Fun With Sand
Once again, I am going to blame messers Mumble and Mutter for this. They post evil, manipulative, pretty, pretty pictures. And then they encourage me. I hate them both, by which I mean: thank you for pimping me in to this fandom. I am having far too much fun.
So yes. Daniel and Sam and oral under the cut.
“You,” one of Daniel’s ex-girlfriends once said, “are a shallow, militant lesbian. I mean it, Danny. There’s metrosexual and then there’s being a complete woman in the wardrobe department.”
Daniel had tried to explain to her that dressing well was important; he had to uphold an image, and couldn’t possibly do that if she had melted the front of his red shirt. She’d laughed and told him he was even worse than she’d thought. He likes to think she’d be proud if she saw him now: Sam has stolen his new jacket, worn it to a Radiohead gig of all places, and then allowed someone to burn a hole through the left cuff. But he doesn’t care. It’s a cigarette burn, he thinks. A very neat, round hole, with smooth, plastic-like edges where the layers of fabric have fused together. If he looks closely, he can see a dark circle of skin through it. He can see the back of Sam’s hand through a hole in his new, recently stolen suit jacket, and he doesn’t care. She (was it Carla? or maybe Anne, he can never remember) would definitely be impressed.
She’d also probably be a little freaked out, because a large part of the reason that Daniel doesn’t care is the fact that Sam’s hands are resting on his thighs, in the crease of his hips, and they’re exerting a light but insistent pressure which lets Daniel know that, no matter how much he wants to, bucking his hips now would be a really, really bad idea. Not that he has any intention of moving. Thrusting up while Sam’s in mid-deep-throat is probably a little too impolite even for him. So he’s gripping the edge of his chair and pushing himself back and counting down from one hundred in sevens because the only thing that could be more embarrassing than choking his friend during oral is coming this soon into it. So he thinks about his exes and his jacket and tries to ignore the fact that Sam’s tongue is fucking double jointed or something, because it should not be able to do that, there, like that, that many times.
Possibly he’s not being as quiet as he thought he was.
Sam pulls back, raises his head and, still sucking on the tip of Daniel’s cock, shoots him a look that’s all dark eyes and damp skin before he (in a move which Daniel thinks is completely unfair) slips one hand down his trousers and starts stroking himself in a slow, steady rhythm.
Daniel goes back to one hundred and tries to remember how to count.
So yes. Daniel and Sam and oral under the cut.
“You,” one of Daniel’s ex-girlfriends once said, “are a shallow, militant lesbian. I mean it, Danny. There’s metrosexual and then there’s being a complete woman in the wardrobe department.”
Daniel had tried to explain to her that dressing well was important; he had to uphold an image, and couldn’t possibly do that if she had melted the front of his red shirt. She’d laughed and told him he was even worse than she’d thought. He likes to think she’d be proud if she saw him now: Sam has stolen his new jacket, worn it to a Radiohead gig of all places, and then allowed someone to burn a hole through the left cuff. But he doesn’t care. It’s a cigarette burn, he thinks. A very neat, round hole, with smooth, plastic-like edges where the layers of fabric have fused together. If he looks closely, he can see a dark circle of skin through it. He can see the back of Sam’s hand through a hole in his new, recently stolen suit jacket, and he doesn’t care. She (was it Carla? or maybe Anne, he can never remember) would definitely be impressed.
She’d also probably be a little freaked out, because a large part of the reason that Daniel doesn’t care is the fact that Sam’s hands are resting on his thighs, in the crease of his hips, and they’re exerting a light but insistent pressure which lets Daniel know that, no matter how much he wants to, bucking his hips now would be a really, really bad idea. Not that he has any intention of moving. Thrusting up while Sam’s in mid-deep-throat is probably a little too impolite even for him. So he’s gripping the edge of his chair and pushing himself back and counting down from one hundred in sevens because the only thing that could be more embarrassing than choking his friend during oral is coming this soon into it. So he thinks about his exes and his jacket and tries to ignore the fact that Sam’s tongue is fucking double jointed or something, because it should not be able to do that, there, like that, that many times.
Possibly he’s not being as quiet as he thought he was.
Sam pulls back, raises his head and, still sucking on the tip of Daniel’s cock, shoots him a look that’s all dark eyes and damp skin before he (in a move which Daniel thinks is completely unfair) slips one hand down his trousers and starts stroking himself in a slow, steady rhythm.
Daniel goes back to one hundred and tries to remember how to count.