Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1300 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP with some power-play going on. I can’t sleep so I wrote porn. Sorry!
Summary: He never thought he’d get off on kneeling before another man, but Sam’s always making him do things he’s never thought about before.
The carpet is itchy beneath him, loops scratching against his shins as he inches forward. It’s another sensation on top of myriad sensations, all vying for his attention. The sound of his own breath rattling through his chest, the sinfully slow ticking of the clock on the wall. The pale long stretch of wiry muscle before him, looking good enough to lick. Even his imaginary senses are alight; he thinks about how that smooth, soft-looking skin would taste --- of nothing? Salty? Something unique?
“I want you to close your eyes,” Sam says, with enough authority that Gene doesn’t even think twice. It’s not a request, it’s a command, and he knows better than to defy Sam when they’re like this.
“You won’t open them again until my say so, understand?”
He nods. It’s part of the ritual. If he didn’t understand, if he wanted to stop, he’d only have to say the word. He can still feel the heat of Sam before him and he wants to crane close and touch, but he hasn’t been given the okay to move yet and part of the enjoyment is the wait.
He never thought he’d get off on kneeling before another man, but Sam’s always making him do things he’s never thought about before. There’s a freedom here that he’s never been afforded until now. Usually, he’s the one calling the shots. He says jump, people don’t just jump, they take a flying leap into the wide blue yonder. He demands respect, he gets lifelong devotion. It’s tough, being everything to everyone, being a leader in every way. Responsibility and accountability; hand in hand to mount pressure on shoulders that already have burdens to bear. But here, now, he only has to do as he’s told.
A hand drags through his hair and his head’s tugged back --- rough in just the right way. He visualises Sam staring down at him, as he’s seen him on other occasions, gaze penetrative and unrelenting, and can swear he feels his skin tighten.
Something hard, hot and wet glides against his cheek --- it doesn’t take looking to know what it might be --- and he almost moans, but he stops himself in time. Unfortunately, he opens his lips unthinkingly and earns another tug backwards for his stupidity.
“Did I allow you to open that filthy mouth of yours?”
He shakes his head.
“No, that’s right, I never said any such thing.” Sam’s voice goes dangerously low. “You make another mistake, you pay the price, Hunt.”
Gene waits. He waits too long. He doesn’t know how Sam can stand it, can’t understand how he can’t hear the wet slide of Sam’s hand on his cock, easing the tension as he teaches Gene how to behave. His blood is rushing in his ears and his spine is aching from the angle he’s being forced to hold, and he’s harder than he’s been in weeks, since the time Sam forced him over the sofa next to them and fucked him ruthlessly, all the while telling him he was worse than useless. Fuck, that had been an incredible night. Thinking about it now makes fire pool low in his gut, desperate and distracted and wretched, because he wants, he wants so much, and because he wants, Sam’s not going to give. Not yet.
The clock continues to tick. Gene hasn’t been told he can’t talk, but he hasn’t been told he can either. He risks it.
“Please,” he says, barely above a whisper. His voice sounds cracked and anxious.
“Please, what?”
“Please, Sir?”
Sam’s laugh is genuine amusement and not the mocking rumble Gene’s got used to. It almost jolts him out of the moment, until Sam’s fingers slide to the back of his neck and ease his head forward.
“No,” Sam says, syrupy. “What are you begging for?”
“I want you to continue.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“How?”
Gene can’t stop his groan of frustration this time, balling his hands into tighter fists. “Any way you want.”
“Right. Open wide. I know you can.”
Gene opens his mouth and is shamefully, disgustingly grateful when Sam’s cock rests firm and heavy against his tongue. He experimentally licks, then closes his lips around and sucks. Sam stutters forward, and Gene damn near wriggles on the spot, because he’s fairly sure that wasn’t deliberate. Sam's clenching his hair between his fingers again, pushes his head back and rolls it forward in the rhythm he likes until he trusts that Gene will follow through. Gene alternates between sucking and licking, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around the base of Sam’s cock, dragging along the width and length of him, because he can’t take him all in one go yet, isn’t even close, but he aches to give Sam satisfaction.
It’s obscene, the way Sam thrusts in and out, occasionally pulling all the way, to slap his cock against Gene’s cheek, and make him stretch to the side, tilt his head, try to claim him again. And because Gene can’t see, he doesn’t really know how Sam’s taking it; whether he’s on the edge, or is biding his time, finding this a happy diversion, and not the frantic clawing of want, want, want that Gene would be vocalising were his mouth not full as Sam finally, at long last, presses back in. He knows that Sam takes pleasure in control, in making Gene unravel until he’s stripped of all pretences; completely bare for only him to see. But Gene doesn’t know if he craves it as much as he does, if it’s something he can’t stop thinking about, even when he knows he should. If his heart thunders in his chest, and his skin tingles with the frisson of excitement, and his senses combine to overwhelmingly convey a deep, unyielding need.
Gene starts to rock his hips. Hopes Sam doesn’t notice. Has to move, because if he’s not moving, he isn’t sure he won’t start making disgraceful, frenetic sounds. They’re there at the back of his throat, jostling to escape. He thinks he might come without ever having touched his cock. It seems like a distinct possibility. Especially when Sam’s fingers splay out against his scalp and instead of pulling his hair, push insistently at the back of his head.
“Yes,” Sam says with a hiss, and it’s Gene’s strongest indication that Sam’s as into this as he is, because it’s raw and incomplete, and shuddering. “Yes,” Sam says again, and this time it’s hazy, like he isn’t even aware he’s speaking, but in the next moment he’s louder and he’s saying, “look up, Gene. Look.”
Gene opens his eyes and meets Sam’s gaze. He sucks, forcefully, and revels in the loss of focus that brings. Sam pumps his hips twice more and comes, salty and bitter against Gene’s tongue, and stumbles back a fraction, needing to clutch at the nearby sofa to steady himself. That’s all Gene needs. He comes, hard, vision blurring and muscles tensing. He comes and doesn’t think about anything for a while. He temporarily loses all sensation, all control, and it’s perfect.
“You’re a mess,” Sam says after far too short a time, sounding warm, and affectionate, and sated.
“Clean me up, then,” Gene retorts, staring at him; challenging.
Sam drops to his knees in front of him, which Gene really didn’t expect, and grabs hold of his hips. His fingers aren’t hard and cruel like they have been in the past, but hold him in place well enough. Sam crouches low and licks several long stripes against his belly, before rising back up and easing forward until his thighs are tight against Gene’s.
“Give us a kiss,” Sam says with a raise of his eyebrow --- testing him, constantly testing.
And Gene does.
