cog_nomen: (black sabbath)
[personal profile] cog_nomen
Title: How Many Scientists Does it Take to Screw in the Stark Tower?
Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Tony Stark/Bruce Banner
Rating: M, this part
Word Count: 1,652
Status: Chapter 2 of ?
Summary: Honestly, Bruce hadn't gone into this looking to form any lasting attachments - if he was honest with himself, he knew better.

A week ago, Bruce wouldn't have guessed that there was any possible chain of events that could possibly lead him here. He would have denied out-of-hand that he could even be in the Stark tower to begin with, let alone settled as deeply into the overstuffed leather couch as it was possible without becoming a part of it, and worried about inadvertently doing something to the leather with his naked backside. He was also sticking to it - distracting him from the fact that Tony Stark himself was on his knees on the plush carpet between Bruce's legs and with his mouth on Bruce's dick. It's so much that it's almost too much, and his mind is only loosely bothering to accept it - more like a theoretical proposition than 'this is really happening right now.

Even when he'd' agreed to Tony's proposition of discovering the line between 'okay' and 'too much', this really hadn't entered his mind. Stark had been incredulous - 'you never thought to see if sex was okay?' - like it was possibly one of the most important things in the world. Bruce had honestly, at first, been more worried about slamming his fingers in desk drawers or jarring his funny bone. After that, sex seemed kind of unimportant - like the risk might not be worth it for something that Bruce deserved to live without if he had to.

After that discovery - and the one where Tony had not only revealed that he was more into AC/DC than just the music and managed to pry Bruce's med school experimentation out of him by way of cunningly traded confidences, had come the pressure.

Tony was subtly persuasive - and directly persuasive when it came down to it. Bruce still felt his mind trying to slide away into worries, distractions - and even though he doesn't have any sensation of impending change, he's caught up in wondering when the moment will come that he does.

Tony slides off him with a lewd noise, leaving the hand curled around the base of Bruce's shaft in place, and Bruce opens his eyes and begins to apologize.

Stark pinches the inside of his thigh - hard - between two knuckles of his free hand, and Bruce startles. Two things happen - the consciousness at the back of his mind stirs a little, and he finally starts to get hard in Tony's hand. Stark grins up at him - in a smugly victorious way that actually irks Bruce a little.

"Thought so," Tony mutters, his breath moving over wet and suddenly sensitive skin. Bruce lunges warningly for his hair, and gets a firm hold. He doesn't exactly want this to stop, but he has to impress somehow that there's no game in this.

"Yeah," Tony says sharply, registering the tug. "No, I know - I'm not playing."

He looks up, inputting his half of the conversation neatly without actually requiring Bruce to speak his part, and he strokes his fingers demonstratively over Bruce's length. Bruce's fingers in his hair loosen in response, and Tony is obviously paying attention. "Just making sure you were with me, here. That got your 'attention', huh?"

"Yeah," Bruce gulps, wondering when exactly the breathy neediness had overtaken his voice. "But-"

"You're okay," Tony supplies, still stroking. "Don't stop?"

"Don't stop, Tony," Bruce adds, for good measure. As much as Tony can hold the conversation up on his own, Bruce knows he doesn't mind a little help. He'd also bet that Stark could easily be as rich as he was now if he just had a dime for every time he'd heard those words. It doesn't seem to make him like them any less.

Tony reasserts his mouth. It's odd, the brush of his short beard is as distracting as it is pleasurable when it brushes the inside of Bruce's thigh. But, he's on edge now so he doesn't think about it quite as much. He's not distracted by when either. The attention had flickered to life, passed over what was happening, and was waiting. For something more interesting - for that next step. This isn't it. It leaves Bruce free to actually enjoy this, and he couldn't measure his relief. He can let go a little, and when he does, Tony's got him.

Tony's good at it, too, and Bruce keeps himself from wondering how - it's not his business. What is is that Tony knows the art is a straightforward one. He doesn't make any effort to show off or go overboard - almost out of character for the man except he seems to know better. Bruce can feel his impending orgasm climbing unstoppably down his spine like a live-wire, touching with clean, searing heat and making him sweat and stick to the couch more.

At least the least the leather is too soft and expensive to d o anything so unsexy as creak - he's pretty sure he feels good enough to laugh at anything that ridiculous. Tony's already put a lot of effort into this, Bruce doesn't want to kill the mood. It'd probably bruise someone's ego.

And he also would kind of like to get off, now that he realizes it's not dangerous. It's a little selfish, but he can feel all that tension he's been carrying as sensation pools in spine, winding up trapped somewhere between his tailbone and Tony's mouth. He's panting and his muscles are contracting as he curls himself, all reflex. He'd spent so long worrying about reflexes and instincts that it feels a lot more dangerous than it is to find himself leaning down and curling his hands into Tony's shoulders encouragingly, feeling strength and resistance against his digging fingernails.

He's right there - right - and maybe he should warn Tony because as cool as he seemed to be with this there's a difference between that and well - someone ejaculating in your mouth. Then again, Bruce decides with rare disregard for politeness, that if Tony was going to play this game, he had to know where it would end. Bruce grips harder, feeling the tightness in his arms. Tony makes a noise that could fall on either side of the encouragement/disapproval spectrum, but it's enough. Bruce goes from on the edge to over it so fast he makes a startled noise that would have been beyond embarrassing if he still had the capacity to care.

Tony jerks back - maybe he would have liked a warning - but not all the way and stays with Bruce until the tension eases out of him. Tony leans back, and through half-closed eyes Bruce sees him spit the contents of his mouth into a handkerchief. Bruce huffs out a breathy chuckle when Tony goes the extra step to scrub his extended tongue with a corner, lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace.

Tony's eyes land on him - but he's not disgusted or angry, just apparently as amused at his own peculiarities as Bruce was. He settles on the couch heavily beside Bruce and flings the used handkerchief over his shoulder and down into the crevice between the couch and the wall. Bruce hopes he pays the cleaners well.

"That's funny, huh?" Tony asks, settling his hand open-palmed on the back of Bruce's neck, as Bruce continues to laugh.

"Yeah, a little bit," Bruce answers, and no matter how often to happen, the contact is surprisingly welcome. It's casual, unreserved. It makes Bruce feel almost - normal, for a second or two anyway.

"Good," Tony says, cryptically. He's smiling, though, which makes Bruce feel less like apologizing. Stark has a sort of infectious allergic reaction to apologies, given or received. He understands when they're present, without the statement having to be dragged out. Actual spoken apologies are only for the most dire circumstances. It's a relief - Bruce is guiltily starting to lose meaning in his apology. He feels like he should mean them more somehow every time he gives one.

Except, and this he could say without burden of ego or uncertainty, it was impossible for him to be any more genuinely apologetic and still be upright and functional.

Stark whistles sharply to call Bruce's hazy attention back - he has a sixth sense for self-pity. "I think that calls for a cigar, what do you think?"

"What about - "Bruce begins to protest, but Tony's already getting up, heading for the wet bar that seems to be present in at least one form or another on each of the top ten floors of Stark Tower. ('A' tower, as Tony's started calling it while repairs are being made. With a long 'ah' sound. It's not as clever as he thinks, but Bruce lets him have it.)

"You can owe me one. Interest free for six months," Tony says, pulling open what Bruce had thought to be a mini-fridge. It's a humidor, in actuality, neatly arranged. "And we'll have to go outside. So - maybe - some pants? You'd be surprised what the press can accomplish with a telescopic lense. Not that they'd really need one."

Tony throws off inappropriate , offhand compliments without thinking about them, but Bruce still hasn't quite gotten past blushing. It encourages Tony. And then, it seems, as quick as that - as the haziness and comfort fades down to a level it's easier to think around, Bruce has discovered something it really is OK to do. As he casts about on the floor to find his pants, Bruce feels amazed. It had just slipped on over him, as easily as that. He peels himself off the couch with a cautious look back.

"It's seen worse," Tony assures him, without looking up from what he's doing. Bruce drags on his pants, and takes Tony's word for it.
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