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

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."

He does.

For a moment. (A moment in which he is very aware of the fact that this is not Tony. It is safe to continue.)

Then the belt comes slashing down again.

There is no place in Tony's mind for this. He can't (would not be able to) believe it at first, almost can't understand it. It hurts, hurts almost more than he can take, and worse than the hurt is the knowledge that Obie didn't stop.

For a long moment it doesn't even occur to him to struggle. He just shakes and whimpers, defeated, betrayed.

It's long enough for Obadiah to aim carefully for his next target; when the belt strikes again, the buckle hits the reddest, most sensitive-looking spot he could find.

"Please—"

Now he struggles, all right. But that tie isn't giving up anytime soon.

No, it isn't.

Obadiah is very good at knots.

"You should have done as you were told," he murmurs. (His tone is a little distracted. He's not absorbed in quite the same way as he was the last time he spoke. His focus is more on Sherlock now than on a Tony who isn't there.)

He shivers, breathing hard—

—and relaxes all at once.

"Do please continue," he invites. "Lord, that was beautiful."

Obadiah, too, relaxes, and smiles.

"Enjoyed that, did you?" he asks before the next stroke.

He doesn't scream, or moan or even whimper; he sighs a breathlessly delighted, "Yes."

. . . oh, he likes that.

"Good."

The second half of this is going to be just as good as the first.

Sherlock stretches out, slow and deliberate, to present a better target.

"I rather enjoyed playing Tony like that," he muses. "I understand better now what he finds so compelling in these scenarios."

He likes that too, and expresses as much by making full use of the target Sherlock is offering.

"Do you now," he says with a chuckle.

His only reaction to being hit while he speaks is a slight catch in his breath, a pause between words or between syllables. And the slow widening of his lazy smile. That too.

"I—do, yes. There is something—oddly relaxing about it. A—bout the freedom to break a little, knowing—you will soon be mended."

"Would you be talking this much if I'd decided to fuck you instead?"

His tone is amused rather than irritated, despite the fact that it's beginning to look like his arm is going to give out before Sherlock does.