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THIS ROUND IS NOW CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS.
ROUND TWO
closing at 5000 comments
Please read the [rules] before commenting!
PROMPT FORMATTING:
Alphabetize pairings. They will be archived that way!
Put [RPF] before RPF prompts.
Put [Crossover] before crossover prompts.
Please use this format: Steve/Tony, Tony needs help adjusting his arc reactor ; ( Read more... )
The club is alive, clogged thick with greasy beats, and Howard is sweating.
He shrugs deeper into his leather jacket, turning his shoulder away from bodies that drift too close, from hips that twist, stock-still and then slick-quick in the multicolored strobe lights. He's not here for them: the club crowd, the ones that come here and lean on bars, eyeing up the crowd like a wolf in a valley, shoulders wide and hackles raised. It's always the dangerous ones that get picked up the quickest, always the wide-shouldered dark-eyed leaners that are approached before anyone else. It's an animal reaction.
Howard weaves around the outside of the many-headed body of thrumming dancers. The bar-leaners stand lax-legged and gorgeous, brimming confidence and daring someone to try their luck. Drink in hand, hint of a sly, smug smile, I'm too good for you, but give it a shot and I'll blow your mind: a motif Howard had perfected, a long time ago.
But he's not here for them.
Downstairs, everything shakes. Howard ducks past another man in the narrow stone staircase, slides along the wall and hits the ground. He's traded his wing-tips out and replaced Gucci slacks with jeans, and if anyone recognizes him, they don't say a word.
Downstairs is where all the real fun happens, someone had whispered in Howard's ear on his first night here, when he still wasn't there for them, but he had a sickness in his veins and nowhere else to go. Downstairs is where all your problems go away.
He's hoping that's true.
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"How many?" the clerk asks. A woman, busty and blond with too-red lipstick; she reminds Howard of Maria, back when they first met. "How many?" she repeats, after he takes too long.
"One," he tells her. Someone moans off to his right. He leaves his sunglasses on.
"How long?" She doesn't look at him.
"An hour. Two," he corrects.
She waves a hand, gesturing vaguely beyond them. "You can pick one, or we've got -- " a moment of rummaging, " -- this." She hands him a slim leather-bound -- well, it can only be described as a menu, every page filled with gorgeous full-color prints of men and boys of every size, stature, color. There are no headshots. Each page is numbered. Howard flips, examining the pictures: there are men bound, gagged, stuffed with dildos or tonguing the slit of a cock, the picture cut off enough to hide their eyes. So that's how it is.
Finally he pauses to run his forefinger down a photograph, between the sharp shoulder-blades of the subject. It's a full-body shot, and the man -- boy? -- is standing like one of the wolves upstairs, all cocksure confidence even from the back. Howard lets his eyes follow the build of smooth muscle that starts in his lower back and curves down through his ass to his thighs. 42, scripted gold print reads. Ferro.
He looks back up at the clerk. "Forty-two."
She smiles a plastic smile. "Excellent choice." She takes the menu back and holds out one lacquered hand, nails glinting. "Any special requests? That particular one is anonymous-only, so he'll be blindfolded -- and he will stay that way for your entire two hours." Howard nods mute understanding. "Well?"
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"Four ninety-three forty-seven," the woman says without pause, her expression the same, her tone no less bored. Howard hands over five hundred in cash and steps back. She doesn't offer him change, just slips the money into her drawer and picks up the phone to say something quick and harsh into it; Howard's stopped listening, is distracted, running blueprints in his head to keep Maria's smile away. He's waved forward again after a moment. "All right. Nicky -- Nicky!" the clerk calls, and a young man appears, bleached-blond with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. "Nicky will take you back. Room eight."
Howard is led through the room on the left. It stinks of sex and cheap cologne, and someone's fingers dip into Howard's pocket. When he glances back, there are three men watching him, their eyes glittering invitingly.
But he's not here for them.
"Room eight," Nicky says when they arrive. "Enjoy." He winks and slips away, his hips swaying.
Howard sets his hand on the knob. It vibrates against his skin, pulling him into the room, and the room is humming.
The engineer in him -- which is all of him, really, but here Howard is stripped away, and he's a new monster -- wonders at soundproofing, how he could do it and how it could improve. The newness in him doesn't care about soundproofing, and is staring instead at the boy naked and kneeling on the bed.
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Ferro cocks his head toward Howard, but his face is mostly obscured, covered by a large black blindfold that leaves only his mouth for the looking, stretched wide and wet around a rubber ball gag. His shoulders, and those bird-sharp shoulder-blades, stretch down into his arms, twisted around and bound at the small of his pale back. Howard is struck again by Maria, but then Ferro rotates his hips, one smooth roll that begs Howard to touch him. And Howard can't feel bad anymore; he just can't, he's all out of feeling bad about tonight.
So he goes to the bed and pushes a hand between Ferro's shoulders. Ferro moans, drops so his chest is flat on the bed, his legs spread and the angle of his arms arching his back. Howard breathes out shakily, lets his hand slide down along Ferro's spine. His calluses drag, catching in places, and every catch earns him a shudder from Ferro.
He steps back to shrug out of his jacket. At the sound of it hitting the floor, Ferro writhes, a whimper slipping out. It's a show, but it's not show, and that's what punches Howard in the gut, what sends warmth flashing up his spine: Ferro's cock hangs heavy and flushed between his legs and his fingers are twitching, his body straining back toward Howard. Either he's better at his job than any other hooker Howard's met, or he's here because he wants something he can't get anywhere else.
It's not an unfamiliar want.
There's one-use tubes of lubricant and wrapped condoms on the table, the lube standard but the condoms arranged in a fan, an eclectic rainbow of everything from grape-flavored to triple-extra large. Howard doesn't want to have to think about the mechanics, so he snags one at random and tears it open with his teeth. He leaves the packet there, his jaw clenched, and undoes his belt, shoves his trousers and boxers down, kicks off his shoes. Ferro is shifting incessantly, the sound of his body moving on the sheets barely audible under the thumping bass.
From there it's filthy: Howard slicks his fingers and Ferro opens easily around them, whimpering to encourage Howard. He spreads his legs and rocks back into Howard's hand, the small of his back so sharply arched that it forms a bowl beneath his bound wrists.
Sweat pools there.
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Fingers digging into Ferro's thigh, Howard finds himself closer to the edge quicker than expected, and he braces his knees to reach under Ferro and close a hand around his cock. Ferro jerks, curls forward and presses his cheek hard to the mattress. "Yeah," he pants, the first thing he's said, twisted up with lust and a desire so desperate it's palpable.
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And stops.
Traces the scar there.
He remembers that scar.
Remembers Tony, five years ago -- he was eleven and already belligerent and opinionated. Remembers him reaching for the iron Howard had just set down from welding, remembers him yelping at its warmth and dropping it. Remembers the spin of Tony's panic and his blood, his burn-sheared shorts and his sobs.
Remembers every second of that injury and that scar with burning clarity.
Tony, he goes to say, and remembers where he is.
"Come on," Ferro -- Tony, oh god, it is Tony -- says, rolling his hips again, begging. "Come on, give it to me."
Why are you here?
He thrusts again, sick with it, but his body is a traitor and Tony is warm under him, and it only takes another three for him to reach climax. Tony goes stiff under him, writhing, panting, asking with his body, and Howard reaches around before he can tell himself not to.
The luring noise Tony makes when he comes is something Howard will spend years trying to etch out of his mind.
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It doesn't matter how fast Howard yanks away after that, how quickly he gets dressed and leaves the club, ducking his shoulder as he stumbles past the same clerk, still bored behind her desk. It doesn't matter how quickly he finds his car, how sharply he turns the corner, how much gas he gives it as he guns away from the club. It doesn't matter how much alcohol he drinks as soon as he's in the door. He doesn't even make it to his workshop; he drops right there in the living room and is through a bottle of cognac before he can consider moving.
None of it changes the fact that he just fucked his son.
Tony comes home three hours later, freshly showered and bright-eyed. He stops in the doorway, his face going blank when he sees Howard and the four bottles around him. "Rough night?" he asks, his voice all distance and shaded derision.
Why were you there?
Howard can't decide if he's asking Tony or himself, so he doesn't say anything at all.
After a long, silent moment, Tony fades away.
[END.]
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Well. That's me. Going to hell in a handbasket. *duncare*
Man, this was amazing! Exactly what I'd been hoping for. :D Guh, Howard's emotional turmoil throughout and Howard being so messed up at the end, and uh uh uh Tony coming in "freshly showered and bright-eyed" and his voice all derisive. *sobs* And the porn! Totally delivered, authornon. Awesome Kudos to you! <3
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