Tony

The compound is still quiet as fuck. Even with the criminalized members of the team back in their former rooms, there is no interaction between them and us. The Vision is trying to bribe Wanda into liking him again by bringing her all of her meals. Clint and Scott returned to their homes to be on house arrest there, so they could be with their kids. Understandable.

Even with the spiderling living at the compound now, it's awkward when only three people turn up for dinner. Natasha won't even have her dinner in the main room, and the Vision doesn't eat. So, most nights, it's just Peter, Rhodes, and me.

Steve's disdain is what breaks me the most. We were so good before. The thing is, we never actually officially broke up… but it's not like we can consider ourselves to be in a relationship anymore. A relationship involves trust, and I can't trust him to not escape, and he can't trust me to keep him safe. A relationship involves talking, and we haven't spoken in months. A relationship involves love… and I know that I still love him. But I think I might hate him more.

And there's no one that I can talk to about this. Thor and Bruce are off Gods know where, Natasha is stewing in contempt for basically anyone who isn't Wanda, Clint, or Peter, and I can't bother Rhodes with this because he's got his own problems to deal with. T'Challa is dealing with his country. The Vision has to try and patch up his rocky relationship with the witch. But I need help.

One morning, after a long night working in the lab, I can't take it anymore. When I pass a mirror, I notice the deep bags under my eyes; I can't recall the last time that I slept a full night. My hair is more shaggy than usual. Even coffee can't bring me out of this funk. I trudge down the halls, dragging my feet, head hung low.

I don't realize that I've come to pass Steve's room until I unconsciously stop in front of it. I glare at the door. He's likely asleep, since it's only 4am. But… something lulls me and I reach for the handle, turning it quietly and peeking in.

He isn't asleep. Instead, he's sitting in his lounge chair, reading. His eyes have bags under them, and his beard is growing out. The light next to the chair is flicked on, but his eyes aren't focused on the pages of his book. They're looking at me. I clear my throat and enter the room, closing the door behind me.

"What do you want?" He asks, voice monotone, tired. A shiver goes down my spine when he nearly slams his book shut. My eyes trail down his body - he's wearing a tank top and joggers, and the armed ankle bracelet he has on blinks with light every few moments. I scratch the back of my neck and lean against the door.

"We're broken up, now, right?" I muster, focusing my eyes down at my bare feet. "I mean, we haven't spoken in a while."

"Fuck, Tony. That's what this is about?" He roughly runs his fingers through his hair, and I wish it was my hair he was tussling. I want to tell him to watch his language, but now isn't the time.

"Yes, that's what this is about, because…" I sigh. "Because even after everything that we've been through, Steve, I still love you. But I can't trust you to stay."

"Well, you've done a fucking wonderful job at making us all stay, Tony. House arrest?" He sighs and stands up, and walks over to me. Fuck this, he's tall, he's handsome, and he's right in front of me.

"It's better than all of you rotting in a jail, or worse! I did what I thought was best to keep you all here, keep the team together-"

He slams his hands on the wall beside my head. My heart thunders in my ears, and he steps closer to me. "Tony, there is no team anymore. We might all be living under the same roof, but we aren't a team, or a family, or whatever the fuck you think you're accomplishing by us having these alarms on our ankles."

I glance up at him, his blue eyes darker than I remember, glaring down at me. Without thinking, I roughly grab his waist and pull him against me, smashing our lips together. I don't care about being gentle, I don't care about how we used to make love to each other… this is different. This is frustration.

But he doesn't stop me. Instead, he pushes me harder against the wall, and I dig my fingers into his hips, hoping to leave bruises. He bites down on my lower lip, and I let out a harsh gasp, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth. His fingers lace harshly in my hair, pulling my head closer to his, and I lean up into his brutal touch. With my hands on his hips, I push him back until his knees buckle and he falls onto the bed with a huff, and I land on top of him. His spare hand nearly rips my shirt off and he kisses my neck, making me moan out, and I know he's leaving dark bruises.

I grind my hips against his and yank his shirt off of him, and pull his joggers and underwear down to his ankles in one swift movement, spreading his legs at the same time.

One of my hands trails down to between his legs and I shove two dry fingers into his asshole, and he cries out in pain at the sudden unyielding movement. I thrust them relentlessly into him, curling them against his prostate, and soon his painful cries turn passionate as he gasps for air. I undo my jeans and pull them down just enough, and I flip him over, pulling his ass up into the air before thrusting into him, bottoming out instantly. He grips the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white, and his body jerks with pain. I don't wait for him to adjust to my length, I just thrust harshly in and out of him, gripping his hips with my nails, drawing blood.

"Tony, fuck, I hate you!" He yells, and he comes hard on the sheets below him, crying out in what sounds like pain and pleasure combined. I thrust more erratically and then pull out, coming hard onto his back, a string of curses leaving my throat.

I wipe off with his discarded tank top, pull my jeans back up, and leave him curled up on the bed, covered in his and my cum, tears streaming down his face.

When I make it back to my rooms, I take a long, hot shower, and then curl up into bed, crying until I fall asleep.

He hates me, but he let me fuck him until he came hard on the sheets.

He's Captain fucking America. He could have forced me away if he really wanted to.

Fuck, what happened to us?