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The Wedding Singer

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The man on stage isn't the tallest he's ever seen, but he has that twinkle in his eye. Mischief. The left-hand corner of his mouth curves up as he smiles, waiting for his moment. He holds the microphone in his right hand, tapping his foot to the drumbeat, looking downwards, hair just on the long side of short, sweeping over his brow.



He realises with a shake of his head that Bucky is talking to him, holding out another glass of champagne.

"The hell are you gawping at, Rogers? Take the damn glass, would ya?"

"Sorry, sorry. Wasn't paying attention."

"No kidding," Bucky says, shaking his head again, taking a long swallow from his own glass. At a wedding as fancy as this, the booze is flowing thick and fast. And expensive. Steve eyes the champagne in his hand, just as one of the staff waltzes past with a bottle of it, a crisp, white cloth over her arm. Krug. Very nice.

Steve has barely lifted the glass to his lips when the waitress stops in front of him and asks, looking up from beneath her eyelashes, "More champagne, sir?"

Steve blinks down at her, looks from his glass – his full glass, to the bottle she's proffering and back again, before settling incredulously on her face.

"Uh, no? Thank you? I'm alright, I just-"

Bucky cuts in, "He's fine, doll. But I'll certainly take a refill." He wiggles his own glass – empty already?! – at her and smiles.

The girl glances briefly at Bucky and Steve sees a flicker of disappointment as her smile dims from the 100-watt beam to a thin curve; polite, nothing more.

"Of course, sir."

She refills Bucky's glass and Steve stifles a laugh as he sees Bucky frown at the change of tone. When she's finished pouring, Bucky shoos her away a little rudely, but Steve can't stifle his smile or feel offended for her because of his friend's reaction.

"Ever since you had your freakish little growth spurt the broads aren't lookin' twice at me," Bucky grumbles, knocking back half the glass in one swallow and glaring at the waitress as she sashays away with a parting smile meant only for Steve. "I'm gonna have to stay away from you if I have any hope in hell of getting lucky tonight."

"Bucky–" Steve chastises. "You shouldn't talk about women like that. It ain't polite. And besides, now you understand how I felt for, oh, most of our young lives," he replies, good-naturedly. He nudges Bucky with a shoulder.

"Come on, you gotta see the funny side of it."

Bucky scowls at him, "There is no funny side! You're beating me at my own game, damn it!"

Steve just smiles.





. . .

The guitar's last notes echo through the air, the drummer rattles the cymbals and the singer's voice melts away. He clears his throat to the clapping, "Thank you, thank you."

Waiters mill through the crowd of standing guests, around the tables and back into the kitchens.

The singer smiles, all charm.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you'll clear the dance floor, it's time for the bride and groom to take their first steps together as man and wife. Give 'em a round of applause!"

Steve and Bucky clap awkwardly, empty hands to the heel of their palms as they try to keep their glasses from spilling.

"Don't she look beautiful?" Bucky murmurs into Steve's ear, nodding at the bride, skirts scooped in one hand, ushered by her now-husband, his hand ever so gentle on the small of her back. "Amazing dress."

"It's cut a little low for my tastes," Steve admits, looking away from the deep scoop at the base of her spine.

"You're such a stiff," Bucky laughs at him, nudging him with an elbow and taking another sip of champagne.

"Hey, go easy on the bubbles," Steve warns, almost sternly, "I don't want to watch you make an ass of yourself. And I sure as hell don't want to carry you home. You were sick on me last time."

"My God, that was 7 years ago, Rogers, would you stop chewing me out about it? I haven't thrown up from drinking since we were 17 years old. I don't plan on breaking that streak."

"Whatever you say, Buck. Whatever you say," Steve chuckles, taking a swallow from his own glass.

The bride brushes her long, red hair from her shoulders and it falls in soft curls down her back as she does it. Bucky lets out a low whistle and Steve elbows him hard in the ribs, hissing at him to quit it. Bucky swears a little too loudly, slopping champagne over his arm, and that earns him a few evil looks from the older folks at the table beside them. Bucky makes a face, flicking his hand to shake off the spilled champagne. He looks up to see the bride raising an eyebrow at him, smiling knowingly.

"Aw shoot, she heard me, didn't she?" he mutters out of the side of his mouth to Steve, waving at her awkwardly.

"Looks like," Steve mutters back, trying to stifle a laugh as the groom gives Bucky a pointed look. "You know her husband's a world-class archer, right? Guy's deadly with a bow and arrow."

"Well unless he's got one tucked up in that cummerbund of his, I think I'm safe…" Bucky replies, a little unsure of the truth of his statement.

Steve snorts behind his hand, trying to hide how much he's grinning. Bucky swallows and looks away from the newlyweds, moving just a little further back and behind Steve.

"Remind me to give them both a wide berth, huh?" he mutters.

Steve grins, "Noted."

The bride loops her arms around her husband's neck then, and he rests his hands on the curve of her hips.

The singer nods to the band and soft strains of piano fill the air. Bucky claps a hand on Steve's shoulder.

"And that, my friend, is the cue for me to get another drink."

Steve watches Bucky slip into the crowd, all stood watching the newlyweds on the dance floor. About halfway through the song, they suddenly stop, and execute a perfect minute of a dance routine. They are grace personified. The bride spins, light on her feet and elegant as a dancer, and neither she nor the groom tears her short train as she spins, or catches their feet once. They step and turn, bend and brush close, pull away, spin back, and it is achingly perfect. Steve wishes he knew how to dance like that. The bride steps close, hand across her husband's heart, and he dips her in a slow arc, left to right, then curves her back up, to capture her lips in the briefest kiss. She strokes her thumb from his cheek over behind his ear and her smile is so genuine that Steve's heart skips a little in his chest at the sight of it.

The song comes to a gentle close and the guests are roaring, cheering, clapping, standing at the tables and between them, whooping.

The singer takes the microphone from its stand again and smiles, "What a beautiful couple, right folks? Sure wish I knew how to move like that. And now, we invite you all to pick up a partner, and make your way on over here. Time to get this party started!"

He punches the air, "A one, a two, a one, two, three, four!"

The drums kick in.





. . .

Steve tips his glass up to his lips only to find it empty. Bucky traipses back over at that point and drags him off to the bar to rectify the situation. Steve knows that a free bar is only going to end one way, namely with Bucky drunk off his ass and slung over one shoulder. He's used to having to pile him into bed by now. Bucky always laughs as Steve tries to wrestle his shoes off and then passes out immediately, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

They haven't even been at the bar for a full minute when a pretty young thing sidles up to them, wedging herself in between them, a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Evening, boys. Buy a lady a drink?"

"It's a free bar, ma'am. Ask and ye shall receive," Bucky smiles.

She lets her eye rove over Steve in his suit, and he flushes uncomfortably at the attention. But for the first time in a long while, she passes over him, and turns to face Bucky instead, effectively blocking Steve out of the conversation. Bucky's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

Wow. How very rude.

The barman arrives with Steve's whisky. He wiggles his eyebrows at Bucky, not offended, not really. He takes his drink with a nod to the barman and steps past the woman. As he passes Bucky he leans in close and says, "Treat her nice, Buck."

His best friend grins and replies quietly, "Wouldn't dream of doin' otherwise."

The woman smiles wickedly and Steve rolls his eyes. Good luck to the guy, he's gonna need it with a dame like this one.





. . .

Drink in hand, Steve wanders back into the crowd of guests, planning to make his way to his table to sit with the rest of the boys but instead finding himself at the edge of the dance floor.

Whatever the band is playing, it's really got the guests dancing. Before he realises it, he's tapping his feet to the music, humming though he doesn't know the words. A couple more girls brush up close but Steve isn't really paying attention to them and after a while they leave him alone. He finds himself watching the singer again. As the song finishes, he flicks his hands out with a flourish and flashes a brilliant grin. Some young girl in a group of her friends shouts out "WE LOVE YOU!" to whoops and heckling from the others. The singer smiles again, and it's dazzling really, but he just winks and answers "We love you, too, sweetheart. Nice dancing." The crowd laughs and Steve looks over to see the girl blush madly, her friends all nudging and jostling her. Steve can't help but laugh at that.

He looks up again and immediately sucks in a breath. Because the singer is looking at him now, dead on. A smile curls up at the corner of his mouth and he announces the next song. Steve's heart skips a little when the singer doesn't break his gaze as the song begins. It feels like he's singing to him, which Steve knows is utterly ridiculous, and yet… He finally blinks and looks down at his shoes. He notices absently that his glass is empty again.

His heart takes a moment to slow, and when he looks up again, the singer is looking somewhere else. At someone else. Steve stifles a sigh.





. . .

He heads back to the bar. Bucky is nowhere to be seen now, neither is the girl he was with, and Steve smiles to himself, shaking his head. He doesn't want to think about what his best and oldest friend is getting up to in a dark corner somewhere. He doesn't need to know, he can guess well enough. So he flags down the bartender and orders another whisky, taking his time with this one, and the next, keeping the liquid heavy on his tongue. A few more songs drift by, but Steve isn't really listening, just letting them wash over him as he slowly finishes a couple more measures.

Some time later, Steve decides he needs the bathroom. He pushes himself up and away from the bar, and as he nearly trips over his feet, he realises that, by God, he's actually managed to get drunk. Entirely by accident. He's glad the bathroom isn't too far away, because he's definitely not walking too straight. And he really really needs to go.





. . .

Unsurprisingly, the bathroom's fantastically decorated, as only bathrooms can be in a venue as fancy as this. He splashes his face with water, pats himself dry with those little white hand towels they only have at these fancy places. He probably needs to sit down. He definitely doesn't need any more whisky.

The bathroom door opens while Steve still has his head in the towel. He scrubs it down his face just enough to look over the top of it.

And the singer is standing next to him, checking his hair in the mirror. Steve gulps audibly.

The singer smiles at him, that brilliant flash again. "Hey there, handsome. Having fun tonight?"

Steve slowly lowers the towel, scrunches it up and discards it after a moment. Words. What are words?

"Uh, sure, I guess," He eventually manages, "Though I, uh, think I had one whisky too many. Just trying to sober up a little."

"Sober up?" The singer looks horrified. "This is a wedding reception! Come on. You can't call it a good night until you're rolling-on-the-floor drunk and making passes at old ladies and married women!"

The singer pulls a hipflask from an inside pocket, unscrews the cap and takes a swig, a clipped aaah escaping him as he wrinkles his nose at the tang.

"Are you rolling-on-the-floor drunk yet?"

Steve shakes his head, "Not even close."

The singer grins and offers him the flask then, wiggling it so it sloshes.

"Here you go then, drink up."

"But I just said I was trying to-"

The singer shakes his head, "No, you are not allowed to leave until you drink! Come on. Don't make me ask twice, that's just rude."

He shakes the hipflask again.

"And make it snappy because I gotta get back out there. Go, go." He ushers him with his empty hand.

Steve has no idea what to say so he accepts the flask and drinks. Apparently, he doesn't drink deep enough, because the singer raises his eyebrows as Steve lowers the flask. So he lifts it back to his lips again.

The singer smiles approvingly, "Atta boy. Leave me any?"

Steve nods, handing the flask back. His fingers brush the singer's as he passes it over. Something clenches in the pit of his stomach.

The singer takes another swig himself and then tucks the flask back into his pocket. He pats it and smiles at Steve.

"Dutch courage," he explains, unnecessarily.

"You really don't seem like you need it," Steve replies.

The singer shrugs and rests his hand over the pocket where the hipflask is again, "Probably because I already drank half of it before I went up there."

Steve nods and suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. So he folds his arms.

"Well, hey, your band is, uh, pretty amazing," Steve says, not sure if it's the whisky that is making him sound like a twelve year old girl or whether he just talks like that. Normally he only gets this kind of flustered around… well, around pretty girls. Or just girls in general, if he's honest. He's pretty awkward around women, as a rule. Not usually around men though. Huh. That part is new.

"They love you out there," he continues, sounding like babbling in his ears. "Especially those girls from before, the ones that were heckling you?"

The singer laughs, deep and melodic. He laughs like he sings. "Yeah, they're pretty enthusiastic about it, aren't they? Shame I'm not a ladies man."

"Oh?" Steve asks, curiosity piqued. "So you have a girlfriend, then?"

The singer shakes his head, a small smile on his face, like he knows a secret or a joke that Steve doesn't.

Steve waits a beat or two and hazards, "A wife, then?"

And at that the singer just laughs. Not just a chuckle, a full hearty belly laugh. He slaps Steve on the shoulder and Steve jumps at the contact.

"Oh man, you are cracking me up. Seriously. Jesus Christ. Uh, no, I don't have a girlfriend. And no, I don't have a wife, either."

"But I bet you're involved with someone, though." Steve mumbles, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

The singer gives him a strange look. "And what on earth makes you so sure about that?"

Steve opens his mouth to blurt out "Because you're absolutely gorgeous and I find it almost impossible to believe you are not involved with someone and dear God when the hell did I get this drunk?" but somehow manages to stop himself – thank Christ. This does, however, leave him opening and closing his mouth several times like a guppy fish.

The singer looks like he's trying really hard not to laugh again, and that I've got a secret you don't know look is firmly etched in the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, in the curve of his mouth.

He does have a lovely mouth…

"Uh, sorry, I just, uh, blanked out for a second there," Steve mumbles, blinking, and scrubs a hand down his face. "We should probably- I mean, youYou should probably, uh, get back out there. To, uh, y'know… sing, and stuff…"

He feels like the biggest idiot on the face of the earth and he would slap himself in the face if he was alone. He knows his cheeks are flaming red, both from the alcohol and the embarrassment at babbling like a teenager in front of this impossibly attractive, adorably scruffy, impeccably dressed, incredible singer who is actually staring at him kinda intently–

And he really needs to stop staring so hard at the guy's mouth, for God's sake. He must look like a complete moron. A lovesick, teenage moron… and he coughs then, looking away.

When he does let himself glance back, the singer just looks impossibly amused, mouth quirking up in a grin. His eyes flicker from Steve's mouth to his eyes for a moment and Steve just blinks at him. Like a complete moron.

"Hold that thought," the singer says softly after a while, almost a purr.

"Sorry, what was that?" Steve says, dazedly. The whisky has apparently decided to make a stunning reappearance. His cheeks feel terribly hot.

The singer's smile shifts and he blinks slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets in a way that really shouldn't be so smooth. "Oh, nothing," he says, and frankly, he looks like the cat that's got the cream. And Steve has absolutely no idea what to make of that thought.

"See you back out there, then?" he asks nonchalantly, and Steve just nods. The singer flashes him one last dazzling smile and sidles out.

But he stops in the doorway, hand on the door, leaning back round to speak.

"The name's Tony, by the way," he smiles.

Steve shoves his own hands into his pockets for no reason at all and says, "Steve."

The singer– no, Tony – grins at him round the door.

"Steve. Huh. Would've had you pegged as something more apple-pie all-American. Brad or Chuck or something."

Steve doesn't know what to say to that, so he shrugs, as if he can help what he's called.

"Steve." Tony repeats, still smiling, "Got it. See you on the other side."

Steve's hand jerks up in a wave but his brain engages halfway through the motion and aborts it, leaving him stood there with his hand awkwardly lingering between his hip and his shoulder. He rests it on his stomach and smiles awkwardly.

"Yeah, sure, I'll be out in a minute."

Tony flashes him one last smile – and Steve really does feel himself wobble a little when he does – and his head disappears from sight, his shoes clipping on the tiled floor outside. Steve hears him whistle, some song he can't quite place.

He turns and rests his hands on the edge of the sink then douses his face in cold water one more time for good measure.

He decides he really needs to get some air.





. . .

Bucky rocks up about an hour after Steve decided to go outside. It's beautiful in the gardens, paper lanterns strung up around the outside bar area, tiny lights twinkling in the trees. The sunset had been absolutely incredible, but Steve had felt a tiny pang when he'd seen the couples out there with him all appreciating the same spectacular view, but together.

He swirls the whisky in his glass. He's lost track of how many he's had. But the bar is free, the whisky is good – better than good, it's outstanding – and the music drifts through the open doors, the gossamer curtains fluttering ever so slightly in the warm breeze.

Bucky deposits himself beside him on the curved bench, still facing the building, whereas Steve is facing out at the gardens and the oncoming night. He can smell honeysuckle in the air, and though the whisky is still making his head spin, the being outside has done him good, has brushed some of it away, so now he doesn't feel queasy anymore, just feels that pleasant tingle in the tips of his fingers and toes. He wriggles them inside his shoes and the gravel crunches underfoot.

Bucky is grinning from ear to ear. Steve raises an eyebrow and nudges him with a shoulder.

"So?" he enquires, teasingly.

"So." Bucky slyly replies.

Steve laughs, "Oh that is not an answer, James Buchanan Barnes. You'd better have acted like a gentleman – well," he pauses, feigning thoughtfulness, "As gentleman-like as is humanly possible when you're only after one thing, you sly old dog."

Bucky pretends to be shocked, "Did you just full-name me, Rogers? My God, am I in big trouble, Ma? You gonna send me out to sit on the naughty step again?"

His tone is light and teasing, his demeanour and body-language relaxed.

"You treat her right, then?" Steve asks, eyebrows raised, "You took care of her?"

"You're damn right I took care of her. And she took care of me, too, if you're asking." Bucky winks at him, and Steve makes a face and a gagging noise.

"Good God, spare me the details, please, Bucky. I don't think I could look you straight in the face again if I have to hear about how well you "took care" of each other."

Bucky claps him on the shoulder and just laughs.



. . .

Steve's back at the bar, having a long and engrossing conversation with the barman – now his very, very good friend, and Steve isn't sure but they may have exchanged numbers and he has no idea how or why that happened but, anyway – about the Second World War, and Steve's opinion on the matter, when a familiar voice, pure silk, slides into his ear and coincidentally onto the barstool next to him.

"Hello there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here."

Steve turns a little unsteadily to come face to face with a pair of big, brown eyes.

Before he can even catch himself he hears the word "Wow" escape him, and the moment he does, he slaps a hand over his mouth. The gesture is hugely exaggerated, which he blames entirely on the whisky – all … however many of them he's had.

"Uh, hi? Again?" he recovers spectacularly. Eloquence personified, this one.

The singer– Tony, he reminds himself sluggishly – just looks at him for a moment, then to the barman, who he quietly asks something. The barman smiles widely and murmurs something back, to which the singer – Tony! – nods.

"Are you two whispering about me?" Steve asks loudly, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the conspiracy he can see occurring in front of him. The barman and the singer– TONY! – both stifle a laugh, the former more successfully than the latter.

"Hugo, we'll take the bottle, thanks."

The barman nods and hands over a full bottle of whisky from under the counter, and Steve can't help but let out an excited "Oooooh" when he sees the label, because God damn, this one is expensive.

"Keep this between us?" Tony asks the barman, pointing a finger at him as he stashes the bottle underneath his jacket to hide it.

The barman makes a show of "zipping his lip", drawing two fingers across his mouth and grinning.

The singer flashes him a 12-Carat smile, "Ta, babe, I owe you."

And if Steve is more than a little irrationally jealous when Tony blows the barman a kiss, well, who's gonna call him on it? He didn't say it out loud. At least, he's pretty sure he didn't…

He feels Tony's hand slide up his back to rest just at his waist, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't jump a foot in the air from the sheer current that raced through his skin at that touch.

"Whoa, you okay, buddy?" Tony asks, a curious look on his face.

The "Yes" he replies with comes out a little too high, a little too reedy, not quite a squeak, but close enough to be thoroughly embarrassing. Steve sighs overdramatically.

Tony's mouth twitches as he fights a smile.

"How about we take this little party outside? Sound good? I think you need some fresh air."

"Yeah, yeah, fresh air sounds good," Steve mumbles, speech just a little slurred as he lets Tony steer him through the groups of people talking, dancing, drinking. And unfortunately, that "little" slur really doesn't mean he's just "a little" drunk.

Steve is absolutely hammered.





. . .

"Wait, wait, wait, but why aren't you singing?" Steve asks, for probably the thousandth time, "Shouldn't you be singing? You're the singer."

Tony just shakes his head and takes another slug of whisky.

"Steve, sweetheart, as I have told you every single time you've asked me that question in the last two hours, the band finished two and a half hours ago. The DJ is on now."

"The DJ?!" Steve echoes excitedly. "Can we dance? Oh please, oh please, oh – no wait, what am I talking about, I don't even know how to dance, I…"

He trails off, a dopey smile on his face. He reaches for the whisky then and Tony holds up a hand to stop him.

"Ah, ah, ah. You do not need any more of this. I, on the other hand, clearly have some catching up to do, so if you don't mind, I'll be drinking most of this myself."

Steve blinks. A lot. And slowly. Very slowly.

"But, why?"

Tony stops mid-swallow and looks at Steve over the top of the bottle. He finishes his mouthful and tilts his head.

"You can't be the only drunk one of the two of us. Like I said, you can't call it a good night until you're rolling-on-the-floor drunk, making passes at old ladies and married women. Or men," he adds, thoughtfully, and Steve's brain is far too slow in processing that comment, too drunk to finish processing it at all and so it hangs in the drunken fog of his brain, unprocessed. "And honestly," Tony continues, "I am not there yet."

Steve starts laughing then, swaying just a little beside him on the grass.

"No but am!" he sing-songs, drawing out the "I". Tony smiles at him, and Steve feels a warmth light up somewhere because of it.

"And for what it's worth," Tony adds, "I bet you're a fabulous dancer."

"Really?" Steve says hoarsely, putting on the rasp.

"Really really." Tony replies, affecting a serious face, "I bet you really know how to move."

And Steve dissolves into giggles.

"Nope. Nope nope nope." He shakes his head vehemently, and Tony is smiling, whisky bottle halfway to his lips.

"I am probably–" he pauses for effect… probably, "A horrible dancer."

Then he sits there, hands in the grass between his outstretched legs, smiling vaguely, looking almost pleased with himself at something.

Tony grins beside him, takes another swig of whisky.

"Well. How about… we put that theory to the test?"

Steve blinks out at the night, the paper lights a little blurry in his vision.


Tony laughs, that deep sound like crushed velvet. It does something funny to Steve's insides, and Steve likes it.

"I said, how about we put that theory to the test?"

Steve blinks again, not understanding. Tony shakes his head, still smiling. He turns away from Steve and pushes the whisky bottle under a clump of trailing purple flowers, pulling at the plants' leaves until the bottle is well-hidden.

Then, he stands up, and the look on Steve's face is utterly confused. "Wait, what, what're you-"

Tony stretches down a hand to him, which Steve blinks at.

"C'mon," he murmurs, "Let's dance."

It takes a few seconds, but Steve's face changes from a fairly drunk, blank slate to an expression of pain and horror.

"But!" he whines, "But! I'm a horrible dancer!" His face is a picture of anguish.

"Steve, you just said you never danced. How do you know you're horrible at it if you don't try?"

Tony wiggles his hand.

"But people will laugh at me…" Steve murmurs sadly, hands wringing together in his lap.

Tony crouches back down then, and lays a hand on Steve's thigh. Steve's eyes widen automatically at the pool of heat spreading through the thin fabric of his trousers. He hadn't even realised he was cold. His eyes snap up to meet Tony's, and the singer is looking at him with a soft little smile on his face.

"I won't let them laugh," he says gently.

And Steve doesn't blink. He just looks up, eyes locked with Tony's, the singer's hand still warm on his thigh. And he believes him. So he nods.


Tony's face breaks into that radiant smile again, and Steve feels his knees weaken in a way that has nothing to do with the cold or the drink.

"Great," Tony smiles, "Let's get in there."

Steve nods, a smile creeping shyly across his own features.

Tony extends his hands again, and this time, Steve takes it.

He doesn't realise he hasn't let go of it until they enter the room and the girls from earlier all blink and gape in shock. Even then, he doesn't really register the surprise on their faces. Tony, on the other hand, simply raises his eyebrows at them as if to say "Yes, you are seeing what you think you're seeing", and drags Steve toward the dance floor with a parting wink. There is the immediate hiss of gossip exploding behind them as they move away.

Steve plants his feet firmly on the ground when they're halfway there, and Tony jerks to a halt ahead of him when Steve doesn't budge from that spot.

He's standing, head tilted to one side, looking very much like he's listening, or thinking.

Tony raises his eyebrows questioningly, their hands still locked, fingers still entwined together, when Steve suddenly looks at him, a smile lighting up his face, and yells, "I KNOW THIS ONE!" …

Just as the song stops.

A sea of faces turn to look at him questioningly, but Steve, still grinning like a total fool, doesn't see them, because at that moment, his gaze is locked on Tony's. The singer shakes his head, smiling, looking at Steve with such a perplexed expression because he just can't quite believe that he's real.

He tugs on Steve's hand in his own.

"Come on, party animal. They're playing our song."

Steve follows him dutifully now, and the music drowns out his question– "We have a song?"





. . .

"Well would you look at that, you are a natural at this."

Tony grins at him as he spins him, hands above Steve's head. It's an awkward movement because Steve is nearly a head and shoulders taller than him, but he honestly doesn't mind. Because Steve is clearly enjoying himself more than he has in a long time.

And Tony was right. Steve is a good dancer. He took to it immediately, and though he's no Fred Astaire, he certainly isn't doing anything wrong. He hasn't done anything embarrassing or even trodden on anyone's toes, though he did topple over for one moment, before Tony saved him from falling over backwards by snapping a hand out to catch his arm. They ended up like that in the middle of the dance floor, looking as if Tony had just dipped Steve in a particularly ambitious move.

Thankfully, Steve recovered himself quickly enough to make it look just about deliberate. Cue spontaneous applause and much blushing and bowing on Steve's part. Tony just laughed.

Steve turned mid-shrug at the applause to come face to face with the singer, and was just about to reach out and touch his cheek – why, Steve didn't know – when he was cruelly shanghai'ed by woman three, four times his age. Tony backed away politely, leaning on the stage, watching with a small smile as Steve spun the woman, turned and swayed with her to something just slow enough.

Tony couldn't help smiling seeing how happy she was to dance like that with someone like Steve.

After the song finishes, Steve kisses her hand and almost bounds over to Tony, like an excited puppy, a little flushed, panting just a little, hair sticking to his forehead.

"Hey, Tony, it's really hot in here, isn't it? Isn't it hot in here? Can we go outside again?"

Tony is about to say yes, when he hears that familiar brass, those slinky, seductive notes.

He shouts "Ohhhhh!" as the vocals kick in, and pushes Steve back into the sea of dancing bodies.

Hand on his chest, he moves provocatively, a little shimmy, a little sway, a lot of rolling hip. He sings the words from under his lashes and somehow, Steve knows the words. He's singing them too, he doesn't even know if he can sing, but they're singing together, to each other.

"And I can tell by way you walk that walk, and I can hear by the way you talk that talk, and I can know by the way you treat your girl-" and Tony winks at him then, "that I could give you all the lovin' in the whole wide world-!"

Tony was purring the words but now he belts the chorus, "I don't want you, sad and blue" and then suddenly, Tony grabs Steve by the tie and yanks him down and forward, presses up close, too close, and croons the last line, "I just wanna make, love to you."

They sway to the fading strains of the brass, still impossibly close, bodies crushed together.

And Steve stops as the track blurs into the next then, lips parted and panting slightly. His hips are pressed up against the man in front of him, his eyes locked on his mouth, on his lips. Tony's breath curls against his chin, and his hand is still wrapped around Steve's tie.

A moment passes as they stand there, the crowd moving around them to the next track, dancing, singing, regardless, utterly oblivious to the earth-shattering moment occurring within inches of them.

Something shifts in the room around him, and suddenly Steve's head is spinning. He stumbles back, and Tony abruptly releases his grip on Steve's tie, looking as if he'd just snapped out of a daze himself.

Steve blinks, once, twice, three times, then mutters something incoherent, and bolts, pushing his way through the sea of people more than a little desperately.

He's gone before Tony can form a word.





. . .

"Steve? STEVE?"

He hears someone calling his name, and he knows in a heartbeat that it's Tony looking for him. He hunkers down a little more and then realises that he's lying in the exact spot they were sitting in before. Steve drunkenly curses himself for a fool and puts his hands over his eyes, waiting for Tony to find him.

What the hell had just happened in that room?

"STEVE, WHERE THE- Steve!" Tony rounds the corner at a run and skids to a halt in the gravel, showering the grass with pebbles as he does it, when he spots him. "Didn't you hear me calling you? Why didn't you answer?"

Steve shakes his head from side to side, hands still over his eyes. The grass is colder now under his back, dew seeping in through his shirt. He's wondering how that is possible when he remembers that he threw his jacket under some table when they were danci–

He shakes his head again violently and mumbles something Tony can't catch.


More mumbling.

"Steve, c'mon, move your hands, I can't hear you."

Steve lowers his hands slowly, and there is a glitter of panic in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, but Tony hears that at least.

The singer frowns. "Sorry for what? For hiding?"

Steve nods, "Yeah, for hiding. I guess for hiding. And for, for…"

He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. He looks away. What the hell was he thinking? "Sorry for wanting to inexplicably take your face in my hands and kiss you senseless?"

Steve groans awkwardly.

Tony lowers himself down beside him and Steve automatically flinches away from the heat of Tony's leg as it brushes his.

Tony gives him a strange look.

"Steve," he says softly, "What's the matter?"

Steve bites his lip and barely resists the urge to say, "Oh, nothing, I just appear to be having a crisis. I didn't know I could like men until I met you and oh God you are probably going to be horrified and hate me and I'm sorry but I didn't know and then you were singing and we were dancing and I'm a terrible dancer–"

It's when Tony laughs and says "You're not a terrible dancer, for the hundredth time, Steve, Jesus. That old lady had the time of her life in there when you danced with her earlier–" that Steve sits up too sharply, almost winding himself, and realises that oh dear God he'd just said that entire thing out loud.

What he says next is much more succinct.


Tony chuckles quietly next to him.


"Shit." Steve nods, agreeing, and buries his head in his arms, crossed over his knees.

"Shitshitshitshitshit," he mutters under his breath.

A moment later, Tony nudges him sideways with a shoulder.


"Mhmm?" he hums from under his arms.

"Get your head up. Stop hiding."



"Don't want to."

"Steve Rogers, get your head up right now. I have something I want to say to you."

And that isn't what makes Steve raise his head. He does it just a little, nose resting just above his arms, narrows his eyes at Tony and asks suspiciously, "How do you know my full name?"

The singer just sighs, shaking his head. But he's still smiling.

"I ran into your friend, Bucky? Hours ago. We had a conversation. You know how those usually go, with the introductions and the hand-shaking and the small talk?"

Tony smiles, "He was talking about you. Or I guess I was. So then we both were. He went to bed a couple of hours ago, by the way. In case you were wondering where he skipped off to."

"With that girl?" Steve mumbles, still hiding half his face, but at least meeting Tony's eyes now.

"With that girl," Tony confirms. He shifts a little on the grass, uncomfortable. "Steve, if you insist on having a crisis, can we at least do it inside where it's warm? And not… wet? I'm pretty sure I have a wet patch. And my suit isn't black. The patch is gonna show."

Steve grumbles something into his arms.

"You'll have to walk behind me so I don't embarrass myself," Tony continues, "Can't be seen with a wet patch on the ass of my best slacks." Then he sighs, "Bet the ladies will notice if you check out my ass though… They were so jealous of us cuttin' it up on the dance floor…"

Steve makes an indignant, horrified squeak beside him, eyes wide.

Tony laughs, deep and throaty, and nudges him again, a little harder this time.

"Steve, come on! What is the matter with you!"

Steve sighs heavily, his shoulders and back shrugging exaggeratedly with the depth of the breath. He finally pulls his head up, and tucks his chin on his folded arms.

"How are you so comfortable about this?" he asks, finally.

Tony makes a face for a moment, brow creased in confusion.

"And by "this" you mean what exactly?" Tony asks him in return.

Steve fidgets a little.

"This…" he mumbles, and Tony fixes him with a look and says "Steve, that is utterly unhelpful–" before Steve interrupts and finishes,

"The fact that the only thing I've wanted to do for hours is just," he sighs and growls at the same time, a frustrated little noise, "not appropriate."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Tony says, a bit irritably.

"It means that I want to just, to just, kiss you and I can't!" Steve whines finally.

Tony blinks for a moment, then barks a laugh and covers his mouth with one hand.

"Are you serious?" he asks.

Steve looks at him like he's grown an extra head. 

His answering "Yes?!" comes out far more strangled and high-pitched than he would've liked… And Tony scrubs a hand through his hair and starts laughing properly.

"Hey, it isn't funny, Tony!" Steve says loudly, but Tony is laughing too hard to pay him any notice.

"Yes it is! My God. And here I was thinking you just weren't interested!"

Steve blinks at that.

"Wait, what?"

The cold is prickling at him. He can feel the hairs on his arms rise as the goose-bumps take hold.

Tony shakes his head and looks at him, still smiling.

"You're an idiot, that's what."

And the singer tilts his head up, nose brushing Steve's, and he closes that breath's distance between them with the slightest movement. The feel of Tony's lips against his own sends shivers running along Steve's skin, sparking alongside the shivers of cold, like the fizzing of tiny champagne bubbles across every inch of him.

He sighs, the tension dropping from his shoulders, and lets Tony hook a hand around the base of his neck, pulling him that little bit closer, pressing their mouths together that little bit more firmly. Steve's head is spinning all of a sudden, in a way that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the whisky he stopped drinking hours ago.

His body shakes as it registers the drop in temperature. The night is cold around them now, the balm of early evening having ebbed away. Steve shivers again bodily, and Tony tips his head down just a little, breaking the kiss with the quietest of sounds. Steve feels himself leaning forward, trying to chase it, but he opens his eyes slowly when he hears Tony chuckle. The singer hums, and looks up at Steve through those long eyelashes.

"That's our cue to get you inside," he smiles, and rubs a hand up and down Steve's arm. Steve nods, agreeing entirely, still leaning forward into the circle of warmth at the singer's chest.





. . .

"Where are we going?"

"Shh, you'll see in a second."

"But we–"

"Steve, shut up and just keep walking."

"Fine," Steve harrumphs.

Tony stops walking at the sound of Steve's sulking pout, turns back, and hand tracing the line of his jaw, kisses the pout from his lips. Steve hums at that development.

"We're, nearly, there," Tony murmurs between kisses, and Steve nods, smiling at the way their noses keep bumping together as they tip their heads this way and that.

A few steps later Tony stops in front of a door, much the same as every other door down the long corridor they've just walked, and Steve makes a face when Tony unhooks his fingers from Steve's.

"I'm just getting my room key, stop pouting," Tony chastises, a smile in his eyes. He rummages through a pocket in his jacket and produces the rectangle of white plastic.

"Et voila," he says, putting the key in the door and removing it with a flourish. "Bienvenue Chez Tony. Well, tonight's Chez Tony at least."

"Whoa, they put you up in this place?" Steve gapes, because the room is actually not a room, it's a suite. He sticks his head around a door to see a King-sized bed covered in pillows – more pillows than anyone could feasibly need, let's be honest – and then he looks in on the bathroom – Jacuzzi bath, huge open shower, more towels than anyone could feasibly need – and finally he steps back into the living room area, where the plush sofas are spread with yet more cushions.

"Do hotel interior decorators have a pillow fetish?" he asks, sweeping a pile of them onto the floor with one motion of his hand.

Tony just laughs at that, and suddenly produces the bottle of whisky that he'd hidden in the bushes earlier.

Steve blinks at it, "When did you–?!"

Tony grins, placing the bottle on the coffee table in front of Steve and doing jazz hands, "Magic hands, Steve, magic hands."

"Magic hands," Steve repeats blankly, ignoring the rush of heat that has climbed up his neck and along his spine at Tony's statement.

Shucking off his suit jacket, Tony slides gracefully down onto the sofa beside him and walks two fingers up Steve's arm. "Mhmm, magic hands," he murmurs softly.

And Steve lets the frisson of static hiss up his arms then, feels the heat rise in his cheeks, as Tony glances up to meet his gaze, the slightest smile on his lips.

"Now, where were we?" he asks softly, before sliding a hand confidently between the buttons of Steve's shirt, teasing them open, one by one. Steve hears the hitch in his own breath as he feels Tony's fingertips brush the planes of his stomach, creeping up his torso. Tony rubs a thumb up the groove in the centre of Steve's chest, sliding it up and right to snake around his neck and pull Steve to him, down onto his waiting mouth. He doesn't rush with his tongue, just presses it to Steve's bottom lip, patient at the wet parting of Steve's mouth. Steve takes it in and curls his own against it, small, tight movements that echo everything he's ever learnt about how you should kiss. But he has never been kissed like this before.

Maybe it's the soft scratch of hair against his own smooth chin, the tickle of it above his lip, the slight roughness of the hand at his neck, the fingers thumbing at his throat. But it adds an edge to it all, a rough accent to the same old motions that makes it so utterly different. Tony suddenly pulls at his lip with small, sharp teeth, and the sting of the almost-bite sends a pulse racing through him. He pushes down, pushes forward, pushes Tony up against the back of the sofa, finds his own fingers are tight encircling the singer's wrists, pressing him against the fabric and pinning him there. Steve is bigger than he is, and he's making that known completely by accident.

But Tony pushes up into his grip, testing it, testing him, and Steve releases Tony's hands after a moment, surprised when they wind themselves up into his hair, tugging at it, sending sharp jolts across his scalp, skittering down his spine.

Steve hears a low groan escape his throat when Tony moves his lips to mouth along the curve of his neck, his head tipped back at Tony's grip in his hair.

One hand presses up against Steve's chest, then slides with a firm pressure down his torso, along his thigh, a thumb digging a deep groove into the soft skin on the inside of it as the hands drags itself back up towards his–

And Steve's body jolts, shudders, impulsively, as that firm pressure reaches the seam of his pants, pushes left and up, running over the hardness now straining beneath the thin fabric. Steve moans as that thumb starts to circle there, agonisingly slowly, and not touching him enough.

He rocks, not thinking, up against the cruel hand teasing him, finds his own fingers digging painfully into the lip of the sofa behind Tony's head. Teeth suddenly find the soft curve between his neck and shoulder as the thumb leaves and Tony replaces it with his whole hand, pawing at the crotch of Steve's suit, sliding relentless fingers over the hard curve of him.

"Tony, Tony please," he hears himself moan, unable to register shock at the breathlessness of his own voice, undone, "Just take them off. Justtakethemoff."

And the singer laughs into the wet, red mark he's just made in the sweep of Steve's collar, tips his lips up to his ear and murmurs, teasing, "What was that, Steve? You want me to take your pants off?"

It's all Steve can do to bite his lip to stifle another groan and nod as Tony's hand stills, his fingers firm against him through his suit. He nods tightly, his head back, spine trying to arch forward to cement that touch, and he whispers a ragged "Yes."

But Tony doesn't do it. He sweeps his hand up, left, and away instead, wrapping tight around Steve's hip. Steve moans at the absence of contact, breath short and sharp, pleading.

"What's the magic word?" Tony purrs against his throat, kissing and biting.

"The magic–?!" Steve's breath clutches, "For fuck's sake, Tony, take my fucking pants off or I'll–"

"Or you'll what?" The singer muses, mouth hovering above Steve's lips now. His eyes are dark, anchoring Steve with the sheer force and heat in them. The lack of touch makes Steve roll up, trying to find Tony's mouth, trying to move his hand, steel on his hip and unmoving, but Tony doesn't budge, merely pins Steve harder.

And Steve whines at the cruelty of it.

"Tony, please–" he murmurs, desperate to end this teasing, and Tony's mouth crashes into his as Steve's brain finally ticks over into "The magic word is "please", isn't it?"

And Steve whimpers under his tongue, their teeth almost clicking against each other, lips caught between them. Tony's fingers scrabble at Steve's belt, the fly of his pants, the cursed tiny fucking buttons– and his patience must be gone because Steve hears something rip, the clatter of plastic on the floor, as Tony tears the fabric open.

"Jesus, Tony," he chokes out, because his body jumps at the feeling and the sound of it, at the light dancing in Tony's eyes as he does it, the growl in his throat, the snarl of his mouth, and Steve reaches for him, knots his fingers in his scruffy, dark hair and leans up, pressing his chest against Tony's, his own fingers stripping the singer of his tie, his jacket – which falls to the floor with a clunk, his hipflask inside.

Steve curses each and every button on Tony's shirt, just as Tony had on his, as his fingers scrabble at them, but finally he peels it back, over Tony's shoulders and wrists, and lets it fall to the floor. They stop then, fingers ghosting over each other's chests and stomachs, shirts in rumpled, discarded piles, already forgotten. Both men are breathing hard.

"Shall we take this next door?" Tony murmurs, voice coming in short, sharp gusts, and he smells like heady cologne and whisky, and Steve wonders – knows, he does too. He rubs the backs of his knuckles down over the ridges of muscle in Tony's torso, Tony's own hand – palm flat – against Steve's chest, over his heart. Steve can feel its frenzied beating thudding in the tips of his toes, blood racing through him like fire, and he turns his hand then, drags his nails down the soft line of dark hair above Tony's belt 'til he reaches the band of his slacks, tucking his fingers under the fabric and leather there. Tony's breath hitches as Steve's fingertips brush his skin, and Steve drinks in the sound.

He nods, at last, and Tony's eyes are so dark, his lips swollen from the kisses but turned up in that glorious smile.

"Next door," Steve murmurs in answer.

Tony hooks his fingers in Steve's belt loops and drags him up off the sofa, taking slow, deliberate steps backwards through the doorway. Steve can't take his eyes off him.

The backs of Tony's legs hit the edge of the bed and his grip on Steve's belt tightens for a moment as he stops himself toppling backwards. A laugh curls in the air between them, and Tony leans up to brush his lips against Steve's again. Steve's hands curve, cupping the singer's head and keeping it tilted up to his. Tony pulls back ever so slightly.

"You know before, when you said you didn't even know you were interested in men?" he asks.

Steve flushes violently, his hands now still against Tony's neck.

"I, uh, yeah?"

"Does that mean you've never…" Tony trails off, motioning a finger back and forth in the small space between them, "…y'know… with a guy?"

Steve turns an alarming shade of pink. He mumbles something Tony doesn't catch and Tony tips Steve's head up, finger crooked under his chin.

"Care to repeat that?"

Steve winces awkwardly. "There was... this, this one time, with…" He sighs, hand rubbing the back of his neck the way it does when he gets nervous, "…with Bucky…?"

Tony smiles at him, "Hey, I'm not gonna ask. I don't need details, don't worry."

"I just wanted to know," the singer says softly, "so I knew how to do this. I don't want to push you. I don't want you to do anything you wouldn't… y'know, do, if you weren't drunk off your ass." He chuckles.

Steve frowns and replies in a grumble, "I'm not drunk off my ass…"

"No, but you were earlier," Tony says, pulling him down for another kiss.

"Doesn't mean I don't want to…" Steve murmurs against his mouth, a little irritably.

"So you do want to?" Tony asks, eyes dark. Steve is sure the singer can feel how his heart is thudding erratically in his chest at the current in his voice. His mouth is dry, his palms slick, and there is an ache in him that he doesn't remember ever feeling before. A fire licking at the centre of him, a circle of heat where they are touching, hip to hip, and that warmth may as well be the centre of the universe because Steve can't quite feel anything else anymore.

He nods as Tony leans up, momentarily lost for words. This kiss will seal it, will make it real. And he doesn't quite know if he's ever wanted something so much.

So he lets his eyes flutter closed and waits.

The tone of Tony's kisses changes, then. Though there is no less heat in them, he gives them carefully, lets them linger on Steve's lips, curled against his tongue. He scatters them across Steve's throat, his neck, his shoulders, presses them to the soft skin behind his ear, laughing as Steve shudders a little when it tickles just so.

After a while, he snakes his fingers through Steve's and pulls lightly, towards him, and towards the bed behind him. His eyes open, meeting Steve's in a crash of blown pupils, the thinnest rings of warm brown and deep, clear blue just visible, and he waits for the nod of approval, the barest inclination of Steve's head that he's allowed to do this, before he pulls him to his chest and lets Steve push him down onto the bed.

They tumble in a heap, rolling, toeing off shoes and socks, and Tony's feet curl up round Steve's calves. Tony snaps his fingers with a grin then, and the lights suddenly dim. He waves his hand over something by the bed next, and music begins to play from hidden speakers. Steve can't stifle his grin as he tugs Tony's right leg up to hook around his waist, face to face in the sea of pillows.

"Fancy gadgets," he murmurs, tilting his head right into the pillow to catch Tony's mouth again.

The singer nods against him, hand stroking the sensitive spot behind Steve's left ear.

"Fancy gadgets," he agrees.





. . .

"So," Tony whispers a little thickly, a good while later. They are wrapped round each other, hands tracing angles and curves. Steve opens his eyes to see Tony looking at him, eyes dark under those thick lashes, and suddenly there is a lump in his throat, and his heart thuds heavily in his chest, skipping beats as it pleases. Tony's fingers on the inside of his wrist register the erratic beats, and he presses his lips, soft, to the thin veil of skin above his pulse.

"Is someone excited?" he whispers, voice husky.

It's all Steve can do to nod, his own voice having deserted him as Tony runs his lips up along the vein thrumming in his wrist. He kisses the palm of his hand, chaste and gentle, and Steve's fingers curl. That small gesture changes something. The tilt of Tony's head, the lines of his profile, silhouetted by the dim lights, ignites that pool of heat in his belly, and as Tony's eyes glance up at him, he can't stand to be so far away. He takes the singer's head in his hands and in the mad crush of lips and teeth that follows, Steve loses himself in the rush of it.

He hears a groan rumble low in Tony's throat and traces its path from his lungs to his perfect mouth with his tongue, feeling it hum through the pale skin.

Steve pulls his knee upwards, under Tony's leg round his waist, and the motion drags the singer's hips that much closer to his own, the contact there sparking a gasp, the pool of heat spreading, consuming. His own moan comes in answer as Tony pushes up, rocks his hips, and Steve bites down on his lip as a wave of something suddenly crashes through him, dangerously powerful.

"Tony," he rasps, fingers clutching for purchase, for control, he doesn't even know, "Tony? Take, my, fucking, pants off."

Tony laughs against the hollow of his throat, but before he can speak, Steve moans the magic word, "Please", and honestly, no further words are necessary.

Tony peels Steve's slacks from hip to ankle as slowly as he dares and Steve has never been so utterly, painfully frustrated with the undressing process than he is in this one maddeningly unending moment. There is a smile in Tony's eyes again as he watches Steve try to shimmy in an attempt to speed his hands but Tony spreads a palm on the inside of Steve's thigh and pushes down, stopping the roll of his hips.

"Patience," he murmurs, and Steve swears he could cry.

Now, instead of letting Steve undress him in return, Tony slides backwards on the bed on his knees, stepping back to stand upright. Then, as Steve lies spread-eagled on the bed in front of him, breath short, Tony slides his belt from round his waist, taking his time, slowly drawing it through loop after loop until he lets it fall to the floor. Steve's heart thrums in his chest as he watches Tony's teeth snare his bottom lip, his fingers dancing over the catch in his slacks, then dragging down the zip with an agonising slowness. Steve can barely breathe by the time Tony snags his hands on the band of his slacks and releases, the material falling in a soft rustle, pooling around his ankles. He steps from the pile, eyes fixed on Steve, chest heaving on the bed, his hand so close to reaching down to touch himself but frozen mid-motion.

What Tony says next makes Steve swallow thickly. The singer gestures languidly at the tight black boxers that are the only clothing he has left to remove.

"Do you want to do the honour, Steve?" he murmurs, all husky breath and promise in the words. And God, his eyes. If the sight of Tony watching him like a predatory animal with the scent of prey in its nose wasn't enough to undo him completely, seeing that pink tongue sweep across his lip and disappear back into his waiting mouth the way it does then is evil to the point of torture.

Steve makes a noise low in his throat, and it is just as animal as the look Tony gives him.

He barely recognises his own voice, thick and ragged with lust, as he says "Come here", crooking his finger to the singer. Something cascades through him then, and Tony leans forward on one knee on the bed, and, God, crawls up towards him. Sliding upwards, Tony stops just short of his hips, pushing Steve's legs either side of his body, knees drawn up, then runs a hand, nails catching, trailing sparks, down Steve's stomach, over the expanse of naked skin that makes him shudder, before sliding a thumb over the hard curve begging at the cloth of his boxers. When Tony's fingers brush the tip, the small, damp patch there, a whine catches in Steve's throat, tipping his head back into the pillows. God, but he is so close to begging.

"Steve," Tony says then, thickly enough to make Steve ache, "Steve, I need you to touch me."

Steve nods mutely, and Tony reaches, takes Steve's hand in his own and pulls him up towards him. Steve's eyes skip over Tony's dark eyes, his parted mouth, his naked chest. His eyes trail to where their hands are joined, Tony's fingers cupping his. They are so close now their noses touch, and Steve presses up, catching Tony's lips in his own, stealing the breath from him as he feels the heat radiate from his body.

Tony groans then, unable to wait, and pulls Steve's fingers forward. Steve's body thrums as his fingers make contact with Tony through his boxers, and the singer whimpers under his tongue as Steve presses both tongue and fingers forward, exploring and insistent.

Steve smooths his fingers down, opening his curled hand, and Tony's fingers are almost vibrating slightly against the back of his own.

He grinds the heel of his palm against the curve of Tony's cock and the shift of fabric on skin drags a moan from the singer's mouth. Steve kisses it from him, fingers curling up and smoothing down, the heel of his palm rubbing against him, slow, steady.

"Inside," Tony murmurs, "Put your hand… inside. Fuck the pants."

The moment Steve complies, smile tugging at the corners of his kisses, Tony moans loud and proper, hand pawing at the back of Steve's neck as Steve mouths against his throat.





. . .

Tony is on top of him, Steve's hand curled tight around his cock, teasing him in the easy rhythm they found not a minute before. He rocks up into Steve's hand, moans lost in the air, and his eyes blink open. He sinks back onto his heels, and Steve follows him up, kneeling either side of him, hand not leaving his skin. They nearly upend the pot of clear substance by their hips, and Tony pushes it away, but not before dipping his fingers back in, slicking them thoroughly. Steve's eyes are wide and dark as he watches that movement, as he knows what will happen next.

Tony is hot and wet under his fingers, and Steve sucks in a breath when Tony reaches round, pressing close, and with lube-slick fingers circles his opening. That stolen breath rolls into a startled moan as Tony eases the very tip of one finger past and Steve rocks back onto it. His body takes Tony, urges him on, pulls him in, and Steve can see the heat in Tony's eyes as he strokes two fingers over the wet hole next, then pushes them carefully inside. Steve swallows another breath and sighs, a moan sealed in his mouth as Tony kisses him. Steve shudders against Tony's lips as, fingers still pushing inside him, Tony's other hand wraps around his cock and strokes, just a little cold from the lube on his fingers.

Steve sinks further towards oblivion.





. . .

"Can I?" Tony mouths into his shoulder, fingers and cock chasing at his entrance, and Steve presses back into him, a low moan caught in his mouth, smothering his need in the pillow he clamps against his lips, "Can I fuck you, Steve?"

And he wants it, God, he needs it. It's all he can do to gasp "Please" as Tony wraps a hand around his cock again, thumb teasing at the head of it, rubbing endless circles against the fluid beading there, before that is enough to drive the words from him for good.

Tony dips his hand back into the pot, and Steve shudders as his fingers, now cold with lube, press at him again, dip back inside, crook and curl and tease, and Steve is shaking, legs weak, his cock almost flat against his stomach as he leans down, face buried in the sheets, hands clutching to find an anchor before he loses his mind.

And Tony is talking, breathing sweet nothings, murmuring them into the air around him, adding a second finger, a third, his thumb pressed up against the base of Steve's pelvis, the smooth space there, his other hand iron on Steve's hip. That hand and Steve's own rutting creates the rhythm that drives Tony's fingers, and Steve is whimpering into the pillows, the only words he knows "TONY", "Please", and the drawn-out keening "God!"

And then Tony's fingers stop, leaving him with a noise the music drowns out, and Steve's hands are curled so tight in the sheets he thinks he might tear them.

Then, Tony murmurs, "Steve, I… can I– Are you ready?" The words leave him in a rush, slurred with heat and need, and Steve nods, tilting his face up, turning right to catch Tony's gaze.

His eyes plead "yes" in hot silence, and Tony nods thickly, the sight of Steve's expression enough to push him beyond words.

He holds that gaze as he bites his lip and pushes forward, thumb beneath his own cock, easing, as he slides further and further, disappearing inch by inch into Steve.

The sounds that escape Steve's mouth then are not words. His skin catches fire, his cock twitches between his spread legs and he moans, long and low. When Tony finally pushes in to the base, the slick skin of his stomach flat against him, Steve is panting, legs shuddering with the exertion of trying to stay upright.

But it is when Tony finally rolls his hips, mouth caught open in a silent, breathless "O" at the wet heat swallowing him, that Steve finally cries out.

"Oh, Jesus Mother of GodSTEVE!" Tony growls, and his hands are tight enough on Steve's ass and hips to bruise him, though neither of them can bring themselves to care.

Steve jerks forward, knees trembling, and Tony feels him clutch around him, which drags a shuddering cry from his lips. Steve rocks back, up against him, urging Tony to just fucking move and so help him Tony pushes right back. Steve arches up away from the bed, hands twisting in the sheets, and Tony wraps a hand round his throat, pulling him up 'til he is leaning back against him, sitting on his cock, and buries his face in the sweet curve of Steve's shoulder, unable to stop himself sinking his teeth into that perfect skin as Steve keens and moans, rocking on top of him, thighs shaking, and Steve's hand curves back to tangle itself in Tony's hair, pressing him deeper into his skin, teeth and cock both, and the sounds that trip from his tongue are incomprehensible, half-words and moans, whimpering guttural shouts, and Tony's left hand turns Steve's head right to snare his lips, to swallow the noises he's making.

He reaches his right hand down, snaking over Steve's slick stomach, and takes his cock in hand. It jerks under his touch and Steve shouts into his mouth, the vibration humming over their lips, and Tony feels him jerk and writhe as he fists, fingers dragging Steve screaming to the very edge of oblivion. Buried deep inside him, Tony feels the blinding light begin to build at the very base of his spine, crawling through every nerve in his body, and as Steve whimpers louder, faster, more desperately with every stroke of his hand, every roll and thrust of his hips, he knows he won't hold it off for long.

Steve's lips break free from his then, and Tony feels that tell-tale shudder, rushing through Steve's flushed skin, the beads of sweat skittering down his spine.

"Are you – God, Steve, are you gonna – I –!" and as Steve rocks against him he can't ask, can't form the words, can't form a single coherent thought.

He feels the waves come. Tickling, teasing at first, then stronger as Steve's hips start to stutter above him, too, and they build on the horizon, crashing towards him, thundering solid and fast as a freight train.

And he realises then that Steve, head pressed back against his shoulder, eyelids crushed together and mouth parted, panting soft "oh, oh, OH"s, is biting his lip, shaking against him, and his eyes snap open, just as Tony's orgasm crests, and that shock of piercing blue, pupils blown wide, severs something in Tony, severs his connection to the earth, and Steve cries out "TONY!!"–

And the light takes him.

It hits him like a juggernaut, like a smothering blanket, heat and light, white noise and static, his own blood roaring in his ears. His arm around Steve's chest, hand clawed at his shoulder, he holds him there, tethering him to the earth again. He holds Steve between his arm and his own heaving chest, and Tony watches as Steve's climax rolls through him, his eyes screwing shut, trembling, gasping for breath he can't catch, caught in the riptide.

And Tony kisses the soft sounds from his lips as Steve collapses boneless back into his chest, both of their bodies slick with sweat and seed. He runs a hand along Steve's shaking thighs, smoothing the skin, stroking him down, pulling him back to earth.

Steve murmurs something into the hair curling damp round Tony's ear, and Tony curls around him, letting them sink forward into the bed. He pulls out as slowly as he can and Steve makes a noise, a protest or something else, Tony can't hear. He scoops up the sheets, crumpled from Steve's hands tight in them, and wraps them round the two of them up to the waist.

Steve tucks himself into the hollow of Tony's throat, and Tony cradles him against his chest. After a moment, Steve's eyes flutter open, breathing more even now.

The first thing he sees is Tony smiling. His own smile in response is like a flower opening to the sun, and he blinks slowly, weakly, Tony tipping his chin up to kiss him.

"Hey there, handsome," Tony murmurs, and presses a gentle kiss to his parted lips.