If Tony had been taking bets on what Captain America would be like in bed – which honestly he’d have never expected to find out so he wouldn’t have been betting in the first place - he’d have laid out money that Steve would be the toppiest top who ever topped. He wouldn't have been wrong either; for all his naive charm, Steve hasn't got one ounce of compunction about pinning Tony to the bed - or desk, or hood of the car - and fucking him so hard breathing's just a fond memory. Thing is, he wouldn't have exactly won that wager either, because while Steve can be one toppy motherfucker, he's just as happy to roll over and let Tony be the one in the driver's seat. Moans for it like a porn star, actually. Fuck, it's hot.
The thing he'd have never expected, didn't even occur to him to think about it, is that Steve is both adventurous and insatiable. Admittedly, both of them seem obvious once he put them in the right context - after all, Steve volunteered for an untested, body-altering medical procedure just to get a chance to go head to head with Nazis. Guy is not boring. And thanks to all of that, he's also the epitome of the human male physiology, which basically adds up to sex drive, sex drive, and more sex drive. If sex drive was a sport, Steve would be in NASCAR.
It's fucking fantastic. It's also possibly shortening Tony's lifespan by significant degrees.
He hears the air-lock on the door swish open mostly because he's been having a hard time focusing with the soft, dusky shape of the finger bruises on his wrist snaring his attention every thirty seconds. Sparks of memory catching in his mind like dry grass - Steve's fingers pressing into him before he was even really awake, big hands on his arms, the back of his neck, holding him still when he tried to squirm and make Steve go faster, harder, the jolting heat that fanned out along his nerves when Steve gave him exactly what he asked for with enough force that Tony ended up pressed against the headboard by the time he came, shivering and helpless. Somebody woke up on the He-man side of the bed today and Tony is not about to complain.
Steve hovers just out of touching distance, still close enough for Tony sense him like he's got his own center of gravity.
"What are you working on?" The question is quiet enough that if Tony had actually been accomplishing anything he'd have probably blocked it out. Almost pulls off the whole innocently curiously thing, but Tony knows Steve’s tones too well for that.
He hedges anyway, "Nothing urgent. What's up?" Because as enthusiastic as Steve is about sex, the actual procurement of it still makes him adorably nervous. Tony can't resist torturing him with it a little.
Steve shuffles awkwardly, blush already rising. He still cocks his hip against Tony's worktable though, almost casual except for how it throws the shape of his abs under his too-tight t-shirt into sharp relief. He is really getting the hang of this seduction thing. Or has just learned how to use Tony’s weaknesses against him. Knowing Steve, it’s probably the latter.
"Not much," he shrugs, "I thought you might need a break or something."
"Or something, huh?" Tony raises an eyebrow just to watch the shade of pink in Steve's cheeks darken. He checks the clock, as much for his own curiosity as for effect. "It's only been two hours."
Steve's getting redder and redder, but the set of his mouth is defensive, because god forbid that anyone ever accuse Steve of actually wanting something for himself. "We don't ha- I meant lunch or something, not- I don't need it all the time, you know, regardless of what you seem to think."
"Of course you do." Tony spins on his stool to snag a finger in the belt loop of Steve's jeans. Reals him in like that and just that fact that Steve lets it happen makes a dirty lie out of his whole justification. "You're up for a fuck any time, anywhere. It's one of my top-" he has to stop for a second, reshuffle the scoreboard to account for the coffee Steve brought him after their shower; it will all change a dozen more times before the day is over anyway. "- seven favorite things about you."
Steve looks all set to say something about that, probably wanting to know what else is on the list and in what order and that's going to be way too sappy for Tony to deal with so he slides his hands under the back of Steve's shirt for a distraction. Works like a charm too. Skin pebbles over thick muscle against Tony's palms, soft fabric shimmying further up Steve's torso as he drags up, thumbing at ribs and tracing the path of a shiver that rolls through Steve's lats.
"Do you know how hot it is," he says with his mouth making damp shapes on the wide swatch of skin exposed on Steve's belly, "to be with somebody who's always hungry for it?"
"I assume you realize that I'm sleeping with you," comes out of Steve too breathy for their usual verbal sparring. Tony decides to take it as a compliment anyway - it's true.
One of Steve's hands is resting on his shoulder, the other curled around the back of his neck, twitching as he tries to hold back on getting his fingers in Tony's hair and doing something about the hard-on that's rubbing just under the arc reactor. So damn polite. Like he hasn't used it as a hand-hold to fuck Tony's mouth raw on more than one occasion.
"Yeah, and you want to be right now, don't you?" Nibbling at the curve of Steve's navel is definitely an unfair advantage, which is one of the reasons Tony loves doing it so much. That and the needy, bitten-off sound Steve makes as his fingertips dig at Tony's shoulder. "Wanna lay me out here on the table. Or the floor. Bend me over and see if I'm still open enough to take it."
He bites down harder on the ribbon of muscle at Steve's hip, slinking off the stool onto his knees in the process. Gets a hushed version of his own name in response that sounds dirtier than any of the curse words he's ever coaxed out of Steve's mouth.
Steve's holding back, though, board-stiff and quaking under his touch, not quite going with it. Tony would almost take it as an insult, except he's gotten very familiar with the embarrassed little pinch Steve's lips are stuck in.
"What d'you want, babe?" Tony feels his smile twist into something wicked as Steve darts his gaze away, caught-out and obvious. God, Tony loves that Steve's such an open book, and whatever's going on in that pretty head of his has got to be one hell of a good time waiting to happen if just thinking about it has got Steve this twitchy.
"I... Uh..." Pressure of Steve's fingers knotted in his hair urges Tony back to his feet. The soft pop of his knees as he stands helps suppress a pang of regret at not getting his mouth around Steve - he's never going to admit it out loud, but he might be getting a little old for kneeling on the concrete floor to service his boyfriend.
Steve's eyes are still flittering around the room like a pair of particularly restless blue butterflies - and, wow, Tony's got it worse than he thought if he's coming up with fucking butterfly analogies - not meeting Tony's until he loops his arms around Steve's neck and gets in too close to be ignored. "Just say the word, Steve."
All in all, Tony thinks he's done a pretty good job living up to his reputation as an enthusiastic sexual deviant since they started their relationship. Sure, there have been some issues they've had to negotiate - not getting crushed to death when his partner gets excited is at the very top of Tony's bedroom to do list - but he's been, if he does say so himself, nothing less than completely open and willing to facilitate Steve's suggestions and needs. Still Steve bites his lip and ducks his head and...
It takes Tony a second to figure out Steve's not trying to duck away from him, he's looking around him, over to the back wall where the Mark VII is standing at attention in its case.
A mumbled, "Fuck yes," comes out of his own mouth, thick and a little desperate, before he's gnashing any other bright ideas to death against Steve's lips.
Oh, this is going to be good. He hasn't pushed it up until now because Steve only let the idea slip in the heat of the moment and afterward he'd seemed so mortified by it Tony hadn't actually been sure whether he'd meant it or was just babbling. Figured, given the fact that Tony had flat-out asked for Steve to fuck him while wearing the Cap uniform, that if it was something Steve really wanted, he'd know saying so wasn’t going to cross any major thresholds for Tony. Admittedly, Tony's sexual boundaries are more like fuzzy shapes off in the distance he hasn't gotten around to exploring yet, but if anything, that should have been encouragement, right? And Steve hadn't ever brought it up again, so Tony had just assumed the idea had just been a glitch in the system.
But now Tony's got Steve backing him across the room, guiding him around the clutter of partially finished projects and abandoned equipment without a second thought and sandwiching him between cool metal and solid muscle. He's starting to think he may have seriously miscalculated Steve's motivations.
The sweep of the breastplate presses against Tony's back, pushing his chest out in mirror. Goosebumps prickle over the exposed parts of his arms as Steve molds him against the armor, just that tiny bit smaller so his elbow fits perfectly into the slight bend the gauntlets are held at. It's like having two Steves, some excitement-crazed synapses shout at him; trapped between all that big and strong, rock and a just-the-right-kind-of-hard place.
A giddy, drugged laugh spills out of him, pulls Steve up short from efficiently stripping them both out of their clothes. Tony shakes his head at the question trying to fight its way through the glazed sheen sharpening Steve's eyes. Tips his head back into the cradle where the scaled steel of the armor's neck meets the shoulder plates and moves obediently with Steve's manhandling.
There aren't a lot of blank spots on Tony's rather epic sexual resume. A couple of items that are anatomically improbable, one of two that get nixed for various health and safety reasons, but virtually anything he's ever been genuinely motivated to try, he's gone ahead and done.
And then there's this. Iron Man.
Most people seem to operate under the impression that Tony's a little bit in love with the armor, which is laughably, ludicrously wrong. Tony is absolutely in love with the armor; big time, buy a ring, make a commitment kind of love. It's the most beautiful, perfect thing he's ever created out of a long line of beautiful, relatively perfect things. Each permutation of it just gets better and better and Tony get more and more unreasonably attached to it. He puts his life on the line nearly daily in the thing, anything less than total devotion to it would be stupid.
The armor is his religion. And, c'mon, does anyone really expect that Tony Stark wouldn't want to have sex with his religion? He's just never found anybody before who could handle it.
Pepper had been the closest, the only other person he's slept with that he would trust with something like this. She'd been in it for Tony, though, which he appreciates, don't get him wrong, but she'd given the Iron Man aspect of his lifestyle choices a wide berth after the 'reach into my chest and pull part of this machinery out of me' incident, so that wasn't happening.
But Steve works with Iron Man, trusts on him. Hell, Cap was friends with Iron Man months before Steve had anything but guarded disdain for Tony sans metal encasement. Plus, apparently Stevie has a costume kink and that's just 1500 degrees Celsius all across the board.
Tony's breath bottoms out in his lungs as he's suddenly lifted straight off the ground, a huge, strong hand on the back of each thigh, leveraging them apart to wrap around Steve's waist. The shock of cold where the armor presses into his back isn't doing much for his oxygen intake either, but then Steve's shifting to get a hand free and circling a slick finger - did he bring lube with him? Tony is such a good role model - around Tony's hole so he's got to breathe or else he's going to black out and miss the main event.
A long groan leaks out of him, twisting into something more like a whine as Steve's finger slips in with practically no effort. He's still tender enough from this morning that it stings slightly, a warm ache like a fresh bruise when Steve pulls free and presses back in with two, shifting and rubbing around his insides. The meager space between them is too soaked in heat to tell if he's leaking between them or not, but the deep tug of his cock leaping every time Steve finds the right spot - Clint's supposed to be the marksman, but damn Steve's got some aim - feels like he's got to be getting them both wet.
Honest to god, Tony's not at all sure that Steve doesn't actually like foreplay better than sex. He can spend ridiculous amounts of time making out on the couch with Tony like teenagers or holding him down and rubbing up against him while he fingers himself open forever, teasing until Tony's a pleading, whimpering mess. So it says something about exactly how worked up Steve is over this idea that he doesn't even bother slipping Tony a third finger, just pulls out and plunges back in with something a lot thicker than Tony had himself geared up for.
A noise that's more grunt than anything knocks out of him, skittering across the empty lab like rolled dice. His fingers scrabble at Steve's shoulders as if he actually needs to do anything to help hold himself up. Shuddery bursts of heat blooming over his skin counter the warm-cool slide of bodyheat-saturated metal against his back. Kiss of cold where air meets beading sweat that sets up a shiver he can't douse while Steve’s feeding pleasure into the mix with his mouth on Tony's throat and his dick etching hot lines of bliss into Tony's gut.
The rhythm is slow to the point of torturous, deep enough to keep Tony from bitching about it because he can barely hold onto a breath. His skin is skidding against the Mark VII's finish, slippery with sweat, so he cranes an arm back to lock around the armor's neck and brace himself. He's not expecting the high, ravenous sound that works its way up from Steve's chest when he does; has to tip his head from where it's been lolling against Iron Man's shoulder to take in the color that's got nothing to do with exertion splashed high on Steve's cheekbones.
"Yeah?" he prompts, voice gone jerky with a sharp punch of Steve's hips that licks curlicues of pleasure up his spine. "You like that?"
Cold steel is almost a relief on his fevered skin when he rubs his cheek against the faceplate. Just to see what Steve will do, he follows the caress with a swipe of his tongue, metallic tang and the salt of his own sweat as he follows the almost imperceptible seam down to what would pass for a mouth.
The air gets compressed out of his chest on a wheeze as Steve lets go of his hold, pinning Tony against the suit with nothing but his cock and pure mass. His hands, meanwhile, get busy roaming, one making a cradle against Tony's jaw, pushing and situating until Tony's neck is twinging from the uncomfortable angle and he's basically making out with the armor, Steve's breath washing over his lips in groans too pornographic for a national icon. The other hand must be gripping at the Mark VII's hip joint because Tony can feels the brush of Steve's forearm against the outside of his thigh with every rock of their hips. He's not really sure if he's being objectified here or not, but he's seriously digging it.
And this is exactly the kind of situation where being a genius really pays off, because despite getting fucked deep enough to knock his soul out of socket and having – objectively; he's almost certain there was some kind of public opinion poll at one point - one of the hottest men on the planet pressing urgent little mewls against the corner of his mouth, Tony's still got a scrap of something vaguely resembling brain cells to use to fiddle with the settings on the Mark VII bracelets.
Steve startles a couple of seconds too late when the mechanisms start to hum, tearing out of the kiss he's busy licking into Tony's wisdom teeth to watch the gauntlets separate from the rest of the armor and reshape themselves around Tony's forearms like elbow-length gloves at the world's most advanced sci-fi burlesque. Shudders so hard Tony's scared for a second they're both going to end up on the floor when he reaches around to run one articulated metal finger up the crack of Steve's ass.
His stuttered, "Tony," is the most broken open Tony's ever heard Steve sound, up to and including the time Cap took a punch to the chest from Thanos that fractured all of Steve's ribs. The eyes he turns on Tony are dilated to an almost frightening degree, lost and helpless and so turned on he doesn't look like he could pick his own name out of a lineup.
The tell-tale twitch of Steve's dick throbs deep in Tony, his own neglected cock painfully hard and, honestly, way too close to going off all by itself.
He hears himself rasping out something like, “Not yet, not yet,” and isn’t even sure which one of them he’s talking to. It’s so much more intense than he would have guessed, or rather, Steve is. Steve, the closest thing to control personified Tony’s ever seen, is completely out of his head over this, over Tony and this part of him that so few other people will ever really know.
With the gauntlets on but not the rest of the suit, there’s a limit to how much dexterity he has to work with, to say nothing of the fact that he’s shaking like a virgin on prom night. Still, he manages with only a couple of fumbles to coordinate some kind of a tempo between the tip of one finger circling the give of Steve’s hole and his other hand flicking Steve’s nipples up to stiff, red points. His arms are aching from the awkward positioning and he’s pretty sure the tendons in his inner thighs have just gone numb from maintaining the stretch around Steve’s torso and there’s no real question that he’s going to have some interestingly shaped bruises on his spine tomorrow but like fuck is going to stop one second before he has to.
Not with Steve forgetting all about precision and caution and just using him however his body demands, babbling things that aren’t even words but sound like pleas against the shell of Tony’s ear. Not with this sick sort of ecstasy burrowing into his core from accomplishing something no one else in history has pulled off – Steve Rogers, 100% at his mercy.
Tony’s got enough experience with addiction to know he’s not going to be getting over this any time soon.
“Yeah, that’s what you want, isn’t it?” He relishes the tremble he gets instead of an answer as he smooths a hand through the hair sticking to Steve’s forehead in drenched clumps. An extra bit of pressure and he can feel Steve’s body give around the fingertip of the gauntlet, enough memories of that clinging heat to make up for the fact that he can’t feel it now. “You wanna get fucked by Iron Man.”
Nothing but dead air makes it out of Steve’s gaping mouth for a heartbeat of time that just hangs as Tony feels that internal jerk-pulse, pushes his finger a little deeper knowing Steve’s too dry, knowing he can take it anyway. Then Steve’s bucking forward like he’s got no control over his own body, letting gravity drag Tony all the way down onto the full length of his cock. One hand flies to Tony’s ribs, thumb caught between his own chest and lip of the reactor. Other one cradling the back of the helmet like he’s pulling something more than a hollow shell down into the vicious kiss marring his lips against metal.
Roller-coaster rush, Tony finds himself on the floor on top of Steve in a crumpled heap, Steve's dick pressing so hard at his insides on the landing he sees stars. Junkie-shakes ripple through Steve in waves, his breath wet little drags that are music to Tony's ears. Wonder how long it would take to get some kind of engraved plaque for the wall - On this spot, Captain America came so hard his legs gave out on him; Anthony Stark officially anointed Sex God.
He can't tell if Steve's still coming or not, but the thick shaft holding him open is still hard enough for it to feel good when Tony churns his hips to make it shift around inside him, the space between them going warm with a little gush of come leaking free around the shape of Steve. It earns him big hands on his hips, strong enough to hold him still but not really trying to, just holding on as Tony rocks down for the ragged shocks of pleasure it fires off through his system.
He throttles back the rough noise that wants to burst free in favor of listening to Steve whine when he plants his still-covered hands on Steve's chest for leverage and swivels, rides the sensation of heat and pressure on all those overworked bits inside him. It's a delicate balance here, because Steve can get hard again so fast it makes Tony's head spin and he's really not entirely sure he's got another round in him at the moment, but at the same time, his balls are going to pack up and leave him if he doesn't get off like now.
The feel of cool, battle-scarred metal on blood-hot skin steals Tony's breath for a second, a cold spike down into his balls that coils into something sweet and insinuating on the way up his spine. It'd be better with a little lube, but he's wet enough that the steel-on-skin pull along his dick is more smooth than stuttering, hard and unforgiving and silky as his curled fingers glide down the length.
Ridged muscle tenses under him on a groan. Tony looks up to find Steve watching him, still hazy, but attentive, blown blue eyes hung on the hand Tony's using to jack himself. Not a bad picture, he must admit, shiny hot rod red and brilliant gold around the darker flush of his cock. There's an edgy sort of thrill to doing this, being watched doing it, like the moment before ignition when he doesn't know if his latest creation is going to run like a dream or blow up in his face. Just a little more pressure, a little more speed, friction, friction. Engineering on its most basic level - torque and friction.
Tony’s old enough by now to have gotten over being ashamed of the stupid noise he makes when he comes. With milky white glossing the gauntlet and painting scattershot patterns on Steve’s abs, electricity lighting up his nerves like a repulsor charge, it’s not like he’s really paying attention to auditory input anyway.
He more than a little bit collapses on top of Steve. Seems fair and all since Steve’s the whole reason they’re on the ground in the first place. Also the reason Tony feels like the pin just got pulled on a sexual-fulfillment grenade and they both threw themselves on top of it.
He mumbles, “We are so doing that again,” into Steve’s shoulder, but his body isn’t much on the ‘responding to commands’ front at the moment so it ends up more of a slur of vowel sounds. He gets the feeling his point comes across anyway.
After longer than Tony had been expecting, Steve gets fed up with lying on bare concrete with a two hundred pound weight on top of him and starts shuffling Tony around, rumbling about a shower. He’s also blushing again, the big girl, and Tony is so, so screwed because all he can think about it is ‘adorable’. Alright, so he’s a little in love with Steve. Really, who could blame him?
He lets Steve hustle him back into enough clothing to make the trek upstairs a smidge less scandalous for anybody they might pass along the way. Even goes so far as to make the journey without a steadying arm wrapped around his waist, although there’s no way that any of the crew they share quarters with could possibly miss the hitch in his gait. He’s going to be walking funny tomorrow and the thought just makes him grin, schematics already forming in his head for detachable groin plates on the armor.
Steve has a little crush on Iron Man, huh? He is dating the right engineer.