life on mars | foreplay
Life on Mars | Sam/Gene | 1400 words | unbeta'd.
Written for jamie_dakin, two steps up from chatsmut. Prompts chosen were wake-up sex, Sam teaching Gene, and light. Check tags for warnings.
Foreplay
It's detestably early when he wakes up, breath coming ragged and loud, toes curling against the sheets and ankles digging into the mattress: there's no hint of sun in the sky.
"What-" he mumbles, thick-tongued with sleep; Sam Tyler places another kiss below his navel and runs his fingers through chest hair. He looks up with a quiet smile, a bit sleepy himself, but nonetheless disconcerting.
"Morning, Guv," he whispers. "Didn't wake you, did I?"
"The deuce you didn't," Gene wants to say, and starts to, but somewhere along the first syllable his breath stutters and all that comes out is a weak grunt. Even that is more subdued than usual: there's a blanket of pre-dawn silence draped over Tyler's flat, painting the arch of his jaw and cheekbones a dusky, hushed blue. Everything is still.
Sam dips down for another kiss, lower this time, and Gene settles back into the bed. There are worse ways to wake up, he supposes, even if next time he'll have to drug Tyler with chloroform so's to do it at a reasonable hour.
A few pleasant moments pass, with Sam doing all sorts of things down under and Gene watching himself harden beneath the sheets. He feels the familiar shiver in his spine, knows it's time to get down to business - but every time he thrusts up, Sam moves away, running hands down his side or over his arse instead.
"Get on with it, then," he says and bumps against Sam meaningfully, but the bastard just mouths at his hip and traces blind patterns over his ribs. It's not bad, granted, but it's hardly the real McCoy. "Oi, are you listening?"
"Yes, Guv," Sam licks a wet stripe down his waist, nuzzles the crook of his thigh. He says something else, but it's muffled between his lips and Gene's skin.
"What was that?"
"I said, don't rush me." He looks up, and there's that odd glint in his eye, the one which always appears right before he starts talking about case files and telly girls and David bleedin' Bowie. "What's wrong with a bit of foreplay?"
Gene stares. "What are you, Barbara Streisand? Stop fooling around, Tyler, you're ruining the moment."
"There is no moment." Sam looks stubborn and raises his head, which is both an ill omen and further removes his mouth from the vicinity of Gene's cock: never a good thing. "This is sex, it's a continuous act."
"No, this is just heavy petting." Gene digs a knee into Sam's crotch, as if to prove a point. "It's for skirts and nonces. But I like my action with a touch of - wait for it - action in it, so feel free to stop dicking around."
"It's not all about intercourse, you know; sex is a psychological and emotional connection between two consenting individuals-"
"For crying out loud, are you going to do it or not?" He reaches over to grab Sam's jaw, fully intending to take matters into his own hands, but at the same time Sam says "You think this is nothing?" and twists his head, biting down on Gene's thumb hard.
"Christ!" He tries to shake Sam off, swearing a blue streak. "What are you, rabid?" But Sam doesn't reply; he's got Gene's knuckle between his teeth, and suddenly he goes all quiet. Gene realizes why a second before Sam's tongue laves at his finger, hot and slick and wet.
"What-" Sam sucks on his finger, genuinely sucks, lips curving and shiny with spit; he's got Gene's whole thumb in his mouth now, palm pressed against his chin and fingers resting against the corner of his jaw. It's obscene, more obscene than actual fellatio, even, precisely because it's not supposed to be.
He feels Sam's tongue pressing under his thumb, pinning it to the roof of his mouth, and his throat's working, swallowing thickly as if he - and it really, really shouldn't feel as good as it does.
"Mmngh," Sam makes a tiny sound, tilting his head; Gene turns his palm, watching as his fingers brush Sam's cheek, running over his lips, heavy and calloused. His thumb slips from Sam's mouth, smearing his chin with spit, and Sam takes two of his fingers instead, easy as bloody anything. Now his mouth is wide, lips stretched open, and when Gene curls a finger and hooks it inside, he bites down a moan.
There's a touch between his legs: Gene looks down, and there is Tyler's hand, twining through his hair, nails running over skin. He's still staring right at Gene, eyes half-lidded and shadowed in the early morning chill, absolutely focused.
Stubbornness is not an attractive quality, Gene knows, but it makes him want to grab Sam by the lapels and slam him against a wall, which is a very attractive quality indeed.
"So it's like this, then," he says in a low voice, thrusting up into Sam's hand. But no, apparently it's not: he just massages the place below Gene's navel, rubbing at the skin and tugging at his pubic hair. It certainly quickens the blood flow, but he always stops just above Gene's cock, pinching the skin right next to the base and driving him mad as a hatter.
If there was one word for Samuel bloody Tyler, it's cockblocker, and no mistake.
"Tyler, you prat."
"Mmph." Sam sucks on his fingers, hard and long, and Gene's hand tightens around his jaw automatically. There's saliva dribbling from his lips, glazing their skin with a cold lacquer and gleaming in the half-dark. The sky is already brightening, bleaching to Manchester grey, and Gene can finally use his sight. He stares straight ahead: Sam looks like he's actually sucking cock, except Gene had never gotten a front-seat view this good, straight in Tyler's face, and it's making him decidedly randy.
Sam is not unaffected: he's rubbing against Gene's thigh, slow and thorough, hips moving in tandem with his breaths. "No fair," Gene's about to say, but Sam's other hand is at his hip, pressing down, when the first slips down to his balls, quick as a fox. And quite suddenly they're in business - Gene trying to move and Sam holding him in place, not touching his cock but touching everything else, deft and skilled and rough exactly as Gene likes it.
It's quicker, now, and they stare at each other, moving in small twitches and reels, spiraling together. Sam's using his teeth and his tongue; he's not even looking down but it still feels brilliant, hard and wet and altogether different. For once, the sight or him is arousing, not just the feel: it's equally effective, if not more, and damn him if his breath isn't coming faster when Sam's hand rubs against his balls, under them, fingers scraping against his perineum and bloody hell-
He feels the heat surge through his stomach, a great white roar, and grits out "Sammy - Christ," Sam understands instantly and takes matters in hand: palm rough against his cock, finally, fingers circling and one, two, he's so close the crest is just a touch away - Gene sucks in a breath and comes just as the first rays of sunlight fracture on the window.
*
When Sam comes down from his own seventh heaven, Gene's already rummaged out a fag, watching the smoke curl above their heads as Sam mutters a soft and tired litany into the shadows of his neck. They've got another 90 minutes before proper rousing time - one advantage to the otherwise daft idea of preceding sunrise - and his DI looks just about ready to use them.
"Still sex, you know." Sam looks up, and Gene blows a thin wisp of smoke at him. "Admit it, Tyler; your 'foreplay' isn't worth a duck's arse."
"What?" He's hilarious when he stares like that, a sort of 'no bloody way' and 'excuse me?' wrapped up in an expression poncy as anything. There's nothing quite so entertaining as prodding Sam Tyler's sensibilities. "I made you come with your fingers in my mouth, how is that not foreplay?"
"Touched my todger, though, didn't you?" Gene smirks. "Sex, then."
"Bollocks; that was purely tactile. I could have gotten you off just as well without."
"Not bloody likely."
"Are you doubting my sexual prowess?" Sam nails him with a mean eye, hackles rising like early morning smog. "D'you want proof?"
"No, I want some shut-eye." He nudges Sam in the ribs and stubs the tab-end out, lets it fall to the floor. "But there'll be other times, Sammy-boy. Don't fidget."
"There better be." Sam nudges him back, harder, and closes his eyes with a sigh. Gene does the same, and floats back into sleep on a billow of smoke and the first Manchester light.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
Written for jamie_dakin, two steps up from chatsmut. Prompts chosen were wake-up sex, Sam teaching Gene, and light. Check tags for warnings.
Foreplay
It's detestably early when he wakes up, breath coming ragged and loud, toes curling against the sheets and ankles digging into the mattress: there's no hint of sun in the sky.
"What-" he mumbles, thick-tongued with sleep; Sam Tyler places another kiss below his navel and runs his fingers through chest hair. He looks up with a quiet smile, a bit sleepy himself, but nonetheless disconcerting.
"Morning, Guv," he whispers. "Didn't wake you, did I?"
"The deuce you didn't," Gene wants to say, and starts to, but somewhere along the first syllable his breath stutters and all that comes out is a weak grunt. Even that is more subdued than usual: there's a blanket of pre-dawn silence draped over Tyler's flat, painting the arch of his jaw and cheekbones a dusky, hushed blue. Everything is still.
Sam dips down for another kiss, lower this time, and Gene settles back into the bed. There are worse ways to wake up, he supposes, even if next time he'll have to drug Tyler with chloroform so's to do it at a reasonable hour.
A few pleasant moments pass, with Sam doing all sorts of things down under and Gene watching himself harden beneath the sheets. He feels the familiar shiver in his spine, knows it's time to get down to business - but every time he thrusts up, Sam moves away, running hands down his side or over his arse instead.
"Get on with it, then," he says and bumps against Sam meaningfully, but the bastard just mouths at his hip and traces blind patterns over his ribs. It's not bad, granted, but it's hardly the real McCoy. "Oi, are you listening?"
"Yes, Guv," Sam licks a wet stripe down his waist, nuzzles the crook of his thigh. He says something else, but it's muffled between his lips and Gene's skin.
"What was that?"
"I said, don't rush me." He looks up, and there's that odd glint in his eye, the one which always appears right before he starts talking about case files and telly girls and David bleedin' Bowie. "What's wrong with a bit of foreplay?"
Gene stares. "What are you, Barbara Streisand? Stop fooling around, Tyler, you're ruining the moment."
"There is no moment." Sam looks stubborn and raises his head, which is both an ill omen and further removes his mouth from the vicinity of Gene's cock: never a good thing. "This is sex, it's a continuous act."
"No, this is just heavy petting." Gene digs a knee into Sam's crotch, as if to prove a point. "It's for skirts and nonces. But I like my action with a touch of - wait for it - action in it, so feel free to stop dicking around."
"It's not all about intercourse, you know; sex is a psychological and emotional connection between two consenting individuals-"
"For crying out loud, are you going to do it or not?" He reaches over to grab Sam's jaw, fully intending to take matters into his own hands, but at the same time Sam says "You think this is nothing?" and twists his head, biting down on Gene's thumb hard.
"Christ!" He tries to shake Sam off, swearing a blue streak. "What are you, rabid?" But Sam doesn't reply; he's got Gene's knuckle between his teeth, and suddenly he goes all quiet. Gene realizes why a second before Sam's tongue laves at his finger, hot and slick and wet.
"What-" Sam sucks on his finger, genuinely sucks, lips curving and shiny with spit; he's got Gene's whole thumb in his mouth now, palm pressed against his chin and fingers resting against the corner of his jaw. It's obscene, more obscene than actual fellatio, even, precisely because it's not supposed to be.
He feels Sam's tongue pressing under his thumb, pinning it to the roof of his mouth, and his throat's working, swallowing thickly as if he - and it really, really shouldn't feel as good as it does.
"Mmngh," Sam makes a tiny sound, tilting his head; Gene turns his palm, watching as his fingers brush Sam's cheek, running over his lips, heavy and calloused. His thumb slips from Sam's mouth, smearing his chin with spit, and Sam takes two of his fingers instead, easy as bloody anything. Now his mouth is wide, lips stretched open, and when Gene curls a finger and hooks it inside, he bites down a moan.
There's a touch between his legs: Gene looks down, and there is Tyler's hand, twining through his hair, nails running over skin. He's still staring right at Gene, eyes half-lidded and shadowed in the early morning chill, absolutely focused.
Stubbornness is not an attractive quality, Gene knows, but it makes him want to grab Sam by the lapels and slam him against a wall, which is a very attractive quality indeed.
"So it's like this, then," he says in a low voice, thrusting up into Sam's hand. But no, apparently it's not: he just massages the place below Gene's navel, rubbing at the skin and tugging at his pubic hair. It certainly quickens the blood flow, but he always stops just above Gene's cock, pinching the skin right next to the base and driving him mad as a hatter.
If there was one word for Samuel bloody Tyler, it's cockblocker, and no mistake.
"Tyler, you prat."
"Mmph." Sam sucks on his fingers, hard and long, and Gene's hand tightens around his jaw automatically. There's saliva dribbling from his lips, glazing their skin with a cold lacquer and gleaming in the half-dark. The sky is already brightening, bleaching to Manchester grey, and Gene can finally use his sight. He stares straight ahead: Sam looks like he's actually sucking cock, except Gene had never gotten a front-seat view this good, straight in Tyler's face, and it's making him decidedly randy.
Sam is not unaffected: he's rubbing against Gene's thigh, slow and thorough, hips moving in tandem with his breaths. "No fair," Gene's about to say, but Sam's other hand is at his hip, pressing down, when the first slips down to his balls, quick as a fox. And quite suddenly they're in business - Gene trying to move and Sam holding him in place, not touching his cock but touching everything else, deft and skilled and rough exactly as Gene likes it.
It's quicker, now, and they stare at each other, moving in small twitches and reels, spiraling together. Sam's using his teeth and his tongue; he's not even looking down but it still feels brilliant, hard and wet and altogether different. For once, the sight or him is arousing, not just the feel: it's equally effective, if not more, and damn him if his breath isn't coming faster when Sam's hand rubs against his balls, under them, fingers scraping against his perineum and bloody hell-
He feels the heat surge through his stomach, a great white roar, and grits out "Sammy - Christ," Sam understands instantly and takes matters in hand: palm rough against his cock, finally, fingers circling and one, two, he's so close the crest is just a touch away - Gene sucks in a breath and comes just as the first rays of sunlight fracture on the window.
*
When Sam comes down from his own seventh heaven, Gene's already rummaged out a fag, watching the smoke curl above their heads as Sam mutters a soft and tired litany into the shadows of his neck. They've got another 90 minutes before proper rousing time - one advantage to the otherwise daft idea of preceding sunrise - and his DI looks just about ready to use them.
"Still sex, you know." Sam looks up, and Gene blows a thin wisp of smoke at him. "Admit it, Tyler; your 'foreplay' isn't worth a duck's arse."
"What?" He's hilarious when he stares like that, a sort of 'no bloody way' and 'excuse me?' wrapped up in an expression poncy as anything. There's nothing quite so entertaining as prodding Sam Tyler's sensibilities. "I made you come with your fingers in my mouth, how is that not foreplay?"
"Touched my todger, though, didn't you?" Gene smirks. "Sex, then."
"Bollocks; that was purely tactile. I could have gotten you off just as well without."
"Not bloody likely."
"Are you doubting my sexual prowess?" Sam nails him with a mean eye, hackles rising like early morning smog. "D'you want proof?"
"No, I want some shut-eye." He nudges Sam in the ribs and stubs the tab-end out, lets it fall to the floor. "But there'll be other times, Sammy-boy. Don't fidget."
"There better be." Sam nudges him back, harder, and closes his eyes with a sigh. Gene does the same, and floats back into sleep on a billow of smoke and the first Manchester light.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.