fic drop
My life seems to be made up of wasted days. Days where I'm not quite on top of my game and time slips away. So, to make up for this self-pity and make myself feel like I can actually do stuff, I thought I'd post some drabbles and short fics that have appeared in comments and whatnot. (yeah, I know, some of them were meant to be 'anonymous' originally, but I'll unmask myself and show you my smutty side!) Mostly all without a beta, so apologies for typos and generally rubbishness. Also, they're all real person slash, all bar one in the Top Gear fandom, so if you don't like that sort of thing, then look, a rabbit!
To start with, the one I wrote today for peace-bloom:
Title: ... (um, can't think of one. Except for 'Pink and Fluffy', which is a pretty terrible title...)
Pairing: Cary Grant/Frank Sinatra (ha! I know!)
Rating: pretty mild slashy themes. Also, yes, fluff.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: Have you seen Bringing Up Baby? If not, then you should. Also then this ficlette might make more sense.
Sinatra sat on the edge of the bed. Even in his underwear, he looked smooth. He flicked at something with his toe and then reached down to pick it up.
‘What’s this?’ he said, turning back to look at the man lying in the bed.
Cary Grant made a noise into the pillow and didn’t open his eyes.
‘It’s very pink,’ said Sinatra. Grant knew from the tone of his voice that Sinatra has one eyebrow raised. He opened half an eye. Sinatra did have one eyebrow raised, his blue eyes fixed on Cary’s face, playful round the edges.
‘See,’ he said, raising the dressing gown so that Cary could see it. ‘Pink and fluffy.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Grant sighed, ‘That.’
Grant closed his eyes again and the moment stretched. He moved his hand - clumsy, his body still sleepy - until he found the warmth of Frank’s leg.
‘I don’t think I can wear it,’ Sinatra said.
‘Mm-hmm,’ Grant said, moving his hand to grab hold of Frank’s leg, just above the knee. He dug his fingers into the flesh.
‘I’ll order coffee, shall I?’ Sinatra said. He touched his fingertips to Cary’s temple, lightly, just for a second, before removing them. He draped the dressing gown over Cary’s body. ‘I’ll have to find something more masculine,’ he said. ‘But you’ll do, for the time being.’
He picked up Cary’s hand from his thigh and placed it on the bed. He stood up. Cary held his breath.
Title: Top Gear in Australia (...god i suck at titles today, hey?!)
Pairing: Richard/James-ish
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: I think the prompt was 'Top Gear in Australia'. This was done for the How Hard Can in Be challenge thing, way back when. And I know, I know, are there white cliffs in Australia? Maybe I was picturing New Zealand when I wrote this. It's not like I know this country or anything. In this, pants go missing.
They’d finished filming and the heat rolled in. Jeremy stepped out on the balcony, then back inside.
“I’m going to stay here. Air con. God gave it to us for a reason.”
“Beach?” Richard’s eyes flitted from Jeremy to James. “James?”
They took the hire car, a Lancer. James drove and Richard leaned his arm out the window.
“We have air con too, you know.” James caught the flash of Richard’s smile in his peripheral vision. “But there’s no point using it with the windows down.”
“I know,” said Richard, “But look!” He moved his hand at the view. The blue of the sky, the blue-green of the ocean, the white of the cliffs. He moved his fingers through the breeze.
Shoes in hands, sand between their toes, James realised they’d forgotten to bring any beach-going things with them. Richard had been so excited about going, and he’d been distracted by Richard’s excitement. That look in his face. The way his eyes lit up.
The beach was deserted, so they swam in their underwear. James felt pasty and white and so-very-English. The water was cold. Richard spread his clothes out on the sand and lay down on them, basking smugly in the sun. James came dripping from the water. He rifled through his things.
“My pants are gone,” he said. He shot a glance at Richard. “Hammond?”
“Yes, James?” said Richard, smiling.
Title: A Helping Hand (...are the titles getting any better or worse?)
Pairing: Richard/James
Rating:M-15+, nudity, masturbation.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: Richard is drunk, James is in the shower. Was I drunk when writing this? Quite possibly. From someone's prompt, maybe something about James' lovely pianist hands.
Richard wasn’t quite sure how it happened. First he was having a slash in James’ bathroom and definitely not-quite-sober. The next thing he knows, the shower’s on, the room’s filling with steam and he’s aware of something he should very much be paying attention to. Or he’s passed out and is dreaming this. All very vividly. It’s lovely really. The detail. The way the steam curls and rises.
There’s a pile of clothes on the floor. How did he miss those? He looks down - no, they’re not his clothes. He’s still wearing his clothes.
Someone makes a noise from the shower. Of course, the shower. And there’s James, adjusting the taps, naked and half-wet. His hand is turning pink under the water, his other hand on the cold tap. ‘Too hot, too hot,’ he mumbles.
‘Do you want a hand with th-?’ Richard says before he can help it.
‘Oh no, no,’ James glances at him, ‘Should be fine. It’s very sensitive, just the slightest movement and it’s too hot, too cold, too hot again. You think I’d know how to work my own shower.’
‘But you have been drinking.’
‘But I have been drinking.’
Richard’s eyes are glued on James’ hand - the one dancing about in the spray, moving, testing the water, moving back. Then the other hand moves off the tap and James steps into the water, bringing his hands to his torso. They touch his skin and move up to his face, rubbing through his hair as the water falls over him. James’ eyes are closed. Then he flicks his hair, suddenly business-like. He grabs a bottle and squeezes something into his hands, rubbing them together and forming a lather. He then moves the lather onto his body and moves his hands around.
Richard very suddenly feels faint, like all the blood is leaving his head. He realises he still has his cock in his hands and his cock is swelling. How will he get it back into his pants now?
James’ fingers are long and thin. They move in a way Richard had never supposed they would. He has a scattering of hair on his upper chest. The lather collects in his public hair and James cleans his cock in a slow, gentle way. Richard can’t look away.
James is gazing back at him now. Richard glances up into his face. He must look ridiculous - perving on his mate, his dick out of his pants.
He hiccups. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he stammers, ‘I-’
‘It’s fine,’ James says, blinking. His mouth twitches. Is he smiling? James looks down again. Then he shoots a look back at Richard, blue and clear through the steam, one eyebrow raised.
‘No, really Richard,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘It’s all fine.’
And then Richard notices James’ beautiful hands working on James’ own now-erect cock.
‘Ah,’ says Richard slowly. ‘Right.’
The lather is all but gone now. James hands are moving in a slow, indiscriminate way. Richard can feel James’ eyes still on him.
‘So, er,’ says Richard. ‘Do you want a hand with that?’
He meets James’ eyes. He does not laugh.
Title: Air on Skin
Pairing: Richard/The Stig
Rating: NC-17-ish
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: I forgot I wrote this! And it's my new favourite OTP too. There's a cupboard and there's alien brain sex. What more could you want?! A cupcake? Ok, have a cupcake.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Richard thinks. I’m driving. Fuck. I’m filming too. Stop it. Not now. Please. Later. Please.
Hands move off his body. But don’t stop. His voice whinnies in his head.
Then there’s fingertips creeping, lightly, across his torso, his shoulder, his thigh. He lets out a fast breath. He oversteers. When he speaks to the onboard camera, he blames the car. The whites of his eyes flash as he looks back at the road.
Up against the shelves of cleaning products, in a supplies cupboard. Fast and hot and rough and Richard can’t quite get enough air. His breath is fast and shallow, but still there’s not enough oxygen going to his brain. Hands everywhere. Under his clothes even though his clothes are still on. The sound of buttons popping, zippers opening too fast and almost catching. Air on skin.
It’s half dark and Richard almost looks down. Fuck, his breath catches in his throat and his eyes close involuntarily. His cock is encased, hot, wet and close - mouth. It’s like a study of ‘mouthness’ - everything you’d want in a mouth, particularly a mouth around your cock. It’s attentive, firm but gentle, and so wet, and so warm. An almost-graze of teeth. But it’s so close, so immediate. It fries up his brain. His hips buck and he comes, sudden and without warning. The mouth sucks in around him.
When his eyesight returns, Richard blinks and looks around in the gloom. The Stig is leaning nonchalantly against the shelves on the opposite wall, his hips at a jaunty angle. His helmet is dark and blank.
‘Hey,’ Richard breathes. ‘That was-’
He runs his hands down his chest, trying to collect all the pieces of him that seem to have been scattered far away from him. His breathing is still short and fast and jaggered.
‘I’d been thinking about that all day,’ he says. ‘Well, not that exactly. Because I could never have imagined that…’
The Stig nods. Then he raises upright and walks steadily to the door of the cupboard, patting Richard on the shoulder as he passes. He leaves the door an inch ajar.
Richard stares ahead of him. Two thoughts hit him in the head simultaneously. One is that his clothes are still on him, unruffled, completely done up, with all buttons accounted for. The other thought was that the Stig had just given him the best head of his life - with his helmet still on, the visor still down. Or Richard had missed a chance, perhaps his only chance, to see the Stig’s face. But he could hardly be blamed - he had been otherwise occupied.
He grins. He lets his limbs return to solid before leaving the cupboard.
Title: Hand in Glove
Pairing: Jeremy/Richard
Rating: er, R - I guess? Explicit sexual content and abuse of gloves.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: This was rhosyndu's prompt and I was anonymous for about half a second there. (Hi!) The only one with a proper title, but perhaps only because I was listening to The Smiths at the time. My attempt at smut, let me show you it. Please forgive me. My first Jeremy-centric fic too. Gloves and hands and Richard being toppy.
Jeremy was smoking a cigarette, looking out over the track. It was drizzling. The track was slick with water, the green of the trees greener, everything else grey.
He saw Richard drive an Audi into the hanger. The Audi was electric blue. Water sprayed up into the air. The smoke from Jeremy’s cigarette was mixed with drizzle. It was in his eyes, his hair.
Jeremy waited in the trailer. Richard pushed the door open, unzipping his jacket.
‘Jeremy,’ he said. ‘Hey-’
Richard’s lips tasted cold, and of rain, and surprise. Jeremy had his hands on the skin of Richard’s chest before Richard broke apart and made a noise like ‘whoa’. He was half laughing, patting Jeremy on the arms, looking up at him. ‘Steady,’ he said.
Jeremy looked at him. Richard made a move to take off his gloves. ‘No,’ said Jeremy. There was something thick in his voice, a warning.
Jeremy brought Richard’s hand up to his face. The fabric of the glove was thick, black, slightly damp. Richard pressed his gloved hand to Jeremy’s cheek. Jeremy took the thumb into his mouth and sucked on it. He tried to distinguish the taste.
There was more skin and touching and some clothes being clumsily removed and others clothing staying on. There was pulling and pushing and a play of control, sometimes Richard going along with what Jeremy directed, sometimes going against it. Jeremy had to do all the clothing removal; in the gloves, Richard couldn’t do it. And Jeremy got bored with that, was to eager for other things. Undoing laces was not what he had in mind.
At one point, Richard had caught Jeremy’s eye and theatrically bit onto the tips of the fingers of one glove, as though to draw his hand away, to unsheathe it. He’d misunderstood. Again Jeremy took his hand and brought the gloved fingers to his mouth, sucking on them, hard. Richard moved his other gloved hand around the back of Jeremy’s neck, holding on as he leaned his hips in towards Jeremy. He thought about biting Jeremy’s neck, but instead licked it. He tasted salt.
It was unexpected when Richard pushed a gloved finger inside Jeremy. Jeremy bit down on Richard’s lip and felt a smirk, close, against his mouth. The finger moved and pushed - felt thicker than it should be, and rough. He let out a breath into Richard’s mouth. He scrambled to find Richard’s cock with his hands, but he was swatted away. Richard made a noise in the back of his throat. With one hand he tried to push Jeremy’s jeans down. He moved his arm as though to remove the finger. Jeremy helped him get the jeans off his hips. Richard moved the finger back a bit, then applied pressure with now two fingers to the opening. He felt something flicker through Jeremy’s muscles.
There was a time when Jeremy was alone and untouched. Richard told him to close his eyes and placed a biting kiss on his mouth. Jeremy heard sounds, but deliberately didn’t attempt to identify them. Then Richard was behind him, whispering something into his ear, his breath on the back of his neck. The finger was back around his anus, playing, not pushing. He felt a gloved hand on his cock. He realised he still had his eyes shut and opened them. When Richard pushed into him - slick and firm and hard - Jeremy’s eyes did things he had no control over. One gloved hand pumped his cock - there was too much friction. It hurt, but he was too hard to care, couldn’t bear going untouched. Richard’s other hand grabbed at Jeremy’s arm, his shoulder, anything to get a grip.
Richard increased his movements. Jeremy had one hand on Richard’s arm, the flesh hot just where the glove began, the muscles ticking underneath him as Richard worked his cock. He found himself reaching for the other hand, the glove that had been inside him, dragging the arm forward a bit and turning his head, sucking again on the fingers. Richard said something he couldn’t decipher, but Jeremy answered with a moan into the glove, into the fingers in the glove. There was Richard’s gloved thumb on the outside of his cheek, holding him firm. When he came, Jeremy let out a cry. Both gloves were at the ready to catch him, the sound in one, his ejaculate in the other. He contracted around Richard’s cock and though time somehow had stopped working, Richard starting moving again, increasing his rhythm until he came, a gloved hand grasping around Jeremy’s middle and smearing sticky dampness across his skin. They were both breathing fast. Richard collapsed forward onto Jeremy, the sweat sticking the skin of his chest to Jeremy’s back. Richard found himself in the vicinity of Jeremy’s ear, so, with a breathy laugh, he bit it.
They got dressed and Richard dropped the wet condom into a bin. The gloves were discarded on the floor. Richard ran his hands through his hair as Jeremy retied his shoelaces.
‘So,’ said Richard. He nudged one of the gloves with his toe. ‘You keep them.’
Jeremy nodded.
Richard looked at his hands.
‘Ok,’ said Jeremy. But he didn’t reach to pick them up.
To start with, the one I wrote today for peace-bloom:
Title: ... (um, can't think of one. Except for 'Pink and Fluffy', which is a pretty terrible title...)
Pairing: Cary Grant/Frank Sinatra (ha! I know!)
Rating: pretty mild slashy themes. Also, yes, fluff.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: Have you seen Bringing Up Baby? If not, then you should. Also then this ficlette might make more sense.
Sinatra sat on the edge of the bed. Even in his underwear, he looked smooth. He flicked at something with his toe and then reached down to pick it up.
‘What’s this?’ he said, turning back to look at the man lying in the bed.
Cary Grant made a noise into the pillow and didn’t open his eyes.
‘It’s very pink,’ said Sinatra. Grant knew from the tone of his voice that Sinatra has one eyebrow raised. He opened half an eye. Sinatra did have one eyebrow raised, his blue eyes fixed on Cary’s face, playful round the edges.
‘See,’ he said, raising the dressing gown so that Cary could see it. ‘Pink and fluffy.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Grant sighed, ‘That.’
Grant closed his eyes again and the moment stretched. He moved his hand - clumsy, his body still sleepy - until he found the warmth of Frank’s leg.
‘I don’t think I can wear it,’ Sinatra said.
‘Mm-hmm,’ Grant said, moving his hand to grab hold of Frank’s leg, just above the knee. He dug his fingers into the flesh.
‘I’ll order coffee, shall I?’ Sinatra said. He touched his fingertips to Cary’s temple, lightly, just for a second, before removing them. He draped the dressing gown over Cary’s body. ‘I’ll have to find something more masculine,’ he said. ‘But you’ll do, for the time being.’
He picked up Cary’s hand from his thigh and placed it on the bed. He stood up. Cary held his breath.
Title: Top Gear in Australia (...god i suck at titles today, hey?!)
Pairing: Richard/James-ish
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: I think the prompt was 'Top Gear in Australia'. This was done for the How Hard Can in Be challenge thing, way back when. And I know, I know, are there white cliffs in Australia? Maybe I was picturing New Zealand when I wrote this. It's not like I know this country or anything. In this, pants go missing.
They’d finished filming and the heat rolled in. Jeremy stepped out on the balcony, then back inside.
“I’m going to stay here. Air con. God gave it to us for a reason.”
“Beach?” Richard’s eyes flitted from Jeremy to James. “James?”
They took the hire car, a Lancer. James drove and Richard leaned his arm out the window.
“We have air con too, you know.” James caught the flash of Richard’s smile in his peripheral vision. “But there’s no point using it with the windows down.”
“I know,” said Richard, “But look!” He moved his hand at the view. The blue of the sky, the blue-green of the ocean, the white of the cliffs. He moved his fingers through the breeze.
Shoes in hands, sand between their toes, James realised they’d forgotten to bring any beach-going things with them. Richard had been so excited about going, and he’d been distracted by Richard’s excitement. That look in his face. The way his eyes lit up.
The beach was deserted, so they swam in their underwear. James felt pasty and white and so-very-English. The water was cold. Richard spread his clothes out on the sand and lay down on them, basking smugly in the sun. James came dripping from the water. He rifled through his things.
“My pants are gone,” he said. He shot a glance at Richard. “Hammond?”
“Yes, James?” said Richard, smiling.
Title: A Helping Hand (...are the titles getting any better or worse?)
Pairing: Richard/James
Rating:M-15+, nudity, masturbation.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: Richard is drunk, James is in the shower. Was I drunk when writing this? Quite possibly. From someone's prompt, maybe something about James' lovely pianist hands.
Richard wasn’t quite sure how it happened. First he was having a slash in James’ bathroom and definitely not-quite-sober. The next thing he knows, the shower’s on, the room’s filling with steam and he’s aware of something he should very much be paying attention to. Or he’s passed out and is dreaming this. All very vividly. It’s lovely really. The detail. The way the steam curls and rises.
There’s a pile of clothes on the floor. How did he miss those? He looks down - no, they’re not his clothes. He’s still wearing his clothes.
Someone makes a noise from the shower. Of course, the shower. And there’s James, adjusting the taps, naked and half-wet. His hand is turning pink under the water, his other hand on the cold tap. ‘Too hot, too hot,’ he mumbles.
‘Do you want a hand with th-?’ Richard says before he can help it.
‘Oh no, no,’ James glances at him, ‘Should be fine. It’s very sensitive, just the slightest movement and it’s too hot, too cold, too hot again. You think I’d know how to work my own shower.’
‘But you have been drinking.’
‘But I have been drinking.’
Richard’s eyes are glued on James’ hand - the one dancing about in the spray, moving, testing the water, moving back. Then the other hand moves off the tap and James steps into the water, bringing his hands to his torso. They touch his skin and move up to his face, rubbing through his hair as the water falls over him. James’ eyes are closed. Then he flicks his hair, suddenly business-like. He grabs a bottle and squeezes something into his hands, rubbing them together and forming a lather. He then moves the lather onto his body and moves his hands around.
Richard very suddenly feels faint, like all the blood is leaving his head. He realises he still has his cock in his hands and his cock is swelling. How will he get it back into his pants now?
James’ fingers are long and thin. They move in a way Richard had never supposed they would. He has a scattering of hair on his upper chest. The lather collects in his public hair and James cleans his cock in a slow, gentle way. Richard can’t look away.
James is gazing back at him now. Richard glances up into his face. He must look ridiculous - perving on his mate, his dick out of his pants.
He hiccups. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he stammers, ‘I-’
‘It’s fine,’ James says, blinking. His mouth twitches. Is he smiling? James looks down again. Then he shoots a look back at Richard, blue and clear through the steam, one eyebrow raised.
‘No, really Richard,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘It’s all fine.’
And then Richard notices James’ beautiful hands working on James’ own now-erect cock.
‘Ah,’ says Richard slowly. ‘Right.’
The lather is all but gone now. James hands are moving in a slow, indiscriminate way. Richard can feel James’ eyes still on him.
‘So, er,’ says Richard. ‘Do you want a hand with that?’
He meets James’ eyes. He does not laugh.
Title: Air on Skin
Pairing: Richard/The Stig
Rating: NC-17-ish
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: I forgot I wrote this! And it's my new favourite OTP too. There's a cupboard and there's alien brain sex. What more could you want?! A cupcake? Ok, have a cupcake.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Richard thinks. I’m driving. Fuck. I’m filming too. Stop it. Not now. Please. Later. Please.
Hands move off his body. But don’t stop. His voice whinnies in his head.
Then there’s fingertips creeping, lightly, across his torso, his shoulder, his thigh. He lets out a fast breath. He oversteers. When he speaks to the onboard camera, he blames the car. The whites of his eyes flash as he looks back at the road.
Up against the shelves of cleaning products, in a supplies cupboard. Fast and hot and rough and Richard can’t quite get enough air. His breath is fast and shallow, but still there’s not enough oxygen going to his brain. Hands everywhere. Under his clothes even though his clothes are still on. The sound of buttons popping, zippers opening too fast and almost catching. Air on skin.
It’s half dark and Richard almost looks down. Fuck, his breath catches in his throat and his eyes close involuntarily. His cock is encased, hot, wet and close - mouth. It’s like a study of ‘mouthness’ - everything you’d want in a mouth, particularly a mouth around your cock. It’s attentive, firm but gentle, and so wet, and so warm. An almost-graze of teeth. But it’s so close, so immediate. It fries up his brain. His hips buck and he comes, sudden and without warning. The mouth sucks in around him.
When his eyesight returns, Richard blinks and looks around in the gloom. The Stig is leaning nonchalantly against the shelves on the opposite wall, his hips at a jaunty angle. His helmet is dark and blank.
‘Hey,’ Richard breathes. ‘That was-’
He runs his hands down his chest, trying to collect all the pieces of him that seem to have been scattered far away from him. His breathing is still short and fast and jaggered.
‘I’d been thinking about that all day,’ he says. ‘Well, not that exactly. Because I could never have imagined that…’
The Stig nods. Then he raises upright and walks steadily to the door of the cupboard, patting Richard on the shoulder as he passes. He leaves the door an inch ajar.
Richard stares ahead of him. Two thoughts hit him in the head simultaneously. One is that his clothes are still on him, unruffled, completely done up, with all buttons accounted for. The other thought was that the Stig had just given him the best head of his life - with his helmet still on, the visor still down. Or Richard had missed a chance, perhaps his only chance, to see the Stig’s face. But he could hardly be blamed - he had been otherwise occupied.
He grins. He lets his limbs return to solid before leaving the cupboard.
Title: Hand in Glove
Pairing: Jeremy/Richard
Rating: er, R - I guess? Explicit sexual content and abuse of gloves.
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. etc.
Note: This was rhosyndu's prompt and I was anonymous for about half a second there. (Hi!) The only one with a proper title, but perhaps only because I was listening to The Smiths at the time. My attempt at smut, let me show you it. Please forgive me. My first Jeremy-centric fic too. Gloves and hands and Richard being toppy.
Jeremy was smoking a cigarette, looking out over the track. It was drizzling. The track was slick with water, the green of the trees greener, everything else grey.
He saw Richard drive an Audi into the hanger. The Audi was electric blue. Water sprayed up into the air. The smoke from Jeremy’s cigarette was mixed with drizzle. It was in his eyes, his hair.
Jeremy waited in the trailer. Richard pushed the door open, unzipping his jacket.
‘Jeremy,’ he said. ‘Hey-’
Richard’s lips tasted cold, and of rain, and surprise. Jeremy had his hands on the skin of Richard’s chest before Richard broke apart and made a noise like ‘whoa’. He was half laughing, patting Jeremy on the arms, looking up at him. ‘Steady,’ he said.
Jeremy looked at him. Richard made a move to take off his gloves. ‘No,’ said Jeremy. There was something thick in his voice, a warning.
Jeremy brought Richard’s hand up to his face. The fabric of the glove was thick, black, slightly damp. Richard pressed his gloved hand to Jeremy’s cheek. Jeremy took the thumb into his mouth and sucked on it. He tried to distinguish the taste.
There was more skin and touching and some clothes being clumsily removed and others clothing staying on. There was pulling and pushing and a play of control, sometimes Richard going along with what Jeremy directed, sometimes going against it. Jeremy had to do all the clothing removal; in the gloves, Richard couldn’t do it. And Jeremy got bored with that, was to eager for other things. Undoing laces was not what he had in mind.
At one point, Richard had caught Jeremy’s eye and theatrically bit onto the tips of the fingers of one glove, as though to draw his hand away, to unsheathe it. He’d misunderstood. Again Jeremy took his hand and brought the gloved fingers to his mouth, sucking on them, hard. Richard moved his other gloved hand around the back of Jeremy’s neck, holding on as he leaned his hips in towards Jeremy. He thought about biting Jeremy’s neck, but instead licked it. He tasted salt.
It was unexpected when Richard pushed a gloved finger inside Jeremy. Jeremy bit down on Richard’s lip and felt a smirk, close, against his mouth. The finger moved and pushed - felt thicker than it should be, and rough. He let out a breath into Richard’s mouth. He scrambled to find Richard’s cock with his hands, but he was swatted away. Richard made a noise in the back of his throat. With one hand he tried to push Jeremy’s jeans down. He moved his arm as though to remove the finger. Jeremy helped him get the jeans off his hips. Richard moved the finger back a bit, then applied pressure with now two fingers to the opening. He felt something flicker through Jeremy’s muscles.
There was a time when Jeremy was alone and untouched. Richard told him to close his eyes and placed a biting kiss on his mouth. Jeremy heard sounds, but deliberately didn’t attempt to identify them. Then Richard was behind him, whispering something into his ear, his breath on the back of his neck. The finger was back around his anus, playing, not pushing. He felt a gloved hand on his cock. He realised he still had his eyes shut and opened them. When Richard pushed into him - slick and firm and hard - Jeremy’s eyes did things he had no control over. One gloved hand pumped his cock - there was too much friction. It hurt, but he was too hard to care, couldn’t bear going untouched. Richard’s other hand grabbed at Jeremy’s arm, his shoulder, anything to get a grip.
Richard increased his movements. Jeremy had one hand on Richard’s arm, the flesh hot just where the glove began, the muscles ticking underneath him as Richard worked his cock. He found himself reaching for the other hand, the glove that had been inside him, dragging the arm forward a bit and turning his head, sucking again on the fingers. Richard said something he couldn’t decipher, but Jeremy answered with a moan into the glove, into the fingers in the glove. There was Richard’s gloved thumb on the outside of his cheek, holding him firm. When he came, Jeremy let out a cry. Both gloves were at the ready to catch him, the sound in one, his ejaculate in the other. He contracted around Richard’s cock and though time somehow had stopped working, Richard starting moving again, increasing his rhythm until he came, a gloved hand grasping around Jeremy’s middle and smearing sticky dampness across his skin. They were both breathing fast. Richard collapsed forward onto Jeremy, the sweat sticking the skin of his chest to Jeremy’s back. Richard found himself in the vicinity of Jeremy’s ear, so, with a breathy laugh, he bit it.
They got dressed and Richard dropped the wet condom into a bin. The gloves were discarded on the floor. Richard ran his hands through his hair as Jeremy retied his shoelaces.
‘So,’ said Richard. He nudged one of the gloves with his toe. ‘You keep them.’
Jeremy nodded.
Richard looked at his hands.
‘Ok,’ said Jeremy. But he didn’t reach to pick them up.