ironmonger | (no subject)

No idea, no idea, and no idea. Playing Tony does require a certain amount of cutting loose and letting the less conscious parts of your brain do your thinking for you.

Tony would not still be fooled, and at the exact moment when Tony would stop being fooled, he pulls back and murmurs, "You think too much."

He does smile a bit in spite of himself, because he's heard that from Tony so many times.

"Maybe you should do something about that," he suggests.

"Okay," he says brightly, and the next kiss is much more—involved.

Interesting.

He pulls his focus more firmly back to the kiss, letting his hands stroke down over Sherlock's ass and around to his hips.

The way he wriggles just slightly is perfectly Tony. So is the way he laughs softly into the kiss and presses closer, needing to touch, to feel the warmth of human contact.

The small break in the kiss was exactly what he needed to regain his focus. He concentrates more intently on Sherlock now, hands firm on his hips. He likes holding Tony there when they kiss, and he likes it even more now that they've given it a new association.

He's more than happy to let the memory rise, occupying more of his attention and putting space between him and his constant awareness that this is not Tony.

When he—feels, more than sees—where this new focus comes from, he smiles. The smile is Tony's but the laughter behind it comes from somewhere else. And his kisses stay sweet, but there is an edge to the sweetness, like a vein of pure cinnamon running through your apple pie. Exactly the way Tony would kiss with that memory running through his mind: soft and warm and happy and reminiscent and wanting.

His hands tighten a little on Sherlock's hips as he takes the chance to really, thoroughly savor the memory in a way he hasn't had much of a chance to do since he went home the morning after.

It's... beautiful.

(He knows Tony would think so too, and he knows how Tony would think it, and he is not thinking it in quite the same way. But when he hums softly and melts a little under Obadiah's touch, clinging to his shoulders, the enjoyment that shows is all Tony's and none of his own.)

Obadiah kisses him more intently now, and it's getting easier to pretend that he even tastes like Tony.

And it's slightly disappointing to know that, beneath the layers of clothing under his fingers, he wouldn't find Tony's bruises there.

No. Sherlock's bruises, Sherlock's scars.

He doesn't drink like Tony drinks, and he smokes occasionally, and both those things are evident if you are paying enough attention.

The way he moves, though, the way he kisses, the way his eyelashes flutter, even the way he breathes—Tony. Tony all through.

His hands slide back around to Sherlock's back, tugging him a little closer.

To which he responds, in the best Tony tradition, by making a breathlessly happy sort of noise and sliding forward rather more than a little.

(It is getting more and more difficult to remind himself that there are things he should not be doing, aspects of what goes on between these two that do not strictly belong to him. Everything Tony is and does should belong to him, of course, but even so there are lines he is reluctant to cross.)

He's beginning to wonder if there's any way he can get Sherlock to break the façade. There must be something. Surely Sherlock must have gotten whatever it is that he wants out of this by now.

(Unless what he wants is for Obadiah to forget, to sink completely into the fantasy. He will not get that.)

(He doesn't. He doesn't know what he wants. That's part of the problem, really.

The only way he will deliberately break the façade is if continuing it becomes unacceptable to him. If Obadiah simply asks him to stop, for example.

Or any of a number of other possibilities.)

He dips his hands downward, then slides them up under the hem of Sherlock's shirt, stroking his fingers over the bare skin underneath. It's a test more than anything else, a way to gauge Sherlock's reaction to a fairly mild (though unrequested) intrusion so he can plan from there what might be most appropriate to jolt him with.

He shivers happily, just the way Tony would. Just the way Tony has, when Obadiah has done things like this before.

There is less and less room for Sherlock under the things he needs to feel in order to keep being Tony. Not once does it occur to him to stop. He (or maybe Tony) is having way too much fun, for one thing.

Not forceful enough, then. He'd expected as much. It still gives him a place to start.

He lingers there for a moment, little feather-light caresses over the small of Sherlock's back. Then he reaches swiftly around to the front to undo the button at Sherlock's fly, and flick the zipper down a little. Just a little, just enough to give himself room when he presses his hands back where they were before and slides them down, under Sherlock's trousers and the band of his boxers to cup his ass in both hands. He moves quickly, not leaving much time for any objection that might be forthcoming.

His breath flutters out of him; he presses into the contact and murmurs, with obvious sincerity and no forethought whatsoever, "I love you."

That, it has to be said, is not quite the reaction he was expecting.

The realization of what just came out of his mouth hits him rather like a bucket of cold water to the face. Possibly with bucket included.

He shakes his head once, already flushing with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he says in his own voice. "I—forgot I wasn't—I'm sorry."

That may very well be the least coherent eight-word sequence Obadiah has ever heard out of Sherlock Holmes. 'Flustered' is not exactly a common state of being for him.

Well. It isn't quite the victory he was looking for, but he'll certainly take it.

"It's all right, Sherlock," he says soothingly, removing his hands and fastening Sherlock's fly back up. "You got caught up, I understand. I don't mind."

"Thank you," he says, and—rather impulsively, but otherwise nothing at all like Tony—gives Obadiah a quick peck on the lips.

He chuckles.

(The affection he infuses the sound with isn't quite entirely false.)

"You're very welcome."

Well.

Despite being quite comfortable in Obadiah's lap, he thinks it is probably past time he left it; but when he does, he tucks himself up against Obadiah's side with his feet stretched out along the empty couch, preferring not to relinquish the physical contact.

"Apart from that, however, it was a very successful experiment." He crosses his arms over his stomach and leans his head on Obadiah's shoulder. "Thank you again. Is there something you would like to know in return?"