ironmonger | (no subject)

(Good.)

After a suitably lengthy interval, Obadiah pulls out a toy that looks, at first glance, bewilderingly unimposing. It's a slim metal tube, not overly long, far smaller than even the smallest dildo might be.

Casually, he asks,

"Tony, have you ever heard of sounding?"

If he has, that tube might suddenly start looking a lot bigger.

It dawns on him slowly, but it dawns on him.

Yes. Yes he has. Beer and Sherry and Google are an interesting combination sometimes. They had a laugh over it and decided that one, no, two, neither of them felt like tracking down the proper equipment, and three, no.

"Jesus," he says, edging away a little without quite meaning to.

Obadiah reaches casually over for the lube still sitting next to the gun. He flips it open and strokes a dollop over the metal tube.

"I've never tried it out before," he says. "But there's a first time for everything."

He glances up to meet Tony's eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful."

"No," he says quietly, like he doesn't think it will actually matter but he has to try it just in case.

He pauses, studying Tony with a slight frown.

It's not an overtly encouraging expression, but it doesn't seem to be an angry one, either.

Daring to hope: "Please don't?"

He hmms a little, looking back down at the tube in his hand.

"Well," he says slowly. "I did promise you something in exchange for cooperating with taking off your underwear. And honestly I expected more of a fight over the cuffs."

He considers for a moment longer, then shrugs and wipes the tube clean on the blanket.

"Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself. I have to save something for next time."

(He did have a back-up plan to use in the event that Tony didn't object, but he was fairly confident he wouldn't have to worry about it. That wonderful look of dawning alarm was all he was really after.

He'll even tell Tony as much later on.)

He exhales a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," he whispers, soft and ragged.

Obadiah gives him a benevolently fond look.

He reaches out to run his fingers lightly over some of the marks on Tony's thighs. The earlier ones, delivered with less force, are beginning to fade, but he can already tell that some of the later ones are going to bruise.

(God, he can't wait to see that.)

"I suppose you've had enough, anyway, haven't you?" he murmurs.

He also promised that it would eventually start feeling good.

Tony nods—hesitantly, hopefully. There is no artifice involved in the way every line of his body says please don't hurt me anymore; the sentiment is entirely genuine.

(He would like nothing more than to spend a minute or two nurturing that hope, only to crush it completely. Tony is gorgeous like this, hurting and helpless.

But that's the wrong move right now; the line is blurred too thin. A misstep could do all the wrong kinds of damage. He takes a breath and quashes the urge.)

"I trust you've gotten my point, then," he says. "You'll think twice next time about teasing someone with something you're not going to deliver."

(Obie is such a sweetheart sometimes.)

He bites his lip and nods again. His face is wet with tears; he keeps forgetting and then being reminded again when a stray air current brings an unexpected chill or a slight movement pulls at the drying skin.

"Good."

Obadiah makes a point of picking the crop up and putting it back into the box, then finding the clamps and putting them away, too.

It takes him a few seconds after that to relax, but relax he does.

(It would be so easy, wouldn't it.)

(Resisting the temptation requires an almost physical effort, but he manages it.)

His hand is still slick from lubing up the sounding tube; he reaches over and wraps it loosely around Tony, stroking up once slowly. Then again.

"Now," he says. "I do believe I made a few other promises, as well."

Okay maybe it wouldn't be that easy.

The moment Obadiah touches him, he tenses with fear. The words don't help; he can't bring any specific promises to mind, and he's afraid they won't be good ones. It feels good, holy shit yes does it ever, but right now he doesn't trust that it won't somehow end in pain.

Obadiah continues to stroke him, his movements smooth and deliberate - nothing too firm or stimulating, just a little something to remind Tony's body that he can provide pleasure as well as pain.

"I was going to show you," he reminds Tony, "how good it could have been if you'd behaved decently. And I'm going to keep showing you until you're begging for it."

The look he gives Tony would be reassuring in most contexts.

"It's all right, Tony. The punishment is over. Well. The painful part of it, at least."

Tony doesn't exactly relax, but the focus of his tension changes, from fear into something like yearning.

He moves his head as though he's going to glance down at Obadiah's hand, but seems to change his mind at the last second and looks off to the side instead, blinking away what might be fresh tears or the residue of old ones.

(It's a shame that a camera would be such a stupid indulgence. Not catching this on film is a tragic waste.)

He falls into silence for a moment, watching Tony intently. Jesus, he looks good like this.

"I should have done this sooner," he murmurs.

A little shiver runs through him.

Apparently he has run out of smartass remarks.

(Lucky for Obadiah there's nothing wrong with his memory.)

Eventually, Obadiah's gaze wanders over to the gun.

It takes a moment for Tony to follow his line of sight, and when he does he pales slightly.

(Fuck yes.)

Obadiah looks back at him with a bland almost-smile.

"Oh, now, don't look like that," he says. "I'm not going to insult either of us by pretending I think you're a blushing virgin, but I do realize you're going to need a little - work first."

Because that, of course, must be what has Tony so edgy.

Obadiah picks up the lube again.

—that actually does get a brief, crooked smile out of him. No, however much blushing he's been doing today, a virgin he is not.

The amusement breaks some of his tension, enough so that he at least doesn't try to wriggle away. Yet.

Obadiah reaches into the box again, but this time it's only long enough to produce a pair of rubber gloves, which he pulls on. They add, he feels, a nicely impersonal touch to the proceedings.

(They'll also help to minimize the amount of scrubbing he'll want to to do immediately after they're done, which will make it easier to concentrate on Tony. Again, the practicalities do need to be considered.)