Steve was light.
That was the first thing Tony thought when he met the man; he was light, and strength, an inherent goodness that the genius could never measure up to. So he lashed out, influenced slightly by Loki's staff, but mostly it was his own nastiness rising to the surface. He'd been atoning for his sins for years now; atoning for his slights on Steve's characters only made the load a little more heavy.
After New York, after the wormhole, he decided he would make up for everything wrong he'd done to his new teammates first. He rebuilt the Tower, redesigned the living floors for each of the Avengers, spent careful attention and detail to each one. Natasha's floor was done in dark blues and reds, with many secret hiding spots; Clint's was done in heights, several perches made up in strategic positions that would provide the best sight lines; Bruce's floor had a mix of Buddhist and Taoist art and a sand garden, as well as the added bonus of being mostly Hulk-proof; Thor's floor took from old Norse decoration, and had the god smiling widely when he first laid eyes on it, clapping Tony on the shoulder.
Steve's floor...was probably the hardest. Steve was, obviously, not as open with Tony as the others had been when he'd asked them their preferences. He'd stated he didn't need anything fancy, and left it at that. But Tony knew he couldn't give Steve a generic apartment; he couldn't, he wouldn't and he spent weeks agonizing over placement, art, furniture, and finally he thought it was done.
When he showed Steve his floor, he thought he was going to get punched. It had taken some doing, and some obscene amounts of money he would never admit to, but he had managed to acquire a Rogers family heirloom; a handmade, cherry wood rocking chair, that held a place of honor in the front living room of Steve's floor, framed neatly by matching cherrywood couches. The super soldiers body went tense, and his face hardened, and Tony's heart started beating a harsh tattoo in his chest.
Wrong, wrong, worthless, wrong.
“Tony,” Steve said softly, and this was it, this was Steve about to throw him off the team, throw him out of the team's life, throw him away like the trash he was...
And then Steve's arms were around him, and he was trembling, making soft, mewling noises, wetness against Tony's shoulder.
“Hey, hey, shhh,” Tony murmured, rubbing soothing circles on Steve's strong back, closing his eyes and humming in that low tone that only a Sub could reach, feeling the taller man sag, relax, tears that sounded like they had been held back for far too long escaping him.
“You're alright now. It's gonna be okay,” Tony murmured as he held Steve close, feeling useful, needed. Later, he would look back and know this was the moment he'd offered Steve his heart, the moment he knew he didn't want anyone else.
**
They settled into a sort of routine; between missions, Steve, Natasha and Clint would stay at the Tower; whenever Thor was on world, he would stay there as well, and after his loop around the world, Bruce was an almost permanent fixture, his and Tony's labs side by side. Tony settled into the routine as well, spending hours in his workshop working on new armor for Steve, better Bites for Natasha, new and sometimes silly arrowheads for Clint, and stretchy boxers that would survive Bruce's transformation into the Hulk.
Steve seemed to spend an inordinate time in Tony's workshop on his downtime, which the sub couldn't find any fault with. Being this close to a dom regularly settled something in his chest; of the Avengers, Tony was the only sub; Natasha was neutral, Clint a switch, Bruce...fluctuated, and Thor was an alien and seemed to have no concept of traditional presentations. Tony had rarely been close to any doms in his life -he wasn't worthy, he knew this, worthless- and Steve's firm voice and gentle, woodsy scent eased a tension in his chest that usually only relaxed when he was strung up and being worked over by a firm hand.
They would spend hours talking, about anything that crossed their minds. Steve talked about art, missions -honestly Stark, I know you hack SHIELD five times a week, it's not like you don't already know- the things that had changed since the forties, the changes he liked, the ones he didn't, and the ones that still had him reeling from the alienness of it all. Tony talked about his projects, his college days, anything that didn't take emotion to explain. He carefully avoided talk of past relationships, and Steve seemed to take the hint.
Instead, Tony found himself being Steve's guide to the twenty first century; he took the man to every little hole in the wall diner he knew of, fixed his wardrobe -he dressed like an old man, which, with a body like his, was a downright crime- took him along with the rest of the team to Vegas after a particularly long mission that left Natasha thin lipped, and Clint grim-faced.
It hadn't been hard, falling in love with Steve, Tony reflected one afternoon as he tinkered with one of his suits. It had been mildly damaged in a fight with the villain of the week, as Tony and Clint had taken to calling the small time villains that seemed to pop up every week or so, and he was running over several calculations to counteract the magic blast the woman had used to knock him into a building. There seemed to be a pattern to the wavelength in magical energy and if he could just crack it....
The chestplate he was fiddling with dropped from numb fingers onto his workshop table as the full implications of that thought hit him with the same force the building had earlier that day. He stared down at his hands as if they were somehow responsible for this, and was suddenly, incredibly terrified.
Love had never ended well for him, and loving someone like Steve? He didn't have the right, let alone the capacity to care for him like a sub should. He was broken into so many pieces, scattered and trying to pick them all up, he wouldn't make a fitting sub for Obadiah, let alone the paragon of human and moral perfection.
Tony was glad Steve had decided to eat and then sleep after the battle, instead of following Tony down to the lab like he sometimes did when he felt restless. He would have surely noticed Tony's sudden lack of movement, his glazed and slightly panicked look, and the sub didn't know how he would have reacted to Steve's concern just then.
He can never, ever know, Tony thought, and he wrapped his arms around his waist, digging his fingers into the tender divot of his hips, letting the pain pull him away from the moment. Everything was rushing around in his head, too fast, too hard, and panic was building in his chest, making the world too tight, too much, too much.
“Jarvis,” he gasped, chest heaving, desperately trying to get enough air in his lungs, his heart pounding too fast. “Protocol four eighty seven.”
“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replied, as calm as ever, the slightest tinge of worry in his vocals. Tony relaxed slightly when he heard the workshop lockdown, and went easily to the small alcove in the furthest corner of his space when prompted by Jarvis's cool, commanding voice.
“Strip,” Jarvis ordered, with the bite of a dom Tony had programmed into it, and wasn't that sad, that he was so broken he had to make a dom for himself?
Thought left him though, as a sharp, stinging pain whipped across his face, and there was the body he'd made Jarvis, blank faced and slightly smaller than his suits, holding a whip in hand. Jarvis had, at first, not wanted a physical body, until Tony had told him the purpose it would hold. Jarvis had been immediately accommodating once Tony had revealed what he wanted, but the genius still felt like he had somehow coerced his AI into this sick relationship.
The whip came down on his naked back, precise, sharp, and grounding. Tony was silent as he stood against the wall, legs and arms spread, bracing his weight as the whip struck again and again, sending him down further and further into that place where nothing mattered, where he could just exist without worry.
Jarvis was programmed to deliver exactly thirty strikes, precisely along his spine, and by the end of it, Tony was a limp mess. Jarvis's body gently picked him up and placed him on the couch, dressing him in a soft shirt and shorts after applying a healing salve that soothed the sharp welts on his back. The workshop unlocked, as per Jarvis's insistence that Tony shouldn't be confined while he was in subspace, which Tony had conceded to after a few hours of argument.
He wasn't going anywhere right now anyway, he thought vaguely as he curled up on the couch, not quite ready to sleep, but not quite willing to move. He was down deep, not as deep as he could be, but deep enough that he probably shouldn't go out in public. The tower wasn't public, though, so when the silence of the shop started grating his nerves, he stumbled his way to the elevator, picking up his favorite soft, red blanket from his floor before going to the common living room and curling up in a ball on the sofa. Clint was there, with a big bowl of popcorn, and he gave Tony an odd look.
“You alright Tones?” he asked after a minute of watching blink at the television, trying to discern what Clint was watching.
Tony gave the archer a big, goofy grin, even as he realized this was the first time Clint had seen him in subspace. Usually only Pepper or Rhodey saw him like this; but it was okay, Clint was family. Just like Thor and Natasha and Bruce and Steve. He knew he was safe with them.
“I'm great,” Tony said, snuggling a little bit deeper into the sofa. “I'm a burrito.”
Clint snorted, and shook his head fondly. “You're so deep in, I'd swear you dipped into Bruce's stash,” he said with a grin. “I didn't know you had a dom.”
Tony frowned slightly and shook his head. “I don't. Jarvis, Jarvis takes me down, when I need it.”
At this, Clint frowned, a little furrow appearing between his eyes, and he shifted closer to Tony, reaching out hesitantly, and petting Tony gently when his advance wasn't rebuffed. The sub closed his eyes at the touch, and let out a soft purr of enjoyment, and Clint's heart tugged slightly at the sight.
“You know, you could ask me or Steve to take you down,” he said softly as he petted Tony, and was shocked when Tony shook his head with enough force to dislodge Clint's petting hand.
“No. I know you like subbing more,” Tony said, and his eyes were so serious, Clint couldn't find the words to say that he'd do almost anything for the genius. Then Tony was pushing his head into Clint's hand, and he laughed softly, giving him the scratches he was after. “And I love Steve. He needs someone better.”
There was something sharp in Clint's chest at that, and he found himself pulling Tony into his arms gently, petting the sub's soft hair gently. He'd known that the genius didn't think very much of himself, but having it spoken so plainly from someone he knew was good and selfless made his heart clench painfully.
“Oh, Tony,” he murmured softly, but he didn't have the words, so he just sat with Tony, petting him gently as the hours stretched into the night.