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The Game

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The game starts when Tony walks into the garage to find Steve sitting astride the R1200RS, staring down at his phone, and he maybe, just a little bit, walks into a car.

To be fair, it's the GT40, which is an astonishingly low ride, and Tony's eyes aren't what they once were. To be actually, honestly fair, forty- cough -year-old eyesight notwithstanding, he's not looking at the car when it happens, he's looking at Steve.

Because, fuck if that man can't wear a bike well. Almost as well as he's wearing a white cotton t-shirt from Baby Gap, a pair of jeans so sinful there's no way in hell he bought them for himself, and a pair of Ray Bans he almost certainly "borrowed" (read: stole) from Tony, pushed up on his head so his hair forms a little golden halo around the frames.

Tony probably would have gotten away with nothing more than two bruises to pay for his blatant ogling if his knees colliding with the grill hadn't set the Ford's alarm off. Steve startles up as the car begins wailing pathetically, it's tragic screams of "BAD TOUCH" echoing around the garage.

"For fucks sake, JARVIS!" Tony yells, and a breath later, its gone silent. Tony looks up and sees that Steve has teleported off the bike and is now standing uncomfortably close to Tony, brow creased with worry. "Uncomfortable" being a range of about six square yards in all directions, because if he's within that zone, Tony can smell his cologne, and it's fucking torture.

Steve takes one look at Tony's certainly flushed face, his wide eyes, and the awkward stance of a man who's well past the age of popping random boners but still doesn't entirely trust himself, and he knows. God dammit, he knows.

So that's how the game starts. Where it ends up… well that's an entirely different matter.

Steve doesn't say anything, that first time in the garage. He smirks and saunters back to the bike, assured that everything is okay. When he climbs up on top of it, he shoots a look back at Tony that comes pretty damn close to igniting Tony's expensive, silk boxer-briefs where he stands. Steve revs up and shoots out towards the street, and Tony, left alone with his seemingly endless pit of humiliation, makes a noise that he's only ever heard before on a nature documentary about water buffalo in heat.

Tony's in trouble. He can smell it on the air, along with motor oil, exhaust, and, oddly, freesias, because he bought Pepper flowers and forgot she was out of the country until next week and somehow the garage is as far as they've gotten towards the penthouse. So, Tony's in trouble, and he knows it, but he doesn't know how much until three days later.

He's working on the guts of the Cobra, when Steve pulls into the garage on his bike. He's wearing a leather jacket and the pilfered Ray Bans, but when he stops the bike in its slot he takes both of them off. He grips the end of the sunglasses in his teeth while he slips out of the jacket. Under the jacket is a blue fucking tank top so tight that either a vacu-sealer was involved in getting it on, or he paid a seamstress to sew it around his pecs. Because Tony has a PhD in physics, and that shit ain't physically possible.

And that would be one thing, because Steve's never been known for wearing clothes that actually fit him, except when Steve gets off the bike, he walks past Tony, looks down at him - no doubt drooling all over the socket wrench that's slipping out of his limp hand - and grins. He grins like the cat who still has the canary feathery and wriggling in its mouth, and that's how Tony knows it's on.

And it's not like Tony isn't going to fight back.


It takes a while for him to figure out exactly how he's going to fight back, but after two more shows of synthetic fabrics pushed to their very limits from Steve, Tony starts to form a plan. The garage is their battleground, that much is clear. It's the only place in the tower where Steve and Tony find themselves alone with each other, more often than not. Steve works on the old Harley he's restoring, as well as the BMW which has become his regular day bike, and three new bikes Tony bought for him. And Tony works on his cars. He's also got quite a few projects that are too big or too… leaky… for the lab, so he has them set up here, and it's not like they don't need the attention.

So, step one, opportunity, is all arranged. Motive he has in spades; Steve is clearly taunting him, him and his enthusiastic libido, and Tony doesn't take kindly to being taunted. One of them is going to break before this is over and it won't be Tony.

Means requires a bit more effort.

Tony's crush on Steve is obvious. If it weren't obvious before he walked into a super car and nearly slipped on a puddle of his own drool just because Steve existed prettily nearby, it's certainly obvious now, and it's obvious to Steve. Steve torturing Tony with his perfectly sculpted ass is clearly the best play for Steve, but Tony doesn't know if that's a weapon he has in his own arsenal or not. Steve's into dudes - soft sighs while watching Harrison Ford films are evidence enough, but Tony has also caught him blushing and stammering while getting his change from the cute, male cashier at the bodega on the corner - but is he into Tony?

Science recommends careful testing, and Tony is nothing if not a gifted scientist.

Observation: Steve is flirting with Tony so aggressively Tony may actually have rug burn from it, and he's not sure how that's even possible.

Question: Is Steve into Tony or he just trying to fuck with him? Tony can work with it either way. Obviously, it'd be awesome if Steve were into him, and not just because that gives him his best shot at getting his own back, but because, well, shit, he really, really wants Steve to be into him.

So, thinking optimistically:

Hypothesis: Steve is into Tony.

There's already some evidence in favour of this hypothesis, namely the shirts, the suggestive bike straddling, the winking, and the incredibly sexual grinning, but those things all point to Steve just wanting to torture Tony in his crush as well, so it warrants further testing.

Experiment: Tease Steve back, try to get a reaction.

The chance to run his experiment presents itself only a day later. The Avengers face off with some truly disturbing alien cephalopods, and the slime covers all of them from head to foot. They all stomp back to the tower in various states of stuck-to-their-clothes. The second they push through through the landing pad doors inside, they all start stripping down, shucking the itchy green gunk that clings to their skin.

Titillation is the last thing on Tony's mind as he unzips the undersuit and pushes it down until it hangs off his hips like a surfer's wetsuit, leaving his chest bare but dripping with the goop.

"Ugh, this stuff is the worst," Clint whines, and everyone murmurs their agreement. Everyone except their fearless leader.

Tony turns to look at him, making sure he's okay after the incident, but Steve has paused halfway through undoing the top of the Captain America uniform - hand hanging uselessly from the zipper - and his eyes are now fixed very firmly on Tony's stomach. Or maybe lower. Hopefully lower.

Tony cocks an eyebrow, then a hip, runs his thumb along the edge of the very low-slung undersuit, and waits for Steve's eyes to roll back up to his body and notice that he's been caught out. A bright red flush bursts out of Steve's collar and overtakes his entire face. He glares at Tony, clearly furious with himself for giving Tony this ammunition, but all Tony can do his smile.

Conclusion: Steve is definitely into Tony.


The only word Tony can use to describe what happens over the next three weeks is escalation.

The rules for the battle fall into place naturally as they go on. Steve tries not to do anything exceptionally distracting while riding his bike during battle, when they both need to focus, and Tony doesn't embarrass Steve by drawing attention to this new tension between them around the others.

The gym is off-limits for the game, that much doesn't need to be said. Once they start showing off and ogling and generally making fools of themselves a) in front of the others and b) in a space designed for wearing tight clothes and getting sweaty, it will all go off the rails. Plus, Tony wants to be sure that no matter how far this goes, Steve won't ever feel uncomfortable in his home.

That doesn't stop Tony from getting a peek of Steve post-workout though. Tony's sitting on the garage floor, knees bent, elbows propped up on them, and staring down at the documentation laid out between his legs on the floor, trying to figure out who he needs to fire, when Steve wanders in.

"Hey, Tony," Steve says placidly - and really the tone should be Tony's first clue that Something Is Up.

But he's distracted by truly unforgivable technical writing, so, defenses down, he says, "Hey," and looks up. It's either a curse or a miracle of timing that he happens to look up at the exact moment that Steve crosses the perfect angle so his ass is framed in Tony's view. He's walking away, towards the bike, and he's clearly just come from the gym. His hair is wet and clings to the nape of his neck. His t-shirt is wet too, soaked from the collar down with sweat, and the only saving grace is that Steve's shirt is so fucking tight anyway that it's not sticking to him any closer than it normally would, so Tony's somewhat inoculated already.

Steve's wearing sweatpants, the thin, fitted kind that kiss his thighs then hang long and lose over his shoes. But what they kiss best, is his ass. Science built that ass, and science did not slack off, Tony thinks, as he stares, wide eyed. Steve, without sparing a look at Tony, crosses over to his section of the work floor then -


- bends over at the waist, braces his hands on the bike's seat and stretches out his back. Muscles ripple across his shoulders and back, put on glorious display by the near see-through, damp, white cotton that covers them. He arches a hip under the guise of rolling it out, and the sweatpants pull tight over his glutes. He's practically naked, better than naked really, and wet, wet with sweat that Tony wants to lick off him, and now he's flexing and stretching and there's an embarrassingly long moment where Tony honestly considers throwing in the towel before he's even made a play, and just rocketing across the garage and pressing his face to that beautiful backside.

Steve's fingers flex on the leather seat, and he flicks his eyes over his shoulder towards Tony, eyelashes fluttering, and that's when Tony decides to win.

Tony snaps his gaze back to the documentation, locking his jaw in a desperate effort to lock his neck from swivelling freely back in Steve's direction.

The next day, Tony comes prepared. He's wearing the pair of jeans that once made Pepper choke, rather ironically, on a red pepper from her salad. They're dark and slim and manage to fit him like a second skin while still slinking low on his hips when he stretches out. He doesn't have many advantages over Rogers, but his knowledge of and access to clothes is one of his strongest. He layers over a black tank top, one of the ones with a hole cut out for the arc reactor - Steve can't seem to stop staring at it, which is a little bit uncomfortable but this isn't about comfort, it's about winning - then runs gel-covered hands through his hair until it stands up exactly like it was tousled from him running his hands through it. Which, he supposes, is exactly what he did, but not for the reasons Steve will think.

The XR53 casing is the perfect prop for his little display, and Tony makes sure to arrive a few minutes before Steve is due back from a press event. Tony settles himself in the garage with the large, metal construction. The perfect thing about it is that Tony needs to drill a long line of holes into the casing, starting at one end and working his way to the other. He's tried a few ways, and the best setup is to stand, with the long-but-tall casing propped up in its edge and gripped between his legs. He then drills a hole, shuffles down a few inches and drills again.

He drags the casing around until he can straddle it with his ass pointed at the garage doors and waits. JARVIS - winner of the Best Electronic Wingman award - announces it when Steve's bike gets close enough to activate the automatic garage door, and Tony immediately starts drilling. He hears the bike rumbling down the ramp to the garage and fixes his gaze steadily on the metal he's drilling through.

The engine cuts out, and Tony pushes harder, really flexing his bicep as he works the drillbit through the metal. He wants to look, wants to look desperately, but he doesn't, and that's perhaps the most brilliant part of this play. There are two reasons why he can't look: one is that if he looks away he might slip and drill through his thigh. And while that will probably involve Rogers ripping his pants off his body, it won't be for the reason he wants. The second is that Tony's wearing tinted safety goggles, and he knows for a fact that if he tries to look up at Steve through them he'll look unbelievably goofy and also not really be able to see him clearly anyway. So, he has two compelling reasons to keep his eyes where they should be, and all he can do is imagine Steve's reaction.

He hopes Steve's staring openly at the way his thighs are hard and locked to keep the metal still between them, and the way his back arches as he bends over, and the sinful flex of his arms as he fights the kickback of the drill. The tank top shows the edge of his collarbone and the arc reactor glows proudly out through the cut out.

When Tony's done the row, and Steve still hasn't moved towards the door, Tony sits back onto the casing, huffs a sigh, pops the safety goggles up into his (carefully styled) wild hair and wipes his brow with the hand not still clutching the drill at a suggestive angle by his crotch.

And that's when he chooses to look up. It's the perfect moment, because he manages to catch Steve unawares. Steve is frozen, halfway across the garage. He has one foot in front of the other like he was walking but forgot how midway through a step. His eyes are wide, taking in as much as they can, and their gaze is fixed on Tony's arms. Bingo.

He's holding the strap of a messenger bag a fan gave him with the shield embroidered on the flap and he's squeezing it so hard Tony can practically hear it screaming in protest.

Tony delivers the final blow with a casual smirk. He leans forward, twisting his chest so he's facing steve completely now, arc reactor on display, and says, "Hey, Cap."

Steve looks up from his chest to his face and his eyes narrow, jaw twitching, and Tony knows he got him good. He swallows heavily, shoves his hands in his pockets and miraculously remembers how to walk. "Hey, Tony," he says.

And his fucking voice cracks.

Score one for Stark.


"Shit," Steve says, and there's a hint of asshole in his tone that makes Tony brace for the inevitable. He still can't stop himself from looking over towards Steve, though, because curiosity will be the death of him right along with that cat.

Steve is holding the hem of his shirt away from his body and looking down at where he's spilled oil over the front. With a cheery smile at Tony he grabs the back of it and slips it over his head in a swift, easy slide.

Tony's mouth goes dry. Okay, point Rogers.


Tony waits until Steve pauses his work on the bike then stretches himself out on his back on the dolly. He shifts his foot so one taps the air compressor and draws Steve's attention his way. Once he knows Steve's looking, Tony braces his feet on the floor and rolls his hips once, "settling," for good measure and to hold that gaze on him.

Tony pushes himself along, slowing guiding the dolly under the Ferrari's chassis. While he works, he braces with his foot, wriggles his ass, lifts his hips, and generally makes a fool of himself.

It's almost a half hour before he hears Steve clear his throat roughly and go back to his work.

Point Stark.


There's a soft grunt from the other side of the garage and Tony looks up from his diagram, pencil gripped between his teeth.

Steve's glaring at a pair of pipes that are fused in one piece instead of two. His eyes flick up for a moment, and then he takes each one in a hand and pulls. His muscles bulge, so huge they threaten the already stressed cotton of his t-shirt. He grunts again, a low, gutteral noise that makes Tony's pants tighten a bit, then the two pieces fly apart. Everything about him… ripples for a moment.

The pencil falls out of Tony's mouth.

Point Rogers.


"Ouch! Fuck."

Steve looks up at Tony's curse, and Tony takes his burned finger and slowly slides it into his mouth, eyes fixed on Steve. He holds up the blow torch in explanation then bats his eyelashes, sucking on his burnt finger with exaggerated lip movement.

Steve swallows and shifts in his seat.

Point Stark.


Tony's been wrestling with shaping this piece of rebar for nearly forty minutes, too frustrated to bother trying to make it sexy, when Steve walks over. He leans his hand on Tony's worktop, pushing himself head-spinningly far into Tony's space. He braces one hand on the end of the rebar and matches his gaze with Tony's.

"Say when," he says, so softly Tony feels like he has to snatch the words out of the air before they disappear.

Steve pushes on the end of the bar where it juts off the end of the table, by his hip, and it starts to bend and Tony starts to sweat. He doesn't want to speak, doesn't want to give his tongue freedom from his mouth in case it darts across the worktop and attaches itself to Steve's chest.

But he needs the rebar at a certain angle and when it gets there he has no choice but to croak out a tiny, broken, "When."

Steve stops bending and leans back, smiling, one hundred percent smug and two hundred percent fuckable, and Tony's not sure how much more he can take before he needs to seek some sort of medical attention for the longest, most painful case of blue balls on the planet.

Fucking point Rogers.


Tony steps out of the limo and pushes the elevator button for his penthouse then pauses; a thought occurs to him.

"J, where's Steve?"

"Captain Rogers is working in the garage, Sir."

Tony smiles. This is their normal time to hang out down there, but Tony has two distinct advantages today. One is that Steve isn't expecting him show, knowing he has an event all night. The other… Tony tugs on his tie until the knot is loose but still done up.

"Hey, Steve," he calls as he walks in.

Steve looks up in surprise and his eyes narrow for a fraction of a second. "Hey, Tony… you're home early."

Tony shrugs. "Yeah, it was pretty boring in the end so I bailed. What are you up to?"

Tony waits until Steve's eyes are fully on him then he pulls slowly but steadily on the knot of his tie until the silk pops free and it falls open around his neck. Steve's eyes flick down to his throat then back up to Tony's face, and he swallows. If he looks away, that's one point for Tony. He doesn't though.

"Just checking the suspension. It was creaking a bit on my last ride."

"Well," Tony says, popping open the top button his collar, "the way you treat her, it's a miracle she makes it through any ride without creaking."

"Hey!" Steve says, indignant, but his pupils are blown dark. Tony takes a few steps closer. He shrugs out of his jacket and lets it slide down his arms. Steve tracks its path. "I treat her like a princess," he finishes, slightly breathlessly.

"In here, maybe." Tony tosses the jacket onto a nearby chair and moves to his cuffs, unbuttoning each one. He has a choice now and he's not sure which way to play it. He could take the shirt off entirely, which he knows Steve obviously likes, or he could try something new. He fiddles with the cuff of his right sleeve and watches Steve for a moment. The conversation has died down, but neither man notices.

Tony decides for the gamble play and begins rolling his sleeve up, folding up the fabric around the cuff then pulling it taut until they're rucked up to just under his elbows. Steve's gaze follows along, leaning back against the bike now, and he's completely caught in Tony's performance. Tony moves to the next sleeve. When it's folded up even with the other, he drops his hands to his waistband. He runs his fingers along his belt for a moment then grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls, sliding it free, sure to flash a bit of his stomach as it pops out. It's tailored perfectly to him so it hugs the curve of his waist as the tails fall out, covering his pants. He smooths it down slowly with flat palms.

Steve's eyes jump back up to Tony's face, and Tony licks his lips.

Tony grabs the end of his tie and pulls, the susurrus of the silk loud enough in the utterly still room that they both shiver. Tony watches it wriggle down Steve's spine and wonders how low it goes before it settles. Tony's goes all the way down.

Tony goes for his buttons again, undoing two more so the top curve of the arc reactor peaks out, shining through the thin material of his undershirt and he watches Steve's eyes jump down with each button then freeze on his chest.

This is it, it has to be, Steve's breathing hard and his eyes are blown and he's shifting in the slightly uncomfortable way that says blood is headed in a southerly direction, and Tony thinks, game point, and then Steve blinks heavily, shakes his head and turns firmly away, back to his work.

It takes a moment of personal struggle, but Tony resists the urge to scream. The breaking point can't be that far off; they're both balanced on a knife's edge. But for now, it seems, Steve has himself under control and he won't be the one conceding tonight, which means Tony needs to go get to work like he intended to, so it won't look ridiculous that he came down here just to do a striptease.

He stares at the back of Steve's head for a moment. His neck is slightly pink. Fuck it. Tony spins on his heel and stomps out, grabbing his jacket on the way and throwing it over his shoulder. He doesn't actually want to work, and it's not like it wasn't fucking obvious what he was down there for anyway.

Still. Point Stark.


They're over a month into this ridiculous game of chicken, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. It's calmed down, somewhat, since the first couple of tense weeks, and Tony's not sure if he's happy about that or not. The game hasn't leaked out of the garage, though Tony has caught (and thrown) a few heated looks, and no one has broken yet. Tony has considered bringing DUM-E down with a mop to clean up the drool, and if sexual tension were flammable they'd be in real trouble every time Tony fired up the welding torch, but they haven't touched beyond the occasional arm brush and Steve hasn't slammed Tony up against a wall and kissed him to within an inch of his life, and Tony hasn't climbed into Steve's lap when he sits astride the bike and humped him until they both go off.

He's thought about it a lot, though. Mostly late at night, frequently in the shower, once in the bathroom just off the garage because Steve had come back from a PR event in full costume and decided to change in the middle of the garage instead of going upstairs. If the way Steve's eyes go bright and he bites his lip is anything to go by, he's not the only one whose spank bank has had to rent out the room next door to make space for all the new material.

But Tony had been hoping that Steve would break by now, and it's more than a little frustrating that he hasn't yet. He's being surprisingly stoic about the whole thing, and Tony's starting to get worried that there are some lingering 30's sensibilities that are holding him back. If the choice is to continue this silly game forever, or lose to Steve in aid of actually getting his hands on that particular power bottom and squeezing like he owns it, Tony's not actually sure which he'll pick.

He hates to lose.

But fuck does Steve ever look good in his khakis today.

They're both tinkering away, occasionally slipping into light conversation, when Steve claps his hands together and makes a noise of pleasure. Tony's almost afraid to look, sure it's another play, but when he squares up and faces his suffering like a man, Steve's not half-naked, covered in motor oil, flexing impressively, or bending over like Elle Woods about to snap. Instead, he's grinning at the old Harley like he's won an award and his eyes are so bright and happy, Tony's not entirely sure he's only imagining the little hearts popping above Steve's head.

Tony makes a questioning noise, and Steve turns to him, no smirk, no artifice. "She's done!" he says, and Tony realizes he means the bike.

"Shit." Tony stands. "That's awesome, man. You've been working on her forever." Tony walks over and watches while Steve sits astride her and starts her up. It's gorgeous in a different way than their battles. Steve is soft and happy and as excited as a little kid with a Power Wheels Barbie Jeep, and that's even better than naked, glistening pecs.

"Wanna go for a ride?" Steve asks, almost bouncing on the seat.

It's basically a free point to Steve because there's no way Tony's going to say no to that. He nods then goes to put his tools away while Steve pulls out a helmet for him. Tony jams it over his head, helmet hair be damned (this round is going to Steve anyway) and climbs up on the back of the bike.

Steve is a solid, warm wall in front of him, and when he grabs Tony's hands and wraps them around his waist, Tony's pretty sure the only way he could get his own back right now would be to just shove them both down Steve's pants. Go for broke.

He only entertains the idea for a moment (maybe two).

Steve starts the bike up again, and JARVIS rolls the door open. They shoot out, springing deftly into traffic, and Tony is reminded, rather viscerally, that Steve is essentially a professional stunt bike rider only stronger, faster, and more terrifying. It's the world's best roller coaster, and no one has ever accused Tony of being anything less than a complete adrenaline junkie. It's not long at all before he's grinning into the back of Steve's shirt.

Steve rockets out of the city and finds an open country road for them to cruise down. Tony's been clinging to his back for over an hour now, but he could do it for thirty more because this is amazing. Steve's abs clench and release under Tony's hands as he bends into the corners. Tony can feel all the raw power that's contained within his body. One cheek presses against the firm heat of Steve's back, and not only can Tony smell Steve's cologne, but it's all he can smell, and it's incredible.

They fly through the country, and Steve shows no sign of turning back. He's really putting the bike through its paces, but even though they're going fast and Tony's heart is beating at twice it's normal rate (for more reasons than one), he never feels like he's at risk. Steve somehow makes it exhilarating without ever feeling dangerous.

Steve pulls over at a small rest stop off I-80. It's just a brick bathroom and a little park and it's the middle of the day on a Wednesday so it's just them there. Tony hops off and stretches out his legs for a moment, wandering across the grass. When he comes back, Steve has his arm stuck up in the bike's backside.

"She okay?" Tony asks.

Steve's arm reappears. "Yup. She's perfect." He beams.

"She is."

Tony could stretch and let his shirt ride up, he could ask to borrow Steve's water bottle and then dump it over his head while doing a slow-motion hair shake, or he could goad Steve into taking them somewhere with water and he could skinny dip. But he doesn't feel the need to. They're playing the game even when they're not, and Steve wins points every time he smiles or laughs or even sighs in frustration. And Tony hopes desperately that it's the other way around too.

He's about to say something, compliment Steve on the bike, or ask where they're headed, or maybe just ruffle his fingers through Steve's hair, when the heavens open up and warm summer rain absolutely buckets down on them.

Tony screeches, and Steve leaps to his feet. The sky had been darkening, but Tony hadn't given it more than a passing thought since the weather report had said it wouldn't hit til later tonight, and for more than the first time, Tony swears he's going to build his own weather satellites. Might as well buy a news network too, while he's at it. And -

"Tony!" Steve's on the bike and giving Tony a look like he's crazy which, well, fair, because Tony's standing out in the rain like an idiot thinking about mergers.

Tony jumps on the back, and Steve tears away, not skidding on the suddenly wet pavement.

By the time they get back to the tower, they're both soaked through to the skin. There isn't an inch of Tony's clothes that aren't plastered to him, and he's freezing from the wind chill. Steve is also drenched, hair hanging in wet locks around his face, but he's not as cold, and Tony baby-koalas to his back, leaching as much heat as he can.  

They pull into the garage, and JARVIS sees the state they're in and powers on the heavy-duty heaters that Tony usually uses for drying paint. Steve drags Tony off the bike and under the heater, and for a moment, they just hang there, shivering, Tony still clutching his helmet in his chilled fingers.

Realization drips over them both slowly, and Tony can taste the palpable shift in the atmosphere. They're both wet, clothes clinging to them like a second skin, they're breathing heavily from the rough ride home, adrenaline surging through their veins. It's the perfect time to throw down, to make a play. How can Steve resist Tony's ass with sopping denim pasted over it?

But Steve's chest heaves with a shaky breath, and Tony can see his nipples, peaked, under the cool, wet fabric, and his eyes are so fucking blue and -

They just stand there.

And then it breaks.

They smash together, the helmet flying into something no doubt expensive and hard to fix, with a loud bang. Steve gathers Tony up in his arms and Tony clutches at Steve's neck and Steve stumbles backwards until he hits the bike then sits down on it and Tony all but climbs in his lap and they're kissing. Holy shit are they ever kissing. Steve kisses like he's drowning, or maybe like he thinks Tony is, desperate and gasping and a little bit terrified.

Every inch of Tony is into this in a vibrating, bone-deep way he never knew was possible. He slides his tongue between Steve's lips and tastes him, then, when Steve moans, Tony uses a hand on either side of his face to tip his head back, guide him into the perfect angle, and he just goes to town.

Their wet clothes are sticking and catching and riding up, and Steve's hands appear to be attempting to learn the exact details of Tony's entire body all at once. The bike is a precarious place to sit, and it's only by virtue of Steve's incredible muscles (which Tony now gets to know extremely intimately thankyouverymuch) that they don't go tumbling backwards onto hard concrete.

Tony vibrates with the sheer wonderful lunacy of it all, and he laughs into the kiss then grinds his hips forward so Steve has to grab him around the waist and haul him in to keep them upright. It's wonderful, and ridiculous, and amazing, and three million times better than Tony had ever imagined (and he's imagined this a fucking lot) and Steve is grinning now, so the kisses are more teeth than is really recommended but it's still perfect.

And then Steve leans back a little, cheeky glint in his eye, and says, "I win."

Tony stares at his kiss-pink lips and his wet hair tumbled into his face and the fact that they're pressed chest to chest, and it seems like maybe this is actually going to be something that he gets to have. Not a game or a joke, but something real. Because Steve is holding him like he'll disappear if he lets go, and he kisses him like he might want to keep kissing him forever, and wavered through his voice is the hint of a question.

So Tony looks him in the eye, strokes the pad of his thumb over Steve's earlobe, wiping away the rainwater, then grins back and says, "Me too."