Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

Standing for Something, Falling for Anything

Title: Standing for Something, Falling for Anything
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,000 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP. I hadn't written Sam/Gene PWP in a really long time and my Big Bang fic is utterly devoid of porn, okay? This came about from a discussion with chamekke, in which I tried to reason that "upstairs inside" meant something more innocent than a blowjob, citing that Gene's a big ol' pussycat. Sort of. It was something like that. It had been such a long time, and when that's the case, any excuse will do. La la la!
Summary: Gene could be quite the gentleman, when he so wished. And when he so wished was usually when Sam really, really didn't want him to be.

Of all Gene's many and varied qualities, there was one that confused Sam the most. It was baffling, surprising, and frequently, these days, riling.

Gene could be quite the gentleman, when he so wished. And when he so wished was usually when Sam really, really didn't want him to be. Sam reckoned the predisposition came from a combination of old-fashioned etiquette and outmoded morality, and it always seemed incongruous.

Here was a man who'd call a woman 'Lacy Lucy' to the boys, with corresponding leer firmly fixed, but escort her out the station, holding the door open for her with a politely distant frown. Here was a man who'd have a copy of Jugs on his desk, wedged between reports and a newspaper, but would turn his nose up at filmed porn, even going so far as to call it depraved (ignoring Sam as he said that was kind of the point.)

Here was a man who'd force Sam to the very brink, edged up against the alleyway wall, chest heaving, shoulders tense, fingers skating over cotton, lips opened invitingly, and then step away.

"Gene, what...?"

"I'm not doing this."

"Why not?"

"I'm your superior officer. I can't put you in this position, I won't."

"When have I ever, ever given you reason to believe I view you as my superior in any way?"

Here was a man who'd punch Sam sooner than kiss him, because for some twisted reason, he thought he was being noble.

"You don't have to protect me," Sam said the next day, locking them into Lost and Found and crowding Gene against the wall. "I fully consent. To the consequences as well as the rewards."

Gene's eyes flashed, his hands knotted into fists against his sides, but he didn't bridge the meagre gap between them.

"Look, as far as coercion goes," Sam reasoned, spreading his hands between them in a silent statement more effective than words.

"I am ultimately responsible," Gene responded.

He shifted stance, no longer leaning against the bricks at his back, but standing tall. Sam moved away, allowing Gene his escape.

And the worst thing, Sam thought, was that Gene wasn't being weak, or cowardly, he was being strong --- stronger than Sam wanted to be. He was resisting precisely because he deemed it the right thing to do, which, on any other day, under any other circumstance, Sam would commend, encourage, rejoice over.

Late at night, on a flimsy mattress, under threadbare sheets, Sam didn't want Gene the gentleman, who wore a white hat and repressed his urges for the betterment of all --- he wanted the reckless, headstrong, instinctual Gene who was all muscles and might.

Sam never thought, not once, that he'd want to be a corrupting influence on Gene. But increasingly he found himself wondering how to break down his defences, how to challenge his beliefs, how to make Gene give in and just take him.

It occupied his thoughts rather more than he supposed it should. In his nastier moments, Sam wondered if that was Gene's intention, whether he was playing Sam like a puppet, opening and closing his mouth for the fun of it, pulling on his strings, not deigning to put his hand up his ---

But then he'd catch sight of an expression that could be described as 'tortured', and he'd think... no. They'd got over that. Gene wasn't going to attempt to manipulate him anymore. He'd seen the results. This wasn't some schoolyard game: pick-up sticks, or conkers, or hide-and-seek. This was Gene being the sheriff, for all the good it was doing either of them.

"You have hands, don't you?" Gene said, once, to what had only ever been an imploring look.

Sam had held them up, stretching his fingers out, and Gene had stared, tensed up and obviously immediately regretted asking the question.

"My fingers aren't as long as yours," Sam had said. Suggested. Leered. "My palms aren't as wide."

"They'll do," Gene had replied, contradicting his flippancy by sounding little more than choked.

Sam had exhaled, long and slow. "I guess they'll have to. For now."

Sam could see the sense in it, that was the thing. Gene wasn't just being a prude, he was being prudent. Gene was technically his superior, this sort of arrangement could damage their working relationship, and if anything were to get out, they'd both be metaphorically as opposed to (hopefully as well as) literally fucked.

But Sam's wayward mind didn't seem to care about that as it gave him sensory imaginings of Gene's lips hot and wet against the back of his neck, callused fingers digging into his hip, cock --- blunt and hard and edging in just so, just as slow and easy as Sam wanted it. Or hard and unrelenting as Sam wanted it. Or quick and stuttering and too much, too soon, but somehow perfect.

No, Sam's impetuous, physical side kept telling him to pursue Gene at all costs. Which wasn't, actually, so great for their friendship. Instead of quiet drinks alone together at the Arms, it was long gazes across the room. Instead of shared smiles and camaraderie, it was a quick, furtive hand-signal --- Stop sucking on that chip. Stop licking the salt off your fingers. Stop willing me to break. And Sam got ever more insolent as if to reiterate, 'hey, look, our ranks mean nothing.'

"You want me to fire you, is that it?" Gene asked, finally, finally pushing Sam against his kitchenette counter, after a surveillance op gone wrong in which Sam had deliberately been his most disrespectful. "Solve all your problems."

"And yours. Maybe I could quit. For a day. And then it'd be DCI Gene Hunt and Mr Sam Tyler. Just that. Just those two people. No strings. No ties."

"A day?" Gene queried, but it wasn't really a question. Sam was reminded, once again, of what it was like to ignore the concept of personal space as Gene came ever closer. "You think you could be satiated in a single day?" And then, "No ties at all?"

Sam couldn't concentrate on anything except Gene's body against his, his solid, hulking mass. "Accept my resignation."

Gene quirked an eyebrow. "I should be saying that to you."

And then it was all scrabble and press and we-don't-ever-have-to-talk-about-this-again; Sam crashing to his knees, clutching at Gene's trousers with one hand as he flicked open his fly with the other. Gene's skin against the pads of Sam's fingers, shockingly white and smooth. Sam having to press his mouth forward and nip at the inside of his thigh, because he could feel the ripple of muscle beneath his palm, but there was softness there too. Gene's fingernails scratching along the top of his head, as if trying to gain purchase, attempting to hold on.

Sam wanted to prolong it, wanted to tease Gene into abandonment, but the rest of him had other ideas, because all too soon he was wrapping his hand around the base of Gene's cock and taking him into his mouth. Wrapping his lips around, curling his tongue over, revelling in the low, broken sound he elicited. He hollowed out his cheeks and stared up at Gene, taken aback by the expression on Gene's face; a passion that was not fury, a vulnerability that he'd never before been allowed to see. Maybe that was what Sam had wanted from the very beginning, because this had never been Sam's top fantasy, and yet, here, with Gene's cock thick and hard against his tongue, he was straining against the zip of his jeans. He didn't want to let go of Gene's leg, or cock, so he twisted carefully and now he could rut up against Gene's shin and get some much-needed friction. Then it was all fuck-this-is-awkward and how-can-this-possibly-feel-so-good and an overwhelming sense of utter contentment.

"Stop," Gene said. More plea than command.

Sam pulled off and away, unable to contain his frown. He stroked his thumb against the head of Gene's cock, spreading spit and precome, hoping to make Gene forget whatever it was he wanted to say. But Gene was resolute.

"Doesn't seem right. You down there. We should move it over to the bed."

There it was. Gene's gentlemanly side coming to the fore again. Sam wanted to protest, but Gene was dragging him up and over to the cot, stroking against the bulge in his jeans, and his brain short-circuited. One of Gene's hands pressed Sam against his thin foam mattress, index finger and thumb searing heat against the gap where his vest had ridden up and his shirt was parted. The skin-to-skin contact made Sam's mouth go dry. Gene's other hand began to pull down his zip, slowly, slowly, and Sam arched his hips up, trying to get now, doing his utmost to get more.

"You've no patience," Gene said.

"You have decidedly too much," Sam retorted, not caring if he sounded desperate, not bothering to affect a manner more calm and detached.

Gene helped Sam wriggle out of his jeans and settled next to him on the cot. There was nothing comfortable about the position, perpendicular to how they were meant to be lying, legs dangling off the side. Sam wasn't entirely sure the metal frame could take their weight, the bar was digging into his thigh, but Gene's spit-slick hand flexed against his cock and any and all complaints disappeared off the tip of his tongue.

Sam's chest tightened when Gene began to firmly stroke up and down. He could feel a blush rise up his neck and over his cheeks, one that could rival Gene's, who had pink spots of colour he'd only ever seen when Gene was shouting, before. The heat of Gene's hand, the grip, how exact and yet arrhythmic it all was. How Gene watched him with assessing intensity, trying to study his reactions, until suddenly he was pushing forward and claiming Sam's mouth with his own. Sam bucked, arched into it, and Gene was ---

He wasn't a gentleman at all. His kisses were filthy; wet and deep, sucking on Sam's tongue, teeth scraping against his lower lip. This was exactly what Sam had always wanted, precisely what he'd been fantasising about. Gene taking what he wanted, damn the consequences. Sam rolled slightly to his side so he could widen their access to each other. The movement conveniently put his hand in close proximity to Gene's cock, still hard and leaking, so he took hold and matched Gene's movements. And God that was the best idea in the world.

He was aware he was panting, now, soft sounds coming with each exhale. He didn't much mind, because Gene was the same, making a noise suspiciously like a moan and rolling his hips into Sam's stroke. This was every kind of contact Sam had been craving. Hot and tight and perfect in its imperfection. A twist he couldn't anticipate, a swipe of a thumb he hadn't calculated.

It didn't take long, like that, palms sliding, sliding in tandem, mouths crashing against each other like waves in the sea. He'd wanted it for so long, needed it, and he knew Gene was the same. It only took a cant of his hips before he was coming, hard, breath rattling through his chest and nerves surging. He barely had presence of mind to keep stroking Gene, until he felt another hand grip his wrist and keep him going. It was again so sudden, just one, two, and wet warmth sliding between his knuckles, ragged air against his neck, a stilling of hips and hands.

"Just so you know," Gene said, a lifetime later, when they were cleaned up and Sam was already deciding how next to take advantage of the time they had together. "I don't accept your resignation."

"I see," Sam replied, cold, tight, professional. He leaned in and kissed Gene; possessive, harsh. "Just so you know --- I do accept yours."

Sam had never been a gentleman.

Tags: life on mars, rated nc-17, short, slash, writing

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