Steve didn't remember the moment the sketchbook hit the floor.
One second, he was focused on Tony's jawline — the bend of his wrist, the stretch of his stomach when he arched. The next, Tony shifted, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth parted just so, and something inside Steve snapped.
He crossed the room in a heartbeat.
The sketchbook slid off his lap and thudded quietly against the rug.
Tony let out a soft, surprised sound as Steve kissed him — not tentative, not careful, but deep, hungry, desperate. All the restraint Steve had practiced like scripture unraveled in a rush of heat and breath.
Their hands were everywhere — Tony's tugging Steve's shirt up and over, Steve's pushing Tony's thin tee up to feel warm skin. Tony's legs wrapped around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When Steve finally pushed inside him — slow, deliberate, eyes locked with his — Tony gasped.
"Fuck," Tony whispered, clinging to his shoulders. "You—God, you feel—"
Steve kissed him again, silencing him, grinding deep with a low groan that made Tony shiver beneath him. Their movements synced in an unspoken rhythm, breath and need and sweat.
But then—
Steve paused.
Just for a moment.
Still inside Tony, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild.
Tony opened his mouth to ask what was wrong—
And then Steve reached down, grabbed the sketchbook from the floor, and flipped to a new page.
Tony blinked. "Steve—"
"I need to see you," Steve said hoarsely. "Like this."
His pencil moved — fast, rough, the lines not clean but urgent. He drew Tony's body arched beneath him, the way his fingers gripped the sheets, the flushed curve of his throat, the wild fire in his eyes.
Steve started moving again — slow, powerful thrusts that made Tony gasp, tremble — all while his hand kept sketching.
"You're insane," Tony panted, half-laughing, half-moan.
"Probably," Steve muttered, lips brushing Tony's ear. "But you're the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen, and I need to remember this."
The sketchbook trembled in his grip as he rocked into Tony, deeper, faster. Tony's hands clutched at his back, his name falling from Tony's lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.
The sketch would be messy. Imperfect.
But real.
Just like this.
YOU ARE READING
The static between us.
FanfictionTony Stark and Steve Rogers were never supposed to get along - one's a reckless playboy with a mouth that never quits, the other's a stubborn supersoldier still adjusting to a century he didn't choose. Between ego clashes, snarky arguments, and miss...
