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I Get a Kick Out of You

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The first time the team goes drinking, Tony knows that Steve can’t actually get drunk. He doesn’t know how to feel about this except for sad, because, if he hasn’t been able to slip into those old Stark Mansion parties and get completely plastered, the poor guy has probably missed out on a lot of crazy shit. Sobriety is overrated, honestly, but he doesn’t expect Steve to share that viewpoint. Which is why he’s confused when Steve staggers up to him at the bar, opens his mouth, and slurs, “Are you lost?”

His first thought is this isn’t possible, quickly followed by how does this pick-up line go again?

He takes time to analyze the situation. After all—they don’t call him a genius for nothing, and when has a nice, mathematical approach ever failed him? Especially in a bar setting, goddamnit, he’s not even drunk and exciting things are happening.

He looks Steve over. He's flushed—red-faced, tousle-haired, and completely out of breath. Something is definitely wrong.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Steve?”

“Fine,” he mumbles, staring at Tony’s shoulder. “Bruce mixed a little something for me. Or maybe it was Thor. I don’t know.” The resolutely cheerful smile Tony associates with alcohol-induced happiness pops up over his face. “I’m drunk.”

Tony raises an unsure eyebrow. “Really.”

“Maybe,” he says, and places a hand on Tony’s thigh to steady himself. Really? How subtle. He should give Steve some pointers on flirting when he’s not totally blasted.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Show me something?” Tony raises his beer to his lips and takes a swig. “Sounds interesting." A pause. "Want some?” Steve nods and accepts the bottle, downing a gulp like it’s water. The light in his eyes brightens.

“Upstairs,” he says, and Tony shrugs—what the hell is really all he’s thinking of, because, hey, he’s not drunk, and Steve might be, which is definitely a good combination. Also, there’s a good chance that Steve wants to get to first base—or at least an opportunity that he’ll allow it—and all of that is enough to cause Tony to sigh, get up from his barstool, and follow Steve up the stairs. He’s wearing a suit, goddamnit. Drunk Steve in a suit—tonight is actually going well.

The hallway is empty, except for a few vending machines in the back. He cocks his head and turns back to Steve. “What exactly—”

Steve’s kiss is an unexpected attack, hot and sloppy—neither of them know where it’s going, especially Steve. He pushes Tony up against the wall, running his hands over his clothes—under his clothes, God, and before he knows what’s happening Steve’s tongue is writhing against his own and his hand has found a nice snug spot under the bulge in Tony’s pants.

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, licking his way around Tony’s mouth. He does a thorough job, even though there’s no control, no precision—just hot heat and the taste of liquor—from whose mouth, he has no idea. All Tony cares about now is tongue scraping over his stubble as it veers off course and over his chin. “Help me with this—”

Steve’s fingers stutter around Tony’s crotch, fumbling with the zipper, and Tony can barely swallow as he wrenches his eyes open and guides Steve’s shaking hands to the button.

“Mm, thanks,” he murmurs, and sucks a spot below Tony’s jaw that definitely doesn’t—doesn’t, Tony tells himself sharply—make him whimper. Open-mouthed kisses dissolve into tongue that’s everywhere but Tony’s mouth, teeth that bite little red marks that will smile at Tony in the mirror tomorrow—if this isn’t all a dream—and he tugs sharply at Tony’s pants. His jeans hit the ground in one movement.

“Fuck,” Steve whispers, hot against Tony’s ear—he nibbles at his earlobe and his hands slide over his straining underwear—“you’re hard already.” He grinds against Tony, slick black suit against now-transparent white Y-fronts, as he reaches for the top button of his shirt. “Let’s take this off.”

“Steve,” Tony growls. He’s right—he is embarrassingly stiff already, they haven’t even finished making out properly but he can feel his cock burning between his thighs—he tries to get some friction on Steve, off Steve, but he’s too busy popping the buttons off, impatient, one by one, until the shirt’s undone. He pushes it off his arms like he’s been waiting a long, long time.

“Yes?” he asks, nipping along Tony’s collarbone while working his fingers around the front of Tony’s inner thigh. “What do you—”

“God,” Tony gasps, as Steve’s fingers brush the side of his cock. Steve’s eyes widen with something dangerously close to understanding.

“Is this what you want?” he purrs, and—fuck—he wraps a hand around the shape of his dick, palming him through the fabric. Tony nods in a manner that he hopes is encouraging and not completely out of it. It seems to be working; Steve’s fingers trail up and down the sensitive stretch of skin like they have a plan. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” is all Tony can manage.

“Really?” Steve’s mouth is in his ear again, licking inside. “Because I can do so much better.” And, in an effort to prove it, his tongue paints a stripe down his throat. He doesn’t even want to know what’s coming next. Other than him, of course.

“Let me blow you,” Steve whispers, hot breath on wet skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower Tony Stark has ever had to keep from moaning right there. “Let me—let me suck your dick.” His fingers skate along the tented fabric in time with his words. “You’d like that—you’d love that, wouldn’t you? I—I know what you like, Tony. You like it hot and fast and dirty—you dream about my mouth around you, don’t you?—about me panting on my knees. You want this—you’ve wanted this. You’ve been waiting.” He punctuates his words with a tug around the head of Tony’s cock.

“Fuck,” Tony chokes.

“Tell me,” Steve pants.

“Tell you what?” he asks, breathless, as Steve starts to work his fingers around his balls. His mind has melted a long, long time ago, drowned in a puddle of sizzling sensation.

“Tell me what you want me to do.” God, what’s wrong with him?

“I—I want you to get down on your knees,” he gasps, and Steve complies, dragging kisses across his chest, across the stretch of skin over his abdomen, until he reaches Tony’s briefs. “And—and I want you to blow me,” he finishes, waiting expectantly for the resulting feeling of a wet mouth on his cock—a feeling that will fry whatever is left of his mind, no doubt—but it doesn’t come.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs, gazing at Tony’s swollen underwear with something like hunger in his eyes. His lips are slightly parted. “I wonder if I could make you come just like this. Just—just lick you through your underwear, Christ, I bet I could make you come without taking it off.” He smirks dazedly up at Tony. “You’d come in your clothes like a teenager—like a horny teenager jerking off to a magazine or something. Fuck, Tony.”

“No,” Tony rasps. “I want—”

He’s cut off by a groan that bubbles up out of his mouth as Steve presses his tongue to the fabric. He licks up, over, around, and presses his face into the space between his cock and his thigh—nuzzling is what he’s doing, and Tony doesn’t think he can survive if he does it for a second longer. One hand fondles his balls—playing with them, almost, squeezing them—and the other wraps around the back of his hip, holding him in place. He sucks on the outline of Tony’s cock through the cloth, making wet sounds every time his lips tighten.

“God, Steve —come on,” and Tony fists graze the wall, seeking support but finding none. He reaches for the elastic band of his underwear. Steve stops him.

“Wait,” he whispers, lips moving across the material, and gives the head of his cock one last rub. A smile that shouldn’t be nearly proud as it does crosses his face as precome slowly stains through. “All of this and you’re still not done—Christ, Tony, how long can you go?”

Steve doesn’t wait for an answer. He hooks his fingers under the rubber lining and tugs it down, to the ground; Tony watches him with trembling thighs as he licks bare flesh tentatively—a vein along the underside of his cock. God, it feels like—it feels like fire and Tony can’t think of words after that. Steve is hot, wet, and dirty, just like he’d promised; his mouth is everywhere, everywhere

“Mm—oh, Tony,” he moans, lips stretched tight around Tony’s cock, blond eyelashes fluttering like he’s the one getting a blowjob. Tony’s hips jerk forward slightly and he has to restrain himself from doing it again, harder this time—until, of course, Steve drives his fingers into Tony’s hips and forces them forward.

“What—” Tony’s breath hitches as Steve pulls him deeper. “I—”

“Come on, do it,” Steve pants, tightening his lips around the bottom of his cock’s head. “Fuck my mouth. Come on, I want it—use me,” and how can Tony ignore a plea like that? He snaps forward, driving into Steve so he has to hollow his cheeks. He moans every time Tony thrusts forward, sinks into the dripping heat of his mouth, until Tony doesn’t think he can take it anymore. He’s close now, too close, and too horny to leave Steve as fully-clothed as he is.

Steve pulls out slowly and Tony makes an indignant sound.

“What are you doing?” He swallows. “I want to—don’t you want to...?” He looks down at Steve doubtfully.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to come yet.” A thread of saliva drips across his chin. “I—” Words stop being useful as Steve reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a bottle of something that looks wonderfully familiar.

He presses it into Tony’s hand and sets to work taking his clothes off—it’s not the economical, neat way he does it in the locker room, sliding his jacket off, folding it into his shirt, undoing his buttons and cufflinks and stacking everything in a neat square—no, this is something careless, horny; he tugs and tears and yanks at everything, at once, doesn’t even both to slide his pants all the way off before pressing his hands against the wall and tilting his ass toward Tony.

“You can do the honors.” Muscles ripple under his skin and Tony has to remind himself forcibly that this is Captain America—the same man who’s given him orders, led the nation with speeches and battles—that man is naked, spreading his legs wide in front of Tony, and gasping as slick fingers brush his entrance.

“Yeah, harder—oh,” he breathes, pressing down on Tony’s fingers as he stretches him open. “Yeah, just like that—yeah, Tony, more, I can take more—Christ.” He rocks back, clenches involuntarily, and groans as Tony adds a third. He's fucking himself on Tony’s fingers, lost so deep in sensation that he’s not even touching himself. “I—deeper,” and Tony obliges him with an extra twist that has Steve’s mouth falling into a perfect little o.

“I’m ready, now,” he pants. “Now, I want—I want it. Just—take me here—Christ, Tony—against this wall. I’m ready—fuck me.”

Tony braces a hand on the wall, so his arm fits over Steve’s, and guides his cock against the cleft of Steve’s ass. “You’re such a slut, you know that?” he asks, as Steve moans—moans at that, moans before he’s even entered him—“I never figured you for a slut, never figured Captain America to be like this. And I don’t think it’s just because you’re drunk, either.” Tony rubs his cock against Steve’s crack, teasing, drawing out little whimpers that hang in the air. “You love having a dick in your ass, don’t you? You just love being fucked.”

A breathless “Yeah,” is what comes out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop it. His face is twisted into something of ecstasy; Tony’s not even sure he can hear him.

“Yeah—it’s not the drink. The drink has nothing to do with it. You—you’re just a whore. Look at you,” he rasps, and presses the head of his cock into Steve. He shudders and groans, wet and tight around Tony even though he’s been lubed up. “You’re fucking shameless. You love this. Come on, baby—fuck yourself on my dick.”

He thrusts forward only slightly, but Steve meets him and sinks backward. He drives Tony deeper and deeper into him, and every thrust is wet, twisting, and long; Tony’s buried to the hilt inside of him and Steve keeps on slamming down, again and again and again his own cock slapping against his chest—a steady rhythm punctuated by long, wanton moans.

“Oh, Tony,” he moans, pushing him in farther; “This is—this is better than—than—”

“Better than what?” Tony growls, biting a spot below his ear. “You’re a fucking whore, Steve—look at you, baby, all you want is to be fucked. How bad do you want it? What I want to know—”—he thrusts suddenly in and makes Steve gasp—“is how many people you’ve let do this to you. You were in the army, weren’t you? Bet you loved that, huh, all those men in uniform—”

“Shut up,” Steve whimpers, rocking roughly back against him, lips falling open with a silent cry. “Look who's talking. I—I see the way you look at me in my uniform, Tony, I—fuck —you’re always staring at my—my ass, I know that you’re imagining—imagining—Jesus Christ, Tony—me—like this.” His hand falls to Tony’s hip. “Or maybe you’re imagining me fuck you. I see it in your eyes, you know, and you always look away when I catch you—and now I know, now I know what you’re seeing. You want me between your legs. You want me inside of you. You want me to own you.”

“Steve,” Tony pants desperately, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, head tilting back slightly; “Yeah, you want me to pin you down and fuck you good, don’t you? You—Christ —you want me to make you beg, make you scream —you imagine it. You jerk off to it, don’t you?—Me? Fuck,” he gasps, again. “God, Tony, hit me right there—right there, fuck, yeah—”

Tony pounds into Steve at the right angle, now, the right rhythm of skin slapping against skin, slick and hard and filthy, because that’s what it is, in this hallway. He can feel himself teetering on the edge and every trace of control is lost; he’s just fucking him now, that’s all—Tony gives himself up to the feeling of Steve clenching around his cock, the way Steve moans and hisses his name with every thrust; he bites a cord of straining muscle at Steve’s neck and then Steve’s coming, coming, and he just breathes “Fuck,” and takes it, let Tony fill him up with his come—a few more pumps and Tony follows him over the edge.

They hang like that, for a few moments: breathless, sweaty, and still slightly in shock. Tony swallows and feels Steve shudder beneath him. He presses something that might resemble a kiss to Steve’s shoulder before pulling away.

“Where’s my shirt?” Tony mumbles, searching the floor, but none of it makes sense; his head swims. Wait, this is ridiculous—he’s only had half a beer, for Christ’s sake. He turns back to Steve and his vision goes fuzzy for a second at all of that naked muscle, golden hair trailing down between his legs—and he’s just leaning against the wall and staring at him with a strange kind of satisfied smirk.

“I can’t find my shirt.” Tony shakes his head. “Did you drug me or something?”

“It’s over there,” Steve says, pointing to its location on the floor without looking away from Tony. “You look drunk.”

“Thanks, I—” He stops and narrows his eyes as a faint thought from what feels like a long, long time ago enters his mind. “Wait a second, Rogers. Aren’t you supposed to be drunk?” Tony snatches his shirt off the floor and slips his arms through. “Didn’t Bruce—or Thor—”—He picks Steve’s briefs off the ground and throws it at him—“mix you a little something?”

Steve can’t keep the flushed smile off his face as he yanks his underwear back on. “Nope. I just wanted to get laid.”

“Good God, Rogers!” Tony clasps his hands over his heart—or, more accurately, arc reactor—and pretends to swoon. “You really are a slut. Jesus Christ.”

“That doesn’t change anything, does it?”

“Change anything? It changes everything,” Tony says, and leans in so he can smell musky sex on Steve’s lips. “Now I really am going to imagine you fucking me. What did you say, again?—Pin me down?” He shakes his head and slides his legs back into his underwear. “You said you were going to make me scream. I’ll be waiting, babe. You can own me.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, blushing and reaching for his slacks.

“What? Empty promises?” Tony zips up his pants. “Now I really am disappointed.”

“No,” he says. “I just—I didn’t think there would be a next time.” He glances up from his clothes. “You—you aren’t kidding, are you?”

“That was—were you awake for the past few minutes? I’m not even going to grace that with an answer,” Tony says, pulling his shirt collar up and looks down at himself. “Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of hickeys.”

“It’s a good look for you.”

“Ha fucking ha.” He winks at Steve. “I bet they’re missing us downstairs.”

“Are you going to answer?”

“What?”

“My question,” Steve says, hopping on one foot as he attempts to tie his shoe without kneeling. “It was—ouch —are you lost?”

“I thought you didn’t need pickup lines after you actually fucked. Wildly. Like animals.” Tony blinks and shakes his head again, trying to clear his mind of everything that has just happened, because—God—the thought of sex with anyone and everyone else, memories and all, has been ruined forever. “Fuck, Steve, how can you look at me like that anymore? Now I know what you think of, Christ. You have a filthy mouth. You’re a pervert.”

“What?”

“I said perfect,” Tony says, grinning. “And no, I’m not going to answer your question.”

Steve straightens up, still looking considerably rumpled. “Why?”

“Am I lost?” He pulls Steve closer from around the waist. “I think you already know the answer to that.”