Chapter Text
KITT had never liked motorcycles — in fact, his attitude toward them could be summed up in three words: contempt, scorn, and a weird interspecies jealousy that Tony couldn't help but find quietly hilarious. So naturally he kept dropping little hints that gee, now that KITT had a humanoid body to play with maybe he should give motorcycles a second ("Two thousandth and thirty-fourth, thank you," KITT had retorted tartly, which Tony had naturally ignored) chance…
And naturally, being Tony Stark, he eventually got what he wanted. Which translated into a misty spring morning out at Penner Motocross Track in New Jersey, which had been booked for a solid hour of two-rider practice before it would be opened up to the public to let KITT get a taste of the fun and the thrill of racing against a full pack… and to Tony waiting impatiently in the hallway outside the clubhouse's changing stalls, clad in worn (but undeniably stylish) blue jeans and well-polished boots and a heavy leather jacket guaranteed to keep his skin intact even if he came off his bike at a hundred and thirty miles per hour. He was pacing because KITT — in the body of Kitt Silver, of course — was taking his own sweet-ass time, and because he honestly didn't know what he was about to see: Kitt had come out to the track primly dressed in business casual, including a slim-line black camelhair coat, and had slipped into his own private change room without letting Tony get so much as a sniff at what was in the suitcase he'd taken along with him.
Tony paused to glance at his rugged (but also elegantly expensive) sports watch, and scowled: 7:54:13 A.M., and their time on the track started at 8:00:00 precisely. "You coming, sweetheart?" he sing-songed. "We've got five minutes and change to get our asses out onto the track."
"I'm well aware," Kitt called back, with a smile in his voice — and a quality of smugness that made Tony's pulse rate jump a little, because in the past it had never boded anything but good. "You're perfectly free to head out ahead of me, you know."
Tony shook his head once, even though he knew it couldn't be seen. "You're kidding, right? I'm pretty sure if I left you to your own devices, you'd slip out the back and be off to New York faster than a jackrabbit on a date."
Which made Kitt laugh outright. "Tony… I don't hate motorcycles that much."
"Could've fooled me," Tony muttered, knowing that the android could hear that observation too, and went back to pacing, tapping his folded leather gloves against the palm of his left hand as an outlet for some of his restless energy.
He wasn't nervous, precisely: if Kitt crashed his bike in a spectacular fashion the Silver android wouldn't suffer anywhere near enough damage to endanger the AI riding it, and in any case anything broken could be repaired, with no lasting bruises (except to KITT's pride, perhaps). He also had perfect confidence in his own ability to handle three hundred and twenty-eight pounds of precariously balanced high-speed machinery on an uneven and slippery track. No, what was getting to him was that suitcase, which he'd been forbidden to even touch: what the Hell had Kitt sneaked out here, anyway? Something ridiculous enough to make Tony think twice about taking him out on the track, maybe? Well, if so, the joke was on him: Tony wasn't about to let something like sweatpants and a ripped T-shirt, or a tuxedo, or even a ballet tutu and slippers dissuade him from his goal today, because when Tony Stark made a plan —
The change room door at the end of the hall opened, and Tony turned, ready for absolutely anything —
— except the overall effect of what he was seeing as Kitt Silver stepped into view and sauntered toward him… no, slunk toward him like a panther, all smoothly oiled grace and a sleek feline smile and dear God, riding leathers, from a crisply new black jacket that did outrageous things to his slender figure all the way down to boots that gleamed even more fiercely than Tony's.
And what lay in between the jacket and the boots… Kitt looked as cool and elegant as always, but he also looked like a fantasy straight out of a fetish-wear catalogue — and black had always been his colour, no question about that, especially this type of blackness that always made Tony want to lick it up like midnight's own milk.
To Hell with good — this was double-plus good, double double-plus good, this was so excellent that for a couple of seconds it felt like all the blood had momentarily deserted Tony's brain in a headlong rush to his genitals. He knew his mouth had fallen open and that he was staring without blinking, but it took another couple of seconds for some blood to be redirected northward enough to generate a few choked and choice words:
"What the hell… did you spray paint those pants on?"
Kitt glided to a halt within easy reach of Tony's suddenly itching fingers and glanced down, one corner of his narrow-lipped mouth quirking in amusement as he surveyed the skin-tight, soft, supple leather that cloaked him in ebony as if he'd dipped himself in ink. "They don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" he conceded.
"Believe me," Tony said fervently, "I'm not complaining. Far, far from it! It's just…" He couldn't seem to stop staring, and for one crazy second he considered banging his head against the nearest wall until his ability to speak without babbling was restored. "This isn't about learning to ride any more, is it?"
"Perhaps not entirely," Kitt allowed, and stepped right the fuck up into Tony's space, close enough that he could feel artificial body heat radiating out of the open collar of Kitt's jacket, close enough to smell the musk that Tony had built into the mechanism, overlaid with the dusky scent of new leather. Whole new sections of Tony's cerebral cortex promptly short-circuited: he continued to stare, momentarily speechless, aware of a silly little grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as Kitt leaned forward to breathe against his cheek: "However, you did promise to do your level best to convince me of the virtues of two-wheeled locomotion — and far be it from me to interfere with your carefully thought-out plans."
"Uh," Tony said, and swallowed hard as Kitt's right forefinger touched the base of his cock — which was starting to feel positively constricted inside his jeans — and trailed slowly along its length. Virtue be damned, apparently. "Um, well, y'know, 'the best laid plans' and all that…"
"Oh no," Kitt purred, now into his ear, and damned if the little bastard wasn't laughing at him, "I wouldn't dream of missing this golden opportunity to learn from the great Tony Stark…" His fingertip circled the swollen head of Tony's dick, before being joined by the subtle caress of a couple more. "Unless, of course, the great Tony Stark is concerned he won't be able to drive straight…?"
"Yeah, right!" Tony snorted — and grabbed that amazing ink-dipped ass with both hands, and pulled, effectively erasing the narrow space between them. Kitt made no objection: in fact, he wrapped his thinly gloved left hand around the back of Tony's head and positively growled, a growl that was somewhat muffled by Tony's eager mouth. For a few seconds no sound emerged from either of them except deepened breathing and a couple of happy little moans, until Tony pulled away just enough to mutter between kisses: "Y'know — I can think of about two hundred and eighty-seven pounds of hardware — I'd much rather have throbbing between my thighs — than an NCR Leggera 1200 Titanium Special…
Kitt, who was indeed a royal bastard, gave him one final little peck on the lips and stepped away, breaking the hungry hold of Tony's hands with effortless android strength. He hadn't stiffened inside those outrageous leather pants, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested, as Tony well knew: only that he was intent, for the moment, on attending to business. "The track," he prompted with a trace of a teasing smile, turning away toward the doors leading into the clubhouse proper, and oh fuck that ass, "and later… we'll see."
Tony followed like a hawk fixated on a particularly juicy lure. "Damned right we'll see," he vowed, and perhaps he could be forgiven if his own smile was a combination of lusty, affectionate, and downright predatory.