ficlet: Who'd Have Known
Who'd Have Known
Rated R
Sam/Daniel
Sam is soft and smells good and her mouth is open underneath his, her tongue surprisingly wicked as she kisses him. Her hands are on his chest, her fingers curling into his sweater. He’s touching her, too. He can’t really help it - it’s been so long since he’s had a woman pressed up against him and he’s obsessed with the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
“Sam.” He groans her name. Her mouth is fastening onto his neck now and this is really, really not fair. He’s the sober one and he’s supposed to be the one that everyone trusts to get her home safe, but they don't know. God, do they ever not know. He’s supposed to be tucking her into bed chastely. He's not supposed to be grinding his hard on against her hip as they exchange sloppy, hot-as-fuck kisses in her front doorway.
“Daniel.” She pulls back and grins. He’s never seen that expression on her face before; it’s arousal, he realizes, with a healthy dose of amusement and, of course, a good deal of alcohol exerting its influence. But he gets stuck on the first before he chooses to acknowledge the second... the little, thoroughly male voice in the back of his head absolutely thrumming with pride because she’s beautiful and she’s in his arms and she’s turned on because of the way he’s kissing her and touching her.
“No, no, no.” He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again. He forces himself to look at her - really look, see past the red open lips and flash of tongue. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, the makeup over her eyes smeared from rubbing hands. He sighs deeply and then pushes her away with firm pressure to her upper arms. “Look, you’re really drunk right now, but just - call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” She starts to frown and he can see the hint of something entirely too vulnerable, entirely too much at odds with the good soldier routine she puts on every day. He is equally thrilled and intimidated by this crack in her armor. She’s never hidden herself from him, but this side of her is definitely nothing she’s ever advertised, either.
He grabs her hand and pulls her back toward him just a little bit. He kisses her on the mouth again, tasting tequila and the faint tang of citrus. “I’m serious. Call me in the morning. Or I’ll call you. Either way, there will be some... calling. I'll come over. Make you breakfast. You like omelets, right? I can... I'm... rambling. I'm gonna shut up and go now, but just - call me.”
She smiles and something inside of him starts to twist. Is it really this easy? Has it really happened this fast? A handful of kisses and he’s falling in love. Or maybe it’s all the little looks and smiles that eased the way over the past weeks, months, years.
He turns his back to her because as far as leaving goes, it’s kind of a now or never moment. He could all too easily let himself get swayed by her gorgeous smile and his neglected libido, but if he’s going to do this then he’s going to do it right. He comforts himself with thoughts of omelets.
Rated R
Sam/Daniel
Sam is soft and smells good and her mouth is open underneath his, her tongue surprisingly wicked as she kisses him. Her hands are on his chest, her fingers curling into his sweater. He’s touching her, too. He can’t really help it - it’s been so long since he’s had a woman pressed up against him and he’s obsessed with the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
“Sam.” He groans her name. Her mouth is fastening onto his neck now and this is really, really not fair. He’s the sober one and he’s supposed to be the one that everyone trusts to get her home safe, but they don't know. God, do they ever not know. He’s supposed to be tucking her into bed chastely. He's not supposed to be grinding his hard on against her hip as they exchange sloppy, hot-as-fuck kisses in her front doorway.
“Daniel.” She pulls back and grins. He’s never seen that expression on her face before; it’s arousal, he realizes, with a healthy dose of amusement and, of course, a good deal of alcohol exerting its influence. But he gets stuck on the first before he chooses to acknowledge the second... the little, thoroughly male voice in the back of his head absolutely thrumming with pride because she’s beautiful and she’s in his arms and she’s turned on because of the way he’s kissing her and touching her.
“No, no, no.” He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again. He forces himself to look at her - really look, see past the red open lips and flash of tongue. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, the makeup over her eyes smeared from rubbing hands. He sighs deeply and then pushes her away with firm pressure to her upper arms. “Look, you’re really drunk right now, but just - call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” She starts to frown and he can see the hint of something entirely too vulnerable, entirely too much at odds with the good soldier routine she puts on every day. He is equally thrilled and intimidated by this crack in her armor. She’s never hidden herself from him, but this side of her is definitely nothing she’s ever advertised, either.
He grabs her hand and pulls her back toward him just a little bit. He kisses her on the mouth again, tasting tequila and the faint tang of citrus. “I’m serious. Call me in the morning. Or I’ll call you. Either way, there will be some... calling. I'll come over. Make you breakfast. You like omelets, right? I can... I'm... rambling. I'm gonna shut up and go now, but just - call me.”
She smiles and something inside of him starts to twist. Is it really this easy? Has it really happened this fast? A handful of kisses and he’s falling in love. Or maybe it’s all the little looks and smiles that eased the way over the past weeks, months, years.
He turns his back to her because as far as leaving goes, it’s kind of a now or never moment. He could all too easily let himself get swayed by her gorgeous smile and his neglected libido, but if he’s going to do this then he’s going to do it right. He comforts himself with thoughts of omelets.