Ficathon 2007: Make mine a double. Gene/Sam. Brown Cortina.
Title: Make mine a double...
Author: wiccagal_1996
Rating: Brown Cortina.
Words: 1475
Characters: Gene Hunt, Sam Tyler.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam should learn that the answers to life's little questions can't be found at the bottom of a bottle.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine-Simple.
A/N: This is deffo cracktastic but as that was part of the requirement..not a problem =P Sorry it's late, luv.
Written for: Ficathon 2007 for
boiledpotatowho's prompts were: Gene/Sam, Crack!Porn, Scarf. This ended up..intriguing, hope you like hun.
Large, strong, slightly rough hands slide effortlessly beneath Sam's flailing arms and haul him, not unkindly, off the floor. As gravity tries her best to drag him back into oblivion, he lurches sideways and almost takes whoever it is offering their silent support, off their feet.
Despite the fact he's having real issues with double vision and has no clue how he ended up on his arse in the first place, Sam blindly lashes out before registering the tangy scent of old spice and twenty stale Dunhill wafting surreptitiously up his nose.
Once his over taxed brain's made the connection between the familiar smell and the hands holding him upright, he allows himself to be propelled towards the pub door. Stumbling, giggling, and generally making a tit off himself, Sam leans heavily against Gene's chest and hopes for the best as far as staying on his feet is concerned.
Having bypassed 'drunk' about three hours ago, Sam's now well within the realms of seriously pissed and already knows he's going to regret this in the morning, but right now he's enjoying being man handled by the only man to ever try and handle him this way.
Gene Hunt: Neanderthal, knuckle head, nasty piece of work, all round bastard - yet Sam still can't help following his orders, even if it makes his hackles stand on end.
He may be the epitome of the unrepentant, unrestrained, unreconstructed male but something in Gene calls out to something in Sam and he can't stop himself responding.
Sam can feel the heat emanating from his DCI's body, it's permeating his every pore, causing a diar dose of light headedness that he's hoping Gene will simply blame on the alcohol suffusing Sam's system.
Finally they reach the car, and his hard talking boss lets Sam slide gracelessly into the passenger seat before stomping round to his side and throwing himself behind the wheel.
"Gladys, you got no clue what a complete twat you really are, do you?"
Sam's not capable of normal speech patterns right now, so he opts for grunting and praying that Gene's been pissed enough times to speak tongues fluently.
"S'no good tryin' to make out you ain't understandin' me, Tyler. One of these days I ain't gonna be 'ere to pick your sorry arse up an' you'll be stuck sittin' there like a prize turkey with no one to 'elp you"
Gene hammers the car into gear and speeds towards Sam's flat whilst trying to stop his rat arsed DI from collapsing fully into his lap.
As Gene slides the Cortina into the nearest parking space, Sam lands face first in his crotch and has to bite his lip to stop from snaking his tongue across the inviting bulge pressing against his nose. Wouldn't do to try and lick the boss, especially seen as the boss's got six inches, thirty pounds, and an extreme case of homophobia on Sam.
Allowing Gene to push him upright, Sam doesn't catch the heated look or swift readjustment of trousers.
Duck waddling their way into his building, Sam tries to mask his enjoyment at having Gene so close by prattling on about general bollocks.
Eventually, after three attempts, Gene's managed to maneuver Sam up the stairs and into his flat, doing him a kindness along the way by not putting his foot straight through the door but fishing the keys out of Sam's coat pocket instead.
Hovering above the makeshift bed, Gene removes his arms and watches as Sam drops bonelessly to the mattress before chucking the keys on the floor and leaving.
Left alone with his spinning head and unladylike thoughts, with Gene's aftershave still lingering up his nose and the feel of him pressed against his side, Sam drifts off into a fitful slumber.
****
Waking up on the police station canteen floor when you're absolutely positive you were left in a semi comatose state in your shitty flat could be considered disorientating. Even for Sam, who's daily life can be anything up to and including bizarre, this is quite freaky.
It'd give any man a shock, but Sam's doubly worried because he's got a chill in places that should, by rights, be chill free. Looking down at himself he notes with appalled resignation that he's completely naked and wonders how he's managed to get himself into yet another fucked up situation.
What's even more disconcerting is he doesn't actually feel embarrassed, as if this is common place and he wanders round his place of employment in the nude every day.
Standing, scanning the room, Sam finds himself thinking that perhaps this is a dream because the last time he checked, the canteen wasn't painted electric pink and didn't have medieval armor hanging from the walls.
Not only does the decorating leave a lot to be desired but the three regular dinner ladie's who attend the officer's every need are dressed in french maid's outfits and throwing lascivious leers in his direction.
Definitely a dream.
Hopefully a dream.
Deciding to go with the flow, Sam heads out the canteen and towards the CID offices.
He's not entirely sure he wants to encounter anyone else on his travels, not if they're dressed like he is. The thought of Ray in his birthday suit makes Sam's insides flip flop around for a good few seconds before he convinces himself that all he has to do if that happens, is will him out of existence.
As Sam pushes through the double doors he contemplates the last thing he remembers and realises that it's a hazy picture of Gene hauling his sorry arse home after yet another failed suicide by alcohol consumption attempt.
The memory of his DCI holding him close enough to taste the Grant's on his breath makes his skin tingle and his cock twitch. Being completely devoid of clothing makes the movement even more noticeable and Sam's glad, not for the first time, that he's alone and dreaming instead of actually wandering the halls of Manchester nick clad in nothing but his imagination.
The squad room's completely empty but he can hear strange sounds coming from Gene's office. Being the nosy brat that he is, Sam can't help taking a quick peek.
Treading ever so carefully, not that his shoeless feet would make much noise, Sam sidles up to the window.
The vision that greets him is one that he's been imagining for months and takes his breath away before he even realises what's going on.
Inside the room, Sam can see a carbon copy of himself being pinned over Gene's huge, untidy desk.
The body pressing him into the cracked varnish is neither svelte nor toned but manages to get a reaction out of Sam none the less.
Gene looks magnificent.
Covered in sweat, panting and arching his back, gripping hold of dream-Sam's throat, he looks perfectly at home fucking his wanton DI into the desk.
Suddenly Sam can feel the left over detritus from a days policing digging into his stomach and Gene's cock sliding effortlessly in and out of his quivering body.
It takes all of Sam's will power not to drop to his knees and cry out.
Not wanting to miss the show, but knowing he's somehow feeling everything his dream self is feeling, Sam slams one hand against the window and begins to slide the other along his already slightly painful cock.
Two sets of sensations rushing along your nerves is mind boggling, to say the least. No sooner does the adrenaline ease off from his own ministrations when dream-Sam feels fantasy-Gene burry himself balls deep and Sam's own legs give out on him.
It's all he can do to stay upright when fantasy-Gene spreads dream-Sam's arse cheeks as wide as he can and slides a finger in alongside his cock.
Pumping into him in tandem, Gene begins to buck his hips as hard as he can and the Sam watching from the outside feels his own hips slip forward in response as if he too has some six foot something man using him as a spring board.
Both Sam's arch their backs and cry out at the same time whilst fantasy-Gene digs his nails in and empties himself inside the now limp body of his DI.
Grabbing the nearest thing to hand, dream-Sam wipes himself clean on Gene's new scarf before scrambling back into his trousers and downing the shot of whiskey still waiting for him on the desk.
Sam, the real Sam, clenches his fist around the head of his cock and judders into his own palm before passing out, narrowly missing hitting his head against the window on his way down.
****
Cracking one eye, Sam groans as he tries to focus on something that's not spinning.
That's the last, the very last time he lets Gene carry him home.
Author: wiccagal_1996
Rating: Brown Cortina.
Words: 1475
Characters: Gene Hunt, Sam Tyler.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam should learn that the answers to life's little questions can't be found at the bottom of a bottle.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine-Simple.
A/N: This is deffo cracktastic but as that was part of the requirement..not a problem =P Sorry it's late, luv.
Written for: Ficathon 2007 for
boiledpotatowho's prompts were: Gene/Sam, Crack!Porn, Scarf. This ended up..intriguing, hope you like hun.
Large, strong, slightly rough hands slide effortlessly beneath Sam's flailing arms and haul him, not unkindly, off the floor. As gravity tries her best to drag him back into oblivion, he lurches sideways and almost takes whoever it is offering their silent support, off their feet.
Despite the fact he's having real issues with double vision and has no clue how he ended up on his arse in the first place, Sam blindly lashes out before registering the tangy scent of old spice and twenty stale Dunhill wafting surreptitiously up his nose.
Once his over taxed brain's made the connection between the familiar smell and the hands holding him upright, he allows himself to be propelled towards the pub door. Stumbling, giggling, and generally making a tit off himself, Sam leans heavily against Gene's chest and hopes for the best as far as staying on his feet is concerned.
Having bypassed 'drunk' about three hours ago, Sam's now well within the realms of seriously pissed and already knows he's going to regret this in the morning, but right now he's enjoying being man handled by the only man to ever try and handle him this way.
Gene Hunt: Neanderthal, knuckle head, nasty piece of work, all round bastard - yet Sam still can't help following his orders, even if it makes his hackles stand on end.
He may be the epitome of the unrepentant, unrestrained, unreconstructed male but something in Gene calls out to something in Sam and he can't stop himself responding.
Sam can feel the heat emanating from his DCI's body, it's permeating his every pore, causing a diar dose of light headedness that he's hoping Gene will simply blame on the alcohol suffusing Sam's system.
Finally they reach the car, and his hard talking boss lets Sam slide gracelessly into the passenger seat before stomping round to his side and throwing himself behind the wheel.
"Gladys, you got no clue what a complete twat you really are, do you?"
Sam's not capable of normal speech patterns right now, so he opts for grunting and praying that Gene's been pissed enough times to speak tongues fluently.
"S'no good tryin' to make out you ain't understandin' me, Tyler. One of these days I ain't gonna be 'ere to pick your sorry arse up an' you'll be stuck sittin' there like a prize turkey with no one to 'elp you"
Gene hammers the car into gear and speeds towards Sam's flat whilst trying to stop his rat arsed DI from collapsing fully into his lap.
As Gene slides the Cortina into the nearest parking space, Sam lands face first in his crotch and has to bite his lip to stop from snaking his tongue across the inviting bulge pressing against his nose. Wouldn't do to try and lick the boss, especially seen as the boss's got six inches, thirty pounds, and an extreme case of homophobia on Sam.
Allowing Gene to push him upright, Sam doesn't catch the heated look or swift readjustment of trousers.
Duck waddling their way into his building, Sam tries to mask his enjoyment at having Gene so close by prattling on about general bollocks.
Eventually, after three attempts, Gene's managed to maneuver Sam up the stairs and into his flat, doing him a kindness along the way by not putting his foot straight through the door but fishing the keys out of Sam's coat pocket instead.
Hovering above the makeshift bed, Gene removes his arms and watches as Sam drops bonelessly to the mattress before chucking the keys on the floor and leaving.
Left alone with his spinning head and unladylike thoughts, with Gene's aftershave still lingering up his nose and the feel of him pressed against his side, Sam drifts off into a fitful slumber.
****
Waking up on the police station canteen floor when you're absolutely positive you were left in a semi comatose state in your shitty flat could be considered disorientating. Even for Sam, who's daily life can be anything up to and including bizarre, this is quite freaky.
It'd give any man a shock, but Sam's doubly worried because he's got a chill in places that should, by rights, be chill free. Looking down at himself he notes with appalled resignation that he's completely naked and wonders how he's managed to get himself into yet another fucked up situation.
What's even more disconcerting is he doesn't actually feel embarrassed, as if this is common place and he wanders round his place of employment in the nude every day.
Standing, scanning the room, Sam finds himself thinking that perhaps this is a dream because the last time he checked, the canteen wasn't painted electric pink and didn't have medieval armor hanging from the walls.
Not only does the decorating leave a lot to be desired but the three regular dinner ladie's who attend the officer's every need are dressed in french maid's outfits and throwing lascivious leers in his direction.
Definitely a dream.
Hopefully a dream.
Deciding to go with the flow, Sam heads out the canteen and towards the CID offices.
He's not entirely sure he wants to encounter anyone else on his travels, not if they're dressed like he is. The thought of Ray in his birthday suit makes Sam's insides flip flop around for a good few seconds before he convinces himself that all he has to do if that happens, is will him out of existence.
As Sam pushes through the double doors he contemplates the last thing he remembers and realises that it's a hazy picture of Gene hauling his sorry arse home after yet another failed suicide by alcohol consumption attempt.
The memory of his DCI holding him close enough to taste the Grant's on his breath makes his skin tingle and his cock twitch. Being completely devoid of clothing makes the movement even more noticeable and Sam's glad, not for the first time, that he's alone and dreaming instead of actually wandering the halls of Manchester nick clad in nothing but his imagination.
The squad room's completely empty but he can hear strange sounds coming from Gene's office. Being the nosy brat that he is, Sam can't help taking a quick peek.
Treading ever so carefully, not that his shoeless feet would make much noise, Sam sidles up to the window.
The vision that greets him is one that he's been imagining for months and takes his breath away before he even realises what's going on.
Inside the room, Sam can see a carbon copy of himself being pinned over Gene's huge, untidy desk.
The body pressing him into the cracked varnish is neither svelte nor toned but manages to get a reaction out of Sam none the less.
Gene looks magnificent.
Covered in sweat, panting and arching his back, gripping hold of dream-Sam's throat, he looks perfectly at home fucking his wanton DI into the desk.
Suddenly Sam can feel the left over detritus from a days policing digging into his stomach and Gene's cock sliding effortlessly in and out of his quivering body.
It takes all of Sam's will power not to drop to his knees and cry out.
Not wanting to miss the show, but knowing he's somehow feeling everything his dream self is feeling, Sam slams one hand against the window and begins to slide the other along his already slightly painful cock.
Two sets of sensations rushing along your nerves is mind boggling, to say the least. No sooner does the adrenaline ease off from his own ministrations when dream-Sam feels fantasy-Gene burry himself balls deep and Sam's own legs give out on him.
It's all he can do to stay upright when fantasy-Gene spreads dream-Sam's arse cheeks as wide as he can and slides a finger in alongside his cock.
Pumping into him in tandem, Gene begins to buck his hips as hard as he can and the Sam watching from the outside feels his own hips slip forward in response as if he too has some six foot something man using him as a spring board.
Both Sam's arch their backs and cry out at the same time whilst fantasy-Gene digs his nails in and empties himself inside the now limp body of his DI.
Grabbing the nearest thing to hand, dream-Sam wipes himself clean on Gene's new scarf before scrambling back into his trousers and downing the shot of whiskey still waiting for him on the desk.
Sam, the real Sam, clenches his fist around the head of his cock and judders into his own palm before passing out, narrowly missing hitting his head against the window on his way down.
****
Cracking one eye, Sam groans as he tries to focus on something that's not spinning.
That's the last, the very last time he lets Gene carry him home.