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Page history last edited by PBworks 17 years, 5 months ago

Attention to Detail

 

Author: NA69

Fandom: Firefly

Pairing(s): Simon/Jayne

Warnings: none

Spoilers: none

Summary: Simon pretends to be a Alliance officer

 

Nominated Category:

Best Fantasy/Role Play


 

The uniform fits Simon perfectly. It was worth the money, worth the time finding the genuine thing, rather than a cheap imitation. Every detail is elegant, precise. The black gloves are fine leather, good enough to be found in the richest houses. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he doesn't see a doctor, or a man obsessed with finding his sister. He sees arrogance, self-assurance, a man used to getting his own way.

 

The uniform is perfect, but if River's rescue is going to work, he'll need to practice. It's one thing to look like a man with power, to have the correct ID. But it's another thing to act like one, to know he belongs in this particular uniform.

 

"Pleased?" asks his contact.

 

"Very," Simon says, adjusting the jacket, fastening his belt. "Any changes to the plan?"

 

His contact shakes his head. "No. Three days."

 

Three days. Plenty enough to practice. Simon nods, turns, and walks out of the room, out of the building, onto the street. The sunlight is bright, highlighting the dirt of the Blackout Zone. It's filthy, crowded, and it smells.

 

It's easy for Simon to assume an expression of disgust, disdain. He steps away from the building, and starts walking. At first, he walks tentatively, sticking to the shadows, and no one notices him. But tentative isn't the point of this exercise. Eventually, he steps into the centre of the thoroughfare, raises his head, and tries to imitate the saunter of high ranking Alliance officers.

 

The Blackout Zone streets are familiar to him in a way he'd never have imagined would be possible. He's used to the huddled people, the stench, the mutterings of clandestine, foolish deals taking place all around him.

 

He's not used to people parting in front of him, hissing with shock or fear, and stepping back, away. He's not used to subservient nods, and anxious stares.

 

Perfect, he thinks, smiling coldly at a woman dressed in many layers. She shrinks away, covering her face.

 

"Butcher," someone mutters behind him, and Simon turns, moves quickly, reaching out his hand to grab an arm. His gloves gleam against pale, undernourished skin. Simon has the immediate urge to take the boy to a street vendor, feed him plate after plate of food. But he quashes the impulse down, and instead grates out, "Watch it, boy." He can feel people around him watching, waiting for the tragedy.

 

The boy stares, defiant, but eventually goes limp, and that's enough. Simon smiles cruelly, and lets the boy go.

 

He runs. Simon watches.

 

He walks for what seems like hours, growing used to people parting around him, counting out the number of fearful, nervous, or hateful glances he gets. He becomes accustomed to the uniform, feels it become familiar. As he does, he knows that the plan is going to work. He'll be able to gain access to the facility where River is being kept. No one will dare to question him.

 

Finally, he stops, eases to one side of the road, and half-watches.

 

"You down here for a thrust?" a voice asks, quiet.

 

Simon turns, focuses on an indistinct figure. "Excuse me?" The words are almost too polite, but Simon catches himself in time, manages a cold tone.

 

A figure steps out of the shadows, and Simon sees a man, about his own age, dressed in tight clothes. A hustler, one of the many who populate the Blackout Zone.

 

"Know all about how you Fed types like to come down here, get a bit of rough." He looks Simon up and down, appraising. "And I can do it as rough as you want. I've helped out a few of your kind with that. Even have a special discount for you. You want it out here?" He gestures back into the shadows, down a narrow alley.

 

No. Simon doesn't want it anywhere, not like this, but the hustler is already grinning at him, expectant. And he looks hungry. Simon fingers his money pouch – the obvious one – and pretends to think it over. An Alliance officer takes what he wants, and Simon knows he'll have to get used to that if his plan to rescue River, get her somewhere safe, is going to work.

 

And the man isn't unattractive – lanky, red-lipped, dark eyes. Simon's seen worse, much worse. "What kind of discount?"

 

That gets him a smile, slow and dirty. "Twenty percent."

 

"Make it thirty."

 

"Twenty-five."

 

Simon nods. "Fine. Let's go." He grabs hold of the man's arm, pulls him roughly into the alley. Simon assesses the space – quiet, private, with a crate or two at just the right height to bend a man over.

 

The thought makes him want to rub at his eyes, walk away fast, but he pushes the feeling away.

 

"What're you looking for? Fuck? Hands? Maybe –"

 

"Name."

 

The man looks momentarily puzzled, and then says, "David."

 

"David," Simon says, in his hardest voice, "get on your knees."

 

"Like this?" David asks, hitting the ground hard, tilting his face upwards, smirking.

 

"Do you think I want your mouth for talking?" He almost closes his eyes at how silky, how cruel his tone is. It's almost too easy. He unbuttons his jacket, flicks open his pants and shoves them down. He's not hard. "Open."

 

David frowns, uncertain.

 

"Open your mouth," Simon clarifies.

 

He does, reaching forward, one hand wrapping around Simon's cock. Simon hisses at the contact. "No. Put your hands behind your back." He gestures at his cock. "Work for it. Make me believe your cheap mouth is worth my time. Screw around, use your hands, and you'll regret it."

 

David nods, once, and leans forward, licks the head of Simon's cock, his tongue slick and warm. Simon fights the urge to close his eyes, or look away, and instead watches – tongue, pink and wet, licking, circling. He tells himself it isn't erotic, that he doesn't want this, but the truth is that he's getting hard, and he wants more.

 

Reaching out, his fists his hand in David's hair, holds David's head still. "You dream about this all day long, don't you?" He leans down slightly. "Whore. Can't wait to get cock in your mouth." Straightening back up, he asks, "Tell me? Is it just Alliance you like? Or is it any man in a uniform?" He pushes his hips forward. "Suck."

 

David's mouth opens wider as he sucks in the head of Simon's cock. Wet mouth, soft lips, and Simon can't remember the last time he had this. "You kneel for security guards too?" He thrusts forward, holding David's head steady. The mouth around him tightens. "Doctors?" He punctuates each word with another thrust. "Yes." Deeper. "I know you do." Deeper still, and David takes it. "Bet you don't even ask for money." He pushes into David's throat and holds still, grunting as David swallows around him, again, again, throat contracting. "Work for it," Simon mutters, circling his hips once.

 

David does, throat contracting again, tongue making abortive movements against Simon's cock. His eyes are closed, his brow furrowed, and he struggles to breathe.

 

And suddenly, Simon can't believe he's doing this. He loosens his fingers, draws back. He's still hard, so hard, but he can't go through with this.

 

"Problem?" David's voice is slightly hoarse, his lips redder than before. He doesn't move his hands.

 

"No." He shifts slightly, looks down, and sees that David's hard. It makes no sense. "You like this."

 

David shrugs. "We all have our kinks." He moves his head forward again, licks out against Simon's cock once. "Same as before? No hands?"

 

Simon resists the urge to shake his head, to try to clear it. Instead, he nods sharply.

 

He doesn't last much longer, but he does wrap his fingers in David's hair again, and he comes hard, holding David's head still and close.

 

And somehow, he manages to pull himself together, fix his clothes, and pay. He steps back into the street, breath still thready, not quite believing what he's just done.

 

People – men, women, children – get out of his way.

 

*

 

"Gorram," Jayne says, his voice rough, his hand frantically working his own cock. "That really happened?"

 

Of course it didn't. Simon had worn the uniform out in the street, he'd walked in it, become used to the way it felt, the way it fell. But there hadn't been a hustler, hadn't been any ethically problematic sex. Jayne, of course, doesn't need to know that. Jayne just likes a good story, the dirtier, the better.

 

Simon has learned how to tell them.

 

He smiles, flexing his fingers. The leather of the gloves is still fine, supple, even after years of storage. Jayne looks at Simon's hands with want, fascination. "Do you think it did?" He reaches out, strokes one finger across Jayne's collar bone.

 

"Think you," Jayne gasps, twisting his hand, eyes half-lidded, "know how to tell a pretty story." He licks his lips, pumping his cock faster. "But that's it."

 

Shaking his head, Simon smirks. "Really."

 

"Yep." Jayne lets go of his cock, adds some lube to his hand, and starts up again. "Need proof of this here story."

 

The Alliance uniform is tight around his neck, and Simon's happy enough to flick open one button, then another. Jayne's breath catches.

 

"You might regret asking." But Simon knows Jayne isn't going to regret anything. Neither of them will.

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