Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 1,175 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash PWP. Title from the track by Gotye.
Sam bends down, pressing his lips to Gene's torso. The light covering of hair brushes against his nose, but he doesn't let it deter him, travelling down, down, down, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. Gene stirs, raising a hand that settles on Sam's head and begins to ruffle through short strands.
"Morning. Sleep well?" Sam asks in the couple of seconds between having his tongue above Gene's navel, and his tongue below it.
Gene's voice is thick with rest and relaxation. "Was until you decided to wake me."
Sam chuckles, the sound reverberating against soft skin. "So sorry."
"Liar." Gene removes his hand from Sam's head and Sam feels him shift as he places it behind his own. "You're dressed."
"Yeah, been out."
"I can see that much, brainiac. Where?"
Sam runs his fingertips over Gene's rapidly hardening cock. "Down the shop if you must know."
Gene feigns command, but an insistent thrust of his hips belies the tone. "I am your superior officer, Tyler, I must know about your whereabouts at all times."
"Right. Then I should warn you that pretty soon I'm going to be behind you, giving you some aggressive male affection."
Gene's voice rises in pitch as Sam takes him into his mouth. "You seem very sure of yourself."
Sam doesn't verbally respond. He licks the tip of Gene's cock and then takes it deeper, hollowing out his cheeks. Gene makes a low sound at the back of his throat, his casual body language giving way to tense muscles and minute thrusts.
"God, that's ---"
Sam pulls off. "Good?"
Gene grunts. "Don't stop."
Sam ignores him, one hand resting on Gene's thigh, biting his lip as he looks up. "On your knees."
Gene glares. His hair is mussed from sleep and he has a line running from his cheek to his chin from where the pillow's hem imprinted its own unique mark.
"You heard me. We had a deal. You get to do what you want whenever you want, I get to do what I want whenever I want. And usually I capitulate to your will without getting my way. Well, not anymore. I choose this time, right now, I know what I want to do, on your knees."
There's a mumble of something - probably a swear word or two, or three, or eight, or nine - but Gene rolls over onto his stomach until he's lying prone. The sheet hasn't followed Gene, so he's laid bare, and there's nothing Sam wants more than to grip onto those hips and leave marks as he's thrusting in.
Sam lets Gene lie there as he removes his clothing; the jacket, the shirt, the vest, and then the jeans and underwear. Gene tries to turn over and look more than once, but Sam threatens him with a warning sound. When he's ready, with a container of lube in his hand, Sam kneels on the bed. Gene obviously realises this is his cue, because he adjusts position until he's resting on knees that are spread wide.
Sam is liberal with the lubrication, spreading it over Gene and himself, starting to work Gene open with his fingers.
"Just get on with it, for God's sake," Gene says as he arches his back. His voice is muffled, but clear enough for Sam to hear the irritation. "Why do you always insist upon this?"
Sam continues his ministrations. "It's for your benefit. The five Ps - Piss poor preparation prangs prone policemen."
"You can't count. That's six."
"Forgive me for being a little preoccupied when it comes to mundane arithmetic. It's not everyday you have your fingers in someone's-" Sam's cut off.
"-is for me."
"That's because you never gimme a shot." Sam scissors roughly, ensuring that Gene is both loosened and knows his place.
"What, you think we should operate a direct 'you have a turn, I have a turn' policy?" Gene asks. There's a film of sweat on his back now and his voice sounds more ragged than usual.
Sam gets into position. "Yeah, why not?"
"We'll never have any energy for our sodding jobs."
"Never stopped you before, oh he of the late-night binge and darts game."
Sam starts to press into Gene, concentrating on the movement and blocking out any external diversions, like Gene making low, irregular, breathy sounds of pure need. Gene feels tight and hot, and Sam throws his head back as he inches in, taking the utmost care in keeping his control, because he's dying to show no mercy.
"I forget..," Gene says, words fading from his lips until he can collect them again moments later. "How it feels."
Sam takes a deep breath, finally all the way in, pressed close, flesh against flesh. "So do I." He digs his fingers into Gene's hips just as he wants to. "You alright?"
"Yeah. More than --- come on, Sam…"
"No, I don't think so. I think I'm going to take this slowly."
Sam matches word to deed, drawing out and pushing back in at a steady, measured pace. It must burn, it must be infuriating, it must be making Gene desperate. And Sam knows exactly how he feels.
It's too little. He needs more. Sam rocks back faster, losing his rhythm, but gaining his speed. He lets go of Gene's right hip and ghosts his hand over his back to his front, searching for and finding his cock. Sam's fingers curve around and he strokes in counterpoint to his thrusts, upping the tempo when the timing's right.
It's not a science, but Sam's aware that there's a certain process to be followed. The process goes to hell when Gene takes matters into his own hands and powers back against him. That's a whole new sensation, and one that Sam wouldn't give up for anything in the world.
They work in synchronisation, both extremely vocal, both pushing the other to the edge of their limits.
Gene comes, his entire body shuddering and clenching. Sam's eyes flicker closed as everything becomes tighter and hotter.
His hips still for the same length of time as his heart as he pulses within Gene. His breathing becomes shallow and rough. Sam pulls away and collapses onto the bed in a heap and Gene drags him up and enfolds him in an embrace, sweat slick and warm. Sam flexes into it, finding a space to lie between the crook of his arm and neck.
"We'll have to go down to the kitchen in a minute, I got us a nice healthy breakfast of grapefruit and French baguette," Sam says, sounding nothing short of dozy.
Gene sniffs. "I hate grapefruit. And I hate the French."
Sam rolls his eyes, a corner of his lips twitching into a smile. "Well, yeah, that's why you've got bacon."
"Gotta love a man who provides." The tone is deeply sarcastic, but it's indicative of genuine emotion.
Sam nuzzles into Gene's shoulder and adopts his own teasing inflection. "Gotta love a man who submits."
It's a very good start to the day.