a tiny lick, just the tip of his tongue, on Steve's earlobe.
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And then they're in Steve's bedroom - this time, he makes sure to kick the door shut - and Tony's lips find his jaw, and god, just that tiny lick makes his dick twitch in his pants. He sets Tony down on the bed carefully and sits next to him, cupping his cheeks in his hands, stroking his thumbs over that carefully trimmed beard before he closes the distance between them and kisses him again. He wants to kiss him till he's breathless, wants to whisper his love in between kisses. Steve wants, practically overflowing with the sensation like a bowl brimming with water, and he wishes he could share it with Tony.
"They can't get our new rooms done soon enough," he murmurs in between kisses. "I need to be able to do this all the time."
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Now, the thought of getting to do that, of being good like that for Steve, along with finally feeling the hard line of Steve's body against his, chucks Tony's thought processes straight off the cliff. "Yessir, s'good, the best," he rattles off, eyelashes lowered, then leans forward for another kiss, legs spreading farther.
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His hand finds Tony's length and strokes him a couple times through the fabric of his pants, giving him more of what he wants. Steve loves the feel of expensive cloth over hard, hot skin, loves the way Tony looks in those suits that fit him like a glove. Granted, he finds him attractive in everything (and nothing), but there's a certain flair he has when he's dressed up like this - something Steve will never be able to pull off in the same clothes.
"You know, I could use a massage right now," he offers. "Work all the kinks out of my back. Why don't you take my clothes off and help me out?"
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Once he frees the last button, Tony slides the vest off Steve's shoulders and down his arms, hands flat against Steve the whole way, feeling every ridge and curve of muscle, reverent.
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"I'll keep that in mind," he teases back. He's not trying to be assertive right now, and they both know it - he doesn't want to be. Steve just wants to have this moment between the two of them, cozy and intimate and perfect.
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"On your stomach, if you please, Captain," Tony whispers; it's a respectful use of Steve's title. He removes Steve's tie and shirt like a subject removing his king's cloak and folds them individually and with great care, setting them aside with the folded vest, while Steve gets comfortable.
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