Life on Mars fic
Title: Totally Wired
Author:
acidpenguin46
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Word Count: 1,876
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warning: Violence, sexual fantasies, generally dark themes, drug addiction in a metaphorical sense. And, as per usual, un-betaed.
Summary: Sam could never just sit still.
Spoilers: None except the general concept of the series
Disclaimer: Unfortunately it's not mine, it all belongs to Kudos and the BBC. The Simpsons aren't mine either. And I'm also not a member of the Fall (the title is taken from the title of one of their songs).
NOTES: I honestly don't know where the hell this came from. Surprisingly it's not angst (I think the monkeys are a bit exhausted at the moment), but it just couldn't be PWP or fluff, could it? I'm really not sure about this, it's unlike anything I've ever written before, so any comments and concrit would be much appreciated.
Totally Wired
His life was blurred around the edges. His mind somehow managed to make its way through the haze, focus on one thing for short periods of time. There was one thing you could say about Sam Tyler, and that was that he was never still. He would always fight; he didn’t know any other way to live. He could never rest; he always had to be on alert, always on the lookout for the next hit.
He had never been able to sleep properly, even before he woke up in 1973. Always waking up two or three times during the night. Eight (six… four…) hours was too long for him to stay still. Used to always piss Maya off when he stayed over, waking up in the middle of the night, all nerves and pent-up energy. Making DCI hadn’t calmed him down a bit. He just channelled the excess energy into enforcing proper procedure, by crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, becoming the pain-in-the-arse stickler for the rules. In many ways 1973 was the perfect place for him. There was no time in the chaos to stand still. He was always on edge, always fighting, which suited him just fine. When Gene first threw him up against the cabinet, when he first fought back, it was the most alive he’d felt in ages.
However, even the new challenges of this stone age lost their edge. Everything always did. The new hit never lasted long enough and it always left him needing something bigger and better. He noticed his DCI’s gaze linger on his neck when he fidgeted with his medallion on a stake-out. The way Gene’s body tensed whenever his body writhed under the bigger body pinning him to the nearest vertical surface. He also knew that it was 1973 and that Gene would knock a bloke out in a single punch for suggesting anything even implicating that he swung in that direction. Sam watched Gene over the rim of his beer glass and smirked predatorily. This would be his best hit yet.
He always made sure he was subtle, at least to begin with. As much as he loved the euphoria of the adrenaline that pumped through his veins whenever he claimed victory, he always tried to hold off the climax as long as he could. It made the high feel even better. He would let his fingers linger too long when Gene handed him his scotch at the end of the day. When he sat next to him he ensured that everything that could be touching was doing just that. The first time he attempted a “drunken” grope he grinned afterwards, his bared teeth turning red with the blood cascading from his freshly punched nose.
He couldn’t sit still. When he was at his desk he was tapping his pen on his desk. When he waited for something he’d impatiently roll back and forth on his heels, tapping an indiscernible rhythm on his calves. The chase for Gene Hunt was starting to go for longer than he typically liked and if something didn’t happen soon he wouldn’t be held responsible for the subsequent explosion. Gene was still refusing to budge, even though they both knew he wanted it. When Sam reached around him from behind and stole his cigarette from between his lips, just to ground it out on the ground with a devilish smirk on his face, Gene looked at him with such an intense look of mingled frustration and thinly veiled heat that it made even him stop in his tracks.
The obsession was reaching crisis levels. If he didn’t get beaten to a pulp or shagged senseless soon he was going to go around the bend. Well, further around, anyway. For the first time in a long time his need was affecting his work. He started to challenge Gene not because he disagreed with his methods, but just because he could. The reward of Gene roughing him up was the cherry on the cake. When Gene flung him against the wall of the deserted CID corridors Sam leant forward and kissed him. Gene bit his lip till it bled, then backed off and introduced his right hook to Sam’s cheekbone. “Come on then, do it.” Gene took a deep breath, visibly trying to keep his emotions in check.
“What’re you on about Tyler?”
“Make me bleed Hunt.” Gene shook his head before turning away and walking off, and an ugly grimace marred Sam’s face.
The bruise was flowering before his eyes as he watched the reflection of himself dabbing at the cuts in his bathroom mirror. He could find another source. He hated to quit but Gene wasn’t going to budge. Ray came to mind but even the next hit wasn’t worth that. He analysed potential hits in his mind, but it always settled on one. Green eyes, camel coat, leather driving gloves. That mouth and the imagined groans Sam could picture spilling from it as Gene pounded into him, his muscles clenching around the thick cock driving mercilessly into him. Suddenly he realised that the next hit might not be what this was all about.
He couldn’t see straight. He thanked whoever it was who decided that he would be having the next day off. He could barely function by himself when he had absolutely nothing to do, so going to work would have been an experience in itself. He went for a jog but didn’t watch where he was heading, constantly tripping or running into things. He tried masturbating but he was so restless that he couldn’t bring himself off, no matter which position he imagined Gene in. Not that it stopped him from conjuring those mental images: Gene’s leaking, red cock driving down his throat; Gene being handcuffed to the end of Sam’s cot while he rode him like a cheap whore; and, perhaps most worrying of all, Gene sitting against the head of his cot as he burrowed his head under Gene’s chin, his right arm wrapped around Gene’s stomach.
For some reason he thought of the Simpsons. He didn’t even regularly watch it, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of Otto and Homer watching their fingers to see if they fing-ed while stoned. His fingers were definitely fing-ing. His whole hand was fing-ing. He couldn’t even hold something without dropping it pretty quickly. And for some bizarre reason both of his arms were covered entirely with goose bumps. He was literally bouncing off of the walls and he knew if he didn’t get out of the flat soon he’d probably bounce through them. He didn’t know where Gene was, but odds are he’d wind up in the Arms sooner or later. He decided to go for a walk.
It was 8 pm and the sun had set long before Gene finally appeared. Sam didn’t notice at first, swimming head first into the oblivion that only a full bottle of scotch could offer, and his attention was only brought to Gene’s arrival when his rough voice drew Sam out of his stupor. “You look like shit Tyler. Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?” He was too drunk to be able to tell if the look on his face was a glare or not. Gene sat across from him and tried to pull the bottle out of his hand. He managed to pull it free from Gene’s grasp and moved it closer to him, the word “if you want a drink all you have to do is ask,” managing to fight their way through the thick haze and out of his mouth.
“Alright then Miss Gladys. Would you like me ter curtsey as well?”
“If you like.” He put the bottle on the table, and when Gene placed his hand below his on the bottle he ran his pinky finger slowly and deliberately along Gene’s thumb. The older man lingered for a moment too long before pulling the bottle firmly out of his hand, lifting the opening to his mouth and finishing it off in one long swallow. He stared, transfixed. The long neck, partially obscured by Gene’s moist pink mouth. The condensation rolling down his chin. The Adam’s apple, bobbing up and down as the remains of his bottle disappeared down the other man’s mouth. He moved his hands under the table to conceal the shaking. When Gene rose to join the others at the bar, Sam stumbled out the back and vomited, his arms folded around his stomach in a vain attempt to stop them quaking.
He didn’t remember coming home. He tried opening his eyes but that he could see was a blur. He was the still centre as the universe zoomed by so fast it made him nauseous. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he rolled onto his back, letting the world come to a stop. His head pounded with too much alcohol and pent-up tension, and when he was gently nudged up into a sitting position and a glass of water was placed at his mouth he devoured it blindly. He blinked again and saw green eyes before him, frustration tinged with worry staring out. “Thanks.”
“You never could take your alcohol. Girl.” He could sit by himself now but it felt nice, having Gene’s hand at the small of his back. He ran a hand through his hair only to discover that some of the vomit had dried there, and grimaced.
“What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“Shit.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he could support his throbbing head in his hands.
“How long were you at the Arms for?”
“Since three.” Gene remained silent, and Sam looked up to see those eyes gazing back intently at him. Sam played with the edges of his sheet and then, getting bored of that, started to fidget with his hands.
“Fer Christ’s sakes, can’t yer settle down for five seconds?” He paused, staring down at his rambling hands as he considered the answer. He wished the “no” that eventually was spoken hadn’t sounded so pathetic. His hands returned to the sheet, only to have one of Gene’s clamp down on top of them.
“Stop.”
“I can’t.” He felt Gene’s other hand hover in the air below his face, hesitating, before gently prodding his head up.
“Just calm down.” He wrested his hands free from Gene’s relaxed grip and latched them onto the lapels of his coat, drawing that mouth closer and closer to his, only to pause when they were separated by little more than their mingled heavy breathing. He calmed himself before closing the distance. The kiss was fast and rough. Teeth clashed, lips were bitten and as his hand came to rest on Gene’s cheek, the other man opened his mouth against his, their tongues meeting then immediately duelling for dominance. For once the world was still, he didn’t feel like he was little more than a bundle of nerves, waiting for something to spark them into action. And when Gene suddenly broke the kiss off and left his flat as quickly as his feet could carry him, he knew that nothing could stop the comedown.
Author:
acidpenguin46
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Word Count: 1,876
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warning: Violence, sexual fantasies, generally dark themes, drug addiction in a metaphorical sense. And, as per usual, un-betaed.
Summary: Sam could never just sit still.
Spoilers: None except the general concept of the series
Disclaimer: Unfortunately it's not mine, it all belongs to Kudos and the BBC. The Simpsons aren't mine either. And I'm also not a member of the Fall (the title is taken from the title of one of their songs).
NOTES: I honestly don't know where the hell this came from. Surprisingly it's not angst (I think the monkeys are a bit exhausted at the moment), but it just couldn't be PWP or fluff, could it? I'm really not sure about this, it's unlike anything I've ever written before, so any comments and concrit would be much appreciated.
Totally Wired
His life was blurred around the edges. His mind somehow managed to make its way through the haze, focus on one thing for short periods of time. There was one thing you could say about Sam Tyler, and that was that he was never still. He would always fight; he didn’t know any other way to live. He could never rest; he always had to be on alert, always on the lookout for the next hit.
He had never been able to sleep properly, even before he woke up in 1973. Always waking up two or three times during the night. Eight (six… four…) hours was too long for him to stay still. Used to always piss Maya off when he stayed over, waking up in the middle of the night, all nerves and pent-up energy. Making DCI hadn’t calmed him down a bit. He just channelled the excess energy into enforcing proper procedure, by crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, becoming the pain-in-the-arse stickler for the rules. In many ways 1973 was the perfect place for him. There was no time in the chaos to stand still. He was always on edge, always fighting, which suited him just fine. When Gene first threw him up against the cabinet, when he first fought back, it was the most alive he’d felt in ages.
However, even the new challenges of this stone age lost their edge. Everything always did. The new hit never lasted long enough and it always left him needing something bigger and better. He noticed his DCI’s gaze linger on his neck when he fidgeted with his medallion on a stake-out. The way Gene’s body tensed whenever his body writhed under the bigger body pinning him to the nearest vertical surface. He also knew that it was 1973 and that Gene would knock a bloke out in a single punch for suggesting anything even implicating that he swung in that direction. Sam watched Gene over the rim of his beer glass and smirked predatorily. This would be his best hit yet.
He always made sure he was subtle, at least to begin with. As much as he loved the euphoria of the adrenaline that pumped through his veins whenever he claimed victory, he always tried to hold off the climax as long as he could. It made the high feel even better. He would let his fingers linger too long when Gene handed him his scotch at the end of the day. When he sat next to him he ensured that everything that could be touching was doing just that. The first time he attempted a “drunken” grope he grinned afterwards, his bared teeth turning red with the blood cascading from his freshly punched nose.
He couldn’t sit still. When he was at his desk he was tapping his pen on his desk. When he waited for something he’d impatiently roll back and forth on his heels, tapping an indiscernible rhythm on his calves. The chase for Gene Hunt was starting to go for longer than he typically liked and if something didn’t happen soon he wouldn’t be held responsible for the subsequent explosion. Gene was still refusing to budge, even though they both knew he wanted it. When Sam reached around him from behind and stole his cigarette from between his lips, just to ground it out on the ground with a devilish smirk on his face, Gene looked at him with such an intense look of mingled frustration and thinly veiled heat that it made even him stop in his tracks.
The obsession was reaching crisis levels. If he didn’t get beaten to a pulp or shagged senseless soon he was going to go around the bend. Well, further around, anyway. For the first time in a long time his need was affecting his work. He started to challenge Gene not because he disagreed with his methods, but just because he could. The reward of Gene roughing him up was the cherry on the cake. When Gene flung him against the wall of the deserted CID corridors Sam leant forward and kissed him. Gene bit his lip till it bled, then backed off and introduced his right hook to Sam’s cheekbone. “Come on then, do it.” Gene took a deep breath, visibly trying to keep his emotions in check.
“What’re you on about Tyler?”
“Make me bleed Hunt.” Gene shook his head before turning away and walking off, and an ugly grimace marred Sam’s face.
The bruise was flowering before his eyes as he watched the reflection of himself dabbing at the cuts in his bathroom mirror. He could find another source. He hated to quit but Gene wasn’t going to budge. Ray came to mind but even the next hit wasn’t worth that. He analysed potential hits in his mind, but it always settled on one. Green eyes, camel coat, leather driving gloves. That mouth and the imagined groans Sam could picture spilling from it as Gene pounded into him, his muscles clenching around the thick cock driving mercilessly into him. Suddenly he realised that the next hit might not be what this was all about.
He couldn’t see straight. He thanked whoever it was who decided that he would be having the next day off. He could barely function by himself when he had absolutely nothing to do, so going to work would have been an experience in itself. He went for a jog but didn’t watch where he was heading, constantly tripping or running into things. He tried masturbating but he was so restless that he couldn’t bring himself off, no matter which position he imagined Gene in. Not that it stopped him from conjuring those mental images: Gene’s leaking, red cock driving down his throat; Gene being handcuffed to the end of Sam’s cot while he rode him like a cheap whore; and, perhaps most worrying of all, Gene sitting against the head of his cot as he burrowed his head under Gene’s chin, his right arm wrapped around Gene’s stomach.
For some reason he thought of the Simpsons. He didn’t even regularly watch it, but he couldn’t help but be reminded of Otto and Homer watching their fingers to see if they fing-ed while stoned. His fingers were definitely fing-ing. His whole hand was fing-ing. He couldn’t even hold something without dropping it pretty quickly. And for some bizarre reason both of his arms were covered entirely with goose bumps. He was literally bouncing off of the walls and he knew if he didn’t get out of the flat soon he’d probably bounce through them. He didn’t know where Gene was, but odds are he’d wind up in the Arms sooner or later. He decided to go for a walk.
It was 8 pm and the sun had set long before Gene finally appeared. Sam didn’t notice at first, swimming head first into the oblivion that only a full bottle of scotch could offer, and his attention was only brought to Gene’s arrival when his rough voice drew Sam out of his stupor. “You look like shit Tyler. Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?” He was too drunk to be able to tell if the look on his face was a glare or not. Gene sat across from him and tried to pull the bottle out of his hand. He managed to pull it free from Gene’s grasp and moved it closer to him, the word “if you want a drink all you have to do is ask,” managing to fight their way through the thick haze and out of his mouth.
“Alright then Miss Gladys. Would you like me ter curtsey as well?”
“If you like.” He put the bottle on the table, and when Gene placed his hand below his on the bottle he ran his pinky finger slowly and deliberately along Gene’s thumb. The older man lingered for a moment too long before pulling the bottle firmly out of his hand, lifting the opening to his mouth and finishing it off in one long swallow. He stared, transfixed. The long neck, partially obscured by Gene’s moist pink mouth. The condensation rolling down his chin. The Adam’s apple, bobbing up and down as the remains of his bottle disappeared down the other man’s mouth. He moved his hands under the table to conceal the shaking. When Gene rose to join the others at the bar, Sam stumbled out the back and vomited, his arms folded around his stomach in a vain attempt to stop them quaking.
He didn’t remember coming home. He tried opening his eyes but that he could see was a blur. He was the still centre as the universe zoomed by so fast it made him nauseous. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he rolled onto his back, letting the world come to a stop. His head pounded with too much alcohol and pent-up tension, and when he was gently nudged up into a sitting position and a glass of water was placed at his mouth he devoured it blindly. He blinked again and saw green eyes before him, frustration tinged with worry staring out. “Thanks.”
“You never could take your alcohol. Girl.” He could sit by himself now but it felt nice, having Gene’s hand at the small of his back. He ran a hand through his hair only to discover that some of the vomit had dried there, and grimaced.
“What time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“Shit.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he could support his throbbing head in his hands.
“How long were you at the Arms for?”
“Since three.” Gene remained silent, and Sam looked up to see those eyes gazing back intently at him. Sam played with the edges of his sheet and then, getting bored of that, started to fidget with his hands.
“Fer Christ’s sakes, can’t yer settle down for five seconds?” He paused, staring down at his rambling hands as he considered the answer. He wished the “no” that eventually was spoken hadn’t sounded so pathetic. His hands returned to the sheet, only to have one of Gene’s clamp down on top of them.
“Stop.”
“I can’t.” He felt Gene’s other hand hover in the air below his face, hesitating, before gently prodding his head up.
“Just calm down.” He wrested his hands free from Gene’s relaxed grip and latched them onto the lapels of his coat, drawing that mouth closer and closer to his, only to pause when they were separated by little more than their mingled heavy breathing. He calmed himself before closing the distance. The kiss was fast and rough. Teeth clashed, lips were bitten and as his hand came to rest on Gene’s cheek, the other man opened his mouth against his, their tongues meeting then immediately duelling for dominance. For once the world was still, he didn’t feel like he was little more than a bundle of nerves, waiting for something to spark them into action. And when Gene suddenly broke the kiss off and left his flat as quickly as his feet could carry him, he knew that nothing could stop the comedown.