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sabinetzinTitle: Sync
Summary: Tony's only admitting what he's known for a long time.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 1508
Rating/Contents: NC-17, voyeurism, solo
Pairing: Tony/armor (you heard me)
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo (pictures)! This is what happens when Metalocalypse quotes ("That's like jacking off to pictures of yourself online!" "Which I have done.") get up in your Avengers-set mind. Exactly this.
The headline on Newsweek reads "Stark's Greatest Invention?" and Tony hasn't even opened it to find out what they're talking about. One, Newsweek, two, Tony already knows what his greatest invention is. There's no reason for him to hear anybody else say it.
They're probably talking about the arc reactor again, maybe the one in the tower. The one in the tower is pretty great, but all he's done is invent something to solve a problem that people should have been working on since the fucking fifties, at the very least. It might be the one in his chest, though, since that Scientific American thing. The fact that Tony invented something that keeps himself alive out of nothing but scavenged parts is certainly something, but it was a Hail Mary, a necessity, not a pretty thing, something he'd never even think of again if he could possibly help it. That's not his greatest invention; that's just a thing he invented because, again, it had to be done. That's a thing that keeps him going- granted, everything is connected, because nothing else, not one thing that came after was done without the arc reactor. No reactor, no Tony; no Tony, no reactor.
The arc reactor only led to his greatest invention, which is, of course, the suit. Yeah, it changed global military structures, regularly saves the world, whatever. Even if it were just a very pretty vacuum cleaner, it couldn't be more perfect. Nothing has ever been invented with more beautiful curves, more perfect lines, such a perfect, glowing shine. It hurts, every time he dings a new model for the first time, like the first time your new cell phone tastes pavement, but it's just permission, the go-ahead to take it out and make it do what it's supposed to do. It lets him, goes with him, takes everything he or anyone else can throw at it. It doesn't complain, just does what he wants- and the feeling very much goes both ways, because they're nothing if not in perfect sync.
There are new pictures up on the website from the last thing he did, a humanitarian thing that he was totally useless for- not exactly good at holding up beams to build houses when there's a ninety-nine percent chance you'll burn anyone standing underneath you. There's a little bit of video, a couple of good high-res shots of the freshly repaired Mark VI, enough to keep the masses satisfied, but today, it's just not enough to keep Tony happy.
Tony wants something else, something he's wanted for a very long time, something that makes him squirm a little when he thinks about it. He's resisted the temptation for a very long time, which is not like him at all, since he's been known to be able to resist everything but temptation. Something just seems wrong about it, like he's corrupting something pure- and not in the fun way. Tony's not good at that, at dealing with things that are fragile, delicate, beautiful because of it.
Then again, it's only fragile on the surface.
"Jarvis," he calls, turning away from his workstation and sitting back in his chair. "Give me the full footage for the mission yesterday, from the final liftoff to the landing. Don't give me the news footage, just internal."
"Of course, sir." A display appears in front of him, and he drags it wider, looking at the still preview shots. "Shall I sync it?" Jarvis asks.
Tony frowns. "If it's not synced already, somebody in Archives doesn't know what they're doing." The stills on the screen change slightly as they line up. "Don't sync the audio tracks, just give me whichever one's the highest fidelity." He gives himself a last moment to think about it, about what he's going to do. "Lock the doors, lower the lights- lower than that- yeah, stop there- and turn off the- you know what, under the circumstances, let's just keep the cameras rolling."
"Done, sir."
"And Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir?"
He pulls the videos off the screen, throwing them out so that they're surrounding him. "Don't look. You're too young to see this."
There's nothing left of the screen but a button with a play symbol on it- even when it's insubstantial, there's something so satisfying about having a nice big button to mash. He slaps it, and the videos start. The suit is still on the ground at the beginning, but it's seconds before liftoff, before the suit is rushing into the air. He can see it all, the suit from all directions, all around him. He's seen it this way, but he's never really looked before, not like this, not like how he's about to.
He doesn't go for it all at once; he puts a hand on his thigh, his fingers creeping inwards. The suit passes over a city, buzzing it for fun, and the way the suit weaves in and out of the tall buildings is delicious, serpentine, lithe; Tony finally presses his hand against the placket of his jeans, over his already stiff cock. He rubs himself hard but slow, teasing himself.
The suit leaves the city with a sonic boom, and Tony tilts his head back. He grabs one of the videos and puts it over his head, staring up at it as he leans back into his chair, thrusting his hips up and grinding hard against his hand.
The suit is over mountains now, and Tony can't take it anymore; he unzips his pants, pushing them out of the way just enough so that he can get his fingers around his cock. He strokes himself quickly, moving to meet the strokes of his hand, making it as good as he can. It's perfect, the suit, everything about it beautiful, so sexy that he can't handle it.
Here and now, he's only admitting to what he's known forever, that there's nothing like his suit in the world, nothing that's ever turned him on more. He's spent so much time in the lab pretending that he wasn't hard, desperately ignoring his erection as he worked on it, hoping he could forget what the suit does to him. Obviously, it never worked, and now he just feels like an idiot for wasting so much time.
He's coming up against the end of the footage, but he needs more, more, so much more. He couldn't possibly get enough of this, just wants to gorge himself on it, won't be able to stop now that he's found out how good it is.
He works his hand faster, because the suit's in New York now, and he knows he won't be able to come unless he's got this before him. The suit pulls up to the building, turning smoothly and dropping down onto the balcony. The automatic removal system is still under renovation, so when the Tony on the screen touches down, he takes the helmet off himself; the cooling system's not perfect, and there's sweat running down his face, his neck. He throws his head back, trying to shake the wetness out of his hair.
"Pause," Tony groans. "Mark. Rewind. Pause. Mark. Loop."
He watches it again, the smooth descent of the suit, the touch-down, the helmet, his face. The look on his face, it's so indescribably hot that Tony doesn't know why he's never looked before now, why he would ever want to look at anything else again. He looks so fucking good; he looks pretty nice when he's wrecked, but this is something else, a whole new level, a level he didn't know existed. It's like the suit's had him entirely, rode him hard and put him away wet, taken him.
All of these things are true.
He doesn't know how many times he watches it loop, cataloging every second of it as he fucks his hand. He can't stop, doesn't even know if he wants to come if it means having to stop watching. He raises his hand and flicks the volume up, listening to the sound of the repulsors as he lands, the clunk as the suit hits the balcony, and that's when he hears it, the small, unmistakable, sated moan he makes when he throws his head back. Tony thrusts into his fist a couple more times, and then that's it; he shuts his eyes tight, clenching his teeth, and comes hard onto his hand.
"Stop," he says, when he discovers how to talk again, collapsing back against his chair. He reaches behind him to the workstation, grabbing a shop towel and wiping his hand clean, pitching the towel into the wastebasket. He zips up his pants, but then he hesitates for a moment. "Save that clip, Jarvis."
"Shall I put it in the Archives, sir?"
"Why did I program a smartass AI?" Tony asks, knowing the answer very well. "You know where to put it."
"I have a fairly good idea, sir."
Tony looks around at the stills one last time, the look on his face; he snaps, and the videos disappear.
Summary: Tony's only admitting what he's known for a long time.
Fandom: Avengers
Word Count: 1508
Rating/Contents: NC-17, voyeurism, solo
Pairing: Tony/armor (you heard me)
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For
kink_bingo (pictures)! This is what happens when Metalocalypse quotes ("That's like jacking off to pictures of yourself online!" "Which I have done.") get up in your Avengers-set mind. Exactly this.The headline on Newsweek reads "Stark's Greatest Invention?" and Tony hasn't even opened it to find out what they're talking about. One, Newsweek, two, Tony already knows what his greatest invention is. There's no reason for him to hear anybody else say it.
They're probably talking about the arc reactor again, maybe the one in the tower. The one in the tower is pretty great, but all he's done is invent something to solve a problem that people should have been working on since the fucking fifties, at the very least. It might be the one in his chest, though, since that Scientific American thing. The fact that Tony invented something that keeps himself alive out of nothing but scavenged parts is certainly something, but it was a Hail Mary, a necessity, not a pretty thing, something he'd never even think of again if he could possibly help it. That's not his greatest invention; that's just a thing he invented because, again, it had to be done. That's a thing that keeps him going- granted, everything is connected, because nothing else, not one thing that came after was done without the arc reactor. No reactor, no Tony; no Tony, no reactor.
The arc reactor only led to his greatest invention, which is, of course, the suit. Yeah, it changed global military structures, regularly saves the world, whatever. Even if it were just a very pretty vacuum cleaner, it couldn't be more perfect. Nothing has ever been invented with more beautiful curves, more perfect lines, such a perfect, glowing shine. It hurts, every time he dings a new model for the first time, like the first time your new cell phone tastes pavement, but it's just permission, the go-ahead to take it out and make it do what it's supposed to do. It lets him, goes with him, takes everything he or anyone else can throw at it. It doesn't complain, just does what he wants- and the feeling very much goes both ways, because they're nothing if not in perfect sync.
There are new pictures up on the website from the last thing he did, a humanitarian thing that he was totally useless for- not exactly good at holding up beams to build houses when there's a ninety-nine percent chance you'll burn anyone standing underneath you. There's a little bit of video, a couple of good high-res shots of the freshly repaired Mark VI, enough to keep the masses satisfied, but today, it's just not enough to keep Tony happy.
Tony wants something else, something he's wanted for a very long time, something that makes him squirm a little when he thinks about it. He's resisted the temptation for a very long time, which is not like him at all, since he's been known to be able to resist everything but temptation. Something just seems wrong about it, like he's corrupting something pure- and not in the fun way. Tony's not good at that, at dealing with things that are fragile, delicate, beautiful because of it.
Then again, it's only fragile on the surface.
"Jarvis," he calls, turning away from his workstation and sitting back in his chair. "Give me the full footage for the mission yesterday, from the final liftoff to the landing. Don't give me the news footage, just internal."
"Of course, sir." A display appears in front of him, and he drags it wider, looking at the still preview shots. "Shall I sync it?" Jarvis asks.
Tony frowns. "If it's not synced already, somebody in Archives doesn't know what they're doing." The stills on the screen change slightly as they line up. "Don't sync the audio tracks, just give me whichever one's the highest fidelity." He gives himself a last moment to think about it, about what he's going to do. "Lock the doors, lower the lights- lower than that- yeah, stop there- and turn off the- you know what, under the circumstances, let's just keep the cameras rolling."
"Done, sir."
"And Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir?"
He pulls the videos off the screen, throwing them out so that they're surrounding him. "Don't look. You're too young to see this."
There's nothing left of the screen but a button with a play symbol on it- even when it's insubstantial, there's something so satisfying about having a nice big button to mash. He slaps it, and the videos start. The suit is still on the ground at the beginning, but it's seconds before liftoff, before the suit is rushing into the air. He can see it all, the suit from all directions, all around him. He's seen it this way, but he's never really looked before, not like this, not like how he's about to.
He doesn't go for it all at once; he puts a hand on his thigh, his fingers creeping inwards. The suit passes over a city, buzzing it for fun, and the way the suit weaves in and out of the tall buildings is delicious, serpentine, lithe; Tony finally presses his hand against the placket of his jeans, over his already stiff cock. He rubs himself hard but slow, teasing himself.
The suit leaves the city with a sonic boom, and Tony tilts his head back. He grabs one of the videos and puts it over his head, staring up at it as he leans back into his chair, thrusting his hips up and grinding hard against his hand.
The suit is over mountains now, and Tony can't take it anymore; he unzips his pants, pushing them out of the way just enough so that he can get his fingers around his cock. He strokes himself quickly, moving to meet the strokes of his hand, making it as good as he can. It's perfect, the suit, everything about it beautiful, so sexy that he can't handle it.
Here and now, he's only admitting to what he's known forever, that there's nothing like his suit in the world, nothing that's ever turned him on more. He's spent so much time in the lab pretending that he wasn't hard, desperately ignoring his erection as he worked on it, hoping he could forget what the suit does to him. Obviously, it never worked, and now he just feels like an idiot for wasting so much time.
He's coming up against the end of the footage, but he needs more, more, so much more. He couldn't possibly get enough of this, just wants to gorge himself on it, won't be able to stop now that he's found out how good it is.
He works his hand faster, because the suit's in New York now, and he knows he won't be able to come unless he's got this before him. The suit pulls up to the building, turning smoothly and dropping down onto the balcony. The automatic removal system is still under renovation, so when the Tony on the screen touches down, he takes the helmet off himself; the cooling system's not perfect, and there's sweat running down his face, his neck. He throws his head back, trying to shake the wetness out of his hair.
"Pause," Tony groans. "Mark. Rewind. Pause. Mark. Loop."
He watches it again, the smooth descent of the suit, the touch-down, the helmet, his face. The look on his face, it's so indescribably hot that Tony doesn't know why he's never looked before now, why he would ever want to look at anything else again. He looks so fucking good; he looks pretty nice when he's wrecked, but this is something else, a whole new level, a level he didn't know existed. It's like the suit's had him entirely, rode him hard and put him away wet, taken him.
All of these things are true.
He doesn't know how many times he watches it loop, cataloging every second of it as he fucks his hand. He can't stop, doesn't even know if he wants to come if it means having to stop watching. He raises his hand and flicks the volume up, listening to the sound of the repulsors as he lands, the clunk as the suit hits the balcony, and that's when he hears it, the small, unmistakable, sated moan he makes when he throws his head back. Tony thrusts into his fist a couple more times, and then that's it; he shuts his eyes tight, clenching his teeth, and comes hard onto his hand.
"Stop," he says, when he discovers how to talk again, collapsing back against his chair. He reaches behind him to the workstation, grabbing a shop towel and wiping his hand clean, pitching the towel into the wastebasket. He zips up his pants, but then he hesitates for a moment. "Save that clip, Jarvis."
"Shall I put it in the Archives, sir?"
"Why did I program a smartass AI?" Tony asks, knowing the answer very well. "You know where to put it."
"I have a fairly good idea, sir."
Tony looks around at the stills one last time, the look on his face; he snaps, and the videos disappear.