ironmonger | (no subject)

The one clear benefit of being out here is that he isn't required to maintain a show of iron self-control.

When he hears Tony start to whimper, he shudders.

It's a soft, pleading sound, and it's getting louder. God knows who he's trying to plead with. Certainly not Obadiah, who isn't here

(except he is, he's listening to every second of this, Tony knows he is, it's fucking wonderful)

and couldn't be expected to care even if he was.

Obadiah takes a long, slow sip of whiskey, closing his eyes as though he were listening to fine music.

This time, it's exhaustion that stops him moving, and it only means there are fewer extra noises competing with his strained, desperate voice.

Obadiah puts his free hand in his pocket. Best to resist temptation.

And eventually, those sounds trail off too, fading into soft ragged breaths and the occasional broken moan.

Obadiah's glass is empty by now, but he doesn't refill it. He just holds on to it.

He'll give Tony a few more minutes.

Those few minutes are simultaneously competing for the best and worst few minutes of Tony Stark's entire fucking life.

His various noises become slightly more muffled when he turns over onto his stomach and buries his face in the tearstained pillow.

That'll just about do it, Obadiah decides, putting his glass down.

He opens and closes the door again, but doesn't bother with the shoes. Tony will be too far gone to notice and he doesn't feel like dealing with them.

He takes a slow breath, then calmly goes back to the bedroom and pushes the door open.

Tony doesn't react to the sound of either door. It's debatable whether he hears them on any kind of conscious level. He is just a little bit preoccupied right now, you see.

"Did I tell you you could do that?" he asks mildly, leaning against the doorjamb.

He goes from limp with exhaustion to tense and motionless almost instantly.

Then he shakes his head.

"I can't even trust you alone for five minutes," Obadiah says scoldingly.

(It's been a lot longer than that, but never mind.)

He walks over to sit down on the bed, getting a fresh pair of gloves out of the box.

"Honestly, Tony, haven't you learned a single thing today?"

Tony shivers, but is otherwise afraid to move.

"I'm sorry," he tells the pillow.

"You should be."

Obadiah reaches over and turns the plug off, then starts working it out with impatient little tugs.

(He puts plenty of exasperation into his body language and movements to amplify the idea that he's being forceful and direct Tony away from noticing that he isn't really being all that rough as he removes the plug.)

The effort is wasted at first because Tony isn't looking, but he glances back over his shoulder after a few seconds and watches. Helplessly. It feels even more impossible going out than coming in, and he is just as powerless to do anything about it.

He's well aware of Tony's eyes on him, but for once doesn't look at him to make eye contact. He focuses instead on the plug, lips pressed together.

Once he's gotten the thickest segment out, it's much quicker going, and it isn't long before he's dropping it into another, smaller box tucked discreetly back against the wall. Maybe he'll make Tony be the one to clean it later.

"Turn over," he says shortly.

Shaking a little, keeping his eyes on Obie's face as much as he can, Tony obeys.

"You were doing so well, too."

Once Tony is on his back, Obadiah straddles him again, the same position as before.

"I'm very disappointed," he says, and puts his hands around Tony's throat.

He closes his eyes. His lips part slightly. He exhales, then breathes in again slowly, waiting all the while for Obadiah's hands to close and the flow of air to stop.

It's not that he's not afraid; he is. He just... surrenders anyway.

"Open your eyes, Tony."

He didn't really think he was going to get away with that, did he?

(He wants the eye contact. He hadn't intended to do this again so late in the scene; he's not sure it might not be a bit much now in a way it wouldn't have been earlier.

And, though he'd never admit it, he needs the contact for himself. This isn't one of his games. This is Tony. Right now, doing this, is when he is at greatest risk of getting lost and going too far, and he can't do that.)

Tony does.

The look on his face is hard to read. Mostly relaxed, very focused, with a hint of fear at the corners of his eyes. His pulse is fast, the carotid on each side fluttering gently under Obadiah's fingers.

(He doesn't break the fantasy with any words.

But his expression is much less severe as he begins to tighten his grip.)

(It's good, it's better than good, it's—Tony loves him. So much. So, so fucking much.)

He waits. Just waits. Doesn't struggle, doesn't try to look away. Accepts this as his due and waits to find out how far Obadiah will take it.

The part of him that's fully in the fantasy has gone all the way past despair to somewhere calm and peaceful and sad; the rest of him is full of quiet trust. It works out more or less the same in the end.

On one level, it's not quite as satisfying. He likes it when they're scared, when they struggle, when they believe he's going to kill them because that primitive fear drives away all thought of any other possibility. In that respect, Tony's limp acceptance is somewhat lacking.

In every other way, this is exactly what he wants. He's fantasized about Tony's throat under his fingers for a long time, and it seems as though there has never been a time when he hasn't craved a Stark's complete submission in one way or another. There are any number of ways in which Tony has made up for everything Obadiah could never get from Howard; this is easily the best item on that list. He squeezes harder and harder, cutting Tony's air off completely this time, and counts down the seconds in his head, and never once stops looking into Tony's eyes.