There was a briefcase Tony held sometimes. He used it when they assembled, or when he had a particularly precarious board meeting to attend. It contained the suit, iron man red, sleek as much as sturdy.
But all Steve saw was the thin metal chain; twisted steel from the handlebar to Tony’s wrist. His tan skin was a stark contrast against the cuffs and Steve imagined his own wrist there, pressed between metal and Tony Stark’s suit. His cock shifted in his uniform and he had to get his thoughts under control or else his situation would soon be obvious.
He couldn’t stop staring at the chain, and so many thoughts flooded his mind. Tony holding the handle of the briefcase, pulling Steve along at his leisure. Bound. As long as Tony held the briefcase, he’d have Steve near. Wanted.
Once before he had felt this urge, when Bucky had retold his Hydra ordeal to the Howling Commandos. Straps had held him down to the table, unable to move. And Steve imagined himself captive, held in that that position on the table. Helpless. He pictured Bucky leaning over him, tightening the straps. Blood had thrummed through his body then, just as it did now.
Once he had felt this urge, and then it lay forgotten under the War and ice.
Tony caught him looking. He knew because he could sense his gaze even behind the sunglasses. Could see Tony’s squint in his periphery; it was pinned on him, watching him watch the cuffs.
Under his eye, Tony stretched his fingers then curled them into a fist so that the tendons of his forearm shifted the muscle, the carpals twisting against the restraint of the cuff. The movement shot to his cock and Steve had to tear his eyes away, trying to shove these thoughts back where they belonged, but now Tony had noticed and Steve wasn’t sure what that meant. All he could do was turn and walk into the Quinjet, selecting a seat far from Tony.
But he still felt his eye on him.