Battle lines, brownish-red Cortina, maybe reddish-brown, by fawsley (Sam/Gene)
Title: Battle lines
Author: fawsley
Rating: Brownish-red Cortina, maybe reddish-brown
Pairing(s): Sam/Gene
Warnings: sex, slash and swearing
Word Count: Whitehall 1212
Disclaimer: all the property of BBC and Kudos
Author Notes: My first LOM fic and damned difficult to write it was too. Having been churning out LoTR FPS and RPS for ages - and is there such a thing as LOM RPS?! - writing in a new fandom is like time-travelling back to struggling with my first ever fic years ago. Best to get it done and under my belt, then hopefully things can only get better.
Battle lines
At least the Guv has the grace not to break down Sam’s new front door. Not this time, anyway. For now he’s brandishing a bottle of wine in one hand, a cigar in the other and swaggering his way inside with a particularly smug look upon his face.
‘Guv? What is it? We got a shout or something?’
‘Warming party, Sammy! I’m here for the house-warming party, see that yer christen yer new flat properly.’
‘There is no party’ Sam sighs, following in the wake of an invasion into what only moments earlier was his own very personal, very peaceful territory.
Thirty seconds, perhaps less, and already Sam can feel his temper flaring. Within two minutes he’ll probably be hitting incandescent rage. Strange how only Gene ever seems to be able to push all the right buttons in the right order to get him there.
‘It’s a party now the Gene Genie’s here!’
The announcement is accompanied by a dramatic gesture of the cigar, scattering ash across the new carpet.
‘Better open that bottle, let it warm up.’
Sam stares in disbelief at the garish label.
‘Blue Nun? Bloody hell…’
‘Not a bad little place yer’ve got yerself here. More than one room this time, anyroad. What happens down here?’
One minute and rising.
Sam heads for the kitchen, determined to lose the Liebfraumilch and hopefully not his temper along with it. Gene, meanwhile, makes further infiltrations.
‘Ha! Decent sized bed at last! You and the plonk broken it in yet?’
Sam slams his fists down on the work surface, making all his neatly arranged spice jars leap to attention.
‘Annie…’ he growls, screwing up his face in determination to contain his anger, ‘Annie Cartwright is a valued friend and a respected colleague and nothing more, though I can’t expect a sexist bigot such as yourself to ever grasp that concept.’
Gene is suddenly in the kitchen with him, all cat that got the cream without a whisker out of place.
‘So she doesn’t ring yer bells or blow yer whistle then. Chris more yer type? Bloody hell! Don’t tell me it’s Ray for Christ’s sake!’
Two minutes, almost to the second.
‘Who I see and what sex they may or may not be is of absolutely no bloody concern of yours.’
Sam’s shaking with rage, breathing fast and shallow, vein at his temple throbbing.
‘And I do not have to take this sort of shit in my own home…’
But Sam’s punch is caught mid-air by a lightning-fast reaction, the offending fist and attendant arm twisted up behind his back and pinned there by Gene’s weight, as is their owner against the wall.
‘No. You’re right. You don’t have to take it. Not in yer own home. But I can’t say that I’m too keen to be doin’ it down the station in front of the rest of the team.’
Gene’s voice in his ear is little more than a purr, and one that to Sam’s horror appears to know a direct route to his cock, bypassing both brain and common sense. He’s spun around to find the Guv as close in as he had been on far too many previous occasions, but now, this time, with the words still reverberating around his brain, far too close for any sort of comfort. Especially where his jeans are concerned.
‘Yer see, Tyler, findin’ yer handcuffed to that bed is a vision that’s been disturbingly difficult to eradicate from me memory.’
Flipped about and slammed back against the wall, faced with the looming bulk of his DCI exuding testosterone and possible violence in fairly equal bucketfuls, why the hell is Sam more aroused now than he’s been for, shit, for at least, well, forever?
‘Always something wrong with it though, Tyler. Want to know what it is?’
Any articulation gone awol out of fear, Sam is reduced to a confused shaking and nodding of the head, knowing that he’s going to learn the answer whatever response he attempts.
‘What’s wrong, Tyler, is that yer legs aren’t slung over me shoulders and yer not moanin’ me name whilst I’m balls deep inside yer. That’s what’s wrong. An’ I get the feelin’ you won’t be averse to helpin’ me put it right.’
For all that Gene has got him where Sam can’t fight back, the threat has gone out of his voice, a voice that’s deeper and warmer and, God damn it, downright sexier than Sam has ever heard it before. And there’s absolutely no point in either of them trying to hide the fact that they’re both hard as hell right now.
‘Guv, don’t, please don’t…’
But then Gene lunges forward and sucks on Sam’s trembling lower lip and it’s nothing like anything he ever had - or ever could have - imagined. Gene’s got him and he knows it, uses the moment to manhandle Sam from kitchen to bedroom and onto the bed in a skilled and fluid movement that somehow suspects never get to experience. They certainly don’t get to be kissed into submission as Sam is right now and, all things considered, probably never will.
It’s no doubt some sort of hysteria that makes Sam start laughing so hard. At first he thinks Gene will hit him but instead all he gets is a querying lift of the eyebrows.
‘How did you know? I wasn’t even admitting it to myself.’
‘Yer forget who yer dealin’ with here, Sammy-boy. The Ge...’
‘The Gene Genie. Yeah, yeah. I know.’
He dares trace Gene’s mouth with a finger, mesmerised by his own action, whimpers a little as the fingertip is caught and worried by seriously sharp teeth.
‘Thought you were going to rape me,’ he whispers.
‘And I think you are confusing the copper with the Casanova, Sammy-boy!’
But before Sam can roar at that one he’s drowning in Gene’s mouth again, fingers making quick work of the buttons and belts and zips of all concerned. How many minutes it is now he has absolutely no idea and it really doesn’t matter any more.
‘But this doesn’t change a thing,’ his boss hisses as he sinks slowly into him for the first time, pausing to allow Sam to adjust to the intrusion, holding him so tight with piercing blue-green eyes as much as by strong hands gripping hips.
‘You’re still a jumped-up snotty-nosed little know-it-all nancy-boy poof of a subordinate and I’m your bastard DCI who’ll slam you up against the wall and beat the crap out of you when you don’t toe the line. Whatever else happens, those battle lines are drawn and they don’t move. Understood?’
‘Everything else about my life here is screwed up. Makes sense this is too.’
Gene just grins, feels that Sam’s ready for him now, begins to thrust into a more than welcoming body.
Sam gasps as Gene hits his prostate, happy to let any remaining shreds of sanity dissolve and disappear in the glorious explosive heat of being invaded by Gene Hunt, doesn’t even realise when he makes right what was wrong before.
Surfacing later amidst a tangle of sheets, limbs, and a seemingly comatose DCI, it takes him a while to wonder why, of all things, he’s thinking about football on Christmas Day.
Author: fawsley
Rating: Brownish-red Cortina, maybe reddish-brown
Pairing(s): Sam/Gene
Warnings: sex, slash and swearing
Word Count: Whitehall 1212
Disclaimer: all the property of BBC and Kudos
Author Notes: My first LOM fic and damned difficult to write it was too. Having been churning out LoTR FPS and RPS for ages - and is there such a thing as LOM RPS?! - writing in a new fandom is like time-travelling back to struggling with my first ever fic years ago. Best to get it done and under my belt, then hopefully things can only get better.
Battle lines
At least the Guv has the grace not to break down Sam’s new front door. Not this time, anyway. For now he’s brandishing a bottle of wine in one hand, a cigar in the other and swaggering his way inside with a particularly smug look upon his face.
‘Guv? What is it? We got a shout or something?’
‘Warming party, Sammy! I’m here for the house-warming party, see that yer christen yer new flat properly.’
‘There is no party’ Sam sighs, following in the wake of an invasion into what only moments earlier was his own very personal, very peaceful territory.
Thirty seconds, perhaps less, and already Sam can feel his temper flaring. Within two minutes he’ll probably be hitting incandescent rage. Strange how only Gene ever seems to be able to push all the right buttons in the right order to get him there.
‘It’s a party now the Gene Genie’s here!’
The announcement is accompanied by a dramatic gesture of the cigar, scattering ash across the new carpet.
‘Better open that bottle, let it warm up.’
Sam stares in disbelief at the garish label.
‘Blue Nun? Bloody hell…’
‘Not a bad little place yer’ve got yerself here. More than one room this time, anyroad. What happens down here?’
One minute and rising.
Sam heads for the kitchen, determined to lose the Liebfraumilch and hopefully not his temper along with it. Gene, meanwhile, makes further infiltrations.
‘Ha! Decent sized bed at last! You and the plonk broken it in yet?’
Sam slams his fists down on the work surface, making all his neatly arranged spice jars leap to attention.
‘Annie…’ he growls, screwing up his face in determination to contain his anger, ‘Annie Cartwright is a valued friend and a respected colleague and nothing more, though I can’t expect a sexist bigot such as yourself to ever grasp that concept.’
Gene is suddenly in the kitchen with him, all cat that got the cream without a whisker out of place.
‘So she doesn’t ring yer bells or blow yer whistle then. Chris more yer type? Bloody hell! Don’t tell me it’s Ray for Christ’s sake!’
Two minutes, almost to the second.
‘Who I see and what sex they may or may not be is of absolutely no bloody concern of yours.’
Sam’s shaking with rage, breathing fast and shallow, vein at his temple throbbing.
‘And I do not have to take this sort of shit in my own home…’
But Sam’s punch is caught mid-air by a lightning-fast reaction, the offending fist and attendant arm twisted up behind his back and pinned there by Gene’s weight, as is their owner against the wall.
‘No. You’re right. You don’t have to take it. Not in yer own home. But I can’t say that I’m too keen to be doin’ it down the station in front of the rest of the team.’
Gene’s voice in his ear is little more than a purr, and one that to Sam’s horror appears to know a direct route to his cock, bypassing both brain and common sense. He’s spun around to find the Guv as close in as he had been on far too many previous occasions, but now, this time, with the words still reverberating around his brain, far too close for any sort of comfort. Especially where his jeans are concerned.
‘Yer see, Tyler, findin’ yer handcuffed to that bed is a vision that’s been disturbingly difficult to eradicate from me memory.’
Flipped about and slammed back against the wall, faced with the looming bulk of his DCI exuding testosterone and possible violence in fairly equal bucketfuls, why the hell is Sam more aroused now than he’s been for, shit, for at least, well, forever?
‘Always something wrong with it though, Tyler. Want to know what it is?’
Any articulation gone awol out of fear, Sam is reduced to a confused shaking and nodding of the head, knowing that he’s going to learn the answer whatever response he attempts.
‘What’s wrong, Tyler, is that yer legs aren’t slung over me shoulders and yer not moanin’ me name whilst I’m balls deep inside yer. That’s what’s wrong. An’ I get the feelin’ you won’t be averse to helpin’ me put it right.’
For all that Gene has got him where Sam can’t fight back, the threat has gone out of his voice, a voice that’s deeper and warmer and, God damn it, downright sexier than Sam has ever heard it before. And there’s absolutely no point in either of them trying to hide the fact that they’re both hard as hell right now.
‘Guv, don’t, please don’t…’
But then Gene lunges forward and sucks on Sam’s trembling lower lip and it’s nothing like anything he ever had - or ever could have - imagined. Gene’s got him and he knows it, uses the moment to manhandle Sam from kitchen to bedroom and onto the bed in a skilled and fluid movement that somehow suspects never get to experience. They certainly don’t get to be kissed into submission as Sam is right now and, all things considered, probably never will.
It’s no doubt some sort of hysteria that makes Sam start laughing so hard. At first he thinks Gene will hit him but instead all he gets is a querying lift of the eyebrows.
‘How did you know? I wasn’t even admitting it to myself.’
‘Yer forget who yer dealin’ with here, Sammy-boy. The Ge...’
‘The Gene Genie. Yeah, yeah. I know.’
He dares trace Gene’s mouth with a finger, mesmerised by his own action, whimpers a little as the fingertip is caught and worried by seriously sharp teeth.
‘Thought you were going to rape me,’ he whispers.
‘And I think you are confusing the copper with the Casanova, Sammy-boy!’
But before Sam can roar at that one he’s drowning in Gene’s mouth again, fingers making quick work of the buttons and belts and zips of all concerned. How many minutes it is now he has absolutely no idea and it really doesn’t matter any more.
‘But this doesn’t change a thing,’ his boss hisses as he sinks slowly into him for the first time, pausing to allow Sam to adjust to the intrusion, holding him so tight with piercing blue-green eyes as much as by strong hands gripping hips.
‘You’re still a jumped-up snotty-nosed little know-it-all nancy-boy poof of a subordinate and I’m your bastard DCI who’ll slam you up against the wall and beat the crap out of you when you don’t toe the line. Whatever else happens, those battle lines are drawn and they don’t move. Understood?’
‘Everything else about my life here is screwed up. Makes sense this is too.’
Gene just grins, feels that Sam’s ready for him now, begins to thrust into a more than welcoming body.
Sam gasps as Gene hits his prostate, happy to let any remaining shreds of sanity dissolve and disappear in the glorious explosive heat of being invaded by Gene Hunt, doesn’t even realise when he makes right what was wrong before.
Surfacing later amidst a tangle of sheets, limbs, and a seemingly comatose DCI, it takes him a while to wonder why, of all things, he’s thinking about football on Christmas Day.