Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 860 words
Notes: Sam/Gene slash. I’ve only written one fic in the time I’ve been away. And it’s PWP. Sorry to the non-slashers. I’ll, uh, try at some point to write something gen or het.
“Are you sure about this?” Sam asks, pressing his fingers gently into Gene’s forearm as Gene kisses his neck. He doesn’t want Gene to stop, but he does want an answer.
Gene swivels his head to the side and lets out a muffled, “No.”
“Do you want it anyway?”
Sam just can’t get rid of the interrogation technique. Once a copper, always a copper, even when pushed up tight against another copper, lips and hands and skin.
Gene takes a lot more time with his response, but Sam hopes that’s because he’s working at undoing his trousers, not relying on Sam’s nimble fingers to let him free. Sam gets pushed away with the movement and momentarily wishes it was his jeans falling to the floor with a dull fabric thump.
“I want it too,” Sam says, more breath than voice.
Gene pulls his head away then, bringing their eyes into contact.
“Really? I never would have guessed. What with your cock pushing against my thigh and your heart racing ninety miles a minute.”
Gene traces his fingers over the denim stretched tight over Sam’s crotch. Sam wants to stare downwards, but flings his head back instead. His body is a traitor sometimes.
Sam takes pains to make his voice as even as possible. “Alright, no need to be sarcastic.”
Gene softly, carefully begins to work on Sam’s zip.
“I learn from the best.”
“Oh, and the things you’ll learn.”
Sam’s voice deepens in mischief and lust and he’s not sure if it’s the tone or the words that make Gene speed up his movements.
Gene sounds slightly nervous, a reaction to fear of the unknown. “This isn’t the same as you sucking me off, you know. Or a back-alley handjob.”
“Thought I had to state the obvious, like you’d usually do round about now, just so we’re clear.”
Sam grins, pulling Gene’s head towards his and bruising his mouth with a kiss.
“I’ve got, er, stuff,” Sam says as they pull apart, cursing himself for his awkwardness whilst being almost malevolently pleased with the clueless expression on Gene’s face. “Stuff that’ll make this easier.”
“Your organisation is almost terrifying, Tyler. Tell me, do you put your soup cans in alphabetical order too?”
“Don’t need to. Don’t eat soup.”
They kiss more, undress, unravel, a little too brutally. Sam’s co-ordination consists of a push here, a nudge there, but he gets them into the position most comfortable and comforting for their respective selves, and before long Gene’s lips are on the back of his neck, his hand searing Sam’s stomach. Sam wants Gene to hold him somewhere else, but it’s obvious that Gene’s not picking up the hints, so he relieves some of the pressure himself.
“How does it feel?” Gene asks, his voice shaky. He sounds curious and worried in equal measure. It makes Sam tighten the hand on his cock.
“Fuck,” Sam eventually manages to say in response. Gene takes it as a command and begins to slowly pull out and then drive back in. Sam thrusts back against him, his once-traitorous body now fully operating to his will. It’s not what Sam expected, he didn’t know what to expect. It’s pain and pleasure rolled into one. It’s both less and more intimate than talking to Gene, looking into his eyes. It’s somehow the truest he’s ever been.
Sam knows that the sounds he’s making are bordering on obscene. He can’t help the ragged moan that escapes his lips or the grunt that works its way out of the back of his throat. Sam is completely unable to form words, and it sounds like Gene’s the same as his rhythm goes to pieces. Sam feels Gene’s hair brush against his back as he applies more weight. He squeezes his eyes and revels in movement, his body tethering him to a reality more vast and vivid than he could imagine. Gene stills and comes with a loud, guttural noise. And Sam wants to join him in it, that something that’s a little more thing than some, that sensation that he never seems to get enough of.
Sam pulls on his cock with short, hard strokes, insensible to everything but Gene and himself. He tightens his jaw and rocks his hips into the action. A bead of sweat trickles from his brow to the corner of his mouth and tingles there, right there, right --- and Sam’s gone.
There’s a moment of peace, a rare instance between these two – one of those sacred actualities that never seem actual. Shared understanding.
Sam is intensely aware that his flat is not a suitable place for post-coital relaxation, but he enjoys feeling every breath surge in and out of Gene. He contemplates the slick of Gene’s skin and the smell of sex in hazy contentment, as Gene brushes fingers through his sweat dampened hair.
Sam can’t resist. “So, that whole male-bonding thing. That’s just another way of saying wild, hot sex, right?”
And then he’s on the never-vacuumed carpet of his floor, staring at a pile of clothes and the used whisky bottle that escaped his early morning meanderings. He takes it as a ‘yes’.