ironmonger | (no subject)

Tony drags air into his lungs, closing his eyes and digging his nails into his palms.

(He's not crying anymore; hasn't been since Obadiah left him here. His face is streaked with a thin layer of salt that cracks when he moves.)

Obadiah allows him a minute or so to catch his breath.

He needs it.

At the end of the minute, when he opens his eyes again and manages to take one full breath that doesn't sound like a shuttle launch in his ears, he looks up at Obadiah with that same calm expression on his face. Waiting to be told what to want next.

Obadiah leans down and kisses his forehead, then says quietly against his skin,

"Next time I'll just let you pass out."

It doesn't hit all his panic buttons the way it would for Sherlock, but he still shivers as he nods very slightly.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll do better, I promise."

"Good boy," he murmurs.

He sits up, flexing his hands idly, then reaches over to the nightstand for the gun.

Tony's eyes follow the movement.

He shivers a lot harder.

Obadiah smirks as, one more time, he moves to kneel between Tony's legs.

"You enjoyed sucking on it so much, it seemed like a shame to let it go to waste after that."

Hesitantly, he nods.

Obadiah smiles. (It's entirely genuine.)

"Good," he says, and starts lubricating the gun.

Tony watches in fascination, one part fear to three parts lust and no attempt to hide any of the above.

After the plug, there's no need for any preliminaries before using the gun on Tony. The lack of a tapered end presents only a brief and minor difficulty; after that, the barrel slides in easily.

His head tips back and he moans—low, broken, wanting.

Thia time it's Obadiah who has to close his eyes for a second.

The drawback of a long session like this is, of course, that Tony isn't the only one being denied the pleasure of an orgasm. Obadiah's control is better in that department than Tony's, but it started to flake a little around the edges as he stood in the outer room and listened to Tony struggle futilely against the plug.

If Tony is going to start moaning like this now, Obadiah may not be able to spend as long fucking him with the gun as they'd both originally had in mind.

Too bad for both of them, then, because Tony is long past that kind of self-control. He presses forward with a whimper, spreading his thighs, desperate for more and too shattered to beg.

Obadiah breathes, in and out, slow and measured.

He should make Tony beg, but he doesn't, instead just giving him what he wants because it's the closest thing Obadiah has right this second to what he wants.

And this time he is too far gone to notice Obadiah's reaction. Much, much too far.

"Please, yes—"

Oh, look, he managed it all by himself. The begging. Be proud.

The hand holding the gun moves with fast, sure strokes; he can't even pretend to hold back now.

The other hand clenches into a fist, nails biting against the layers of glove. Two minutes, he tells himself. Give Tony two minutes of what he worked so hard on.

Then and only then will Obadiah allow himself to take what he wants.

Tony doesn't find any more words between the moans for a while—perhaps thirty seconds—but when he does, they are compelling ones.

"I want," he gasps, "I want, God it's so good I don't care I'm sorry I teased you I want you to fuck me."

Granted that Obadiah has made Tony beg before, it has never been like this. He has been tense, strained, demanding, even frantic; he has never been so raw, so fearful, so incoherently desperate.

He thought he was prepared for it, at least enough to withstand it for two minutes. Even now, he should be able to control himself enough for that.

He makes it about twenty seconds before he pulls the gun out of Tony, tosses it into the box he put the plug in, and yanks off the gloves with vicious impatience.

(There is no universe in which Tony Stark is not Obadiah Stane's personal boiling point. This simple fact may manifest itself in countless ways across countless realities, but in the end, one way or another, Tony can always make him break.)

He greets this development with a soft, pleading moan, his whole body shaking slightly with the tension of it. He needs this. Right now it's all he can want, for Obadiah to be closer, touching him, showing him as intimately as possible—as violently as necessary—how much this affected him too.

For the first time since he first pulled the gun on Tony back on the couch, Obadiah is not taking his time. He's moving as quickly as he can while still being efficient, dealing with the necessities of condom and lubrication before he grabs Tony's hips and pushes into him, hard.

And this time, there is no concealed care in his movements.

If he could get the breath for it, Tony would scream. He can't; the best he can manage is ragged panting and a high, sharp whine. Under other circumstances, this would be too much—too fast, too rough, too careless of his bruised and overstimulated body. As keyed up as he is, though, it's perfect.

Obadiah isn't done leaving bruises, but this will hardly be the first time Tony's hips have borne his marks. Though he's never been quite this rough with Tony before, the sex between them hasn't exactly been gentle, either.

Tony's cry just makes him dig his fingers in harder.

His voice gives out entirely at that. He throws his head back, shaking like a leaf, and gasps in air like a drowning man.