Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

Title: A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: S for Smut. NC-17
Word Count: 1,500+ words
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP. Title from Paradise Lost. Oh Milton, us fangirls abuse you so.
The springs creak and the metal clangs, and Gene thinks they sound like his self-will, cracking under the pressure.

This thing that they have, it makes Gene rattle. In his head, in his body. Always been steady before, held fast by gravity and tenacity. And he wants to say that there are extenuating circumstances – more than tight jeans and open collars and that look Sam gets, stretched over his face like a mask, when he’s trying to get his own way.

Makes him shake, the power of it, the sensation. Sam’s right there, doing the stuff he should never --- no other man would dare do. Challenging everything. Gene loses control of his limbs for a second, his fist jerking reflexively to crash into Sam’s body. He has to stop the rattling, the shaking, the thumping of his heart as it urges him into the deep dark spiral of another level in hell.

So stupid, that he could be this affected, that he could have a knot in his stomach that’s tight and full of want. That Sam could stare at him and know exactly what’s going on.

“Thought you were unflappable,” Sam says; cruel humour, hard glint.

Gene snarls. “Shut it.”

“What’s wrong, Gene? Am I a little too close for comfort?”

Gene places hands on Sam’s shoulders --- trembling now, the fingers curving and bending, moving.


Sam huffs out a breath, gazing at Gene with a lazy expression - mouth open, lips glistening.

“I’m not doing this,” Gene says. “I’m not playing your game.”

“Don’t, then,” Sam says. “Make up your own rules. You always do.”

Gene closes his eyes and tries to block it out, all out, has to have it disappear, because this is not and he is not and there’s nothing. When he opens them, he’s finally set back on balance and the rattling, the shaking, the trembling, eases away. Because Sam is not the cool and collected customer he was pretending to be. The widening of his eyes and the twitch of his jaw reveal that. And Gene is surprised he ever believed he could be in the first place. Now that he’s in charge again, he can do as suggested and dictate the action.

The sensible thing would be to walk away.

The right thing would be to run the fuck away.

Gene holds on, tighter than before, and edges forward. “You’ve changed your tune. Not an hour ago, you were trying to contradict my authority.”

Sam makes a low noise in the back of his throat, staring with black eyes. Gene pushes him back, hard as he can, onto the cot. The springs creak and the metal clangs, and Gene thinks they sound like his self-will, cracking under the pressure.

The shirt is the first thing to go, then the vest – quick fingers, quicker pulse. Sam’s fully complicit in the action, rising up to let the shirt-tails free from his weight. Gene doesn’t know why he doesn’t go straight for the trousers, why he bothers with the soft curve of stomach and flat torso – only that he wants to see all the planes and angles of Sam’s body as he takes him. If this is going to happen, he’s going to remember it, even if he doesn’t want to.

Next it’s the zip and Sam’s hard and set free, along with Gene’s last, struggling, grip on this reality. Gene bites his lip so hard it bleeds as he undoes his own trousers and fists his cock, taking Sam’s in the other hand. The position is awkward, uncomfortable, the only way Gene knows how, thighs straddling one of Sam’s legs and knees against the flimsy mattress, Sam lying supine beneath him.

“Is this what you want,” Gene chokes out. “When you push me? Is this what you think about, late at night, as the moonlight dances against your nancy-boy floral wallpaper and your breath surges into the air?”

“Not quite,” Sam murmurs back. “Usually, in those fantasies, you’re inside me, thrusting, trying to claim me.”

Gene forgets to breathe, his hands still, and he stares down at Sam as if in a trance. “And do I succeed?”

“We could always find out.”

Gene lets Sam shuffle and press until they’re rearranged. Gene kisses the fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck, brushes his fingers over his nipples, has no real idea what to do next, can only react to what his cock seems to be insisting on. He rocks, experimentally, against Sam’s arse.

Sam perceptibly wriggles from right to left. “There’s lube tucked into a compartment beneath the mirror.”

“You were planning this?” Gene asks, taking his weight off Sam and going to find it, the thing that will make this easier the way it shouldn’t be.

“No, I’ve just got really good instincts. Thanks for reminding me.”

Sam goes so far as to smile and if Gene hadn’t already been painfully hard, that would have done the trick. Sam’s on his hands and knees with a pillow underneath, on that sodding cot, and there’s no space at all, the damn thing’s going to fold up on them as they’re halfway through. But Gene can’t care about that as he opens the cap, the feeling so familiar it makes his chest tighten. Said he’d never do this again, like this, this way, but he can’t resist. Not Sam.

Under his hands, skin smooth and sweat sheen, Sam arches as Gene begins preparation. But he’s quiet. Not like Sam at all, in love with his own voice. Gene leans forward, resting heavily on Sam’s back and side and bites Sam’s earlobe to elicit a sound, any sound he can get. He gets a pain-pleasure moan. He scissors his fingers roughly so he can get it again.

Sam starts to move into it, starts to mutter, just as Gene wants him to. Starts to sound strained and desperate and breathy.

“I’m ready.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that.”

Gene keeps going, pushing deeper, round and round, causing pain now to lessen the pain later. Sam grunts, the loudest sounds, a perfect cadence. Gene’s cock rubs against the inside of Sam’s thigh and Sam’s whole front crashes down, until his face is against the sheets and his hands are reaching for the wood ahead.

“Please,” Sam moans. “Please.”

Gene nods to himself, extracting his fingers and taking hold of his cock. He presses in, Sam spreads his legs wider, the bed seems to dip deeper and he can’t think, has to try to concentrate on this, but is overwhelmed by the sensation of Sam stretching around him. He keeps moving, inch by inch, until he’s all the way in, and drapes himself over Sam’s back as he waits for him to get used to the feeling, acutely aware of strange details like the hard nubs of Sam’s spine and the syncopation of his heartbeat.

Sam starts to writhe, pushing himself up on his forearms again, changing the angle, the everything.

“Have I claimed you yet?” Gene says, mouth by Sam’s ear.

All Sam says is, “more.”

Gene rolls his hips back and propels forward again, sliding with just the right amount of difficulty. Sam's chest heaves and his thigh muscles cord as he thrusts back.

And Gene’s doing it again --- rattling, shaking, trembling, hips stuttering as he drives into Sam, so hot, so tight, so encompassing. Everything Gene is and everything he never wanted to be. He rocks and his hands slip off Sam’s sides and he hasn’t got the right angle, so he grasps hold of Sam’s hips forcefully. That will leave marks, there are indentations now, that will bloom into green and purple, and Gene will lick them later, but won’t apologise.

He increases speed – faster, harder, and Sam clenches around him every time he’s buried deep, jerky little movements of his head and something that sounds like a whine. The pressure mounts and Gene smoothes his fingers from Sam’s hip to his abdomen, reaching around for the cock that’s hard and wet and in clear need of a helping hand.

“Yeah,” Sam groans, rough and husky, surging into Gene’s fist and shoving back onto his cock.

Part of Gene wants to quip that this is the first time Sam’s ever said yes to him, that it’s miraculous he’s finally reduced to monosyllabic utterances, but he can’t form the words and he’s not sure Sam would understand them anyway.

He strokes in counterpoint to his own thrusts. Sam tenses, shudders, and spills sticky and warm all over Gene’s fist. It’s too much and Gene snaps his hips forward three more times. He comes too, bucking erratically, before his mind and body go limp.

Gene can’t move now, even if he wanted to. He’s boneless. Sam does all the moving for him. And soon they’re on the cot, lying in the mess of them, and Gene’s trying not to think about how weak he is.

“I like your rules,” Sam says simply. Gene doesn’t know if he’s being taunting or if he’s genuinely unaware. And so the descent begins.

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

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