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

Soft, and rather more than a little breathless: "Okay."

"Good boy," he says, and strikes hard.

He makes a high, sharp, absolutely agonized sound, and doesn't move.

His reward is another stroke in the same spot.

(Obadiah imagines Tony and Sherlock later on, with Tony examining the damage and realizing just what's in store for him. It's a lovely image.)

Now he moves, muffling his scream against a pillow, and this time he's much slower to make himself uncurl.

"Do you want me to use the other end, Tony?" he inquires politely.

"no," he says in a very small voice, and gets back in position.

"Then hold" - smack - "still!" Another.

He shudders.

"I—I can't," he says, pleading. But he's managing it at least for the moment.

"I think you can," Obadiah says evenly. "I think you'd better."

Another.

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against the bed and makes himself hold still.

It's not going to last.

He'd like to pause and study his handiwork - Tony's skin, crisscrossed with red marks that are going to leave deep bruises, is beautiful - but this is exactly the wrong moment to let Tony breathe.

He keeps going.

Tony is very, very stubborn. He can hold out even longer than he thinks he can, and he thinks he can hold out pretty long.

What he can't do is hold out forever.

He starts to scream again first—scream if he has the breath, whimper if he doesn't. And he twitches, flinches, every time the belt hits.

He loves those sounds.

He especially loves them when Tony makes them.

(He's so absorbed in them and in his work that he's beginning to experience stretches of time when he forgets that this isn't Tony. Not long ones, just seconds at a time, but still definitely happening.)

They're coming to the end of Tony's strength and he knows it.

"Please," he says, lifting his head away from the pillow. "Please, Obie, I can't."

But he doesn't give Tony's safeword. That point is still a long way off.

Well, perhaps not that long.

"That," Obadiah says, "is unfortunate."

He does pause now, though. For a few seconds, long enough to let Tony think he's going to ease up, before he starts again.

Even the brief faint hope of that pause lets him make it through the next strike. And the one after that, with a tiny choked noise of pain and a full-body shudder.

On the third, he twists away and draws his legs up under him, moaning brokenly.

Obadiah gives a deep, disappointed sigh.

"Tony," he says reprovingly. "I warned you what would happen."

He flips the belt around in his hands, running his thumb over the buckle. It's small and tasteful, but it's still metal.

Temporarily lost to reason, he does nothing but hide his face and shiver. Even his pained noises seem to have run dry.

With a real Tony—a real Tony Obadiah planned to still be on speaking terms with after tonight, a real Tony Obadiah planned to leave still able to speak at all—this would be a good moment to check in and make sure he's okay. Even something subtle would do.

But this is not a real Tony. No special consideration is required.

With a real Tony, he would be unlikely to go this far. With a real Tony, he would be more interested in sex than pain - the beating would probably be over by now, replaced by more pleasurable activities.

This is not a real Tony. (And Obadiah is curious about how much Sherlock will take, if he can live up to his confident claims and incredibly lax limits.)

He doesn't say a word, doesn't even touch Tony, before the belt comes down.

He lets out another low moan.

"Obie, please," he whispers hoarsely.

Obadiah ignores him.

"Please—" His voice breaks.

This time he allows a soft chuckle to escape as he brings the belt down.

The buckle flashes sharply in the light.

He screams, loud and ragged.

And the first words out of his mouth with his next breath are, "Stop, I can't, Obadiah, stop."