Shore Leave
by Zoe Rayne
This is the story for my own challenge: two Ted characters, one Bruce Campbell character, water, ice cream, a foreign language, a movie, red boxer shorts with yellow happy-faces, and it's 282 words. It's a tad (or more) purple, but then I felt playful today!
Apologies to torch for stealing her word and to anyone who's a native speaker of any of the languages I probably butchered (there's a translation at the end, BTW, including which language he's speaking). Also, I apologize if the tense doesn't really work--I'm experimenting!
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I'm only playing with them and I'll put them back when I'm done.
Original material is (c)1998 by Zoë Rayne. Please do not archive or publish in any fashion without my permission. Email comments, criticisms and requests for future stories are more than welcome.
Shore Leave
by Zoe Raynes
Tim O'Neill looks down into his lover's lust-filled eyes and tenderly brushes a lock of brown hair from the man's forehead.
"Ah, mi querido," he whispers, "du bist sehr schoenes. J'taime, meine klein lisitsa."
He bends down to kiss the other man, his lips pressing gently until the other's mouth opens to allow him access. Virgil moans beneath him, the sound sending fingers of fire to dance along the length of his throbbing cock.
'Veux-tu faire le pompier, mon chaud-lapin? Ou veux-tu baiser en levrette?" he asks, desire plain to read on his expressive face.
He toys with the edge of Virgil's red boxer shorts, their yellow happy-faces making him smile, but not half as much as the gigantic erection that strains at the fabric.
He presses a kiss to his lover's pert nipple and wishes he had more than 48 hours of shore leave.
Suddenly, the door slams open. The glass of water that sits on the bedside table tumbles to the floor, spilling its contents onto Tim's uniform.
Virgil sits up, his eyes aflame with the anger of a denied lover. "Who the hell are you?" he yells.
The man in the doorway starts to reach for his inside jacket pocket, then realizes his right hand is holding his gun. Quickly, he juggles the revolver to his left hand, balancing it awkwardly with a mint-chocolate-chip double-dip ice cream cone. The wallet he pulls from his pocket is a simple, flip-type and it contains a badge.
"Detective Corelli," he says. "LAPD. I've followed you," he nods at Tim, "all the way from Los Angeles to San Ysidro, so you might as well tell me--what have you done with Egoman's movie?"
fait accompli
Translation:
mi querido -- my love (Spanish)
du bist sehr schoenes -- you are beautiful (German)
j'taime -- I love you (French)
meine klein -- my little (German)
lisitsa -- fox (Russian)
The following was entirely in French (because that's what I'm most familiar with) and says (approximately--I'm so rusty!):
Veux-tu faire le pompier, mon chaud-lapin?
Do you want to blow me, my sex maniac?
Ou veux-tu baiser en levrette?
Or do you want to fuck doggy-style?
(Literally, "chaud-lapin" translates as "hot rabbit" and "baiser en levrette" translates as "fuck like a greyhound bitch". Don't you wish your French classes were this thorough?)