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Tony throws it out into the void without even moving his lips. He's broadcasting on an encrypted channel, the one he set up for him and Steve for times nothing like these.

“We need to talk,” he says. “Neutral ground. The mansion. 16h00 tomorrow.”

He swallows.

“There are things,” he says, “things I need to tell you. Before this escalates further.” It’s hard being so candid, and he wonders how he’ll fare when it’s them meeting in person if he can’t even set this up on an empty channel.

Tony thinks of whispered messages in the dark, of messages he’s sent under duress, of hurriedly scrawled notes pressed into gloved hands. He remembers there was a time Steve would die trying to answer one of Tony’s summonses.

He doubts that’s still the case.

“Well,” he says to no one, “I’ll be there.”

He cuts the channel, and wonders if Steve will be.

He hopes he can do this, and steels himself for failure anyway.




Tony goes, because he would like to believe that there are still things in this world that can surprise him.

He’s not sure if Steve will show or not, but he draws the armor around himself in case he does. He wouldn’t put it past Steve to do him real physical harm, at this point. It’s habit, now, anyway. He’s found it’s easier to give the orders to hunt your friends down when no one can see your face, easier to be a traitor when you don’t have to look at your own reflection.

Tony sits at the dining room table and waits, with room upon empty room to keep him company.  He needs to gather his head, to do this, so he shuts down Extremis. This is too important, no matter how Reed is doing with the Thorbot, no matter who else has switched sides in the past hour. No more crutches, no more distractions. Because he’s all alone on this one, this - secret joy-turned-pain of his that he’s been sitting on for years.

That’s Tony’s M.O., after all, push everyone away, disappear when it gets to be too much. Trust no one.

Except Steve, and that’s the problem, isn’t it.

Tony can feel it, can sense the pieces of his world rearranging themselves. They’re not going to come back from this if something doesn’t change, they aren’t going to recover, they aren’t going to be what they were. He knows this, he’s a futurist.  

All his cards are about to be on the table, and maybe that will be enough.

He hears Steve jump the gate, watches him shed the trenchcoat that can’t hide the red of his boots. He pulls the cowl down over his face, slings his shield over his shoulder and onto his arm.

Ready for a fight.

Tony’s no better, really. He came in the armor. They both know why. There’s too many ways this could go wrong, and their recent interactions have grown stilted and forced and violent. They don’t trust each other enough to show up in civilian clothes.

“I thought you’d think it’d be a trap,” Tony admits. He’s being honest, but it’s ok, because the helmet distorts his voice enough that Steve can’t pick up on it.

“You wouldn’t,” Steve says. “Not here.” So sure. It’s more than Tony deserves, his faith. Steve’s always given him more than he deserves.

“One thing,” Steve says, like he's asking a favor of a friend. “I’ll talk to Tony Stark, not that mask.”

Just like that, Tony loses his nerve.




“Join me,” says Steve.

The words sound so utterly noble, and so hopelessly naïve, but Tony leans into the cadence of Steve’s voice, lets himself believe for the merest fraction of a second that this is their out, this is his out, that if he takes Steve up on it, at least they’ll crash and burn and suffer together. On the same side. In each other’s arms.

“Denounce the act and help me fight it.” There’s promise in his eyes. Hope.

Tony wants, so desperately, to acquiesce, to be pulled by Steve’s clever voice and to be led, to surrender himself to the lure of blissful irresponsibility. But too much of him is screaming that it’s too late for that, because Bill is dead, isn’t he, and Tony’s gotten a taste of playing god.

Tony is too proud, works himself in too deep until he can’t see a way out. It’s the way it’s always been, it’s the only way he’s ever seen fit to even try living up to other people (Steve), because disappointing Steve is a fate worse than death. If it means Tony’s got to dig in his heels to prove he stands for something, then by god, he’ll do it.

He's just too stubborn. Just has to run his mouth and counter. He knows he should stop talking, that Steve isn’t going to join him, but silence would be worse, and he can’t bear to swallow his pride right now. It’s draining, perpetually chipping away at each other’s weaknesses and flaws, and Tony breaks a little more, because he’s not strong enough to even talk about current events, much less dredging up the past ten years of bearing this thing in silence–

 “–Help me change things from within,” Tony finishes. It sounds weak. Proselytizing doesn’t suit him, as often as he does it. Honesty would be better, he’s sure, but if it were that easy, they wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

If it were that easy, he and Steve might be each other’s by now.

Please, he doesn’t say.

Steve lowers his eyes and an implacable sadness Tony’s never quite seen before arranges itself on his face.

“Within what? A cell? Because whether or not you can see the bars, that’s where I’d be. Where we’d all be,” Steve says.

Tony thinks no and I don’t care and anything is better than this and you fucking idiot, Steve. Because it’s not fair, that they should be reduced to this, pleading with only crumbling cement and rebar as their witnesses, that this is all they get for themselves in exchange for all they’ve done for the world.

It’s not fair, and the injustice of it all wells up inside Tony faster than he can push it down and he slams his fist down on the rotting wood of the dining room table.

DAMN YOU,” he roars. It echoes off the crumbling walls.

Steve closes his eyes for the briefest second, and turns away.

“I should go,” he says. “We’re not going to solve anything here.”

And that might be it, these might be the last words they’ll ever speak, the next time they meet might be never, because Bill has thrown this whole thing into blindingly sharp relief.

Every fiber of Tony’s being is screaming that he can’t let this be the way Steve remembers him.  

He springs forward, grabs wildly at Steve’s shoulder. “No, we’re not done yet –“

Tony regrets grabbing him a few seconds after he’s done it. He doesn’t have license to do this anymore. Steve’s not his. He never was.

Steve whirls around like he’s been burned and slaps Tony’s hand away.


It hurts, the way Steve works his jaw into a snarl, bares his teeth ever so slightly, and Tony can’t even be impressed by the quality of this new pain he’s never felt before, because the fear that lances deep in his gut shocks him, because it’s one thing to know that Steve isn’t his, it’s another to have it thrown in his face–

“Get. Your hand. Off.”

He's looking at Tony like he hates him.

And just like that, Tony knows.

This isn’t salvageable anymore.

It shudders through him, betrayal and rage and helplessness, and he screams out weeks of isolation and pent-up rage and loss.

The armor clatters to the floor, and he stands with his arms fisted and wide. His whole body is charged with something he has no name for, the tension sings through his tendons and across his golden skin. He knows Steve won’t rise to his bait, but it’s all he can do, because this has gone so horrendously wrong and now he’s aching for a fight.

Steve considers him, exasperation and bitterness boiling behind his eyes.

“All right,” he says, his voice flat.

A concession. Steve doesn’t have time for him any more.

He throws his shield down.

“Let’s go,” says Steve.

It’s nothing like the times they’ve fought before.

Steve goes right for Tony’s throat, like he’s been itching to do it for weeks. And maybe he has, maybe this was always coming and it’s just another thing that Tony’s missed along the way, too wrapped up in trying to be better.

Tony likes to think that the Extremis made him a little bit more like Steve, likes thinking it’s given him a physicality that makes him more than just a guy in an armored suit. Everyone’s been trying to recreate the serum for years, he knows, he’s just one in a long line of accidents, of experiments, not unique by any means. But he’s reveled in thinking he’s got that in common with Steve now – everything that could have gone wrong, didn’t. He knows now, what it’s like to be broken down into component parts, to be remade in pain and blood into something better.

Tony gets a shot off and feels his knuckles slam against Steve’s jaw.

But this - Steve’s taught Tony well over the years, but Tony’s always been best at fighting with his toys. Hand to hand, though, Steve's old hat at this. He’s been dodging and ducking like his life’s depended on it for years, before Tony was even a gleam in Howard’s eye.

Tony is out of his element. Tony is a science experiment gone miraculously off the rails. Tony is a smartass playing at being a hero.

Steve is a good man who happens to be a super soldier. 

(Tony is nothing like Steve–)

Steve breaks his jaw. Tony only just catches the spray of red in his peripheral vision as his head snaps back.

He's magnificent, even still, danger and ferocity distilled into a scarily efficient fighting machine. Tony’s seen him fight a thousand times, knows the skill and grace of his movements, the way he twists and pivots and grabs, like it’s a dance he’s known his whole life. Steve is truly a force to be reckoned with, and Tony’s allowed himself to forget, because Steve would never hurt him, never lets himself go, never lets out this animal thing inside him.

Steve’s knuckles connect with his nose and Tony feels the burn as it breaks, feels the blood slide over his lips and down his throat.

Tony didn’t count on Steve not pulling his punches.

Steve is brawling, and he’s all meticulously calibrated savagery. Tony lands a hit here and there, but Steve carries on like he doesn’t even feel it – and maybe he doesn’t. Steve is heavier than he is, stronger, almost certainly has a higher pain tolerance than Tony. The perfect man.

Tony grabs Steve’s armor ineffectually, tries to kick him in the ribs, but Steve sidesteps easily and stomps on Tony’s foot a split-second after it lands. Tony shouts in surprise and pain, because that was low of Steve, and he tries shifting his weight to compensate, swaying on his good foot.

Steve is playing dirty today, though, and he slams Tony down on his back like he’s inconsequential even as an adversary.

Tony feels his back dig into the rubble, feels the air leave his lungs, tastes the tang of blood in his mouth. He looks up and sees the soldier in Steve’s face, sees how pain has hardened it, how it’s made his eyes cruel.

Tony’s never noticed that before.

Steve is kneeling over him, his gloved hand still squeezing around Tony’s gilded throat.

“Why must you always push me so?” Steve says. He spits blood to the side, his hand never leaving Tony’s throat. “I wanted to fix this,” he says, his voice breaking a little. “I came here because I thought we could still patch this up.” He tightens his mouth into a grimace like he’s holding back tears. “Damn it, Tony.”

Tony is too busy having his world collapse to respond. He stares up at Steve. He’s sure his eye is already blacking up, sure his bottom lip is split and bleeding, sure he’s not getting enough oxygen.

He has nothing to offer Steve, there’s nothing he can say, because Steve is right, he pushes and pushes and–

“I did,” Tony says desperately. “I wanted – I still want –”

But Steve isn’t listening. Steve kisses him, and it hurts. He’s brutal about it, clacks their teeth together, bites down on Tony’s split lip. Rakes his teeth over the tip of Tony’s tongue.


Steve pulls back and his hand is still on Tony’s throat, and he looks at Tony, and there's something like betrayal wrapped in pain in his eyes. As if Tony was the instigator. As if it’s Tony who’s forced his hand.

(This isn’t fair.)

Tony wants Steve, but not like this, not anger mistaken for passion. He wants Steve on silk sheets back in his penthouse, or here, but gently, not this violent parody of what he’s been pining for all these years.

Tony thinks maybe this is the only way he deserves to have him.  

The irony is not lost on him.

“Tell me no,” Steve says, shifting his weight from knee to knee, grinding his body incidentally against Tony’s.

Tony can’t say no.

Steve doesn’t wait for an answer, just leans down and presses his crushing weight and heat against Tony’s chest. He keeps the one hand down at Tony’s throat, settles his right on Tony's cheek. It’s a gesture that should be gentle, but Steve’s hands are big, and he presses the pad of his thumb in the soft hollow between the line of Tony’s jaw and his ear, exerts just enough pressure so that Tony can’t really move away. He runs his tongue over the seam of Tony’s lips, and how can Tony refuse him. He licks in around the corner of Tony’s mouth, sucks at his bottom lip, drags his teeth over the swollen parts. He tastes faintly of mint, and he fucks his tongue into Tony’s mouth, licks around Tony’s and bites down.

It hurts, what he’s doing. Steve either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Tony wants to kiss him back, match his ferocity bit by bit, but his mouth is well and truly smashed up. He reciprocates weakly, tries to grab Steve’s bottom lip between his, but Steve is rougher than Tony's ever imagined he could be, and Tony is bleeding and exhausted and desolate, so he lets Steve have his way. Lets him grind his head into the ground. Lets Steve pin him down with nothing but muscle and determination.


Steve’s hand goes away from his jaw and snakes down to his chest, traces the contours of his musculature. He moves lower, ghosts over Tony's hipbone, comes to settle on the bulge that’s been on display this whole time - there’s nothing to hide, the undersheath is less than a millimeter thick, and Steve palms him through it even as he’s still ruining his mouth. He’s just touching metal, but it’s metal that’s wired into Tony’s central nervous system, and he feels every inch of it, detects the faintest increments of pressure that his body never could before.

Tony is fairly certain his wrist is broken, but Extremis is already knitting the bones back together, and he brings one hand up to yank the cowl off and tangle in Steve’s sweat-damp hair, settles the other on his waist. He lets the armor recede enough so his hands are exposed, so the leather of Steve’s costume feels clammy and humid and warm under his fingers. He pulls Steve further into him like he can’t feel enough of him, like he’s never going to get to do this again –

He won’t.

He reminds himself that love shouldn’t factor into this.

This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t –

Tony tries to re-orient, to sit up, to be an active participant, propping himself up on one elbow. Steve isn’t having it, and he shoves hard at Tony’s left shoulder, slams him back into the debris on the floor.

Tony stays down after that.

He’s moved on, left Tony’s mouth red and slick and bleeding. He’s mouthing at the line of Tony’s jaw, at the place where metal meets skin. “Turn it off,” Steve says. He’s worked up, Tony can tell, can feel, the rhythm of his breath is falling heavy and thick. “Whatever you do, make it go away.”

Tony does. He pulls the undersheath back into his skin, and the air is cool on the film of sweat he’s been working up. He’s not wearing anything but boxer briefs underneath, since he wears the armor almost exclusively these days.

He knows he should stop, he knows this isn’t what either of them need beyond the immediacy of lust and he still doesn’t know where he stands.

It scares him.

But Tony’s never been good at saying no, but he’s always been great at getting what he wants, haven’t, I, Steve, and right now that’s Steve rutting against his thigh and sinking his teeth into the flesh of his neck. It keeps running, in the back of his mind, all the ways he could use this, all the ways this could fix things, all the ways it can only dig them in deeper. It cycles, and cycles, and he panics and despairs.

“Steve,” he says. “Just - ”

Steve takes the hand off his throat, finally, and brings it up to cover his mouth instead. Tony tastes leather and sweat and Steve stops working at his neck long enough to hiss in his ear. 

“Stop," he says, "or I’ll gag you."

Steve’s had enough of his lies.

Tony could bite his hand, could call the armor right now, could bring his knee up, hard

Tony doesn’t move, and grunts into Steve’s palm.

Steve is sucking a bruise into Tony’s neck now, and the hand that isn’t muzzling him is skimming along the length of Tony’s cock over his underwear. It’s just the slightest suggestion of pressure, but Steve’s fingers are big and his body is warm on Tony’s and he moans into Steve’s hand involuntarily. He’s half-hard, can feel himself swell with warmth, and Steve hasn’t even touched him yet –

Steve has his mouth around one of Tony’s nipples, and his fingers are slipping under the band of Tony’s underwear, just teasing inside, wrapping themselves around the thick base of Tony’s cock, tickling along the head as much as he can manage from this angle. He wonders vaguely how far Steve intends to go with this, and then grinds up into what turns out to be Steve’s rock-hard stomach, because Steve has shifted downwards so he can latch onto Tony’s nipple and god – he’s desperate for pressure, the heat of Steve's body, anything

And then Steve’s weight is gone, and Tony is being pulled up, broad hands dragging the entirety of his weight from where he’s been sprawled on the floor. His entire body aches and he can’t believe he’s doing this, here, in the dust and grime, where Steve’s settled him on his knees. He watches Steve lean against the table as he undoes his belt, blood on his knuckles, unzips his fly and pulls out his cock without further preamble.

Tony dares to look up and sees what he thought was only the stuff of legend and masturbatory fantasy - Steve’s hair is all fucked around, and his face is all flushed and there might be a gossamer strand of spit glistening on his chin. He yanks his gloves off with his teeth – an afterthought – and takes himself in hand. He looks obscene, he hasn’t even taken off the scale, he’s just standing there, towering over Tony like a Playgirl spread, his cock jutting out from the confines of his too-tight pants.

Tony knows how he must look – it’s not like he’s never filmed himself – and oh – Steve is fisting his other hand through Tony’s hair like he owns him, running a thumb over Tony’s bottom lip.

“Open,” says Steve. It’s not a request.

So that’s how far Steve is taking this.

Tony wants to say wait and Steve and this isn’t how I wanted this to go and then Steve’s dick is resting on his tongue, and he finds himself unable to do much but try to breath around the blood in his throat, his nose, the warm flesh in his mouth. Steve is being gentler than he could be, but Tony’s jaw is still broken.

Then Steve wraps a hand around the nape of Tony’s neck and slides the other one back under his jaw and grips, and Tony’s eyes tear up at the pain of it. Steve is looking down at him, he must see that Tony’s inches away from crying.

It doesn’t even slow him down.

Steve isn’t waiting for Tony to do the work, he’s not easing into this. He thrusts forward into Tony’s mouth.

(Tony thought Steve would be a more considerate lover.)

Tony tries to relax his throat, but he’s never actually been good at that, and he hasn’t done this in a very long time, not since Tiberius –

(Tony thought he would have given anything for this.)

It occurs to Tony that he’s underestimated Steve’s disregard for his comfort. There’s splintered wood and possibly broken glass pressing into his bare knees and he can’t draw a full breath around Steve’s cock in his mouth. Steve is stronger than he is, a metric ton of sculpted thigh, and Tony suspects that even if he couldn’t take it - he can, and will, for now - even if he begged Steve to stop, pushed him off and away, Steve might just hold him down and do it anyway.

Tell me no, he’d said.

Something roils in his stomach, because he’d always imagined doing this with a man he trusted.

This is everything and nothing he’s ever wanted. That seems to be the way his life is going.

Steve’s changed and he didn’t notice, between fighting and losing his mind and turning his body inside out. Tony wants to believe that the Steve that carried Tony out of a burning building once, the Steve that’s always called him on his bullshit, the Steve that once told him he’d better fucking check himself is still there, but he’s honestly not sure. He seems to have gotten lost in beneath this unfathomable darkness that’s built up somewhere along the way.

Tony suspects he’s the architect.

You’re the perfect man, Steve.

Tony gets it now.

He wonders how long he’s been missing these things, how long Steve has been barking orders, if he snaps at Luke now, at Peter. At Sharon. Tony wonders how long Steve has been pretending.

They’re not so different.

Steve is hurting him, gripping too tightly, and Tony makes a weak noise of protest that never really makes it out of his mouth. He flattens his tongue against the underside of Steve’s cock in what he feels is really a very charitable move, given the circumstances. Steve is fucking his mouth like a champ, burying himself too deep down Tony’s throat, never really allowing him the opportunity to breathe. Tony would be touching himself right now if he weren’t so dizzy, if it wouldn’t hurt to work his broken wrist under the elastic of his underwear - he feels himself swelling, the itch of his head nestled against his own thigh. He brings his hands up to Steve’s hips instead, taps weakly on his hipbones, wonders if Steve can even feel it through his pants.

Steve grips his head harder.

He can't take it. He pushes at Steve’s hips as best he can with his nose pressed into his very blond pubes, but it’s a losing battle. He's seeing spots in his vision, and he wonders, vaguely, if he can recalibrate his skin with Extremis to get more oxygen –

Steve stiffens a little more, and Tony works his swollen tongue wildly against the glans as much as he’s able, because if he can help speed this along, he’s going to do it. Two, three, four more thrusts, and Tony feels Steve coming in spurts down his throat, swamping his mouth. He gags a little and splutters and chokes, and he feels it spilling out the corners of his mouth. His face is still pressed into Steve’s crotch, and he can feel Steve doubling over a little, curling his body around Tony’s head.

Tony is about ten seconds from passing out if he stays like this, so he tries to pull away again, and Steve lets him go this time, too winded to stop him. He sits back on his heels and braces his hands on his knees, gasping for air like a drowning man. Steve is leaning against the table, head bowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants. He looks up ever so slightly, and something like a sneer crosses his face as he stares at Tony.

“You’re an asshole,” Tony says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it doesn’t do much, doesn’t catch the cum that’s dripped into his lap or down his neck. He touches his jaw to make sure it’s still on, and winces because it’s still broken.

He feels awful.

And then Steve is crossing to him, hauling him to his feet, and pressing him against the wall. He wedges a knee between Tony’s legs, kicks Tony’s knees apart.  

“Is this how you pictured it?” Steve says. He brings his hand up and spits into it. Tony doesn’t look down, he just looks at this thing that’s called Steve Rogers and his angry blue eyes, terror bursting bright in his eyes, feels Steve’s fingers brush over the wet spot he’s soaked into his underwear, feels Steve yanking them down and wrapping his fingers around his dick. Steve brings his other hand back up to run his thumb over the bruise he’s made on Tony’s throat, to twist one of Tony’s nipples.

Tony rolls his eyes back into his head so he doesn’t have to see anymore.

"Is this your endgame, Tony?” Steve whispers, vicious, his mouth inches from Tony’s own.

Tony’s not as big as Steve, but he’s thick. Steve has broad hands, though, deft, and strengthened by years of throwing a glorified vibranium Frisbee, so he can easily manage the entire circumference of Tony’s cock, and Tony can feel his calluses as he drags his hand up and down. There’s not enough lube, and he feels too much friction for it to really be pleasurable, but he’s been turned on for a bit, and Steve slides his palm maddeningly slowly up and back.

“Send me over the edge?” Steve runs his hand around the head, twists and pivots his wrist. That’s better, Tony’s starting to leak a little and it’s slicker, but then Steve squeezes until it’s almost painful.

“Wind me up? Wait for me to lose it?” There’s pain laced into the anger now. And Tony opens his eyes at that, because the anger – it that’s what this is – is still winning out. It’s alien, and kind of terrifying, and yes, Tony can’t help but be perversely pleased that the legend is unraveling, that Captain America has his hand around Tony’s dick.  

You live by standards and ideals that are impossible for anyone but you.

Steve spits into his hand again, and when he brings it back to Tony’s cock, it’s warm and deliciously slick. He jerks his hand harder and faster, keeps his thumb working over the juncture between shaft and head, runs it over Tony’s slit. Tony slams his head back into the wall, balls his hands into fists. Whimpers into his own shoulder. Moans.

You’re Captain America.

“Fuck me as a distraction?”

“Fuck you,” Tony spits out, and there’s nothing but venom in his mouth, but he can’t even bring himself to feel what Steve is saying, because he’s rapidly losing touch with everything but Steve’s hand around his cock. “How –ahhh – how can you even fucking say - ”

“Because I know you,” Steve snarls. “Is it working?

Tony is so close, and Steve’s breath is so hot, and he can feel his balls tightening and hitching up, can feel himself clenching his thighs to get more tension in his groin, can feel himself slipping over the edge-

You don’t make mistakes.

Tony’s vision greys out for a minute and he comes with a half-sob all over his own stomach. Steve keeps flicking his thumb over the head of Tony’s cock well after it’s comfortable, keeps his arm pressed across Tony’s chest, pinning him to the wall.

He wants to push Steve away, but Tony’s pretty sure Steve’s arm is the only thing that’s holding him up. So Tony slumps and tries to use his unbroken hand to brace himself against the wall, and not against Steve. His knees are shaking. His whole body is shaking, because he’s fairly certain Steve only brought him off out of spite.

He stares up at Steve, and feels the cum drying on his neck, on his stomach and blinks back tears. Anything, he thinks. Give me anything.

There's nothing to be had in the blank ecstasy that's quick to leave Steve's face. He's looking angry and flushed, now, and if it wasn’t so awful it would be impressive, because if Steve still hasn’t fucked out all his frustration by now, Tony’s really underestimated his own ability to ruin the people he loves. He blinks, and blinks, because his eyes are burning and threatening to spill over with desolation and shame, so he reaches down and goes about tucking himself into his boxer briefs.

Steve’s hand closes around Tony’s wrist. “No,” he says. “We’re not done yet.”

It settles in Tony’s gut like he’s been punched.

“Oh, ok,” Tony says. “It’s nice to hear fucking my face didn’t do it for you, but I’m done. You’re on your own.” He moves to push Steve’s arm off him, but Steve is hard again, and he’s pressing his erection against Tony’s thigh.

“How are you still hard?” Tony doesn’t even bother trying to hide the exhaustion creeping into his voice. He tries to swat Steve's hand away, but Steve just grabs his wrist and twists his arm up behind his back.

Steve is walking him backwards, grabbing at his ass, smearing cum across his hip, working a hand down the back of his boxers, and Tony doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Steve pauses to undo the clasps on the scale, lets it clatter to the floor in a shimmering pile, pulls his shirt off. He’s making out with Tony’s neck again, licking up under his jaw. He’s tugging on Tony’s hair, running his hands over Tony’s pecs, scratching his nails into the small of Tony’s back.

He could sob right now, if it wasn't his fantasy playing out in every way he never wanted. 

Tony goes for broke, because he can still excel at twisting a situation to his own advantage, can’t I, Steve? He drags Steve away from his neck, kisses him fiercely, runs his hands everywhere he can, down Steve’s leathered thigh, tries to regain some measure of control. He shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth, because he wants to make this as filthy as he can. He wants Steve to taste himself in Tony’s mouth.

They idolize you, Steve.

Steve doesn’t want to be kissed, doesn’t want to taste himself. He bites his lip and shoves a hand over Tony’s mouth.

“No,” Steve says. He yanks Tony’s boxers down roughly enough that they rip, all the way down, this time, over the curve of his ass. Steve kicks them down to his knees. Tony makes a muffled noise against Steve’s hand, tries to lick his palm to get him to let go.

We all do.

Steve swills his fingers through the mess on Tony’s chest.

“How am I doing, Tony?” He coats his fingers in Tony’s cum. “What was it you were saying, before?”

Steve slides his fingers down into the cleft of Tony’s ass.

“Tell me, Tony,” he says, and his voice is beyond angry, beyond broken.


“Still think I’m incorruptible?”

If everyone were like you, we wouldn't need registration.

Of course that would be what Steve thinks.

Tony can feel Steve’s fingers sliding around, flinches at the wetness that’s not quite body temperature anymore, and Steve presses a finger in.

Tony can't help that he gasps into Steve’s hand.

Steve’s face is all screwed up into unreadable lines, but his eyes are hard and cold and relentless. He works his finger around, and it burns because Tony’s spent and over-sensitive and his whole body is tense. He wants to protest, but Steve is stronger than he is and he’s still got his hand clamped down on Tony’s face.

Tony’s eyes momentarily widen in pain, and the corner of Steve’s mouth twitches upward like he wants to smile. He presses another finger in.

Everything and nothing Tony wants, Tony gets. He wonders, vaguely, half-heartedly, why he’s still going along with this.

(He’s going to hate himself tomorrow.)

Tony’s breath hitches and he wriggles a little on Steve’s fingers, spreads his legs, because Steve is curling up his fingers now and he can’t help how good that feels.

(He hates himself already.)

Steve is grinding against him, his hand worked in between them, and he’s adding a third finger. It’s too much, too fast, not enough lube. It hurts. He's doing real damage. Tony grunts in pain and wonders if Steve is ever going to take his hand off Tony’s mouth. If Steve’s trying to make him come again, from this, he’s doing an awful job of it.

“MM,” Tony says into Steve’s hand, and Steve’s eyes narrow before he pulls it away. “Don’t bother, I’m not gonna come again. Let’s just – I can get you off, again, but, just –“

Steve laughs an empty little laugh, and he puts his hand back over Tony’s mouth.

“What makes you think this is about you?” Steve says, and Tony has absolutely nothing to say to that. 

I think it’s more personal than either of us realized.

Steve thrusts his fingers in doubly hard. Tony whimpers, because this isn’t how he thought his day would go, didn’t think it was possible to be hurt by this more than he already was. Steve takes his hand away from Tony’s mouth to scrape up more of Tony’s cum. It’s not going to be enough, they should have real lube, but they both know Tony’s not going to complain. Steve spits into his hand and runs it over himself, harder than he has any right to be, and then nudges against him with the tip of his cock.

Tony doesn’t say anything. He turns his head away and closes his eyes.

Steve presses in.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice tight with pleasure (is it pain, it might be, let it be pain)–

Tony opens his eyes and tries not to look like he’s in excruciating pain. Steve’s lips are all red and shiny, and his mouth widens into a pleased O as he presses in further. His pace is leisurely enough, at least, but he’s still enormous, and Tony’s barely stretched and, really, spit just isn’t cutting it.

(This is so wrong, they should have done this properly, they should have done this years ago, and he’s such a fucking idiot –)

Steve slides all the way in and stops, presses his whole body up against Tony. He stills, but Tony can feel how taut he’s stretched, can feel the heat of sweat and cum and blood running down his chest and onto Steve’s.

Steve doesn’t give him more than a minute before he moves. He rips Tony's boxers the rest of the way so he can hitch his legs up around his bare waist, holds him up with the weight of his body and one hand under his ass. That shouldn’t be possible, but it’s Steve, and Tony is once again reminded that he’s really never fully appreciated the extent of Steve’s strength.

Steve braces one of his hands next to Tony’s head on the wall, and thrusts.

It’s a sharp pain that rips to his core. Steve is too big, it’s too much, and Tony’s still too tight and not nearly slick enough, but Steve keeps moving, steadier, deeper, and Tony’s mildly alarmed that he can’t tell if Steve’s holding back or not. He’s sure he’s tearing, he can feel his own tissue ripping, and it’s horrifying.

“Fuck,” Tony says, halfway between a hiss and a sob. “Fuck, Steve,” he says, “Please, just, nnh, hurts,” as if it will make a difference.

“Good,” Steve says, and carries on.

Tony’s heart breaks.

Tony wraps his arms around Steve’s back like he’s holding on for dear life, because he wants so desperately for this to be something other than what it is.

Steve buries himself deeper still, and Tony doesn’t hold back his tears anymore.

Steve thrusts and thrusts and Tony feels blood trickling out around his thighs, feels it sticking in his pubes. He's raw from the friction, he's sure. He screws his face up in pain. He tightens his legs around Steve as much as he can with a broken foot and clings even as he bites into his own lip. Steve isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s just staring off into space as he quivers with the effort of holding Tony against the wall. He must be close, because he bows his head, presses himself against Tony so fiercely he thinks he’ll suffocate. He presses his cheek against Tony’s ear, and Tony can feel the dampness in Steve's hair, the sweat on his neck.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

Tony whimpers before he can catch himself, because Steve is setting a brutal pace now, he’s barely hanging on as it is, Steve isn’t indicating he gives a damn about splitting Tony open with every thrust–

And then Steve shudders, and Tony can feel him spasming against his chest, can feel Steve spilling deep inside him. Steve thrusts through it, pushes his come in deeper, and then stills, buried to the hilt.

Steve tucks his face into Tony’s neck and pants, his breath hot against his throat.

Tony is still crying when Steve pulls away.




Steve lowers them both down and slides out of Tony’s embrace. He’s obviously winded, because he rolls to the side and props himself against the wall.

Tony slumps, rests all of his weight on one flank, because his whole body feels like an open wound. There’s blood and cum sliding out of his ass, and he tries to move away from Steve, tries to reach for what’s left of his briefs so he can mop up, but moving is too painful, so he leaves them there.

Sloppy, he thinks. Used.

His vision is all fucked up because he’s been crying, but he keeps his eyes open even though he can’t see through the blur of tears. He settles for hiding his face in his hands. He tries not to think about what’s he’s just done, just reaches into his mind to get the undersheath back on his skin.

But he can’t find it, can’t think straight enough to make it come back, he’s all overheated and in pain and sobbing into his hands.

He hears Steve move, and when he looks up, Steve’s looking at him, looking at his filthy face that’s covered in blood and cum and tears.

He thinks of all that could have been, and he breaks into tears and snot and curls into himself. And it’s embarrassing, he knows it’s embarrassing, but this is why he doesn’t show his face anymore. Steve’s the first one that’s seen it in ages, and he wishes he hadn’t.

“I fucking hate you,” Tony says.

Steve just looks at him, and says, “Yeah.” He gets up, brushes the dirt off his ass.

“Yeah,” Tony echoes. His throat is raw.

Don’t make this personal.

It’s all nothing.

Steve is putting his shirt back on, redoing his armor like nothing even happened. He doesn’t look at Tony.

“That’s all?” Tony asks.

Steve looks around for his gloves and huffs. “What more is there to say?”

Tony sobs around the laugh that rises in his throat. “Do you even know? Do you even fucking know what I came here to tell you?” He’s sobbing and spitting and his mouth is curled up in a snarl.

He wants to say it, he wants it all to be better, he wants to go back, he wants to erase everything. He wishes Nick Fury had never handed him the fucking folder. He wishes he could just be honest about this, for once, in his disgusting life, that he could be honest about this one fucking thing that matters.

He can’t make his mouth say the words. He can’t make his brain work. He’s broken.

Nothing matters.

“Tony - ” Steve starts, and it’s too much, it’s too fucking much, and Tony’s done.

“Just go, Steve,” he gets out, “just – fucking go.”

He bends to pick up his shield, casts a last glance at Tony curled up pathetically against the wall, and turns to go.

He stops in the splintering doorway without looking back.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” he says, after a moment.

And then he’s gone.