FIC: Thoughts, Words, Actions by rebelxxwaltz, Sam/Gene, brown cortina
Title: Thoughts, Words, Actions
Author: rebelxxwaltz
Rating: Brown Cortina, kids.
Notes: I've had a bit of writer's block recently, so I decided I wanted to write something quick and moderately uncomplicated this weekend! Here we have the result. A few ideas I recently had during a re-watch of 1x7 converged with Franz Ferdinand's 'Right Action' on the radio to create this fic in its final form. My first fic of 2014, yay! :D
Word Count: 2300
Pairing(s): Sam/Gene
Summary: Thoughts are inconsequential. Words can be cheap. All the real meaning lies in actions.
Thoughts
Lord, but the man was a pain in the arse. Short hair, tight trousers, picky pedantic holier-than-thou ethics, and a hundred more infuriating traits all lined up in a disturbingly neat row. Yet somehow, somewhere along the line, Gene Hunt had come to think of Tyler as his pain in the arse. Gene knew things about himself. He was proprietary, territorial, sometimes downright greedy… and yes, he knew exactly what was left of that thought when-- if ever-- the pain finally melted out of the equation. On that elusive, oft-fantasized day, Sam's arse would be his, full stop.
There were times when the two of them could stop fighting for five minutes, where they could work companionably and it almost felt like being friends. Those interludes worried Gene considerably. It was one thing to lay in the dark at home in his bed at night with the curtains drawn and idly entertain the idea of shoving Sam Tyler face down over his desk and fucking his overly-clever brains out, but completely and dangerously another to casually lure his DI out for what only managed to escape classification as a dinner date by sheer dint of impossibility.
At times like these Tyler displayed a special knack for being both somewhat oblivious and almost entirely touched in the head. His antics at the curry house overshadowed Gene's weak excuse about 'not eating alone' with actions so bizarre and distant that it made the unflappable DCI's gut twist with a cold panic, swiftly concealed beneath a blanket of frustrated exasperation. An overriding concern for the sanity of the man who was currently accosting an innocent radio with frightening single-mindedness took precedence over both Gene's unfinished meal and his previously stated intention of forcing Sam to pay the bill. Furthermore, the careful manhandling and leather-jacket-wrangling involved in their exit from the restaurant absolutely failed to take on any sort of sexually charged undertone even seen from Gene's typically depraved viewpoint.
So what was it that made Gene want to talk to Sam-- argue about football, bicker about cases, trade barbs for no other reason than that it was an especially slow Tuesday-- at least almost as much as he wanted to hit the emergency stop on their way up in the lift, get both of their trousers open, and let his hands wander everywhere?
Yeah, Gene knew he was in trouble. He made sure to exit the lift first when they returned to the darkened station, shoving past Sam both to reassert his ever-present authority and to keep his eyes from straying where they shouldn't. There was no need to think about things like denial or repression if you just grew enough balls to be a man and get on with it, and if Gene Hunt were any manlier he would need a bloody wheelbarrow to cart the evidence around.
When they reached the charge desk it became clear that something was amiss and Gene's full concentration returned to the matter at hand, barely sparing a glance at Sam and willfully ignoring the brush of the smaller man's shoulder against his own as they pushed through the doors to the cells.
Words
He never knew what would come out of the man's mouth next, and Sam was constantly begging his twisted subconscious to stop hanging on every word Gene Hunt said like a monkey swinging from a tree branch packed with bananas. Sam had come to view his DCI with a frustrating blend of disapproval and blatantly inappropriate admiration, a balancing act that was sometimes impossible to sustain when he felt the walls closing in and it became a choice between debauched imaginings of the Guv or a bone-chilling heart-to-heart with the Test Card Girl.
There was no denying that Gene was a secret master of the English language, a fact made increasingly obvious through his manipulation of the team's statements regarding Billy Kemble's death in the cells. As Kemble's childishly defiant behaviors were carefully transformed into acts perpetrated in 'an aggressive and violent manner,' Sam found himself professionally outraged, grudgingly impressed, and unwittingly, helplessly distracted all at once.
Driven to distraction, yes, by the tingling ache he could still feel in his shoulder and the ghostly sting of fingers gripping his wrist where Gene had pinned him down against the sinks in the gents barely an hour earlier. The words snarled next to his ear had been about 'sticking together', and as an abstract concept this did absolutely nothing to calm the racing of blood through Sam's veins. The pure physicality of the gambit and Gene's breathless and disheveled appearance left him wondering about what else they could do together, his brain stuck in a starkly visual feedback loop highlighting all the things Sam wanted Gene to do to him.
The height of a crisis such as this was in no way an appropriate time for Sam to think about being shagged stupid by his incredibly homophobic and often violent superior officer, but no matter how hard he chewed the inside of his cheek or pinched the bridge of his nose he couldn't seem to scrub away the traitorous desire to return to that moment. Somewhere away from the station, where they wouldn't be interrupted by Rathbone or anyone else. Where Gene's lips would be right against Sam's ear, growling a litany of filth and explicit descriptions of how hot and tight Sam felt around his cock as he drove into him again and again...
Of course, the remainder of Sam's day did put something of a temporary damper on those lustful feelings. More arguments, punch ups, long aggravating hours of stilted interviews with uncooperative subjects, and then finally the revelation that Gene had blatantly manipulated him into investigating his fellow officers. Sam wasn't sure if the hard and choking lump in his throat had formed through the more obvious anger and indignation that he felt or if it was based more squarely on the fact that the Guv could claim to trust him and still use him so shamelessly in the same breath. And damned if the vulnerability and guilt Gene had shown him late at night in the deserted office hadn't made Sam want to wrap him in an embrace and tell him it wasn't his fault. And maybe that was the most disturbing aspect of the whole situation-- his apparent willingness to forgive Gene anything.
Thoughts, he knew, were largely inconsequential. And words could be cheap no matter how sincerely spoken. After a fitful, sleepless night Sam knew the only way to overcome all his doubts and misgivings was to take action.
Actions
When Sam had gone to Rathbone with the evidence on that tape, Gene wasn't sure whether he wanted to kiss him or throttle him by his scrawny throat. Maybe he still wanted to do both, and maybe that fact was chief among Gene's current problems-- even in front of having a department full of pea-brained numbskulls that was just about ready to break apart at the seams after Ray Carling's very public demotion. As for Sam, he just couldn't let well enough alone. The DI's inborn tenacity and the depth of his convictions, well, deep down it made Gene feel like something the cat had just dragged in. So clearly it followed that Gene would go 'round to Sam's flat with a cheap bottle of blended in his inside coat pocket, hoping to provoke the other man to the point of a physical confrontation so that Gene could overpower him and take back a bit of much-needed control.
Self-respect was of course the driving factor, rather than any buried desire to get his hands on Sam Tyler away from prying eyes...
Gene continued to tell himself as much right up until the moment after several contentious drinks where he had the other man pinned face-first against the wall with one arm above his head and the other twisted behind his back (Sam fell for that trick every time), and Gene's rough handling was answered with a broken, filthy-sounding moan that could be felt vibrating out through Sam's polyester-encased shoulder blades. At this point Gene realized that he may have miscalculated the degree to which either man had any control remaining, suddenly greeted with the rain-and-leather taste of Sam's neck against his lips.
Tyler, who always seemed to have nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, managed to twist his lithe frame out of Gene's grasp just long enough to turn around and pull him back in hard. Face to face the trajectory of this encounter was impossible to ignore, with Sam's hands tugging at Gene's shirt front and those dark intelligent eyes unfocused in a haze of need. "Gene," he whispered, low and breathless and right into his mouth and any lingering pretense of Gene's restraint shattered into a million tiny pieces.
There was kissing. Lots of frantic and turbulent kissing, which had never been a feature on the lewd menu of activities that Gene had considered when it came to potential interactions with Sam. But for all Sam was smaller he was also wiry and aggressive and he had a demanding hand fisted in Gene's hair as he launched away from the wall, swiping his tongue along the back of Gene's teeth and pushing him toward the woefully inadequate bed. The crook of Gene's knees hit the frame, and he yanked Sam down with him as he felt deft hands unbuttoning his shirt with intent.
Landing in a heap of half-undressed arms and legs that was anything but soft, both men gasped and squirmed to adjust as their cocks rubbed together for the first time. Then Sam was straddling him and rotating his hips like something out of one of those pervy illegal pornos they had confiscated from the back of Warren's safe and oh, fuck it was so much better than anything Gene had imagined that he didn't even realize he'd sworn out loud until he noticed Sam regarding him with rapt interest.
Breathing heavily, Sam leaned close and worked at Gene's belt buckle and trouser fastenings. "Do you know how many times I've thought about doing this?"
Gene bit back a groan as a hand, cool and sure, wrapped around his erection. He answered between slightly labored breaths. "Hell, Tyler. If you wanted to take a ride on my cock why didn't you just say so?" Gene pulled Sam's body closer, wrenching the open shirt away from his arms and throwing it across the room. One hand splayed on the smaller man's bare spine with fingertips working into the back of Sam's trousers, Gene bit down on the collarbone that was tantalizingly close to his mouth.
"Talk is cheap," said Sam, clutching Gene's shoulder and closing his eyes in obvious pleasure. "Thought you were supposed to be a man of action, Guv."
"Oh I'll show you some action, you dirty slag."
After one last wet and messy kiss things really got interesting. The rest of their clothes disappeared, and Gene used some familiar but sadly underutilized tactics to wrestle Sam down onto the mattress with his face buried in the flimsy pillows. After a few necessary and rather enjoyable preparations Gene was gripping Sam's hips and pounding into him vigorously, Sam clutching at the blankets and begging to be fucked at such volume that Gene had to shove one hand over his mouth to stop the neighbors from hearing every salacious detail concerning how hard and fast Sam liked it.
In the meantime, Gene growled his own brand of encouragement right into Sam's ear, feeling the younger man's straining erection twitch and shoot off in his hand as he pumped it in time with his rapid thrusts. Sam's inarticulate shout and the pulsing tightness surrounding Gene's own cock had him seeing stars and coming harder than he had in years, with the surprising revelation of Sam's name passing his lips on an impassioned groan. The two men collapsed onto the mattress together, hands stroking absently over cooling skin until they came to rest in a perfectly aligned sandwich of limbs.
Long silent minutes passed before Gene propped himself up in the bed and finally looked Sam in the eye. "Thought you said you didn't give up that easily, Tyler." Gene smirked knowingly, raking his eyes up and down Sam's exposed form.
For his efforts he received a pillow to the face and a response of "You bastard!" Followed by the unexpected sight of Sam laughing like a hyena, clutching his stomach with one of those rare thousand-watt smiles plastered across his face. Gene couldn't help but join in the laughter with a chuckle of his own as his partner's hysterics calmed.
Sam rose from the bed and cast his eyes around the room, ferreting the cigarettes and whisky out of Gene's discarded coat like a true detective as Gene watched his unashamedly naked form with interest. Tossing him the fags, Sam gestured above Gene's head to where a clean ashtray lay dormant on the shelf. "You staying?"
Surprised at the offer, Gene's eyes snapped onto Sam's. The other man looked a bit nervous, but also-- how could he describe it-- hopeful? Lighting a cigarette and slumping back against the pillows, Gene grunted his assent. "Might want to dig out some clean sheets, though. Seems we made a bit of a mess, Sammy-boy."
Blushing slightly, Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Well I haven't got any spare sheets at the moment, so I'm afraid I can't change the bed." He grinned cheekily as he made his way to the small kitchen to retrieve two glasses for the whisky. "You'll just have to learn how to survive in it."
Gene snorted. "Bring that tight little arse of yours back over here, Inspector, and I think I can just about manage."
xxxxx
That's it! Oh my, it got a bit fluffy at the end didn't it? That wasn't supposed to happen, but it's not my fault that these two are blatantly in love. XDDD
In case anyone missed the reference at the end, the little jokes were based on this dialogue exchange near the conclusion of 1x7:
GENE: You can't change this world, Sam. Only learn how to survive in it.
SAM: I don't give up that easily.
GENE: Good.
Author: rebelxxwaltz
Rating: Brown Cortina, kids.
Notes: I've had a bit of writer's block recently, so I decided I wanted to write something quick and moderately uncomplicated this weekend! Here we have the result. A few ideas I recently had during a re-watch of 1x7 converged with Franz Ferdinand's 'Right Action' on the radio to create this fic in its final form. My first fic of 2014, yay! :D
Word Count: 2300
Pairing(s): Sam/Gene
Summary: Thoughts are inconsequential. Words can be cheap. All the real meaning lies in actions.
Thoughts
Lord, but the man was a pain in the arse. Short hair, tight trousers, picky pedantic holier-than-thou ethics, and a hundred more infuriating traits all lined up in a disturbingly neat row. Yet somehow, somewhere along the line, Gene Hunt had come to think of Tyler as his pain in the arse. Gene knew things about himself. He was proprietary, territorial, sometimes downright greedy… and yes, he knew exactly what was left of that thought when-- if ever-- the pain finally melted out of the equation. On that elusive, oft-fantasized day, Sam's arse would be his, full stop.
There were times when the two of them could stop fighting for five minutes, where they could work companionably and it almost felt like being friends. Those interludes worried Gene considerably. It was one thing to lay in the dark at home in his bed at night with the curtains drawn and idly entertain the idea of shoving Sam Tyler face down over his desk and fucking his overly-clever brains out, but completely and dangerously another to casually lure his DI out for what only managed to escape classification as a dinner date by sheer dint of impossibility.
At times like these Tyler displayed a special knack for being both somewhat oblivious and almost entirely touched in the head. His antics at the curry house overshadowed Gene's weak excuse about 'not eating alone' with actions so bizarre and distant that it made the unflappable DCI's gut twist with a cold panic, swiftly concealed beneath a blanket of frustrated exasperation. An overriding concern for the sanity of the man who was currently accosting an innocent radio with frightening single-mindedness took precedence over both Gene's unfinished meal and his previously stated intention of forcing Sam to pay the bill. Furthermore, the careful manhandling and leather-jacket-wrangling involved in their exit from the restaurant absolutely failed to take on any sort of sexually charged undertone even seen from Gene's typically depraved viewpoint.
So what was it that made Gene want to talk to Sam-- argue about football, bicker about cases, trade barbs for no other reason than that it was an especially slow Tuesday-- at least almost as much as he wanted to hit the emergency stop on their way up in the lift, get both of their trousers open, and let his hands wander everywhere?
Yeah, Gene knew he was in trouble. He made sure to exit the lift first when they returned to the darkened station, shoving past Sam both to reassert his ever-present authority and to keep his eyes from straying where they shouldn't. There was no need to think about things like denial or repression if you just grew enough balls to be a man and get on with it, and if Gene Hunt were any manlier he would need a bloody wheelbarrow to cart the evidence around.
When they reached the charge desk it became clear that something was amiss and Gene's full concentration returned to the matter at hand, barely sparing a glance at Sam and willfully ignoring the brush of the smaller man's shoulder against his own as they pushed through the doors to the cells.
Words
He never knew what would come out of the man's mouth next, and Sam was constantly begging his twisted subconscious to stop hanging on every word Gene Hunt said like a monkey swinging from a tree branch packed with bananas. Sam had come to view his DCI with a frustrating blend of disapproval and blatantly inappropriate admiration, a balancing act that was sometimes impossible to sustain when he felt the walls closing in and it became a choice between debauched imaginings of the Guv or a bone-chilling heart-to-heart with the Test Card Girl.
There was no denying that Gene was a secret master of the English language, a fact made increasingly obvious through his manipulation of the team's statements regarding Billy Kemble's death in the cells. As Kemble's childishly defiant behaviors were carefully transformed into acts perpetrated in 'an aggressive and violent manner,' Sam found himself professionally outraged, grudgingly impressed, and unwittingly, helplessly distracted all at once.
Driven to distraction, yes, by the tingling ache he could still feel in his shoulder and the ghostly sting of fingers gripping his wrist where Gene had pinned him down against the sinks in the gents barely an hour earlier. The words snarled next to his ear had been about 'sticking together', and as an abstract concept this did absolutely nothing to calm the racing of blood through Sam's veins. The pure physicality of the gambit and Gene's breathless and disheveled appearance left him wondering about what else they could do together, his brain stuck in a starkly visual feedback loop highlighting all the things Sam wanted Gene to do to him.
The height of a crisis such as this was in no way an appropriate time for Sam to think about being shagged stupid by his incredibly homophobic and often violent superior officer, but no matter how hard he chewed the inside of his cheek or pinched the bridge of his nose he couldn't seem to scrub away the traitorous desire to return to that moment. Somewhere away from the station, where they wouldn't be interrupted by Rathbone or anyone else. Where Gene's lips would be right against Sam's ear, growling a litany of filth and explicit descriptions of how hot and tight Sam felt around his cock as he drove into him again and again...
Of course, the remainder of Sam's day did put something of a temporary damper on those lustful feelings. More arguments, punch ups, long aggravating hours of stilted interviews with uncooperative subjects, and then finally the revelation that Gene had blatantly manipulated him into investigating his fellow officers. Sam wasn't sure if the hard and choking lump in his throat had formed through the more obvious anger and indignation that he felt or if it was based more squarely on the fact that the Guv could claim to trust him and still use him so shamelessly in the same breath. And damned if the vulnerability and guilt Gene had shown him late at night in the deserted office hadn't made Sam want to wrap him in an embrace and tell him it wasn't his fault. And maybe that was the most disturbing aspect of the whole situation-- his apparent willingness to forgive Gene anything.
Thoughts, he knew, were largely inconsequential. And words could be cheap no matter how sincerely spoken. After a fitful, sleepless night Sam knew the only way to overcome all his doubts and misgivings was to take action.
Actions
When Sam had gone to Rathbone with the evidence on that tape, Gene wasn't sure whether he wanted to kiss him or throttle him by his scrawny throat. Maybe he still wanted to do both, and maybe that fact was chief among Gene's current problems-- even in front of having a department full of pea-brained numbskulls that was just about ready to break apart at the seams after Ray Carling's very public demotion. As for Sam, he just couldn't let well enough alone. The DI's inborn tenacity and the depth of his convictions, well, deep down it made Gene feel like something the cat had just dragged in. So clearly it followed that Gene would go 'round to Sam's flat with a cheap bottle of blended in his inside coat pocket, hoping to provoke the other man to the point of a physical confrontation so that Gene could overpower him and take back a bit of much-needed control.
Self-respect was of course the driving factor, rather than any buried desire to get his hands on Sam Tyler away from prying eyes...
Gene continued to tell himself as much right up until the moment after several contentious drinks where he had the other man pinned face-first against the wall with one arm above his head and the other twisted behind his back (Sam fell for that trick every time), and Gene's rough handling was answered with a broken, filthy-sounding moan that could be felt vibrating out through Sam's polyester-encased shoulder blades. At this point Gene realized that he may have miscalculated the degree to which either man had any control remaining, suddenly greeted with the rain-and-leather taste of Sam's neck against his lips.
Tyler, who always seemed to have nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, managed to twist his lithe frame out of Gene's grasp just long enough to turn around and pull him back in hard. Face to face the trajectory of this encounter was impossible to ignore, with Sam's hands tugging at Gene's shirt front and those dark intelligent eyes unfocused in a haze of need. "Gene," he whispered, low and breathless and right into his mouth and any lingering pretense of Gene's restraint shattered into a million tiny pieces.
There was kissing. Lots of frantic and turbulent kissing, which had never been a feature on the lewd menu of activities that Gene had considered when it came to potential interactions with Sam. But for all Sam was smaller he was also wiry and aggressive and he had a demanding hand fisted in Gene's hair as he launched away from the wall, swiping his tongue along the back of Gene's teeth and pushing him toward the woefully inadequate bed. The crook of Gene's knees hit the frame, and he yanked Sam down with him as he felt deft hands unbuttoning his shirt with intent.
Landing in a heap of half-undressed arms and legs that was anything but soft, both men gasped and squirmed to adjust as their cocks rubbed together for the first time. Then Sam was straddling him and rotating his hips like something out of one of those pervy illegal pornos they had confiscated from the back of Warren's safe and oh, fuck it was so much better than anything Gene had imagined that he didn't even realize he'd sworn out loud until he noticed Sam regarding him with rapt interest.
Breathing heavily, Sam leaned close and worked at Gene's belt buckle and trouser fastenings. "Do you know how many times I've thought about doing this?"
Gene bit back a groan as a hand, cool and sure, wrapped around his erection. He answered between slightly labored breaths. "Hell, Tyler. If you wanted to take a ride on my cock why didn't you just say so?" Gene pulled Sam's body closer, wrenching the open shirt away from his arms and throwing it across the room. One hand splayed on the smaller man's bare spine with fingertips working into the back of Sam's trousers, Gene bit down on the collarbone that was tantalizingly close to his mouth.
"Talk is cheap," said Sam, clutching Gene's shoulder and closing his eyes in obvious pleasure. "Thought you were supposed to be a man of action, Guv."
"Oh I'll show you some action, you dirty slag."
After one last wet and messy kiss things really got interesting. The rest of their clothes disappeared, and Gene used some familiar but sadly underutilized tactics to wrestle Sam down onto the mattress with his face buried in the flimsy pillows. After a few necessary and rather enjoyable preparations Gene was gripping Sam's hips and pounding into him vigorously, Sam clutching at the blankets and begging to be fucked at such volume that Gene had to shove one hand over his mouth to stop the neighbors from hearing every salacious detail concerning how hard and fast Sam liked it.
In the meantime, Gene growled his own brand of encouragement right into Sam's ear, feeling the younger man's straining erection twitch and shoot off in his hand as he pumped it in time with his rapid thrusts. Sam's inarticulate shout and the pulsing tightness surrounding Gene's own cock had him seeing stars and coming harder than he had in years, with the surprising revelation of Sam's name passing his lips on an impassioned groan. The two men collapsed onto the mattress together, hands stroking absently over cooling skin until they came to rest in a perfectly aligned sandwich of limbs.
Long silent minutes passed before Gene propped himself up in the bed and finally looked Sam in the eye. "Thought you said you didn't give up that easily, Tyler." Gene smirked knowingly, raking his eyes up and down Sam's exposed form.
For his efforts he received a pillow to the face and a response of "You bastard!" Followed by the unexpected sight of Sam laughing like a hyena, clutching his stomach with one of those rare thousand-watt smiles plastered across his face. Gene couldn't help but join in the laughter with a chuckle of his own as his partner's hysterics calmed.
Sam rose from the bed and cast his eyes around the room, ferreting the cigarettes and whisky out of Gene's discarded coat like a true detective as Gene watched his unashamedly naked form with interest. Tossing him the fags, Sam gestured above Gene's head to where a clean ashtray lay dormant on the shelf. "You staying?"
Surprised at the offer, Gene's eyes snapped onto Sam's. The other man looked a bit nervous, but also-- how could he describe it-- hopeful? Lighting a cigarette and slumping back against the pillows, Gene grunted his assent. "Might want to dig out some clean sheets, though. Seems we made a bit of a mess, Sammy-boy."
Blushing slightly, Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Well I haven't got any spare sheets at the moment, so I'm afraid I can't change the bed." He grinned cheekily as he made his way to the small kitchen to retrieve two glasses for the whisky. "You'll just have to learn how to survive in it."
Gene snorted. "Bring that tight little arse of yours back over here, Inspector, and I think I can just about manage."
xxxxx
That's it! Oh my, it got a bit fluffy at the end didn't it? That wasn't supposed to happen, but it's not my fault that these two are blatantly in love. XDDD
In case anyone missed the reference at the end, the little jokes were based on this dialogue exchange near the conclusion of 1x7:
GENE: You can't change this world, Sam. Only learn how to survive in it.
SAM: I don't give up that easily.
GENE: Good.