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Tony shivered. He looked at the bike, gleaming, polished, perfectly maintenanced, no imperfections. It was sixty years old, there had to be something wrong with it, but there wasn’t. It was perfect, just like it’s owner. Tony wanted to mess it up a little, and what did that say about him?
S.H.I.E.L.D. issued Steve bikes at the same rate Tony went through suits, but this was the only bike Steve refused to take into the field.
Steve smirked. “You wanna take it out for a bit?”
“Really?” Tony bounced on the balls of his feet.
“I’m driving though.” Steve grabbed the keys out of the metal drawer.
“A given. Total non-issue. You never let anyone ride your bike.” He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and was glad for the darkness of the garage.
“If you’ve had too much to drink, you tell me now. I need you to hold on. I’m not coming back to get you if you fall off.”
Tony smiled wickedly. Holding on to Steve Rogers was not going to be an issue, it was the letting go, that was the difficult part. “You’d come back.”
“You sound so sure of that.”
Tony was sweating, his face buried in Steve’s nape, as he held on for dear life. Steve was doing ninety in a fifty-five. “Oh god, what is wrong with you?”
“Too much?” Steve laughed, wild and ridiculous, and kicked it up to a hundred.
“How the hell do you get away with this? They pull me over if I’m doing five over the limit,” Tony grumbled, pretending he wasn’t enjoying the scent of Steve’s leather jacket more than he probably should. He buried his face in Steve’s back. The speed spiked his adrenaline. It felt like being in the suit.
“I’ve got money to pay the tickets, and they’re not gonna take my license away. Captain America rides his motorcycle into battle. It’s a thing.”
“Devious. I like that.” Tony’s body felt warm, pliant. The steady vibration of the bike purring between his legs was pleasant. Steve’s body, steady and hard against his torso, was becoming a little problem. Tony shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust his junk. More than a little problem. “We should pull over, get some food or something,” he suggested weakly.
Steve was silent for a moment, darting around corners until they reached the warehouse district. Tony felt flushed, hot. He pulled up several unattractive mental images, but his mind kept wandering back to Steve - Steve’s body shifting against him, and the pulsing, pleasant vibration of the bike. Fuck.
Steve pulled into a dark lot and parked behind a tall, crumbling concrete wall. They were on a hill overlooking the New York Skyline. Tony took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
“Tony, do you have an erection?”
Tony flushed. “Vibrations, ah, sorry. Vibrations from the bike. Uh... - “ Awkward.
“Right.” Did Steve sound amused? “You want some help with that?”
Tony’s mind went blank. “What?”
Steve’s hips shifted a fraction, and Tony sucked in a harsh breath. “Wow, I’ve maybe had more to drink tonight than I realized. I think I’m hallucinating. You know my dick is not a little old person -” Oh, god, what was he saying. “ - that you can, like, walk across the street or whatever.” He finished lamely.
“Ever have sex on a motorcycle?”
“Train, boat, cars, copious amount of cars actually, always wanted to try horseback, you know like in the novels? But I realized that was kind of ridiculous once I hit thirty. Actually this is equally ridiculous, hot, but ridiculous. What is wrong with you? Of course I want to have sex on a motorcycle. Is this a trick, like punked or some shit? Is Clint going to pop out of a tree with a camera because he knows I’ve been checking out your ass for months? I mean, I think you’re above that, really, but I also didn’t see you as the ‘public sex on the back of my motorcycle’ type -
“Tony.”
“ - what?”
“You’re babbling.” Steve slid off the bike. “So that’s a yes?”
“Yes. That’s -” He choked on his words as Steve slipped behind him, straddling Tony’s ass, and hell yes, he was no longer the only member of team erection. Score. Tony arched into him. And fuck if Steve wasn’t ridiculously hung. The suit was fairly indicative, but there was a huge difference between looking, and actually having that pressed up against your ass.
Steve leaned into him, breath hot against his ear. “Can I fuck you?”
“Ambitious.” Tony swallowed. “Not without lube. No.”
“Vaseline?” Steve was digging into one of the bags draped over the side of the bike.
Tony gawked.
“Good for windburn. Reasonable precaution for a motorcyclist.” He was smiling, the smug bastard.
“Not the best lubrication, but it’ll do until we can get something better.”
Tony felt weirdly shy. “I know this is odd coming from me, but we’re doing this again right? Because you’re not just some member of the press, or a groupie, and this is probably going to complicate shit.”
“If you want to.” Steve’s hands were everywhere, sliding under his shirt, fingers warm against his skin. He let Steve toss his Jimi Hendrix shirt across the lot.
Tony staggered off the bike, and Steve followed, reluctantly. For a moment they were both trying to shimmy out of their pants. Tony tripped and cursed, finally kicking his jeans free. Steve was already naked. Right. Captain America. Tight pants expert.
Tony straddled the seat again, rubbing his dick against the slick leather. Steve watched him, eyes dark. Tony leaned forward, spreading his legs against the warm metal. He startled as a large, warm hand cupped his ass.
“No foreplay? Well aren't you a traditionalist?”
“Next time.”
The vaseline was smooth and slick between Steve’s fingers. He rolled it until it heated to a soft pliancy, sliding one finger down Tony’s crack and slipping it inside. Tony hissed, forcibly relaxing into the stretch. When he was ready, Steve added a second finger.
“You’re fucking killing me Rogers.”
“Not yet, I’m not,” Steve muttered, curling his fingers, searching. His fingers found Tony’s prostate. Tony gasped, and arched up off the seat.
“You’ve done this before?” he panted.
“Genius, huh?” Steve slid a third finger in, tight against the other two. Tony was warm around his fingers, he could feel him loosening against the spread and twisted.
Steve straddled Tony’s ass, rigid against his back.
“Hold on.” Steve slid the head of his cock against Tony’s crack, teasing.
“Fuck you.” Tony muttered.
Steve chuckled, dark and rich, and shoved into Tony with a slow, dragging thrust. Tony gasped, praying there were no cops in the local area, because if someone interrupted this, he refused to be held accountable for his actions. His violent, sadistic actions.
Steve was thick and wide, filling him, splitting him. He began to move. Slowly. Tony decided he didn’t give a fuck if this ended up on the front cover of Star in the morning. Best spread ever.
His calves burned, he could feel a trickle of sweat sliding between his shoulderblades. Steve plowed into him. He focused on the sweaty sweep of Steve’s hair against the nape of his neck, trying to hold on. Tony dipped his head into the curve of his arms, forcing himself to take deeper breaths, fingers curving around the slender metal bar at the front of Steve’s Harley-Davidson WLA, his feet pushing against the the footpegs for leverage as he impaled himself on Steve’s cock. His thighs burned with every slow inexorable roll of Steve’s hips. Steve’s fingers splayed around his waist.
Steve was on his toes, letting Tony support a portion of his weight, fingers wrapped around the handle bar as he thrust quick and rough into Tony’s welcoming heat.
Tony’s entire body jerked as Steve bit down on the soft flesh at the base of his neck, all sharp teeth, and just a hint of tongue.
Steve pulled away long enough to rasp, “I love the way you taste.”
Tony couldn’t stop, he jerked hard and came on the seat, panting into his folded arms. Steve stiffened behind him. Tony could feel the wet burst sliding around Steve’s cock as he trembled against Tony’s back, burying his face in Tony’s sweaty hair. Tony felt hot, fevered. Steve was draped over him, pinning him in place. They stayed that way for awhile, until Tony’s heart rate slowed and Steve peeled away, reluctantly dragging his clothing on.
“Your bike is a mess.”
“It’ll come out.”
“I don’t think so.” Tony would never look at Steve or his bike the same. He was going to have to resist the urge to jerk off every time he set foot in the garage for the next month. Maybe the rest of his life. He peeled himself off the seat and went to collect his clothing.