Right in that moment, at that exact instant of time, Steve Rogers was absolutely 100% sure of only two things.
The first was that It didn't matter.
If it was brown eyes staring intently from the double page spread of a magazine, reclining elegantly against a velvet chaise lounge, immaculate tailored, all signs of age and life airbrushed away to reveal perfection as only the media can do.
Or tangled hair an oil-strewn mess, smudges of dark grease competing against darkly circled eyes, clothes stained, ripped and worn, barefoot. A mess of chaotic energy and brilliance.
It didn't matter.
Tony Stark never failed to take Steve's breath away.
But never quite so much as when he was like this.
Scattered moonlight stealing through gaps in covered windows, only to immediately be put to shame by electric blue glow. Lithe muscle an expanse of contrasting and contradicting physicality, simultaneously soft and supple, strong, powerful, gentle and wild, lost in a fantastical world of Steve's own design.
The line of Tony's flank, the svelte stretch of skin over well-muscled torso drew Steve's gaze higher, his eyes raking over the reactor with an almost possessive bent, although in truth, that could be said regarding the entirety of the man sitting straddled low over his hips.
Seemingly kept from shattering to pieces by only the strength of Steve's hands bracketing his waist- no, waiting to shatter at Steve's hands.
A glisten of sweat, tiny beaded pearls dusted across desire flushed skin, pooling in crevice and hollow. eyes blown wide and dark, lips too red to be anything other than thoroughly kiss swollen, Tony was breathtaking.
The second thing Steve knew was that make up sex was the best.