Fic: Black Leather Jacket (1/1), blue cortina, sam/gene, dakfinv
Title: Black Leather Jacket
Author: dak
Word Count: 973
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: brief sexual situations
Pairing: Gene/OMC, implied Sam/Gene
Summary: Based on a prompt posted in the Anon Pornfest II: Gene meets a teenaged rentboy who reminds him an awful lot of Sam. Reluctant!Gene.
A/N: FYI - I've stated in the fic that the rent boy is of legal age so as not to break any comm guidelines. I should be locked up/kicked out for many other reasons...Also, this fic is for amproof who stumped me in a meme, won a fic, and asked if I could write her prompt from the pornfest. Well, she technically asked me to write another fic that would have ended up being a very long, multichapter thingy that I unfortunately cannot write at the moment, so she graciously permitted me to write something else. Please enjoy!
It was the jacket. That black, leather jacket worn down in all the right places. But it wasn’t just the jacket. It was the way he wore it, all cocky and arrogant, as if what happened in this world had no effect on him whatsoever.
He could have walked away if it weren’t for that jacket. The hair was all wrong. Shaggy. No sideburns. And the smile. The smile was only alright because it just wasn’t quite His. A pale imitation.
“Want something mate?”
Now, the voice was completely off. Southern. Cockney. He would never have spoken in a voice like that, unless He was undercover. And He wasn’t undercover. He was gone.
“Been staring long enough, haven’t you?”
He should have walked away, he could have, but it was too late now. The boy was onto him. Not that he was a boy. Nineteen, twenty, at least. But he had that sort of face, that same sort of face as His, that made a man look younger than his years.
“You interested?”
He tried to feign indifference.
“Cos, I do happen to be selling what’s on offer.”
That grin again. No, it simply wouldn’t do. Not at all. He shook his head no and lit a fag instead. But the boy wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You sure? Look like you could use a bit o’ company. A little someone to keep you warm.”
He continued to smoke. The boy cozied up beside him and the smell wasn’t right. It wasn’t soap and aftershave and mint. It was dirt and butties and sex.
Hands pressed into his chest, rubbing around to his back, underneath his coat.
“I could keep you warm.”
The touch was alright. Smooth, relaxed, calculated. But it wasn’t warm. Still, it was a touch and any touch with that jacket, that arrogance, that almost-though-not-quite-His grin would’ve done him in and suddenly they were walking off together, the boy’s hand tucked into his back pocket, caressing him as they moved to a secure location. Never had He done that, but then any sign of public intimacy hadn’t been allowed back then.
“This is me place. Costs more than the alley mind, but if it’s what you want...”
He nodded and the boy shuffled him inside.
The wallpaper was exactly right. Putrid and peeling. Waiting forever to be ripped down and tossed out.
“You want something to drink?”
And there was something about the question, the inflection, the wallpaper, and he didn’t want a drink. He wanted that boy coming inside him as he called out His name. Of course, it was too much for him to ask this out loud, or at least phrase it in that way. Instead, he asked the boy whether he had plenty of lube and if his cock would be able to handle riding such a magnificent beast as himself.
The roll of the eyes, with that jacket, and that wallpaper, and he struggled to remind himself that this boy wasn’t Him, but if they didn’t hurry up it wouldn’t matter who he was.
Never one for foreplay, he removed his own pants and trousers and told the boy to do the same. When the jacket began to come off, he ordered that it remain. So the little nonce would think he had a leather fetish. What of it?
Kneeling on the bed, he yelled for the lad to hurry up and get on with it and soon two cold, wet fingers were sliding inside him. With hands about the same size, he could pretend they were His fingers and then he stopped shouting orders because whenever they had reached this point, He had always known what He was doing and it had always been best to just let Him get on with it.
And get on with it he did. Pumping more furiously than his slight frame should allow, groans were forced into a pillow. And as a slender hand, a hand that felt so much like His - damn it if it couldn’t just be His - the pillow muted the sound of the name he hadn’t spoken in years.
When all was finished - both parties cleaned and dressed, the money exchanged, the thin illusion broken - the boy took off the jacket, and suddenly he couldn’t understand why he’d thought he’d resembled Him at all. Their body types were similar, yes, but if he remembered correctly (which he might not after all these years) they looked nothing alike.
Leaving the flat, he glanced at the jacket splayed out on the bed and caught a glimpse of the inside lining just below the collar. Mouth dry, he asked the boy where he’d bought the jacket.
“Some charity shop. I dunno.”
With every cent left in his wallet, he bought the jacket then left immediately. In the privacy of his home, he inhaled the smell of the jacket, the scent of a certain aftershave still embedded in the soft leather.
He ran his fingers over the scuff marks and the water damage he hadn’t noticed before, and he stared at the crude scrawl on that inside lining just below the collar which, though faded, still read “Property of DI Twonk.”
And he remembered when a certain DS had put it there after a night of heavy drinking and the reaction of a certain DI Twonk when He’d discovered it the next morning.
Lying the jacket beside him on the bed, he determined to find the boy the next day and discover exactly which shop he’d been referring to.
Because just maybe if he could trace the jacket, just maybe he could trace the body that belonged in the jacket, and just maybe he could discover why that body never returned to him if it, like the jacket, had surfaced from the canal.
Author: dak
Word Count: 973
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: brief sexual situations
Pairing: Gene/OMC, implied Sam/Gene
Summary: Based on a prompt posted in the Anon Pornfest II: Gene meets a teenaged rentboy who reminds him an awful lot of Sam. Reluctant!Gene.
A/N: FYI - I've stated in the fic that the rent boy is of legal age so as not to break any comm guidelines. I should be locked up/kicked out for many other reasons...Also, this fic is for amproof who stumped me in a meme, won a fic, and asked if I could write her prompt from the pornfest. Well, she technically asked me to write another fic that would have ended up being a very long, multichapter thingy that I unfortunately cannot write at the moment, so she graciously permitted me to write something else. Please enjoy!
It was the jacket. That black, leather jacket worn down in all the right places. But it wasn’t just the jacket. It was the way he wore it, all cocky and arrogant, as if what happened in this world had no effect on him whatsoever.
He could have walked away if it weren’t for that jacket. The hair was all wrong. Shaggy. No sideburns. And the smile. The smile was only alright because it just wasn’t quite His. A pale imitation.
“Want something mate?”
Now, the voice was completely off. Southern. Cockney. He would never have spoken in a voice like that, unless He was undercover. And He wasn’t undercover. He was gone.
“Been staring long enough, haven’t you?”
He should have walked away, he could have, but it was too late now. The boy was onto him. Not that he was a boy. Nineteen, twenty, at least. But he had that sort of face, that same sort of face as His, that made a man look younger than his years.
“You interested?”
He tried to feign indifference.
“Cos, I do happen to be selling what’s on offer.”
That grin again. No, it simply wouldn’t do. Not at all. He shook his head no and lit a fag instead. But the boy wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You sure? Look like you could use a bit o’ company. A little someone to keep you warm.”
He continued to smoke. The boy cozied up beside him and the smell wasn’t right. It wasn’t soap and aftershave and mint. It was dirt and butties and sex.
Hands pressed into his chest, rubbing around to his back, underneath his coat.
“I could keep you warm.”
The touch was alright. Smooth, relaxed, calculated. But it wasn’t warm. Still, it was a touch and any touch with that jacket, that arrogance, that almost-though-not-quite-His grin would’ve done him in and suddenly they were walking off together, the boy’s hand tucked into his back pocket, caressing him as they moved to a secure location. Never had He done that, but then any sign of public intimacy hadn’t been allowed back then.
“This is me place. Costs more than the alley mind, but if it’s what you want...”
He nodded and the boy shuffled him inside.
The wallpaper was exactly right. Putrid and peeling. Waiting forever to be ripped down and tossed out.
“You want something to drink?”
And there was something about the question, the inflection, the wallpaper, and he didn’t want a drink. He wanted that boy coming inside him as he called out His name. Of course, it was too much for him to ask this out loud, or at least phrase it in that way. Instead, he asked the boy whether he had plenty of lube and if his cock would be able to handle riding such a magnificent beast as himself.
The roll of the eyes, with that jacket, and that wallpaper, and he struggled to remind himself that this boy wasn’t Him, but if they didn’t hurry up it wouldn’t matter who he was.
Never one for foreplay, he removed his own pants and trousers and told the boy to do the same. When the jacket began to come off, he ordered that it remain. So the little nonce would think he had a leather fetish. What of it?
Kneeling on the bed, he yelled for the lad to hurry up and get on with it and soon two cold, wet fingers were sliding inside him. With hands about the same size, he could pretend they were His fingers and then he stopped shouting orders because whenever they had reached this point, He had always known what He was doing and it had always been best to just let Him get on with it.
And get on with it he did. Pumping more furiously than his slight frame should allow, groans were forced into a pillow. And as a slender hand, a hand that felt so much like His - damn it if it couldn’t just be His - the pillow muted the sound of the name he hadn’t spoken in years.
When all was finished - both parties cleaned and dressed, the money exchanged, the thin illusion broken - the boy took off the jacket, and suddenly he couldn’t understand why he’d thought he’d resembled Him at all. Their body types were similar, yes, but if he remembered correctly (which he might not after all these years) they looked nothing alike.
Leaving the flat, he glanced at the jacket splayed out on the bed and caught a glimpse of the inside lining just below the collar. Mouth dry, he asked the boy where he’d bought the jacket.
“Some charity shop. I dunno.”
With every cent left in his wallet, he bought the jacket then left immediately. In the privacy of his home, he inhaled the smell of the jacket, the scent of a certain aftershave still embedded in the soft leather.
He ran his fingers over the scuff marks and the water damage he hadn’t noticed before, and he stared at the crude scrawl on that inside lining just below the collar which, though faded, still read “Property of DI Twonk.”
And he remembered when a certain DS had put it there after a night of heavy drinking and the reaction of a certain DI Twonk when He’d discovered it the next morning.
Lying the jacket beside him on the bed, he determined to find the boy the next day and discover exactly which shop he’d been referring to.
Because just maybe if he could trace the jacket, just maybe he could trace the body that belonged in the jacket, and just maybe he could discover why that body never returned to him if it, like the jacket, had surfaced from the canal.