ironmonger | (no subject)

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.

Tony blinks a few times, and shudders once; his hands clench into fists, pressing momentarily against the cuffs, then relax. He is afraid. He just won't let himself act on it.

Obadiah's own breath catches a little.

Of course, that's good, too.

You'd think Tony would be too far gone to notice.

You'd be very wrong about that.

One slow blink is all the reaction he gives it. (Behind the slight tremor of his eyelashes, for those three quarters of a second, he is so deeply in love it feels a little like dying.)

He's getting close to when he should let go.

(The goal has only ever once, at special request, been unconsciousness. After all, if they can't react, what's the point?)

He gives it a couple more seconds. Just skirting the edge.

He can feel his pulse beating hard in his chest, pushing weakly past Obadiah's grip on his neck. He's getting dizzy, losing pieces of his thoughts. It's as far as he's ever gone with Sherry—maybe farther.

And even though he doesn't remember why, if he ever really knew in the first place, he keeps holding still for it.

Enough.

(He wants more.)

He lets go.

Tony drags air into his lungs, closing his eyes and digging his nails into his palms.

(He's not crying anymore; hasn't been since Obadiah left him here. His face is streaked with a thin layer of salt that cracks when he moves.)

Obadiah allows him a minute or so to catch his breath.

He needs it.

At the end of the minute, when he opens his eyes again and manages to take one full breath that doesn't sound like a shuttle launch in his ears, he looks up at Obadiah with that same calm expression on his face. Waiting to be told what to want next.

Obadiah leans down and kisses his forehead, then says quietly against his skin,

"Next time I'll just let you pass out."

It doesn't hit all his panic buttons the way it would for Sherlock, but he still shivers as he nods very slightly.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll do better, I promise."

"Good boy," he murmurs.

He sits up, flexing his hands idly, then reaches over to the nightstand for the gun.

Tony's eyes follow the movement.

He shivers a lot harder.

Obadiah smirks as, one more time, he moves to kneel between Tony's legs.

"You enjoyed sucking on it so much, it seemed like a shame to let it go to waste after that."

Hesitantly, he nods.

Obadiah smiles. (It's entirely genuine.)

"Good," he says, and starts lubricating the gun.

Tony watches in fascination, one part fear to three parts lust and no attempt to hide any of the above.

After the plug, there's no need for any preliminaries before using the gun on Tony. The lack of a tapered end presents only a brief and minor difficulty; after that, the barrel slides in easily.

His head tips back and he moans—low, broken, wanting.

Thia time it's Obadiah who has to close his eyes for a second.

The drawback of a long session like this is, of course, that Tony isn't the only one being denied the pleasure of an orgasm. Obadiah's control is better in that department than Tony's, but it started to flake a little around the edges as he stood in the outer room and listened to Tony struggle futilely against the plug.

If Tony is going to start moaning like this now, Obadiah may not be able to spend as long fucking him with the gun as they'd both originally had in mind.

Too bad for both of them, then, because Tony is long past that kind of self-control. He presses forward with a whimper, spreading his thighs, desperate for more and too shattered to beg.