Fic, Still Want You, Green Cortina, by DorsetGirl
Title: Still Want You
Author: DorsetGirl
Fandom: Life on Mars
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or their universe. BBC/Kudos do. I’m not making any money out of this.
Rating: Green Cortina for light sexing.
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Word Count: 1391
Summary: Gene is still going home to check on Sam every lunch-time.
A/N: Part of the Survival series. Not beta'd, so do shout if you see any errors.
Previously posted: Not The Dark (by dakfinv) / Body & Soul / Watching / Hope / In The Eye Of The Beholder / Breaking Through / Still With Us / Not Just a Cry For Help / Keep Taking the Tablets / Useless / Out to Lunch / Still Want You / Fighting to Survive / Into the Dark / Talk to Me
Still Want You
It starts with a kiss, a gentle reassurance that he’s still your man.
“Lie still, sweetheart,” you murmur, grazing one hand lightly down a weakened thigh. Except you don’t actually say ‘sweetheart’, of course, not that brave yet. Although you’d like to be.
He makes that noise deep in his throat, the one that normally has you rutting fit to burst, unable to hold back. But it’s all different now, got to take it slowly, carefully. Don’t even know if you’ll get there today. Well, you will, that’s what hands are for, a man is never alone, but him? That’s a different story and they haven’t told you the ending yet.
You stop that train of thought. No fears, Gene, whatever you do, don’t show him your fears. Keep the knowledge locked away with the soppy endearments; they can keep each other company deep inside your heart.
You stroke a hand across the knee that doesn’t bend, trying not to be distracted by the way he flinches nervously. Come on, Gene, less thinking if you’re going to do this before your sunshine and rain starts snoring again. You reach down; who’d have thought you’d end up with a man who has what Auntie Mabel used to call ‘a delicately-turned ankle’.
“Gene? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Go back to your knitting.”
But he’s broken the spell now, you can’t spend all afternoon in reverent contemplation of his beauty. Specially when he thinks it’s all lost; battered and broken in body and mind and soul.
You shuffle awkwardly down the bed, absently shoving aside your own pants. He doesn’t think this will work, doesn’t see how you can get it up for what he calls a snivelling twisted wreck, but God, if he knew, if he only knew about the times you hurried painfully out of his room, half crying, half aching, to lean against the cubicle wall and watch the tears drip on your own erection. Stroking it, slowly, tears falling faster until your hopeless sobs turn to gasps and his name on your lips is yearning and hope and triumph, a cry of belief and pain.
Now you dart your tongue at his toes, his sexy, bony toes, and you still want, strangely, to nibble them, God knows why. But the only time you plucked up the courage to try it he laughed so much you retreated in humiliation to the bathroom to toss yourself off in lonely peace.
“Sorry,” he’d said later. “Just reminded me of something in the paper, that’s all. Nothing personal.”
So, no toes. But you kiss the divots on his shins where the steel toe-caps spoke, and the strange marks on his thigh where the madman’s knife danced a twisted jig. With a hand on his perfect arse - thank Christ at least there’s not that to worry about - you run your mouth gently down his cock and he clenches his fists in fear as it twitches momentarily. Moving on, he sobs quietly, once, twice, as your finger traces his hole and pushes gently, then you stroke his muscled stomach in soothing tribute to his courage in letting you do this.
But he’s so convinced it won’t work that it can’t work. His eyes are screwed shut and his perfect mouth tight with apprehension, so you lean forward and run your tongue round the moist pucker, thoughts of his other tight round hole springing your hard-on into full being. Straddling his hips - so carefully - you lick your lips and stare into his face as you hold yourself tight and start moving your hand, slowly.
He takes a shaky breath and opens his eyes, fear flickering and dying as you smile.
“No pressure, Sam. Don’t want to give you any of that ‘performance anxiety’, do we.”
His mouth turns up at the corners, so briefly anyone else would miss it, but you know it’s an acknowledgement, an effort to connect, and your hand keeps moving on your cock, fingers spreading and closing as you measure your words by your rhythm.
“You don’t have to ... do anything, Sam. Just ... I just want you to know, that’s all...”
He looks a question, this man who can do more with his face than most people with a thousand words, though he’s good at those too. But you don’t want a speech right now, it’s the last thing you need when you’re so close already, so you refuse to fall into those tired eyes and you keep talking yourself.
“You’ve got to understand,” you say in your Guv voice - he needs telling; secure handling, not soft soap - “that this is you I’m hard for here. You, with your broken bones and your shrieks of terror in the night and your stupid self-pity shit. You, with your brown eyes, and your silly hair, and your pretty little arse. Just, you, all right? Not some bloody ideal of how you used to be, not some sodding ‘transference’ mumbo-jumbo, but you. Here, now, lying under me.”
“And to prove it, I am going to come all over you. I am going to mark you, and claim you, and show you just how much I still want you.”
Your breath is coming quicker now, and his hips move, so slightly, but you feel it against your thighs and you sit back so if you shift your arse a little you can feel him soft against you. You stroke yourself harder now, and you stare fiercely into his eyes as you fight to stay in control for a few minutes more.
“You’ll get there, Sam. We’ll get there, OK, we bloody well will.”
It’s getting difficult to speak now, and stare, and stroke, and smile, and the thought makes you falter, just for a moment, as it occurs to you that he’s not the only one coming through this a changed man.
“But it’s not ... Gene, I can’t ... “
You lean forward to shut his mouth with a kiss, tongue thrusting hard in time with your cock rutting against him.
“Not today, Sam, OK. Don’t worry about it today. Just ... want to show you ...”
You sit up, rotate your arse briefly against his groin in another move he taught you and now your hips are moving convulsively. The words are harder to find, your right hand moving as your thoughts shatter, and you reach out blindly with your left to tangle his fingers with yours.
And you’re speeding up now, and you’re gripping his hand so hard it hurts, so you look into his eyes and he’s biting his lip again but he has to understand why you’re thrusting so desperately above him when he’s still so ill.
“Want to show you ... oh, God, Sam ... “
And you lose control and your hips jerk and your hands move and it’s a race but it’s got to be the words first and you choke them out, you’re so close now that you can’t stop but the words are there for him, spilling over him as you come.
“... still love you, still want you, still ... oh love, Sam, fuck Sam, Sam!”
And you do, you come all over him, over the burns and the bruises and the knife marks, and across his chest and his nipple and you thrust forward as it all goes black. And when you fall sideways to avoid his shoulder you see the drops on the perfect neck and he smiles as you collapse, panting, your mouth at his ear.
Then you twist a finger lightly in the come at his collar bone and you hold it to his mouth. He licks it, accepts it, taking your finger in gently as he strokes your face. As your breathing slows, he lifts your hand, moving it, holding your gaze.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
You grunt in amusement and relief and exhaustion. “Finally got it, have you?”
He places your hand on his sleepy cock and smiles again.
“I’ve got it, Gene. Go to sleep now.”
You should be heading back to the station, but he doesn’t know that, doesn’t know one day from another yet, so you pull the covers over him and close your eyes as he whispers again.
“Gene. Thank you.”