Gilmore Girls: Touch of Leather
Title: Touch of Leather
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: Adult
Words: 1250-ish
Characters: Dean/Tristan
Summary: Dean isn't sure at this point just how many beers he's had, but the sudden rush of blood to his cock tells him maybe it's exactly the right number, and maybe it's time he and Tristan got reacquainted.
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Author's Note: Originally begun on 60_minute_fics, from a prompt in Signe's Porn Battle Rematch.
AN2: If you're uncomfortable posting crit in a comment, please do email me: wrenlet at livejournal dot com.
The leather just fucking does him in. It's been... years, God, since Dean laid eyes on Tristan. Dean got married and divorced in the meantime, and military school maybe kept Tristan out of jail but -- and Dean can tell this much from clear across the room -- it didn't do a damned thing for his bitchy attitude.
Leather. Where the hell does he get off?
Dean turns and rests his elbows on the bar, nursing his beer as Tristan leans over the pool table to take his shot. He should stay put, he knows it, he comes here hoping not to be recognized but damn. Tristan circles the table, studying the lay with that look, the sneer Dean remembers so well, and when he leans over again the leather of his pants cups his ass just right.
Dean isn't sure at this point just how many beers he's had, but the sudden rush of blood to his cock tells him maybe it's exactly the right number, and maybe it's time he and Tristan got reacquainted.
By the time Tristan bends to line up his next shot, Dean's standing right behind him.
"Long time no see, Dristan."
Tristan stiffens, hisses out a breath and smacks his cue down on the side of the table. "Dean. You asshole, I'm-"
He turns around to face Dean and just stops, mid-sentence, looks up and swallows hard. Tristan maybe got a bit taller while he was away, but Dean just plain got big and he's never been happier about that than right now. Dean lets it show on his face, grins wide as the world as he watches Tristan look him over. Tristan's pupils dilate and he licks his bottom lip and Dean knows, he wasn't wrong.
This is possibly the best idea he's ever had.
He leans in, hears the catch in Tristan's breathing as he says right into his ear, "Gonna finish your game?"
Tristan jerks back and meets Dean's eyes, staring hard before he nods his head at the man standing next to the table, the others watching. "Ten minutes, guys."
Dean grins again. "Twenty."
Tristan's opponent shrugs at him and racks his cue. "Friend of yours?"
"Not really."
Tristan heads for the back of the bar, the door out into the alleyway. Dean follows, eyes glued to black, supple leather.
He's so hard he could pound nails.
Tristan turns as soon as the door shuts and grabs the front of Dean's shirt in his fist, snarling. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What I should've." He grips Tristan's arms hard enough to bruise and pulls him close, licking at Tristan's mouth until he gives in with a breathless noise, opens and starts kissing him back.
"What- God, you don't- why?"
Dean growls, frustrated. This would be so much better if Tristan would shut the fuck up. He skims his hand down Tristan's back until he's palming that ass, that leather, and presses his thigh between Tristan's legs until he's riding it.
"Because maybe we both would've been happier if we'd gotten the fuck over Rory when we had the chance."
Tristan moans, humping Dean's leg, but he still won't give up, determined to talk. "I got over Rory."
"You're a liar." Dean walks him backwards, meaning to pin him to the wall of the alley but dammit, Tristan's always been a sneaky fucker. He slips out of Dean's hold on him, sliding down, and Dean's brain is still maybe catching up with the rest of him when Tristan looks up from his knees, his eyes serious and far too sober.
"I'm not lying, asshole. I got over Rory." Then his hands are on Dean's belt and God damn, Dean finally gets it.
"Oh, God... oh fuck." He slaps his hands against the wall, locks his knees before Tristan's mouth on his cock can send him crashing to the ground. Tristan sucks like a fucking pro, and Dean wonders for a moment just what the hell military school is all about anyway, but then he's cupping the back of Tristan's head and Tristan just takes it, lets Dean hold and thrust and the whole time, even when he's coming, Dean's palms itch for another touch of that leather.
He'll get it. They've got fifteen whole minutes left.
Tristan's gasping, still on his knees, and the sheen of come down the side of his chin makes this so dirty, Dean has to haul him up by his shoulders and lick it off. He's not thinking about why that bugs him, how this can be anything other than what it is, but Tristan won't just. God.
"You done with me now? Can I go back inside?"
That sneer again, still. Fucking Tristan. "No."
Tristan sucks in a breath, starts pushing at Dean's chest. "Fuck you, you get your damned hands off me! I'm not your-"
Dean cups Tristan's cock through the front of his pants and it's like throwing a switch, all the words cut off and Tristan's head falls back against the brick.
"Not my what?"
"N-not your substitute."
It hits Dean like a punch, or maybe a knife in the gut because there's definitely twisting involved. Tristan's cock jumps against his palm when he presses, his fingers stroking leather.
"That's not why." He pops the buttons on those fucking pants and there's nothing underneath but skin, blood hot and hard.
"Bullshit. You never... you'd never touch me. Without thinking about her."
Tristan's voice is rough, faint and a little broken, and he's not an idiot but there's no way he could know. How long it was before Dean stopped almost calling Lindsay by the wrong damn name. How it felt when he realized he hadn't almost-done it in a while, how much it hurt to let that go.
Dean's pants are still open, his cock soft and hanging out the fly of his shorts but he doesn't even care, this is what he's doing and he's doing it because he needs to. Needs.
Something.
He wraps his hand around Tristan's cock and pulls. "I'm not thinking about her now."
Tristan rolls his head to the side and whispers, "Why?"
"Shut up, Tristan. Shut up and fuck my hand."
God, Tristan finally listens, finally moves and Dean slides his other hand around to Tristan's ass. His knuckles scrape against the bricks but he thinks it's worth it for the leather, and anyway maybe this should hurt some.
Tristan clenches his jaw like he's in pain, too, shoves his cock through the tight circle of Dean's fist. His hands slide up Dean's chest, over his shoulders and into his hair and he tugs. Not to move Dean's head or try to kiss him or anything, he just yanks on fistfuls of hair, and Dean thinks about fucking Tristan's face and lets him do it.
Tristan bares his teeth when he comes, hissing a string of profanities. Dean thinks if Tristan's mouth was anywhere near his skin, he'd be biting the hell out of Dean right now. Hell, he probably will, later. If there's a later. Dean decides he wants there to be one, threat of teeth marks and all, and by the way Tristan sags forward and lets Dean hold him up after, maybe he wouldn't hate that.
Dean doesn't know what this is or what they're doing and he doubts Tristan does either. But it's not like anything he's ever had before and right now, for Dean, that's good enough.
Fandom: Gilmore Girls
Rating: Adult
Words: 1250-ish
Characters: Dean/Tristan
Summary: Dean isn't sure at this point just how many beers he's had, but the sudden rush of blood to his cock tells him maybe it's exactly the right number, and maybe it's time he and Tristan got reacquainted.
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Author's Note: Originally begun on 60_minute_fics, from a prompt in Signe's Porn Battle Rematch.
AN2: If you're uncomfortable posting crit in a comment, please do email me: wrenlet at livejournal dot com.
The leather just fucking does him in. It's been... years, God, since Dean laid eyes on Tristan. Dean got married and divorced in the meantime, and military school maybe kept Tristan out of jail but -- and Dean can tell this much from clear across the room -- it didn't do a damned thing for his bitchy attitude.
Leather. Where the hell does he get off?
Dean turns and rests his elbows on the bar, nursing his beer as Tristan leans over the pool table to take his shot. He should stay put, he knows it, he comes here hoping not to be recognized but damn. Tristan circles the table, studying the lay with that look, the sneer Dean remembers so well, and when he leans over again the leather of his pants cups his ass just right.
Dean isn't sure at this point just how many beers he's had, but the sudden rush of blood to his cock tells him maybe it's exactly the right number, and maybe it's time he and Tristan got reacquainted.
By the time Tristan bends to line up his next shot, Dean's standing right behind him.
"Long time no see, Dristan."
Tristan stiffens, hisses out a breath and smacks his cue down on the side of the table. "Dean. You asshole, I'm-"
He turns around to face Dean and just stops, mid-sentence, looks up and swallows hard. Tristan maybe got a bit taller while he was away, but Dean just plain got big and he's never been happier about that than right now. Dean lets it show on his face, grins wide as the world as he watches Tristan look him over. Tristan's pupils dilate and he licks his bottom lip and Dean knows, he wasn't wrong.
This is possibly the best idea he's ever had.
He leans in, hears the catch in Tristan's breathing as he says right into his ear, "Gonna finish your game?"
Tristan jerks back and meets Dean's eyes, staring hard before he nods his head at the man standing next to the table, the others watching. "Ten minutes, guys."
Dean grins again. "Twenty."
Tristan's opponent shrugs at him and racks his cue. "Friend of yours?"
"Not really."
Tristan heads for the back of the bar, the door out into the alleyway. Dean follows, eyes glued to black, supple leather.
He's so hard he could pound nails.
Tristan turns as soon as the door shuts and grabs the front of Dean's shirt in his fist, snarling. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What I should've." He grips Tristan's arms hard enough to bruise and pulls him close, licking at Tristan's mouth until he gives in with a breathless noise, opens and starts kissing him back.
"What- God, you don't- why?"
Dean growls, frustrated. This would be so much better if Tristan would shut the fuck up. He skims his hand down Tristan's back until he's palming that ass, that leather, and presses his thigh between Tristan's legs until he's riding it.
"Because maybe we both would've been happier if we'd gotten the fuck over Rory when we had the chance."
Tristan moans, humping Dean's leg, but he still won't give up, determined to talk. "I got over Rory."
"You're a liar." Dean walks him backwards, meaning to pin him to the wall of the alley but dammit, Tristan's always been a sneaky fucker. He slips out of Dean's hold on him, sliding down, and Dean's brain is still maybe catching up with the rest of him when Tristan looks up from his knees, his eyes serious and far too sober.
"I'm not lying, asshole. I got over Rory." Then his hands are on Dean's belt and God damn, Dean finally gets it.
"Oh, God... oh fuck." He slaps his hands against the wall, locks his knees before Tristan's mouth on his cock can send him crashing to the ground. Tristan sucks like a fucking pro, and Dean wonders for a moment just what the hell military school is all about anyway, but then he's cupping the back of Tristan's head and Tristan just takes it, lets Dean hold and thrust and the whole time, even when he's coming, Dean's palms itch for another touch of that leather.
He'll get it. They've got fifteen whole minutes left.
Tristan's gasping, still on his knees, and the sheen of come down the side of his chin makes this so dirty, Dean has to haul him up by his shoulders and lick it off. He's not thinking about why that bugs him, how this can be anything other than what it is, but Tristan won't just. God.
"You done with me now? Can I go back inside?"
That sneer again, still. Fucking Tristan. "No."
Tristan sucks in a breath, starts pushing at Dean's chest. "Fuck you, you get your damned hands off me! I'm not your-"
Dean cups Tristan's cock through the front of his pants and it's like throwing a switch, all the words cut off and Tristan's head falls back against the brick.
"Not my what?"
"N-not your substitute."
It hits Dean like a punch, or maybe a knife in the gut because there's definitely twisting involved. Tristan's cock jumps against his palm when he presses, his fingers stroking leather.
"That's not why." He pops the buttons on those fucking pants and there's nothing underneath but skin, blood hot and hard.
"Bullshit. You never... you'd never touch me. Without thinking about her."
Tristan's voice is rough, faint and a little broken, and he's not an idiot but there's no way he could know. How long it was before Dean stopped almost calling Lindsay by the wrong damn name. How it felt when he realized he hadn't almost-done it in a while, how much it hurt to let that go.
Dean's pants are still open, his cock soft and hanging out the fly of his shorts but he doesn't even care, this is what he's doing and he's doing it because he needs to. Needs.
Something.
He wraps his hand around Tristan's cock and pulls. "I'm not thinking about her now."
Tristan rolls his head to the side and whispers, "Why?"
"Shut up, Tristan. Shut up and fuck my hand."
God, Tristan finally listens, finally moves and Dean slides his other hand around to Tristan's ass. His knuckles scrape against the bricks but he thinks it's worth it for the leather, and anyway maybe this should hurt some.
Tristan clenches his jaw like he's in pain, too, shoves his cock through the tight circle of Dean's fist. His hands slide up Dean's chest, over his shoulders and into his hair and he tugs. Not to move Dean's head or try to kiss him or anything, he just yanks on fistfuls of hair, and Dean thinks about fucking Tristan's face and lets him do it.
Tristan bares his teeth when he comes, hissing a string of profanities. Dean thinks if Tristan's mouth was anywhere near his skin, he'd be biting the hell out of Dean right now. Hell, he probably will, later. If there's a later. Dean decides he wants there to be one, threat of teeth marks and all, and by the way Tristan sags forward and lets Dean hold him up after, maybe he wouldn't hate that.
Dean doesn't know what this is or what they're doing and he doubts Tristan does either. But it's not like anything he's ever had before and right now, for Dean, that's good enough.