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Someone was climbing the hill.
Tony has two active alarm rigs on the north-to-east side of the climb. The second rig, set along the most obvious route up the hill, has been triggered, causing the red cloth hanging near the mouth of the alcove to flap in alarm.
Tony takes a second to breathe in, slow and steady, and then starts to work.
He’d expected this. He’d heard the gang’s arrival four days ago, setting up camp near the base of the hill that’s been Tony’s home. They’d moved surprisingly quiet considering their haul, and were efficient in their set-up, not at all like the last few gangs to pass through the area. There were at least six of them, all lean adults – no elderly, no children. Strong enough to hand-pull two wagons, and at least two were conspicuously armed at all times.
At first Tony had considered risking a full raid. Nothing fancy, just an in-and-out for anything that’d catch his eye, make it look like Gray-Feet. But then a couple of actual Gray-Feet came through early, on their semi-regular pickings. Tony had hoped for the two gangs to cancel each other out; the Gray-Feet may not have found Tony so far, but it was only a matter of time before they figured out the hill wasn’t as abandoned as it looked.
But whatever benefits Tony may have hoped from the clash were erased. The new gang took no survivors and picked the Gray-Feet clean. Tony only watched the fight for a few minutes, but that was more than enough. Only a mad man would try to raid this gang. They're as efficient in fighting as they were in setting up camp, and Tony returned to his alcove to think about what other protections he could put in place.
The alarm rigs – now triggered – were just one of them, and only the first level. There are two decoy camps nearby, made to look as though someone once lived here but no longer did, and would explain any other signs Tony may have left around the hill. If someone pressed in anyway, they’d have to find the rock path, hidden and dangerous to climb if one weren’t already familiar with its holds. At the last stage of the rock path are the traps, which would confirm Tony’s presence and are thus a second-to-last resort.
Someone’s climbing the rock path right now. They seem to be finding their own way, almost powering through by sheer force of will judging by the clatter of pebbles and rock that follows their steps. A grunt, a snap of wood splintering, then a crash of the boulder that sounds as if – impossible as it may be – it has been shoved out of the way.
Tony takes a quick last glance around his alcove. Everything truly important has been hidden away, and the more obvious raid takings of food and cloth are scattered around for quick pickings. Tony doesn’t get attached to things, but he’s fond of this place as a whole, and hopes that the intruder won’t destroy it.
Yes, that’s it. Worry about the alcove. Better than worrying about other things beyond Tony’s control.
A quick push feet first, and Tony slips into his hiding place. The box beneath keeps Tony from being crushed, and the canvas above is made to blend into the spread of junk on the floor. It’s dark inside but Tony keeps his eyes open, alert to the noise beyond.
He listens to the intruder’s first steps into the alcove, and the way they pause at the threshold. Tony pictures what they can see: the alcove with its slanting walls, planks and large haul on the right side, smaller equipment for tinkering on the left, the loom on the far end where there’s the most light. There are openings in the rock above that allow some natural light in, though Tony’s long gotten used to moving around and finding things in the dark.
Tony hears the intruder move inside carefully, rustling things – with a foot or climbing stick, maybe – as he goes. They don’t move like a Gray-Foot, or even a Rings. There’s no immediate, gleeful smashing of their discovery, or clattering through the haul, or calling out of threats.
This is worse. This is an intruder who’s in no rush. Even the appeal of dried meats and wild pickings doesn’t make them pause for a confident taste. Instead, they’re making a slow circuit of the alcove, poking at things as they go.
Tony tries to breathe as silently as he can. Death has come close too many times to count, so he should be an expert at this by now. Yet his heart insists on beating so loudly that it could almost give his location away. All he needs do is stay quiet and still, and whatever he loses will be manageable.
The footsteps come to a halt a few feet away from Tony’s hiding spot.
Pressure on the canvas makes it sink slightly inward. The edge of a stick presses in, narrowly moving past Tony’s face. Then the stick moves, searching, and taps the top of Tony’s head.
As the intruder grabs the canvas and pulls, two thoughts pass through Tony’s head. The first is: he’s been found. The second is: that took too quickly. The intruder should’ve had to make at least two more circuits before methodically moving inward, instead of narrowing their search path the way they did. Tony’s pretty sure he covered his tracks – again, far from the first time he’s done this – but here it is.
The canvas is tossed aside, and Tony’s stomach drops. It’s the tall one, the leader. Tony had only needed to watch the gang for ten minutes to figure out their hierarchy, and they’d all subtly deferred to this man, the one who wore a dark helmet and could crush Gray-Foot skulls barehanded. He wore armor constantly, and whatever of his face wasn’t under the helmet was hidden by a dark beard.
He’s holding a spear, which he’d used to poke at the canvas. There are other weapons on him, too, knives that came in and out at a flick of his hand but are now invisible, though – small favors – he’d not brought his great round shield with him today.
The man taps Tony’s shoulder a few times in quick succession, an order to come out of his hiding spot. Tony climbs out, head ducked and hands open to show that he’s not a threat.
Oh, he would’ve been a threat once, Tony thinks viciously. When he was younger, stronger, and hadn’t been squeezed dry by the Rings. Even if this man is a sense-enhanced mutant – which he has to be, that’s the only explanation for how he’d found Tony so quickly – Tony could have still gotten the upper hand once.
But that was then. Tony is alone now, most of his rigs gone and destroyed, his own gang scattered or dead. Even if he could kill this one, could trick him into the steel loom trap, or get to the hidden crossbow, the others would come after him. And even if Tony could slip past them, he can’t start all over again, not with the Gray-Feet and Cottons so close by.
Tony keeps his head bowed, legs tucked underneath him. His own armor has been packed away, and he’s down to his shirt and pants that have no gang marks on him. A Loner, a Hoarder, but no threat.
This one, this man standing over him, has killed people with his shield. He’d done it from a distance, the force of an arm-throw enough to break bodies at 20 paces. He’s silent now, but he’s watching, assessing. It’s the intelligent ones that are really dangerous.
Tony doesn’t want to die.
He takes a breath and opens one hand. The man above doesn’t move, but Tony can sense his shift of attention.
This is a risk, too, but it’s a calculated one. Tony moves his hand slowly, clearly telegraphed, and places his hand on the man’s boot.
It’s a good, strong boot. Well-maintained, complicated straps, and made of leather that Tony would kill to have. (More evidence of effective raids and pickings.) When the man doesn’t react either way, Tony moves his hand slowly, deliberately up the man’s shin, before coming to a rest on the man’s knee.
His meaning is clear, and Tony waits.
A risk for a potential trade. Most people would go for the food, the scraps, the junk. This man may be interested in all of the above, but he is not beholden to them. A person like that is difficult to negotiate with, and would not fall for the regular distractions in Tony’s arsenal.
The man still hasn’t moved. Tony wonders if he’s surprised.
Well, there’s no point backing out now. Tony carefully scoots forward on his knees until he’s close enough to brush his nose on the man’s thigh. More good material here – old, tough, and well-cared for. Tony wonders how often their clothes must be mended, if such fights as the one he saw are typical for their gang. Tony rubs his cheek on the man’s thigh, well-aware that a decent snap of the man’s knee could break Tony’s jaw.
The man’s dick isn’t down a leg. It’s folded up, and Tony can see the bulge now, thickening just under the man’s belt.
Tony opens his mouth and tilts his head up in a suggestion, though he’s careful to not look at the man’s face directly. Tony may be older now, less alluring than he used to be, but he takes much better care of his teeth and hygiene than the Gray-Feet do, so that has to be a plus. The man’s erection is a success, and Tony tries to gauge how much of that he can get into his mouth. Tony reaches up and traces a finger over the curve. The shape underneath jolts a little, a good sign.
The man finally moves, but it’s to grab the back of Tony’s neck, fingers digging deep.
Tony gasps. It takes a second to realize that his neck isn’t broken. The man is just holding him still, not urging him forward nor backward.
There’s a whisper of leather up above. Tony forgets himself and looks up.
The man is taking off his helmet one-handed. He drops it to the floor when it’s off, his eyes on Tony the entire time. Not that Tony can tell what color those eyes are at the moment.
He looks more dangerous without the helmet. There is power in his stance, his shoulders, the way he sets his jaw. The hair near his ears is brown to match the beard but, surprisingly, it’s lighter up top. Streaks of dirty gold sweep his head, over his eyes.
There’s a scar along one side of his face, trailing from his left eyebrow and across his cheeks, before disappearing into the thick of the beard. His mouth is a grim line, hard to read. It would be easier if he sneered or smirked.
Tony lets his body go limp. Easy, pliable, willing. He still can’t move with the man’s strong grip on the back of his head, but he widens his eyes a little, hoping it makes him look younger.
The man moves again, with the same shocking swiftness. He’s pulled a soft-wire strap from somewhere, noosing Tony’s wrists together and then pushing. Tony’s breath rushes out of him when he lands on his back, hands above his head – tied to some object beyond his line of sight.
All right. So the man is suspicious enough to stay away from Tony’s hands and teeth.
But that doesn’t mean the offer isn’t real. Tony opens his legs and arches his back, heaving deep and sending his pecs upward. His nipples aren’t visible but he hopes it’s enough to get his shirt to ride up, showing off the skin of his stomach.
The man huffs. Amused, maybe?
Tony startles at pressure against his left inner thigh. It’s the man’s boot, nudging him, but not painfully. Tony lets his eyes drift half-shut when the man starts opening the knots of Tony’s pants, drawing the cloth free and out of the way. There’s nothing from here on out that should surprise him, but then the man wraps a large, calloused hand around Tony’s cock.
“Ah!” Tony gasps. His eyes are wide again, but from shock this time. The man jacks him off with sure strokes, getting him hard at a speed that is downright embarrassing. Tony knows he’s been alone too long, but he didn’t need a reminder of that, especially in how the touch of a man who could kill him at any moment is still enough to get his dick red and ready.
The pleasure is too sharp, too foreign after so long. Tony tries to twist away but the man isn’t having that, holding him down with his free hand on Tony’s stomach. Soon Tony is whimpering, confused and overwhelmed and terrified of orgasming under this stranger’s largesse.
Then it stops. The man lets go and sits back, his critical eye on the view of Tony lying there: legs spread, panting for breath and cock bobbing in the air. Tony braces his feet on the ground and lifts his hips up – feeling a surge of triumph and trepidation when the man’s gaze drops to the secret space below Tony’s balls. Here, take.
Finally, the man opens his own pants. Tony watches him, careful to test the binds on his wrists only when the man isn’t looking (it’s holding tight, because of course it is).
That dick is huge. Not overly so, and Tony can definitely handle it if given time and plenty of grease, but there is no time nor grease at hand to suit that particular thickness. Tony grits his teeth without making it obvious he’s gritting his teeth, and hopes that the man will at least use spit.
Just a little spit. It’s not too much to ask for, is it?
The man settles a hand at the juncture of Tony’s inner thigh, thumb sweeping a small arc on his skin. Tony can’t decide if he wants to watch or not; the decision is even more difficult because the man is watching him, perhaps in anticipation of the face Tony will make at the breaching.
Tony tenses up when the man’s thumb brushes his hole. It’s too dry. Tony takes steadying breaths, trying to relax. He’s so busy anticipating the intrusion that it takes him a while to realize that the thumb is just… there. Resting on his opening but not pushing, not forcing its way in.
The man’s watching him. His eyes are dark, and Tony has difficulty looking into them for too long.
Tony knows better to relax but it’s still a jolt when the thumb moves. A swipe to one side, then back, then again. Each time the man’s thumb moves fear rises and recedes in Tony’s chest, the gap between each shrinking and shrinking until Tony’s cock starts stiffening up again. The anxiety doesn’t go away, but it’s subsumed under the fluttering of pleasure in nerves long neglected.
The thumb is maddening in its tease, now rolling in careful circles around Tony’s pucker, suggestive and deliberate. Tony moans, the sound loud enough that he grimaces in the aftermath. He turns his head away, his body alight and wanting despite everything, and trying futilely to press down on the man’s hand for more. Tony feels drops of pre-come splatter on his stomach, and is mortified.
The man doesn’t seem to be in a rush. There’s the same rubbing pressure, interspersed with teasing pinches around Tony’s hole and further up under his balls. Tony’s hard, so hard it almost hurts, yet even the idea of relief feels impossible.
He should just give in. The man’s fucking playing with Tony’s hole, and Tony should just roll with it. He could beg, even – this guy seems like he’d enjoy that. But to do that feels unfair somehow, a betrayal of the terms Tony set for this.
Tony needs the guy’s cock. He needs, even as that need is twisted up with the terror of having that thing in him without decent prep. Tony cannot trust himself to speak right now.
Maybe if he looks at it. Tony forces his eyes open, and takes full stock of the man’s erection. It’s big enough for Tony to choke on and then some, but would probably feel good in the doing of it. God, that head’s fat and ripe, Tony could probably take it with no lube happily. But not the rest of it, because that’s an impressive shaft, thick and veiny and long, that could easily split Tony in two if the man wanted. He could, very easily.
The rest of the man’s as impressive as his dick, and that’s even with most of his armor still on. It’s not just armor that’s filled out those arms and chest, and from what Tony can see of his scarred stomach and waist, there’s wild-trained muscle underneath. This man could take everything he wants and snap Tony’s neck afterward and – it’s here that Tony realizes how fucked his brain’s gotten from being alone too long – that doesn’t sound like such a bad way to die, comparatively.
Or the man could just keep stroking his opening with the same maddening pressure, and Tony could just die from sexual frustration.
“I—” Tony says.
The man stops touching him. Tony collapses back, shuddering, and tries to parse the meaning of the man’s hum. Is that a thoughtful hum? A question?
Hands land on Tony’s knees, pushing them apart. The man climbs on top of him, and he’s large enough to block out the view of the rock ceiling that’s been Tony’s home for these past years. When the man presses down, Tony just manages to stop himself from sighing with relief, but his legs forsake him, automatically wrapping tight around the man’s waist in bringing their bodies together.
They move. Tony would like to claim that the man’s doing it alone but, no, Tony’s grinding against him in equal fervor, chasing the friction of a hard, warm body against his.
The man isn’t as filthy as the Gray-Feet, but he still smells of wood, blood, and grime – the eternal odors of the wild beyond the hill. His face is inches from Tony’s but he has no problem with staring right into Tony’s face. This is a man constantly alert and ready to strike, even during this.
But that’s all right. The man’s quieter than him but what small breathless sounds he lets out are genuine, and it’s due to this Tony can feel himself slipping, giving in and giving up. If this man can find his pleasure on Tony, then it’s fine for Tony to be turned on beyond measure by the feeling of a hard cock sliding against his in the narrow space between their bodies.
Tony missed this. Not just the sex, but just being with another human being, which reminds Tony that hey, he’s a human being, too. It’s messed up and terrifying and exhilarating, and even the binds on Tony’s hands cause pleasure to zing down the muscles of his arms, pooling low in his stomach.
They rut against each other, furious and desperate and slightly out of sync. The man’s strength exceeds Tony so it is he who sets the pace, but there is excitement in that, too, in being pressed against the hard rock floor by a man who could break him. Pleasure tinged with fear is a knife’s edge running over Tony’s nerves, making them sing. Tony’s aware that he’s sobbing now, he’s close but not close enough, and his noises echo absurdly loud in the alcove.
Relief comes when the man puts a hand between their bodies, taking their cocks in one hand. There’s enough pre-come to make it slick when he jacks them off together, his deft fingers working both shafts at once. There is little kindness in his motions now. His grip is tight to just shy of brutal, and he is thorough in dragging Tony towards orgasm. Tony’s ready for it, gagging for it, but he thinks that even if he weren’t, the man would get him there anyway.
Tony cries out as he crests. He spills hot and erratic between their bodies, the muscles of his thighs and back straining to hold on to the bliss. Once it’s over it’s back to his shitty life in this shitty world, so better for Tony to ride the goddamned pleasure for as long as he can, no matter that it’s at the hands of a muscle-bound predator.
Much as how the man didn’t give in to the immediate gratification of raiding the alcove, he doesn’t give in to his pleasure the way Tony does either. He is perfunctory, efficient, and has long emptied himself on Tony’s stomach by the time that Tony blinks himself back to conscious thought. Tony feels a pang at that, but this man is careful about not showing weakness, even in bodily relief.
A snick and flicker, and the man’s got a knife out from one of its hiding spots. He brings the blade down, blunt end first, to scrape the come off Tony’s stomach and then his own. That done, he draws back, the knife disappears, and he starts putting his pants back together.
Tony’s body is lethargic, but he could get a decent kick to the man’s face from this angle, maybe. But for now he stays still, and watches as the man picks up his spear and sends it, sharp point forward, to push the knots of Tony’s wristbinds loose.
Tony rolls away, twisting his hands free and scrabbling to put his clothes back to rights. It takes longer than he’d like, and the man’s already standing, stepping away and casting his eye about the alcove.
“You use that?” the man asks.
His voice is quiet, and not the hoarse growl Tony had expected.
Tony follows the man’s gaze to the loom, and nods.
“What can you make?”
Tony plucks at his shirt, then gestures at the straps of weaving nearby.
“You can mend? Sew?”
Tony nods quickly. He can shape metal, too, but the man doesn’t need to know that.
“Come.” The man taps the base of his spear on the floor, urging him up. “There’s work for you.”
“To your camp?” Tony says quietly, unable to mask the tremor in his voice. There are at least five others down there, and Tony doesn’t think he could – not with so many –
The man huffs. He reaches for his belt, loosening a dark loop of leather from its tie. Tony understands before the man even approaches him, and lifts a hand up immediately.
The man’s mouth quirks. Not a smile, but something. He steps forward and ties the leather around Tony’s wrist with a quick, functional knot. Tony draws his hand back to study the leather loop, surprised to find a faded star embossed in the material.
“Come,” the man says.
Tony gets to his feet, still touching the leather loop. There are things he’d like to bring with him, but he makes no move just yet. The man puts his helmet back on, drawing another layer of unreadability around him.
“You have a name?” the man asks.
“Tony.”
“Steve.” He pauses, then wraps a hand around Tony’s wrist, over of the leather loop. He squeezes, just once, but the declaration of it has some of the knots in Tony’s stomach unwinding. Not enough to relax – Tony’s not stupid – but enough to bank some of the anxiety that has been constant since the alarm went off.
“You can take a small bag for now,” Steve says. “Then we go.”
Tony nods, and moves quickly.
Steve’s aware of the risk in his doing this. The others won’t complain to his face, but they’re on edge, suspicious, when Steve returns with his raid haul. Tony followed him all the way down the hill easily, but he’s tense again, eyes darting between the members of Steve’s crew where they’re dotted around camp.
Buck steps forward first, raising an eyebrow. Steve makes a gesture and Buck goes, leading Tony to the wagon and making a spot that’s just for him to sit and rest. Tony is deceptively small, and purposely makes himself smaller as he follows Buck’s instructions.
Steve finds Nat next. Brief her, and she’ll brief the others.
Tony is within viewing distance, but they’re far enough that he can’t overhear them. Steve watches the way Tony brings his legs up, resting his head against his knees. A defensive posture. Yet the first thing Steve noticed about Tony was that his beard was short, but not too short as to make it obvious that he has sharp blades to use for such a purpose. That’s a choice, as are other things about him.
“He the one who’s been stealing from us?” Nat asks.
“Probably didn’t think we’d notice,” Steve says. “He calls himself Tony. Smart enough not to take anything obvious, and smart enough not to share his other name – Stark.”
Nat inhales sharply. “Stark?”
“Yes, the same Stark who wiped out the Rings gang.”
“Are you sure?” Nat huffs when Steve gives her a look. “You’re sure.”
There was enough in Tony’s cave for Steve to put the pieces together. Even before that, the traps leading up there were too clever, too vicious. He’d never encountered Stark himself, but there were enough stories, shared through chains that Steve trusted. Stark hasn’t been seen at any of trading posts for years, and is presumed dead, but here he is.
Nat studies Tony quietly, discomfited. “That’s the worst combination to have in a person. Scared and dangerous.”
“Better he be here instead of up there, where we can’t keep an eye on him.” Steve shoves a thumb into his belt, annoyed at his cock’s enthusiasm for other benefits to Tony’s presence. “We can learn from him, too.”
“Oh? And if he sets our camp on fire?”
“Then we learn where our fire risk points are.”
Nat wants to argue further, but holds her tongue. “If you say so.”
“Is there animal fat we can spare?” Steve asks.
Nat narrows her eyes, but holds her tongue on that as well. “I’ll check with Sam.”
“Good.”
Steve leaves Nat to it. He detours to his tent spot for a minute, but soon makes his way back to Tony. Tony hasn’t moved since he was placed there, but he does look up when Steve approaches and kneels next to him.
Tony tilts his head, eye drawn to the item in Steve’s hand. Steve says nothing, but Tony unfolds a leg, offering a foot out. There is no disappointment in his eyes – in fact, there’s a shadow of satisfaction there, as though Tony had thought Steve stupid for not doing this earlier.
Steve twists the manacle around Tony’s foot and clamps it shut. The end of chain goes up to the wagon, locked into heavy wooden bar. This would hold most people, and Steve’s curious if it’d hold Tony Stark as well.
Steve’s curious if Tony would scream in pleasure when not in the safety of his cave, too.
Yes, Steve means to have him. There is risk here, but there’s also reward. Sweetness in this awful fuck of a future. Tony’s eyes are dark and lovely, the more so when they’re looking at Steve, just as they are right now. There is other loveliness underneath as well, to be peeled open at Steve’s leisure.
Steve clenches a fist, resisting the urge to touch. That’ll come later, after camp has settled, and Steve can take his time.
“You hungry?” Steve asks.
Tony starts to shake his head, but then nods.
“Let’s settle that,” Steve says. “Then you will mend for us.”
“Yes,” Tony says.