2

[soldierly]

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 ;

Comments

Re: [FILL] Howard/Tony, the name of the wolf, part 4/7

[anonymous]

"Ferro," he says, hoarse; his voice doesn't sound like his own, roughened from the haze of cigarette smoke and punch-drunk from the whiskey he shot down on the way to the club.

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.