alisso
in
lifein1973
Fic: Kneel, Alisso, Brown Cortina, Sam/Gene
Title: Kneel
Author: alisso
Rating: Brown Cortina
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene
Words: 1806
Summary: Gene's still in charge, even when he isn't...
Author's Notes: So, I was working on something completely different, and this thing sideswiped me out of nowhere. IDEK. Turns out, this could almost be a companion piece to Culture Shock, really, although set much later into the relationship. Similar tone, I think, although a different point of view, and this time the topic is power dynamics, rather than cultural differences.
On those rare occasions Gene can be persuaded to go down on him, Sam is always left with the lingering sense that Gene isn't quite getting into the spirit of the thing.
Though he'd love to get the opportunity to see the great Gene Hunt on his knees in front of him, that never seems to happen. The first time, he took Gene's decision to sit on the bed and make Sam stand as an admission of weakness. A sign of humanity, a chink in the great man's armour. He's under no such illusions now.
Gene can kneel for hours, with no ill effect - has done, kneeling behind him, buried balls deep and thrusting fast and rough, or slow and smooth, till Sam came apart beneath him, aware of nothing but Gene inside him and the fingers digging hard into his hips - but he won't kneel to blow Sam.
So he sits on the bed, tugging Sam close so he has to stand between Gene's sprawling thighs. And he always just looks, to start with.
Again, the first time, Sam made excuses for this. He hasn't done this before, it's new and strange, best to let him get comfortable. Didn't stop him flushing under the intense scrutiny, but he'd thought it would be a one-time thing - beginner's nerves.
He'd been wrong about that, too.
Every time, every single time, Gene examines him intently, face disconcertingly blank. And every, single, time - without the slightest touch - Sam finds himself getting hard under the focussed stare.
And Gene nods, in a satisfied sort of way, and that just makes Sam grind his teeth and bite his tongue and refuse to let his irritation with Gene's infuriating smugness get in the way of one of his all-too-infrequent blowjobs.
Because they're worth a little embarrassment and irritation. Much like Gene himself, really.
For a man who won't accept being called gay, or even bisexual, who won't let himself be fucked (despite not minding at all when Sam uses his fingers or tongue on him), and who gives blowjobs only under great duress, Gene is phenomenally good at them.
Once Sam has hardened under his stare, blushing furiously the whole time, Gene drags him even closer, fingertips tracing up his crack as those large hands curve around his arse to hold him in place (and if Sam's had a fantasy or two about Gene leaving the gloves on for this bit, he's kept it to himself). His fingers flex once or twice, and his face goes blank again, as though he's psyching himself up for what he's about to do.
If it weren't for the tiny hint of a smirk that always appears when his resigned sigh - so close to his aching cock - makes Sam whimper (just a little bit) it'd be easy to mistake his stoic expression for disinterest, or worse, distaste. But Sam knows him, all too well, and he knows that, if nothing else, Gene loves the power the act affords him.
And he certainly isn't lacking in enthusiasm when he does finally get around to it. The man has such a mouth on him, in every sense, and when he takes Sam's cock into that heat and suction and as near as dammit swallows him down, it's all Sam can do to stay standing. No teasing, no more prevaricating, no fannying about, just straight to business once he gets going, and Sam finds himself leaning heavily forward, hands gripping Gene's broad shoulders even more tightly than Gene is gripping his arse (although he can't spare the mental or physical co-ordination to further mimic Gene, whose fingers don't just passively hold him, they practically knead his cheeks, the pressure making his muscles tighten and clench and his hips thrust forward).
Not that Gene isn't capable of being a bastard of a tease, when he wants to be. He just seems to like to make it a surprise. One minute he's practically deep-throating Sam, somehow managing to simultaneously rub his flattened tongue against that particular spot on the underside of Sam's cock, the next there's a rush of cold air and Sam's left gasping like a fish out of water because Gene's pulled off and is just staring at him again. A whine (Sam will have long gone non-verbal by this time) or a moan usually gets him started again, but always slower.
In fact, for a man who seems so disinclined to give a blowjob, Gene always makes a remarkable effort to draw them out as long as possible. Once, Sam's knees actually gave way before he was done, and only those strong hands had kept him even close to upright. But even on nights less spectacular than that, Gene takes his time.
Not always in a teasing way, though. God only knows where he learnt it from, but he's got this thing he can do, that feels incredible, naturally, but that keeps feeling incredible for an astonishingly long time before he starts getting frustrated and desperate. The one time Sam tried to copy the technique, he'd nearly choked on his own tongue, and Gene had told him not to be such a nancy, so he'd given up trying to work out what he was doing, and just kept on enjoying it whenever he got the chance.
Which is definitely not often enough. It can take weeks, sometimes even months, of subtle (and maybe not so subtle) hinting before Gene finally takes it into his head to give Sam what he wants. And there's no rhyme or reason, no pattern to when Gene says yes instead of saying nothing. And Sam's looked for one. Really looked. There may have been tables and charts involved (there would have been more, but it seemed like a lot of effort when the results he had so far showed no discernable pattern - sometimes Sam really misses Excel...).
It's worth the wait, though. And the effort. And the overwhelming sense that Gene winds up simultaneously under the impression that he's just reasserted his dominance over Sam, and that Sam now owes him for the favour he's been given. He's okay with owing Gene for that. And for owing the same favour to Gene. Even if he does have to kneel.
He doesn't even get a choice. Gene brings him off with skill and precision, working his hips for him at the last to encourage him to thrust (always under Gene's control, of course, he doesn't relinquish his grip on Sam's hips), squeezing harder and then he really will swallow, his throat muscles constricting around Sam's cock, his tongue curving around him, drawing out Sam's orgasm whether he's ready for it or not (and he's never sure, can never decide if he wants to moan and gasp and spill down Gene's throat, or whether he wants to stay there, on the edge, engulfed in that amazing sensation for as long as possible) until his body gives way under the onslaught, and he slumps forward, relying on those effortlessly competent hands to stop his fall, gentle his descent and lower him into Gene's embrace while he shudders and pants and gets the feeling back in his extremities.
It always surprises him, a little, such softness from those hands. He knows well their strength, the force of a blow when they're raised in anger, or stern discipline. Knows too the calm, capable touch they bring in the quieter moments of closeness between them. But he never expected this, never expected to feel them stroke down his spine in the most delicate of caresses while he rests in Gene's lap, slumped bodily against him. Or to have them brush through his hair with something that feels like reverence before lifting his chin as Gene draws him into a kiss. It never lasts long, but he treasures these moments. He's actually pretty sure this is his favourite part of getting a blowjob from Gene, and that should probably worry him more than it does.
He never really gets time to savour it, though. As soon as he has his breath back, Gene is pushing him away, off his lap and down to the floor. He's back between Gene's thighs, but this time he's on his knees, and Gene's hands are back in his hair, firm now, and purposeful, directing his mouth towards the more than impressive erection Gene is sporting. And it's somewhere between flattering and reassuring that Gene always gets hard from sucking him off.
But he doesn't have a lot of time to think about that, not while Gene's fingers are sweetly rough against his scalp, and his cock tantalisingly close to his lips, and there's always the faintest hint of a sound - just barely audible over his own slightly ragged breathing - the merest whisper of a plea.
Gene never begs. But that tiny hint of wanting to, that barely murmured suggestion of his desperation, makes Sam's skin burn with the mingled need to force him to say it, and to give him what he can't quite bring himself to ask for. So he always does what he can to encourage both outcomes.
When Sam teases, it's deliberate and with intent. He harbours no secret shame for knowing what he's doing when he kneels in front of Gene, and he sets to work willingly and with great glee. A touch here, a taste there, and he can bring Gene apart.
He loves this. Loves the bitter taste and the musky smell and the weight of Gene heavy against his tongue. Loves the sounds he coaxes out of Gene, and the way his fingers tighten on his skull as he gets close. Loves the aborted thrusts and the way the muscles in his solid thighs bunch and flex under his hands.
Loves beyond all things the knowledge that Gene lets him do this - against all his better instincts and years of societal conditioning - that he wants, needs him to do this. Lets Sam unravel him to the point of no return, and hold him on the edge of desperation.
"Sam!" the please is unspoken, always destined to stay that way, but Sam hears and answers anyway.
He doesn't know how it is, that whenever Gene gives him a blowjob, he's the only one who ends up on his knees. It makes no more sense than anything else that's happened to him since he first walked through the door and wound up slammed into a filing cabinet, bewildered and angry. It's as confusing as the 70s, as baffling as Gene himself. It's almost as insane as stepping off a rooftop...as mad as losing your way and finding a home you never knew you had.
None of it makes any sense whatsoever. And he wouldn't want it to.
Author: alisso
Rating: Brown Cortina
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene
Words: 1806
Summary: Gene's still in charge, even when he isn't...
Author's Notes: So, I was working on something completely different, and this thing sideswiped me out of nowhere. IDEK. Turns out, this could almost be a companion piece to Culture Shock, really, although set much later into the relationship. Similar tone, I think, although a different point of view, and this time the topic is power dynamics, rather than cultural differences.
On those rare occasions Gene can be persuaded to go down on him, Sam is always left with the lingering sense that Gene isn't quite getting into the spirit of the thing.
Though he'd love to get the opportunity to see the great Gene Hunt on his knees in front of him, that never seems to happen. The first time, he took Gene's decision to sit on the bed and make Sam stand as an admission of weakness. A sign of humanity, a chink in the great man's armour. He's under no such illusions now.
Gene can kneel for hours, with no ill effect - has done, kneeling behind him, buried balls deep and thrusting fast and rough, or slow and smooth, till Sam came apart beneath him, aware of nothing but Gene inside him and the fingers digging hard into his hips - but he won't kneel to blow Sam.
So he sits on the bed, tugging Sam close so he has to stand between Gene's sprawling thighs. And he always just looks, to start with.
Again, the first time, Sam made excuses for this. He hasn't done this before, it's new and strange, best to let him get comfortable. Didn't stop him flushing under the intense scrutiny, but he'd thought it would be a one-time thing - beginner's nerves.
He'd been wrong about that, too.
Every time, every single time, Gene examines him intently, face disconcertingly blank. And every, single, time - without the slightest touch - Sam finds himself getting hard under the focussed stare.
And Gene nods, in a satisfied sort of way, and that just makes Sam grind his teeth and bite his tongue and refuse to let his irritation with Gene's infuriating smugness get in the way of one of his all-too-infrequent blowjobs.
Because they're worth a little embarrassment and irritation. Much like Gene himself, really.
For a man who won't accept being called gay, or even bisexual, who won't let himself be fucked (despite not minding at all when Sam uses his fingers or tongue on him), and who gives blowjobs only under great duress, Gene is phenomenally good at them.
Once Sam has hardened under his stare, blushing furiously the whole time, Gene drags him even closer, fingertips tracing up his crack as those large hands curve around his arse to hold him in place (and if Sam's had a fantasy or two about Gene leaving the gloves on for this bit, he's kept it to himself). His fingers flex once or twice, and his face goes blank again, as though he's psyching himself up for what he's about to do.
If it weren't for the tiny hint of a smirk that always appears when his resigned sigh - so close to his aching cock - makes Sam whimper (just a little bit) it'd be easy to mistake his stoic expression for disinterest, or worse, distaste. But Sam knows him, all too well, and he knows that, if nothing else, Gene loves the power the act affords him.
And he certainly isn't lacking in enthusiasm when he does finally get around to it. The man has such a mouth on him, in every sense, and when he takes Sam's cock into that heat and suction and as near as dammit swallows him down, it's all Sam can do to stay standing. No teasing, no more prevaricating, no fannying about, just straight to business once he gets going, and Sam finds himself leaning heavily forward, hands gripping Gene's broad shoulders even more tightly than Gene is gripping his arse (although he can't spare the mental or physical co-ordination to further mimic Gene, whose fingers don't just passively hold him, they practically knead his cheeks, the pressure making his muscles tighten and clench and his hips thrust forward).
Not that Gene isn't capable of being a bastard of a tease, when he wants to be. He just seems to like to make it a surprise. One minute he's practically deep-throating Sam, somehow managing to simultaneously rub his flattened tongue against that particular spot on the underside of Sam's cock, the next there's a rush of cold air and Sam's left gasping like a fish out of water because Gene's pulled off and is just staring at him again. A whine (Sam will have long gone non-verbal by this time) or a moan usually gets him started again, but always slower.
In fact, for a man who seems so disinclined to give a blowjob, Gene always makes a remarkable effort to draw them out as long as possible. Once, Sam's knees actually gave way before he was done, and only those strong hands had kept him even close to upright. But even on nights less spectacular than that, Gene takes his time.
Not always in a teasing way, though. God only knows where he learnt it from, but he's got this thing he can do, that feels incredible, naturally, but that keeps feeling incredible for an astonishingly long time before he starts getting frustrated and desperate. The one time Sam tried to copy the technique, he'd nearly choked on his own tongue, and Gene had told him not to be such a nancy, so he'd given up trying to work out what he was doing, and just kept on enjoying it whenever he got the chance.
Which is definitely not often enough. It can take weeks, sometimes even months, of subtle (and maybe not so subtle) hinting before Gene finally takes it into his head to give Sam what he wants. And there's no rhyme or reason, no pattern to when Gene says yes instead of saying nothing. And Sam's looked for one. Really looked. There may have been tables and charts involved (there would have been more, but it seemed like a lot of effort when the results he had so far showed no discernable pattern - sometimes Sam really misses Excel...).
It's worth the wait, though. And the effort. And the overwhelming sense that Gene winds up simultaneously under the impression that he's just reasserted his dominance over Sam, and that Sam now owes him for the favour he's been given. He's okay with owing Gene for that. And for owing the same favour to Gene. Even if he does have to kneel.
He doesn't even get a choice. Gene brings him off with skill and precision, working his hips for him at the last to encourage him to thrust (always under Gene's control, of course, he doesn't relinquish his grip on Sam's hips), squeezing harder and then he really will swallow, his throat muscles constricting around Sam's cock, his tongue curving around him, drawing out Sam's orgasm whether he's ready for it or not (and he's never sure, can never decide if he wants to moan and gasp and spill down Gene's throat, or whether he wants to stay there, on the edge, engulfed in that amazing sensation for as long as possible) until his body gives way under the onslaught, and he slumps forward, relying on those effortlessly competent hands to stop his fall, gentle his descent and lower him into Gene's embrace while he shudders and pants and gets the feeling back in his extremities.
It always surprises him, a little, such softness from those hands. He knows well their strength, the force of a blow when they're raised in anger, or stern discipline. Knows too the calm, capable touch they bring in the quieter moments of closeness between them. But he never expected this, never expected to feel them stroke down his spine in the most delicate of caresses while he rests in Gene's lap, slumped bodily against him. Or to have them brush through his hair with something that feels like reverence before lifting his chin as Gene draws him into a kiss. It never lasts long, but he treasures these moments. He's actually pretty sure this is his favourite part of getting a blowjob from Gene, and that should probably worry him more than it does.
He never really gets time to savour it, though. As soon as he has his breath back, Gene is pushing him away, off his lap and down to the floor. He's back between Gene's thighs, but this time he's on his knees, and Gene's hands are back in his hair, firm now, and purposeful, directing his mouth towards the more than impressive erection Gene is sporting. And it's somewhere between flattering and reassuring that Gene always gets hard from sucking him off.
But he doesn't have a lot of time to think about that, not while Gene's fingers are sweetly rough against his scalp, and his cock tantalisingly close to his lips, and there's always the faintest hint of a sound - just barely audible over his own slightly ragged breathing - the merest whisper of a plea.
Gene never begs. But that tiny hint of wanting to, that barely murmured suggestion of his desperation, makes Sam's skin burn with the mingled need to force him to say it, and to give him what he can't quite bring himself to ask for. So he always does what he can to encourage both outcomes.
When Sam teases, it's deliberate and with intent. He harbours no secret shame for knowing what he's doing when he kneels in front of Gene, and he sets to work willingly and with great glee. A touch here, a taste there, and he can bring Gene apart.
He loves this. Loves the bitter taste and the musky smell and the weight of Gene heavy against his tongue. Loves the sounds he coaxes out of Gene, and the way his fingers tighten on his skull as he gets close. Loves the aborted thrusts and the way the muscles in his solid thighs bunch and flex under his hands.
Loves beyond all things the knowledge that Gene lets him do this - against all his better instincts and years of societal conditioning - that he wants, needs him to do this. Lets Sam unravel him to the point of no return, and hold him on the edge of desperation.
"Sam!" the please is unspoken, always destined to stay that way, but Sam hears and answers anyway.
He doesn't know how it is, that whenever Gene gives him a blowjob, he's the only one who ends up on his knees. It makes no more sense than anything else that's happened to him since he first walked through the door and wound up slammed into a filing cabinet, bewildered and angry. It's as confusing as the 70s, as baffling as Gene himself. It's almost as insane as stepping off a rooftop...as mad as losing your way and finding a home you never knew you had.
None of it makes any sense whatsoever. And he wouldn't want it to.