Porntoberfest: Prancing, by Mikey, brown cortina
Title: Prancing (The Trashy Romance Novel version of LoM)
Author: mikes_grrl
Rating: Brown Cortina (NC-17+)
Pairing: Gene/Sam
Warnings: No spoilers, no plot, just pr0n and some lousy writing. PWP.
Disclaimer: All owned by Kudos, kudos to them. I’m just having fun.
Word Count: 2,000~
Summary: Sam moves in.
NOTES: This is…stupid. Just. Stupid. As in, Daniel Steele-does-slash stupid. Purple prose stupid. Trashy romance novel with blushing bride stupid. But it’s got pr0n, and it IS Porntober so hey, why not? I’ve sat on this forever, fully expecting one day to hit ‘delete’ without ever revealing its existence to anyone, but clearly my fanfic masochism knows no bounds.
Really, I'm NOT fishing for compliments. This story doesn't suck, okay? I just want you to know what you are buying into here. *tries to look helpful*
Prancing
Sam was prancing, the fucking fairy. Gene just stared. Sam was prancing around the kitchen, the radio blaring one of those new crappy rock songs, nothing like real music, as he unpacked the single box of kitchen goods he brought with him from his flat. He was prancing in time with the music, and Gene supposed it might not be prancing so much as dancing, as much as a bloke could dance while sorting a spice rack.
Gene pulled out a cigarette and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Sam prance. So this was it, this is what it felt like to be Oscar Fuckin’ Wilde. Or, as Sam continually and insanely insisted, Rock Hudson (never that, Gene thought. Never the Rock…although it would be interesting to see…he shook the thought out). Now they were right married poofters and Gene smiled as he thought of what he bought at the second hand shop that day. He stopped by earlier, before Sam made it over, and now his gift was on the bed upstairs, where obviously Sam had not managed to prance quite yet, because Gene was still alive and he figured Sam would gut him the second he saw it.
There were rules to this charade, of course. Two bedrooms, one of which was ‘Sam’s’. A loud announcement at work that Sam was renting a room at his place so everyone needed to keep an eye on Sam and make sure he kept to giving blokes blow jobs in alleys and did not bring his gay-boy ways home to Gene’s fine, upstanding, reputable household. Everyone laughed, particularly Ray, and Sam gave Gene a dark look that told him he was not getting a blow job himself any time soon for that jab. Sam had to get his own car or scooter or something so they would not always be arriving and leaving work or the pub together. Gene had darts nights and Sam, god help him, had ‘girls’ night’ with Annie and Chris. All Gene’s girls together, he mused, smiling, wondering how he could prank them with that at some point. Oh, the opportunity would present itself, he was sure of it. Ray would be immensely helpful for that.
“I got a cute arse?” Sam said, looking over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
“Bit flat. Could be cuter.” Gene eyed it critically.
“’Ey!”
“That all you brought?” Gene motioned at the box.
“No, got my clothes and things in the box in the living room. You can…”
“Not gonna. Your shite, you move it.” Gene walked into the kitchen as Sam glared at him. He poured himself a drink. “And remember to put it all in ‘your’ room.”
“You really think Ray’s gonna come snooping by…”
“Don’t matter what I think. My house. My rules.”
Sam folded his arms, readying for another girly ‘relationship’ talk, and Gene moaned.
“Christ, Gladys, give over. Our house. But my rules. You can put yer pillow on my bed though.” Gene said magnanimously. Sam marched out and Gene heard him clattering around as he carried his box upstairs. He waited. He poured himself a drink. He waited some more. Would Sam shriek when he saw it? Like a girl? Walk down and hit him like a man? Gene smirked in heady anticipation and turned to find Sam glowering at him.
“Don’t fit.” He held up the second-hand wedding dress and Gene spit his drink all over the table.
“You didn’…” Horror swept through him. Sam laughed, doubled over laughing so hard that he could not breathe, gasping, laughing until tears streamed down his face. Gene sat rigid, furious that his joke backfired on him.
“No!…you don’t think I’d wear…yer face!” Sam tried to talk but just collapsed further in hysterics. Gene finished his drink and stood up. He marched over, ripped the dress out of Sam’s shaking hands and spread it over the kitchen table. Sam was still laughing, trying to breathe, and just looked up at him. He was beautiful, his smile a thousand watt bulb in Gene’s life and even with tears streaming down his face from laughing so hard he was the most precious, dangerous creature Gene ever knew. He pulled Sam up and dragged him and as Sam stuttered, still recovering from his laughing fit, he picked him up and dumped him on the table, on top of the tacky, cheap dress.
“Wedding night, Sam.”
Sam went wide eyed and speechless as Gene pulled his pants off. “Think you been sorting the wrong spices. Time for me to stir the pot.” Gene grinned at his own terrible jokes as he dropped his trousers and moved in between Sam’s legs.
“Don’t I get a warm up?” Sam asked, annoyed, moving a hand down to stroke his barely erect penis.
Gene frowned, thought carefully, then answered: “No.” He pulled Sam’s hand up and away, and rubbed his own hard-on down with spit.
“God no! Got the olive oil right there…” Sam pointed. Gene shrugged and reached over to the counter. He slicked himself up, and batted at Sam’s hands, which kept trying to drift down to touch himself. “You better have a plan here…” Sam said warningly as he tried to reach between his legs again, and Gene slapped his hand.
“I do. My plan is to bugger you into the table until I come in your arse like a goddamn rocket. Now shut up, blushing bride, while your man does his duty…” Gene pushed forward, the tip of his cock entering Sam, and they both gasped.
“I…don’…blush…” Sam said, gritting his teeth. Gene just smiled, watching Sam’s skin turn bright pink as he tilted his head back to moan, Gene pushing his cock further in, wrapping himself in Sam’s passion. He was noisy and Gene enjoyed that, but it was inconvenient. Sam suggested gags, a little too enthusiastically for Gene’s tastes, but Gene was not to that level of Hyde-perversion yet so he just clamped a hand down over Sam’s mouth as he began pumping. His thighs hit the edge of the table where the dress was draped, and he felt the slick satin shifting under his attack. Sam was squirming and groaning and pushing back and slipping across the dress. Feeling a give that did not bode well for either of them, Gene moved his hand off Sam’s mouth and back to the table top.
Gene looked down at the man under him, sweaty and flushed red with a cock arching through the air, bobbing in time with Gene’s thrusts. Gene was not about to move his own hands, pressed against the table and sliding dangerously over the slick fabric, so he just watched Sam’s cock as it twitched and went dark purple with blood rush. He felt Sam’s legs wrap high around his waist and he took a moment to thank God for Sam’s flexibility. Gene shifted his legs further apart and his next push in sank even further in, his cock completely engulfed by the illicit and very wrong heaven of Sam’s arse.
“Gene! Damnit…” Sam cursed and took one hand off the death grip on Gene’s shoulder and began stroking himself. Gene wanted to talk, to spill dirty, naughty thoughts all over Sam’s body but it all stopped in his gut. This - fucking a man on a table in his kitchen on a cheap second-hand wedding dress - was insane. Nothing like the penitent blow jobs offered by boys in dark alleys, or quiet shags in the back seat of the Cortina; this was almost like being married, as if this was a silly story they would be reminding each other about twenty years from now. Gene groaned and plowed in, wanting twenty years from now to be yesterday, and impatient for it to be tomorrow. Sam stopped stripping himself and froze, gasping, his eyes wide. “Shit, oh shit, yeah…shit,” he said reverently and squeezed his cock, shuddering, as Gene pulled out and dove back in. “Gene! Crap! Oh god!” The shuddering became a frenzied, pulsing shaking, and on the third hard thrust they both traveled over the table as the dress moved like an oil slick and Sam came, ribbons of come drenching his chest while he groaned.
Gene stopped, gasping as he tried to control his breathing. He pulled them both back before his legs gave out - standing on tiptoe was on a strong point - and used the spare folds of fabric to clean Sam off. The material was not absorbent, though, and Gene stared at it, confused. Only women would figure something like satin made any sense in the world. He tossed it down and it ended up draped over Sam’s torso like a perverted toga. Sam grinned at him, speechless (for once, thank God) and Gene smiled back. He leaned over onto his elbows and picked up the thrusting again with a measured pacing to get him off comfortably and quickly, while Sam wrapped his arms around him tightly.
The position put them chest to chest with the material between them, rubbing against Gene’s nipples, and suddenly he was so thankful he could die that someone, somewhere invented satin. It was smooth and cool and gloriously silky and Sam smelled sweaty under it, coated in sex and need and desire and Gene’s brain snapped, snapped hard like the first time he fucked another man and he was gone, hammering into Sam.
The table, them, the dress, everything was shoved across the floor while Sam cooed and Gene grunted like a damn dog which was not his best moment but he came as hard as he could remember and his hips were still pistoning into Sam when he dropped to his knees, pulling them off the table. They sprawled onto the floor, tangled up in the dress and each other and Sam was laughing.
“Okay…okay! We’re good,” Sam said, arranging them.
“Shit…” Gene groaned, flopping backwards, boneless and sated.
“Didn’t know you, uh, liked that type of thing, Gene.” Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Wha’?”
“The, er, dress.” Sam picked up an edge of the dress and flapped it at him. Gene debated the merits of arguing this with Sam, because it had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the kitchen table and satin and Sam, but in the end it was not worth the trouble.
He propped himself up on one elbow and started wiping Sam off with the non-absorbent material again. “Dry clean only,” he grinned as he said it, and Sam hit him lightly on the shoulder.
“Bloody hell, I’m NOT taking to the cleaners.” Sam sat with his hands propping him up while Gene fussed.
“Won’t ruin your reputation, if that’s what you’re thinking. The way you prance, they’ll know its yours.”
Sam really swung on him then, but Gene caught the fist and they both tumbled down again, rolling over and over until they were starting all over again.
####
Author: mikes_grrl
Rating: Brown Cortina (NC-17+)
Pairing: Gene/Sam
Warnings: No spoilers, no plot, just pr0n and some lousy writing. PWP.
Disclaimer: All owned by Kudos, kudos to them. I’m just having fun.
Word Count: 2,000~
Summary: Sam moves in.
NOTES: This is…stupid. Just. Stupid. As in, Daniel Steele-does-slash stupid. Purple prose stupid. Trashy romance novel with blushing bride stupid. But it’s got pr0n, and it IS Porntober so hey, why not? I’ve sat on this forever, fully expecting one day to hit ‘delete’ without ever revealing its existence to anyone, but clearly my fanfic masochism knows no bounds.
Really, I'm NOT fishing for compliments. This story doesn't suck, okay? I just want you to know what you are buying into here. *tries to look helpful*
Prancing
Sam was prancing, the fucking fairy. Gene just stared. Sam was prancing around the kitchen, the radio blaring one of those new crappy rock songs, nothing like real music, as he unpacked the single box of kitchen goods he brought with him from his flat. He was prancing in time with the music, and Gene supposed it might not be prancing so much as dancing, as much as a bloke could dance while sorting a spice rack.
Gene pulled out a cigarette and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Sam prance. So this was it, this is what it felt like to be Oscar Fuckin’ Wilde. Or, as Sam continually and insanely insisted, Rock Hudson (never that, Gene thought. Never the Rock…although it would be interesting to see…he shook the thought out). Now they were right married poofters and Gene smiled as he thought of what he bought at the second hand shop that day. He stopped by earlier, before Sam made it over, and now his gift was on the bed upstairs, where obviously Sam had not managed to prance quite yet, because Gene was still alive and he figured Sam would gut him the second he saw it.
There were rules to this charade, of course. Two bedrooms, one of which was ‘Sam’s’. A loud announcement at work that Sam was renting a room at his place so everyone needed to keep an eye on Sam and make sure he kept to giving blokes blow jobs in alleys and did not bring his gay-boy ways home to Gene’s fine, upstanding, reputable household. Everyone laughed, particularly Ray, and Sam gave Gene a dark look that told him he was not getting a blow job himself any time soon for that jab. Sam had to get his own car or scooter or something so they would not always be arriving and leaving work or the pub together. Gene had darts nights and Sam, god help him, had ‘girls’ night’ with Annie and Chris. All Gene’s girls together, he mused, smiling, wondering how he could prank them with that at some point. Oh, the opportunity would present itself, he was sure of it. Ray would be immensely helpful for that.
“I got a cute arse?” Sam said, looking over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
“Bit flat. Could be cuter.” Gene eyed it critically.
“’Ey!”
“That all you brought?” Gene motioned at the box.
“No, got my clothes and things in the box in the living room. You can…”
“Not gonna. Your shite, you move it.” Gene walked into the kitchen as Sam glared at him. He poured himself a drink. “And remember to put it all in ‘your’ room.”
“You really think Ray’s gonna come snooping by…”
“Don’t matter what I think. My house. My rules.”
Sam folded his arms, readying for another girly ‘relationship’ talk, and Gene moaned.
“Christ, Gladys, give over. Our house. But my rules. You can put yer pillow on my bed though.” Gene said magnanimously. Sam marched out and Gene heard him clattering around as he carried his box upstairs. He waited. He poured himself a drink. He waited some more. Would Sam shriek when he saw it? Like a girl? Walk down and hit him like a man? Gene smirked in heady anticipation and turned to find Sam glowering at him.
“Don’t fit.” He held up the second-hand wedding dress and Gene spit his drink all over the table.
“You didn’…” Horror swept through him. Sam laughed, doubled over laughing so hard that he could not breathe, gasping, laughing until tears streamed down his face. Gene sat rigid, furious that his joke backfired on him.
“No!…you don’t think I’d wear…yer face!” Sam tried to talk but just collapsed further in hysterics. Gene finished his drink and stood up. He marched over, ripped the dress out of Sam’s shaking hands and spread it over the kitchen table. Sam was still laughing, trying to breathe, and just looked up at him. He was beautiful, his smile a thousand watt bulb in Gene’s life and even with tears streaming down his face from laughing so hard he was the most precious, dangerous creature Gene ever knew. He pulled Sam up and dragged him and as Sam stuttered, still recovering from his laughing fit, he picked him up and dumped him on the table, on top of the tacky, cheap dress.
“Wedding night, Sam.”
Sam went wide eyed and speechless as Gene pulled his pants off. “Think you been sorting the wrong spices. Time for me to stir the pot.” Gene grinned at his own terrible jokes as he dropped his trousers and moved in between Sam’s legs.
“Don’t I get a warm up?” Sam asked, annoyed, moving a hand down to stroke his barely erect penis.
Gene frowned, thought carefully, then answered: “No.” He pulled Sam’s hand up and away, and rubbed his own hard-on down with spit.
“God no! Got the olive oil right there…” Sam pointed. Gene shrugged and reached over to the counter. He slicked himself up, and batted at Sam’s hands, which kept trying to drift down to touch himself. “You better have a plan here…” Sam said warningly as he tried to reach between his legs again, and Gene slapped his hand.
“I do. My plan is to bugger you into the table until I come in your arse like a goddamn rocket. Now shut up, blushing bride, while your man does his duty…” Gene pushed forward, the tip of his cock entering Sam, and they both gasped.
“I…don’…blush…” Sam said, gritting his teeth. Gene just smiled, watching Sam’s skin turn bright pink as he tilted his head back to moan, Gene pushing his cock further in, wrapping himself in Sam’s passion. He was noisy and Gene enjoyed that, but it was inconvenient. Sam suggested gags, a little too enthusiastically for Gene’s tastes, but Gene was not to that level of Hyde-perversion yet so he just clamped a hand down over Sam’s mouth as he began pumping. His thighs hit the edge of the table where the dress was draped, and he felt the slick satin shifting under his attack. Sam was squirming and groaning and pushing back and slipping across the dress. Feeling a give that did not bode well for either of them, Gene moved his hand off Sam’s mouth and back to the table top.
Gene looked down at the man under him, sweaty and flushed red with a cock arching through the air, bobbing in time with Gene’s thrusts. Gene was not about to move his own hands, pressed against the table and sliding dangerously over the slick fabric, so he just watched Sam’s cock as it twitched and went dark purple with blood rush. He felt Sam’s legs wrap high around his waist and he took a moment to thank God for Sam’s flexibility. Gene shifted his legs further apart and his next push in sank even further in, his cock completely engulfed by the illicit and very wrong heaven of Sam’s arse.
“Gene! Damnit…” Sam cursed and took one hand off the death grip on Gene’s shoulder and began stroking himself. Gene wanted to talk, to spill dirty, naughty thoughts all over Sam’s body but it all stopped in his gut. This - fucking a man on a table in his kitchen on a cheap second-hand wedding dress - was insane. Nothing like the penitent blow jobs offered by boys in dark alleys, or quiet shags in the back seat of the Cortina; this was almost like being married, as if this was a silly story they would be reminding each other about twenty years from now. Gene groaned and plowed in, wanting twenty years from now to be yesterday, and impatient for it to be tomorrow. Sam stopped stripping himself and froze, gasping, his eyes wide. “Shit, oh shit, yeah…shit,” he said reverently and squeezed his cock, shuddering, as Gene pulled out and dove back in. “Gene! Crap! Oh god!” The shuddering became a frenzied, pulsing shaking, and on the third hard thrust they both traveled over the table as the dress moved like an oil slick and Sam came, ribbons of come drenching his chest while he groaned.
Gene stopped, gasping as he tried to control his breathing. He pulled them both back before his legs gave out - standing on tiptoe was on a strong point - and used the spare folds of fabric to clean Sam off. The material was not absorbent, though, and Gene stared at it, confused. Only women would figure something like satin made any sense in the world. He tossed it down and it ended up draped over Sam’s torso like a perverted toga. Sam grinned at him, speechless (for once, thank God) and Gene smiled back. He leaned over onto his elbows and picked up the thrusting again with a measured pacing to get him off comfortably and quickly, while Sam wrapped his arms around him tightly.
The position put them chest to chest with the material between them, rubbing against Gene’s nipples, and suddenly he was so thankful he could die that someone, somewhere invented satin. It was smooth and cool and gloriously silky and Sam smelled sweaty under it, coated in sex and need and desire and Gene’s brain snapped, snapped hard like the first time he fucked another man and he was gone, hammering into Sam.
The table, them, the dress, everything was shoved across the floor while Sam cooed and Gene grunted like a damn dog which was not his best moment but he came as hard as he could remember and his hips were still pistoning into Sam when he dropped to his knees, pulling them off the table. They sprawled onto the floor, tangled up in the dress and each other and Sam was laughing.
“Okay…okay! We’re good,” Sam said, arranging them.
“Shit…” Gene groaned, flopping backwards, boneless and sated.
“Didn’t know you, uh, liked that type of thing, Gene.” Sam raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Wha’?”
“The, er, dress.” Sam picked up an edge of the dress and flapped it at him. Gene debated the merits of arguing this with Sam, because it had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the kitchen table and satin and Sam, but in the end it was not worth the trouble.
He propped himself up on one elbow and started wiping Sam off with the non-absorbent material again. “Dry clean only,” he grinned as he said it, and Sam hit him lightly on the shoulder.
“Bloody hell, I’m NOT taking to the cleaners.” Sam sat with his hands propping him up while Gene fussed.
“Won’t ruin your reputation, if that’s what you’re thinking. The way you prance, they’ll know its yours.”
Sam really swung on him then, but Gene caught the fist and they both tumbled down again, rolling over and over until they were starting all over again.
####