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Good Game

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Tony picked up a section of the Times Steve had set aside as he read at the counter and quick-rolled it. When he was sure Steve was engrossed in an article, he drew back and gave him a swat, square on the ass. He didn't hold back; a super-soldier could certainly handle a healthy whack on those sweatpant-clad buns of steel.

Steve flinched with a gasp Tony barely heard, but didn't turn around. "What was that for?"

"Felt like it."

"Is this a popular thing nowadays?" Steve asked slowly. "Hitting people without a reason?"

"Okay. Here's one; you're killing trees. You know you can read the news on the internet."

"I like a real newspaper better," Steve said, voice tight. As Tony sat at the table, he looked up at Steve, in profile; a pink flush was climbing his collar. Steve's eyes flicked over to Tony and back to his paper, and he shifted on his feet before he shook out the section he was holding and folded it over. Sensing Tony's continued attention, he grabbed the others and turned to leave, but when he did, Tony couldn't miss it.

The front of Steve's sweats were tenting, and Tony was sure the details of the Facebook IPO weren't that arousing.

But this was a very interesting development.


A few days later they were in the gym shooting hoops - Steve had been poring over SHIELD case documents all morning, Tony had been immersed in R&D, and basketball was something they'd discovered was the ideal game to play together to unwind; Steve's strength and speed mattered, but Tony was excellent at calculating angles when he was actually able to get past Steve's defense, and he sank a lot of tricky shots.

They didn't play with anybody else. Tony, obviously, sucked at taking handoffs.

"Good game," Tony said, giving Steve's ass a healthier whack than necessary in passing as he palmed the basketball with the other.

"What was that for?" Steve asked Tony, bewildered.

"I just...good-gamed you," Tony replied, giving his hand a couple of shakes, because it actually stung from the impact. "I guess you didn't do much of that back in the Renaissance."

The look on Steve's face told Tony that no, they did not (and Steve hadn't been a jock BMOC in school anyway, not that Tony had been either) and yes, Steve was getting tired of being taunted with reminders that he was out of time. It had to be tough constantly discovering that there were things you didn't know, not because you were stupid or hadn't been paying attention, but because you'd been knocked out of the action through no fault of your own.

"Sorry, Steve," Tony said, feeling a rare warm wave of contrition. "I'm…I am. I pick on you too much."

"It's alright," Steve said, before suddenly grabbing the ball and dribbling to the basket, then jumping to sink a neat layup.

"Beautiful," Tony called out, as Steve bounded up. "Sneaky. But beautiful."

"Good game, huh?" Steve said with a lopsided smile.

Tony nodded. "Yep."

Steve looked at him expectantly, like he thought Tony was about to say something else, but then coughed awkwardly, grabbed his towel from the bench by the shower room and headed in.

Hmm. Tony followed and stopped suddenly, his shoes squeaking on the rubber. Oh. Good game, huh? Well, if that wasn't an invitation…

Maybe Steve was tired of being smacked with anachronism barbs, but the smacking itself?

Maybe not.


Tony rubbed his face in the shower, acutely aware of Steve behind him, facing the other way. He eyed the white towel hanging on the hook nearby. He considered that he might be risking a black eye if he was misjudging this.

He grabbed the towel anyway and ran it under the spray, then wrung it out, stretching it between his hands and twisting it into a thick rope as he turned. Steve was soaping up the back of his shoulder as he faced the shower head opposite, and Tony saw his chance. He flicked the towel lightly at Steve's bare, firm, fantastic, ass.

Steve flinched at the impact, which had been intentionally mild. Tony hadn't even tried to make that one hurt.

"Gotcha," Tony said, his voice echoing in the white-tiled room.

"Tony," Steve said, putting a hand flat to the wall, so quietly he could barely be heard. Tony wasn't sure if Steve's voice carried a warning or not, but he didn't turn around, so Tony probably wasn't about to get pounded into a pulp. Probably. Hopefully.

Tony turned off his shower tap and watched the flinch of Steve's shoulders. His lip quirked upward as he twisted the towel and quickly flicked again, this time slightly harder, and Steve made a small sound, amplified in the small space.

"Aw, did that hurt?" Tony asked. He leaned back and struck again with a bit more flick and force, and saw a pink impression where the wet towel had made its impact. One of Steve's knees gave a little, and his other hand pressed into the wall, elbows bent. Tony absolutely couldn't resist a target like that. He moved closer and pulled the towel taut again, almost as taut as that incredibly fine ass Steve was showing off for him, and just...let it...go.


Steve whimpered. He actually whimpered, Tony could feel the rush of blood in in his veins and his own breath caught. He was now close enough to reach out and touch Steve, and so he did -- not with the towel; he dropped that on the floor where it stayed coiled, like a sodden croissant. Tony reached out and gently grazed his fingertips over the reddened stripe he'd targeted with the towel, and Steve moaned, his face near the wall. Tony came closer and brought his other hand up, slipped it over the wet flesh of Steve's other buttock and squeezed, feeling muscles tense under his fingers.

"Tony…" Steve trailed off, sounding almost desperate, but Tony didn't want to spook him, or break the moment by doing the wrong thing. He rubbed gently at the smack mark, noticed Steve's legs were trembling a little, and paused, waiting.

"Have you been bad?" Tony asked softly. Steve nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Tony slid his left palm up Steve's back under the sluicing spray and drew back his right, then gave Steve's cheek a keen, flathanded smack. Steve gasped. Tony rubbed the spot gently and without warning, slapped again.

Steve threw his head back, and Tony could hear his labored breathing over the rushing water. He was finding it tough to breathe himself. He pressed the warming pink mark on Steve's skin, and let his fingers trail inward and trace along the cleft before slipping them between his cheeks. Steve had an ass could make Tony write sonnets if he did that sort of thing, he was sure. Really bad ones, with phrases like "unyielding spheres of rapture," so it was a good thing he's no poet.

Steve choked a strangled cry at the rough stroking of Tony's fingers, letting his forehead press against the tile. Tony pressed his cheek to Steve's shoulder blade for leverage, keeping his hand still, then let his fingers roam downward as he clasped Steve's side with his left hand. Steve slid his feet apart, and Tony took advantage, parting Steve, letting his index finger graze lightly against his opening. Steve flinched forward, holding the safety bar, and Tony pulled his hand away and dealt another precisely-aimed slap. Steve's head fell to his chest, his breathing loud in the steamy space, and Tony dropped to a crouch.

Steve wasn't talking much, and he wasn't turning around. Maybe he didn't want to break the moment either.

The saturated twist of towel now under his knees, Tony slipped his thumbs along the inner curves of Steve's ass, leaned forward, and huffed a hot, soft breath against him. He felt Steve tense, but at this angle, he thought better of slapping him again, especially given Steve's reddening skin. "Be good," Tony ordered, pressing forward, parting the flesh, and touched the tip of his tongue to the exposed center, sliding smoothly around and then gently inside, and Steve cursed and moaned Tony's name, low in his throat, Tony took that as implicit permission, and when he drove deeper, gripping his thighs ferociously, Steve smacked the wet wall once with his palm, then again, the sound ringing loud in the shower.

Tony pulled away, sensing Steve was close. "Touch yourself?" he suggested, and sensed hesitation. "Come on, fuck your hand -- do it," Tony ordered. That worked. He felt the motion of Steve's hand against his cock as his hips shook, heard the slick of wet flesh, and licking and pressing deeply with his tongue, felt the moment Steve came with an incoherent stream of syllables, his thighs shaking violently against Tony's wrists. Tony disengaged slowly, rose, and let his fingers skim gently one more time over the marks on Steve's perfect cheek as he leaned into the wall on one arm, gasping for air.

"That's one beautiful ass, kid," Tony said. He picked up his towel and headed for the door, leaving Steve to recover.

"Good game."