Chapter Text
In a welcome respite, coarse, knobby fingers card languidly, leisurely, through the damp, silky strands of his hair, and press into his scalp with the faintest of pressures, scritch, and, immediately, tension dissipates from the haunches of his shoulders, from the rigid line of his spine.
Slivers of pleasure thrumming beneath his skin, smoothing the weary wrinkles from his forehead, and soothing the dull throb of his temple, Tony sighs, leans on his knees, droops and nestles his cheek on a thick, muscly thigh.
Delicate, and meticulous, a lover’s warm caress, the hand slides from the curls of his hair, and clasps the side of his face, and, once more, raises his head.
Firm, strangely fond, a thumb swipes across the seam of his lips, digs into the plush folds of his mouth, peeks into the white of his teeth, and he shudders, flushes shamelessly with want. He flicks his tongue for a fleeting taste before he diligently sucks the appendage into his mouth, dribbles of saliva on his chin.
(He relishes in the subsequent throaty moan, he lives to please, after all.)
When the thumb pops free of his mouth, and retracts, Tony manages a plaintive whine, flutters his eyelashes, and stares directly, blearily, into the thin rings of brilliant baby-blues.
(Tony drinks in the sight of him - from the golden-wheat of his hair, to the fair, Irish glow of his skin, and the massive cords of his muscles --)
Heat, rich, and carnal, flares in the depths of his steely gaze, and he drags a purposeful fingertip from the curve of Tony's jaw to the sun-kissed column of his throat, trails and prods the gold-circlet clasped to his nape.
(A gold band set with a fine, blue topaz sits heavy on his skin, elegant, and resplendent, and it's a collar meant to subjugate, discipline, and detain, and it's all his. He's earned it - he's been so good, so very good.)
And those blue, beady eyes sweep appreciatively, hungrily, along the contours of Tony's lithe, sinewy figure, marvel the array of trinkets, and gifts, on display, the single shawl tapered to his waist, thoroughly intakes every inch.
Tony preens.
"Tony."
Gracious, generous, really, Tony spares him a flinty, furtive glance, and, disinterested, nudges his head against the frosty window pane, returns his focus to the stars filtering in the early dawn, searches, seeks.
(Heroic ventures and desperate endeavors have culminated, taken it's toll on Steve's features. Years of exhaustion, stress, and grief have marred, and creased, the last youthful hints of his skin. Chalky, wan, he seems well into his forties, but he's very much the same man, staunch and resolute. Even with the age of time, he's still so statuesque, still so beautiful.)
"We need to talk." Apprehensive, Steve pauses, lingers by the doorway, unsure, uncertain, how to approach this listless shell of Tony Stark, and, eventually, his stubborn will perseveres, and he strides into the room, the door sealing with a click. "Clint's, uh, he's okay, cleared medical. Luckily, it wasn't too serious - you missed his jugular, and I think your nails did more damage than your teeth - so we were able to treat him with the sparse resources we have. But, did you really need to attack him?"
Tony refuses to listen, refuses to deign him with further attention, and searches, and seeks, the morning sky, and there, Saturn shines near Antares, and the Scorpion Stinger's stars, Shaula and Lesath, of the Scorpius constellation, and --
"Tony."
Steve grips his shoulder, his meaty fingers in the swell of his biceps, and Tony flinches, hard, recoils, and slams into the wall. Stunned, absolutely horrified, a flash of hurt in his baby-blues, Steve slowly pulls back his hand.
"Get out of here." On the verge of panic, Tony rasps, "Get out."
Steve offers little else, retreats.
(Tony damns him for the fresh sting of tears. He's not him, he's not.)
.
.
.
Reluctantly, Tony allows for Steve to dab and clean the scrape, and deep, purple bruise, below the left of his eye - Steve denies him the use of the materials otherwise.
(Ginger, and nimble, and attentive, always so attentive, Steve pats clean gauze to the shallow wound, and the familiarity of it stirs an ache of something fierce in Tony's chest.)
"We're trying to help, Tony." Steve insists, wryly, quietly, "He was trying to help you."
Fear, visceral, instinctive, and cold, lances through him, and he fumbles for his collar, assures himself of its presence, and mumbles, "Shouldn't have touched me."
His brows pinched, Steve contests, sputters, "You shouldn't be collared like a -- like you're a damn dog, Tony." Adamant, he draws himself to his full height, clenches his hands into fists, his tactical uniform, and gear, frayed, tattered, "We want to help."
"I never asked for your help, Rogers."
Seven years, two months, and three days into the apocalyptic wasteland that has become their Earth, their home, they find him in California, in the rebuilt walls of his Malibu home, in the realm of the Titan's dominion.
Undisturbed, unperturbed, he sleeps, wrapped and burrowed in Egyptian cotton sheets.
(They fail to minimize the theatrics of breaking and entering - Clint trips, careens into the closet - they're not what they used to be. Snuffling, Tony rouses from the dregs of sleep, a small, drowsy smile on his lips, a mirthful gleam in his eyes until he recognizes the occupants in the bedroom.)
Lucid, he balks, scrambles and springs from the bed, stumbles onto weak, sore legs, and grapples onto nearby shelves for support.
Appalled, and perplexed, they collectively gasp - Tony, their Tony, once worn with age, presents the zest of life, the vitality of youth, his maturation smudged, smoothed away, and he's bare, save for a few pieces of jewelry, mottled with harsh, garish love-marks, painted and coated in something slick.
(Rightfully, they decide to rescue him.)
Unforgiving, and unyielding, he retaliates, resists their attempts to steal him into the night - clocks Lang square in the nose, lashes and claws into Barton's cheek - they, however, sedate him, a syringe to his neck, and make off with him.)
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.
.
For a mere month, they retain him.
Silent, selectively mute, perhaps, he keeps to himself in the confines of his designated room - they do not give the freedom to explore, anyhow - and, wary, dubious, he observes and scrutinizes them.
(He doesn't question or inquire the whereabouts of the other Avengers, his eyes on the bright sky full of stars, his hands on his collar, wistful, hopeful.)
It leaves them rattled.
Two weeks into his imprisonment, and the compound mostly devoid of Avengers, Tony attempts an escape, brandishes a shoddy swiss army knife, packs of gum, shoe strings, and paper clips he pilfered from their belongings, and wreaks havoc in his haste.
Steve narrowly fails to contain him.
Ultimately, Steve disarms and immobilizes Tony, encircles his arms under the hollows of Tony's own, and crushes Tony to his chest, secures his hands on the splay of Tony's neck.
Frantic, seized by hysterics, Tony screams, and struggles, and strains his muscles, sharp, white-hot pain searing the joints of his neck, and shoulders.
"Tony," Steve pleads, hoarse, urgent, "I need you to calm down. You're hurting yourself. Please, please stop moving." And he rambles, blurts flimsy reassurances that have haunted him upon their retrieval of Tony, "I'm not him, Tony, I promise. I'm not him."
(Startled, Tony lapses into momentary silence, swallows, lets the words sink in.)
Resentful, he spits, shrewd, bitter, "No, you're not."
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.
.
"Clint doesn't mean to be so - he's had a hell of a time, Tony, you have to understand. He hasn't been the same after, after Laura and the kids -- bullshit, none of us have been the same. Sam didn't, God, he didn't make it. We don't know if Thor and Bruce are okay, if Asgard survived, somehow. Or Wakanda, for that matter. We had correspondence with T'Challa for several weeks, but communications abruptly ended. There's been no sign of Fury, or Hill. And Wanda, fucking hell, Wanda's practically catatonic, she doesn't function anymore, not with the way Vision...and Scott, the man's hanging by a thread, Christ. Nat won't talk to me, not really, and Bucky doesn't want to even look at me. We're a goddamn mess."
.
.
"I'm sorry we couldn't do anything for Rhodes, Pepper, and Hogan. Or, Peter. I know how much they meant to you."
"They're far from dead, Rogers."
"Tony, there was - there was no way for them to withstand the onslaught of --"
"Rhodey, Pepper, Happy, Peter, May, Harley, Lila, they're all with me."
"Tony..."
"He saved them for me, you know. Just for me."
.
"I know the Accords really screwed things up for us, but we need you, Tony. I need you."
(Once. Yearning for the comfort and solace of their past, Steve tries to embrace Tony once. Vehement, Tony spurns and scorns him, brutally smacks his hands aside, dares him to try it again.)
In the spell of twenty-seven days, Tony's collar briefly, brightly, glitters, shimmers, and then, burns, scorches and blisters his throat. Anguished, his cheeks ruddy, stained in tears, Tony collapses onto the floor, cries, shrill, and strangled.
(He keeps his hands to his sides, hesitant to remove it.)
Swiftly, Natasha deduces the nature of the collar, reprimands Steve, yells, and orders him to take it from Tony, now.
Hastily, clumsily, Steve snags the front of Tony's collar, the blue stone in the center of his palm, his flesh sizzling, blotching, in sporadic bursts, and Tony, Tony looks to him, fright and dread in the pinpricks of his swollen gaze, and he croaks, implores, "Don't."
Steve snaps the collar in two.
(Snaps the remnants of Tony's fragile heart.)
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.
.
Lifeless, lethargic, and mournful, Tony crawls, and stays, in the linen of his bed, withers, and wilts - gives up.
.
.
Absently, he touches the discolored stretch of skin on his neck, scours for the collar that's no longer there.
.
(Yet again, he's been forsaken, forgotten.)
In a welcome respite, coarse, knobby fingers card languidly, leisurely, through the damp, silky strands of his hair, and press into his scalp with the faintest of pressures, scritch, and, immediately, tension dissipates from the haunches of his shoulders, from the rigid line of his spine.
Slivers of pleasure thrumming beneath his skin, smoothing the weary wrinkles from his forehead, and soothing the dull throb of his temple, Tony sighs, leans on his knees, droops and nestles his cheek on a thick, muscly thigh.
Delicate, and meticulous, a lover’s warm caress, the hand slides from the curls of his hair, and clasps the side of his face, and, once more, raises his head.
Firm, strangely fond, a thumb swipes across the seam of his lips, digs into the plush folds of his mouth, peeks into the white of his teeth, and he shudders, flushes shamelessly with want. He flicks his tongue for a fleeting taste before he diligently sucks the appendage into his mouth, dribbles of saliva on his chin.
(He relishes in the subsequent throaty moan, he lives to please, after all.)
When the thumb pops free of his mouth, and retracts, Tony manages a plaintive whine, flutters his eyelashes, and stares directly, blearily, into the thin rings of radiant, electric blues.
(Tony drinks in the sight of him - from the smooth slope of his head, to the gray-purple tint of his skin, and the massive cords of his muscles --)
Heat, rich, and carnal, flares in the depths of his steely gaze, and he drags a purposeful fingertip from the curve of Tony's jaw to the sun-kissed column of his throat, trails and prods the gold-circlet clasped to his nape.
(A gold band set with a fine, blue topaz sits heavy on his skin, elegant, and resplendent, and it's a collar meant to express the breadth of his devotion, the extent of his affections, the layers of his love, and it's all his. He's earned it - he's been so good, so very good.)
And those blue, beady eyes sweep appreciatively, hungrily, along the contours of Tony's lithe, sinewy figure, marvel the array of trinkets, and gifts, on display, the single shawl tapered to his waist, thoroughly intakes every inch.
Tony preens.
Uncomfortable, and uneasy, Steve gnashes his teeth, chokes out, "Did he - did he hurt you?"
"No, never." Tony confides, a note of finality in his tone. "He was always...kind."
(It's far too much for Steve to unpack, to discern, to sift and identify, and, terrified, he drops the interrogation, ducks out, and flees.)
Just days after Tony's been freed of his collar, all hell breaks loose.
Unbridled, unrestrained, the Chitauri swarm, infiltrate the compound, and easily, effortlessly, overwhelm what remains of the Avengers. It happens so quickly, so unfairly - the crunch of bodies, the slice of limbs, the splatters of blood.
A paragon of warlords, the Mad Titan, himself, adorned in the full regalia of his battle armor - his helmet, gauntlets, greaves, and boots finely sculpted - emerges from the shambles, steps into debris, and bloodshed, his eyes, hardy, steady, on Tony.
Alight, aflame, and alive, his heart an unsteady lurch in his sternum, Tony staggers, rushes forward, barges through the Chitauri poised over slain Avengers, and sways within several feet of Thanos.
(And he's real, and he's here, grand and majestic.)
Gradually, deliberately measured, and unhurried, Thanos reaches for him, gently, and tenderly, grazes his knuckles against his cheek, and Tony gasps, the prickle of unshed tears in the corners of his wide-eyes. Tony clings to the extended hand, his fingertips in the latches of the metallic gold gauntlet, and nuzzles into the flat of his palm.
Promptly, softly, Thanos gathers and cradles Tony in his arms, his lips on the dainty, downy crown of his head, "Too long have we been parted, my pet."
"My Lord." Tony whispers, breathy, reverent.
"A commission of such treason demands retribution."
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(Exceedingly bountiful to his royal consort, Thanos permits Tony to choose a survivor for his collection, a cosmic, mystical sphere in his grasp. Careless, the Chitauri toss, and deposit Steve, and Natasha, in a mangled heap by Tony's feet - their bodies battered, and bruised, their flesh bloody, lacerated ribbons. He picks Natasha.)
Hazy, slightly fuzzy, Tony sprawls in Thanos' lap, rubs his cheek into his solid, burly chest, and purrs, a low, delightful sound from the recesses of his throat.
Thanos proffers a variety of berries, an assortment of reds, purples, and blacks, to the crest of his mouth, and Tony ensnares, and entwines, the tangy sweets with his tongue, lazily licks the juices from Thanos' fingers.
(Lightly, Thanos taps the blue stone of Tony's new collar, and Tony beams, wears it proudly.)