manofmyword | (no subject)

(no subject)

There is a man in the bar, sitting alone at a table for four with the Observation Window directly on his left, close enough to touch. He has an enormous glass jar of jelly beans and he is methodically sorting them by colour into a number of smaller bowls laid out in front of him.

Other things about him that might come off as odd include: the fact that he is wearing a ferociously lilac button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows under a muted green vest; the fact that he is not wearing any shoes, and his socks don't match, one of them yellow with a black pattern of bats and the other black with little yellow smiley faces; and, finally, the scars on his face, extending the sides of his mouth into a permanent crooked smile.

He might welcome company. Or he might not. It's not always easy to tell.

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Tony shrugs, rubbing his neck again, and reaches into his pocket to get his key as they reach the room.

"Whatever you like, long as it doesn't involve blood or piss or shit or anything like that. Or," wry, "guns."

Edited 2012-12-17 01:56 (UTC)

"Good to know," he says, touching his tongue to his scarred lower lip. "Not quite what I meant, though."

"What'd you mean, then?"

He opens the door onto a room that could have come out of any mid-range hotel on 20th-century Earth: bed, desk, chair, TV. The bed does have a headboard and posts at the foot, all of which could maybe be suitable for tying someone to. If you were into that kind of thing.

"Mm... not just what're you okay with, but what really gets you off?"

He snorts.

"Nothin' that's a good idea for a hooker."

He laughs. "Ooh, I know the feeling."

"Yeah, I bet."

With the guns and scars and all.

"Still. We can have some fun together, don'tcha think?"

"Man, I'm always fun."

Yep, we're back in bravado territory.

"I can tell, sweetie, I can tell."

"Sooo." He glances around the room, cocks his head towards scarred-guy-who-we're-going-to-call-John-now. "Whatcha wanna start with?"

Sure, John works. It starts with the right letter, even.

'John' hums thoughtfully and perches on the edge of the bed. "Dunno," he says. "You wanna kiss, or do the scars bug you too much?"

To all appearances, it is a question to which either answer is acceptable. He really doesn't seem bothered. John is, it would seem, difficult to bother in general.

"How many hookers do you know that kiss on the mouth?"

His tongue flicks out over his lips; he cocks his head and smiles. "That's a nnno, huh?"

Tony shakes his head.

"Kiss you other places, though," he offers, ambling towards the bed and giving John's crotch a significant look.

He laughs brightly. "Sure, okay."

Tony wags his eyebrows and drops to his knees beside the bed, reaching for the fly of those absurdly colored pants. Is there a belt to deal with, too?

There is, but John has already got it open. Tricks of the trade, and all that.

Hey, he can appreciate that, one pro to another.

He gets the button and zipper undone deftly, then rests his hands on John's knees.

"Wanna get these off?"

"Sure," he repeats, and wriggles out of his pants with what is definitely professional ease.

And, most importantly, is he wearing underwear?

Yep! It is pink, with little red hearts on.

Oooof course it is.

This guy is weird.

But hey, so long as his money's good, right?

Tony obligingly reaches up and tugs the boxers down to pull John's cock out.

Nothing weird about that, at any rate. Or about the little half-hum, half-sigh he makes when Tony touches it.

Is he hard, yet?

Tony wraps a hand around the shaft and bus his thumb thoughtfully over the head, glancing up at John's scarred face.