Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 1,075 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP. This is supposed to be for the prompt 'swallow' in my Kink Bingo grid, however it somehow became about rimming. The magic of Porntober!
Summary: “You won’t be saying that in a minute,” Sam teases. Threatens. There’s always the shadow of imminent disaster in their fumbling. It’s sex with menaces. “I’ve a treat in store for you.”
When he swallows him down like this something in Sam’s gaze makes Gene’s brain short-circuit. In more lucid moments he wonders what it is; whether it’s necessity or covetousness, or if maybe it’s more akin to reverence. Some days, he’s fairly sure, it’s possession.
But he can’t pay that any mind now, because Sam’s hollowing his cheeks out as he draws back and slips off Gene’s cock with a wet smack. And, unthinkingly, Gene’s got his hand tangled up at the back of his head and is urging him close again.
“Greedy,” Sam says, rough-voiced and amused.
“Miserly,” Gene returns, sounding wrecked in the way he only does when Sam’s got him wrapped around his stubby little finger.
“You won’t be saying that in a minute,” Sam teases. Threatens. There’s always the shadow of imminent disaster in their fumbling. It’s sex with menaces. “I’ve a treat in store for you.”
Gene’s cock hardens even more. He didn’t think that could happen, but loathe as he is to admit it, he’s been proved wrong by his mouthy DI before.
Sam doesn’t get up. Gene’s waiting for it, for the swipe of the back of Sam’s hand, brushing away spit and precome, and a point towards the hall door for a trip to Gene’s bedroom, but instead Sam grasps hold of his hips and he’s pushed into movement. Gene follows out of curiosity as opposed to obedience. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
“I’m gonna need you to brace yourself against the sofa,” Sam says, casually, like he’s directing Gene towards a perp’s last known whereabouts, or asking for a signature on one of an endless supply of forms. Like Gene’s supposed to find this whole thing routine and not interrogate.
The funny thing is, Gene doesn’t interrogate. He braces himself against the sofa. They’ve been doing this for long enough that he trusts Sam with his body just as he’s always trusted him with his life. There’s been nothing between them that hasn’t been good. Awkward, occasionally. Embarrassing, once. Spectacular on many, many occasions.
So he waits. Wills himself not to startle when Sam takes hold of him in such a way he’s bared, open, Sam’s breath shivering against his hole. Sam makes a shushing noise and he knows his surprise must’ve shown as tension in his muscles, even though he didn’t let his spine arch, his legs shift, like he wanted.
While he may have been rendered stupid by Sam’s lips wrapped around his cock, he’s not idiotic enough that when something hot and slick swipes against tender over-sensitive skin he doesn’t realise it’s Sam’s tongue. And if Gene was insensible before, he’s barely sentient at this moment, as Sam licks, pushing closer, pulling him apart in ways that should damn well be outlawed.
Every lick is torture. Gene’s been condemned to hell for unspeakable sins. He’s aching.
Every lick is glorious. Gene’s been granted access into heaven for kind deeds and best intentions. Doesn’t mean he isn’t still painfully hard and unable to do anything about it, because if he lets go of the sofa with either of his hands he’ll brain himself, and that’ll be it, death by Tyler, the finest way to go.
Perhaps the look in Sam’s eyes was knowing. The psychic connection they seem to share. Linked with those instances when Gene says jump, and instead of asking how high, Sam says ‘left or right’? Because Sam may be cruel, but he’s not evil. He reaches around and takes hold of Gene’s cock just as he’s nosing up so tight against him Gene’s not sure he can stand it --- literally --- his bones feel they’ve turned molten. Sam’s hand is all lazy strokes and counterpoint rhythm, but it’s better than Gene fruitlessly humping the air.
Gene widens his stance, bends closer to the upholstery. Sam licks with purpose, lapping at him, tongue flicking in circles. He moves away for a moment, dragging his teeth along Gene’s cheek. But that’s not nearly enough. Gene makes a sound and Sam returns, licking him once, twice, then pushing his tongue inside. And God, that’s it, Gene’s gone. Sam’s fucking him open with his tongue and Gene’s journeying to bloody mars.
The noises he makes are the other side of strangled. He knows this, but he can’t stop it. They claw out of his throat the same as all the promises about adhering to procedure that he never means to make and the endearments that strangers think are insults. He’s shaking all over and his heart is pounding furiously and he can’t imagine why they haven’t done this before, why he thought he was content with never having known how this feels. He’s vulnerable, loose and defenceless, damn near swallowed whole, and he should hate it, but he doesn’t.
When he comes, though he’s been building up to it for far too long, it’s sudden and shocking. He slumps forward, elbows bending as his arms give out. He’s lucky he narrowly misses the wooden beam of the sofa-back.
“There, I’ve got you,” Sam whispers. Or maybe says, loudly. It sounds like a whisper against the thundering of Gene’s blood.
Sam helps him regain his footing, only for Gene to flop unceremoniously to the floor, wondering where his trousers have gone, because there’s a packet of Marlboros in the pocket, and he’s never been afraid to be a cliché.
And now Sam is smug-voiced. “Told you I wasn’t miserly.”
“You didn’t even finish sucking me off,” Gene responds, because he’s already confessed, in his own way, and that’s all Sam’s getting. Less than he deserves, perhaps, but all Gene’s currently got the energy to give.
“I could still do that, if you’d like?” It’s another threat, not an offer. The danger in it is palpable. “Take you deep, hard, until I can’t anymore, until I’m close to choking on you. Suck and lick and stroke you, ‘til you’re spilling down my throat and I’m swallowing every drop?”
The arousal Gene feels must be psychological because it’s biologically impossible for his dick to go rock hard again so soon, he’s sure of it.
“That the best you can do?” Gene asks. He deliberately crafts a feral grin and he leans in Sam’s direction. “Lemme show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
Better to make it competition as opposed to reciprocation.
And yet, there it is again, something in Sam’s gaze. Necessity, covetousness, reverence, possession. Love.