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Dressed to Impress

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Tony has a fairly unique relationship with clothes. He grew up surrounded by people who were either employees of Stark Industries, military personnel, or government agents. This meant everyone wore fine clothing, most often in the form of neat suits and pristine uniforms, not to mention the lavish evening gowns and tuxes filling the high society events Tony had been forced to attend since childhood. He can probably count the number of times he'd ever seen his father in anything but a suit, not including the rare occasions Howard took off his tie. As for Tony, he's never worn a suit that wasn't tailored specifically for him, and his wardrobes are full of obscenely expensive designer labels and one-of-a-kind pieces.

If there was ever any novelty to dressing up, it wore off long before Tony can remember. When he's not dressing for an occasion, he'll wear the same jeans and t-shirt combo for days on end, changing only when it becomes necessary due to stains, burns or tears. Or, on a handful of occasions, JARVIS' thinly veiled disgust. Tony's not sure how or why an AI would get fussy about hygiene, but it's definitely not a trait JARVIS had inherited from him.

The point is, Tony never really placed much stock in what a person wears. It takes more than a fancy outfit to get him to sit up and take notice, because let's face it, if that was the scale he used to measure his partners he'd only ever be fucking himself. And while the concept is certainly intriguing from a purely theoretic standpoint, not even Tony is narcissistic enough to figure that one out. (Alright, so maybe he's already worked out some of the logistics, but he's not narcissistic enough to try them.)

So he's really not sure where exactly this uniform kink came from. Except that's a lie, isn't it? Tony has a pretty damn good idea where it came from, can give the exact weight and dimensions of the six-foot-two package it was delivered in precisely eight seconds ago when it walked into his workshop. But oh, he's got it bad.

"Tony?" Steve asks. "Did you hear what I said?"

It takes a supreme effort for Tony to clear his thoughts long enough to respond. And because he's a genius, he even manages to get out a complete sentence.

"What?"

Totally counts as a sentence.

"I said," Steve says patiently. "Rhodey called to say he's running late, so we're going to meet him at the gala. We should probably get going soon."

Tony only comprehends about 35% of that, but nods along anyway.

"Which means you should probably start getting dressed?" Steve presses on. "I know times have changed, but I'm pretty sure sweat pants and a t-shirt aren't considered 'formal wear.'"

"You're wearing a uniform," Tony blurts out.

Steve frowns slightly, glancing down at himself as if to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Um, yes?" It comes out as a question, and he gives Tony a look that's equal parts confusion and amusement.

"Your old army outfit--"

"Service uniform," Steve corrects.

"--from the fucking forties, Jesus, it's like you stepped out of a period film, I can't tell if my vision's gone sepia or not." Tony's rambling now, he can hear himself rambling and there's that little crinkle in Steve's forehead that means he's not making any sense and he should probably stop talking. "How do you even still have that? Shouldn't it be in a museum somewhere? You know they have like, a Captain America shrine down in SHIELD headquarters, right? I should take you there sometime, it's great, they've got that dummy grenade you threw yourself on and everything and why haven't I seen you wearing that before?"

Steve blinks at the sudden onslaught of questions, confusion slowly giving way to self-consciousness. "They kept almost all of my possessions while I was-- And, well, it's not like I had a lot to begin with," he says, fidgeting slightly and picking at his cuffs. "I thought it would be appropriate for the event, honoring veterans and all. But you're right. It's, it's flashy. I should change--"

"Don't you fucking dare," Tony says, a little too vehemently based off the alarmed look on Steve's face.

Tony makes a mental note to kick himself later for that and takes a steadying breath, forcing himself to calm down. It's not easy; Steve is always distractingly attractive no matter what he's wearing (or not wearing, as the case may be). To be presented without warning Steve in vintage military dress -- dark olive serge offset by bright gold buttons, every gorgeous inch of him immaculately in place and begging to be roughed up... Tony's only human, despite any claims he might make to the contrary while under the influence of alcohol or adrenaline or caffeine-fueled work frenzy.

He clears his throat and steps closer, moving around his workbench and insinuating himself into Steve's space with practiced ease. Slowly, he lifts a hand to trace the edge of one of Steve's lapels, fingers brushing over the outstretched wings of an SSR pin, and dips his head a little to look up at Steve through his lashes. It's a shameless ploy and they both know it, but it doesn't stop Tony from licking his lips deliberately just to hear the breath catch in Steve's throat.

He drops his voice an octave and murmurs, "I was just surprised to see you dressed like this, is all."

"Oh," is all Steve can manage at first. Tony can see the realization dawning on Steve's face, a tentative smile quirking his lips as he starts to catch on. "Good surprise?"

In reply, Tony closes the remaining gap between them, backing Steve into the wall and pressing his body along Steve's with one sinuous roll of his hips. It draws a breathless little noise from Steve that Tony will never, ever get tired of hearing. He bites his lower lip to stop himself from grinning and stretches up to whisper in Steve's ear, "I think I'll let you figure that one out for yourself, Cap."

Steve's hands fly up to grab Tony's waist, gripping with near bruising force for a fleeting moment before going lax, smoothing down to rest at Tony's hips in a loose hold. Steve is always doing that, grabbing at him and backing away again, and Tony knows it's Steve forgetting his own strength for an instant and acting on impulse. It drives Tony crazy, sends a thrill of excitement tempered with aching affection to know Steve could easily overpower him, but will never let himself. It doesn't stop Tony from trying, though, reckless and unrelenting in his desire to see Steve lose control, to be the one to make him fall apart and forget himself.

Tony buries his face in the curve of Steve's neck and breathes in the scent of clean wool. Steve must have had it dry cleaned for the occasion, had probably gone out to pick it up himself because, on top of saving the world on a regular basis, Captain America does his own errands. Steve is practically buttoned up to his throat, a perfectly knotted tie holding together the pressed collar of his shirt, all of it under that damned jacket, neat and simple with just enough flourish. Tony is predisposed to find any layer of clothing separating himself from Steve's skin an inconvenience, but he's starting to reconsider his position on the matter. He pulls back a little to give Steve a long, loving once-over, his hands mapping out his gaze as he slides them across Steve's shoulders and down his chest.

Their eyes meet, and the look on Steve's face obliterates any chance Tony might have had of stopping. There's a pink flush spreading across Steve's cheeks, creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. He looks torn between pushing Tony away and hauling him closer. Tony quickly takes the decision out of his hands, grabbing hold of Steve's tie and pulling him down for a kiss. It's deep and devouring and filthy -- they don't have time to take this slow, and Tony doesn't think he'd have the patience for it anyway. He tongues his way into Steve's mouth, leaves him open-mouthed and panting in the span of seconds. There's no resistance; Steve seems to be scrambling to keep up, kissing back just a little too slow, like he's still trying to figure out how this happened. Tony nips at Steve's lower lip, demanding his full attention and getting it.

"Tony," Steve says, and it sounds dangerously like the beginning of a protest.

Tony goes on the offensive, silencing Steve with one last searching kiss before dropping to his knees.

He can practically hear Steve's train of thought jump its tracks and fall off a cliff as he slides his hands up Steve's thighs. Tony palms the thick muscle through the fabric with a low hum of appreciation. It's a momentary distraction, and Tony only indulges himself for a second before moving on to his main target. The buttons of Steve's fly are hidden behind a double-layered placket, trickier than usual, but Tony's never met a pair of pants he couldn't get into. His fingers brush against Steve's hardening dick as he works open the fly, and Steve's hands jerk up in an aborted movement, reaching towards Tony's head before falling back to rest against the wall again. Still holding himself back. Looks like Tony is going to have to work for it.

The pants fall open under Tony's clever hands and he presses his face to Steve's crotch shamelessly. He noses along the outline of Steve's cock and breathes in deep, chasing after the faint musk hidden beneath the stronger scent of soap and clean laundry. Above him, Steve sucks in a harsh breath, and Tony tilts his face to mouth at the thickening ridge of Steve's dick through his briefs.

Tony doesn't bother with pulling Steve's pants down, partly out of concern for bunching the fabric and leaving creases, but mostly out of the desire to keep Steve in the uniform. It's what got them here in the first place, after all. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Steve's briefs and gingerly pulls Steve's cock out with one hand, letting the elastic snap tight under Steve's balls.

It's Tony's turn to catch his breath, and he pauses for a moment to take it all in. It's a sight worth appreciating: Steve still fully clothed in impeccable military dress save for the open vee of his pants, his dick huge and obscene in contrast, flushed and curving up towards his belly, his balls a warm weight against the stark white cotton of his underwear. Tony's mouth fucking waters just looking, and for the millionth time he wonders how he managed to get so lucky.

"Love how hard you get for me," Tony murmurs. He wraps his hand around the thick shaft of Steve's cock and gives it a few lazy strokes, transfixed by the slide of foreskin like always.

Tony looks up, wants to see Steve face as he does this. Steve's eyes are wide and rapt, and it just kills Tony how, no matter how many times they do this, Steve always looks so surprised. Like nobody's ever done anything like this to him before. And the thing is, nobody ever had done anything like this before Tony.

It hits him all over again, low in the gut, a swell of fierce possessiveness and joy at the thought: I was his first.

"You have no fucking idea what you're doing to me in this uniform," Tony says, tightening his grip just enough to make Steve gasp. His own arousal is starting to make things uncomfortably tight, but Tony puts it out of his mind for now, content to focus all of his attention on Steve and nothing else.

He starts stroking Steve's cock in earnest, closing his fist around the head and jacking him in a steady rhythm. He feels Steve twitch in his hand, a sudden slickness against his palm, and pauses to rub his thumb across the slit. It draws a broken moan from Steve, his entire body tensing at the touch. Tony drags his thumb down the length of Steve's dick, leaving a glistening trail along the underside, and swears softly at the sight.

"You're dripping," Tony breathes. "Haven't even gotten started yet, and look at you. Never seen you get so wet for me. This'll be quick, yeah? God, Steve."

"Tony," Steve says, plaintive. "D-don't talk."

"A little less conversation, a little more action, huh?" Tony grins up at him. "There's really only one way to shut me up, you know."

The look on Steve's face is priceless, caught between lust at the suggestion and incredulity at the corny innuendo. Tony resists the urge to waggle his eyebrows and shifts into a more comfortable position, spreading his knees a little farther apart as he angles Steve's dick towards him. He wraps his fingers around the base in a loose hold and flicks his tongue across the head, echoing Steve's moan at the taste.

He hadn't been exaggerating; Steve is seeping wet, his cock jerking in Tony's grip with each fresh pulse of precome. Tony spreads the slick with a few twisting strokes of his hand, wraps his lips around the swollen cockhead and traces the crown with the tip of his tongue. He pulls off with a lewd sound to place a row of wet, sucking kisses along the shaft, looks up to watch Steve as he opens his mouth wide and holds out his tongue to catch a drop of precome.

Tony isn't sure who he's torturing more with his teasing, but it's worth it for the way Steve's hips thrust forward helplessly, the head of his dick skating along Tony's tongue at the movement.

"C'mon, Steve," Tony says, licking his lips. "Want you to feed me your cock. Want you to fuck my mouth."

"Tony," Steve gasps, his breath hitching in his throat. "I-I can't--"

"Yes, you can," Tony growls. He laps up another bead of precome with a low groan before continuing, "You can, you gotta, I need you to. You're gonna fuck my mouth and come down my throat so I can taste you all night, and when we get home you're gonna fuck me for real while wearing that."

He doesn't know what possesses him -- he's always had a filthy mouth, loves how easy it is to rile Steve up with it, but this is something new. He's never been this desperate for Steve to let himself go, to take and use Tony like he's never done before.

"Fuck," Steve whispers, and Tony knows he's won.

Steve tentatively places a hand on Tony's head, and Tony turns to rub his cheek against Steve's palm, pressing a fleeting kiss to the inside of his wrist. The gesture seems to reassure Steve, as Tony had hoped it would, and he slides his fingers through the thick curls of Tony's hair, blunt nails scratching lightly against the scalp. Tony nearly purrs, his eyes going heavy-lidded with pleasure.

He releases his hold on Steve's cock, curling both of his hands into loose fists on his lap. He flirts with the idea of clasping them together behind his back, just the thought of it enough to make his cock twitch in his boxers, but he doesn't want to push Steve too far outside his comfort zone. Next time, he tells himself. Maybe even tie them up--

"Give me your hands," Steve says, cutting across Tony's fantasies.

"What for?" Tony frowns slightly, even as he obediently holds them up for Steve to take. Steve guides them until they come to rest on his hips and holds them in place.

"Keep them here," Steve orders, his voice steady despite the renewed flush of embarrassment, "and let go if I-- If you need me to stop."

"That's not going to happen," Tony snorts.

"I'm not going to take that chance," Steve says firmly. "You drop your hands, and I stop. Clear?"

Tony rolls his eyes but keeps his hands where Steve put them, squeezing lightly in acknowledgement. "Have I ever told you how hot it is when you use your Commander voice?" he asks.

"Well, you're just so subtle about it," Steve says in a complete deadpan, waving vaguely at his uniform and their current positions.

It startles a genuine laugh out of Tony, breaking some of the tension. Steve reaches down with one hand, skims the back of his knuckles along Tony's cheek in a familiar gesture. Tony feels something warm settle in his chest that has nothing to do with the arc reactor as Steve smiles fondly down at him, his hand sliding back to settle in Tony's hair once more.

"I know you like it when I tell you what to do. I like it, too," Steve says quietly. He's blushing fiercely, barely able to get the words out, but Tony can see the stubborn determination in his eye that means he's not going to back down. "But I need to know that I'm not hurting you."

Tony wants to say that he knows Steve would never really hurt him, wants to point out that a little bit of hurting can actually be a lot of fun, in the right circumstances. But Steve is looking at him with such open, earnest care, like Tony is something precious and brilliant and good, something worth protecting. Tony doesn't think he'll ever get used to being looked at like that, knows he would happily die trying to earn it.

"I promise."

Steve nods. "I trust you," he says. Just like that.

Tony tilts his face up, wets his lips with a sweep of his tongue and parts them in blatant invitation. Steve draws in a deep breath as if steadying himself, one hand holding Tony's head in place as the other guides his cock into Tony's waiting mouth. The tip bumps against the swell of Tony's lower lip, and Tony can't resist darting his tongue out for a quick taste. Steve pulls back at once, his grip tightening in Tony's hair, not nearly hard enough to hurt but firm enough to get the message across. Tony lets out a shocked moan of arousal, his body arching slightly, head leaning back into Steve's hand.

"Behave," Steve murmurs.

Tony barely holds back a whimper, can't quite manage to suppress the shiver that runs through him at the soft rebuke. He holds himself still, waiting, his hands clutching Steve's hips like a lifeline.

Steve draws Tony forward again, lets his dick slide just inside Tony's mouth and rests it on the flat of his tongue, testing. Tony nearly trembles in the effort of holding himself still, fighting the urge to suck, to lick and tease and swallow. After a few agonizing seconds, Steve pulls out again, and Tony lets out a sound that he'll probably be embarrassed about later. Steve is gracious enough not to comment on it, although from what Tony can see of his expression, Steve is calling on every ounce of his superhuman self-control to hold himself in check right now. It's hotter than anything has a right to be, and then Steve proceeds to slowly, deliberately rub his cockhead against Tony's lips, paints them shiny and slick, tracing the shape of Tony's mouth over and over and fuck, he can't take this.

"Steve," Tony whispers. His lips brush against heated skin, and Tony can feel Steve go still and tense beneath his hands. He presses his advantage, keeps his voice low and breathy as he goads, "C'mon, Steve, baby. I'll be good, you know I can be so good for you, just fucking give it to me, fuck me, c'mon--"

The words are cut off abruptly as Steve finally, finally thrusts forward. And didn't Tony tell him there was only one way to shut him up?

The first slide in is slow and careful, Steve's hand steady on the back of Tony's head as he pushes his cock inside the soft, wet heat of Tony's mouth. Tony groans with relief, revels in the delicious feel of being filled at last. Steve angles Tony's head where he wants it, presses the head of his cock against Tony's inner cheek and rubs it against the smooth, slick skin. He cups Tony's jaw with one hand, fingertips tracing the shape of his dick through Tony's cheek almost reverently. Tony can't resist ducking his head a fraction, just to feel Steve slide in a little deeper, press a little harder. Steve shudders and groans softly, and for a blinding moment Tony wants nothing more than to swallow him whole, to fuck his mouth on Steve's cock and get him off, quick and dirty. Tony knows he could do it, has already done it more times than he can count, knows each and every single one of Steve's buttons and how to push them. He could take Steve apart in under a minute, hands or no hands.

But that's not what they're doing here, not this time, and when Steve tightens his hold in Tony's hair and pulls away yet again, Tony doesn't fight it. He can't help the impatient little noise he makes, though, and he flicks his eyes up to Steve's, giving him an unimpressed look that he hopes conveys the message, I can take more and you know it.

"Thought you said you'd be good," Steve says, and Tony is pleased to hear him sounding out of breath. Super Soldier stamina or not, it's always gratifying to know the good Captain isn't impervious to Tony's efforts.

"What are you going to do about it?" Tony asks sweetly, rubbing little circles into Steve's hips with his thumbs.

"For someone who likes being told what to do, you're terrible at following orders," Steve huffs, sounding put out. But Tony can see the corner of his mouth twist in the way it always does when Steve's trying not to smile.

"You gonna put me in my place, Cap?" Tony murmurs. And honestly, he's this close to batting his eyes and saying, I've been a bad, bad boy.

"You'd like that," Steve says quietly, and it almost comes out as a question.

It takes a second for that to sink in, what Steve's actually asking, what he's offering. They've toyed with this before, skirted the edges of an otherwise unexplored territory, and Tony has to remind himself that Steve is stepping into it blind and unsure, trusting him to lead the way.

Tony starts to nod, forgetting for a moment that Steve still has a firm grip in his hair and only managing a stilted little dip of his head. "Yes," he grits out, sounding desperate and wrecked, his breath hitching in his throat has he chokes back a whine. Tony swallows, tries to keep his voice steady as he goes on, "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Steve pauses, just long enough for Tony to start getting worried, but when he finally speaks there's no trace of hesitation in his voice.

"Then ask me nicely."

Tony's heart slams into his chest, and for an insane moment he swears the arc reactor rattles in its housing.

Steve is asking-- telling Tony to beg. It goes against every instinct Tony has, and for all the things they've done together and all the things he has planned for them to do, they've never done this. Because yeah, he'll admit, Tony likes being bossed around, fucking loves it when Steve holds him down or picks him up like he weighs nothing. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure out why. He gets that he has control issues, and there's a certain thrill and no small relief in letting some of that go, handing over the reins to someone capable and strong and steady. Someone he trusts.

But he's never once begged. He's never had to, with Steve tripping over himself to give Tony what he wants, so achingly sincere in his desire to satisfy every need.

Maybe this is one of them.

"Please," Tony says, so soft it's barely heard above the sound of their labored breaths.

"Please what?" Steve prompts. "You have to be specific, Tony."

Tony closes his eyes and whimpers, feels something come loose in him as he starts to beg, "Please fuck my mouth, Steve. Please, I want you to use me, I want to feel you lose it, wanna fucking choke on your gorgeous cock, I need it, please, please."

Steve hushes him softly, fingers carding through Tony's hair, petting him. "Okay, Tony," he says gently. "That was good, you did so well. I'll give you what you need, I've got you."

Tony melts under the praise, edging back from frantic desperation into something calmer. He feels suspended, light-headed and peaceful and so completely, utterly safe. He could kneel like this for hours if Steve wanted him to.

Steve reaches down to settle his hand over Tony's for a moment, a silent reminder of their promise. Tony blinks up at Steve as he slides his palms a little higher, burrowing under the jacket and curling them around Steve's narrow waist. He strokes Steve's sides before hooking his fingers into the waistband of Steve's pants, getting a firmer grip. He won't let go unless he means to, and Tony doesn't have any intention of doing so.

Steve holds Tony's gaze and nods once. It's the only warning Tony gets before Steve grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls, hard enough to sting this time, forcing Tony to tip his head back and bare his throat. His mouth falls open on a gasp, but before he can find the breath to make a sound, Steve's cock is sliding over his tongue and pushing in deep enough to nudge the back of his throat. Tony tenses instinctively, too much too quick for him to take without resistance, but Steve backs off right before Tony starts to choke. He waits just long enough for Tony to take in a single, shuddering breath around his cock before pushing back in again, just as deeply as before.

Steve builds up a rhythm like that, keeps the pace steady and deliberate. His huge hands are cradling Tony's head, holding him in place. He has one buried in Tony's hair, near the base of his skull, the other curved around the underside of Tony's jaw. Tony can feel his pulse beat wildly against Steve's thumb, his Adam's apple rolling along Steve's palm with every swallow. Steve is still holding back, his movements tightly controlled and careful, and it's not enough. Tony does his best to beg without words, stops trying to hold back the noises that keep spilling from him, high-pitched moans and breathless little whimpers. He lets his mouth go slack and loose, clutches Steve's hips even tighter, stopping just shy of tugging Steve forward.

It seems to do the trick. Steve starts to get a little rougher, pushes in deeper with every thrust and stays there for just a bit longer each time. His hips pump forward faster, the rhythm faltering, his hands pushing and pulling at Tony's head in turns, holding him down on Steve's cock before dragging him off again. Tony goes boneless, opens himself up completely as Steve fucks his face, feels blissed out and high on being used like this. His jaw is starting to ache but it's good, it's so fucking good, he's going to feel Steve for days.

Tony can only imagine what he looks like right now, his lips stretched tight around the thick girth of Steve's dick, spit and precome slicking his swollen mouth and dripping down his chin. In the stillness of his workshop, Tony can hear everything, obscene slurps and messy, ragged breathing, the soft, wet sounds of his throat working each time he swallows around Steve's cock. And Steve--

Steve tends to be quiet when they fuck, an ingrained habit or inherent self-consciousness or both, and any noise Tony manages to get out of him is counted as a minor victory. But Steve is talking, a stream of nonsense praise and hushed expletives whispered under his breath. Tony doesn't think Steve is even aware of it.

"Tony, God, you're so-- you're amazing, feels so good. Look at you, Christ, if you could see how good you look right now. I can't believe you're letting me, can't believe you're taking it all, fuck, you're beautiful."

It figures that even dirty talk turns into something sweet when Steve does it. Tony's chest feels too tight around his arc reactor, and he flicks his eyes up to Steve, wants to see what it looks like when Steve says things like that.

Steve holds Tony's gaze, doesn't break it even as he starts to rut forward helplessly, his movements losing all finesse as he reaches the edge. He's thrusting into Tony's mouth with quick, brutal snaps of his hips, his grip almost bruising. Tony can barely breathe, but he truly does not give a shit, oxygen is overrated and Steve is going to come, he can feel it, all that strength and power tensing up beneath his hands, Steve's cock swelling impossibly bigger, pushing into the back of Tony's throat.

"Oh, God, Tony, I'm going to-- I can't," Steve gasps.

Tony takes a chance and uses his grip on Steve's hips to yank him forward, his throat flexing around Steve's cock as he swallows him down whole. Tony takes him in deep enough for his nose to brush against the coarse hair at the base of Steve's dick, deep enough that he can't breathe at all. Tony's blood is roaring in his ears, heart pounding like a caged thing against his ribs, he's choking and maybe about thirty seconds from passing out but he doesn't care.

Steve is falling apart, coming in great, heaving shudders, hips bucking hard enough to throw Tony off him if they weren't both clinging to each other like their lives depended on it. Steve doubles over, body curling around Tony's head as he empties his release. Tony tries to swallow it all down, chokes and splutters as Steve keeps coming, more than Tony can take. It floods his mouth and overflows, spills from the corners of his lips to drip down his chin.

Tony has always had a pretty terrible sense of self-preservation, and he can admit that he's not always the best judge of his own limits. But he promised, and the last thing he wants is to scare Steve into never doing something like this again because of a silly little technicality like Tony blacking out from lack of air. So he lets go of Steve's hips, tapping Steve on the leg for good measure before dropping his hands.

Steve is still gasping and shaking from his orgasm, but he reacts immediately to the signal, jumping back as if Tony's touch had burned him. Tony takes in a heaving breath as soon as Steve's dick slips free, then promptly has a coughing fit. It's gross and unsexy and Tony tries to hide it, turning away from Steve and wheezing into the crook of his elbow.

"Tony, oh my God, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Steve says, sounding horrified.

Tony flaps a hand at Steve wildly, realizes the gesture is probably not a very reassuring one, and instead holds up a finger in the universal give me a second sign as he struggles to catch his breath.

"Steve, I'm fine," he finally manages. His voice is a wreck, sounds like he swallowed some rusty nails and washed it down with broken glass. They both wince at how it sounds and Tony clears his throat, wipes his mouth on the back of his arm somewhat ineffectually and grins up at Steve. "Seriously, I'm fine, I'm great, don't be sorry. Shot of whiskey and I'll be back to normal. Don't, stop it, don't apologize, I wanted this and it was fucking incredible, I loved every second."

Steve doesn't smile back, his brow furrowed with concern. His hands are on Tony again, hesitant and infinitely careful. His fingertips skim lightly over Tony's throat, jaw, cheeks, before finally brushing across Tony's swollen lips.

"Did I hurt you?" Steve asks.

Tony rolls his eyes and nips at Steve's thumb. "No, you didn't," he says firmly. "Now stop making that face."

Steve makes a discontented little noise, and Tony has known him long enough and heard him make that noise often enough to know what it means. (Stop making me feel foolish for worrying about you, Tony.) But his features soften, the little crease in his brow smoothing away.

He still has his pants open, Tony realizes, dick softening but still flushed and wet from Tony's mouth, and fuck, okay, Steve is going to have to put that away before Tony does something crazy. Tony reaches up to carefully tuck Steve back into his briefs, grinning when Steve gives a full-body shudder at his touch. Steve always gets so sensitive after he comes, and if they had more time Tony would take advantage of that. Even so, Tony can't help it if his knuckles keep brushing against Steve's dick as he buttons up his pants. They're very complicated pants.

"There, now you're respectable," Tony says. And damn if it isn't true. There's a slight sheen of sweat on Steve's skin, a loose lock of hair falling across his forehead, and his is tie a little crooked. But otherwise, Steve looks just as perfectly put together as he did when he first walked into Tony's workshop.

Tony really shouldn't find that such a turn on.

Steve doesn't respond right away, his expression somewhat dazed. He cups Tony's cheek with one broad palm and looks at him for a long moment, taking in the sight.

"You-- Tony, you're a mess," Steve murmurs, sounding awed.

"You should feel proud of yourself," Tony drawls. He makes a sweeping gesture at his debauched self: his mussed hair and bruised mouth, spit and come smeared across his face and trailing down his neck, his rumpled, sweat-stained clothes. "This is all you, stud."

There's that blush again, Tony is delighted to note. Only Steve could manage to get flustered less than a minute after fucking Tony into near oblivion. Tony can't resist teasing just a little. He tilts his face into Steve's hand and stretches languidly, arching his back and letting out a low moan of satisfaction. The movement shifts his hips forward, and Tony can see Steve's eyes drop down to the obvious tent in his sweatpants.

"Like what you see, Cap?" Tony purrs. "Did you enjoy making this mess?"

Tony expects Steve to flush and stammer, maybe roll his eyes and make some kind of remark about how unattractive gloating is (which is a total lie, by the way, Tony makes it very attractive). But instead, Steve's eyes go dark and intent. Slowly, he swipes his thumb across a slick patch of come still clinging to Tony's beard, brings it up to his own mouth and licks it clean.

If Tony hadn't already been kneeling on the floor, he'd have fallen down at that.

"Come here so I can clean up after myself," Steve says.

"Fuck, Steve," Tony breathes.

He scrambles up to his feet -- or tries to, anyway. His legs nearly give way under him, and Steve has to grab his arms to keep him upright. Tony is shaking slightly, still unsteady on his feet, and he lets Steve manhandle him back to the workbench and lift him up onto it. The new angle gives Tony an inch or so of height over Steve, and he watches avidly as Steve steps into the space between his thighs and leans in close.

Steve kisses him, slow and thorough, like they have all the time in the world. He licks the taste of himself out of Tony's mouth, tips Tony's head back and sets about cleaning him, as promised. He drags his tongue up the column of Tony's neck, presses little kisses along Tony's throat and nuzzles him there.

"God, Tony," Steve murmurs, his face hidden in the curve of Tony's shoulder. "You make me crazy, make me want to-- to do all these things."

"Care to elaborate?" Tony asks, with some difficulty. He's breathing hard, so turned on he can barely think straight, and if Steve manages some dirty talk that's actually dirty, there's a good chance Tony is going to come in his pants. He reaches down to grind the heel of his palm over his dick, groans at the welcome friction.

"Wait, let me," Steve starts, reaching down and covering Tony's hand with his own.

Tony bats Steve's hand away and leans back, putting as much distance between them as he can. "Don't, you'll get your uniform dirty," he warns.

"But you're still-- Don't you want--?"

"Yes, I am, and yes, I do," Tony says. "But I can take care of that in like, ten seconds. I need a shower before I get dressed, anyway, I'll just--"

"No."

"No?" Tony echoes, incredulous.

"No," Steve says. "I don't want you to come like that."

It's not quite a command, more of a sullen protest, and Tony knows Steve won't actually stop him if he decides to jack off in the shower. But the way Steve says it, firm and final, so assured in Tony's willingness to do exactly as Steve wants... Tony's breath catches in his throat, and he has to swallow a few times before he can speak.

"How do you want me to come, Steve?" he asks softly.

Tony sees the realization dawning on Steve face, the pieces falling into place. A muscle flexes in Steve's jaw and he hesitates, just for a second. Then he slips his hand under Tony's shirt, rests it low on Tony's belly, warm and possessive.

"I want to be the one to make you come," Steve says. His voice is a low murmur, and the words are making him blush but he's not faltering. "I want you to wait until we get home. I'm going to fuck you, just like you asked, I'll take you to bed and do it proper. I want you to come while I'm inside you, so I can feel it, and only after you beg me to let you."

Tony doesn't know how he manages to stop himself from coming right then and there, but he deserves a fucking medal for it. He closes his eyes and whimpers, curls his hands into fists and clenches them tight enough to feel fingernails dig into his palms.

"Can you do that for me, Tony?" Steve whispers. "Can you be good just a little longer?"

A little longer is such an understatement that Tony nearly laughs in Steve's face. It'll be at least five hours before they make it back home from the gala, probably closer to six. He looks up at Steve, fully intent on saying no, because unlike some people, he's not genetically enhanced to peak physical condition, and if he waits that long, he might actually die, or at least feel like dying, which is very nearly as bad.

"Yeah, Steve," he hears himself say. "I can be good for you."

Steve's face breaks open into a pleased and grateful smile, and Tony knows he never stood a chance.

end.