toblameforit | God help them both

God help them both

(from here; warning for some fairly wrong goings-on all round)

His room is on the second floor and it's really more of a suite. First through the door is a comfortable little living room containing all the essentials—squashy couch, wall-mounted plasma TV, bookshelf for Sherry, liquor cabinet for Tony, a pair of reasonably uncluttered desks side by side for the rare occasion when they both bring their laptops. One of them has been usurped by a violin case.

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(He thinks briefly of asking what the joke is, but decides he doesn't want another interruption. He just wants to focus on this, on kissing Tony. He has earned it.)

Obadiah lightly smooths the ends of the tie over Tony's chest.

Then, not nearly so light, he slides a hand back up over Tony's chest and his shoulder to curve around Tony's neck.

Something about that, about feeling how much he's into it in the pressure of his fingers, makes Tony's breath catch.

Tony likes kissing. He likes physical contact in general and sexual contact in specific. He likes the simplicity of it, how it all makes sense the way few things ever do, how it puts him on a level where he can understand what's going through somebody's head the way he understands ballistics or subatomic particles or the melting point of iron. He likes it because it's fun. He likes it because it's fun you can share with somebody.

Why wouldn't he be grinning?

Obadiah feels the catch in Tony's breath as much as he hears it, and he wants -

He wants to tie Tony's hands behind his back with that tie and tease him until he's begging to come.

He wants to put Tony on his knees and fuck his mouth.

He wants to bend Tony over something and fuck him that way.

He wants to get rid of Tony's pants and have Tony straddle him, so Obadiah can stroke him through his boxers and listen to his moans as they kiss.

He kisses Tony more intently for a moment, then breaks it to trail kisses down his throat, using his lips and tongue to seek out and exploit sensitive spots.

He tips his head back and hums softly, wrapping his hands around Obie's shoulders.

He does not have any psychic sex powers, but it's something he gets. He gets that Obie wants him; he even gets a little of how. Which should be creepy and is actually hot, and is at least half the reason why he's melting into Obadiah's arms.

This is the kind of response he was hoping for - it certainly makes things easier - though he's a bit surprised by how soon he got there.

However: Obadiah may be a major proponent for looking a gift horse in the mouth and making sure it's got all its damn teeth, but he thinks in this instance that can be overlooked.

He lingers at Tony's throat for a moment or two, licking into the hollow, then moves back up to kiss him again, a little more possessively this time. Testing the waters.

"You're doing that thing again," Tony murmurs between kisses, a little breathlessly. "The thinking too much thing."

He slides a hand up to the back of Obadiah's neck and encourages him to think less with a messy, aggressive kiss.

It works.

He deepens the kiss and pulls Tony closer, one arm behind his back, the other hand still at the side of his neck.

If that's what Tony wants, then that's what Tony gets.

Perfect.

Tony can't get much closer and keep his balance, not with them still side by side on the couch; the obvious solution to this logistical problem is to climb into Obie's lap, but Tony is not going to go there right now, so he just wraps an arm around his shoulders and leans on him a whole lot. It works okay.

With the grip Obadiah has on him now, Tony is unlikely to topple over any time soon.

It's not (too) rough or (too) forceful, just very . . . stabilizing.

Soon enough, Tony is grinning again, half-laughing into the kiss. The way he's up on his knees and leaning over Obie's lap feels precarious, but trusting to that grip to keep him steady is

(much too)

easy.

"Was there something you wanted to share?" Obadiah asks dryly.

He thinks for a second or two, and then shrugs and says, "I love you?"

Because there's no real reason, not the kind that can be expressed in words. Nothing's that funny except maybe how twisted this whole thing is. But he's laughing anyway and that is basically why.

Obadiah chuckles softly, deep in his chest.

"You are a sweet little thing sometimes, aren't you?"

"Once in a while," he agrees, and gives Obie a quick hug because he can't not.

Obadiah rewards him with a light kiss on the chin.

Whatever other failings his double had, firmly securing Tony's affections wasn't one of them.

And there is any number of ways in which that is useful. He's reaping the benefits right now.

He kisses Obie's cheek and gets a faceful of beard, which tickles, which makes him laugh again.

Obadiah smiles, indulgent.

(His fingers curl tightly around Tony's hip. Maybe it's a steadying gesture. But probably not.)

Tony lays a hand on the side of Obie's face and very softly kisses him.

This is more like it. Back to the matter at hand.

The grip on Tony's hip gentles as Obadiah responds carefully in kind.

He sighs happily, running his fingers through Obie's beard.

This, all of this, feels less fucked up and more right the more he does it. Maybe that's because he's drunk and maybe it's because he's a little fucked up himself and maybe, just maybe, it's for the same reason he keeps laughing when there's nothing to laugh at.

Tony seems almost entirely comfortable now, and while Obadiah's own tastes run in a decidedly less light and fluffy direction, they don't override his sense.

It will be easier to get what he wants from Tony if Tony is comfortable.

Well.

The thing is.

Tony is a pretty oblivious person in a lot of contexts. This doesn't happen to be one of them.

He pulls back a little, looking—let's go with speculative, and meets Obadiah's eyes with the kind of smile that expects answers.

Obadiah raises his eyebrows inquiringly.

Yes?

He laughs, soft and fond.

"I can tell when you're not into it, you know," he says, and then—leaning closer to breathe the words in his ear— "What do you want?"

Fuck.

He's imagined hearing that question so vividly, so many times (most often from Howard, though Tony has certainly made his share of appearances in the past year or two), that the experience of hearing it for real shorts out something vital in his brain.

It takes a few long seconds before he can even think; forget forming words.

(His hand tightens convulsively on Tony's hip, much harder than before.)

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