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those damn sweatpants

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Steve doesn’t look his best in his Captain America suit, or when he slips on a dashing tuxedo for one of Tony’s parties, not even naked, with the full exposure of skin and unbelievable pecs that Tony loves to bite down on. No, it’s nothing like when he comes in from his morning run, in this moment, his hair clinging to his skin from the layer of sweat, and as if it can’t get any hotter, more stifling and harder to breathe, he strips his shirt, leaving only the low sag of those damn sweatpants.

Grabbing water from the fridge, uncapping it, and downing half the bottle, Tony follows every movement. It takes a few seconds to realise Steve is talking until his eyes trail back up from the V of his pelvis to his lips. ‘—you okay?’

He blinks. ‘Huh?’

‘I said: are you okay? You look a little flushed.’

Tony nods, a little too vigourously. ‘Yeah, totally, just been working. Y’know, tinkering, working out some equations, that sort of thing.’

‘Really?’ He frowns, putting his hands on his hips, which only draws Tony’s attention back to his chest, glistening with droplets of sweat — and God, his lips are dampened from the water, and he’s panting, in and out, heaving. ‘Cause I could’ve sworn this is the same scene that I left you in.’

Damn. ‘I meant mentally tinkering. Yeah, that’s what I meant.’

Steve’s eyebrows rise. ‘Doesn’t sound like you.’

Of course it doesn’t, and his boyfriend knows exactly what he’s doing. They’d only been dating a few months, but were friends for years before — fought together against aliens, watched old movies, spoke late into the night talking about utter crap, and when the right moment had come, kissed as if it were their last — so Steve is pretty much tuned to his responses, in whatever he says or does. He knows just what will rile Tony up, what’ll drive him crazy with want, what’ll force him up the wall and kiss him with everything he can muster.

It’s a gift and a curse, to morph into this hot, flustered mess, from Steve giving him a simple look or running his tongue over his bottom lip, all on purpose to gain that reaction he wants from Tony. He doesn’t anticipate the reaction it evokes from himself, though, when Tony heaves in breaths and has to adjust his pants, and catches the blown pupils of Steve’s eyes and faint tinge to his cheeks. What follows usually is a blur, throwing themselves at each other, teeth clattering and noses bumping, but they don’t care, too busy trying to tear off their clothes, feel skin on skin, the hot breaths gasped against their necks, and the furious kisses that whip pleasure up their spines.

And it can last for hours, for days even, (if they rehydrate and take breaks, which Steve forces Tony to do and won’t do anything more unless he agrees), with Steve having the unbelievable refractory time. Thankfully, being the genius he is, Tony warms him up, ravishes him with foreplay and multiple orgasms so he can keep up later on when the real fun starts. By his calculations, the ones he’d spent whilst Steve was out, they hadn’t had any sexy activities since this morning, and that isn’t acceptable.

‘No.’ He gets up, crossing the distance between them and leans up, his mouth brushing out Steve’s ear. ‘I guess it doesn’t.’

Hands clasp down hard on Tony’s waist, a harsh breath sucked in, shaky as it’s released. ‘So, why were you really here?’

‘Waiting,’ he says, grazing his teeth over Steve’s earlobe. ‘Why else?’

Smiling, his thumbs slip under Tony’s shirt, stroking, ‘You weren’t waiting for me to make you waffles again, were you?’

‘That was the one time —’

‘Five servings in a day isn’t one time, actually no, it was six —’

’Uh, excuse you, they’re delicious and amazing, and you kept force-feeding them to me!’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Force-feed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Really?’

‘When you lay them down on your chest and then pour syrup all over yourself —’

‘It was your idea!’

‘—what else was I supposed to do?’

‘I don’t know. Resist?’

Tony scoffs, rolling his eyes. ‘Sounds easier than it was, Steve.’

‘What? You think you didn’t have the willpower?’

‘No, I think you didn’t have the willpower. If I hadn’t licked up every drop and swallowed every bite, you’d have lost your mind and ripped those pretty blond locks of yours out, oh, and probably complained about the mess for days.’

Drawing him closer, Steve bends down, nuzzling the crook of Tony’s neck, and teases him with the light brush of lips against his skin. It causes a shudder to ripple up his back, goosebumps breaking out. ‘Point. Next time you want to involve food, you’ll be cleaning it up afterwards.’

‘Deal,’ he says, crushing his lips to his.

It’s hot and fast, so clumsy that Tony would’ve tripped over the coffee table and damaged his face if it isn’t for Steve’s arms wrapped around his waist — not that it matters, really, floor sex is one of the best ways in his opinion — and his shirt rides up, and his lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, but he doesn’t want to break the kiss, not yet.

He whines when Steve does in the end, pulling him down onto the couch, encouraging him to straddle his lap. This is the kinkier side of Steve coming out, the slightly more dominant side, just enough; he shows it through the gentle bites of Tony’s lip, the growl that rumbles in his chest, or the way he slide his hand up Tony’s back, squeezing the base of his neck. They’re breathing heavily, dragging in too much air and too little (unsteady, harsh), but they push past it.

But as Steve reaches down to unzip Tony’s pants, he pushes his hands away, ignoring the look of confusion.

‘Don’t you—?’

Tony hushes him with a kiss. ‘Me later. You first.’

Sliding down onto his knees, he tugs down Steve’s sweatpants, making sure to drag his nails down his skin. He smiles at the sound of a moan, all breathless and catches in his throat. His muscles bunch, and he manages to cough out, ‘You don’t have to —’

‘I know I don’t have to,’ Tony smirks, biting down on his thigh, evoking another choked moan, ‘but believe me, I want to.’

Once confident Steve isn’t going to turn all modest and try and decline his offer, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down. He feels the muscles tense under his hands again, not with a reluctance, but anticipation; it is what they both feel, even with a kiss, fists clenching and frustrated noises ripped from their lips.

Discarding them behind him, he runs his hands up Steve’s thighs, pausing to trace the V, the crease in his hips and up his stomach. He likes to start with the light, exploring touches, to slowly build up the pressure and inch closer to where they both want it most, as if it’s all new to him, despite having done it countless times. Watch as Steve shakes with need, impatiently groans, and finds a pair of hands card through his hair, an attempt to urge him on, but Tony will continue to ease him to the edge, only to leave him hanging at the last moment. He can do this for fifteen minutes straight, but he’s too eager, too hot — a intense sensation pooling in his gut — to screw around.

He licks a strip up the length of Steve’s cock, unable to help himself, the sound of Steve’s messy, unintelligible noise as he throws his head back. ‘Tony.’

It drives him forward, swallowing past his gag reflex as he takes Steve into his mouth, giving him one, long suck. His eyes drift shut at the moan that reaches his ears, at the tightening hands in his hair, hard enough to cause a stab of pain in his scalp, but he doesn’t care. His palms are sweaty, the front of his pants uncomfortable, but he clenches his fists to stop himself from rubbing himself off; he wants to wait for Steve to do him the honours.

Steve almost whines, hips stuttering, fighting for breath. He wonders if he should stop, but he’s cut off by the second sound of his name torn out into the atmosphere.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters. ‘Fuck.’ Dragging in a breath, he’s memorised for a moment, staring at Steve; he watches as Steve’s tongue flits out to skim over his bottom lip, his stomach rippling as he tries to get Tony’s attention again, dotted with sweat and marked with purpling bruises left from Tony’s lips. When he makes an impatient noise, half a growl and half a moan, Tony leans back down, tasting the tang of salt.

Groaning, and sending a vibration down Steve’s cock, he lets him do what he wants, what he always does whenever Tony gets to his knees, pushing into his mouth with shallow, deep thrusts. He coughs, his chest burning from the lack of air, and his eyes begin to sting, but he doesn’t want to stop, can’t stop, not when Steve is there, biting his lip to stifle the moans, and fails, loud and choked as they burst from his swollen lips. His cheeks are red, knuckles probably white from how tight his holding onto Tony, yet careful enough not to skin his skull.

And it doesn’t take long for his name to get stuck in Steve’s throat, thighs rigid under Tony’s hands, as hunches over, it’s the only warnings he receives. His lungs scream for him to pull back, his jaw aching so much he wouldn’t be surprised if it fell off, but he forces himself to swallow around him, take every last drop, every last gasp.

Steve sighs, finally, his whole body relaxing, untangling his hands, and he sinks into the couch. He’s breathing hard, hisses when he tucks himself back into his boxers. ‘That was. Well. You know what it was.’

‘Phenomenal?’

‘As usual.’ And he kisses him — what Tony loves, that he’ll lick away the taste of himself and not give a single damn about it — and when he pulls away, Steve chases after his mouth, lingering, his fingers carding through Tony’s hair. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

Lifting up onto his knees, Tony reaches up and clasps the back of Steve’s neck, tugging him back down. Seconds, minutes or hours could have easily passed and neither would’ve cared. An explosion of flames could have erupted around them, and sure, he’d have noticed, but would’ve been reluctant to break away; that is how much Tony loved his kisses, so absorbing, so overwhelming with passion, that they’re one of the best he’s ever had, more so than the sex, really, the sex is amazing, but kisses have always been more intimate for him.

‘Honey, you know I love it when you’re rough.’

‘There’s rough, and then there’s bordering on pain.’ Absently, his fingers brush over his temples, down his cheek, but a smile briefly lights up his face. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the reason you go bald.’

Rolling his eyes, ‘No, let’s leave that to old age, which is exactly where I’m headed.’

‘You’ll always be young to me,’ he says, and it hurts for a second because it’s so full of sincerity, just like Steve always is, always has been in their relationship. He doesn’t think that will ever change. ‘Have the mentality of a ten year old.’

‘That’s twelve-year old, actually.’ He smirks, taking Steve by the hand. ‘Think you can stand?’

‘Not sure.’ His knees shake. ‘Probably not.’

‘That’s okay. You won’t be standing for long, always wanted to take you from behind.’

‘Tony!’

‘What? It’s one of your fantasies, isn’t it?’

A blush colours his cheeks. ‘Yes.’

Smiling, he tugs him along, and gives him a wink. ‘Well, then. Let’s go fulfil it.’