Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: P is for porn. NC-17
Word Count: 2,460 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash PWP. Because what do you do when you’re on a coach for 15 hours? That’s right, you write porn.
Summary: Sam has a way of getting Gene to do what he wants.
Sam has a way of getting Gene to do what he wants. It is, perhaps, not very elegant. And then again, not all that moral. It certainly does little in the way of suggesting Sam has integrity. But he likes it. It works.
Sam talks to the Guv like an adult, explaining in plain terms exactly why his plans are the right plans to follow.
Then, when the Guv doesn’t listen - which is the default for these encounters - Sam orchestrates a fight and a little heavy petting, followed by no-holds-barred fucking in a private place of their choice.
As stated, not very elegant.
But who needs elegance when you’ve got a cock shoved up your arse?
Now, this is a course of action that comes with its own set of a) challenges, b) annoyances and c) bruises.
The first thing Sam will do, or has done, and is likely to do in the future, is make sure he’s got easily removable clothes. If he ever feels like he may just have to bring out the big guns (and big they are, and shoot they can), Sam refrains from wearing his habitual white vest. He also foregoes boxers. He wears jeans that are tight enough to show off his arse but not so tight that he has to be sucked out of them via a straw. He wears a shirt that unbuttons quickly. And the boots. Can’t forget the boots.
The second thing Sam will do, or has done, and is likely to do in the future, is make sure he’s as frustrating as humanly possible – because he’s tried this trick with Gene when he’s being reasonable, and whilst it was an enjoyable and fulfilling (very fulfilling) experience, it lacked a certain verve – like Gene calling him a “filthy, delicious slut” over and over again. The best way to get Gene to lose his inhibitions – and he has some, not many, but they are there – is to get Gene angry. Because passion, the kind of passion that has Sam clawing at the sheets and begging to come, is what’s needed in order to get Gene to see things in a different light.
And from then on in, it’s a game of chance. Sometimes he rolls a hard eight, sometimes he gets snake eyes, and sometimes he’s fucked. Most of the time, he hopes for the latter.
Sam reminds himself of his largely successful method when he goes home at the end of a day that has proved to be as tiresome as it is ambiguous. All of Sam’s negotiation abilities are needed, as Gene has decided to go after an easy nearby target, whilst Sam is fairly sure their target is neither easy, nor within distance. Sam has to somehow motivate Gene into the appropriate level of thinking, has to manipulate – no, not manipulate, Sam would never do such a thing; gently steer – the situation.
Sam strips down and reclothes. He potters about the flat, trying to make it somewhat presentable. And then he rings.
“Thought you weren’t talking to me?”
“Can’t help but think my words are gonna get through to you somehow.”
“You coming to the pub?”
“No, Guv. I was thinking I’d treat you to a meal.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Right.”
“Nothing fancy. Simple. Hoops on toast. Your favourite.”
“Trying to win me over, are you?”
“See you in a few, then.”
It doesn’t take long for there to be a knock at the door. Sam opens it in lieu of it crashing forward, and offers Gene a scotch.
“Where’s the food?” Gene asks suspiciously.
“You’ll have to wait for it,” Sam replies.
“What? I don’t like waiting, Tyler.”
“Tough luck. Before you get anything out of me, I want us to come to some kind of agreement on the Jackson case.”
Gene clasps his gloved hands together. “Fine. It goes like this. I say what we’re going to do, you agree with me.”
Sam shakes his head, starting to pace around Gene in a way he knows is unnerving. He watches Gene’s reaction with interest – the barest hint of focus on his neck, the slight licking of lips. “No. Not good enough. I want your assurance that we’ll get Phil and Dave working on that lead with the informant that I dug up.”
Gene sets his shoulders. “It’s not a lead – if it were a lead, I’d say fine. But it’s not even conjecture, it’s wishful thinking.”
“You do that all the time.”
Gene steps forward. “Don’t.”
Sam mirrors his action. “Do.”
“Don’t!” Gene states again, coming ever closer.
“Do!” Sam responds, and now they’re mere inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes. “For once in your life, Gene, listen to some sense.”
Of all the things Sam says that piss Gene off, “listen to some sense” is close to the top of the list. Sam knows this because Gene very foolishly told him after a particularly strenuous and active workout. Gene said it had something to do with Sam’s automatic assumption that he was a) disposed to speaking sense and b) worthy of being listened to. Though Sam thinks there may also be a c) there, but he’s not entirely sure what it is.
Sam tilts his head to the side and smirks at Gene and that’s enough for Gene to place his hands firmly under his armpits and send him careering into the wall.
“You listen to me, you jumped up little upstart. You don’t know everything. In fact, you’re close to knowing about the least things anyone could know whilst still being able to walk upright without drooling. You’ve a nasty habit of always thinking you have the key to the answers of the universe, but last I checked, the only lock you’ve ever encountered is the one keeping your sense of humour behind bars.”
“Are you done? Only, there’s a show on the telly I wanna watch later and there’s a lot to get through in the meantime.”
Gene’s typical action next is to punch Sam. Then Sam will punch him back. And they’ll wrestle for a bit, before suddenly, miraculously, they’re naked and sweaty.
That doesn’t happen.
Gene somehow manages to get one cuff around Sam’s wrist and the other attached to the handle on Sam’s icebox. Sam has his back to Gene and his brows furrowed as he tries, desperately, to wrench himself free.
“You bastard!” Sam shouts, though it sounds more like a shriek.
He can feel Gene hot and heavy behind him, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Two firm hands are placed on Sam’s sides, just underneath his arms.
“You’re not gonna uncuff me, are you?” Sam asks, and he purposefully makes it sound like he’s resigned, but actually he’s excited and deep down somewhere inside he’s mentally congratulating Gene on doing something unexpected, because he never would have thought of this. Of course, Sam doesn’t really know what’s coming. He just assumes that at some point, it will be him.
“You’ve been a bad boy, dearest Samuel,” Gene purrs by his ear. Oh yes. Sam didn’t think he could ever be happy about being attached to a kitchen appliance, but he didn’t count on the Gene Genie. A tingle runs up his spine. Gene’s hands glide from under his arms to his hips and there’s the sound of leather against polyester. “In fact, I’d be inclined to say you’ve been naughty. Very, very naughty.”
“How naughty?” Sam questions, whisper quiet. He bites his lip and hopes to hell he’s right in what’s about to happen.
“Extremely,” Gene says, with a note of finality, and steps back and away. Sam can hear the scuffle of loafers withdrawing further into the room.
“You can stay there until you learn to listen to my wise words.”
There’s the sound of a bottle being opened and then an unmistakable gulp.
Sam pulls on the cuffs again and swivels his body around until he’s uncomfortably angled towards Gene. “No. You’re joking. You wouldn’t leave me like this.”
Gene gives a dark grin and walks straight past Sam, out the door, with his bottle of scotch.
Sam waits patiently for four minutes and twenty-two seconds. He times it with his watch. Gene does not reappear. Then Sam attempts to fossick around in his kitchen drawers, but the way he’s placed means it’s impossible for him to reach.
He isn’t Houdini. He never wears hair grips. He doesn’t keep a lock-picking kit in his pocket. He’s stuck.
At an hour and a quarter or so, Sam begins attempting to drag himself and the icebox closer to an implement he could use in a brave ploy to get himself free. At this moment – with sweat streaming down his very red face, his hand going numb, and every curse word known to man – in several different languages – flying through the air, Gene appears.
“Took you long enough.”
“Where the fucking fuck have you fucking been?”
“You can do better than that, what happened to calling me a schweinehund?”
“I’ve been waiting for telltale signs of your survival instincts kicking in. It’s been, what, an hour?”
“And sixteen minutes.”
Gene saunters close and smirks at Sam. His eyes cast over the handcuffs, still very much in place. “Tell you what. You do as Genie tells you and I’ll let you go.”
“Oh for God’s---“
“Or you can stay like this all night.”
Sam can hardly keep the bile from his voice. “Fine. What d’you want?”
Sam turns around, but is no longer amused by Gene’s antics. Neither is he especially turned on. Not even by Gene’s lips by his neck or gloved hand dipping below his waistband.
“You’re not gonna complain about the Jackson case anymore, are you?” Gene asks, voice low and touch gentle.
Sam grits his teeth. “No.”
Gene idly brushes against him for a while, fingers skating underneath Sam’s shirt and finding his nipple. Sam realises it’s working, because his blood starts pumping south and he gets a familiar surge of adrenaline. Gene’s breath cascades over his skin and Sam becomes mesmerised.
Gene unzips Sam’s jeans, letting them fall to the floor. He wraps his hand around Sam’s cock with a constant pressure. The sensation of leather is a shock that has Sam instinctively pressing closer into Gene’s body. Gene resumes talking, “And you’re not gonna keep acting like you rule the world?”
Gene strokes up once, then teases the head of Sam’s cock. He strokes against the slit and rubs the underside.
“And you’re not gonna think you can get your own way just by being my little tart?”
Sam is now the hardest he’s ever been. The smoothness of Gene’s glove is intoxicating, especially coupled with Gene’s rhythm. He arches back. “But you like it,” he murmurs, “it’s beneficial for us both.”
Gene continues stroking, free hand digging into Sam’s hip. “I’m not a plaything,” Gene says, tone husky. “I’m your partner.”
Sam gasps, though he’s not sure if it’s Gene’s words or the way he’s squeezed the base of his cock to stop him from coming. Gene lets go and Sam can hear him removing his gloves, before the opening snap of a plastic cap.
Gene prepares Sam with an efficiency he rarely shows in anything else. An efficiency that has Sam close to keening and curling his toes. Gene’s fingers open him up and brush against his prostate and Sam swallows deeply.
“Say sorry,” Gene says, suddenly.
Sam frowns, can barely recognise words, let alone what they mean. “Sorry?”
“Wrong intonation. Apologise, Sam. Mean it.”
Sam finally understands. “You cuffed me to my fridge, but you want me to say sorry to you?”
“For being a presumptuous git,” Gene affirms. He pinches Sam’s arse.
“But I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m not sorry, because I thought we were both in it together. You’ve always known, haven’t you? It’s not like I’ve been duping you or anything. It’s just... the way we are.”
Gene carefully pulls his fingers out and Sam can feel his cock against his hole. “You think it’s the only way I’ll ever listen to you.”
“Because it is.”
Gene punctuates his words with a nudge forward. “Isn’t.” Sam clenches his teeth again as Gene pushes deeper. “You don’t have to be my slut, Tyler. You don’t need to whore yourself out.”
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, desperately wanting to take hold of his cock, but knowing Gene will only bat him away anyway. He tries to concentrate on what Gene’s telling him, but pays most attention to the sound of his voice opposed to the specifics – because it sounds like Gene’s talking dirty; deep, grating, sensual.
“If I don’t always do what you say, it’s not because I’m an idiot. It’s because I’ve thoughtfully considered your ideas and concluded they’re a load of crap,” Gene continues, “so from now on, don’t think that just because you suck cock like a pro you have me wrapped around your little finger.”
Sam’s aware he’s meant to make some kind of answer to this, so he nods, then grunts, then closes his eyes, thinking only about Gene slick and hard within him. He can hardly stand the constant push and pull of Gene, the way his muscles clench and unclench. Every time Gene surges forward he hits Sam’s prostate and Sam realises he whimpers, but can’t stop himself.
Gene fists his cock again and it only takes one stroke before Sam’s forcefully coming all over the front of his icebox. He slumps down, blissed out. This is when Gene starts pounding brutally, picking up pace and banging him into cold metal, not that Sam really cares, about anything.
When Gene comes, Sam grins. He twists his hips and imagines how it must feel for Gene, heart beating a mile a minute and irregular jets of breath.
A few minutes later Sam’s gratified to find a key being placed in the lock of the handcuffs and them clicking loose. He spins around and expects to see Gene looking happy and sated, but he’s frowning, irritated, already zipped up.
Sam sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” He leans forward and kisses Gene, admitting to himself that for once he’s been defeated.
“You still owe me dinner,” Gene responds. “And convincing.”
“Yeah. If you wanna pour our much needed resources into your dead-end lead, I’ll at least want to make it look like you made a decent case.”
Sam has a way of getting Gene to do what he wants. It’s not very elegant, nowhere near moral, holds absolutely no integrity whatsoever. But he likes it. It works.