Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: Rated P for Porn. NC-17 explicit slash.
Word Count: 700 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene. Um about covers it, actually. Um.
Plausibility is a big thing for Sam. It’s what he bases his life on. Everything has to be plausible. Realistic. Right. If Sam isn’t convinced, it’s not what he’s looking for. His being in 1973? Not plausible. Not by a long shot. He’s been reading theory about time travel and it’s little more than hocus pocus. It goes against everything he knows is true. But the alternative is somehow worse. A vivid reality his mind’s constructed. But he didn’t know this much about the year he was four, did he? How could he possibly be able to supply such fantastic detail – fingerprints and irises, and characters so booming with life? Because the people he knows here are not like any he’s ever known. And somehow, that’s comforting. And somehow it’s not.
Sam’s hair is short. Too short to tug on. No, it’s Sam who tugs on his hair, rough and full of need. It doesn’t seem right. The first time it happened, Gene passed it off as intoxication. Too much alcohol and he could be a bit touchy-feely. He’d always known it. Usually, though, he was touchy-feely with birds. Not very discerning, perhaps – tall ones, short ones, stick-thin ones, dumpy ones, ones with saggy arses and coarse voices, he didn’t really mind. He had kissed a bloke before, but that had been for a tenner. The second time it happened, he passed it off as tempers flaring and blood pumping. When he got revved up, he really got revved up. It was no wonder this passion spilled into another. The third, fourth, fifth and sixth times, he’d had to admit there was a pattern forming. He, Gene Hunt, sometimes appeared to be leaning towards adorning baubles, tinsel and little electric glowing lights.
It’s almost always dark. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see. It’s not him. He’d already seen Gene more than half naked before they started whatever this was. And he knows that Gene likes looking at him, studying him when he doesn’t know Sam’s paying extra close attention. It’s them, together. They favour the dark. They favour bands of light creeping through a crack in the curtains and hitting the wall in a luminescent strip. Perhaps it makes it less – less – less he doesn’t know what. Less obvious? Less knowing? Certainly not less real. Oh, no. There’s nothing more real than Gene’s hands over his body and tongue in his mouth. When he’s shuddering on the edge of reason, Sam doesn’t give a damn about how he’d tell you it was the most implausible story he’d ever heard if you’d told him he’d be shagging Gene Hunt.
Sam moans, quiet and low when Gene drags his hand along his cock from root to tip. Sam’s lips, which Gene knows are soft, curve into a smile. Gene gets off on seeing this reaction almost as much as being on the receiving end. There’s something so perfect about the way Sam bucks up into his hand, pushy and dominant, telling him to slide faster and harder. Gene’s really the one who holds most of the power in this moment - they both know it, but Gene likes the illusion that for once he doesn’t have to be the leader.
Gene flexes his hand, curves his fingers around once more, grips a little tighter, brushes Sam’s jaw with his teeth and strokes just as he’s learnt Sam likes it. He listens to Sam’s heart beating, the low moans, the short sharp breaths, the occasional plea. He smells his own aftershave, Sam’s natural tangy scent, candlewax. He tastes the perspiration trickling slowly over Sam’s skin, salty and sweet. And fucking hell, if he doesn’t feel Sam humming under him, energy buzzing. The energy builds into a crescendo and with his other hand, Gene grips his own cock compulsively, already harder than he thought possible. Sam comes in waves, body quivering, emitting a noise which is deep and satisfied. It’s enough to make Gene white hot, and it only takes three quick and short tugs to send him into a similar state. They sit back on the sofa. Sam really needs more furniture.
What was that about plausibility? Maybe, just maybe, it’s overrated.