quigonejinn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quigonejinn) wrote2008-06-29 08:22 am
quigonejinn) wrote2008-06-29 08:22 am
Entry tags:
Four Times Tony Got In Over His Head in Europe.
From prompt by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amonitrate.
1.
It's somewhere in Austria, and the sex wasn't good enough for Tony to fall asleep afterwards. Plus, it's only eleven o'clock, and the guy -- the guy's name is Colin or Chris -- or something like that. is out cold already. Jet lag or something, he'd said before falling asleep. Flew out from New York this morning. American. Tony stares up at the ceiling and decides that if the guy starts snoring, Tony is out of here like anything, half of the money still being somewhere in the dude's billfold notwithstanding. Slowly, carefully, Tony works the guy's arm off his waist and rolls to the other side of the bed, then slides off. It's a ridiculous sleigh bed kind of thing and is four feet or so off the bed.
Land on bare feet because Tony is, in fact, buck naked. Pace around the room. Look out the windows at the strasse below. Look for a way to turn on the TV -- there are few things to be dreaded like Austrian TV, but that's better than staring at the pinstripe wallpaper, but Tony can't find the remote, so he starts to build himself a little tower out of the tourist brochures from the corner into a replica of the Empire State Building, and he's even starting to think about blowing the guy just to get him to wake up when he spots the briefcase at the foot of the bend.
Guy appears to be still out cold. He's spread out all over the bed now.
So Tony carefully gets down on the floor and pops the briefcase open. Plane ticket. Cocktail napkin from first-class with what Tony assumes is a stewardess number. A couple photographs of a pretty brown-haired wife and a pair of good-looking kids. Tony considers them for a second, then starts checking out the guy's selection of pens. He opens a business folder, the kind with the business card tucked on the inside, and Tony almost chokes.
It's not Colin. Or Chris. It's Carter Friedman, Junior Vice President of European Development for Stark Motherfucking Industries. Tony actually probably met the son of a bitch at one of those gruesome low e-level meet and greets his Dad made him go to after graduation when he thought that Tony running anything more than a popsicle stand was still a good idea.
"What the hell are you -- "
Tony looks up, and the guy has somehow woken up and is right there, looking pissed as hell. Tony stands up, punches him while saying something like Columbia is a bullshit business school anyways, then grabs his clothes and runs.
2.
When he starts, Tony isn't really picky about where he finds people. Bars. Clubs. Where ever. He goes out drinking, and somebody offers him something, he takes it. And one night, he walks out of the men's bathroom -- he knows it's the men's bathroom because somebody else was getting a blowjob in the stall next to where Tony was giving one, and girls don't make noises like that, and plus it also smells like piss, probably someplace in the Netherlands because nobody drinks anything but beer there, and so the bathrooms smell worse than New York City in August -- and straight into the arms of a pair of off-duty policemen, who, in fact, turn out to be a little bit crooked.
They take him out into the alley behind the bar, and Tony gives them every last bill he's got. They let him keep whatever coins he has on him, but he ends up handing over every last sheet of cotton-type with somebody's face printed on it, including Tony's last American dollar. He hates to see it go, and everybody speaks English in Europe, but these two seem pretty selectively deaf when they choose to be. I'm an American. I've got a passport. I'll go to the Embassy, you piece of shit.
One of them is taller than the other. The taller one backs Tony against the wall and sticks his hand in, first, Tony's left jeans pocket, then Tony's right jeans pocket. And then he turns Tony around to face the wall and checks Tony's back pockets, gets a quick grope. Checking to see if he still has anything on him.
It's almost April, but chilly in that part of Europe. Tony watches them go walk out of the alleyway and join the crowd on the street; his lip is bloody from pressing himself flat against the wall while the guy was feeling his ass, and his chest hurts from his heart beating so hard.
The next guy Tony sleeps with, Tony makes sure that it's a business traveler about Tony's size. Tony talks him into giving him a spare white shirt that fits in return for an extra blowjob.
From then on, Tony makes sure to stick to hotel bars.
3.
One night, Tony is stuck at a train station at some godforsaken sub-suburb of Berlin. He's tired and hungry; it's pouring outside from what he needs to get out of here in the morning, he only has a pocketful of Swiss francs, so Tony has basically resigned himself to the idea of sleeping on a bench under the platform an older guy comes up to him. Tony figures any port in a rainstorm of being tired and hungry and too high to have fucking exchanged his cash before crossing the border and is trying to see if he can remember what blowjob is in German, and because the bathrooms are fucking locked and Tony can't think of anywhere they could go, he says to the guy, "Is that your car out there?"
The guy looks startled to hear English.
"Broke. Won't -- " The guy has rusty English, so the last word is in German, but by signs, he makes clear that the car won't start. "Taxi company done for the night."
Fucking Europe.
"I bet I could fix it. Least far enough to get you home. Fix anything else that's wrong with it too." Tony is soaked through, and he heard the car coughing earlier. Nothing that thirty-five seconds of loving from Tony Stark can't fix. He has his arms wrapped around himself to keep warm. "In return for a place to sleep tonight."
The guy gives him a long look, then lets Tony work magic that includes hijacking the backup generator on the side of the train station. No problem, no hurt it at all, Tony says before replacing the panel. On the drive to his house with the wipers on the car swishing, Tony is still expecting the guy to put the moves on him, but it turns out that he's actually a decent guy. An accountant. With a wife. Who used to teach kindergarten. He introduces her to Tony, and they both get the same dinner in a tiny yellow kitchen. Wurst and potatoes and bread and beer, a hot shower, a warm place on the couch and dry clothes and blankets and an introduction to the family pictures all around the house, and Tony is so embarrassed by their kindness that he slips out in the morning without fixing their cars or saying goodbye, but after leaving about $600 worth of Swiss francs on top of their toaster.
4.
Tony Stark makes it a point of pride that nobody has ever thrown something at him in bed that he couldn't handle, and when he says that to himself, he is very specifically not remembering this one night in Bruges. Tony doesn't remember it as being Bruges, and he should have been more careful: bad things can happen even in nice hotel bars, and Tony thinks it's just going to be a rough night when he blows the guy until his jaw is sore from doing the same thing over and over because that's all he wants. And then he bends over without anything in the way of a reacharound; every Tony reaches up to do himself, the guy slaps his hand down, and it actually feels like work. Hard work. Tony falls asleep.
And when he wakes, he notices a couple of things. First, his ass hurts. Second, his jaw aches. Third, his arms are sore. Fourth, he can't move his arms. Tony looks over and finds that his arms are, in fact, tied to the headboard. One on each side, and it's not with, say, the usual businessman delights of a tie or a belt or even socks. White rope. Like the kind not found in hotel rooms. Like the kind that you have to bring to a hotel room if you have very specific plans, and Tony finds that he suddenly can't swallow or talk or even breathe. His body feels cold, in fact.
The guy sits at the end of the bed. He has Tony's jeans over his knee, and he's going through the pockets.
"Your passport," he says. Everybody in fucking Europe speaks fucking English. The only thing this guy gets wrong is a weird upward swing on certain vowels.
He takes it out of the pocket and opens it.
"Anthony Howard Stark. March 23, 1973."
Tony wants to close his eyes more than anything, but he can't. There's only one light on in the room, a table lamp on the dresser behind the guy. The guy looks at the passport, flips through the pages, looks at the endorsements and re-endorsements and the stamps in corners. He flips back to the front, though, and looks at that page for a while and runs his fingers down the plastic. One particular area, in fact.
He comes up to the front of the bed, still holding the passport.
"What're we going to do now?" Tony tries to keep it light, maybe sound like he's actually excited about this and not about to throw up a stomach of liquor mixed with, say, swallowed semen, all over the guy. He tests the knots on the headboard.
The guy flips the passport so that Tony can see it. "That's you?"
Tony has a hard time looking anywhere in the vicinity of the guy's face, but he looks over. "Yeah."
"It doesn't look like you." There's a note in the guy's voice, and Tony finds that, despite the pain in his throat, he can, in fact, swallow, if only to distract himself from the thinking about what that note means.
"I was younger. And wearing clothes. And not tied up to a headboard."
Tony gives the guy his sweetest, most charming smile, then tugs once or twice to emphasize the point and suggest that, maybe, he'll be a better lay if the guy unties him. He tries not to look at the photograph of himself at twelve, wearing a blue suit with a red tie. In the photograph, he's not looking at the camera. More like staring off at the corner. Tony doesn't remember what he was thinking about there, but he knows that what he's thinking about now is not flinching as the guy puts his hand on Tony's knee and runs it up the inside of Tony's thigh.
He gets Tony to look at the passport photo one more time, strokes Tony's cock, then fucks Tony, who's already sore from before, so hard that Tony has bruises across the back of his neck and shoulders and back for a month. The passport falls off the bed and onto the floor; Tony follows it with his eyes while biting his lip, and Tony Stark wants you to know that nobody has ever thrown something at him in bed that he couldn't handle.
amonitrate.1.
It's somewhere in Austria, and the sex wasn't good enough for Tony to fall asleep afterwards. Plus, it's only eleven o'clock, and the guy -- the guy's name is Colin or Chris -- or something like that. is out cold already. Jet lag or something, he'd said before falling asleep. Flew out from New York this morning. American. Tony stares up at the ceiling and decides that if the guy starts snoring, Tony is out of here like anything, half of the money still being somewhere in the dude's billfold notwithstanding. Slowly, carefully, Tony works the guy's arm off his waist and rolls to the other side of the bed, then slides off. It's a ridiculous sleigh bed kind of thing and is four feet or so off the bed.
Land on bare feet because Tony is, in fact, buck naked. Pace around the room. Look out the windows at the strasse below. Look for a way to turn on the TV -- there are few things to be dreaded like Austrian TV, but that's better than staring at the pinstripe wallpaper, but Tony can't find the remote, so he starts to build himself a little tower out of the tourist brochures from the corner into a replica of the Empire State Building, and he's even starting to think about blowing the guy just to get him to wake up when he spots the briefcase at the foot of the bend.
Guy appears to be still out cold. He's spread out all over the bed now.
So Tony carefully gets down on the floor and pops the briefcase open. Plane ticket. Cocktail napkin from first-class with what Tony assumes is a stewardess number. A couple photographs of a pretty brown-haired wife and a pair of good-looking kids. Tony considers them for a second, then starts checking out the guy's selection of pens. He opens a business folder, the kind with the business card tucked on the inside, and Tony almost chokes.
It's not Colin. Or Chris. It's Carter Friedman, Junior Vice President of European Development for Stark Motherfucking Industries. Tony actually probably met the son of a bitch at one of those gruesome low e-level meet and greets his Dad made him go to after graduation when he thought that Tony running anything more than a popsicle stand was still a good idea.
"What the hell are you -- "
Tony looks up, and the guy has somehow woken up and is right there, looking pissed as hell. Tony stands up, punches him while saying something like Columbia is a bullshit business school anyways, then grabs his clothes and runs.
2.
When he starts, Tony isn't really picky about where he finds people. Bars. Clubs. Where ever. He goes out drinking, and somebody offers him something, he takes it. And one night, he walks out of the men's bathroom -- he knows it's the men's bathroom because somebody else was getting a blowjob in the stall next to where Tony was giving one, and girls don't make noises like that, and plus it also smells like piss, probably someplace in the Netherlands because nobody drinks anything but beer there, and so the bathrooms smell worse than New York City in August -- and straight into the arms of a pair of off-duty policemen, who, in fact, turn out to be a little bit crooked.
They take him out into the alley behind the bar, and Tony gives them every last bill he's got. They let him keep whatever coins he has on him, but he ends up handing over every last sheet of cotton-type with somebody's face printed on it, including Tony's last American dollar. He hates to see it go, and everybody speaks English in Europe, but these two seem pretty selectively deaf when they choose to be. I'm an American. I've got a passport. I'll go to the Embassy, you piece of shit.
One of them is taller than the other. The taller one backs Tony against the wall and sticks his hand in, first, Tony's left jeans pocket, then Tony's right jeans pocket. And then he turns Tony around to face the wall and checks Tony's back pockets, gets a quick grope. Checking to see if he still has anything on him.
It's almost April, but chilly in that part of Europe. Tony watches them go walk out of the alleyway and join the crowd on the street; his lip is bloody from pressing himself flat against the wall while the guy was feeling his ass, and his chest hurts from his heart beating so hard.
The next guy Tony sleeps with, Tony makes sure that it's a business traveler about Tony's size. Tony talks him into giving him a spare white shirt that fits in return for an extra blowjob.
From then on, Tony makes sure to stick to hotel bars.
3.
One night, Tony is stuck at a train station at some godforsaken sub-suburb of Berlin. He's tired and hungry; it's pouring outside from what he needs to get out of here in the morning, he only has a pocketful of Swiss francs, so Tony has basically resigned himself to the idea of sleeping on a bench under the platform an older guy comes up to him. Tony figures any port in a rainstorm of being tired and hungry and too high to have fucking exchanged his cash before crossing the border and is trying to see if he can remember what blowjob is in German, and because the bathrooms are fucking locked and Tony can't think of anywhere they could go, he says to the guy, "Is that your car out there?"
The guy looks startled to hear English.
"Broke. Won't -- " The guy has rusty English, so the last word is in German, but by signs, he makes clear that the car won't start. "Taxi company done for the night."
Fucking Europe.
"I bet I could fix it. Least far enough to get you home. Fix anything else that's wrong with it too." Tony is soaked through, and he heard the car coughing earlier. Nothing that thirty-five seconds of loving from Tony Stark can't fix. He has his arms wrapped around himself to keep warm. "In return for a place to sleep tonight."
The guy gives him a long look, then lets Tony work magic that includes hijacking the backup generator on the side of the train station. No problem, no hurt it at all, Tony says before replacing the panel. On the drive to his house with the wipers on the car swishing, Tony is still expecting the guy to put the moves on him, but it turns out that he's actually a decent guy. An accountant. With a wife. Who used to teach kindergarten. He introduces her to Tony, and they both get the same dinner in a tiny yellow kitchen. Wurst and potatoes and bread and beer, a hot shower, a warm place on the couch and dry clothes and blankets and an introduction to the family pictures all around the house, and Tony is so embarrassed by their kindness that he slips out in the morning without fixing their cars or saying goodbye, but after leaving about $600 worth of Swiss francs on top of their toaster.
4.
Tony Stark makes it a point of pride that nobody has ever thrown something at him in bed that he couldn't handle, and when he says that to himself, he is very specifically not remembering this one night in Bruges. Tony doesn't remember it as being Bruges, and he should have been more careful: bad things can happen even in nice hotel bars, and Tony thinks it's just going to be a rough night when he blows the guy until his jaw is sore from doing the same thing over and over because that's all he wants. And then he bends over without anything in the way of a reacharound; every Tony reaches up to do himself, the guy slaps his hand down, and it actually feels like work. Hard work. Tony falls asleep.
And when he wakes, he notices a couple of things. First, his ass hurts. Second, his jaw aches. Third, his arms are sore. Fourth, he can't move his arms. Tony looks over and finds that his arms are, in fact, tied to the headboard. One on each side, and it's not with, say, the usual businessman delights of a tie or a belt or even socks. White rope. Like the kind not found in hotel rooms. Like the kind that you have to bring to a hotel room if you have very specific plans, and Tony finds that he suddenly can't swallow or talk or even breathe. His body feels cold, in fact.
The guy sits at the end of the bed. He has Tony's jeans over his knee, and he's going through the pockets.
"Your passport," he says. Everybody in fucking Europe speaks fucking English. The only thing this guy gets wrong is a weird upward swing on certain vowels.
He takes it out of the pocket and opens it.
"Anthony Howard Stark. March 23, 1973."
Tony wants to close his eyes more than anything, but he can't. There's only one light on in the room, a table lamp on the dresser behind the guy. The guy looks at the passport, flips through the pages, looks at the endorsements and re-endorsements and the stamps in corners. He flips back to the front, though, and looks at that page for a while and runs his fingers down the plastic. One particular area, in fact.
He comes up to the front of the bed, still holding the passport.
"What're we going to do now?" Tony tries to keep it light, maybe sound like he's actually excited about this and not about to throw up a stomach of liquor mixed with, say, swallowed semen, all over the guy. He tests the knots on the headboard.
The guy flips the passport so that Tony can see it. "That's you?"
Tony has a hard time looking anywhere in the vicinity of the guy's face, but he looks over. "Yeah."
"It doesn't look like you." There's a note in the guy's voice, and Tony finds that, despite the pain in his throat, he can, in fact, swallow, if only to distract himself from the thinking about what that note means.
"I was younger. And wearing clothes. And not tied up to a headboard."
Tony gives the guy his sweetest, most charming smile, then tugs once or twice to emphasize the point and suggest that, maybe, he'll be a better lay if the guy unties him. He tries not to look at the photograph of himself at twelve, wearing a blue suit with a red tie. In the photograph, he's not looking at the camera. More like staring off at the corner. Tony doesn't remember what he was thinking about there, but he knows that what he's thinking about now is not flinching as the guy puts his hand on Tony's knee and runs it up the inside of Tony's thigh.
He gets Tony to look at the passport photo one more time, strokes Tony's cock, then fucks Tony, who's already sore from before, so hard that Tony has bruises across the back of his neck and shoulders and back for a month. The passport falls off the bed and onto the floor; Tony follows it with his eyes while biting his lip, and Tony Stark wants you to know that nobody has ever thrown something at him in bed that he couldn't handle.