Work Text:
Tony dropped the last three feet to the landing pad and winced. He hadn’t had the time or inclination to do more than the minimum repairs he needed to get himself, suit and all, back to the tower, and it showed. He focused on keeping his strides even as he made his way down the platform, relieved to feel the damaged suit peel off him.
Even the few repairs needed to get the suit back in the air had taken long enough that he wasn’t surprised to see Romanoff and Barton already nursing drinks on his couch. They had their own floors, top of the line and rent free, but somehow booze and takeout in the penthouse had become a post-fight tradition, whether he liked it or not. And, ok, technically it started because he’d invited them. Several times. Insisted, one might say. But that was only because otherwise who knew what depressing moping they’d all be up to, and none of them needed any more of that.
No sign of Thor and Banner yet, nor of Rogers, and it occurred to Tony that if he skipped drinks with the crew and made straight for his private rooms, he might avoid the Captain America lecture altogether.
Barton and Romanoff exchanged looks as he walked past them, and Tony assumed that they knew exactly what he was doing, because he always assumed that they knew everything everyone was doing, and he hadn’t been proven wrong yet.
Tony was across the room and nearly out the door when Rogers’ voice brought him up short.
“Stark!”
Tony cursed himself for stopping, and wondered, not for the first time, if the super soldier serum had something to do with Rogers’ ridiculously effective command voice. Tony didn’t turn to face him, but it was a near thing, “G'night Captain,” he returned with a jaunty wave and all the nonchalance he could muster, and pushed through the door.
But Rogers was behind him before the door could close. “Do you have any idea what a knuckleheaded move that was out there?”
Tony managed one more step before he felt Rogers’ grip on his arm, forcing him to turn, and Tony was almost, almost too pissed to notice his body’s reaction to that. He shook it off. “Do you mean the effective one? The one where I single handedly saved all our asses, again?”
“Maybe this is about credit for you. Keeping score. For the rest of us it’s getting the job done and keeping everybody alive.”
“Job’s done, everybody’s alive. You’re just pissed that your good little soldier routine didn’t win the day."
"I'm pissed," Rogers took a step closer to Tony, "because you didn't give us the slightest warning, you broke your own suit, you didn't even see Natasha until you'd crashed practically on top of her--"
Tony found himself forced to look up at Steve. The weakness of the position galled him more than it should have--and did other things as well, things he would just as well ignore. "Romanoff can take care of herself."
“Yes,” Rogers agreed, “she can, but she shouldn’t have to defend herself against her own damn team.”
Tony found himself momentarily distracted by the flush of anger down Steve’s neck, wondering how that flush looked as it met his chest under that ridiculous uniform. He blinked and refocused. “It wouldn’t have been an issue if your plan had been up to the job. But these days you need a little more than a can-do spirit.”
Steve placed one hand on the wall behind Tony’s back, his posture almost threatening. “And you think can-do spirit is all I’ve got?” he demanded.
For a moment Tony could think of nothing but the three centimeters, four tops, separating their bodies. And suddenly saw in the flush of Rogers’ skin, the hard focus of his eyes, and the slight tremble of his free hand, something altogether different from—or at least more than—anger. “I think,” Tony answered, his tone deliberately provocative, “that you vastly overestimate the power of positive thinking,” here he poked Rogers in the chest. “And vastly underestimate innovation,” he continued, tapping his own arc reactor with two fingers.
"Invitation's still open. Suit up and we can find out who’s underestimating who."
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s really what you want to do.”
“You don’t think I can take you in the suit?”
“I really don’t, but that wasn’t my point. My point was that I think you want to take me out of the suit.”
Rogers didn’t answer. He also didn’t move, and Tony suspected that for a moment he didn’t even breathe.
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” Tony continued. “I think that you would very much like to fuck me. And for the record, I'd be amenable.”
Rogers still gave no answer.
“Questions, comments?”
Rogers’ free hand slammed against the wall to Tony’s other side, and Tony suddenly felt smaller and more vulnerable than he had in a very long time. It made his knees weak and his blood race.
“You want me to fuck you.” Rogers low growl wasn’t a question, but Tony answered it anyway.
“Yes."
“How?”
Tony blinked. “You mean how does a man fuck another man? Well, typically—“
Rogers rolled his eyes. “Army, remember? I’m clear on the birds and the bees and then some. How do you want me to fuck you?”
No point in hiding his cards now. "I like it rough. And," Tony pointedly surveyed Rogers' posture, "you seem to be up for that. So to speak."
Rogers' eyes narrowed. "How rough?"
The question sent an electric tingle singing through Tony’s body. He sucked in a desperate breath before he could answer. "I can take anything you'd care to dish out."
Rogers’ hand shot out so fast that Tony didn’t register it until he felt the other man’s fingers close around his throat. "I doubt it.”
Tony stared into Rogers’ darkened eyes and allowed a moan to escape his lips.
Neither moved for an instant, and Tony knew that Rogers could feel the double-time rhythm of Tony's heartbeat under his hand.
Then, as suddenly as it came, Rogers’ hand was gone and he’d taken three steps across the room, his back turned. “Jesus, Stark, I’m sorry.”
“I hope to hell what you’re sorry for is stopping, and you’re about to make it up to me."
"This is a bad idea. I--" Rogers turned back and met Tony's eyes. "This is a really bad idea."
"Your eyes are blown, your skin is flushed, and you've pitched a tent in those spangly pants of yours." Tony looked down at himself. "And as you’ve probably noticed, I'm similarly indisposed. We both want it. So--really not seeing how it's a bad idea."
Rogers gave a short, grim laugh. "You don't know what I want."
"So tell me."
He shook his head.
"Steve." The name felt strange on his lips. "Nothing you say leaves this room, and if you don't want me to, I'll never mention it again. You've got my word on that."
Rogers studied Tony's face and gave a tight nod.
Tony waited for a moment, and when Rogers still didn’t speak, covered the distance between them. He placed one hand on Steve’s hip, and allowed his fingers to ghost over the impressive bulge in his costume. “So what terrible things make a Boy Scout like you stand to attention?”
Steve's eyes fixed on Tony's face for a long breath, and another, and a third, as Tony's fingers traced idle patterns on the fabric over Steve’s hard cock. This time Tony saw Steve’s move coming, but was still powerless to evade Steve’s grip on his wrists, turning him and shoving him hard against the wall. Steve pressed against him, pinning him at thigh and chest and groin, wrists held firm to either side of his head.
Steve’s voice was low and sharp, his lips centimeters from Tony’s ear. "What I want? What I want is to shove you down and fuck you raw. To feel you struggle while I take you. I want to see my bruises on your skin. I want to use you and choke you and— and hurt you.“ Steve’s voice nearly broke, but returned lower and rougher. “And I want to make you like it. Make you beg for it. Make you scream for it."
Steve released him, took a step back. "And by the way,” he added, his manner suddenly almost calm, almost conversational. “I never was a Boy Scout."
Tony just stared, trying to bring the parts of his brain responsible for thought and speech and breathing back online. One hand, wrist still feeling the ghost of pressure from Steve’s grip, crept down to palm his erection. “Yes,” he finally managed.
“Yes? What the hell do you mean, ‘yes’?”
“Yes please?” Tony tried, but Steve’s confused frown remained. “Do that. All of that. Jesus Christ, you— I had no idea.” Tony’s hand continued to stroke himself, and he wasn’t sure he could stop if he tried.
He didn’t try.
“Tony,” Steve’s face was pained, “I could hurt you.”
“You want to hurt me,” Tony corrected in a rough whisper. Just saying the words set off a thrum of pleasure low in his belly, and his hips jerked against his palm. Steve’s eyes dropped from Tony’s face to his groin, his mouth slightly open in what looked like awe.
The functioning portion of Tony’s brain reminded him to answer Steve’s concern. “You don’t want to damage me,” he managed in more or less his usual tone. “Which: good. I don’t want you to damage me either. But that doesn’t have to take any of what you just said off the table.”
Steve’s lips worked as if he meant to speak, but no words came out.
Tony struggled to keep his voice reasonable, to sound experienced and reassuring, and above all not to strip off every stitch of clothing he had on and beg to be taken right there against the wall. “We can talk about this later, when we’re… a little calmer. And when the rest of the team isn’t out there wondering if we’ve killed each other yet.”
Steve nodded slowly, his face torn between disappointment and relief. “OK,” he agreed, “we should probably—“ he nodded towards the door and reached down to shift himself, making an absurdly ineffectual attempt to hide his erection.
Tony’s lips twitched in amusement. “Then again, I could help you out with that first,” he suggested.
The sound Steve made in response was definitely a whine.
Tony took a step towards him. “I could suck you off, make it good. Very good.” That produced a full-on moan.
Tony reached down to unfasten Steve’s pants, slipping under the fabric to pull out his cock. Steve was thick and hot and heavy in his hand, and Tony felt a delicious shiver of anticipation at the thought of all the things Steve could—would—do with it.
Steve cried out as Tony gave him a few quick strokes, and his whispered “please” sent Tony sliding to his knees.
Tony ran his tongue around the crown of Steve’s cock and backed away again, looking up to see Steve’s lust-dark eyes fixed on his face. “If you wanted to get a little aggressive about it,” he breathed, his voice rough with need, “I would wholeheartedly approve.” He licked a stripe along one side of Steve’s cock, and Steve bucked and moaned.
“If I need you to stop and can’t say so, I’ll tap you three times.” Tony demonstrated, three firm taps on the back of Steve’s leg. “OK?”
“OK. Yes. Please. God, please.”
Tony groaned and obliged, pushing his lips around the head of Steve’s cock and reveling in the salty musk, the smooth skin stretched over hard flesh. He allowed himself to enjoy the exploration, tasting and touching and sliding and teasing, until Steve’s whispered pleas reached a crescendo, and Tony pushed forward, carefully angling his neck to take every inch of Steve’s thick cock in one smooth motion.
The deep tight pressure would have been enough to make Tony’s cock twitch even if Captain America himself hadn’t been moaning as if he’d found God in the back of Tony’s throat. As it was Tony had to thrust a hand inside his pants to clutch desperately at the base of his cock and hold himself back from spilling right there.
Tony backed off, pulling in air and undulating his lips over Steve’s shaft as he went. When he reached the crown again, Tony stopped, flicking his tongue over Steve’s foreskin.
“Jesus, Tony, you—“ Steve panted, “holy fuck you’re, oh God, so good.”
Tony reached up to Steve’s hand, hanging forgotten by his side, and drew it around to the back of Tony’s head, sliding his fingers through Tony’s hair. Steve gave a questioning whimper, and Tony replied with a low, desperate moan.
Steve’s hips stuttered, pushing his cock a few inches into Tony’s mouth, and Tony moaned again, louder. “Oh God, can I--?”
Tony whined his encouragement, and Steve gave another tentative thrust, in and out, and then another.
After the third stroke that barely reached his tonsils, Tony pulled all the way off Steve’s cock, leaving his lips just touching the skin of Steve’s head, and looked up. “For the love of God, Rogers,” he growled, “do it. Make me choke on your cock.”
And then Steve’s hand clenched in Tony’s hair and it was all Tony could do to keep himself poised and open as Steve let go, thrusting brutally down his throat. After a blur of fast, hard strokes, Steve suddenly stopped with his cock deep as it would go, his strong hand grinding Tony’s face into the thatch of hair at Steve’s groin.
Tony swallowed desperately, by reflex, and Steve gasped and cursed. Tony’s focus narrowed to the prick invading his throat and blocking his airway, and his own throbbing cock. Any thought of holding off had left him completely, and the hand around his cock started to pump as he felt his body register the need for air and start to struggle of its own accord.
Steve bent, pushing himself impossibly further into Tony’s throat, and grabbed Tony’s wrist, wrenching it away. Tony whined and let his body’s need for air to take over, pulling back, struggling to free himself just enough to draw in another breath. For an instant, Steve didn’t move, and Tony felt the other man’s exquisite, perfect strength, and knew that there was no way he’d win free if Steve didn’t allow it.
And then Steve did allow it, and Tony gasped in air, cool and clean and necessary, but harsh against his abused throat. He looked up to find Steve’s eyes on him, like Steve was mesmerized by the look on his face, his swollen lips and the sloppy evidence of his desire.
“More,” Tony begged, his voice coming out a shredded mess that made him feel thoroughly, filthily used.
It clearly had an effect on Steve too. His whole body shuddered, and he grabbed Tony’s head again and pressed his dick against Tony’s lips, pushing in until the head of his cock was back in the raw, tight heat of Tony’s throat.
He pumped in with short hard strokes that barely allowed Tony the time to gasp breaths through his nose. Tony writhed and groaned under the assault, frantic for more than air.
“Jesus, I can’t believe how you beg for it. Your throat is so tight, so good. I can’t— I can’t—“ Steve thrust in one final time, filling him, choking him, destroying him. “Fuck. Fuck fuck goddamn, Tony,” Steve breathed.
Tony felt his own throat swallowing and Steve’s cock pulsing, and he moaned and struggled against Steve’s firm hand in his hair. His vision began to swim at the edges and he whined and returned a hand to his cock, unsure if he was trying to bring himself off or stop himself from coming, but wanting, needing to do something.
Steve gave a long final groan and pulled out, still pulsing out the last of his orgasm onto Tony’s tongue and lips and chin. His lidded eyes found Tony’s hand, and dazed pleasure was replaced by a flash of vicious desire.
He grabbed both of Tony’s arms and forced him up and back against the wall, forearms pinned to keep him from touching himself again. “You are the hottest, filthiest thing I’ve ever, ever seen.”
“Please, Steve, I need to— please.” Tony was a mess and knew it, but didn’t care in the slightest about anything but getting his hand, or preferably Steve’s hand, back on his cock, and getting those last few strokes that will set the match to the fireworks piled high on his every nerve.
“I know what you need,” Steve growled, and pressed against him, keeping him well and truly pinned, with his hips tight against Steve’s.
Tony felt Steve’s hand against his throat, the touch light but hard enough to focus his attention on every abused nerve ending within it, to let him feel the implicit threat of the gesture in every nerve in his body. He thrust against Steve’s hip, and even through layers of clothing the friction was luscious and perfect and essential.
“Rutting against me like an animal, Stark? Jesus, you love it. I love how you need it. So desperate. So hot.”
Tony could only moan and thrust faster against Steve.
“This is what you get.” Steve’s hand tightened just slightly around Tony’s throat, and Tony gasped. “You can come like this.”
He could, and would, and wanted and needed to. He rutted mindlessly, shamelessly, his balls so tight up against him it almost hurt, his attention on Steve’s hand at his throat and the delicious friction on his cock. Almost enough, almost enough, and then Steve’s fingers shivered against him and something snapped in Tony’s brain and he felt nothing but throbbing, overwhelming pleasure invading him, turning him inside out and back again and leaving him boneless and sated and sticky and only upright because Steve held him there.
It took him several long moments to even want to stand on his own power, and a few after that before he could.
“Holy hell, Tony. That was... incredible.”
Tony smirked. “I noticed.” His voice came out painfully rough, and Steve winced.
“Did I-- shit, Tony, did I hurt you?”
“You didn’t damage me. The voice thing will pass.”
They both stood for a moment, loose and uncertain.
“What do we do now?” Steve asked.
“Right now, or... just generally?”
“Um, the second one, I think.”
“We... do that again. Soon. And all that other stuff you mentioned. Probably after a long talk about safewords and so on.”
Steve smiled almost shyly, the expression surprisingly natural, all things considered. “OK,” he agreed. “And right now?”
Tony winced. “We figure out how you get out of my private rooms without blushing yourself to an early grave.”
Steve blanched slightly. “They’ll still be out there.” He obviously hadn’t considered it before.
“Probably.” Tony glanced at his watch. “It’s not even eight. JARVIS, what’s going on in the front room?” Technically that was spying on his team, but they were in his damn living room and they’d met JARVIS, so if they were doing anything they didn’t want to get back to him it was really their own damned faults.
“Agents Romanoff and Barton, Doctor Banner, and Thor are partaking of dinner, and are also presently engaged in devising a gambling arrangement.”
“A what?”
Tony brought a hand up to rub his forehead. “What’s the subject of the wager?” he asked, though he feared he already knew.
“Agent Barton has placed fifty US Dollars on the supposition that either you or Captain Rogers will emerge with visible bruising. Agent Romanoff has placed an equal sum on her prediction that you and Captain Rogers have engaged in sexual intercourse. Thor, lacking US currency, has pledged a gemstone of indeterminate value should either supposition prove correct. Doctor Banner has declined to participate in the wager on the grounds that Agent Barton’s and Agent Romanoff’s wagers are not mutually incompatible.”
Tony glanced down at the bruises already blooming on his wrists, and his hand went to his throat, trailing along the sore places where Steve’s hand had been. He cocked an eyebrow at Steve, who winced and nodded.
“Well, I guess one option would be to never leave this room again,” Tony suggested. “I can get food shipped in, it could be pretty comfortable.”
Steve took a deep breath. “We should probably get cleaned up and face the ridicule.”
“Right. There’s a shower in there if you want it,” Tony gestured vaguely at the private guest bathroom. “I’m gonna--” he nodded in the direction of his own bedroom.
“You are not staying here while I go out there.”
Tony smirked. “Captain America afraid to do battle? Don’t worry, Cap, I’ll back you up. Just need a shower and a change of clothes. Unless you’d prefer I join the team like this?” Tony grabbed Steve by the front of his shirt and pulled him close enough to murmur into his ear. “Sloppy from your dick in my mouth and covered with both our come? You want them to see me like this?”
Steve’s breath caught, and Tony pulled back to see that his eyes had turned fierce and dark again.
“Hmm,” Tony mused. “Noted. But better wait on that—it’d be terrible manners to involve them without checking first.”
Steve just nodded, eyes still fixed on Tony’s face.
“Shower,” Tony murmured, and started in that direction.
Steve turned towards the guest bath, but before he reached it, turned back and grabbed Tony’s arm, pulling him in and crashing their lips together. Tony felt more than heard Steve’s moan, and couldn’t help but rock his hips against Steve at the obvious satisfaction he took from tasting himself on Tony’s tongue.
“Shower,” Tony repeated when he finally pulled away from Steve.
“Right. Shower.”
Twenty minutes later, both decent but conspicuously damp, they returned to the front room to find the other members of the team engaged in debate over a spread of half-empty take-out cartons. The argument ended abruptly, and all four turned to face Tony and Steve, their eyes darting over the bruises at Tony’s wrists and throat with various expressions of amusement and concern.
Tony waited for a long moment, but when he finally opened his mouth to speak, Steve beat him to it. “Should’ve put your money where your mouth is, Banner.” He surveyed the room defiantly, and when no one said anything, picked up the nearest carton and started to eat.