It's completely, jarringly different kissing a man; the scrape of Tony's stubble and the shape of his lips are alien. But Steve enjoys them and realizing it riles up a whole new panic that he's just too distracted to deal with. Tony's hands skim his chest and shoulders, his tongue darting in and drawing a groan out of him. His other hand drags, shaking, up Tony's spine, bandaged palm tracing the skin over his shoulder blades.

Tony is by no means a small person but Steve is more than capable of overpowering him entirely. Tumbling them over on the mattress and leaving Stark spread beneath him on the covers is easy, and seems in the moment a rational change of pace.

He regrets it immediately. Peering down at Tony sprawled beneath him with the half-aware haze of alcohol and libido in his eyes shatters Steve's focus and brings guilt crashing over him like a wave.

He curses, pushes himself back and off the bed, kneeling at the edge of the mattress and clawing a hand through his hair, chest heaving as he sucks desperate breaths. He drops a self-conscious hand to the bulge in his sleep pants, groaning at the thought of the cold shower he's going to end up going straight the hell into...

"No. No no - you're too - I mean I'm not - " He can barely make a sentence, Jesus Christ... "I can't do this."