Ficlet 1
Title: And for dessert...
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 300 words
Notes: For strangeumbrella who said Sam/Gene--you can interpret that as slash or just banter, however you wish--and, oh, a prompt, right... "lunchtime"? I interpreted it as slashy.
Gene brought the back of his hand across his mouth and stared up at Sam, who leaned back and lazily closed his eyes.
“Good was it, Sammy-boy?”
Sam nodded his assent.
“Right then, flip over back of couch so I can give you a good rogering.”
Sam found his voice, opening his eyes and shaking his head.
“That’s romantic that is. D'you win prizes for your poetry?”
“If you’d wanted romance, you’d’ve gone off with your bit of skirt. With me, you get a real man, no holds barred. Real men don’t do romance.”
Sam sighed, but smiled. “Gene, you’re a walking cliché.”
“Right now I’m a kneeling cliché,” Gene replied, wolfish grin and raise of an eyebrow, “and my knees are killing me, so shift it.”
Sam rocked forward, dipping his head, lowering his eyelids. Gene pushed his face closer, arching into Sam. Their lips almost touched.
Sam pulled away. “Brush your teeth.”
Gene grabbed hold of the edge of the couch and brought himself upright. He gazed down at Sam, trousers on the floor, satiated little smile, and cock hanging limp.
“I ought to give you a good slapping.”
“You won’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And why not, my dearest Samuel?”
“Cause I can give you a good slapping back.”
“Maybe another day.” Gene nodded, accepting Sam’s words as a gauntlet thrown down. “Lunchtime’s almost over and I’m not going away without a meal.”
“You’ve already had meat and two veg.”
Gene laughed. “Who’s the walking cliché now, Tyler?”
Sam stood up, pressing his body into Gene’s, rubbing his hand over the tight stretch of fabric at his crotch. He guided one of Gene’s hands to his arse and licked his lower lip. He tilted his head in invitation.
“How about we stop the small talk?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 300 words
Notes: For strangeumbrella who said Sam/Gene--you can interpret that as slash or just banter, however you wish--and, oh, a prompt, right... "lunchtime"? I interpreted it as slashy.
Gene brought the back of his hand across his mouth and stared up at Sam, who leaned back and lazily closed his eyes.
“Good was it, Sammy-boy?”
Sam nodded his assent.
“Right then, flip over back of couch so I can give you a good rogering.”
Sam found his voice, opening his eyes and shaking his head.
“That’s romantic that is. D'you win prizes for your poetry?”
“If you’d wanted romance, you’d’ve gone off with your bit of skirt. With me, you get a real man, no holds barred. Real men don’t do romance.”
Sam sighed, but smiled. “Gene, you’re a walking cliché.”
“Right now I’m a kneeling cliché,” Gene replied, wolfish grin and raise of an eyebrow, “and my knees are killing me, so shift it.”
Sam rocked forward, dipping his head, lowering his eyelids. Gene pushed his face closer, arching into Sam. Their lips almost touched.
Sam pulled away. “Brush your teeth.”
Gene grabbed hold of the edge of the couch and brought himself upright. He gazed down at Sam, trousers on the floor, satiated little smile, and cock hanging limp.
“I ought to give you a good slapping.”
“You won’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
“And why not, my dearest Samuel?”
“Cause I can give you a good slapping back.”
“Maybe another day.” Gene nodded, accepting Sam’s words as a gauntlet thrown down. “Lunchtime’s almost over and I’m not going away without a meal.”
“You’ve already had meat and two veg.”
Gene laughed. “Who’s the walking cliché now, Tyler?”
Sam stood up, pressing his body into Gene’s, rubbing his hand over the tight stretch of fabric at his crotch. He guided one of Gene’s hands to his arse and licked his lower lip. He tilted his head in invitation.
“How about we stop the small talk?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”