These vagabond shoes...(AU rp for get_me_a_drink)
New York was a hell of a long way from Riverside, Iowa. And the Jim Kirk he saw in the cracked and dirty mirror was a hell of a long way from the Jim Kirk that had dropped out of high school with dreams of being a guitar player four years ago. He wasn't quite sure when he'd given up on the dream of making some fortune with the fender in its stickered case, but he could damn well remember the first time that someone had shown up after a show with a tiny bag of white powder and a needle. He damn well remembered the first time he'd felt the high thrumming through his veins.
He couldn't exactly remember the first time he'd taken money for sex, though it made sense as the years had worn on and he'd never really questioned it, until getting money for the next hit had taken precedence over the guitar, and he really hadn't minded, or noticed. Hell, he had to admit he was better at fucking people than he would have been in a band.
There were two pimps over the years. The first hadn't been what you'd think of, no fancy cars or furs or a cane, but he'd been alright, had a pretty decent apartment for Jim - at least it had heat - and only took 60%. But he hadn't known anyone who paid well or given Jim to anyone who paid well. So, Jim'd moved to the other side of town, and found himself on the wrong corner at the wrong time, and his second pimp had been the stereotype, only in the way that he was free with his fists and left the kid with just enough to live. Most of which went to the smack he needed.
But Jim wasn't going to let himself be smacked around forever, he was at least better than that, and knocking the guy out had rewarded him with being chased out of any place he had to stay, but at least he'd escaped the clutches of the bastard. Though, being homeless except for the by-the-hour motel wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
He sighed and pushed away from the sink, pulling the towel off the back of the toilet and wiped his face dry, moving back into the room and sliding on the arm-length leather sleeves to cover the track marks, the fabric cool against his skin. He looked at the rumpled bed and sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed and messy before grabbing the cigarettes and lighter on the side table and heading back down to the street.
Wandering for ten minutes took him away from his corner which had been claimed by someone else, and he found a convenient brick wall to lean against lighting the smoke and drawing a good drag as bright blue eyes watched the people wandering past, deciding who would be his mark. The brick was cool against his bare back, free hand sliding down a bare stomach to hook in the low-slung tight jeans.
His eyes lit on a gruff-looking man who looked like he could use getting his rocks off, and Jim pressed forward, his boot finding the asphalt as he smirked.
"Hey, you lookin' for a warm bed, handsome?"
He couldn't exactly remember the first time he'd taken money for sex, though it made sense as the years had worn on and he'd never really questioned it, until getting money for the next hit had taken precedence over the guitar, and he really hadn't minded, or noticed. Hell, he had to admit he was better at fucking people than he would have been in a band.
There were two pimps over the years. The first hadn't been what you'd think of, no fancy cars or furs or a cane, but he'd been alright, had a pretty decent apartment for Jim - at least it had heat - and only took 60%. But he hadn't known anyone who paid well or given Jim to anyone who paid well. So, Jim'd moved to the other side of town, and found himself on the wrong corner at the wrong time, and his second pimp had been the stereotype, only in the way that he was free with his fists and left the kid with just enough to live. Most of which went to the smack he needed.
But Jim wasn't going to let himself be smacked around forever, he was at least better than that, and knocking the guy out had rewarded him with being chased out of any place he had to stay, but at least he'd escaped the clutches of the bastard. Though, being homeless except for the by-the-hour motel wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
He sighed and pushed away from the sink, pulling the towel off the back of the toilet and wiped his face dry, moving back into the room and sliding on the arm-length leather sleeves to cover the track marks, the fabric cool against his skin. He looked at the rumpled bed and sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed and messy before grabbing the cigarettes and lighter on the side table and heading back down to the street.
Wandering for ten minutes took him away from his corner which had been claimed by someone else, and he found a convenient brick wall to lean against lighting the smoke and drawing a good drag as bright blue eyes watched the people wandering past, deciding who would be his mark. The brick was cool against his bare back, free hand sliding down a bare stomach to hook in the low-slung tight jeans.
His eyes lit on a gruff-looking man who looked like he could use getting his rocks off, and Jim pressed forward, his boot finding the asphalt as he smirked.
"Hey, you lookin' for a warm bed, handsome?"