ironmonger | (no subject)

Tony makes a choked-off noise of protest, squirming briefly before he thinks better of it.

(Yeah. Hot.)

But his self-preservation instincts are obviously not functioning to spec, because as he goes still again he also snaps, "Oh, just shoot me already."

Obadiah chuckles.

Then he reaches over to the box and picks out another item.

Tony wasn't wrong about the Coke can.

He is temporarily thrown, but too pissed off right now to let the brief flash of terror take hold.

"Go fuck yourself. Better yet, go fuck the Tsar Cannon, since apparently you like 'em big and mean."

"I thought we were done with the crop, Tony. Did you want another round?"

Obadiah is prepared to indulge that.

He shudders.

Swallows.

Shakes his head.

"No," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

"Good answer," Obadiah tells him.

"I won't ask first next time. Remember that."

Despite everything, Tony smiles slightly.

"Obie," he says, quiet and wry and very nearly affectionate, "there is no way in hell I am gonna remember that and we both know it."

For a second, amusement surfaces, cracking through the shell of the character.

Tony does have a point.

"Then be ready for a few more bruises."

But just a few, is the subtext. Not like before.

"I'll try not to be a smartass," he says, shivering.

And he really will, because he really doesn't want any more bruises.

But he also knows he just is not built that way. Other people are good at thinking through the consequences of their actions. Tony isn't.

(And there is a kind of appeal to being punished again, anyway. He is starting to discover he likes it when Obie makes him cry.)

"Your best effort is all I'm asking for."

He's told some lies that were more blatant, but not many.

...calling him on that would count as being a smartass, wouldn't it.

It hasn't quite been long enough for Tony to forget and do it anyway, but it's a near thing.

Obadiah flexes his fingers hard inside Tony in an effort to bring both their attention back to the important issues.

It works.

It is, he decides, time to really get to work.

They don't actually have all day.

(And maybe - he glances toward the gun - he's feeling a little impatient.)

Tony follows that glance.

His breath catches audibly. He couldn't hide how much he wants it if he tried, and he's not trying anymore.

But the pressure of Obadiah's fingers still makes him feel a special kind of awful. Wrong, broken, humiliated, betrayed.

(And he wants that, too.)

(It becomes clear, as he continues to work Tony open, that he is going to need the smaller plug. Tony may not be a beginner, but he's not ready for the sheer size of the one Obadiah chose.

Making the switch does not exactly require stealth. He just ensures that Tony is too - preoccupied to be paying attention to what Obadiah's free hand is doing.)

Eventually, he's got Tony as ready as he's going to get. With that accomplished, Obadiah withdraws his hand and turns his attention to the plug, making a show of slowly applying lube.

Exhausted and resigned (and incredibly fucking turned on), he watches because (he wants to see it and) he is afraid to do anything else.

Defeat is a good look on him, isn't it. At some point in the last ten minutes, he stopped resisting, stopped keeping up the pretense that anything he does might matter. No more arguing, no more smart remarks, no more futile efforts to move away from Obadiah's hands. Just silent cooperation—silent except for the way he whimpers, with fear and discomfort when it feels like it's too much or shameful pleasure when he starts to like it.

(He can't decide which of those sounds he likes more.)

When the plug is ready - and he's had his fill of watching Tony watch him - he begins finally to press the first segment into Tony.

As he's done with everything so far, he takes his time.

Tony looks away.

(It's absolutely perfect.)

He tries to relax and finds it way easier than it should be.

(He never wants to move again, never wants it to stop, wants to keep feeling this forever—helpless and violated and, under it all, completely safe.)

Obadiah takes a slow, measured breath, allowing Tony (and himself) a moment to adjust before beginning with the next segment.

It's longer, and tapers out to be thicker, and Obadiah is even slower with it than he was with the first part. Here is where it would have been nice to have Tony on his stomach, unable to see what he was being penetrated with and thus unable to make any kind of guess about how big it might be and how wide the stretch might get before it's all over.

But being able to see him - to see the look on his face and the little ways in which his body happily betrays him - is still better than that, and having tricked him into thinking Obadiah is using something far bigger on him isn't a bad plan B.

And he still can't bring himself to watch what Obie is doing to him, so all he has to go on is what it feels like, and the human sense of touch is notoriously unreliable about scale.

With a soft whimper, somewhere in between the two varieties previously described, he rocks his hips up and opens his legs a little wider. He doesn't look like he's doing it deliberately—looks, in fact, like he wishes he wasn't.

Obadiah smirks.

"There, you see?" he says. "I told you you'd like it."

An hour ago, before this, before the riding crop, when Tony was still defiant, that would have set him off and made him say something Obadiah could make him regret.

Here and now, he just presses his face into his shoulder and quietly sobs.

Obadiah pats Tony's thigh with an air of absent-mindedness.

"There, there," he says. "It's only going to get better from here."

He pauses briefly in his work to allow the thickest part of the segment to hold Tony open, then pushes it in.

His breath hisses out through his teeth; he squeezes his eyes shut, displacing tears that make fresh trails down his already damp face.

But he doesn't even try to escape it. Right now his body belongs to Obadiah, to use however he wants, and however much Tony

(loves every second)

hates it, giving in feels good.