Steve is no stranger to looking at Tony and finding himself suddenly breathless from the overwhelming wash of soft attraction that’s so easy when it comes to his lover, but sometimes it’s less to do with the sheer unending amount of love he has for Tony Stark and more to do with the fact that Steve’s never met anyone more attractive than Tony in his entire life.
Suffice to say, there’s no end to the want Steve has for Tony either.
It’s still a shock, however, to walk into their living room after his one week mission somehow became three and find him on the couch looking like sin incarnate.
“Tony,” Steve says very, very calmly as every bone in his body locks up halfway through the door, “what happened to your hair?”
“What? Oh, Philippe cancelled on me last minute,” Tony answers distractedly, flicking his fingers over his tablet while Steve’s heart climbs up to his throat and hammers a wild, thunderous beat.
“Cancelled?” Steve echoes, slowly unfreezing his joints one by one to move forward a single step at a time, his hands twitching at his sides incessantly. Heat spreads through his body in a thick cloud, warm spice cloying in his nose as he gets close enough to smell Tony’s aftershave, and it’s like the slow burn of a firestorm, bubbling up underneath his skin and melting the world away except for Tony.
Tony, who’s hair is the same color as his shield under all its paint, gleaming and mussed and begging to be touched. Tony, who’s laying down in a rumpled black suit that’s so tight it might as well be his undersuit, blood-red tie askew and collar popped in a way that makes Steve’s mouth water. Tony, whose skin glows in the setting sun and looks like divine temptation at its best, molten gold and warm to the touch.
“Yes, cancelled,” Tony sighs, throwing Steve a disgruntled look and setting his tablet aside. “It’s been months since my last dye, and if one more person tells me I look old, I’m going to riot. I’d dye it myself if didn’t mean I’d lose my head the next time Philippe saw me.”
“And why is that?” Steve murmurs while he lowers himself onto the couch next to Tony, barely hearing himself over the blood rushing to his head.
“I look like an old man,” Tony replies woefully, running a hand through his hair and glaring at the stray strands that fall in front of his eyes. “Harley hasn’t stopped laughing since he saw me yesterday.”
“I think it looks-” sexy, striking, glorious, perfect “-good.”
“Yeah?” Tony asks, turning slightly so he can meet Steve’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Steve says, swallowing roughly and raising a trembling to brush away the fine silver hairs that splay across Tony’s forehead, “it looks pretty damn good.”
Raising a quizzical brow, Tony stares at him for a minute before his eyes widen comically, a wondrous curl appearing at his lips.
“You like it,” he realizes, hands self-consciously reaching up to touch his hair before moving part-way to reach out and curve around the stubble of Steve’s cheek.
“I like it,” Steve agrees lowly, watching Tony’s breath hitch when he leans in close and rubs against the hand on his cheek.
“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Tony manages to whisper a split-second before Steve catches his eye, dark and smoldering despite the soft tilt to his lips, and then they’re both shuddering, bringing each other close to press their mouths together in a hot embrace, slick and sweet and electrifying.
“Oh, oh,” Tony gasps, pulling away with a wet mouth that immediately has Steve drawing him back in, “you’re gonna-you’re gonna have to stop kissing me like that or we’re not going to make it to the bed, sweetheart.”
“I’m okay with that,” Steve rumbles, pulling Tony’s shirt loose to slip a broad hand under his back and stroke at his skin, Tony smacking his shoulder despite the moan it elicits.
“I’m not,” he hisses, “it’s been three weeks, sugarpop-I want a bed.”
Narrowing his eyes at Tony, he rolls his eyes when all he gets is an adamant refusal to continue.
“Bed,” Tony insists, dragging Steve close to whisper in his ear, “and we’re not getting out until I’m done with you.”
Throat clicking from the rush of heat that burns out his fond exasperation in a flash, Steve lifts him up with strong hands under his thighs, Tony’s arms automatically slipping around his neck to hold on.
“Bed,” he agrees hoarsely, and Tony grins, his hair mussed and shining delicately with the light of the setting sun.
They don’t leave their room until lunch the next day.
LemonGrenade 