Ficathon 2008, Everyday I Die, candesgirl, brown cortina
Title: Everyday I Die
uthor: candesgirl
Characters: Sam, implied Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 1133
Disclaimer: Sadly, this never happenned. Just me having some fun!
Original Prompt: Angsty!Sam masturbation, Voyeur!Gene, Brown Cortina (Like anyone thought I might pick anything else???)
A/N: Big fat hugs and kisses to severinne for the beta and for gobs of encouragement and to dragonlit for coming up with a prompt for my prompt, haha. The title of the fic is taken from Gary Numan's Everyday I Die, which is indeed about masturbation, and indeed we know that Sam is a Gary Numan fan, so yay! Also, a certain pair of gloves makes a shameless appearance here, I promise they weren't harmed...too much ;)
It’s the smell that does him in every time, that lingering essence of Gene, a unique combination of smoke and whiskey and musk that settles on Sam’s skin, clinging like a desperate lover. It’s both oddly and wrongly intoxicating, this heady tang; it unnerves and excites him in irrational ways, causes the pooled heat in his belly to creep over him in a feverish manner, extending to all his limbs until it settles thick and hot between his legs.
He parts his legs wide as he can within the confines of denim and car, one knee knocking into the glove compartment, popping it open and spilling its contents. Worn leather driving gloves tumble to the floor, landing in a small heap of half empty flasks and food wrappers, glistening like the rarest black diamond. Sam bends forward to retrieve them, scooping them up delicately, as if they were made of some breakable thing and brings them to his nose to inhale deeply. He tries in vain to will away this particular itch, looking for some sort of darkness or peace behind closed eyes that do nothing but betray him, instead serving up lewd, Technicolor images of all the things he’d like Gene to do to him, particularly with these gloves on.
He opens his eyes, cracks the window and looks all around, keen copper senses making sure he is well and truly alone, checking his watch and noting the pub still has half an hour till closing, half an hour till Gene rejoins what was supposed to be a stakeout. He bites his lip, choking on the taste of shame welling up inside of him, this side that wants such things. Groaning in spite of himself, he slowly drags each slip of leather down over his fingers, fastening the material as tight as he can around his wrists. The gloves, he notes with a sharp intake of breath, are too big for him, stretched to custom fit hands longer, thicker than his own, and his thoughts immediately move on to other longer and thicker parts of Gene’s body.
His eyes are closed again, this time not willing away those images from before but welcoming them, even relying on them, recalling just how many times he’s felt the heat of this same leather against his body, by way of swift, closed fist punches. Memories or maybe fantasies start to flood his mind, thoughts of Gene’s leather wrapped fingers lingering a touch too long, his body forced up against Sam’s harsher than it has to be, his undeniable arousal stiff and hot against Sam for just those few seconds. Sam is swallowing hard, this time not against shame but against a moan that demands escape as one of his own leather bound fingers move delicately over his crotch and the other slips itself inside his mouth, adding a layer of taste to the melange of texture and smell assaulting his already over stimulated senses.
He is too caught up in the moment to notice the figure stumbling towards the car.
He moves the finger in his mouth tentatively at first, probing gently against his own lips and tongue until the notion that Gene might not be so tender comes to mind. He kicks things up a notch or three, the hand at his crotch digging in to fist around himself best he can over his jeans and the finger in his mouth serving as a replacement for parts of Gene Sam can’t imagine might ever really be in his mouth. His tongue drags over the leather of his middle finger, slow and wet, up and down and up and back down again until he is moving quicker, scraping his teeth over the smooth fabric before biting down, knowing if he keeps this up he’ll come right then and there, in his pants like some sort of undersexed, inexperienced school boy. He needs to slow down, to enjoy every minute, every second of this wanton fantasy, not something he allows himself often in this strange place called 1973.
His fingers scratch against the denim, over the strained fabric until they pop a button, down the zip and free him from the pleasantly painful confinement of his too tight jeans. A loud, sharp hiss leaves him as the cool air drifting in the window wraps itself around his heated length. He thinks to close the window again, sure that he is too loud for this quiet street, sure that someone might hear him but he abandons what little coherency he has left when he feels the soft, supple and worn down leather against his bare, sensitive flesh, when he has a flash of a particularly lewd image of Gene in this same position, this same car, with these same gloves, palming the same warm, buttery fabric against his own cock, maybe thinking vulgar thoughts about Sam.
He is too far gone to see Gene rush in at the sound of his shriek, to see the look on Gene’s face when he realizes Sam isn’t in trouble, that the sound isn’t one of distress. He doesn’t see Gene reach for the door only to quickly stop and slink back into the shadows, unseen yet with a front row seat for the show.
The need to slow down is shoved aside in favour of a tight grip around himself as he pumps in and out of his fist, the dry leather causing a heated, almost stinging friction. It hurts just like Gene would hurt him, and he lets it go on, continues to thrust up into one tight fisted hand, against that friction and heat. He spits into his other hand, uses his tongue to spread the wetness around the palm of the glove and up into the crevices of the fingers. He can taste Gene there on the gloves and suddenly has never felt the need to mark something more. He needs to come all over this leather, all over this part of Gene and then he is no longer thrusting against dry friction, but into wet heat, groaning out loud, not caring anymore if anyone can hear him, not caring about anything except the images in his head, the thought of Gene and his gloves upon him and that building pressure in his groin.
He snaps, finally, head thrown back, eyes shut and bucking his hips with abandon, whimpering Gene’s name until it’s nothing but a whisper and he opens his eyes, staring down at the beautiful mess in his hands. The stark white of his release against the deep black of the leather catches his eye before he is distracted by movement outside the car. He stills, breathes deeply before twisting in his seat, watching as the familiar figure in tan camel hair walks away.
uthor: candesgirl
Characters: Sam, implied Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 1133
Disclaimer: Sadly, this never happenned. Just me having some fun!
Original Prompt: Angsty!Sam masturbation, Voyeur!Gene, Brown Cortina (Like anyone thought I might pick anything else???)
A/N: Big fat hugs and kisses to severinne for the beta and for gobs of encouragement and to dragonlit for coming up with a prompt for my prompt, haha. The title of the fic is taken from Gary Numan's Everyday I Die, which is indeed about masturbation, and indeed we know that Sam is a Gary Numan fan, so yay! Also, a certain pair of gloves makes a shameless appearance here, I promise they weren't harmed...too much ;)
It’s the smell that does him in every time, that lingering essence of Gene, a unique combination of smoke and whiskey and musk that settles on Sam’s skin, clinging like a desperate lover. It’s both oddly and wrongly intoxicating, this heady tang; it unnerves and excites him in irrational ways, causes the pooled heat in his belly to creep over him in a feverish manner, extending to all his limbs until it settles thick and hot between his legs.
He parts his legs wide as he can within the confines of denim and car, one knee knocking into the glove compartment, popping it open and spilling its contents. Worn leather driving gloves tumble to the floor, landing in a small heap of half empty flasks and food wrappers, glistening like the rarest black diamond. Sam bends forward to retrieve them, scooping them up delicately, as if they were made of some breakable thing and brings them to his nose to inhale deeply. He tries in vain to will away this particular itch, looking for some sort of darkness or peace behind closed eyes that do nothing but betray him, instead serving up lewd, Technicolor images of all the things he’d like Gene to do to him, particularly with these gloves on.
He opens his eyes, cracks the window and looks all around, keen copper senses making sure he is well and truly alone, checking his watch and noting the pub still has half an hour till closing, half an hour till Gene rejoins what was supposed to be a stakeout. He bites his lip, choking on the taste of shame welling up inside of him, this side that wants such things. Groaning in spite of himself, he slowly drags each slip of leather down over his fingers, fastening the material as tight as he can around his wrists. The gloves, he notes with a sharp intake of breath, are too big for him, stretched to custom fit hands longer, thicker than his own, and his thoughts immediately move on to other longer and thicker parts of Gene’s body.
His eyes are closed again, this time not willing away those images from before but welcoming them, even relying on them, recalling just how many times he’s felt the heat of this same leather against his body, by way of swift, closed fist punches. Memories or maybe fantasies start to flood his mind, thoughts of Gene’s leather wrapped fingers lingering a touch too long, his body forced up against Sam’s harsher than it has to be, his undeniable arousal stiff and hot against Sam for just those few seconds. Sam is swallowing hard, this time not against shame but against a moan that demands escape as one of his own leather bound fingers move delicately over his crotch and the other slips itself inside his mouth, adding a layer of taste to the melange of texture and smell assaulting his already over stimulated senses.
He is too caught up in the moment to notice the figure stumbling towards the car.
He moves the finger in his mouth tentatively at first, probing gently against his own lips and tongue until the notion that Gene might not be so tender comes to mind. He kicks things up a notch or three, the hand at his crotch digging in to fist around himself best he can over his jeans and the finger in his mouth serving as a replacement for parts of Gene Sam can’t imagine might ever really be in his mouth. His tongue drags over the leather of his middle finger, slow and wet, up and down and up and back down again until he is moving quicker, scraping his teeth over the smooth fabric before biting down, knowing if he keeps this up he’ll come right then and there, in his pants like some sort of undersexed, inexperienced school boy. He needs to slow down, to enjoy every minute, every second of this wanton fantasy, not something he allows himself often in this strange place called 1973.
His fingers scratch against the denim, over the strained fabric until they pop a button, down the zip and free him from the pleasantly painful confinement of his too tight jeans. A loud, sharp hiss leaves him as the cool air drifting in the window wraps itself around his heated length. He thinks to close the window again, sure that he is too loud for this quiet street, sure that someone might hear him but he abandons what little coherency he has left when he feels the soft, supple and worn down leather against his bare, sensitive flesh, when he has a flash of a particularly lewd image of Gene in this same position, this same car, with these same gloves, palming the same warm, buttery fabric against his own cock, maybe thinking vulgar thoughts about Sam.
He is too far gone to see Gene rush in at the sound of his shriek, to see the look on Gene’s face when he realizes Sam isn’t in trouble, that the sound isn’t one of distress. He doesn’t see Gene reach for the door only to quickly stop and slink back into the shadows, unseen yet with a front row seat for the show.
The need to slow down is shoved aside in favour of a tight grip around himself as he pumps in and out of his fist, the dry leather causing a heated, almost stinging friction. It hurts just like Gene would hurt him, and he lets it go on, continues to thrust up into one tight fisted hand, against that friction and heat. He spits into his other hand, uses his tongue to spread the wetness around the palm of the glove and up into the crevices of the fingers. He can taste Gene there on the gloves and suddenly has never felt the need to mark something more. He needs to come all over this leather, all over this part of Gene and then he is no longer thrusting against dry friction, but into wet heat, groaning out loud, not caring anymore if anyone can hear him, not caring about anything except the images in his head, the thought of Gene and his gloves upon him and that building pressure in his groin.
He snaps, finally, head thrown back, eyes shut and bucking his hips with abandon, whimpering Gene’s name until it’s nothing but a whisper and he opens his eyes, staring down at the beautiful mess in his hands. The stark white of his release against the deep black of the leather catches his eye before he is distracted by movement outside the car. He stills, breathes deeply before twisting in his seat, watching as the familiar figure in tan camel hair walks away.