Steve isn’t Tony’s first.
Far from it because when a fifteen year old kid has his dad’s bank account, fat and yielding and at his disposal, he’s going to spend it on a trick. There’s no use in sugaring the truth. It was the eighties and Tony’d had a hard-on to deal with at least three times a day and he’d never been in the mood for pretenses. With prostitutes, you knew what you were getting.
They want in your wallet and they don’t act like they want to be your friend in order to get there. It’s a blunt sort of business that Tony appreciates.
Over the years, the only thing that ever followed Tony home were extra condoms, lipstick or sultry cologne. Things indiscriminate, non-specific and easy to wash off in his hot shower and down the drain.
What doesn’t scrub off Tony’s skin is the feel of Steve’s fingers, the bruises left in the curves behind Tony’s knees and on the inside of his thighs. Tony can’t rid of the teeth impressions on his collarbone, the mark of an open mouth that circles his left nipple.
What terrifies Tony, makes him shake likes he’s in fucking shock up against the slick porcelain wall, is that he doesn’t want to lose what Steve’s given him.
He wants more and Tony Stark doesn’t want for anything. Not in this life.
Steve isn’t Tony’s first but he's novel. Steve becomes a repeat and a constant.
One night turns into another into another into scheduled appointments, and soon whenever Tony just aches for it.
Each time is liquid hot like a sharp needle, piercing through Tony and stringing threads.
Tony slaps a number of hundreds on the service desk when he stalks into the hotel. He doesn’t even bother stopping for a keycard. Steve’s in the room, he knows. It’s finally his time and he’s been waiting all week for this.
And wonderful, gorgeous Steve, Tony doesn’t even have to fucking knock.
He’s pushed against the door once he's inside and Steve grinds against him, fitting his thigh between Tony’s legs, putting pressure on Tony’s already throbbing cock. Tony groans and arches into the friction building between the two of them. Pleads because it feels like it’s been forever. And what the hell is this dependency?
Steve’s eyes are nearly black they’re so dosed with lust but his voice is darker. Dirty as sin. “Want you in my mouth. Want you to fuck me. That okay?”
“Fuck, Steve, what kind of question is that? You’re crazy if you think I’d say no to that.” Tony licks his throat, bites his living pulse. Punishes it. “Whatever you want, baby. Just get on me.”
On his knees, Steve doesn’t waste time or prolong with any show. He swallows Tony like a—
Like the professional that he is. Tony’s not the only one Steve’s handled this way. That’s something else he knows.
But Tony tends to think, too stupidly, too hypothetically, too much in all honesty. What he knows, he wants to be false.
Steve shuts his hyperactive brain up though. He licks the slit of his cock before letting it sit heavy on his tongue and sucking hard once again but not long enough. All too soon he releases Tony, drawing out a whine. Steve kisses the head softly, kind.
He wraps his hand around Tony’s cock, drags it up and down through the mess of precome and spit. He noses around Tony’s balls, wets them with strong laps of tongue. He licks a particularly pointed stripe, full of intent. His breath is hot as he speaks. “Been thinking about you fucking my mouth all day, Tony. Please fuck my mouth. It’s all I want.”
“I am trying,” Tony grunts, not seeing the malfunction. He curls his fingers over Steve’s shoulders.
Steve stares up into him. “It’s been a whole week, Tony. All those boring board meetings? It had to have been stressful. You should let all of that tension go.” He pauses to suck at his own finger and then reach behind Tony, tease. “Give it to me, Tony. Show me how much you missed this.”
So Tony does, widens his legs and just goes because he needs this. Needs Steve. He thrusts with a mission and jerks when Steve pushes his finger inside of him. He tags Steve’s throat when he’s past his concern for Steve’s reflexes. Gets past that point when Steve’s hand grip his thighs and yanks him closer. He doubles over. “Jesus Christ, Steve.”
He breaks when Steve decides to fucking hum around his cock and bare a hint of teeth.
Tony loses himself, control in his legs and has no sense of grace when he slides down the door. Steve slows him before he gets to the floor though. He’s a very gentle person. Tony pets at him pathetically, does his part to get Steve off as well.
They’re a heap on the carpet and Tony is a come stain himself when a light bulb flickers to life in his head. “All that talk about the boardroom? You paid attention to the stock market this morning, huh?”
“Caught a glimpse, yeah.”
“Wouldn’t mind a couple more stock crashes if blowjobs like that are my reward for tanking.”
“How much do you need to make tonight?” Tony asks in the backseat of his limo, as though the answer makes any difference. When Tony calls last minute, he always pays well above Steve's charge. More of an apology than an incentive.
“Isn’t it a bit early?” Steve asks unsure on the other end of the phone. There’s a rustle before Steve speaks again. “It’s only seven, Tony.”
And this part is new, isn’t what they do. “Yeah, I know. It’s not—this isn’t a usual night. There’s this fundraiser for my foundation and,” I want you there, I can’t stare at paintings all night and not think of you, you have no idea how much I want you there. “And I think that you’d enjoy it. The food’s not completely awful and there’ll be enough champagne to turn the Grand Canyon into a bubbly ocean. Plus, it’s for a really good cause. You've got a charitable heart, Steve. I know it.”
“I’m hardly high-end, Tony.”
“I don’t care.”
“I don’t care, Steve. Come with me.”
The line is silent for a heart-stopping stretch. Tony’s about to take it back because he knows that he has a tendency to push but right when he’s about to, Steve finally says yes.
Thank fuck, he says yes and Tony’s overwhelmed with relief. He closes his eyes, exhales slowly. “Alright then. Can you be ready in hour? Is that okay?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Tony can picture the smile that’s on Steve’s face. There’s no harm in returning it, he feels, if Steve can’t see his.
Later, in the safety of a blank hotel room, Tony rides on Steve’s cock and could swear he’s on the edge of death. The position is a reluctant favorite of Tony’s, so intimate and inescapable. His back is pressed to Steve’s front, pulled up close and tight, melded into one another.
He gasps when he feels Steve’s tongue tracing the bumps of his spine, the wet kisses against the skin of his neck. “So amazing, Tony. So tight. I’m almost there. Are you…”
“Almost, baby, almost,” Tony pants. Every inch of himself feels like it’s on fire but even engulfed, he tries for more. He rolls his head back and leans his neck over Steve’s wide shoulder, gasps when Steve starts sucking a bruise. Tony squeezes and rocks into their hungry thrusts more fiercely. “Don’t stop, Steve. Just—fuck, fuck, fuck me, Steve. God. It’s so good.”
Steve’s hand moves from Tony’s ribs to his cock, twists Tony roughly and owns.
Tony's orgasm hits him savagely and Steve trembles in counterpart.
“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Steve is reassuring, affectionate, lovely. “You’re beautiful. I can’t. I can’t believe how good this is,” Steve whispers at Tony’s ear, his breath hitching. It’s too close for Tony to ignore. “You’re… I—Tony,” he says, brokenly.
They cross another line and don’t let each other go.
“You’re in demand,” Tony comments, half of his face stuffed into one of the plush pillows. “That’s the third text you’ve gotten in as many minutes.”
Tony’s not sure how Steve can blush so bright after he’s just gotten done tonguing Tony’s ass open, hasn’t completely removed the satin restraints from Tony’s wrists. He turns to Tony with spit-slicked lips, shrugging.
“Ever since the fundraiser, I’ve been getting a lot of offers from people who want to be clients,” Steve says. His tone is weird, he sounds amused. His old man shtick—as though he’s thinking, ‘kids these days.’
Uneasily, Tony smirks. “You’re welcome, hot stuff. You gonna take anyone up on one?”
Steve reaches over for his phone and turns it on silent with a frown. After a minute, he snuggles, that’s really the only word for it, deeper into the mattress and shakes his head, distant and disinterested. “No. Probably not.”
It’s almost the end of December when things go to hell. Par for the course when it comes to Tony's holiday traditions.
“I was wondering. You got any plans for Christmas?” Steve asks when his blond head resurfaces out of his blue sweater. That sweater does great things for Steve, for Tony as an observer. “It’s three days away and you’re still in the city.”
“I’m not committed to anything. At least not that I know of,” Tony says, pulling on his shoes. “I’ve never been too big on the holidays so it’s like any other day really. I’ve told you about my attendance record at work, right?”
Steve laughs, says simply, “Hmm. In that case, I’ll take my chances then. We should get together.”
“Sure. I could maybe swing something. Get us a room—”
And it’s a rarity but Tony cuts himself off because Steve looks like he just lost his entire world. He gets up off of the bed. “Steve? Are you okay?”
“What? Tony, I don’t want a room somewhere!” Steve snaps, zero to sixty in a flash. Tony half-anticipates wisps of steam to leave his ears. Tony’s never seen him angry and it’s a fucking sight. “You cannot be serious!”
Bewildered and unbalanced, Tony walks over to Steve and reaches out, is gut-kicked when the other man moves away. Steve’s expression makes him feel empty and nauseous. It’s not a first, feeling dizzy in Steve’s presence but this heady sense isn’t welcomed. “I don’t—”
“How can you still not know, Tony?” Steve asks.
It’s familiar to pity, is a close relative, the look on Steve’s face and it riles Tony up, has him switching over to fury quickly. “What is your fucking problem? What exactly am I missing here?”
“Everything,” Steve chokes out and god, the yelling was so much better than that. “I don’t want—fuck, Tony. I don’t want a room. I’m sick and tired of rooms. This room is a prison.”
“What do you want then? A party? A trip to Malibu? What, Steve? What do you want?” Tony demands.
“You,” Steve tells him after a stillness. “All I ever wanted was you.”
Steve shuts the door softly when he leaves.
“I’m an idiot.”
“I hope that you’re not expecting me to disagree.”
“I didn’t expect you to accept my invitation in the first place. I’m doing my best to not get ahead of myself,” Tony admits. He carefully slides a jacketed Styrofoam cup across the table between them. “I remember you telling me about your addiction to peppermint. It’s flavored hot chocolate. Has whipped cream and everything.”
“Sweet of you,” Steve murmurs, taking it in hand. He sips at it. “You honestly meant everything. Sprinkles, Tony? Really?”
“I had to go all in. I screwed up pretty royally.” Tony says.
Steve shakes his head. “I wasn’t entirely forthcoming. I could’ve just told you instead of waiting around for you to notice. That wasn’t fair.”
“When did you stop?”
“Almost two months after I met you,” Steve says lowly, wary of the patrons around them in the coffee shop. “It didn’t ever feel right with anyone before you but I knew for sure that it never would after that first night. I couldn’t keep doing it. Couldn’t stand anyone touching me but you.”
Undone and through with pretenses, Tony grabs Steve’s free hand, tangles their fingers together. He smiles. “So I guess it’s safe to presume that you don’t have any plans for Christmas?”
Steve laughs softly. “And what happened to not getting ahead of yourself?”
“I formed it in a question,” Tony says agreeably. “I’m not a completely changed man, Steve.”
“Good. And yes. I don’t have any plans. You guessed correctly.”
“Come home with me then?”
Tony wants that smile opposite of him all of the time, like a constant.
“Yeah? Yeah. I’d love that.”