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Steve loves mornings, when the golden sunlight fills their room in big bursts, tangling through their blankets and limbs until they look like fire.  He always feels an itching need to find his pencil and sketchpad on mornings like these, when Tony is still asleep, so soft Steve is torn between kissing him awake and just staring at him, thumb swiping over graphite.

 

He sits, blankets pooling around him, legs crossed beneath him, pressing lightly against Tony’s side, and sketches him—the blankets settled in the small of his back, pronounced in a dip that slopes upward, smooth muscles creating a contour that Steve loves to trace, either with finger or pencil, shoulders widening out and rounding over; he always sleeps on his front, and Steve knows it’s a protective reflex for the arc reactor, but he loves the way it allows his arms to stretch up, coming together under his pillow, the way it exposes the long plane of his neck, his hair soft and messy in sleep.  This morning, Tony’s face is turned toward him, his blue eyes closed and his mouth open a little, breathing easily.

 

Steve draws him first, in case he wakes—he needs to take the opportunities when they arise because he rarely can get him to sit still—and then fills in just the barest details around him—the sweep of the blankets, the edges of the pillow, just enough that Tony is the focus entirely, his sleeping genius.

 

Tony’s still sleeping when he finishes, and so he sets his sketchpad on his nightstand and slides back down, lying on his side and facing Tony.  He lies there until he starts to drift off, and he doesn’t mean to fall asleep again, but Tony is so warm and quiet beside him that he finds himself stirring an hour later, Tony nuzzling at him, head tucked under his chin.  “Good morning, love,” Steve murmurs sleepily as Tony hums and burrows, kissing his bare chest.

 

“Warm,” Tony says in response, and Steve just laughs and wraps his arms around him, drawing him close.

 

“Use your big boy words,” Steve reprimands.

 

“No,” he mumbles, “Tired.”

 

“I’ll make you eggs,” he tries to compromise.

 

Boo.”

 

“You’re such a child,” Steve says, though he’s smiling when he kisses his mess of hair and extracts himself from Tony.  “Hash browns, too, then.”

 

“Mushrooms.”  Tony rolls over and gives him his best smile, tilting his chin up, so Steve leans down, kissing him before he pads out of their room, grabbing a pair of pants on the way.  He goes down the hall, takes the stairs at a jog, and passes through the living room until he reaches the kitchen.  He knows food will pull Tony out of bed, so he sets up for a big breakfast, reaching for his antenna radio.  Though he knows Tony will never admit to it, he and Jarvis started searching for antiques—Steve hates that things from his time are considered antique now—and now they’re spread throughout the house in Malibu.

 

He switches the radio on to one of his presets, something old and jazzy, and he dances through breakfast, singing along when he knows the words.  He makes banana pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages, hash browns, and mushrooms, tapping out rhythms on the counter with the wooden spatulas and doing a spin when he hears Tony, who laughs loudly when he sees him.

 

“You’re such a loser,” Tony says fondly, moving around him to get things to set the table.

 

“Hey Jay,” Steve says, and Tony quirks an eyebrow at him as he brandishes a spatula, “Drop my needle.”

 

Lame!” Tony exclaims, but then Jarvis is switching to AC/DC, and Tony can’t help but dance his way to the island.

 

Eventually, breakfast is ready, and they sit together, chatting lightly about nothing until Tony taps the space next to him and says, “What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”

 

“23 new emails under the Stark Industries label, sir, 85 in your spam, 12 under Director Fury’s label, and 37 unlabeled in your inbox.”

 

“When was the last time you checked it?” Steve asks, shocked.

 

“Two days ago maybe?  Jay?” Tony grumbles.

 

“Four days, to be precise, sir.  Shall I organize and redirect?”

 

“You’re the best, honey.  Anything else?”

 

“2 voicemails, sir, one from Miss Potts and another from Director Fury.  Shall I delete the director’s?”

 

“Always.  If he needs me, he can call you,” Tony adds at Steve’s sigh, “We are no longer on speaking terms for the rest of his hopefully very short life.”

 

“Tony.”

 

“Stephen.  Got any plans today?”

 

“Penalty,” is all Steve says, but Tony throws up his hands and flops dramatically on the island.

 

“On what grounds,” he whines, and Steve can’t stop the small smile that lifts his mouth.

 

“You know what grounds.  We’re sparring today.”

 

Tony grumbles something incomprehensible, so Steve cleans up the island and loads the dishwasher.  He likes to hand wash their dinner plates, likes to coax Tony into doing the drying for him, because it reminds him of his parents, laughing together at the sink, his mother snapping her dish towel at his father before he’d take her by the waist and dance her around the kitchen.

 

When the washer’s loaded, Steve sends Tony on his way to go fill one of the hampers upstairs while he tidies up downstairs, and, when Tony’s finally lugged the hamper down to the laundry room—a few months after Steve had moved in, he’d quietly asked Tony if they could keep up the house themselves; cleaning has always made him feel a little more in control, especially in this new world—they change and go downstairs to the gym.

 

When they’d first started sparring together—when Tony first tried to punch Steve and ended up on the floor—he’d laughed so hard he had to sit down the first time he saw Steve walk out with a fitted white shirt on over pants gifted to him by Reed Richards that would best accommodate his enhanced body, but now, he understands.  He feels lightweight and vulnerable like this, in his matching, tight pants and black shirt, his hands wrapped in tape.  It reminds him to protect as much as he can, and it makes him wary, something he’d never really known until Steve stepped into his life.

 

Now, they fall into stance opposite one another, one of Tony’s hands held up in a flat palm, the other drawn down a little in a loose fist.  Steve mirrors him, his own hands wrapped, as well, and neither of them moves until the only sound between them is their shared breath, and then Tony lunges forward.

 

He’s always the first to move, and he always regrets it.  Steve knocks his oncoming blow away and snatches for his wrist, but Tony deflects and bounces back, landing a swift kick to Steve’s shin that he responds with a slap to the retreating leg, and Tony winces, stepping back, knees bending a little.  It’s a dance between them, the gym echoing with Tony’s grunts and Steve’s quiet blows until Tony finally goes down, flipping through the air and landing on his back.  “Dead,” Steve says, tapping his cheek before he straightens and holds out a hand, “Go again?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony says, shaking himself off and starting to fall into stance when Steve turns away to put distance between them.  Tony takes the opportunity, leaping forward and landing on Steve’s back, who staggers forward, and then Tony octopuses, legs winding around his middle and locking at his ankles, arms hooking under Steve’s arms.

 

“Tony!” Steve shouts a heartbeat before Tony starts tickling, and they’re on the floor in seconds, rolling around until Tony pins Steve, knees on his forearms, and grins triumphantly.

 

“I win,” he says before leaning down and kissing him quickly.  He jumps back to his feet and heads off, lifting a hand in a wave.  “I’ll be in the lab, pumpkin,” he sings, and Steve just rolls his eyes.

 

He stays in the gym while Tony goes over to the lab, spending a few hours alternating between lifting weights and running.  When he breaks for the day, he wanders off to the lab, slowly rotating his shoulders back toward each other, frowning.  His back has been hurting the past couple days, but it’s worse now, and it makes him worry a little.

 

When he finds Tony, he hasn’t showered since the gym, but is instead elbow deep in a car, one foot braced against the bumper, bent over so his shoulder is near his knee.  “Mother—” he hears as he comes over, and his worry fades away into an appreciative smile as he watches the muscles in Tony’s back tighten as he pulls.  He yanks backward as Steve approaches, and he nearly falls, but Steve catches him, hand curling around his elbow.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking toward the car.

 

“Bored,” Tony says, glaring at the warped piece of metal in his hand before tossing it aside, “You smell.”

 

“Okay, grease monkey.  Shower?”

 

YesI want a blowjob.”

 

“Maybe later,” Steve says, rolling his shoulders, frowning.

 

“You okay?” Tony asks, brow furrowing in concern.

 

“Yeah, just a kink I need to work out.”

 

Tony taps his nose, grinning.  “I’ve got the perfect cure,” he says, leaning up on his toes to kiss Steve softly before he heads off, looking over his shoulder when Steve doesn’t follow.

 

They go upstairs, shower quickly, and then Tony’s pointing toward the door and saying, “On the bed,” even as he heads for the medicine cabinet.  Steve does as he’s told, sitting on the side and stretching carefully, but that just makes it worse, and he groans softly, hand coming around to press at his lower back where the pain is start to slide toward.  He gets on the bed, stretching his right leg over to the left while trying to keep his shoulders on the bed, and it works a little, but he’s still aching when he straightens out.

 

Tony appears suddenly, drinking in the sight of Steve naked on their bed, eyes closed and one hand resting, palm down, on his chest.  He sets down his box on the nightstand as he says, “Roll over.”

 

“Tony,” Steve sighs, so Tony pinches him.

 

“I am not that transparent.  While I do expect my blowjob in the near future, and while I may get hard during this process, that is no indication that I’m looking for sex right now.”

 

Steve opens one eye to roll at him before he shifts over onto his front, scooting over into the middle of the bed when Tony prods at him.  He brings his arms up, letting his head pillow there, and he looks over as Tony pushes things to the edge of the nightstand so he has ample space to arrange various oils.

 

“Tell me you didn’t spontaneously study massage therapy one weekend,” Steve says, and Tony flashes him a wicked grin.

 

“April of ’09.  It was a slow week,” he pauses to sniff one before nodding and clambering onto the bed, “Pep found me this amazing retreat, six-day thing, and I was meant to be there for relaxation, but I’d already had one painful run-in with what seems to be a long line of villains, so I convinced them to learn me on the myriad ways to ease the physical body.”  He settles his right knee on Steve’s other side and carefully drops down.  Steve looks back at him when he feels the material of his boxer briefs, frowning.  “I’m allowed clothes because it’s easier for me to move, so be quiet,” Tony says, pointing a finger at him before unscrewing the top on the oil.

 

Steve starts to retort, but then Tony’s hands are spreading over his lower back, warm and smooth, and he can’t help the small groan that slips out of him as he drops his head back down.

 

Tony slowly works out the knots in Steve’s back, commenting on just how many there are, and Steve tries to respond, but Tony keeps hitting all these spots he hadn’t known he had, and really he’s just a noisy mess.  When Tony shifts, thighs tensing, hands pressed at a strange angle, Steve starts to tell him that stronger men have tried to crack his back and failed, but then Tony’s lifting up a little more and leaning in, and Steve lets out this sharp gasp when a crack echoes through the room.  “How—”

 

“Hush,” Tony snaps, smirking.

 

He goes up his spine, the heels of his palms pressing down with each shift of his thighs, and Steve feels boneless when Tony’s finished, moving back into an easy massage, just letting his hands drift over and soothe out various spots.

 

Eventually, though, he curls over, pressing kisses down Steve’s spine, and then he sits back on his heels and says, “Better?”

 

It takes a moment, but Steve lifts his head and nods, looking back at him.  “That was amazing,” he admits, smiling softly.

 

“We’ll have to make a thing out of it,” Tony says, giving his ass a little slap before he climbs off him and packs away his oils.  He starts to walk away when he’s finished, but Steve reaches out to him, fingers curling around his wrist and tugging him back.  Tony goes, putting the box back on the nightstand, and he grins when Steve pulls him back onto the bed and rolls, giving Tony room to settle.

 

“What—”

 

“Hush,” Steve echoes him, so Tony sticks his tongue out, which only invites Steve in.

 

They kiss lazily until Steve’s fingers are hooking in Tony’s briefs and tugging them down, and then he’s mouthing his way down Tony’s front, pausing to kiss the arc reactor lightly.  “Steve,” Tony groans when he exhales hot air against his hard cock.

 

Steve grins, mouth coming down on Tony’s hip, sucking the skin there between his teeth and bruising him.  He holds his other hip down with a curled hand while his right slides back to brush his knuckles over Tony’s balls, letting out a soft laugh when Tony swears and twists underneath him, whining.  “Stop fucking teasing,” Tony groans, hand coming down to smack lightly at Steve’s head before he winds his fingers in his blonde hair.

 

He lets Tony lead him, guiding him over to his cock, and he takes the head in his mouth, sucking once, hard, and Tony inhales sharply, head slamming back.  “Hell,” he groans, trying to shift up toward Steve, but he just holds him down, and he knows he might be bruising him a little, but he also knows Tony loves the feeling of Steve’s fingers on him, loves bumping into something in the lab and finding it hurts, loves the scattering of black and blue he always finds everywhere, loves having a reminder of Steve always.

 

Steve sucks him in farther, lets his cock nudge at the back of his throat, and Tony moans outright, a shudder running through him.  Steve works him until he can feel his whole body coiling tight, and then he pulls off, bringing his hand up so he can suck on two of his fingers, and Tony starts to swear at him when he looks down, and his mouth goes slack, blue eyes a thin ring around his black pupils.  “Fuck,” is all he manages before Steve’s returning to his dick and sliding his fingers back around to rub at Tony’s entrance.

 

He licks a stripe up his cock, lets the taste sit heavy on his tongue, and then he glances up at Tony, smirks, and takes him in his mouth at the same time he eases a finger inside.  He’s so tight, and Steve works him open until he can slide a second finger in, and then he sets a quick rhythm, fingers fucking into Tony’s ass as he brings him closer and closer to the edge.

 

Tony whines, trying to shift up again, and Steve pushes him harder against the mattress, hollowing his cheeks and sucking until Tony’s fingers are tightening and twisting in his hair, almost this side of painful.  His free leg snaps up suddenly, knee coming up in a bend as his toes curl in the sheets, and Steve releases his other hip as Tony’s back comes off the bed, and it’s so hard for Steve to keep his attention on his dick because he loves Tony likes this.  He loves him when he comes undone, when he loses himself, his whole body moving without inhibition, climbing higher and higher until he shatters apart with a broken cry, twitching down toward Steve as he comes.

 

Steve swallows him down, keeps sucking until Tony groans, and then he eases off slowly, licking him clean before he crawls up his body and kisses him breathless.  When they part, Tony sags against the bed, already heavy with sleep.  “I can totally stay awake if you want me to,” he mumbles, offering Steve a crooked smile.

 

Steve just kisses him and says, “I’d rather nap.”

 

Tony nods, kicking at the blankets until Steve laughs and draws them up over them, pulling Tony close to him as Tony flips onto his side.  He buries his face in the nape of his neck, the soft curls there brushing against his temple, and he smiles, breathing in Tony’s scent as they drift off.

 

——

 

When Tony wakes up, Steve is gone, and he stretches lazily, smiling when he finds his side still warm.  The sun is starting to get low in the sky, and so he lifts his voice and asks, “Wanna go for a walk on the beach?” because he can hear Steve’s footsteps down the hall.

 

Steve comes inside, smiling.  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

“Help me out of bed,” Tony says, lifting both arms up straight.  Steve laughs and pulls him upright, giving him a soft kiss before going over to dress.  He tosses clothes Tony’s way, who puts on each article as it’s given to him, and then they’re heading downstairs and outside, Tony chatting with Jarvis until Steve is in stitches laughing, and he kisses him quiet.  Tony breaks away grinning widely before he pushes open the front door and heads outside.

 

They walk along the beach until the sun starts to set, holding hands, which Tony never thought he’d be a huge fan of, but he loves how much bigger Steve’s hands are, how his thumb absentmindedly rubs circles over the back of Tony’s hand, soft and easy and so calming that Tony can’t help but smile until he’s stepping in closer to Steve and leaning against him.  Steve laughs, dropping a kiss on his mess of hair before he starts to lead them back toward the house.

 

I think,” Tony begins, bumping into Steve, “that we should have fish tonight.  Salmon, precisely.”

 

“Oh yeah?  You think so?” Steve says, and Tony glares up at him before taking his hand back and stomping off, head tipped upward.  Steve just laughs at him, calls him a queen, and follows after him.

 

Inside, Tony’s already rummaging around in the kitchen, tossing things onto the counter as he goes, and Steve takes the salmon out onto the patio where the grill is, setting up.  Tony makes them a big salad before he starts peeling potatoes, hips swinging back and forth to whatever Steve’s playing through the radio.  Steve can’t help but watch him, smiling at how domestic he’s become.  A few years ago, he would have never imagined he would have Tony Stark peeling potatoes in their shared kitchen for dinner at a normal time.  They’ve come a long way since they first met, and it catches him sometimes, just how different they are from the bickering, spiteful men they were when they teamed up against the Chitauri.  Now, Steve doesn’t know what he would do without Tony in his life.

 

“Hey,” Steve says as the salmon’s almost done, poking his head into the kitchen, “Outside?”

 

“Sure!” Tony calls over the music, humming to himself as he opens one of the cabinets to get plates.

 

They set up outside, Steve putting their dinnerware down while Tony brings out the mashed potatoes, asparagus, and mushrooms, and Steve divvies out the salmon.  “You know,” Tony says as they’re sitting, pointing a fork threateningly at Steve, “This is your fault.”

 

“What is it this time?” Steve asks, smiling, and Tony wiggles the fork at him before stabbing a mushroom.

 

“You’ve turned me into a housewife,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes, “I’m eating green stuff, and fish.”

 

“What’s your issue with fish?” Steve laughs.

 

“It’s—healthy,” Tony makes a face even as he chews on his mushroom.

 

“You’re ridiculous.”  Steve reaches for his glass, and then, “Tony.”

 

“Damn it, stay there,” Tony says, pushing his chair back and going inside.  Steve smiles as he bangs around before, “Water or wine?”

 

“Wine.”  Tony returns with a bottle of Chardonnay, wiggling his eyebrows.  “You’re such a goob,” Steve comments, sitting back and watching him dance over to the table.

 

“Yeah, but I’m your goob,” Tony says even as he uncorks the wine and pours.  It had been hard in the beginning, after New York.  They’d started dating unofficially about a month afterward, and Steve had nearly lost Tony twice to alcohol until they’d finally decided to leave for Malibu seven months after they’d gotten together, and that’s when Steve likes to think things became real between them.  And then, it had seemed like a downward struggle, never getting better until one day, Tony had sat down for dinner and said, “It’s been one year.”  One year since he’d gotten drunk—because he couldn’t fathom being sober—and since then, he’s been the man Steve always knew was right under the surface, just waiting to be let out.  They don’t drink often, mostly because it does nothing for Steve and too much for Tony, but it’s nice sometimes, and he loves how loose a few glasses makes Tony, just enough that he’s a little sleepy but mostly horny and easily amused.  And so, they spend much of their dinner laughing and telling stories.

 

It’s still early when Steve corrals Tony in the kitchen, keeping him close so that he’ll wash up with him.  They do the dishes—which really means Tony keeps sneaking and flicking soap at Steve until Steve snatches his towel and slaps his ass—and then Tony’s getting handsy, so Steve sends him away to go tinker in the lab.

 

When he finds him a while later, Tony is sitting on the front bumper, legs spread on either side, knees bent and feet pressed against the outer edges of the car as he leans in and fights with the inner workings under the hood.  Steve can’t help the small laugh when he sees him—he always contorts himself in the most interesting positions when he’s working on his cars, never just going about it the easy way because that would be boring.

 

Steve sets up shop nearby, dropping onto one of the four futons spaced periodically throughout the lab, and he flips open his sketchpad, letting it sit on his lap, open and blank while he stares at Tony, drinking him in.  He’s in his sparring pants because it prevents his clothes from getting caught anywhere, so Steve can see the outline of his thighs where they’re pulled tight, holding him in place.  He’s shirtless, as well, and his tan skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat under the bright light, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting as he works.  There’s a thick stripe of grease across his back where he must have been itchy, and Steve smiles, shifting until he’s comfortable before he starts sketching.

 

He fills in the world around Tony first—shades of the lab, of Jarvis illuminating Tony’s beautiful world, soft outlines of the cars around him, every different make and model that Steve can imagine—until finally he reaches Tony and his car, an old black Impala that Steve still can’t understand why he bought, and Tony doesn’t seem to have a reason.  He sketches the car first, shading it in until he starts the outline of one of Tony’s bare feet on accident, and then he can’t help but draw him, graphite stroking over the paper until Tony’s coming to life in a way Steve loves more than anything.  He adores sketching Tony, not only because it’s a brief second of the flittering genius falling still, but also because he always finds something new about Tony that he hadn’t seen before, and it makes him love him even more.

 

“Tony,” he says suddenly, pausing at one of his shoulders.

 

“Mm?” Tony hums, not looking up.

 

He waits until Tony realizes he’s not going to continue until Steve has his attention, and then he carefully peeks over his shoulder, quirking one eyebrow.  “Just wanted to see you,” Steve says, and Tony smiles, kissing the air before he turns back.

 

Steve smiles, as well, going back to his drawing.  When he finally finishes the last shade of Tony’s hair, he stares at it for a bit before lifting his gaze to the real thing, and he has this urge suddenly to be there, to taste him.

 

Steve drops the sketchpad onto the futon beside him and gets up, padding quietly over to Tony.  He’s dirtier up close, little smears of grease here and there that make Steve smile.  He never realizes just how messy he is from the lab until he comes up for air, and then he’s looking around at himself in confusion.  Steve traces one of the smears, grinning when his touch raises goose bumps, and then he leans down, kissing the curve where neck meets shoulder lightly.  Tony hums at the attention, and Steve closes his eyes when his shoulder tightens as he starts yanking on something.  “Tony,” he lets out on a sharp breath before he kisses him again, right at the nape of his neck, teeth scraping over a little, and Tony swears, one of his tools clattering against something.  He goes still, head dropping forward a little, letting Steve kiss around his shoulders and back, hands coming up to rub at his arms before they drift forward, one coming up to close over the arc reactor like he’s protecting it, thumb tracing the outline.  The other slides down, curls around Tony’s crotch and squeezes a little.  He’s spread so wide at this angle, the muscles of his thighs on either side so tight it makes Steve ache with wanting.  Tony groans softly as Steve rubs him, kissing back up to his neck and biting.  “Fuck, Steve,” he gasps, head falling forward farther.

 

Steve sucks a wicked bruise on his neck, stepping closer until he’s pressed against Tony, chest to back, and, when he releases his skin, he’s breathing hard enough to make Tony shiver.  “I need to be inside of you,” he murmurs, and Tony stops breathing a second before he pushes backward with one shoulder.

 

Steve goes, letting Tony clamber off the car, catches him when he nearly falls, and then he’s grabbing at him, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so he can bruise his mouth, pushing them back toward the car and slotting them together, kissing him with everything he’s got.  Tony pushes back, fingers digging into Steve’s biceps until Steve’s groaning, hands sliding down to Tony’s thighs, but Tony breaks apart and pushes at his chest before he can.

 

“I will not be carried, Rogers,” he says, shoving a finger against his chest before sliding out from underneath him and going over to the futon.  Steve watches him go, watches him wiggle on purpose, and Tony’s barely moved the sketchpad and put the back of the futon down before Steve’s on him again, hands grabbing at him and pulling him close.  He mouths at the side of his neck, rocking lightly against his clothed ass, his hand coming down to pull at the waistband of his pants so he can get inside, and Tony groans, head tipping backward to land against Steve’s shoulder as he cups his cock.

 

“Steve,” he whines, hands coming up to push at his pants until Steve steps back and lets him strip down.  He follows even as Tony holds up a finger and jogs over to where his computers are, rifling around until he finds lube and hurries back over.  They tumble onto the futon, Steve hooking Tony’s left leg up over his shoulder before he slicks his fingers and pushes two inside.  Tony shouts, back curving a little as Steve stretches him, mouthing up his chest until he bites at Tony’s jaw and then kisses over to his lips, tasting him and swallowing him down.

 

He’s aching to be inside of him, to fill him up and tear him down, and he doesn’t mean to stretch him quickly, but Tony’s letting out these breathy moans, shifting against his fingers, and he needs to be there now.  “Steve,” he says sharply as Steve pulls his fingers out and slicks his dick, shifting Tony closer to him before he presses the head of his cock at Tony’s entrance.  “Steve,” he groans, trying to shift even closer, and Steve finds he has no control, snaps his hips forward and moans when Tony bows into it, his voice pitched low and beautiful as it echoes around the lab.

 

Steve, Jesus fuck,” he groans, back coming back down to the futon.  He meets Steve’s gaze, swallowing thickly, before he licks his lips and says, “Fuck me.”

 

Sometimes, sex with them is soft and easy and slow, but sometimes, on days when they’ve been lazy, it’s rough and fast and loud.  Tony is always loud, and Steve had always expected him to be, but he falls away into some other level of bliss when Steve is hard with him, when he pulls and pushes at him, and it’s always Steve’s undoing, listening to Tony.

 

A blush rises on Tony’s ass as Steve fucks him, hips slapping against him as he curls closer, Tony’s leg stretching higher as he moves to kiss him, and they get lost in each other, Tony’s hands fisting one in Steve’s hair and the other clawing at his shoulder, drawing red, angry marks across his tan skin.  “Steve,” Tony whines suddenly, his knee bouncing against Steve’s arm, and he reaches for it, hooking it over his elbow and shifting closer, thrusting shallowly until he feels like his skin is on fire, and Tony’s voice pitches upward in a high, thin keen, his head going back, baring his throat, as his nails scrape at Steve’s scalp.

 

Fuck, Tony,” he moans, pressing wet kisses to his throat before he’s settling his temple against his shoulder, chasing the heat inside of him.  Tony comes first, whine breaking off in a near scream, whole body tightening before he breaks apart, trembling as his cock pulses between them, and Steve follows him over the edge, swearing and biting at Tony’s shoulder as he fills him, pressing them closer and closer until all he can feel is Tony, his scent overwhelming him until he feels safer than when he’s Captain.

 

They come down slowly, shaking together until Steve lifts his head and laughs at Tony’s lazy grin.  “Shut up,” Tony says, pushing at him.  Steve kisses him softly before carefully untangling them, Tony groaning when he lets his still trembling legs down.

 

They clean up, Tony yawns widely, and Steve coaxes him out of the lab and upstairs.  After a quick shower, they climb into bed, and Tony crawls over, curling close as he kisses Steve, open mouthed and lazy, just wanting to be as close to him as he can get.  They kiss until Steve feels a yawn coming on, and he breaks away to press a kiss to Tony’s temple, turn his head away to yawn, and then they settle, Steve wrapping Tony in his arms.

 

It’s quiet and warm, and Steve smiles when Tony burrows a little.  “I love you,” he whispers, kissing Tony’s mess of hair, and it makes him a little giddy that he can feel Tony smile against his chest.

 

“I love you,” Tony murmurs, and they fall asleep tangled together.