Fic: Aftermath of the Day - Life on Mars Gene/Sam NC-17
Title: Aftermath of the Day
Rating: Brown Cortina
Pairing: Unrequited Gene/Sam
Word Count: 933
A/N: This was written to take a break from my NaNo story at the suggestion of candesgirl who also kindly gave me the prompt of Gene wanking, always a delicious image. It was a fun break. Unbeta’d.
He pulls the bottle from the drawer, pops out the stopper and pauses as the musty sweet odour fills his nostrils. Shaking hands tip a dram of the amber into the tumbler and raise it to his mouth. His tongue dips into the liquid relishing the caustic burn it offers.
The missus away for a fortnight gives him no reason to go home, no one with whom to share the horror of day. He chooses instead, the comfort of Clint and his office. Raising the glass in salute, he throws the rest of the single-malt down his throat.
“G’night, Guv,” Tyler says, poking his head around the door.
“Tyler?” He holds up his glass.
“Right, a quick one,” Sam smiles that almost reluctant smile as he moves into Gene’s domain.
“You okay then?” Gene asks sliding the bottle across the desk, loath to display his trembling hands.
Sam pours, picks up the glass to swirl the whiskey and stares into it as if it holds the right answer. He shakes his head as if to clear it, smiles and nods before tossing it back.
“Never better,” he says, “and thanks.”
“Me job, init. Take care of our own, we do.”
“Yes, that we do. Well… g’night then.”
He wants to tell him to stay, to order him to stay and make him understand what is happening but the words are caught in his gut, held back by his own confusion. Instead he says “G’night Sam” and releases him to the night.
He kicks the chair out and slumps into it, running trembling fingers through his hair, the images of the day flashing before his eyes.
He’d found him in the abandoned meat plant east of the city, tethered like a slaughtered calf, spread eagle, face against the wall. His trousers had been butchered, cut away in a macabre parody of a pair of chaps. The perverted bastard who’d captured him had an ugly blade to Sam’s throat and was lowering his trousers as Gene walked in. As Sam had suspected, Benton had his greedy eyes on the void left by Warren’s departure. Silently, gun drawn, Gene approached. Sam was not so silent.
“Come on then, give it to me,” he shouted, taunting his captor, “or don’t you have the balls!”
“I’ll give it to you alright detective. That tight little arse is just begging for it,” Benton said.
Before Benton could move to within an inch of Sam, Gene had the gun cocked at the base of his neck.
“If anyone’s going to give it to him, it’ll be me,” Gene growled.
Benton froze and Gene grabbed him around the throat.
“Oh, but Mr. Hunt, he didn’t want you. He wanted me,” Benton hissed through his constricted throat. “Go ahead, ask him.”
With trousers around his knees, Benton had little leverage and Gene easily dropped him. It took all of his reserve to refrain from shooting and knocked him unconscious instead. Gene scrambled to release his DI before anyone else arrived to find him exposed. He tore the trousers from the unconscious body on the floor and threw them to Sam but not before seeing the marks of violence on Sam’s body.
In the solitude of the night, in the aftermath of the day, Gene refills his tumbler. Still shaking, he raises it to his mouth and sips, reflecting on his shame. He remembers the feel of Sam’s skin against his hands as he untied him. He sees the red welts running across his white arse and wants to run his fingers over them to ease the burn. He feels his cock twitch and silently screams denial. He lowers Sam to the ground and can’t help but see his hard shaft that has been scoured against the brick, a testament to Benton’s declaration.
Gene downs the rest of the whiskey trying to drown his twisted ache and throws the glass across the room smashing it against the wall. The ache doesn’t stop and the memories don’t fade. He wants Sam. He needs to paint those welts across him, punish him for making him hard.
He grazes his hand across his groin and he allows a moan to escape knowing no one remains to witness or hear. He hasn’t felt this hard in more time that he cares remember. Bloody Tyler with his tight pants, he thinks, rubbing his hand against his ache. Bloody Tyler strutting up the corridor like he owns the place, he says aloud and unzips himself. Bloody Tyler, with his white arse spread for me, he moans, cupping his balls. Bloody Tyler, looking at me over his shoulder with that smirk, he thinks as he wraps his hand around his cock and pulls.
He sees himself with his cock slicked, head at the tight hole that is begging him to enter. He moves his hand up his shaft, squeezing as he knows Sam’s body would squeeze. He stretches a finger from his balls to his anus, pressing in. Come on Sam, he says. Tell me it’s me you want, he begs in his mind. His hand pulls faster and harder on his cock and he pumps his hips as he hears Sam beg him to fuck him, hears Sam beg him to fill him.
“Oh God, Tyler. What have you done to me?” He shudders as he fucks his hand; the hand that he wishes was his DIs body. His denial spurs him on, knowing that this is the only way he will ever have him and he empties his lungs in concert with his release, pushing hard over and over knowing that in his dream he is spilling himself into his Sam’s body and that there, no one else can have him, ever.