The glass was only transparent from this side, but chances of Tony knowing that, of him recalling a single small detail he’d have no reason to retain from a quick glance, especially under duress? Doom knew the odds. He could calculate the level of anxiety, predict the unreasonable fears jolting through Tony’s brain just now.
They were all there, open and obvious in his expression as he looked down; in the sudden spike in heart rate and respiration the mask’s scanners detected. No matter how poised he seemed, how well he covered it, how quickly that fake, dismissive laugh had come.
And Victor only smiled, letting Tony untether his cloak and sweep it from his shoulders, leaving it rumpled on the floor as if it didn’t matter in the least; listening attentively as Stark baited him–or imagined that he did, at least. That his words had power.
One hand still cradled the back of Tony’s skull, fingers tangling in damp hair and stroking–encouraging–while Doom decided just how much he needed to keep his connection with the ground level past this point. Once the mask was off, the link was broken, but… with it on, he faced a frustrating number of limitations here.
"’Just a man.’ Are we not the worst monsters of all?“ He was barely aware of removing the heavy thing, only of feeling the air on his skin and hearing his own low voice again and the dizzying freedom of realizing that–oh, yes–now he could do the other things he’d wanted, without all that metal in the way.
The mask clattered down next to the cloak and Victor pulled Tony forward, pushing them both back into the glass wall to get better leverage for the kiss–there was nothing gentle about it, it wasn’t a subtle dance of tongues and teeth but a straightfoward claiming of what he saw as his.
(Why did kissing Tony make him shiver?)
"What about your masks, Stark? The people down there who know you for your altruism, your heroism? People who still see you as their Golden Avenger–how horrified would they be to know that you were here, right now, with me?” Victor reached to unbuckle Tony’s belt, already planning out precisely how he wanted the next five steps to go.
Tony's lips part in surprise as the mask clatters to the ground, but he has barely a second to look on his lover’s face before he’s pulled flush against his chest and Doom is claiming his mouth for his own. It had always been intense, being kissed by Victor, and now, despite the familiarity, it was entirely overwhelming. Like everything else Doom does, it is dominance. It isn’t a kiss to be returned but to surrender to and Tony can do nothing but, a shudder rushing through him.
He’s clinging to Victor by the time he has the chance to catch his breath, one hand buried in soft hair, the other twisted in expensive fabric of Doom’s jacket. Tony blinks his eyes open, vision focusing on Victor’s face as he speaks poisonous words.
They mean next to nothing. Noise in his ears as he looks at his lover as best that he can while close enough that their breaths still mingle. His fingers scrape down from Victor’s hair so his thumb brushes over rough skin stretched over prominent cheekbone. He neither helps nor hinders Victor’s hands in their task, simply allowing him to do as he pleases. Doom could be cutting into him, pulling out his heart, and Tony is certain he wouldn’t stop the man and sacrifice a second of looking at his face.
His hands are shaking. It takes half a second to realize that his whole body is; like somehow it knows better than his head to be afraid. That there is still fragile glass at his back. That there are still people down below, that they deserve so much better from him than this.
[ That they could look. They could see. ]
But do they? Deserve better? How could they judge him? When they have praised him for violence that he perpetuated for years? When the people down there were the same ones that cheered him on as he reaped the benefits of destruction? And cheered again still at his many falls from grace? People who extol the virtues of Howard Stark, whose first words on introduction are always 'I knew your father. He was a great man.’ and the implied following of 'and he would have been so disappointed in you.’ What right do they have to look at him now and cry ‘shame’? They want him dirty then denounce him for it.
“Rogers could teach a class on being disappointed in me.” Tony says, voice rough and hollow. He laughs dryly, “and it’s not even the worst thing I’ve been caught doing. I know what I am to them already. I’m not golden. I’ve never been pure enough, idealistic enough, heroic enough for them. I’ve been their devil, their scapegoat, their dirty dealer, on the run from them enough times that I know. I had my skull caved in on national television and it’s the most viewed thing on Youtube. They couldn’t think any worse if you fucked me on the top of Avengers Tower and if I cared about what they thought, the world would have gone to hell five times over already. Someone will kick up a fuss but we always end up right back where we started. They don’t care. Nobody does, not really. They posture and cry about my awful moral character and they’ll drink their champagne and whisper behind their hands but they’ll still buy my tech, they’ll still take my money, and people will still beg me to save them."
Tony cants his hips into Victor’s hands, his body alight with arousal and anticipation as much as fear and shame. Fear, not of Victor, but of this thing between them, of himself and his thoughts when Doom’s lips are on him. His voice shakes as much as his hands, a low, whispering tone.
“And I will.” He says, finally. He tilts his head, brushing their lips, “from dastardly villains like you. Even though they’re too busy jerking each other off about how fucking generous they are to even look up. Men - the worst monsters of all, right?”
