If emotion is something to push down, something to hide and to examine only when the collection jar is full and that the weight of everything inside of it has compressed and distorted each individual piece, then Tony’s jar is about ready to explode into shards and ruin. Sex was supposed to be a vehicle for safe release, to be a valve to maintain the pressure at meaningful levels. Sex before the world ended really had been just that. Sex now that he’s one of only two people alive with the only other person alive, despite being surrounded by other alive people trapped six years perpetually in their past, is incredibly emotional.
He has no frame of reference for this. He has positions and pleasures and muscle memory of what this should be like, but his brain has a tripped a circuit along the way. He knows he should tease. He should deny Steve pleasure, he should be in charge and be present and be the god damned leader for this ritual of intimacy. But he can’t. All Tony can do is shake his head, and then nod his head, before his arms wrap around Steve’s neck and his fingers press against his spine.
There is work to be done. Dangerous work, work with the biggest stakes they’ve ever faced and a reward that they can simply never enjoy. There is another Tony, maybe in his workshop, maybe on a mission, maybe having sex with Pepper on the floor of a building almost finished construction. There’s another Steve too, sleepless, hitting a bag filled with sand, feeling the pressure of loss great enough to destroy most people and using it to throw each punch.
When the world turns to dust and then carries on like it’s never happened or going to happen, all Tony wants to do is connect.
Sex is a connection. It’s not a release. It’s not a pleasure. It’s a bond. It’s a promise. “We do everything together,” he whispers, kissing while he speaks or before he speak or after. Maybe all three. If he’s going to come, Steve must do so too. And if he’s going to survive any of this, he can’t do it alone.
What he wants is to feel the blond inside of him again. Or he wants to be inside of the blond. He wants the grittiness, the shared breath. He wants to lose the safety net too. The propriety of safety to this bout of pleasure. Maybe he’ll demand it next time. There’s always going to be a next time, until he physically is incapable of it. It’s not comforting to him the way it is to Steve that he’ll return to the same dust as everyone else, either literally from Thanos’ snap, or the act of murder that they had committed by erasing their present to replace it with a new version of their past.
It’s going to be a long early morning. Tony comes first, and when Steve’s hot semen explodes across the pattern already marking his chest, Tony feels better. The jar hasn’t exploded and the emotions packed inside of it haven’t been too badly compacted. He’s freed some, made space for more. It helps that Steve loves him through this. Love is the best connection a man can hope for. It’s a tether Tony doesn’t mind having attached.
The sun is up when the act is complete and Tony, for once, doesn’t wriggle away to clean up. It’s a monumental leap, more than letting Steve make love to him could ever be. He doubts the blond understands that.
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Date: 2018-07-18 05:08 pm (UTC)He has no frame of reference for this. He has positions and pleasures and muscle memory of what this should be like, but his brain has a tripped a circuit along the way. He knows he should tease. He should deny Steve pleasure, he should be in charge and be present and be the god damned leader for this ritual of intimacy. But he can’t. All Tony can do is shake his head, and then nod his head, before his arms wrap around Steve’s neck and his fingers press against his spine.
There is work to be done. Dangerous work, work with the biggest stakes they’ve ever faced and a reward that they can simply never enjoy. There is another Tony, maybe in his workshop, maybe on a mission, maybe having sex with Pepper on the floor of a building almost finished construction. There’s another Steve too, sleepless, hitting a bag filled with sand, feeling the pressure of loss great enough to destroy most people and using it to throw each punch.
When the world turns to dust and then carries on like it’s never happened or going to happen, all Tony wants to do is connect.
Sex is a connection. It’s not a release. It’s not a pleasure. It’s a bond. It’s a promise. “We do everything together,” he whispers, kissing while he speaks or before he speak or after. Maybe all three. If he’s going to come, Steve must do so too. And if he’s going to survive any of this, he can’t do it alone.
What he wants is to feel the blond inside of him again. Or he wants to be inside of the blond. He wants the grittiness, the shared breath. He wants to lose the safety net too. The propriety of safety to this bout of pleasure. Maybe he’ll demand it next time. There’s always going to be a next time, until he physically is incapable of it. It’s not comforting to him the way it is to Steve that he’ll return to the same dust as everyone else, either literally from Thanos’ snap, or the act of murder that they had committed by erasing their present to replace it with a new version of their past.
It’s going to be a long early morning. Tony comes first, and when Steve’s hot semen explodes across the pattern already marking his chest, Tony feels better. The jar hasn’t exploded and the emotions packed inside of it haven’t been too badly compacted. He’s freed some, made space for more. It helps that Steve loves him through this. Love is the best connection a man can hope for. It’s a tether Tony doesn’t mind having attached.
The sun is up when the act is complete and Tony, for once, doesn’t wriggle away to clean up. It’s a monumental leap, more than letting Steve make love to him could ever be. He doubts the blond understands that.