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.]

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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.

"Per—haps not," he allows. "Oh, that one was lovely."

Much more of this and he's going to start bleeding, unless Obadiah is very careful with that belt buckle. The prospect doesn't seem to bother him.

Obligingly, he aims for the same spot again.

He is going to have to start being careful, though. He has plenty of the salve he used on Tony left, but he can't recall if it's suitable for broken skin or not, and he doesn't have anything else he can use to deal with bleeding.

Without seeming to quite realize he's doing it, Sherlock starts working on the knots in the tie. Most of his attention is on Obadiah.

"Perfect," he says, eyes closed, rather in the attitude of a cat being scratched.

"Ah—by the way, if I were still looking—for evidence of your intentions towards Tony, which I—" he breaks off entirely with a gasp, continues, "—am not particularly, I would be extremely reassured by all this."

"That," Obadiah says, "is not a word most people would associate with getting the hell beaten out of them with a belt."

He gives Sherlock one last smack, then lowers the belt and folds it in half.

"And that'll be enough of that. I like this belt, I don't wanna get blood on it."

He laughs, slips his hands free, and folds his arms to rest his head on them.

"It's perfectly logical. The moment I gave Tony's safeword, you were no longer interested in my continuing to be Tony. What do I call that if not extremely reassuring?"

He eyes Sherlock. Of course he got himself untied without the aid of scissors.

Obadiah wonders if the tie is still salvageable.

"Well," he says, "that wasn't the point of the experiment."

"True."

The tie took more damage from Sherlock-as-Tony's struggles than it did from Sherlock's absent-minded escape artistry. It's not exactly pristine, but neither is it beyond hope.

"And thank you. That was very enjoyable. Perhaps not effective layering," he reflects wryly, "but very enjoyable all the same. Did you find it informative?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says with a smirk, "the layers are looking pretty good from what I'm sitting."

It's nothing but the truth.

"Yeah, I think I learned a thing or two."

"I ought to visit you again tomorrow or the day after," he says, smiling. "So you can see how they're coming along."

"If you can fit it into your schedule," he says, deliberately over-casual.

"Would you like some of that salve I used for Tony?"

"Yes, please."

Where did Sherlock find manners? Maybe Obadiah beat them into him.

"Good boy," Obadiah says in amusement, getting up to fetch the salve.

"I have been known to become polite when I am in a good mood."

Or a very bad one. But right now he mainly feels content.

"So you're saying your manners will improve if I hit you?"

Is that really the advice Sherlock wants to be imparting here?

Obadiah settles back in place and twists the container open. He scoops out a generous amount of salve and begins to work it slowly and gently into Sherlock's skin.

"Only if I am happy about it," he says, amused.

In which case, yes. Yes it absolutely is.

Already very relaxed, Sherlock seems to reach a whole new level of languid ease when Obadiah touches him.

As he had with Tony, Obadiah takes his time applying the salve. It melts quickly against Sherlock's overheated skin. Obadiah rubs it carefully along the length of each welt and into the especially vivid marks left by the buckle, remembering doing this for Tony and enjoying the way Sherlock relaxes so openly under his hands.

"That feels wonderful," he comments after a few minutes, nearly humming the words; his usual precise diction seems to have fallen by the wayside. It's amazing how entirely peaceful he is.

Or maybe it isn't, if you know how Sherlock feels about being touched by someone he loves. That and the fascinating sensual landscape drawn across his skin make for a very pleasant combination.

"It's from some futuristic planet or another." Like most things in Milliways. The names tend to blur together in Obadiah's head, especially the ones just barely pronounceable in human speech. "It's antiseptic with a mild anesthetic. It'll help keep the swelling down."

Which is almost a shame - he likes the way the developing ridges feel under his fingers - but won't hurt the visual aesthetics of the marks too much, at least.