Ficlet: Full House (JT/FL, NC-17)
Title: Full House
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Prompt: Wins
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The events depicted in this entirely fictional story are a figment of my sick and twisted imagination. Or to put it simply: not true, never happened, all lies.
Summary: John and Frank take a trip to the casino.
Notes: Third ficlet for the footballslash11 challenge. I think the final scene has been suggested a few times, but I don’t think it’s actually been done. Until now. *g*
Frank scans the crowded room wearily, his senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of sounds - woops of joy and groans of agony, calls of “hit” or “stand”, the rattle and clink of the tiny balls in the roulette wheels and the polyphonic clattering of chips thrown carelessly onto soft velvet.
He still isn’t entirely sure whether or not he wants to be here. Not that he minds going on a night out with John, for dinner or drinks, but Frank’s never been big on gambling. He’s seen what it can do to people, to Eidur, to *John* even and those second hand experiences alone are enough for him to steer well clear.
But when Frank voiced his concerns and John responded by calling him a boring old sod, well…he couldn’t *not* feel that little nip in his gut, the sting of wounded pride, and since when has Frank ever been able to ignore that?
So now they’re here, John grinning and wide-eyed, eyeing each table greedily like a big kid in a sweet shop, and Frank looking relaxed, confident, only in an attempt to mask his growing sense of discomfort.
When John proposes - though it’s more of an announcement than a question, really - to try out the poker table first, Frank has no choice but to let John take the lead, sauntering after him and surveying the surroundings as if they were his natural habitat. Fortunately, John’s first choice is the least daunting. Playing at cards for cash is no uncommon practice when travelling to away games for England and Chelsea and Frank’s quite a dab hand at it.
They start out carefully, though not quite carefully *enough* to Frank’s liking, but luck is on their side and they’re being dealt good hands and soon they find themselves upping the stakes that little bit more for each game until they’re simply raking in the cash, before they decide to quit while they’re ahead and move on to the next table.
Frank slowly starts to feel himself get into it. It’s not the money, of course not. Their winnings up ‘til now barely add up to a week’s wages. But when he looks at John and sees his own feelings of elation mirrored on the other man’s face he begins to understand. It’s the risk, the danger, the thrill of a win against the odds and the power that comes with it. Like electric shocks from your heart to your gut and it makes you hard, yes - *God*, yes - and Frank’s not even trying to hide it.
They pass the roulette table, blackjack, craps, losing some but winning more until, finally, in the early hours of the morning, needing a fucking *holdall* to carry the night’s earnings back to their hotel room, they leave the dense scent of cigar smoke and stale whiskey behind and the moment they step outside and the fresh air hits them square in the lungs, they kiss. Passionately. All lips and teeth and tongues, not caring who sees them. And for the first time in hours Frank notices that his erection hasn’t abated.
Back in the room, they wrestle each other like kids amid crumpled fifty pound notes scattered haphazardly across the king size bed, using the lighted candle on the bed side table to randomly burn the little leaves of paper, watching the flame lick away at them hungrily, then scattering the ashes all over each other’s naked bodies. Just because they can.
And when they’re bored with that and tired of fighting and the ache of arousal becomes too much to bear, Frank lies back and lets John fuck him to the background music of creaking bed springs and the rustled whispers of Mammon.
Frank comes scrunching up handfuls of notes in his tightly squeezed fists, then covering John’s heaving back with them as the other man follows suit.
They fall asleep on top of the covers, draped in the blanket of luxury, warming them like nothing else could.
Pairing: John Terry/Frank Lampard
Prompt: Wins
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The events depicted in this entirely fictional story are a figment of my sick and twisted imagination. Or to put it simply: not true, never happened, all lies.
Summary: John and Frank take a trip to the casino.
Notes: Third ficlet for the footballslash11 challenge. I think the final scene has been suggested a few times, but I don’t think it’s actually been done. Until now. *g*
Frank scans the crowded room wearily, his senses overwhelmed by the cacophony of sounds - woops of joy and groans of agony, calls of “hit” or “stand”, the rattle and clink of the tiny balls in the roulette wheels and the polyphonic clattering of chips thrown carelessly onto soft velvet.
He still isn’t entirely sure whether or not he wants to be here. Not that he minds going on a night out with John, for dinner or drinks, but Frank’s never been big on gambling. He’s seen what it can do to people, to Eidur, to *John* even and those second hand experiences alone are enough for him to steer well clear.
But when Frank voiced his concerns and John responded by calling him a boring old sod, well…he couldn’t *not* feel that little nip in his gut, the sting of wounded pride, and since when has Frank ever been able to ignore that?
So now they’re here, John grinning and wide-eyed, eyeing each table greedily like a big kid in a sweet shop, and Frank looking relaxed, confident, only in an attempt to mask his growing sense of discomfort.
When John proposes - though it’s more of an announcement than a question, really - to try out the poker table first, Frank has no choice but to let John take the lead, sauntering after him and surveying the surroundings as if they were his natural habitat. Fortunately, John’s first choice is the least daunting. Playing at cards for cash is no uncommon practice when travelling to away games for England and Chelsea and Frank’s quite a dab hand at it.
They start out carefully, though not quite carefully *enough* to Frank’s liking, but luck is on their side and they’re being dealt good hands and soon they find themselves upping the stakes that little bit more for each game until they’re simply raking in the cash, before they decide to quit while they’re ahead and move on to the next table.
Frank slowly starts to feel himself get into it. It’s not the money, of course not. Their winnings up ‘til now barely add up to a week’s wages. But when he looks at John and sees his own feelings of elation mirrored on the other man’s face he begins to understand. It’s the risk, the danger, the thrill of a win against the odds and the power that comes with it. Like electric shocks from your heart to your gut and it makes you hard, yes - *God*, yes - and Frank’s not even trying to hide it.
They pass the roulette table, blackjack, craps, losing some but winning more until, finally, in the early hours of the morning, needing a fucking *holdall* to carry the night’s earnings back to their hotel room, they leave the dense scent of cigar smoke and stale whiskey behind and the moment they step outside and the fresh air hits them square in the lungs, they kiss. Passionately. All lips and teeth and tongues, not caring who sees them. And for the first time in hours Frank notices that his erection hasn’t abated.
Back in the room, they wrestle each other like kids amid crumpled fifty pound notes scattered haphazardly across the king size bed, using the lighted candle on the bed side table to randomly burn the little leaves of paper, watching the flame lick away at them hungrily, then scattering the ashes all over each other’s naked bodies. Just because they can.
And when they’re bored with that and tired of fighting and the ache of arousal becomes too much to bear, Frank lies back and lets John fuck him to the background music of creaking bed springs and the rustled whispers of Mammon.
Frank comes scrunching up handfuls of notes in his tightly squeezed fists, then covering John’s heaving back with them as the other man follows suit.
They fall asleep on top of the covers, draped in the blanket of luxury, warming them like nothing else could.