Assorted TG ficlets
Title: see cut tag text Author: capra_fera Pairing(s): see cut tag text Warnings: d/s play, body swap with animals, Stig is an alien, cross dressing, Rating: Teen - adult (see cut tag text) Summary: none - they're short enough to be a summary. :D Author's notes: These were written for the recent drabbles-and-bits-of-art tag game in honour of topgearslash's third birthday (community on LJ). Disclaimer: Top Gear and its presenters do not belong to me, but to the BBC. (Their contracts say so. ;)) No money was made. This is FIK-shun.
"James, are you eating cat food?!", Richard/James, PG prompt from imagine__
Working on Top Gear was the best job in the world, Richard thought, but there were times when 'best' transformed into 'weirdest' at the drop of an intake manifold. He leaned against the counter top in James' kitchen and cleared his throat.
"James, are you eating cat food?!"
James looked up in alarm at his voice. "Mrrow?!" he said, before bolting toward the cat flap, his shoulders preventing him from fitting his frantically scrabbling body through the small opening.
The angry clash of piano keys distracted him from the odd behaviour of his friend. He looked back into the parlour to see Fusker jumping furiously on the keyboard, glaring at him with disturbing intelligence while banging out what Richard eventually recognized as Smoke On The Water.
Shit. Looks like The Stig had discovered that Richard had borrowed his white suit for some role play with James, and had noticed its less than pristine state. Richard wondered how far he could drive in the Morgan before he was switched with Top Gear Dog....
Jeremy/Sabine/Francie, where Francie owes Jeremy a 'treat', PG-13 (also mention of past Jeremy/Philip Glenister/Francie) prompt from bubbles_san:
A little unsteady from the wine, Jeremy misjudges the doorway and bounces off the doorjamb into his wife, nearly bowling her over. Sabine, who has been standing beside Francie, bursts into tipsy snorting which sets the three of them off again as they make their meandering way down the hall of the Clarkson house.
It has been a thoroughly pleasant evening - a dinner out at a fine restaurant - and Jeremy is relieved that Francie has enjoyed the unexpected visit from his German colleague as much as he has. Well, perhaps she hasn't appreciated the glimpses of cleavage he's caught (for once without actually trying), but the two have got on better than he's dreamed. He smiles beneficently at Francie, who rolls her eyes, then grins before pulling him down to lick at his mouth, swallowing his shocked gasp with a pleased noise of her own.
He's drunk and he's slow, which is why he doesn't push the hand away that's fumbling at his flies (Sabine is right there), or bat at the fingers that scratch at his neck, or protest at the velocity his shirt is removed from his trousers by another pair of --wait, what--
He hears stereophonic laughter and blinks into his wife's face, confused. She laughs again, free and clear, and kisses him lightly on the lips before pulling him into the parlour, Sabine still giggling behind them, hand warm on his back. He stops dead at the sight of a very familiar seating arrangement planted in alien surroundings: his captain's chair and the twin seat from the set at Dunsfold.
The jangling of metal catches his attention. With a teasing shake Francie waves the handcuffs in front of his nose before pushing him firmly into his chair. He falls into it without protest, mouth dry, heart pounding. How did--are they--
Stunned, Jeremy lets them pull his arms behind him, the cool metal rings on his wrists snapping closed. He gazes at Francie with love and gratitude before grinning widely and spreading his legs, eager for the floor show to begin.
"Just think of this as a 'thank you' for that time with Phil," Francie purrs, and turns to Sabine who winks at Jeremy before sucking at Francie's throat while slowly tracing the curve of her breast with her nails.
Jeremy sinks lower into the chair and sighs, his legs opening wider, his arms useless behind him. It's not exactly the fantasy he had in mind, but it will do quite nicely.
Kink Night, James/Richard/Jeremy, NC-17 prompt from alisso
His senses have been reduced to what he can hear (not much - they're being uncharacteristically quiet), what he can smell (Jeremy's sweat, the remnants of one of Richard's fags) and what he can taste (delicate, treasured skin - though technically taste is mostly smell so would that even count?). What he feels (Richard's hand firm at the back of his neck, Jeremy's cock motionless in his throat) has been such a steady constant that it has become mere background noise, a canvas for any slight change in input. James breathes through his nose and waits, a study in still life, art for the pleasure of others.
He doesn't wait long: a startled cry tears from Jeremy's mouth and James blindly opens his throat, accepting the torrent of semen and want that rushes through him. The hand on his neck remains, the gaze on his back pressing with the weight of marble. James finishes swallowing, releasing Jeremy when he pulls back to collapse on the bed with a ragged groan, yet he makes no move despite the growing ache in his knees and his groin.
The fingers on his skin squeeze, then caress the column of his neck, following the shape of muscle. James feels two hands circle his neck like a vise, collaring him, threat implicit in their grip. He stoically awaits judgment, ignoring the heat pulsating from his cock.
"Good boy," Richard whispers, finally removing his hands to soothe with his mouth. "When Jeremy recovers, he'll attempt the same with you. He's a big enough gob on him to take all of you, surely?"
James smiles at the mockery in Richard's tone, the uncertainty in Jeremy's gasp. Next time their roles will change, but here, tonight, he is in his favourite place, gifted with his favourite prize: approval from Richard paired with an obedient Jeremy.
Silk, Richard/James, R 'Someone has a secret (or not so secret anymore) fetish for wearing women's underwear' from alisso "Are you wearing that for a bet?" from elfinessy
James devours Richard's mouth, drunk on his taste and his energy and the absolute knowledge that Richard's here in his house, up against him and against the wall in his bedroom. Willingly. Encouraging it, even. James is laughing and grunting, a ridiculous combination that does nothing to dampen his glee at finally, finally being on the receiving end of Richard's boundless carnal enthusiasm.
Too late, he remembers.
Richard's hand stills at the first contact of silk and lace. James can't look at him, can't think anything other than how to get away. He nearly jumps when Richard's hand moves, fingers slowly exploring the taught burgundy fabric, smooth like wine against James' erection. James forgets to breathe as Richard slowly smiles, licks his lips, and arches one eyebrow.
"Are you wearing these for a bet?"
James mirrors Richard's grin and abruptly pushes him to the bed, relief flooding through him as powerful as his arousal.
"No," he growls and kisses Richard again.
Sex Toys, James/Richard, PG-13 "That's not a car, is it?" prompt from capra_fera
The sunlight, streaming through his bedroom window, was warm on James' bare back, making him sigh in complete contentment. Richard's hands were warm on his back as well, the twin sources of heat relieving his body of the knots he'd gained thrashing about in the Zonda Roadster at the track. He spared a thought for Jeremy, and shuddered to think that he'd end up with similar wear and tear in a few years.
Richard touched his cheek, silently asking that he turn his head to the other side. James complied, and grinned at the sight of several model cars trapped in the terrain of the rumpled duvet: a Porsche 911 GT3, an Aston Martin DBS, a Morris Mini, a Suzuki Swift (trapped on its side under the DBS), and a Bentley T2 that Richard had somehow found and presented to him after a certain night of anxiety-fueled drinking and nervous confessions. James groaned when a particular cramp in his back finally eased, and he smiled up at Richard, thankful for that past revelation and the present care.
He had almost lost himself in a soporific trance when the touch on his back changed. Huh. Richard must be using one of those back rolling things he never remembered the name of. James frowned. He had always preferred the touch of Richard's palms to any massage aid, even if the tools were sometimes better at their intended job.
This particular implement wasn't really thrilling him much; it tickled more than it massaged. James opened his mouth to protest when he caught a giggle, swiftly muffled. He pursed his lips and tried to look over his shoulder as the proverbial light bulb went on.
"That's not a car, is it?"
Richard giggled again, caught out at last, and powerslid the black Koenigsegg CCXR down James' broad back, along the curve of his buttocks and down his thighs, making soft engine noises and racing commentary all the while.
James buried his face in the pillow, laughing quietly, convinced beyond all doubt that Richard was quite mad.