ironmonger | (no subject)

(no subject)

The past few days are finally starting to take their toll on Obadiah when Milliways appears tonight. It's mostly over, save for tracking down the masterminds and dealing with them. Tony is fine - physically, at least - and Sherlock hardly the worse for wear despite the blow to the head he took. In terms of physical damage, the worst they got was Jones's broken leg. In terms of publicity, they're doing well; Stark Industries is front page news. Everyone likes a happy ending.

He's still looking very much forward to making the assholes in charge of the operation pay the price, but for now he's more than happy to settle in at the fireplace with a drink. And, at Bar's insistence, dinner.

[OOC: Warning for painplay and consensual breaking of safewords at some point after the six-hundred-comment mark. This one kind of got away from us.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"People tend to have a certain visceral reaction to being threatened with a belt," Obadiah says reflectively. "It has universal connotations. Everyone associates getting smacked with a belt with punishment no matter how their parents raised 'em."

"Oh, lovely. Yes, we could certainly have fun with that."

"End with the buckle or no?"

He asks more out of curiosity about the answer than for the information itself.

"Try both and I'll tell you how much of either he can withstand."

Sherlock is all about being thorough.

"And then, of course, we make him beg for somewhat less than that." And give him more than they make him ask for. He can see it already in his mind: the fear in Tony's eyes, the belief that they're taking him too far. But he'll trust them. Under it all, he will trust them.

God, this is going to be beautiful.

"Of course," Obadiah murmurs. He's distracted by a similar image, though his perspective on it is perhaps a bit different than Sherlock's.

He laughs, nestling his head against Obadiah's shoulder.

"Delightful, isn't it?"

"That's a word for it."

He remembers, belatedly, that he had wanted to wait until the event itself to put marks on Sherlock. He decides immediately after that that the best plans are those which can be easily adapted.

Fondly: "What word would you use?"

He allows a suitably theatrical pause, then says, drawing out the M sound,

"Magnificent."

Sherlock laughs.

"And you wonder why I love you," he says, shaking his head.

That would be a compliment on your theatrics, Obadiah.

"Because you have excellent taste," Obadiah says comfortably, without missing a beat.

"That too," he allows.

"Are you going to use the gun again for this one?" he asks, managing to briefly suspend his awareness of what Obadiah doesn't know.

"Naturally," he says. "I don't think it would be fair to any of us to leave it out."

It's been thoroughly cleaned and is awaiting its next use.

"No," he muses, "I suppose it wouldn't."

The suspension collapses.

"It's such a nice little piece of work," he says. "Definitely made to be used more than once."

"That it is," Sherlock agrees. "I am glad you like it."

He smirks slightly.

"I'm glad Tony liked it."

"I'm sure you are. I must admit I look forward to seeing you use it on him."

And not, of course, to using it himself. Because it is not Sherlock's gun.

"I'll make sure he gets plenty of time with it this time around."

Obadiah's only regret about that evening is that he wasn't able to hold out for those two minutes.

"Good. I want to watch."

Oh, the hell with it.

"In case you have had occasion to wonder," he says as lightly as possible, "I am the reason it fits you so well."

Obadiah pauses in the middle of a sip of whiskey.

"Beg pardon?" he says, before he realizes - oh. Of course.

"Tony doesn't have the memory for that kind of detail. I wanted to make a present of it. Mainly to him, I'll admit, but to you as well." He touches the side of his neck. "And I had no trouble remembering the shape of your hands."

It seems almost embarrassingly obvious now.

He refuses to let that trouble him, instead using the moment to glance toward Sherlock's neck and saying,

"No, I don't imagine you did."

Tracing the faint line of a bruise, he comments idly, "If you give me enough of these eventually I will no longer remember the precise locations of the first set."

He hmms a little.

"And how long would that take?"