Summary: You never know what you'll find.
Warnings: Non-con, depending on how you read it.
Notes: Written for the 30_lemons challenge. Theme #1: Anonymity, or "Taken By The Faceless Stranger". With love to skripka, as always.
The voice is low, quiet. Dangerous. It takes him less than five seconds to sum up his situation and realize it's not in his favor--he's in a blind alley, it's two in the morning, and he can't see the person behind him. He has no idea if the man behind him is armed, but he doesn't have his gun. He does the only thing he can. He freezes. So much for a fun night out, he thinks. And so much for shortcuts.
"I don't have a lot of cash," he says carefully. "But you're--"
He gets shoved up against the rough wall of the alley, his cheek against the cold brick, and has to bite back a wince. And then he winces for another reason, as he's patted down as efficiently as he's ever done a search in his life. His wallet gets taken out of his pocket easily and he hears the man behind him flip through it, looking at his credit cards, his cash, the receipts he hasn't thrown out yet.
"Anthony DiNozzo," the man says thoughtfully. "Your friends call you Tony?"
"What's it to you?" he retorts.
A low chuckle is all the answer he gets in response. "You shouldn't go wandering in dark alleys at one in the morning, Tony," he gets chided. "You never know what you'll find."
"I'd say it's more like what found me," he counters, his mind whirring. He hasn't heard or felt a weapon yet, and his federal ID wasn't in his pocket, which means the guy doesn't know he's a cop. He might get out of this after all.
But as if reading his mind, something nudges him in the small of his back. He knows the feel of a gun too well to imagine it's anything else. Shit.
"I saw you leaving Lime. You hit the gay clubs often, Tony?"
He closes his eyes. Great. He's being held up by a gay mugger, and one who doesn't seem inclined to take the money and run. This...this does not bode well. A shiver of fear runs down his spine, ice in the pit of his stomach.
"Look, man, just take my cash, okay? You want the watch? Tag-Heuer, even. It's yours. And then we'll go our merry ways and everything'll be cool. Okay?"
"Nope. Not really."
The ice in his stomach grows. Kate's never going to let me live this down, he thinks in a moment of macabre humor.
Assuming he survives.
"Pretty Tony," the man says mockingly. "Afraid, Tony?"
He stays silent. He's not an idiot, even though he was stupid enough to let himself get caught. Right now, the best chance he has of getting out of this is to stay quiet and do nothing.
Although he's starting to wonder who, exactly, is behind him. There's something familiar in that voice...
"You should be afraid," the man whispers in his ear. "Because in case you haven't figured it out, I want more than your money." A sharp nip to his earlobe makes Tony swallow, hard.
Please, God, let him be right about this, about who's actually in the alley with him. Because if he's not...
"I bet I can even make you enjoy it," the man whispers, pressing closer against Tony's back. "Bet you want it, don't you? Pretty boy. Pretty little rich boy. Lime's not your scene, is it? You'd rather go to the leather bars, the dives, get picked up by some biker for the night. Who do you think you're fooling?"
"What the fuck do you know about it?" Tony's voice is tighter than he wants it to be. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
The man laughs, low and husky . "I'm the one with the gun here, pretty boy," he points out. "I know everything."
"Unless you're into necrophilia, you're not going to shoot me. So I'd like to know how you plan to do this. Drop the gun, and I'm out of here. Shoot me, and you lose your chance at me. You've got the gun, but you don't have the high ground."
"Not yet, I don't." The man sounds amused. "But you didn't honestly think I'd leave that contingency overlooked, did you?"
The metal snicks around his wrists, cold and hard. Fuck.
Tony allows himself a small, bitter laugh at his choice of words. He can, theoretically, still make a run for it. But with his hands behind his back, and a gun in the picture...he wouldn't make it. And from the soft chuckle behind him, the man knows it too. "You look good like this, pretty boy," he teases. "Your co-workers know about this side of you?"
Depends. Are you one of them? Tony bites the words back.
The man runs his hands down Tony's chest, stopping at the button of his jeans. Tony tenses automatically; he might not be able to get away but that doesn't mean he won't try. And even if this is who he thinks--hopes--it is, it's not going to stop him.
"Don't try it," the man murmurs, slowly unbuttoning Tony's jeans. "Don't even think about it." He pulls the zipper down, pushing Tony's jeans down his thighs. "Try to run now and you'll fall flat on your face. And it still won't stop me."
He's trembling now and he has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. Endorphins and adrenaline swirl through his blood, combined with more than a hint of fear. Please, God, let this not be something I can't handle. Please.
His underwear get tugged down next, exposing him fully to the man's hands. He's not hard, not even a little--not that he's surprised. But one of the man's hands cradle his balls and the other wraps around his cock, working him in a sure, steady grip. Tony bites his lip again, trying not to respond, knowing it's useless. Even pure fear isn't enough to completely overcome response to direct stimulation, and what he's feeling isn't--exactly--pure fear.
"Pretty boy," the man murmurs, squeezing Tony's cock gently.
"Go to hell," he grinds out.
The man laughs. "I told you I could make you enjoy it."
"This doesn't prove a damn thing."
"Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. But if you ask nicely, I'll use lube." The man fondles Tony's balls. "Gonna ask me nicely, Tony?"
He slumps forward in defeat. "Please," he mutters.
Thank God the man doesn't make him ask again.
The lube's cool against his skin, warming quickly. And then he feels the man's cock pushing into him and he closes his eyes, caught between terror and--to his shame--arousal.
He squeezes his eyes tight, imagining this is just another anonymous fuck, just another dark encounter in a series of dark encounters. He can't have what he wants, but he can pretend. And honestly, is this so different from all the other times he's gone into the back room with some random guy?
It hurts; he can't pretend that it doesn't. But he can pretend that this is what he wants, not what he has. He can pretend, maybe even hope it's Gibbs behind him, fucking him, grunting against his shoulder. He can pretend he chose this.
Dimly, he realizes he's fully hard, pushing back into it, the brick of the alley wall rough through his shirt. At this point, he doesn't care. He doesn't care what he looks like, what he sounds like, any of it. He'll never see this guy again--not that he's ever seen him--and if it makes him a slut to get off on this, so what?
The man's hand wraps around his cock, jerking him hard and rough. Tony bites back a groan, his arms starting to ache where they've been pulling at the cuffs.
"Do it, pretty boy," the man whispers in his ear.
He can't help it; he comes with a shudder, semen painting the wall. Behind him, he hears a muffled curse and a grunt and then the man comes inside him.
Tony stays where he is, not bothering to move or look. The handcuffs open and his arms fall to his sides and--to his surprise--his wallet gets tucked back into his pocket. "It's been fun, pretty boy," the man says lightly.
He hears footsteps, but by the time he turns around the man's gone.
The next morning at work, he sits down with a wince, staring moodily at his computer. In the bright sunlight, last night seems like a dream--a particularly embarrassing one, if he's being honest. Kate's at the dentist and McGee's in Norfolk, so he's alone in the office, free to brood.
Or not. He looks up at Gibbs, who's looking back with a decidedly annoyed expression. "Yeah, boss?" he asks tiredly.
Gibbs tosses a folder on his desk. "Cold case. Start familiarizing yourself with it. Next time, don't stay out so late."
"Yeah, sure," Tony mutters, opening the folder.
Gibbs tosses his coffee cup into the trash. "And stay away from those back alleys," he says casually. "Pretty boy."