splix | FIC: Rock 'n' Roll Suicide

Title: Rock 'n' Roll Suicide
Author: Alex
Fandom: Red Riding
Pairing/Character(s): John Dawson/OMC.
Rating: R.
Warning: Dark and thematically very grim. Spoilers for Red Riding.
Note: Written for the

seans_50 final challenge. Title courtesy David Bowie.

*

He was glam incarnate, a fucking wet dream, all eyeliner and lip gloss and tight satin trousers and platform boots, slouching against the piss-smelling brick wall, waiting, watching the long, sleek car roll silently to a stop. Never mind the rain.

Shave two or three years off your age, lad. He'll make it worth your while.

He sauntered over, leaned into the car. Smell of expensive cologne, leather, cigars. Narrow green eyes inspected him, glinting from the shadows.

---Gerry sent you?

---Yeah.

A provocative pout, a forward cant of the hips.

---How old are you, lad?

---Fourteen.

Close enough. He was small for his age.

A soft, derisive snort.

---Get in.

He wriggled into the soft leather seats, crossed one leg over the other.

---We going back to yours?

---Aye, you could say that.

Long hands on the steering wheel, suddenly reaching out to grasp his hair. The other hand holding a kerchief of dark silky stuff.

---I'm going to cover your eyes.

---Kinky fucker, aren't you?

---Shut your fucking mouth.

The green eyes glittered like the splashes of rain on the windscreen; soft menace in the deep voice.

He pouted, this time for real.

---Have it your way.

He flicked his eyes up and down the thick, powerful body, over the face carved from granite. A surge of want; this one would know how to stuff his cock up an arse good and proper. He tilted his chin.

---Go on, then.

Silk covered his eyes, leaving him in darkness. The car slid forward, tires splashing in the wet. A smooth ride, hardly any turns. His cock getting harder and harder, visible, he knew, through the second-skin red satin.

---Here we are, then. Sit tight.

The door on his side opening. A hand hauling him out, pulling him over cobble. His ankle turned.

---Wait.

---I said shut up. Fucking poof.

---Hey. I don't have to –

Fingers digging painfully into his jaw.

---Won't tell you again, lad.

The creak of a door, platforms clattering down a flight of wooden stairs. Funny smell, dirt and something like spoiled meat.

---There we are. Hold still, lad.

The voice caressing now.

---Give me your hands.

A cold bracelet of steel on one wrist, then the other. Arms dragged up, suspended, the clink of a chain. Shirt ripped down the centre, back exposed. Cold on his flesh.

---What the fuck?

Silk torn from his eyes, dim light. Blinking; fucker ruined his eyeshadow. Spangles in his vision. Looked down; a little girl's patent leather shoe beside his foot. Looked up again.

Then he saw.

---Oh. Oh jesus oh fuck oh no--

A body behind him, hand stifling his muffled shrieking, pushing the silk into his mouth, hard cock pressing against his arse, feathery traces of touch on his shoulder blades.

---You're too fucking old, son, but sometimes a man has to take what he can get.

Famous last words.

End.