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work me over, fella

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Steve has to keep reminding himself that he’s allowed in here. He asked, and everything, and Tony said, yeah, sure, whatever you want, Cap. Then he gave Steve his own access codes that always worked, which was far more telling, so. Yeah. Steve’s allowed in here.

“No, Dummy, not the— Do you listen, at all?” says Tony, the fine sheen of sweat on his bare arms glistening as he bats one of his robots away from… whatever it is he’s using the tiny, tiny soldering iron on.

Swallowing thickly, Steve traces Tony’s muscles with his eyes, and reminds himself again.

He’s allowed in here.

“Or you could stay there,” Tony says, sounding a little peeved. Steve startles, his eyes widening, thinking for a second that Tony’s noticed the, the staring that Steve’s doing, but, no. Tony’s still talking to his robot.

Tony’s talking to his robot, and frowning, in that way that pushes his lower lip out just far enough that Steve can’t look away from it.

It’s slick, glistening.

The back of Steve’s neck heats. He shifts, just a little, squirming back against the wall he’s leaning on. He drags his gaze back to Tony’s arms. It’s safer there.

“Seriously?” Tony keeps talking, always talking, and pushes the robot’s head (is that what it is?) away from his project. His arm flexes, muscles moving under smooth, sweat-shiny skin. There’s a streak of grease just above the inside of his elbow.

It’s worse than the lip, actually.

Steve isn’t breathing very evenly anymore.

Tony turns back to his project, still muttering to the robot. Probably he’s forgotten Steve is here. Probably that’s for the best; and maybe Steve shouldn’t be, even if he’s allowed, because the way Tony’s arms look right now, they way they’re moving and the way Steve’s reacting to them, well, it’s nothing like the respectable ‘make sure he doesn’t kill himself’ intentions Steve’d come down here with.

Then Tony leans over his work table, bending at the waist, pushing his ass out, and his eyebrows draw together, like in thought, or in, in effort, and. Oh, God.

A swift rush of blood has Steve’s arms uncrossing before he realizes, his hands dropping toward his—

He catches himself, blushing hotly, and folds his hands protectively over his hips rather than touching like they meant to, pressing carefully into the awkward bulge at the front of his trousers.

Because, yeah. Steve’s hard.

Tony braces his elbows on the table and leans a little more— Steve is really hard, okay.

This is not why Steve is here. It isn’t.

He just… can’t really remember… with the damp hair at the base of Tony’s head clinging like that, and his neck all taut and stretched, inviting, and—

“—have Cap sit on you,” Tony finishes his latest (meaningless) threat to the robot, looking Steve’s way for the first time since, since Steve, since Steve started— “Oh,” and Tony’s eyes go wide, as the heat sweeps from Steve’s face all the way to his chest, hands pulling in close reflexively right, oh God, right on his dick, which jerks happily at the pressure, God, what his face must look like—

Oh.”

Steve’s head thunks, when it hits the wall as he throws it back. He doesn’t even care, just arches his hips up toward his hands again.

The soldering iron clatters down onto the table.

Steve,” breathes Tony.

Tony, Steve tries to say back, but all that comes out is a low, strangled, “T—ngh,” as he lets his fingers curl in, grips himself.

He wraps his hands around his erection through his trousers, and Tony’s cheeks actually go a little pink.

“Steve,” Tony says again, hoarse; and, “Jesus, what are you, why are you— What’s wrong with you, get over here.”

Steve’s halfway there before he realizes his feet have moved.

Tony catches his shoulders before Steve can second guess himself, yanks Steve in until he’s pressed all up against Tony, hard jut of Tony’s dick shoving against his leg— And, fuck, it must have hurt Tony, to get this hard this quickly, but it doesn’t stop him rutting up toward Steve again, making a high noise somewhere in his throat.

“Yes, oh, my god, yes, seriously, what is the matter with you, keeping this— fuck,” as Steve backs him into the work table, pushes Tony’s legs apart with both of his own and grinds into him, “fuck, Jesus— keeping this all the way over there, are you, I know you’re not actually an idiot, Steve, Steve oh fuck.”

Steve catches Tony’s wildly arching hips with one hand, holds him still for the steadier roll of Steve’s thrusts against Tony’s belly; the other hand he lets cradle Tony’s jaw, careful against its sharpness, and tips him up so Steve can bend his neck and lay his mouth over Tony’s and kiss his damn incessant words quiet, just for a minute.

Tony tries to talk into the kiss, anyway, the shape of Steve’s name familiar on his tongue.

Steve digs his fingertips in a bit, maybe enough to bruise; kisses a little harder, not trying to hurt Tony, just making a point

Tony goes liquid in his arms, moaning.

Steve’s dick jerks again, he can practically feel the slick leaking out of it to wet his underwear, and he snaps his hips forward roughly. But his erection’s riding Tony’s belly, and Tony’s is still against his thigh. It isn’t what Steve’s body wants, it isn’t enough.

Steve’s hand on Tony’s hip slides around, grips his thigh just under his ass, and Steve lifts.

Sitting on the table, Tony’s just exactly the right height for Steve to crowd against, hips snugged to hips, with a hand pressed to the small of his back to make sure he doesn’t slide away from where Steve wants him.

“Oh, yeah,” says Tony, his mouth wrenched away from Steve’s— and Steve takes a moment just to look at him, at his blown, glassy eyes, at the shiny swollen redness of his mouth — “Fuck, yes.”

Tony,” as Steve leans in for another kiss, lips hungry to taste Tony again.

“That didn’t even wind you, did it, that was nothing. That was easy, I was easy— Of course I was, I am, shit, Steve.”

Tony’s mouth keeps running, even with Steve’s against it, like he literally cannot keep the words in, so Steve slides down to his neck, kisses at all the sweaty skin there. It’s salty under his tongue, strange, and Tony tips his head back to make room for him, still talking.

There’s a hand between them, Tony’s hand, going for the fastening of Steve’s trousers, and that’s. That sounds amazing, that’s a really good idea— Steve shoves his own hand between them, ripping at Tony’s jeans, and then he’s, then there’s nothing, nothing but Tony’s cock, hot and hard, arching up to meet his hand because apparently Tony’s been sitting here, leaning over the table, with Steve in the room, and the whole time he wasn’t even wearing underwear.

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” says Tony, fingers working and then they’re there, around Steve’s dick, oh damn, and it’s— it’s so— “Good, yeah, Jesus, you’re big.”

Tony’s grip tightens, almost too much, just right, before he’s even started to stroke or anything. Steve has to knock Tony’s hand away at that, because, because it’s so very, very good, and Steve isn’t ready, doesn’t want to, not yet— He shifts in closer, wraps his own hand around his dick, instead, wraps it around him and Tony both, which, oh, oh wow, yeah. That’s, yeah, that’s even better.

“Tony,” he gasps, into Tony’s neck, Tony’s skin, licking at him again, tasting him again.

All of a sudden, Tony locks up, just for a second, and, “But that’ll fry the primary relays, they can’t handle the extra—”

Cold washes pricklingly fast down Steve’s spine, and he freezes.

It makes Tony whine at him. “No, what, why, Steve, don’t stop—”

“Really,” Steve pants, open eyes staring, unseeing, past Tony, out at the glass door of the workshop, “Tony, are you actually still—”

“My brain is still, I can’t really, it doesn’t quit, ignore that,” says Tony. His head lolls back even further, neck stretching under Steve’s lips.

Heat blooms back up under Steve’s skin, his heart stuttering.

“Do you even really want,” he starts to ask, pulling away a little, something unpleasant still in his gut.

Tony cuts him off.

Steve. Steve, really, just ignore it, c’mon, more of the thing, with, the thing with the hand.”

Steve’s fingers flex, automatically. Tony makes a desperate noise.

“Yes, that, that thing,” he says, and his hands are back on Steve’s shoulders, both of them, curling in tight.

Slowly, Steve starts stroking them. “It doesn’t quit, huh,” he says, just as slow. Thoughtful.

“Nope, not, doesn't usually, no,” replies Tony. He sounds a little apologetic, but also impatient and kind of smug, and Steve thinks— no. Just, no.

He lets his hand slip, a little, so he’s not holding or stroking them anymore; he’s more just cupping Tony’s dick against his own stomach, slotted in next to his own. And as he asks “Not ever?” he grinds in with his hips and thumbs over the head of Tony’s cock the way he likes when he does it to himself.

Tony arches shamelessly into it, his head thrown back. “Ooh, somebody’s a fast learner,” he says, half a gasp as Steve does it again.

Steve leans in, gets his mouth back on Tony’s neck, and grins into Tony’s skin. He’s going to make Tony forget how to speak, let alone think.

“Yeah,” he says. “You bet I am, mister.”