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Tony Stark might be rich but that didn’t mean he was anything like the haughty well-to-do socialites who occupied the private club his father had himself been a member of for years. Tony might appreciate a $400 bottle of champagne but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rather drink beer out of the bottle. He might feel at home in his custom made Tom Ford spare-no-expense-because-it’s-Tom-Fucking-Ford-suit but that wasn’t to say he didn’t also appreciate lounging in front of his 72-inch flat-screen in a ratty pair of jeans and AC/DC t-shirt drinking said beer and putting his feet on his furniture.

Tony hated making ideal chit-chat, hated conversing with rich stuck-up businessmen and women. The rest of the world had assumed he was the same way; spoilt rich heir who probably never got his hands dirty until he revealed to them that, fuck you bitches, I’m fucking Iron Man.

The businessmen now wanted to talk to him for different reasons and everyone just wanted him to whore himself out for their benefit but whatever, Tony had a team now. A team that took forever to put together and when the last bit of puzzle arrived in the form of Captain Fucking America it felt better than Christmas morning.

Tony had seen pictures of him of course, even had some of the news clippings hung up in his room as a kid. He used to listen his dad talk about him like he was God himself. As Tony grew up he found he didn’t really believe in God but Captain America was an ideology he could get behind. Then one day he started looking at his pictures for an entirely different reason; old Captain America trading cards and ephemera turned out to better jack-off material than any issue of Playboy or Penthouse.

Tony wasn’t exactly prepared to face his adolescent fantasy in the flesh, perfectly chiseled and preserved, a blank slate to have the world imprinted on him.

Then he opened his mouth and Tony realized, fuck, Captain America was a bit of a douche.

Pepper told him to cut the guy some slack, he’s been frozen for nearly 70 years but Tony didn’t really give a shit, cry him a fucking river, everyone had baggage.

And so they went, retorting back and forth, bickering like children or, as Clint would say, like parents.

With everyone else, Cap was a perfect gentleman and somewhere down the line, a couple of months into their partnership, he adjusted around Tony, stopped seeing him as an adversary.

Tony wasn’t used to the shift, especially when not thinking Captain America was a dick made life hard for his own dick. Tony still jerked off to him during all the months of their arguing but the fantasies included ways he could bruise that mouth, shut him up, fuck him until all he could say was Tony’s name in breathless pleas.

Now, though, Steve (fucking ‘Steve’ he said to call him) would look at him through veiled lashes, a soft smile on his lips as he asked Tony to pass the butter please, thank you, and all Tony wanted to do was make those lips swollen from long, unhurried make-outs as he slid his hands up and down Cap’s, no Steve’s chest, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his palms. It was always the most proper of etiquette. ‘Please,’ ‘Thank you,’ ‘If could be so kind to’ etc, etc.

Tony wasn’t used to this kind of behavior. It came to a head the day they were sitting on the couch together watching the baseball game. Tony belched around his beer.

He caught Steve’s eyes on him and turned his head. “Yeah?”

“Excuse you,” Steve said, reprovingly.


“You just burped.”

Tony scratched at his hair. “Okay.. sorry?”

Steve sighed. “It’s polite to say excuse me. Or have manners changed in the 21st century as well?”

Tony slapped him on the forearm. “Other people have them, Cap. I’m not one of them.”

Steve was looking at his arm where Tony’s hand just was, and then met Tony’s eyes. “Can you call me Steve? We’re not in uniform.”

“Oookayyy. Why is that such a big deal?”

Steve’s eyes clouded for a moment, and then cleared like a storm moving through. “No reason, I guess,” he mumbled.

“Let’s watch the game, big guy.”

He watched Steve flush at the nickname and God, he wanted to see how low that flush went.

“Bases loaded. Let’s see if they can round home.” Steve mused.

Tony groaned. “It’s been forever since I rounded home.”

Steve looked at him, quizzically. “Excuse me?”

Tony groaned again at the politeness and then realized he was a moron – those metaphors didn’t occur until after WWII and Steve never got to officially experience that.

“It means I haven’t gotten laid in a while.”

Steve blushed to the tips of his ears. “Oh.”

Tony grinned at him, evilly. “Come on, Steve, I’m not shocking you, am I? You were an army man after all. Those boys are filthy.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “No, you’re not shocking me, Tony. I just never joined those conversations.”

Tony turned to him, tucking a leg beneath his body. “Oh. Well, stick with me and you’ll show you the ropes.” He didn’t intend his voice to sound the way it did, like an invitation.

Steve was off the couch in the next instant. “Look, I’m sorry, Tony, I uh. I just remembered I needed to speak to Thor about something. Thanks for the game.”

Tony stared after him. “JARVIS; on a scale of one to ten just how badly did I fuck that up?”

“I would assess at least an 8, sir.”

“So there’s hope then.”


Steve watched him the next morning at breakfast, all bed-head and perfect lips and Tony wanted to be that goddamn orange juice, he really did.

It was just the two of them, early risers today. “So, wanna catch the afternoon game today? I promise, no double entendres. Scout’s honor.”

“You were a scout, Tony?”

Tony sighed. “No, it’s just. Nevermind. So what do you say?”

“Sounds good.”

“Good,” Tony said, and went back to eating his eggs. When he looked back up, Steve was watching him.


Steve licked his lips and Tony was going to have to jerk off very soon, that’s all there was to it. “I was just thinking we could go out tonight.”

Tony blinked. “Yeah, sure. Where to?”

“I was thinking dinner and a show. I used to love going to musicals.”

Tony wasn’t really one for theater but he was one for Steve so he’d make an exception. “Okay, I’ll make all of the plans.”

Steve put down his fork. “No, I want. I can have JARVIS help me. I want to do this.”

Tony frowned. “But I can just,” he waved his hand and Steve glared at him.

“Let me. Please.”

Tony wanted to hear him say those words in a different context. Preferably while his hands were on Tony’s waistband and he was on his knees, mouth shiny and wet from their kissing as his hands fumbled to get Tony’s cock out.

Okay, that jerk-off session was imminent now.

“Sure, Steve. Whatever you want.”

Steve beamed at him. Tony was in so much trouble.


Tony was definitely in trouble. Trouble spelt S-T-E-V-E. That night Steve insisted on holding Tony’s door to the limo for him, even though Tony explained it was the driver’s job. He then held Tony’s chair at dinner and actually pushed it in. He also insisted on paying for dinner, despite the fact that Tony ordered them the most expensive wine on the menu. JARVIS knew what Tony liked and had lead Steve to his favorite restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.

“I have a charge card Agent Coulson gave me,” Steve explained.

“People usually say credit card now.”

“Oh,” Steve blushed. Tony really would never get enough of that. Dinner was nice, even though Steve was lost through much of Tony’s conversation. So he decided to shift tactics to things Steve did know – like old Hollywood starlets from the film’s his mom showed him as a kid. That got Steve out of his shell. Then they switched to sports teams, legends of the game Tony had only watched footage of or read about when Steve actually lived during their time. It was rather surreal; good thing Tony liked surreal.

Still, Steve was trouble because he was too damn polite for his own good and he clearly had no clue that Tony was mentally considering him in various stages of undress.

They saw Chicago and Steve was bright-eyed by the lights and set pieces. “It’s so much flashier than back in the day.”

“Yeah, we’re all flash these days,” Tony said, and found he was smiling fondly at Steve’s rapt expression.

Afterward, Steve actually walked Tony to his bedroom door and Tony’s mind went to all the dirty places he kept telling it not to.

Steve shifted from one leg to the next, and then met Tony’s eyes. “I had a great time.”

Tony leaned back against his door, wanting to get out of his suit as fast as possible and into some nice silk pajamas. “Same here. Thanks for this.”

Steve eyes brightened with amusement. “You’re saying thank you.”

Tony shrugged, trying not to look at the way a tailor made black suit hugged Steve in all the right places. “It’s been known to happen.”

Steve smiled again and then extended his hand. Tony looked at it oddly and then shook it. Steve brought the hand to his mouth, however, lips gently brushing his knuckles and that made all the blood leave Tony’s brain because wait, hold up there, huh?

“Um,” Tony said, succinctly.

Steve peered up at him through sinfully long lashes, lips still on Tony’s skin. He cleared his throat, dropped his hand, and took a step backward.

“I’d love to do this again.”

“Um,” Tony said again.

“Have I shocked you?” Steve said, grinning with mock innocence.

“It’s very possible. I’d have to ask JARVIS to confirm.”

Steve smiled at him again, face softening. “I’d like us to keep company.”

Tony’s eyebrows knitted together. “A company of what?”

Steve looked at him as though Tony were the one who knew nothing of how the world worked. “I’m trying to court you, you big fool.”

Tony’s head thudded back against the door in an attempt to dislodge this dream. Nope, definitely awake. “Oh. Well in that case; how many dates does that mean before we can have sex?”

Steve looked at him with a mixture of shock, embarrassment and desire. Tony liked that last part best. “Definitely a few. Also, you’re impossible.”

Tony waved him off, and then trailed one fingertip along the edge of Steve’s jacket. “What’s a few? 3? 4? Please don’t say double digits.”

Steve sucked in a deep, exasperated breath, and Tony watched him tremble slightly. It made his cock twitch. “I’m going to my room now, Tony.”

He was halfway down the hall when Tony called out loudly, “What about kissing?”

“Goodnight, Tony!” Steve yelled back, speaking in the same tone one would take with an unruly child. That was fair.

Tony banged his forehead on his bedroom door and prepared for another colorful jerk-off session. This time, though, he actually had the promise of making his fantasies a reality. Eventually.

Whatever, he could wait. He’d been waiting for Captain America since he was 15, he realized. A few more weeks (please only be weeks) wouldn’t kill him.



In the end, it took 3 dates for Steve to kiss him, 6 for them to make-out, 8 for both second and third base, and by date 11 (goddamn double digits) he was rounding home.

Tony did so love baseball.