The first time they have sex, Tony isn’t really hoping for much.
Which is . . . really bad actually, now that he thinks about it, but it’s the truth.
The thing is though that Steve is a nice guy. A really, really nice, upstanding, gentlemanly type of guy who doesn’t curse, especially if a lady is present, doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks (and Tony gets that Steve thinks it’s not worth it considering he can’t get drunk, but that would just make Tony drink more if their positions were reversed), and from what he’s gathered the few times they’ve skirted the issue, Steve doesn’t have much experience dating, let alone having sex. There’s just no way that Steve is going to be up for any adventurous shenanigans in the bedroom initially. Maybe not ever. Hell, he probably thinks people sleeping in a California King bed together versus separately in two twins is the height of debauchery.
And Tony’s okay with that. For the most part.
Sure, it’s taken a lot of soul searching on his part to decide to pursue Steve seriously. He has no problem with monogamy, so that’s not an issue, and he’s willing to wait however long Steve wants before they get down to the actual sex. If that means months of chaste kisses and handholding, well, he’s got porn, lots and lots of porn, so he thinks he can make do.
It’s the actual fucking that he’s worried about. It’s not like he expects there to be twins and a monkey in his room or anything, but while missionary position is alright, it’s not his favorite, and the thought of having to turn off the light every time he wants to have sex is enough to make him scurry to invest millions in the night vision department of his company, because the suit’s current capabilities aren’t going to cut it.
Still, this is Steve. And that makes up for almost everything.
Needless to say, he is pleasantly—deliriously—happy when Steve shoves his hand down Tony’s pants on their second date, grip way too tight so that Tony doesn’t even have time to get undressed, just ruins one of his favorite pairs of slacks. And when Steve pushes him down on the bed later that night, he’s willing to reevaluate everything he’s ever thought about one Steve Rogers.
“Tony, oh, Tony,” Steve gasps, pressing bruising kisses against his lips while he tears at his clothes.
Tony only vaguely remembers what it was like his first time, that frantic need to touch and be touched, orgasm building steadily no matter what he did, because it all felt good, all of it, the anxious urge to please and do well, so that his partner would want to come back for more.
It’s been a long time since then. He doesn’t even remember when he lost his virginity (that’s a lie, he remembers the exact date and time as a matter of fact, as well as the seven point three minutes it took before they could go again), but he remembers how proud he’d been when she’d come, when she’d looked at him through her lashes, flushed and content.
He can’t give Steve that same proof of his appreciation yet, because while he’s definitely thrilled to be where he is, there’s just no way he’s going to catch up with him in time. Still, there’s more than one way to show approval, and he’s always liked the sound of his own voice.
“Yeah, come on, Steve, come on,” he says, scratching red lines into Steve’s thighs as Steve moans and shivers above him. “That feels so good, you feel so good, baby.” Steve is probably going to mock him later for that, but Tony’s always had a thing about pet names (it’s a sickness really), and the more he likes someone, the more affection seems to spew out of him.
He likes Steve a lot. Like, a lot a lot, so Steve might as well start getting used to it now.
“You’re so ready to come, aren’t you?” he asks and has to bite his lip at Steve’s muffled groan, his hips picking up speed as he rubs against him. “You just need a little bit more. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give it to you.”
It’s so easy to slide his fingers between Steve’s legs, to brush against soft, hot skin as Steve’s thrusts turn jerky, his powerful legs starting to tremble.
“Shh,” Tony whispers, although the sound Steve makes is less words and more of a whine when he pushes the tip of one finger inside him. “I’ve got you.”
Steve’s head is buried against his neck, so he doesn’t get to see his expression when he comes, but he can feel it in the grip of his hands and the stutter of his hips, hear it in the way Steve moans his name. And surprise, surprise, it turns out Tony was wrong after all. Having Steve come undone right on top of him, he catches up with him right away, no problem.
Later, he can’t get over the shock of, well, how forward Steve is, the brazen hussy, and the next day, he finds himself staring at Steve a trifle suspiciously, wondering what else he’d thought he’d known about him is wrong.
It’s just, the Steve in his head has always equaled Captain America, the epitome of the word hero, do-gooder extraordinaire, and, to be honest, blushing virgin. Not that Tony has a fetish for virgins or anything, but Steve had been so young when he’d enlisted, and he’d admitted he hadn’t had much luck with the ladies before the serum, and after the serum had been the war, and after that had been Tony, so . . .
Besides, when Steve stands in the sunlight sometimes, it’s like he’s wearing a damn halo, and he has this abashed grin and way of looking shyly away that lulls a person into thinking he’s sweet and innocent, and it’s false advertising, really, it’s not Tony’s fault.
Seriously, he spent days being introspective and mentally preparing himself for little to no sex, girding his loins so to speak in readiness for a slow wooing that wouldn’t sully Steve’s virtue, and look what happened!
On second thought, why is he complaining about this?
“Soooo, Steve, what are your plans for today?”
“Well, I was going to go for a run, then train a little with Thor, maybe—”
“Sounds fascinating. Want to fool around?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
So it turns out Steve is flexible—so flexible—and enthusiastic, and Tony’s concern that Steve might not be adventurous enough for him? Totally unjustified.
And what’s so, so amazing about all of it is that Steve loves cock. Like loves cock. Tony’s cock.
Uh huh. That’s right.
Steve’s basically a come-hungry cock slut—no insult intended obviously, and not that it’s a bad thing by any means, but facts are facts—and Tony doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it, but he’ll do it again and for the rest of his life if it means good fortune will always rain down on him like this.
“Don’t stop,” Steve gasps, the muscles in his back rippling as he arches into Tony’s thrusts. “Tony, oh, more, please don’t stop—”
“Steve,” Tony moans, and he’s trying, okay, he’s trying, has always prided himself on his stamina and never leaving a partner wanting, but fucking hell.
Steve is tight around his cock and hot, unbelievably hot, and they’ve been going at it for a while now (forever), and he kind of feels like he should get some credit for the two orgasms he’s already wrung out of Steve, that shouldn’t be so much to ask.
But Steve is insatiable, whimpering every time Tony pulls back, crying out every time he shoves back in, and he’s just a man for heaven’s sake, how much more is he supposed to bear?
“Sweet cheeks,” he pants, and okay, that’s over the top, there’s no excuse for that one—although in his defense, Steve’s got one of the most glorious asses he’s ever seen. “I’ve got to come sometime—”
Steve groans, pushing back and clenching around him, and that’s it, folks, that’s all she wrote.
He makes up for it with his fingers and his mouth, takes Steve apart until he’s babbling nonsense and riding Tony’s face like there’s no tomorrow, and when Steve comes for the fourth and last time, he looks so destroyed that Tony doesn’t even care his fingers and jaw are cramping.
Plus, Steve blushes every time Tony calls him “sweet cheeks” now, so he counts it as a win.
Even with all the evidence to the contrary, it takes a while to completely get rid of the mental picture he has of Steve. He blames all the Captain America propaganda that he was exposed to at such an impressionable age, as well as the fact that Steve persists in saying things like, “golly” and “oh, geez.”
A part of him wonders if Steve takes advantage of how Tony views him sometimes, because he says stuff that could be innuendo, but it’s all delivered so earnestly that Tony tends to assume he’s perfectly serious, even if there’s that niggle of doubt. If it’s true though, it implies a level of deviousness that would seem more suited to a lawyer or supervillain, and he can’t help but be impressed.
He finally gets it, like really gets it, on Halloween. Tony throws a costume party every year, and this year’s no different, so after careful deliberation and much sniggering (the look on Steve’s face is going to be hilarious), he decides to go as Captain America.
He’s running late the night of, but hell, it’s his party, he can be late if he wants to, and he admires himself in the mirror. Sure, he doesn’t have the height—although he makes up for that in other areas if he does say so himself—and there’s no way in hell he’s shaving off the goatee or wearing the cowl, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.
Apparently, he’s not the only one who thinks so.
Tony had known Steve was going to stare, but there’s staring and then there’s staring, and Steve is most definitely doing the latter. And okay, maybe Tony doesn’t have to stand around and pose as much as he does, but can anyone blame him when Steve’s practically humping him (alright, standing really close and touching him a lot) next to the hors d’oeuvres table?
It’s barely an hour later that Steve—Mr. Responsible, the same guy who the last time Tony had tried to sneak out of a party had said, “It’s bad manners to leave early, especially when you’re the host, Tony. I’m serious. No, really, I am”—Steve hustles him off to the men’s bathroom, and by the look in his eye, it’s not because one of the more rowdy guests spilled a little wine on him a few minutes ago.
“Why, happy Halloween to you, too,” he says, grinning as Steve, who’s dressed in his military uniform, of course he is, pushes him into the stall furthest from the entrance and closes the door behind him.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing that,” Steve replies hoarsely, running his hands over the leather, and hey, if he’s groping Tony in the process, that just makes it better.
“Mmm, you like it,” he says, grinding against the proof. “Very narcissistic of you, I approve.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . you’re wearing my costume. In front of everyone,” Steve says, his voice combining soft wonder and purely male satisfaction.
“And that turns you on.” Not that he needs the verbal confirmation but he enjoys dragging it out of Steve nonetheless. He never would’ve pegged him as the possessive type, but then, he would never have thought he was a closet cock-fiend either, so shows what he knows.
Steve gulps. “Very much.”
By the time they leave the bathroom, Tony’s costume is torn, Steve’s missing buttons, they’re both kind of limping, and there’s a sizeable dent in the side of the stall. It’s obvious what they’ve been up to, and even if it isn’t, the guy who’d walked in during the middle had yelled pretty loudly, so there goes any hope of keeping it quiet.
And while Steve is blushing, it’s not the burning red of someone humiliated down to his very bones, but more of a “oops, did I do that” rosy color that’s rather attractive on him, and he doesn’t seem fazed that they’ve just had sex down the hall from two hundred people, the kinky bastard.
Most of Tony is so proud, he could cry.
However, the last residual piece of him that’s horrified on Steve’s behalf even if Steve isn’t horrified on his own feels obliged to say, “I’m such a bad influence on you.”
“Why do you say that?” Steve asks, looking honestly confused, bless his little heart.
“Well, before me, you would never have done something like this. I’ve corrupted you.”
“Have you really?” he says, lips twitching into this secret little smile that makes Tony frown.
“Sure, Tony.” He adjusts the front of his shirt and keeps walking.
“Wait, what do you mean by ‘sure, Tony’? Steve?”