Steve isn't made of stone, after all. There are very few men who wouldn't be pleased to hear 'fuck, you're huge' in this particular context, and Steve is not one of the few. It's a well-timed compliment, or complaint, or whatever it is. He's feeling the same sense of intimacy, extremely welcome, but foreign and a little frightening. This is the end of the world, where the two of them are concerned, but they're not facing it alone. They're facing it together on expensive sheets in a fancy New York hotel, and it's strange that that almost makes it feel okay.

It almost makes it feel like nothing matters except the white-heat of their bodies joined, the taste of Tony's skin, and the groans he's making.

Steve himself makes a soft sound, halfway between a chuckle and a moan, acknowledging Tony's request, and nods against him. He's not counting seconds, but he continues to nuzzle and make inaudible whispers against his neck, hoping that Tony can't tell that between swears and 'oh god's there's a silent 'help me, help' and a 'wanna love you'. Sex babble is notoriously unreliable as a glimpse into a man's psychology, but even like this Steve isn't a liar. He only tells lies of omission.

"Oh, ohh...Tony..." It's the action of holding onto Steve's hand that gives weight and strength to his voice again, and his fingers tremble against the other man's skin. It's stupid, but the emotion prompted by that little gesture threatens to break his control. He bites his own lower lip again, almost enough to draw blood.

He's not sure what would have happened if Tony hadn't just said he was ready. He can be gentle. He can try to be slow.

"You're so..." he chokes out, squeezing him closer carefully as he starts to move his hips in shallow thrusts. "Goddamn it, Tony. So tight...y're killin' me."