Fic: Saturday Morning in the Park by nepthys_uk, slash, Brown Cortina
Title: Saturday Morning in the Park
Author: nepthys_uk
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 800 approx.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Kudos and the BBC. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Notes: Just a bit of harmless blokey fluff inspired by the arrival of summer here in England, and the recent splendid top!Sam fic on this comm. Not beta’ed; all concrit welcome.
ETA: There is now a sequel: Saturday Morning at Home
Its hot today.
And although its not too hot sitting out in the sun, watching those daft buggers running about after a football is enough to make him long for a cold beer.
Gene snorts to himself. Cold beer. That’s Tyler’s fault, that is. Gene would never have dreamed of chilling beer in the fridge but it works, bizarre at it may seem. Which sums up Sam quite nicely, now that he thinks about it.
He squints into the sun, watching Sam dart forward, fast and sure-footed. He has a good turn of speed, that lad, arms and legs pumping as he sprints past Ray.
Gene rustles his newspaper. Best not to think too closely about Sam’s arms and legs. Or about pumping, for that matter. Otherwise he’ll just start thinking about what they could be doing this morning, at home in bed instead of out here in the park, and then Chris’s socks won’t be the only things at half-mast.
Chris falls over just then, and Sam side-steps him neatly, all dextrous control and economical movements.
He’s not like that in bed. Well, he is very co-ordinated, but its not about control or economy. No; he fucks with absolute abandon, does Sam Tyler. One of the many interesting things (including the cold beer) Gene has discovered in the last few months.
Barry tries to tackle him but is left far behind as Sam accelerates towards the makeshift goal. Gene shifts on the hard park bench, partly to rearrange himself, and partly to relieve the strange ache in his arse.
He wonders if he’s supposed to feel different this morning. Can’t say he does, though.
Ray brings Sam down with a particularly rough and highly illegal tackle, and for a moment Gene considers intervening, seeing as how he’s the referee. Sam is looking over to him for a ruling, but Gene just waves his hand for them to carry on. They’re going to have to be prepared to play rough against RCS next weekend to stand any chance of winning. Sam scowls but picks himself up and gets back into the game.
Always so expressive, Sam. Not so much a case of wearing his heart on his sleeve but his feelings on his face. Makes him fascinating to watch. And easy to beat at poker.
Not that he saw much of Sam’s face last night.
On the field he’s got the ball again, working his way forward with a look of fierce determination like a bloody terrier after a rat.
On your knees will be easier for the first time, Sam had said.
Hmpf. Easy wasn’t how he’d have described it, as he’d moved into a position he never thought he’d find himself in, telling himself the shaking was just from excitement. And Sam pushing into him - Christ, that had been strange. Almost as strange as when he’d finally pulled out.
Once they’d got going, though, that was bloody brilliant. Nothing weird about that at all: just lust and arousal and Sam. Sam over him and in him; and Gene had closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of slickness and sliding skin, the smell of sweat and sex.
Gene’s head jerks up as he hears shouting and he realises he was so far away he’s just missed a goal being scored. By Tyler, judging by the way they are all slapping him on the back.
He shakes himself. Right. Time for a bit of a team talk, Gene Genie style.
He gets up and calls them all round, studiously ignoring the fact that Sam is right next to him, sweating and breathing heavily. Instead, he cuffs Chris over the head when he asks for orange wedges and gives them all a good yelling at for being a bunch of girls who couldn’t beat the local Guide troop on a good day. He sees Sam smirk and yells at him for hogging the ball and not being a team player, and sends them all back onto the field for another fifteen minutes under strict orders to stop playing like half-blind geriatrics who need Zimmer frames.
And as he sits carefully back down on the bench Gene catches Sam looking at him and sees a gleam in his eye he’s come to recognise. A heated look of promise and desire. He swallows, suddenly glad of the concealing newspaper.
Yes, he decides. Next time he wants to be able to see those eyes. While they’re, you know, doing it. And for a moment he regrets pushing them all so hard: wearing Sam out on the football field isn’t such a good idea, after all. But the look Sam had given him suggested that ‘next time’ would be sooner rather than later, so perhaps later this afternoon, despite the twinge in his arse, they’ll do it again.
Face-to-face, this time.
But for now Gene sits back in the sun and watches.