ironmonger | (no subject)

(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.)

...kind of hot, Tony decides. Scary-ish but in a thoroughly sexy way.

He relaxes a little more, but there's a core of tension to him that's not going away.

He'd briefly considered having Tony on his stomach again for this, for increased ease of access as well as the fun of keeping Tony unable to see what Obadiah is using on him, but there's no question of doing that now. He needs to be able to see Tony's face.

So he takes his place again between Tony's legs. Before he opens the lubricant, though, he tips the box onto its side and angles it so Tony has at least a partial view of the contents.

"Pick a few things you might like to try," he says. "If you're very good, I might use one or two of them."

If Tony happens to pick the right ones. Obadiah already knows what he's going to use. A lot of the things in there - especially the larger ones, the ones that look like exactly the kind of thing someone looking to hurt Tony might try to fit inside him - are decoys. Just to make sure he stays nervous.

He bites his lip.

And says nothing.

Obadiah glances up as he works with the lubricant, watching Tony's face.

"I know there's a lot to choose from," he says lightly. "I got a bit carried away."

Soft snort. "Yeah, I'll say."

Oh, look. The smartass is back.

Still more than a little terrified, but back nonetheless.

Obadiah raises his eyebrows.

"Of course," he says, no longer quite so light, "if you would rather I choose . . ."

Here's a hint, Tony: you really, really don't want that.

"You're going to anyway," he says quietly. "I don't feel like pretending I have a choice."

Obadiah puts the lube down.

"You'd be surprised how many choices you have right now," he says, and presses a finger into Tony without preamble.

Tony closes his eyes—for a moment, he is defeated again; for a moment, the violation shatters some crucial working component of his heart.

And then he opens them.

"So fuck me with your gun," he says clearly, lifting his chin.

(He would even if it were real. He knows he would. Because sometimes you're willing to risk anything—even dying, even dying like that—for the chance to cut through the fucking bullshit.)

He doesn't even try to hide the pleasure he gets from Tony's reaction. Or from his suggestion.

"Oh, I'm going to," Obadiah assures him. "I just thought you might prefer to work up to it.

"Besides, we have all day. Well, you have all day. I have an errand or two to run." He smiles. "The gun might slip out while I'm gone. Can't have that."

"You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?"

(And Tony loves him for it. God, how Tony loves him for it. But he's doing a pretty good job of keeping himself focused on the fear and anger.)

"You should have thought of that a little earlier," Obadiah says, moving his finger inside Tony as he talks. "Would it really have been so bad to let me have what I wanted?"

It would certainly have been better than this. For Tony, at least.

The muscles in his jaw tighten. (Those elsewhere do not.)

Flatly: "Yes."

His expression goes flat.

"Have you chosen anything yet?"

(—Tony has an entirely inappropriate urge to hug him and say sorry.)

"I told you what I want," he says instead. Another thing he learned from Sherry: if there's something about you that people are going to use against you anyway, you might as well own it.

But he can't help glancing into the box. His resolve is cracking; he is more than a little afraid of what Obie might pick for him, especially with that look on his face.

Obadiah doesn't answer. He just watches Tony, and keeps working on him.

It's an opportunity, Tony. Take it.

Yeah.

Yeah okay.

"The glass one," he says, because there is only one glass one so he does not have to get any more specific, and it is neither so small as to be clearly there just to get his hopes up nor as downright terrifying as some of the other options. One of those dildos looks to be as big around as a Coke can, for Christ's sake.

Obadiah takes it with his free hand and puts it aside without comment, or much change in facial expression.

"Anything else?"