ironmonger | (no subject)

He's so beautiful like this that Obadiah lets him get away with hiding his face for the time being. The desperation and helplessness in the pose just makes it that much better.

This time when he reaches the thickest part, he doesn't just pause: he stops and holds there, to see how long Tony can take it.

His mouth falls open and his breath is loud and ragged, just barely this side of pained—but he doesn't ask for mercy, doesn't try to pull away.

Obadiah rewards his restraint by not leaving it in place for quite as long as he'd planned, electing instead to press it in the rest of the way.

"There you go," he says, fitting the base as firmly against Tony as he can. "How does that feel?"

Tony bites his lip.

He doesn't even remember now exactly what happened the last time he tried to lie about this; he just remembers Obie didn't like it and things get bad when he does stuff Obie doesn't like.

So.

"It's good," he says, agonized and barely audible, as though the words hurt him more than anything else has hurt him today. "It's good. I like it."

"I knew you would."

Tony's honesty wins him another little reward - Obadiah gives him a couple of slow strokes, saying,

"Believe it or not, Tony, I like it when you enjoy yourself."

He trembles, just a little, when Obadiah touches him.

(And doesn't say, I know you do.)

Obadiah exhales, then sits back to strip off his gloves, saying briskly,

"Like I said earlier, I have a couple of errands to run. I imagine you'll manage to keep yourself entertained while I'm gone."

A smile flickers across his face, wry and tired.

But he says nothing.

Obadiah chuckles.

"One more thing," he says, and reaches over to tweak a dial set in the base of the plug, which immediately starts vibrating.

—well. That. That changes things.

Tony wants very badly to squirm. He holds still mostly out of fear.

Obadiah slides his shoes on.

"I won't be long," he says. He walks out of the room, closing the door most of the way, but leaving it ajar.

He walks across the outer room, taking care to step loudly enough for Tony to hear, opens the door to the hallway, and closes it again. Then he slips his shoes off again, goes noiselessly to the wet bar, and quietly pours himself a drink.

Tony is quiet, too.

For about half a minute, and then he shifts, and the bed creaks, and he briefly tries to get comfortable but he absolutely can't, and it creaks several more times while he is finding that out. God, this is torture.

(It's beautiful, it's amazing, it's even better than he thought it would be.)

He has to skip the ice; it would make too much noise in the glass. While Tony is probably too self-absorbed at the moment to notice a sound like that, he'd just as soon not take the chance.

(It wouldn't be safe to leave Tony completely alone like this. They both know it. But it isn't very difficult right now to make Tony doubt what he knows just enough to add a little excitement.)

There is a longer period of quiet. Tony is curled up half on his side, shuddering periodically when it gets to be too much, which is often.

For some reason the thought his mind settles on is of doing this to Sherry. Enforced idleness plus enforced stimulation—he'd crack, and fast, probably much faster than Tony will, but if you timed it right he'd crack in the very very good way.

Probably about how Tony will.

He shudders again, but he's smiling.

Obadiah listens closely for any and all sounds from the bedroom.

He doesn't expect Tony to be difficult to hear once he gets going, but it would be a shame to miss too much of the warm-up.

It is a surprisingly long time before he even moves again.

(It was a very engaging train of thought.)

But now he's not thinking exactly, and what he's doing that isn't thinking is happening in little flashes, quick transitory fragments of sense memory—the taste of steel and Obadiah's fingers inside him and the sound of his own voice sobbing helplessly and the very sudden, very physical knowledge of his pulse starting to race when he first saw the gun.

So he shifts again, and once he's started he finds it very difficult to stop, because there is absolutely nowhere he can go and nothing he can do to get away from this. He already knows that. He proved it a while ago. But he can't keep the knowledge in his head and although this frantic squirming is the opposite of helpful he's doing it anyway.

Just as he's beginning to wonder a little

(he's a patient man, but he'd have to be a saint to stand out here and know what's waiting for him in there and not feel at least a twinge)

he hears Tony start squirming again, and this time it keeps going.

Obadiah smiles to himself and sips his drink.

He manages to make himself go still again and stay that way for not quite half a minute, through the application of a staggering amount of willpower, but it doesn't last. When the squirming starts up again this time, there is whimpering to go with it.

The one clear benefit of being out here is that he isn't required to maintain a show of iron self-control.

When he hears Tony start to whimper, he shudders.

It's a soft, pleading sound, and it's getting louder. God knows who he's trying to plead with. Certainly not Obadiah, who isn't here

(except he is, he's listening to every second of this, Tony knows he is, it's fucking wonderful)

and couldn't be expected to care even if he was.

Obadiah takes a long, slow sip of whiskey, closing his eyes as though he were listening to fine music.

This time, it's exhaustion that stops him moving, and it only means there are fewer extra noises competing with his strained, desperate voice.

Obadiah puts his free hand in his pocket. Best to resist temptation.

And eventually, those sounds trail off too, fading into soft ragged breaths and the occasional broken moan.

Obadiah's glass is empty by now, but he doesn't refill it. He just holds on to it.

He'll give Tony a few more minutes.