Fic - Tailor Made (LoM)
TITLE: Tailor Made
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Life on Mars
RATING: Brown Cortina, Sam/Ray
WORD COUNT: 616 words
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For Porntoberfest. With many thanks to my partner in "scaring LoM fic-readers senseless", darthfi for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Tailor Made
Sam doesn't always hate 1973. Sometimes he thinks that the entire place was tailor-made for him.
There's Gene, an authority figure Sam can rail against, one who will give as good as he gets, one who pushes Sam to his limits and, ever increasingly, beyond them.
There's Annie, soft and loving, but at the same time independent and unafraid. She listens to him without judgement, strength without neediness.
There's Chris, unmolded and all rough edges. He looks up to Sam as a mentor and that suits Sam well; he always had a talent for teaching.
Then there's Ray. Sam doesn't like him one bit. And he damn well knows that Ray hates his guts. But that's okay because he needs Ray's hatred as much as he needs Gene's casual friendship, Annie's undemanding love and Chris' uncomplicated hero-worship.
He needs this.
His fingers scrabbling at rough brick, trying to find any leverage to hold on tight. The brick flakes beneath worn fingernails, embedding in the flesh beneath, leaves marks on the walls crying out “Sam was 'ere”.
It's cold in the alley behind the Arms, quiet and cold. The frigid air raises goosebumps across the skin of his exposed thighs, the waistband of his trousers (no underwear, never any underwear on these occasions) catches in the crook of his knees as his legs are forced apart. Sharp teeth bite down at his exposed neck, the bruising grip of fingers as they dig into his hips, pulling him back against the heavy weight of the man behind, anchoring him down to this colourful world, turning fantasy into reality.
A single thrust and Sam is penetrated, air forced out of his lungs by the violence of the act in a silent 'whoosh'. And now the act begins in earnest. Carling sets a punishing pace and Sam is buffeted against the dirty wall, his cheek becoming scratched and raw.
Sam, as much as he is able, pushes his hips out from the wall in a vain attempt to spare his own turgid cock from the same. The movement earns him a bite on the ear and a filthy chuckle from the man attempting to pound him in to the wall.
"Filthy little queer, absolutely gagging for it," Carling hisses in his ear, his breath already short from the unaccustomed activity.
Sam doesn't answer. Doesn't make a sound. He knows that to actively acknowledge the presence of the man behind him will be to stop this, whatever it is, instantly. And Sam doesn't want that. He is flying now and he wants to never land.
But, of course, he has to.
One last thrust and Carling is coming, the pulse of his cock matched by the thumping pulse in Sam's head. Fingers relax in their heavy grip, but leave the dull ache of abused flesh behind as he none-too-gently pulls out and steps back. There are going to be bruises there for days.
Sam doesn't turn round, but slumps quietly against the wall as a rasp of a zip, the strike and flare of a match and then hurried footsteps sound behind him. Sam counts to ten silently in his head, before turning round and making sure he's completely alone. Only then does he move to wrap one hand around his own poor, neglected cock and seek his own satisfaction.
Carling has played his part well and it takes scant moments before Sam is coming himself, his legs buckling under the force. And soon spent, Sam leans against the wall and attempts to catch his breath.
As he tucks himself away and zips up his own, slightly soiled, trousers, Sam wonders how quickly he can get Carling that worked up again.
The End
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Life on Mars
RATING: Brown Cortina, Sam/Ray
WORD COUNT: 616 words
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For Porntoberfest. With many thanks to my partner in "scaring LoM fic-readers senseless", darthfi for the beta.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Tailor Made
Sam doesn't always hate 1973. Sometimes he thinks that the entire place was tailor-made for him.
There's Gene, an authority figure Sam can rail against, one who will give as good as he gets, one who pushes Sam to his limits and, ever increasingly, beyond them.
There's Annie, soft and loving, but at the same time independent and unafraid. She listens to him without judgement, strength without neediness.
There's Chris, unmolded and all rough edges. He looks up to Sam as a mentor and that suits Sam well; he always had a talent for teaching.
Then there's Ray. Sam doesn't like him one bit. And he damn well knows that Ray hates his guts. But that's okay because he needs Ray's hatred as much as he needs Gene's casual friendship, Annie's undemanding love and Chris' uncomplicated hero-worship.
He needs this.
His fingers scrabbling at rough brick, trying to find any leverage to hold on tight. The brick flakes beneath worn fingernails, embedding in the flesh beneath, leaves marks on the walls crying out “Sam was 'ere”.
It's cold in the alley behind the Arms, quiet and cold. The frigid air raises goosebumps across the skin of his exposed thighs, the waistband of his trousers (no underwear, never any underwear on these occasions) catches in the crook of his knees as his legs are forced apart. Sharp teeth bite down at his exposed neck, the bruising grip of fingers as they dig into his hips, pulling him back against the heavy weight of the man behind, anchoring him down to this colourful world, turning fantasy into reality.
A single thrust and Sam is penetrated, air forced out of his lungs by the violence of the act in a silent 'whoosh'. And now the act begins in earnest. Carling sets a punishing pace and Sam is buffeted against the dirty wall, his cheek becoming scratched and raw.
Sam, as much as he is able, pushes his hips out from the wall in a vain attempt to spare his own turgid cock from the same. The movement earns him a bite on the ear and a filthy chuckle from the man attempting to pound him in to the wall.
"Filthy little queer, absolutely gagging for it," Carling hisses in his ear, his breath already short from the unaccustomed activity.
Sam doesn't answer. Doesn't make a sound. He knows that to actively acknowledge the presence of the man behind him will be to stop this, whatever it is, instantly. And Sam doesn't want that. He is flying now and he wants to never land.
But, of course, he has to.
One last thrust and Carling is coming, the pulse of his cock matched by the thumping pulse in Sam's head. Fingers relax in their heavy grip, but leave the dull ache of abused flesh behind as he none-too-gently pulls out and steps back. There are going to be bruises there for days.
Sam doesn't turn round, but slumps quietly against the wall as a rasp of a zip, the strike and flare of a match and then hurried footsteps sound behind him. Sam counts to ten silently in his head, before turning round and making sure he's completely alone. Only then does he move to wrap one hand around his own poor, neglected cock and seek his own satisfaction.
Carling has played his part well and it takes scant moments before Sam is coming himself, his legs buckling under the force. And soon spent, Sam leans against the wall and attempts to catch his breath.
As he tucks himself away and zips up his own, slightly soiled, trousers, Sam wonders how quickly he can get Carling that worked up again.
The End