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Hang Up Your Cross (this one's on me)

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Tony Stark shudders awake in a strange room, naked and chained to a bed, with orange early morning light filtering through a large window. His back isn't hurting from his slumped position, which tells him he hasn't been there long, but it's a small comfort; last night's beating has given him plenty of other aches and pains to make up the lack. At least his head is clear, shockingly enough considering he can feel dried blood on the side of his face, so no concussion.

A dark chuckle from the doorway interrupts his mental appraisal of his physical well-being. Startled, Tony jerks his head up to meet the cold gaze of one Steve Rogers.

Fuck.

“Well,” Rogers drawls, walking slowly around the bed, blue eyes dragging over Tony's body like he's a fly caught in a web. Rogers always moves like a predator, always seems as if he may switch from idle regard to snapping at your throat in the space of an instant, but now... Right now he telegraphs barely controlled violence and rage with every step, every movement, like if he forgets himself he could kill without even thinking about it. Tony looks up at Rogers' sharp, dangerous smile and feels fear pool hot and slick in his belly. He can feel himself, with dim horror, growing hard underneath the thin sheet that is his only covering.

“Well,” he repeats, sitting on the bed right in Tony's personal space, draping his arms carelessly across Tony's knees and lazily lifting the blanket from Tony's lap, smirking at what he finds. “My morning suddenly seems a lot brighter.”

Tony is nearly overcome with the urge to spit in Rogers' smarmy face, but something about the way his smirk doesn't quite reach his cold blue gaze tells him he might not live through the experience. He looks down, instead, to avoid meeting his eyes, shamed that Rogers can see his reaction, involuntary though it is.

“I would love to meet the people who did this to you.” As if he doesn't already fucking know exactly who did this to Tony, and probably already gave them a bonus for it. Rogers makes it his business to know everything that happens in Brooklyn, which is why it was such a monumentally stupid risk for Tony to take those documents, no matter how desperate he was or what corner he was backed into.

“They are very generous, really,” Rogers continues, a sly, hungry look joining the cold rage. “Not only did they find you, they... presented you.”

Tony has never responded well to being toyed with. “Ha, ha. Feast your fucking eyes, Rogers. I'll punch your cocky smirk off your face after this.”

Rogers grins delightedly, and Tony realizes too late that he's fallen right into the trap.

“After what?”

Tony doesn't say anything. He's dug himself deep enough and he's not going to hand Rogers any more ammunition.

“Tell you what,” Rogers says after a moment, carefully replacing the blanket which, in Tony's current state, is of exactly zero use in maintaining Tony's modesty. The one time I give a fuck about modesty... “I'll get myself some coffee and I'll cut you free. Sound fair?”

Rogers gets up and walks to the door, and Tony is fucked if he's just gonna sit chained up in an empty room and wait until Rogers recalls his existence.

“What the fuck are you – ROGERS. COME BACK HERE.”

Unexpectedly, Rogers does just that, bracing himself on the bed frame behind Tony's head and leaning threateningly into his personal space.

“Yes?” He says after a moment of Tony gaping wordlessly.

Tony jerks on the cuffs, the chains making a loud clanging against the metal bed frame. “Quit fucking around, Rogers and let me go--”

All trace of amusement leaves Rogers' eyes as he reaches out and yanks viciously at Tony's hair, twisting his head at an angle that makes his neck protest. Tony gasps at the pain and with something that is certainly not pain and damn, if he knew his wires were gonna get this crossed he would never have--

“That's quite a set you got on you, Stark, giving me orders in MY house after stealing from me!” Rogers shouts in his face, voice twisted with fury. “You're lucky I don't snap your neck right here and now.” His voice goes soft, threatening. “I still might. Want to give me a reason?”

Tony, for once in his life, doesn't say a word. He just looks up into those cold blue eyes and concentrates on breathing.

After a few moments Rogers' murderous glare shifts into something cruel and lascivious.

“Look at you,” he says softly, unwinding his fingers to trace down Tony's heaving chest. He pauses, pressing his palm against Tony's sternum a moment as if to feel his breath, and then runs his hand up to none-too-gently grip Tony's jaw. “All battered and bruised up and still so eager for me.”

Fuck you,” Tony spits out, shamed, and tries and fails to jerk his chin out of Rogers' steely grip.

“Mmmmm,” Rogers hums idly, tipping Tony's head side to side. “You know what? I think I just might.” Abruptly, he gets up and walks to the door again. “After I get my coffee,” he says over his shoulder, and he's gone.

Tony gives in to a small fit of rage, throwing his body against his restraints and growling in frustration. The metal bites into his wrists and his wild movements jostle his scraps and bruises and sends pain shooting through his body and he just does not give a fuck.

--

Twenty minutes later Steve Rogers returns not with coffee, but with a black bag and, incongruously, a sketch pad. He drops the bag at the foot of the bed and drags over a chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room, placing it directly in front of Tony.

That done, he turns to examine him. The look in his eye is distant, evaluating, and slightly covetous. Tony, not generally bothered by exhibitionism, still can't help but squirm under the gaze.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” he snarks, just to break the silence.

Rogers' lips quirk in amusement. “That is the plan, yes,” he says idly, and seems to come to some decision. He walks over to the bed and Tony makes several undignified noises as Rogers starts arranging him. He grips Tony's hips – and ow there's a nasty bruise – and shifts them downward on the bed, putting his shoulders lower against the head of the bed frame and putting more strain on his shoulders and cuffed hands. His ankles are shifted further apart and his knees are nudged wider. The overall effect is that of a lewd, undignified sprawl that has Tony spluttering in protest.

“If you make me position you again,” Rogers says, voice low and dangerous with threat as Tony starts to shift, “You will not enjoy the consequences.”

Tony believes him. He relaxes into the pose and burns with humiliation and twisted resentment. He's still rock hard under the sheet.

“That's what I thought,” Rogers murmurs, running a critical eye over him one more time and then, almost as an after thought, pulls at the sheet covering Tony's lap until it drapes over only one leg and leaves his cock half uncovered.

“What the fuck are you doing, Rogers,” Tony grits out through clenched teeth, face aflame.

“Shame to let such presentation go to waste,” he answers lightly and sits on the chair, flipping open his sketchbook and getting to work.

Rogers takes his sweet time sketching, and while Tony would like to say he didn't stay hard the whole time, he can't. The entire room crackles with the promise of violence and that, combined with the bite of the cuffs against his wrists, the ache of injuries barely soothed by endorphins, and Rogers' mild-but-somehow-threatening looks keep him at a steady, heightened state of arousal.

Man, if I thought I was twisted before...

Tony makes a few snarky comments in the beginning of the session, just to break the silence and keep up appearances, but something about the way Rogers' gaze flips up to him and back down to his notebook without a word makes Tony think he may be best served by shutting the fuck up and staying still. Usually he's not the lie-back-and-take-it kind of guy, but...

Steve Rogers is not just angry, he's murderous. Tony has never seen him like this, vibrating with fury, a mad gleam in his eye that only brightens when he smiles. He was not joking, Tony knows, when he wrenched his head back and threatened to break his neck.

It's frankly terrifying. Rogers, for all he runs all of organized crime in Brooklyn, for all the other bosses and assorted criminals fear and respect him, is not a thug. He's not petty, he doesn't kill in fits of pique just because he can. He has a code, which is rare enough, but he sticks to it, which is absolutely unheard of. The fact that he's deep enough in a rage that he seriously contemplates killing someone he has promised to help tells Tony in no uncertain terms that he has fucked up, badly, and another fuckup at this point will mean his life.

The situation is deadly series. Too bad his cock didn't get the memo.

When Rogers finally finishes the sketch he comes right back up into Tony's personal space, using Tony's bent knees as armrests once more, and deposits the sketch in his lap. He still seems keyed up, the look in his eyes still makes something twist with fear in Tony's gut, but he now longer looks as though he might forget himself and crush the life out of Tony any minute.

“My only regret,” says Rogers, “is that I didn't get to put these bruises on you myself.” He traces a hand down the inside of one thigh and Tony's breath catches. “Oh well. Another time.” He pauses, smirks. “Aren't you going to look at it?”

Tony doesn't want to, this whole experience has been humiliating enough, but there's steel in Rogers' voice and he's not yet willing to avoid angering him. He looks.

It's... he looks ravaged. Legs splayed open, sheet tossed carelessly between his legs with his hard cock bulging out from underneath it. Somehow Rogers has given the impression of the lurid bruises blooming across Tony's skin using only flat pencil gray.

His face is the worst; mouth open in a pant, eyes half-lidded and dark with need, blood still on his face. Tony flushes with shame and arousal and hopes Rogers has taken a little artistic license and his face doesn't actually look like that.

“You really do look like that, you know,” Rogers says, tapping the sketch, like he's a fucking mind reader. His voice is low and rough with lust and it's small comfort that Tony isn't the only one... affected by the current situation. “If I took a picture right now, you'd still have that desperate, needy look on your face. Mouth hanging open, like you're just waiting for me to shove my cock into it.”

Tony lets out a shaky breath just this side of a moan and hell, it isn't as if they haven't had sex before. Maybe this is a little more... vulnerable than he's been when they've fucked, but Tony's so hard he's pretty sure he could drill through steel with his dick, and some rough, angry sex sure as hell beats a crushed skull.

He stops holding back, stops resisting, and as soon as he does he realizes how desperate he is to be touched. He lets his hips roll, lets his head fall back, lets his breath quicken.

His change in attitude clearly doesn't escape Rogers, who grins and gets up to walk to the foot of the bed. He retrieves lube and a condom and throws them on the mattress next to Tony before reaching up to undo his tie.

“So desperate,” he murmurs. “Leaking precome all over your belly, and I haven't even touched you yet.” He slips the suspenders from his shoulders and then slowly unbuttons his shirt, eyes boring into Tony's. “Are you like this with everyone, Tony? Is getting roughed up by some street thugs and death threats from a crime lord all it takes for you to spread your legs and beg for it? Am I special, or would you be just as wonton and needy with any wrinkled old Don who catches you with your nose somewhere it doesn't belong?”

“I don't know, Steve,” Tony bites out. “You fuck every thief you catch riffling through your files?”

Tony worries for a moment that he's gone too far, but Rogers just chuckles. “Only the pretty ones,” he says flippantly, leaving his unbuttoned shirt on and unbuttoning his pants. Tony can see how hard he is even before he unzips his fly and pulls his thick, heavy cock out. He's not wearing underwear. Tony bites off a moan.

The bed creaks when Rogers climbs onto it, straddling Tony's waist and standing upright on his knees. In this position, his cock is nearly at the level of Tony's mouth. Tony's lips part involuntarily. Or maybe they were already open. He's lost track.

Tony rattles frustratingly at the restraints holding him fast. He wants to touch. Rogers has a glorious body, and he wants to run his hands over his stomach and grip his hips as he sucks his cock. But he can't, he's helpless, and all he can do is tip his head up when Rogers grabs his hair and smears the head of his cock over Tony's lips.

“Oh there's no escape now, not until I'm done with you,” Rogers says, misinterpreting Tony's struggles and proving that he's not actually a mind reader. Thank god. He tangles his other hand in Tony's hair and slides his cock into his mouth, holding him in place.

Tony only gets two shallow thrusts to prepare before Rogers sinks deeply enough in his mouth that Tony needs to focus to not choke. He has limited experience with deepthroating and Rogers is huge. He hasn't quite caught the trick of letting his throat relax enough to swallow his cock and, with this position forcing his neck into an odd angle and the punishing pace Rogers is setting right out of the gate, he certainly isn't getting the chance to puzzle it out now.

His eyes are watering from the assault on his gag reflex and he flips his eyes up to glare at his assailant. Rogers' expression is darkly amused and clouded over.

“Come on, you can take it,” he croons, tugging at Tony's hair and adjusting the angle of his head. He doesn't let up though. Tony suspects he gets off on the tight, choking sounds coming from his throat and the way his eyes have welled up.

Tony never does adjust to the brutal facefucking, and by the time Rogers pulls out his head is floating with desperate arousal and oxygen deprivation. Rogers smirks, but his pupils are blown wide with lust as he watches Tony suck in deep lungfuls of air. Tony has a pithy comment about who's looking needy and desperate now, but that's just the pot calling the kettle black at this point, so he keeps it to himself.

Rogers steps off the bed to strip all the way out of his clothing before settling between Tony's legs and slathering his fingers with lube. Tony almost expects him to prepare him roughly, to take him too soon with too little lube in keeping with today’s theme of pain and punishment. But Rogers just prepares him as slowly and carefully as always, and Tony is almost disappointed. He moans and pushes back when Rogers slides that first finger in him, hooking it to send sparks of pleasure lancing through Tony's body. Tony's far past the point where it's not enough when Rogers pulls out to add more lube and another finger, and by the time he finally – finally – adds the third finger Tony is writhing with desperation and moaning without shame, reveling even in the sharp spikes of pain his movements send arching through his body.

“Fuck, Rogers – fuck – I'm ready, I'm ready, just – ahhhh god you fucking tease --

“What did I tell you about giving orders, Stark?” Rogers asks silkily as he twists his fingers and causes Tony to arch his back and let out a rough cry.

Tony doesn't answer, can't even begin to formulate one while shaking with sensory overload. He whines when Rogers pulls out his fingers and reaches over for the condom. He rips it open with his teeth and rolls it expertly over his cock before hooking one of Tony's legs over his shoulder and sliding in to the hilt in one smooth motion.

It doesn't hurt, precisely, Rogers always prepares him too well for it to hurt, but he's huge, and their position contorts Tony unnaturally and he doesn't give him any time to adjust before fucking into him with long, deep thrusts. Fresh pain surges hotly through Tony's body as the change in position puts new pressure on his injuries and causes the cuffs to bite into his wrists and he's wailing, an ocean of sensation crashing through him. His eyes are wide and sightless and he's certain he can come just from this, just from this exquisite pain and Rogers slamming into him.

Which is of course when Rogers wraps a large hand around Tony's cock. Tony almost tumbles straight over the edge and would have, if Rogers didn't growl “Don't come, you don't come until I finish with you,” and he squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself away from the edge. His control is hanging on by a thread and with Rogers' hand on his cock, he's not going to last long no matter how he tries.

It's okay, though, because Rogers is clearly not going to last long, himself; his eyes are half-lidded and distant and his skin is glistening with sweat. His grip moves from Tony's thigh to his hip, right on top of a deep bruise, as he changes the angle of his thrusts into Tony. Pleasure scrapes like knives across Tony's nerve endings and he feels his control slip just as he hears Rogers' breath change, hears him let out the soft, throaty moans on the top of each exhale that heralds his release.

Rogers bites viciously on Tony's inner thigh as he thrusts in one more time, all the way to the hilt, shuddering as he comes. The additional, excruciating pain arcs through Tony's body and he lets out a guttural scream as he follows him over the edge.

 

 

After, they lie side by side, nearly on top of each other on the narrow bed. Rogers is relaxed; the frighteningly violent energy from earlier seems to have dissipated almost entirely, leaving him wrung-out and calm in the afterglow. Tony can relate, at least with the afterglow part.

Rogers lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. “If you do something like this again, I will kill you.”

He doesn't have to say what he's referring to. Tony reaches for the cig and Rogers passes it over without comment. “I didn't want to, believe me. It was just that –“

“I know why you did it,” Rogers interrupts, watching Tony lazily blow smoke rings. “That's why you're sitting here with a sore ass instead of a bullet in your skull.”

Tony takes a second drag before passing it over. Rogers' eyes tighten slightly with irritation. “Yes, Dad. And I promise to be home by midnight, and clean my room, and –“

“I mean it, Stark,” Rogers snaps. “I have very clear rules with very specific consequences. Making exceptions undermines my authority and jeopardizes my organization. You a good fuck, but not that good.”

Tony is silent for a moment. He waits for Rogers to pass the cigarette back before speaking.

“So, why didn't you this time?”

Rogers scowls and lets out a harsh sigh. “Because we made a deal, and I take that very seriously. Because Stane's been a pain in my ass since I started in this town. Because you're more useful to me alive than dead.”

“Aw, Rogers, sweetheart, I didn't know you cared.”

Rogers plucks the cigarette out of Tony's hand and takes a drag, shooting Tony a stunningly disdainful look out of the corner of his eye. He then stares ahead and otherwise ignores the comment.

“I make one exception and I'm cold-blooded, but willing to be reasoned with. There are uses for having a reputation as a reasonable man.” He passes the cig over. “More than that, though, and I'm soft. Sentimental.” He turns to meet Tony's eyes. “There are no uses for a reputation for weakness.”

Tony nods in understanding and hands the cigarette back for Rogers to finish.

“You came to me for help, Stark. If something like this happens again, let me handle it.” He stubs out the cigarette and gets out of the bed to get dressed. He grabs some clothes out of the black bag and tosses them at Tony, who snatches them out of the air before they can smack him in the face.

“And if I don't?”

Rogers meets his eyes, his gaze dark and intent.

“You've known me a long time, if only by reputation. Ever known me to make an empty threat?”

Tony swallows and shakes his head. He doesn't start getting dressed until Rogers looks away.

“Lay low while I clean up the messes you made with this little stunt,” calls Rogers as he leaves the room. “Don't do anything to earn that bullet.”

Tony blows out a breath and wonders wryly if coming to Rogers was really the right choice if he wanted to raise his chance of survival. He smirks, collecting himself before heading out the door.

Hell of a ride, though.