Steve runs his hands over the exterior’s glossy finish, brushed with an uninterrupted gleam and the trim immaculate because when Tony Stark puts his brilliant mind toward something, it doesn’t turn out anything less than absolutely perfect. And there’s no doubt about it, this car is perfect. The Camaro’s an Americana beauty that’s been retrofitted with care and skill by someone with impeccable style and timeless taste. Tales of meticulous work are expressed in every customized detail and the artist in Steve appreciates the craftsmanship of sleek dimensions and accented lines, how the frame flares at the ends. He knows a masterpiece when he sees it.
Steve also knows a labor of love when he sees it. This isn’t the typical Tony-present. Attention and consideration have gone into this. Not that the tailored suits, watches, canvases, gadgets, or any other unapologetically extravagant gift that Tony has ever given him were thoughtless. No, of course not. But this car, this particular project, took precious time. That much is evident. The kind of time that Tony only spends on what truly matters to him. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the last several months--all of the rushed explanations for late nights, early mornings, sporadic Stark Industries commitments, and the grease that cuffed his wrists more often than usual--click together and finally make sense.
He touches the car and knows that each time Tony touched it, he had Steve in mind.
“The color is beautiful,” Steve comments, charmed and mesmerized. “What is it?”
“It’s called grigioverde. Italian for grey-green. I initially wanted a blue,” Tony says at his side. Steve sees a flash of Tony’s hand in his peripheral, the up and down of his shrug. “Figured it’d be romantic. You know, go for the color of your eyes, but turns out that there’s not a blue out there that does them justice, so I dropped that idea. Put this together by accident when I was shopping, but it fits, earthy, a few shades short of army green. Tribute to your service and all.”
Startled, Steve turns to him. Every time that he thinks he can’t love Tony more than he already does, he’s proven wrong, over and over, the elasticity stretching well beyond what feels impossible. Steve’s heart is hectic with affection and he’s nearly speechless, spectacularly inarticulate. His next words strike him as underwhelming and too simple, a phrase used when someone passes over the sugar bowl at a breakfast table or holds the door open at a store downtown, but he wants Tony to know he’s grateful. He takes Tony’s hand in his and pulls him in. Steve presses a kiss to each fingertip, across knuckles that bear a small scattering of nicks. Softly, and deeply moved, he says, “Thank you, Tony. I—thank you.”
Tony’s smile is easy and handsome, private for all it’s just the two of them down in the garage. Tactile and close, he skims Steve’s collar with his fingers, his voice and lashes on a low slant. “So I guess it’s safe to say that you like it.”
“That is a choice understatement, actually. It’s amazing,” Steve says, smiling back. He leans in and kisses the warm give of Tony’s lips. “I love it. Now, tell me how you made it.”
Steve knows his way around an engine, can work on his own bike with his eyes closed, and he’s learned a great deal since moving into the tower, but cars are unquestionably Tony’s forte. Together they circle the bespoke body of the roadster. Steve listens to Tony passionately describe how he integrated the classic and new to create the restomod, the timeline of its complicated build, and why he chose to outfit the car the way he did.
His side hitched on the passenger side door, Tony explains the seats that are the color of a coffee with two creams, and Steve would bet are as soft as butter. “Here we have a subtle homage to that delicious jacket you don’t wear nearly enough.”
“Wearing a leather jacket in the summer isn’t exactly practical.”
“I’m not one hundred percent in love with your tone right now. Since when is practical our priority? Babe, I thought we agreed that sexiness would be the dominating factor in all of our choices. Okay nevermind, you’re approaching the ‘I’m humoring you’ face. Let’s get to the best parts, shall we? C’mon, climb in.”
The first thing Steve notices is the steering wheel that’s covered for an unveiling. But from the passenger’s side, Tony points out the placard that sits on the dash, instead. Engraved, it reads: 1967 Camaro RS Steve Rogers, a special edition. “How about that? Jeez, you really thought of everything.”
“Cool, right? So there’s no question who this belongs to,” Tony says. He gestures to himself with an air of exaggerated pride and straightens in the bucket seat. “And I’d just like for us to take a moment to acknowledge that I showed a lot of restraint here. That I’m a mature adult who chose not to display a bunch of filth and profanities on the placard.”
Steve’s gaze idles over him and then he squints at the brightness in Tony’s eyes, the switch-blade glint of mischief. “Restraint, huh? Why do I have a feeling that it just couldn’t fit?”
Tony’s head-tilted laugh is a bright bark, his shoulders shaking. Once he recovers, he takes Steve by the jaw and quickly gives him a smacking kiss, replying, “Damn. You know me too well. I mean, it’s not like anyone would have seen it though. Not if I installed a transitional windshield or if I was your only passenger.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Steve says fondly and not discouraging in the slightest, in fact very much the opposite because honestly, he has to admit, it’s just endearing at this point. He nods to the steering wheel before him. “Am I allowed to know what’s under here?”
“Caught that? Yeah, just hold on a sec.”
Theatrically because this wasn't going to happen without a little bit of a show, Tony drumrolls on the dashboard before Steve gets to strip off the covering and reveal the steering wheel. Laid in its center, like the car has its own arc reactor, is his shield, miniaturized and monochromatic. And there it is again, his love for Tony expanding to new edges, and it’s joined by a sharp shot of want, the potency so strong as it sparks under his skin that his grip on the wheel white-knuckles.
“One question, Stark,” Steve starts, once he’s gathered his wits. He swipes his tongue across his bottom lip because Tony’s focus has always started at Steve’s mouth. The hard swallow he gets in return is incredibly rewarding. “How’s the suspension?”
Dispatching his shirt, and with a knowing smirk, Tony says, “Oh, Rogers, you delicious troublemaker. You were made for me, weren’t you?”
Maneuvering into position is entirely slapstick. Hilariously, they fling their shirts to the backseat, and shimmy out of their jeans and underwear like they’ve caught on fire, and toss those behind their heads as well. Steve has to bodily haul Tony over the slushbox, the knobs of knees have near run-ins with parts of the anatomy that they definitely should not ever come into contact with, and when Tony overzealously handles the lever on the side of the seat, the two of them flatten in a breath-stealing swoosh.
However, the difficulties don’t dilute the heat dwelling low in Steve’s belly or the upward plea of his hips as Tony’s nimble thighs unfold over him, his welcomed and solid weight coming down in a close curl that faintly smells of spice and metal. He busies himself with the bend of Tony’s shoulder, then the cut of his jaw, kissing and teething the scratchy outline of his goatee and the jumping pulse in his neck while his hands skate up ribs and palm open on Tony’s chest. Sneakily, Steve tweaks a nipple and rolls over it with his thumb, like a plaything, getting it hard. He revels in the shiver the action causes. Steve messes around with the other nipple and scrapes it with a blunt nail just the way that Tony loves. He gives attention to the sensitive ridge that surrounds the reactor, tracing it with light fingers which causes Tony to buck forward.
“If jizz gets on the upholstery, I’m not dealing with it,” Tony says. He grinds down, and the press of his hard cock smears pearling precome against Steve’s abdomen.
“If? That’s awfully optimistic. This is a really, really nice car but seeing as how you stocked a thing of lube in the glove compartment, I think you can afford to share some of the accountability since you knew this was bound to happen.”
“What? Um, no. This car is your responsibility, young man. What I did was just common and complementary practice. Like fucking you in cars isn’t even spontaneous anymore--admittedly, I need to step up my game. I have a thing of lube in all of my glove compartments. And, yes, that did sound just as dirty as I intended. Ugh, fuck, Steve,” he huffs out under Steve’s ministrations, humid and gauzy.
Letting out a soft and pleased laugh, Steve teases, “I hear you loud and clear.”
“You’re such a cheeky asshole,” Tony murmurs, half-chiding.
“You like that about me.” Steve says with a none-too-concerned smirk.
“Yeah? Who says? Because that is a dirty lie,” Tony remarks before nosing them back into a kiss as he weaves a territorial hand into Steve’s hair. It’s immediately good, a skip of lips and wet, persuasive tongue, and then it’s bone-melting, flame-licking heat from his skull down to the arches of his feet, and reducing Steve to slur needy, unintelligible things into Tony’s mouth. They make out for what stretches like hours. Rutting against each other, they’re all mouths, hands, and shallow thrusts that prompt the distressed leather of the seat to sing a chorus of whines and the windows to cloud up before Tony pulls away to blindly fumble for the lube and dribble slick over his fingers.
Everything about sex with Tony is unbelievably fantastic but this part right here just might be Steve’s favorite part--specifically wonderful--watching Tony’s hand slip along the short hairs that arrow down his stomach, reach back between his legs, and press deep into the crease. With his fingers pumping in and out of his ass, Tony grins knowingly at Steve, a devilish shape around happy, groans that serve to drive Steve crazy and make him ache.
Licensing his hands to the length of Tony’s thighs, they run up and back and up again. Steve rhapsodizes, “You’re so--oh God, Tony. So damn beautiful. Best thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Same to you, honey,” Tony replies, a little short-winded and shaky, flattering and sounding like how all of Steve feels. “Such a turn when you watch me, even better when you watch me take in your dick. I love that you get off on it. Love having you deep, how big you are, how hot it feels, feeling you everywhere in me. You fill me up so good, babe. Goddamnit, you’re mine.”
The words hurl Steve into the business end of a fever, and his hands flex around Tony’s hips with regency era longing, his lungs clenching too as his chest heaves in anticipation. And from all appearances, Tony is barely doing any better. He works himself open in quick and deteriorating form, impatient when he closes a lubed hand around the steady throb of Steve’s cock. He strokes it a few times before lifting himself straight up and sinking down, hot and slick, with his head tossed back. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated and Steve’s cock is buried in him, his ass sweetly nudged against Steve’s balls.
“Tony, oh--yes,” Steve manages, jaggedly and in awe. Steve will never be given anything as good as this right here. Heart choked with emotion and body choked with lust, Steve instinctively knows that he won’t last so he painstakingly keeps his hips still and waits for Tony’s lead. And it’s not long until Tony’s squeezing his cock, vice like and with a taffy-pulled hiss, rolling and circling in Steve’s grip as though he’s savoring the sensation.
“So sweet, Steve,” he moans, arching.
“Can I--are you?” Steve asks, feeling himself twitch in the tight clench of Tony’s hole, trembling and gasping at each flex of his hips.
“Yeah, fuck. ”
Steve shifts up, holds Tony by the waist and starts thrusting, driving deep and hard, filling the cramped confines of the car with the raw and shameless slap of flesh. They soon find the perfect rhythm, rocking together like they’ve been tuned especially for this. Every time Steve fucks up into Tony, fast, desperate, and angling for more, Tony takes it and gives it right back, riding Steve greedily and chasing after each upstroke. Following a particularly hammering group of thrusts that nearly throws him off of Steve, he braces a hand to the roof of the car, the cords in his arm steeling for leverage and to keep from giving himself a concussion. Around them, the car seesaws, Steve notes, but it’s minimally so.
The new angle allows for Steve to slide down the seat a little, plant his feet with scrunched toes and fuck at the spot that gets Tony to cry out once he’s found it, loud in the quiet of the garage. Having always been a quick study, Steve hits home over and over again.
“There. Right there. Keep doing that. Do that forever. Don’t stop,” Tony gasps out, each word punctuated by a sucking in of air. Roughly, he bounces on Steve’s cock with an urgency that causes his heavy, generous cock to flop, swing up and slap his stomach on the downbeat. Precome and sweat leave a sheen of liquid silver on his vibrant and flushed skin, limned by the reactor’s light.
The sight--the fact that he gets to have Tony in this way, that Tony can find pleasure in what Steve gives him--makes Steve feel enormously wanted and grateful and lucky all at once, coils a fierce ache throughout him, in his groin. His thrusts lose their timing and turn shorter and arrhythmic, pounding into Tony. He reaches for Tony’s leaking cock as his own release nears, stroking him off.
“Oh, fuck me. Fu--” Tony says this and other half-formed things that are the barest of sounds, jerking into Steve’s fist as violently as he thrusts downward. He slams down twice more and spurts messily, a glob even catching Steve’s collarbone. He shudders over Steve in a quake before collapsing and slicking his come between them. His mouth seemingly dapples whatever skin he can reach.
Under one of Tony’s sloopy and uncoordinated kisses, Steve comes on a snarl, his body seizing and rattling whatever’s leftover in him. His heart shakes so hard, he’s sure it must move inches in his chest. The aftershocks drift him through the black space where time loses its measure but whenever later is, soreness swathes his limbs all the same.
“I think I may have done something to my back,” Steve says with a grunt, using an arm to wrap Tony close to his still quivering flank, heedless of the sticky air. His fingers search out Tony’s and together they form a loose lattice.
“Your back? Is that some sick joke?” Tony snorts. He pulls on Steve’s other arm until it’s fully extended and wiggles it demonstrably. “Says the guy that’s practically made out of slinkies. I’ve been pretty much fucking Stretch Armstrong for five years.”
“I get those references.”
Letting his arm plop back, Tony rolls his eyes and gently bites the outside of Steve’s nipple. He sighs. “I’m ready for a damn nap so you better tell your recovering dick to get the fuck out.”
“Done, but I don’t think it’s good for the upholstery if we let ourselves dry here.” Steve cards his fingers through Tony's sweat-damp hair, smoothes it from the forehead that he soon cranes over to kiss. “I really love my car. In case, I didn’t already say. I love you, too. So much.”
“Love you, Cap.” With a soft kiss and warm eyes, Tony says, “Happy anniversary, huh?”