Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 2130 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP, set in the same universe as A Step Away from Control. There are punches thrown, rimming, and themes of dominance and submission.
Summary: “My God,” Sam says, harshly. “You’re getting off on this.” He narrows his eyes, twisting the tie tight and inching Gene closer. “Do you want to be punished, Gene? Is that it?”
Gene’s always pretended he thinks everything he says and does is right. And it’s true, most of the time. He lost his naivety a long time ago and now he sees the world as it is; overwhelming colour and sound and yet still too many shades of grey and silences. He thinks before he acts, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. Weighs up the outcomes and measures the consequences.
But he fucked up today and he knows it. His mistake led to an innocent woman’s death. If he’d made another choice, hadn’t been trying to rile Tosh Preston, she’d be with her family now, tucking her son up in bed. A secured conviction doesn’t seem like fair recompense. And Ray has been patting him on the back and calling him champion, Chris has stared at him with that look of ‘I wanna-be-just-like-you-when-I-grow-up’. Lytts and Craig and Garry have bought him countless drinks he’s foisted off on others. In their eyes, he’s a success story --- the great Gene Hunt, battling crime since time immemorial, always a victor, never a failure. That doesn’t mesh with his sense of justice.
The only person who looks at him with even a hint of the loathing he feels is Sam, who shouted at him shortly after he told Preston where Julie Higgins was, and has refused to sit with him at the Arms, keeping the company of Cartwright instead, a sour expression on his face whenever he’s had to so much as glance in Gene’s direction. Sam knows. Doesn’t applaud his idiocy. Doesn’t aspire to the brilliance of a prick who’s got a gob two sizes too large.
He still takes him home. He thinks Gene’s been drinking this whole time and he’s gruff and authoritative in a way Gene’s never let him be before; short, clipped, telling Gene what he should be doing at every step.
“Sit on the sofa and shut your trap, I’m gonna get you some water and then you can go sleep off your latest round of stupidity.”
Gene has an entirely inappropriate reaction.
It’s the stress, he thinks. His body’s way of telling him he needs to relax. As Sam barks orders, his stomach tenses, his heart begins to thump faster in his ears, his cock hardens treacherously. So he’s standing, stiff as a board, as Sam yells at him, eyes burning fury and velvet tones thick with hatred.
“I said sit.”
“I’m not your dog, Tyler,” Gene says, but just saying it has him imagining being at Sam’s feet, at his every beck and call, leash around his neck, and fuck, he shouldn’t be on the verge of shuddering like this, pleasurably tense, having to breathe through his mouth to get enough oxygen.
“No, you’re a dick, aren’t you? You’re a fucking idiot. What the hell were you thinking? You weren’t thinking at all.”
Sam lurches forward and Gene thinks it’s to punch, so he grabs his wrist and drags him off balance, so he comes crashing into the trunk of his body. If Sam hadn’t been intending to punch him before, he does now, strong right hook right against his jaw, and Gene goes to restrain him, but he punches again, and the only thing he can do to stop the onslaught is pull Sam close.
Sam struggles in his arms, bony angles pressing into him, leather jacket cool and smooth against his fingers, and Gene’s blood pumps harder. Sam regains his balance and strength and throws Gene into the living room wall, clutching at his tie and pressing on his shoulder to keep him in place. Gene stays still, though he could probably push Sam off, if he weren’t hazy with wanting something he doesn’t understand, half-formed notions that prod and pull at him, make him act in ways he never has before. He’s hard, straining against his trousers, and Sam’s face goes tight and surprised as he notices.
“My God,” Sam says, harshly. “You’re getting off on this.” He narrows his eyes, twisting the tie tight and inching Gene closer. “Do you want to be punished, Gene? Is that it?”
“It’s not that,” Gene says, because it’s not, it’s not about punishment, that’s the effect, but not the cause.
Gene shakes his head. He expects Sam to step away from him then, fling his hands up in disgust, tell him to sort himself out, but Sam tilts his head to the side questioningly, and crowds in with a filthy kiss. He curves his hand around Gene’s throat, pressing on a pulse-point, biting down on his lip as he does so. Gene moans into it, already rocking his hips against Sam’s warm, muscled thigh. Sam moves, pins Gene’s wrists to the wall, nudges his legs further apart. He kisses long and deep, making warning sounds whenever Gene tries to push into it. Sam’s going to take.
Sam strips him down as he kisses him, a button every couple of seconds. He’s so damn efficient with it, almost robotic, until he scrapes a fingernail over Gene’s nipple, skates his palm over his hip. He doesn’t take off his own clothes. He pulls away and uses a look to tell Gene to stop attempting to slide his hands under the hem of his shirt and vest. And he does, he stops, because the threat doesn’t consume him, but it does make him wary. Sam might do anything. He might walk away right now, leaving Gene naked and alone and aching.
“It’s about control,” Sam says decisively.
The moment he says it, Gene knows he’s right.
Sam turns on his heel, prompting Gene to grunt for him not to leave. The breath is heavy in his chest as he watches Sam walk out of the room and he thinks no, please, I need this. When Sam returns with a bottle of vegetable oil and a dark, intent look, he actually thinks he might shatter with gratitude.
Sam grabs hold of his wrist again, fingers proprietary as they press against tendons. He guides Gene over to the sofa, harder than strictly necessary, since Gene will do anything for Sam right now, anything at all, so long as he gets some release. He shoves Gene forward, places his hands on the backrest, kicks his legs wide open. Gene was not expecting this.
“You’re going to stay here and you’re not going to make a sound,” Sam says, then there’s a noticeable pause. It was clear from his intonation that Sam was going to say something else. Gene looks back over his shoulder.
Sam’s gazing at him and stroking his cock, having just undone his fly. His eyes meet Gene’s and they’re not distant like they were before, not commanding. His cheeks are flushed and he’s looking at Gene with something more akin to reverence.
“You’re okay with this, right?” he asks, then, quiet and breathy, but with an edge of anger still there --- shimmering like a mirage.
Sam’s expression hardens. “Turn around, then.”
Gene does as he’s told, stares at the cushions of the sofa as he hears a muffled thump. He’s confused, at first, can’t reason it, but then Sam’s fingers are clutching at his flesh and holding him open, and there’s a long, flat swipe against his arsehole.
Sam licks him again and Gene has to claw back the whine that wants to escape his throat. The warm, wet flick against his sensitive skin has him shivering, it’s so good. It’s there again --- almost too hot in some ways, like it’s branding him, saying he’s Sam’s, and that just makes Gene’s cock go harder, which he hadn’t thought was possible. He wants to take himself in hand, and he hasn’t specifically been forbidden, but he can imagine the punishment if he weren’t allowed, and it’s too much to bear. Sam would leave him here, he knows it. He’d leave him and refuse to touch him and Gene would be desperate.
It’s maddening how Sam’s tongue slides against him, pressing for entrance. Gene can’t help but push back into it, he’s never close enough. Sam hums against him and the reverberation sends fire and ice up his spine. He never knew such sensations existed before. No one’s ever done this, held him open and prevented him from begging. No one’s ever insistently pushed their tongue into him, moving in circles that have him at once loose and relaxed and coiled into a tight ball of want.
He has to say something, he needs to at least moan. Fuck, Sam’s cruel. Especially when he shifts away and Gene’s left wondering what he’s doing when all he can hear is a soft rustle, followed by something liquid.
He realises, at that point, can’t help but clench when Sam presses an oil-slicked finger against his hole, gently pulling at the rim until he’s loosening again. Sam pushes his finger in, past the first knuckle, moving in a sure, determined way, stretching Gene. Gene has to grind his teeth hard together or he won’t be held responsible for the obscene noises he’ll make, high-pitched and humiliating. Another finger’s added and that’s it, Gene’s rolling his hips, his hands so clammy they shift down the backrest of the sofa and he’s suddenly sprawling. His cock is dragging wetly against the upholstery of the sofa, and there’s just enough friction that it’s both painful and pleasurable.
Sam’s free hand rubs against his back and before Gene knows it, he’s pushing his cock into him, thick and hard and unrelenting, easing in, making space, and --- that exhale sounded a lot like a groan, damn it all to hell.
“Oh, Gene,” Sam says, with enough of a shake to his voice that it’s an obvious effort. “You can’t do anything right, can you?”
It’s a complicated, messy set of emotions that have Gene surging back at that, because this may not be punishment, but Sam is right, the only one who knew, and that knowledge is making his whole body thrum. Sam’s resting within and against him, the polyester of his shirt and leather of his jacket smooth over where they fit together. Gene would lament that they’re not entirely skin to skin, but if he’s honest with himself, the fact Sam couldn’t even be bothered to strip completely is adding to his arousal.
“Actually,” Sam says, now sounding simultaneously shaky and smug. “I’m hard pressed to think of anything you can do without needing a handler.”
Sam digs his fingers into Gene’s hips and if he’s violated the rules already, Gene doesn’t see any harm in calling out at that. He gives another groan that’s more breath than voice, bending his head lower towards the cushions of the sofa. Sam draws out and thrusts back in, deep, rhythmic, then repeats the action, deeper again. He’s very patient as he pushes and pulls in and out of Gene; too patient, really. Gene wants it faster, erratic, cruel enough it hurts.
The noise Gene can’t help making at that is raw and needy.
Sam’s not really violent. He doesn’t scratch, or bite, and the press of fingers hard enough to bruise seems entirely incidental. But he’s ruthless as he thrusts, as if he’s taking again, and that has Gene needing to come, knowing he’s going to at any moment, because people have always expected the world of him, but they’ve always waited for him to offer.
Sam punctuates every word with a thrust. “You’re worse than useless. You think you know everything. You don’t.”
At any other time, Gene might be saying, ‘and you do?’ but at this moment, he thinks Sam does, because Sam’s taking him in hand, sliding wetly up his cock, holding firm at the base, then jacking again, adding a twist to his movements. And that --- that has him coming, hard, squeezing his eyes so tight he sees spots.
Gene pants through the aftershocks, temporarily mindless as Sam keeps thrusting, though he vaguely notices a stutter in Sam’s actions, hears a muffled yell. When Sam comes, he slumps down over his back, and Gene’s aware of that, because, for someone who looks slight, Sam’s heavy. His weight is reassuring, as if he’s dragging Gene back to the earth, and Gene doesn’t want to move.
He has to move, eventually, as the mess they’ve made starts to cool.
“Get up, tidy up,” Sam commands, withdrawing his heat and comfort.
Gene turns around and looks at him, searches for understanding, tries to see if this is just another fuck-up in a long line of them. He’s not sure he could handle that.
“Gene,” Sam says slowly, all deceptive calm and rich humour. “For once, do as I say, or this will never be a repeat performance.”