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 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.)

And that is just—

Amazing. Kind of perfect. Intense in a way that could be scary if Tony let it. He doesn't.

"What," he repeats instead, twisting gracefully to straddle Obadiah's lap because there will never be a better moment for it than now, "do you want?"

Obadiah has cast-iron control. He prides himself on it.

But, as previously observed (http://toblameforit.livejournal.com/2506.html?thread=206282#t206282), iron has a melting point.

He reaches up and pulls Tony down for a hard kiss, and this time he doesn't hold back at all.

Tony gives as good as he gets, moaning softly. One hand settles on Obadiah's shoulder and the other slides around to the back of his neck again in a way that's starting to be a habit by now.

Obadiah kisses him with bruising force. His hands stay where they are for a moment, until he is apparently satisfied that Tony won't pull away if he lets go. Then they move down to Tony's hips, gripping hard to pull him closer.

Yeah. This could definitely be scary.

If he let it.

He chooses not to. He braces easily against the pressure of Obadiah's hands so that, when he relents a few seconds later and slides forward a little and down a little more than that, it is very definitely his idea; he digs in his fingers and drags his teeth over Obadiah's lip with another, louder moan.

There's a brief flash of exasperation at the resistance, but that is forgotten entirely once they make contact. He's so turned on right now that the thin material of his boxers may as well not be there at all, and he groans into Tony's mouth.

God, that is way too good.

His hand drops from Obie's shoulder to start flicking open the buttons of his shirt, because there needs to be more skin here, there really does.

Eventually, they do in fact make it to the bed.

There is a lot more skin at that point.

They are there for quite a while.

In the end, Tony is pretty much certain that the only reason he's getting cuddles right now is because Obie is too tired to move, and he's pretty much okay with that.

"Best bad decision I ever made," he sighs, deeply content. He might be talking about kissing Obie in the first place, but the words that are floating through his mind are good luck with that.

He's right. Obadiah isn't as young as he used to be. Twenty or even ten years ago, he'd have been on his way back to his room for a shower after pacifying Tony with a promise to meet him downstairs for dinner, but now that's not an option. Not right away.

Staying and indulging Tony isn't a bad idea, anyway, for obvious reasons.

He chuckles, a distinctly lazy sound, and runs his hand down Tony's side.

"I've got no complaints."

"You fucking well better not," Tony snorts. "'Cause I'd know you were lying."

God, Obie hasn't lied to him in... three hours? At least? Maybe closer to five. Tony wasn't exactly counting. He digests this revelation and happily snuggles a little closer.

He wanted something real? He's got it.

Obadiah just laughs, adjusting the arm he has around Tony to fit with Tony's moving closer.

Tony radiates smug like a smug little furnace. So he's shit at spotting lies in general, fine, yes—but there is no fooling him about how much you're enjoying yourself in bed. And in this case the answer is 'a lot', because he is awesome.

Except for the part where Obadiah did all the work. But he's used to that when it comes to the Starks.

And this time it was exactly what he wanted.

"You're an obnoxious little shit," he tells Tony, with great fondness in his voice.

And Tony held out for three-ish hours. You can't tell him that's not awesome. Because it would be a lie.

"I know," he says, equally fond. "You love me anyway."

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