Fandom: TV Commercials
Pairing: Arby's Oven Mitt & Hamburger Helper Hand
Rating: Umm, XW for Extremely Weird. It's hardcore, ummm, glove action. It'd be x-rated, except that there's absolutely no genitalia involved.
Warnings: Fisting, obviously.
Disclaimer: I don't own these. I'm sure their owners would be appalled. (I'm sure my friends are appalled.) This is a parody (or perhaps a travesty); no money is being made from this and I've probably lost the last shreds of respect from people who imagined I had some semblance of dignity or good taste.
Notes: Challenge from eldriwolf, who's been daring me to write this for over a year. A reminder (or a warning) that there is no pair of characters that cannot be slashed.
SUMMARY: Kitchen accessories in heat here. (Already, with the bad puns.)
MITTIt's so rare we have time together. We can't live together, of course; people would talk, and we'd probably both lose our jobs. He's got a morals clause in his contract: wholesome, family-friendly American cooks aren't supposed to be gay. And while I'm allowed to be a bit more wild—it's even encouraged; it's part of the image—I'm not allowed to do anything "detrimental to the public perception of the company." Like having a gay lover. Especially one who works for the competition.
So we sneak around, meet in dimly-lit bars and sleazy motels so far away from mainstream society that neither of us will be recognized. I know it's hard on him, all this cloak-and-dagger, messages in code on the voicemail, "meet me at that place where we saw that thing that time." Sometimes I think he should find himself a nice winter glove and settle down—someone a bit exotic, but who could appreciate his gentle nature and good cooking. Someone who could come home to him every night. But he says he doesn't want that. So I call him whenever I'm in town—I travel a lot; it's what mascots do—and we squeeze a few hours out of our busy schedules, away from our watchful handlers, meeting in obscure, cheap ethnic restaurants where most of the workers don't even have television and probably don't speak enough English to say our names.
HANDHe worries too much about me. It's sweet, really, how he frets about the risks I take. He's got so much more to lose—an exciting career, all those pool parties with celebrities, the occasional movie appearance… I'm just a housewife's assistant; even if I lost my corporate sponsorship and the little infomercials, I could find a job in a kitchen somewhere. Gloves like me, we're always welcome; nobody thinks twice about us.
Except him. He cares about me for me, not just whether I can get dinner ready in twenty minutes. He makes me feel special… powerful, in a way. The way he twists when I pinch him at the base of his thumb, the way he groans when I curl my fingers inside him…
Okay, now I'm blushing.
I'm always surprised he lets me take the lead. I'd expect him to be the dominant type, but no. Under all that bluster and attitude he puts on for the camera, he's pretty self-conscious, and a bit inhibited. Or maybe he's just afraid of scaring or hurting me. He shouldn't worry—after all, I'm quite a bit older. I may not run with the fast crowd or get invited to board meetings or exotic parties, but I've seen a lot of alternative lifestyles, a lot of dysfunctional families. I'm not easy to shock.
But I'm glad he lets me take the lead when we're together.
MITTI pick him up a bus stop near a roadside motel. I check in. I'm more comfortable around strangers than he is. He waits in the car while I register us as R. B. Mitt and friend. I scribble something illegible in the second name's space; it's the kind of place where they don't ask for ID if you pay in cash.
I ask for a room facing away from the freeway. We don't like to take even small chances of being seen together. I get the key, go back to the car, drive us to the far end of the parking lot in silence. Too much anticipation; can't talk. I can feel him, so tense he's almost twitching. I'm barely able to drive safely; my thumb keeps slipping on the wheel. I slam the brakes to park, and in a nervous gesture of gallantry, I rush around to open his door just as he gets his seatbelt open.
He looks up at me, startled. For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he smiles... leans forward... and gently nips the side of my thumb, where I'm reaching out to him. I go still, except for the trembling in my thumb, which I know he feels because now he's licking me, kissing me, alternating between nibbles and pecks and stroking me with his tongue, right here in the parking lot, anyone could see us (but of course no one's here), anyone could hear me (bite my lip to keep from moaning). He's not even out of the car yet and I'm shaking all over breathing hard and I lean over and to rest my forehead on the roof… and now he laughs, gently, and pulls back, and says, "Let's go get that room."
I nod. I can't talk yet. He steps out of the car, takes the key from me, checks the room number. Then he curls one finger around my thumb (ohgod) and leads me away. He's so shy in public, so bold when we're alone together.
HANDI open the door, turn on the light, and lead him over to the bed. I nudge him to sit, and he does. He looks nervous. He always looks nervous at this point. I reach into my bag… his eyes follow me… I pull out a small can of Crisco and set it on the bedside table. His eyes grow wide.
I've heard there are better lubricants, but this one is discreet. Nobody suspects anything if either of us has Crisco in our packs, and nobody notices if we buy an extra can at the store. I set it down on the nightstand, next to the lamp.
I push him down onto the bed.
His hat rolls off to one side, and he starts to reach for it, but I stop him. With two fingers on the side of his face, I make him look up at me as I lean over him for a kiss, pressing our bodies together. He moans into my mouth. I lower my weight onto him, push him deeper into the mattress.
He writhes beneath me, opens himself as wide as he can. I reach for the Crisco, let him see me take large dollop. He shudders, and nods. I spread it slowly around his opening, caressing, teasing, until he's reading for me; I slide a single finger in first, pressing a bit to the side, the way he likes it… he moans. I love hearing him moan.
I press in with two fingers, and then three. It's hard to control myself now; he's shaking so much; I'm afraid I'll tear something. But he likes it this way—hard, heavy, me pressing all four fingers in and spreading them a bit so he feels completely filled, completely owned. He's grunting now, incoherent guttural sounds that mean he's very close. I'm breathing in short gasps, panting as I thrust my fingers into him, again and again, and he pushes against me.
We're locked in a race to completion, each of us trying to push the other over the edge first, but I'm dominant here… I stroke him inside, just at that spot where his thumb branches off, and he shrieks, tries to rise off the bed but I'm holding him down, and he shudders in absolute ecstasy while I hold him, while I soften my touches until they are gentle again and he's utterly relaxed.
I'm still waiting, and he knows that, knows what comes next. I put the tip of my thumb in his mouth. "Suck it," I whisper. His tongue darts out, caresses the tip, and I close my eyes. He licks me firmly, tries to swallow me down, works me with tongue and lips harder and faster (it doesn't take long; I'm so close) until I cry out, go rigid and still while he moans around my thickness and sucks me hard. I think I black out. When I next notice him, he's leaning up, nibbling the edge of my thumb, and I'm lying palm-down on the bed.
I turn to face him, and smile. He smiles back. I lean up into him, embracing him with my whole body. He closes his eyes, relaxes into my grip. We lie there on the bed, holding hands, until we fall asleep.