Call it Impulsive, Call it Compulsive (Call it Insane)
Title: Call it Impulsive, Call it Compulsive (Call it Insane)
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: R
Word Count: 975 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene. Title from the Barenaked Ladies song ‘Brian Wilson’. I once again bring PWP that borders on fluff.
Summary: He has the reasoning skills of a particularly incompetent politician. This simultaneously annoys and overjoys Gene, because he thinks that had Sam been able to mount a convincing argument, there’d be no resistance.
Occasionally, Sam will say something so obviously mad, Gene will want to smack him upside the head to get him working right again. Things like, ‘that’s right, I forget they’re not around yet’, and ‘one day, I’m gonna have a flat screen and there won’t be any space for her to climb out’. Tonight, as they sit next to one another in Sam’s shithole of a flat, he says, ‘I really wanna suck your cock’.
And, okay, he’s drunk off his tit and Gene has always thought he was a bit of a Sally Saucypants, but really, he’s asking for trouble.
The worst thing is that Sam may be insane, but, by God, it seems to be contagious.
“Why would you wanna do a thing like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, but also hoping he can distract Sam from pawing at his crotch. Sam’s fingers are warm pressure and promises, and Gene’s will is strong, but not unbreakable.
Sam scrunches up his eyes, trying to think; he’s more than half-cut, he’s three-quarters at least, and this cannot end well.
“I miss it,” he settles on, eventually. “I miss the weight and heat and taste of a long, thick cock against my tongue.”
Gene opens his mouth to respond, but Sam sweeps in for a kiss. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and far too appealing. Sam’s warm against him, smells like booze and tobacco and everything Gene likes. He has to use every ounce of denial in his body to push Sam’s shoulders away.
“I am not a blow-up doll, Tyler. You can’t use me for sex just ‘cause you feel like it.”
Gene lets out a deep breath, shakes his head. These are sentences he never thought he’d have to say.
“I don’t want you just for sex,” Sam says, frowning. “Kissing’s good too.”
He has the reasoning skills of a particularly incompetent politician. This simultaneously annoys and overjoys Gene, because he thinks that had Sam been able to mount a convincing argument, there’d be no resistance. He pries himself out of Sam’s clutching grasp.
“I’m going home. Don’t follow me.”
Thankfully, Sam stays where he is as Gene staggers to the door of the flat, wrenches it open, and makes his way down the corridor into the cool night air.
*
In the morning, Sam looks like shit. Gene sends him out on assignment so that they don’t have to talk. He spends the whole day purposely not thinking about him and what’s bound to be an excruciating scene of remorse, guilt and sexual frustration. By the time Sam arrives back at CID at 4 pm, Gene’s successfully hidden the fact he’s completely packing it.
Sam comes into his office. Gene waits.
“About last night,” Sam says, fiddling with his cuffs. “You were really very noble and I wanted to thank you.”
Well, now. This is good. It’s barely awkward at all. Long as Gene doesn’t say anything stupid, they should be able to get beyond this and never talk about it ever again. Life is good. Gene nods, casting his gaze over the paperwork in his lap. It’s a dismissal he hopes Sam will follow through on.
Sam, of course, doesn’t. “But I thought you should know the offer still stands, if you ever want to take it up.”
“You are mad,” Gene says. He doesn’t even bother to frame it as a question. It’s declarative fact. “What kind of idiot propositions his superior in the middle of the afternoon?”
“The kind that noticed his superior was very much into his propositioning?”
“I am not.”
Sam leans forward on the desk, staring at Gene with dark, assessing eyes. “You were last night.”
“How could you know that? You were blind drunk.”
“Mmm, but not actually blind. And, you know, there are senses other than sight. They were all telling me one thing.” Sam leans closer, lips curving into a smile. “You want this as much as I do.”
Gene’s tongue is too dry and heavy in his mouth. He hates that.
“If I were to agree, what would you be expecting? I don’t do flowers, and don’t much like sharing my curly wurlys.”
Sam’s smile widens, and for the first time in a long time, he looks genuinely joyful. “Guv, I’ve been around you long enough to expect the unexpected.”
“What about the Spanish Inquisition?”
Sam chuckles at this. “Come, now, Gene, that was just lazy. Can’t you stall less obviously?”
Gene shifts in his chair, decidedly uncomfortable. “Not really, no.”
He can’t think of any other defence. The arguments, ‘this is a bad, bad idea’, and, ‘you’re a typewriter short of a return key’ mean very little to him at this stage. His mind has started presenting him with mental imagery of Sam on his knees before him, pink full lips stretched wide around his cock, short hair tousled because Gene has to grip on tight. He pictures Sam’s fingers scrabbling against his thighs, as he takes control, thrusting with abandon.
Sam’s eyelids flutter, his expression transforms into wariness. “If I have actually misread the situation…” he starts. Gene doesn’t let him finish.
Gene pushes up from his chair and grabs Sam’s sleeve, pulling him towards the door.
“What’re you doing?”
“You’re looking famished. You didn’t have any lunch, did you, DI Tyler?”
“No. No, I didn’t. I’ve been collecting witness statements all day. Now that you mention it, I am pretty hungry.”
“Ravenous, I’d say,” Gene insists. “So much so you look like you could do with a bit of fruit and nut.”
Sam smirks. “Thought you didn’t do chocolates?”
“I don’t.”
Occasionally, Sam will say something so obviously mad, Gene will want to smack him upside the head to get him working right again. Today, Gene’s positive there’s nothing he could do to stop his insanity. And, weirdly enough, he doesn’t much care.
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: R
Word Count: 975 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene. Title from the Barenaked Ladies song ‘Brian Wilson’. I once again bring PWP that borders on fluff.
Summary: He has the reasoning skills of a particularly incompetent politician. This simultaneously annoys and overjoys Gene, because he thinks that had Sam been able to mount a convincing argument, there’d be no resistance.
Occasionally, Sam will say something so obviously mad, Gene will want to smack him upside the head to get him working right again. Things like, ‘that’s right, I forget they’re not around yet’, and ‘one day, I’m gonna have a flat screen and there won’t be any space for her to climb out’. Tonight, as they sit next to one another in Sam’s shithole of a flat, he says, ‘I really wanna suck your cock’.
And, okay, he’s drunk off his tit and Gene has always thought he was a bit of a Sally Saucypants, but really, he’s asking for trouble.
The worst thing is that Sam may be insane, but, by God, it seems to be contagious.
“Why would you wanna do a thing like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, but also hoping he can distract Sam from pawing at his crotch. Sam’s fingers are warm pressure and promises, and Gene’s will is strong, but not unbreakable.
Sam scrunches up his eyes, trying to think; he’s more than half-cut, he’s three-quarters at least, and this cannot end well.
“I miss it,” he settles on, eventually. “I miss the weight and heat and taste of a long, thick cock against my tongue.”
Gene opens his mouth to respond, but Sam sweeps in for a kiss. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and far too appealing. Sam’s warm against him, smells like booze and tobacco and everything Gene likes. He has to use every ounce of denial in his body to push Sam’s shoulders away.
“I am not a blow-up doll, Tyler. You can’t use me for sex just ‘cause you feel like it.”
Gene lets out a deep breath, shakes his head. These are sentences he never thought he’d have to say.
“I don’t want you just for sex,” Sam says, frowning. “Kissing’s good too.”
He has the reasoning skills of a particularly incompetent politician. This simultaneously annoys and overjoys Gene, because he thinks that had Sam been able to mount a convincing argument, there’d be no resistance. He pries himself out of Sam’s clutching grasp.
“I’m going home. Don’t follow me.”
Thankfully, Sam stays where he is as Gene staggers to the door of the flat, wrenches it open, and makes his way down the corridor into the cool night air.
*
In the morning, Sam looks like shit. Gene sends him out on assignment so that they don’t have to talk. He spends the whole day purposely not thinking about him and what’s bound to be an excruciating scene of remorse, guilt and sexual frustration. By the time Sam arrives back at CID at 4 pm, Gene’s successfully hidden the fact he’s completely packing it.
Sam comes into his office. Gene waits.
“About last night,” Sam says, fiddling with his cuffs. “You were really very noble and I wanted to thank you.”
Well, now. This is good. It’s barely awkward at all. Long as Gene doesn’t say anything stupid, they should be able to get beyond this and never talk about it ever again. Life is good. Gene nods, casting his gaze over the paperwork in his lap. It’s a dismissal he hopes Sam will follow through on.
Sam, of course, doesn’t. “But I thought you should know the offer still stands, if you ever want to take it up.”
“You are mad,” Gene says. He doesn’t even bother to frame it as a question. It’s declarative fact. “What kind of idiot propositions his superior in the middle of the afternoon?”
“The kind that noticed his superior was very much into his propositioning?”
“I am not.”
Sam leans forward on the desk, staring at Gene with dark, assessing eyes. “You were last night.”
“How could you know that? You were blind drunk.”
“Mmm, but not actually blind. And, you know, there are senses other than sight. They were all telling me one thing.” Sam leans closer, lips curving into a smile. “You want this as much as I do.”
Gene’s tongue is too dry and heavy in his mouth. He hates that.
“If I were to agree, what would you be expecting? I don’t do flowers, and don’t much like sharing my curly wurlys.”
Sam’s smile widens, and for the first time in a long time, he looks genuinely joyful. “Guv, I’ve been around you long enough to expect the unexpected.”
“What about the Spanish Inquisition?”
Sam chuckles at this. “Come, now, Gene, that was just lazy. Can’t you stall less obviously?”
Gene shifts in his chair, decidedly uncomfortable. “Not really, no.”
He can’t think of any other defence. The arguments, ‘this is a bad, bad idea’, and, ‘you’re a typewriter short of a return key’ mean very little to him at this stage. His mind has started presenting him with mental imagery of Sam on his knees before him, pink full lips stretched wide around his cock, short hair tousled because Gene has to grip on tight. He pictures Sam’s fingers scrabbling against his thighs, as he takes control, thrusting with abandon.
Sam’s eyelids flutter, his expression transforms into wariness. “If I have actually misread the situation…” he starts. Gene doesn’t let him finish.
Gene pushes up from his chair and grabs Sam’s sleeve, pulling him towards the door.
“What’re you doing?”
“You’re looking famished. You didn’t have any lunch, did you, DI Tyler?”
“No. No, I didn’t. I’ve been collecting witness statements all day. Now that you mention it, I am pretty hungry.”
“Ravenous, I’d say,” Gene insists. “So much so you look like you could do with a bit of fruit and nut.”
Sam smirks. “Thought you didn’t do chocolates?”
“I don’t.”
Occasionally, Sam will say something so obviously mad, Gene will want to smack him upside the head to get him working right again. Today, Gene’s positive there’s nothing he could do to stop his insanity. And, weirdly enough, he doesn’t much care.