West Wing FF: The opposite of between the lines (Sam/Toby, NC-17)
Reposting from oxoniensis's Porn Battle VI.
Title: The opposite of between the lines
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Sam/Toby
Rating: NC-17
Length: 653 words
Disclaimer: All belongs to Sorkin and Wells
Spoilers: Set post-series
Summary: Prompt was epistolary, originally here.
The first letter, just the fact of Sam’s handwriting is enough. The paper crinkles like it has been wet and then dried, and Toby imagines Sam writing it on a Californian beach. In his mind, Sam wears jeans and a white t-shirt, inappropriate as that would be for the Junior Senator from California.
A few letters later, the final page is signed, love, Sam, which sends Toby into a tailspin. Something he has said in one of his letters has given him away, but he is always painstakingly careful. He writes only a tiny percentage of what he thinks: criticism of Sam’s new staff, and the language in his last speech, ranting against Toby’s classes and Molly’s dance teacher. Then, Sam has always been good at reading between the lines.
Toby’s reply is even more terse than usual; Sam’s answer seems knowingly amused.
Two after that, Toby is reading at his desk in the faculty office. Three-quarters of the way down a page Sam writes, sometimes I imagine how your beard felt when you sucked my cock. It is in the middle of a paragraph, with no change in handwriting, as though Sam’s thoughts had jumped straight from global warming initiatives to Toby blowing him. Toby rereads the whole letter, but that is the only mention. He gets hard under the desk, the way he has not done since high school, cheeks hot and flushed but no way he can just get up and leave. When his office hours are over, three hours later, he goes straight home and jerks himself off in the shower, imagining Sam’s wet mouth and cursing his name all at once. He leaves a message on Sam’s cell saying, basically, “what the hell?”, but isn’t surprised when he gets no response.
Toby opens the next one at home, on his couch, and gets all the way to the end without needing to stop. He breathes out, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. He turns over the last page. PS. When we kissed, did it always taste of whiskey and smoke, or am I misremembering? Do I taste the same to you? Was it better when you could taste yourself on me, or was that why you never wanted to kiss me after?
When he can breathe again, Toby composes his reply. Sam and smoke together reminds him of victory - the stolen cigar first, the stolen kiss afterwards. He liked too much the taste of himself on Sam’s lips. It made him think of second-times, which he’d never allowed. They had a succession of first times, three by three. One stump, one inauguration and one state of the union. Three more states of the union. One more inauguration, and two goodbyes. Sam’s words were his in a way Sam never was. He answers: ps. No. No. No.
This page arrives alone, without the cover of other words. The handwriting slants more than usual. I’m in bed and you’re. With me. And I know that it’s different because it’s never been in my bed before. You unbutton my shirt and I loosen your tie. You kiss me straight on the mouth and don’t stop until I’m gasping for air and stealing yours. Your hands are covered in ink and leave thumbprints on my hips and my shoulders. I open myself up for you, and you watch, you. Watch me. When I’m ready, you’re hard though I haven’t touched you. You push into me and you’re talking the whole time, just one word over and over.
The letter stops, but Toby doesn’t, making a tight fist from his slicked-up hand and fucking his cock into it. He comes with sunlight behind his eyelids, and the blood where he has bitten his lip reminds him of the times it didn’t taste like victory.
He sends back one piece of paper folded three times. The only word on it is Sam.
FIN
Title: The opposite of between the lines
Fandom: The West Wing
Pairing: Sam/Toby
Rating: NC-17
Length: 653 words
Disclaimer: All belongs to Sorkin and Wells
Spoilers: Set post-series
Summary: Prompt was epistolary, originally here.
The first letter, just the fact of Sam’s handwriting is enough. The paper crinkles like it has been wet and then dried, and Toby imagines Sam writing it on a Californian beach. In his mind, Sam wears jeans and a white t-shirt, inappropriate as that would be for the Junior Senator from California.
A few letters later, the final page is signed, love, Sam, which sends Toby into a tailspin. Something he has said in one of his letters has given him away, but he is always painstakingly careful. He writes only a tiny percentage of what he thinks: criticism of Sam’s new staff, and the language in his last speech, ranting against Toby’s classes and Molly’s dance teacher. Then, Sam has always been good at reading between the lines.
Toby’s reply is even more terse than usual; Sam’s answer seems knowingly amused.
Two after that, Toby is reading at his desk in the faculty office. Three-quarters of the way down a page Sam writes, sometimes I imagine how your beard felt when you sucked my cock. It is in the middle of a paragraph, with no change in handwriting, as though Sam’s thoughts had jumped straight from global warming initiatives to Toby blowing him. Toby rereads the whole letter, but that is the only mention. He gets hard under the desk, the way he has not done since high school, cheeks hot and flushed but no way he can just get up and leave. When his office hours are over, three hours later, he goes straight home and jerks himself off in the shower, imagining Sam’s wet mouth and cursing his name all at once. He leaves a message on Sam’s cell saying, basically, “what the hell?”, but isn’t surprised when he gets no response.
Toby opens the next one at home, on his couch, and gets all the way to the end without needing to stop. He breathes out, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. He turns over the last page. PS. When we kissed, did it always taste of whiskey and smoke, or am I misremembering? Do I taste the same to you? Was it better when you could taste yourself on me, or was that why you never wanted to kiss me after?
When he can breathe again, Toby composes his reply. Sam and smoke together reminds him of victory - the stolen cigar first, the stolen kiss afterwards. He liked too much the taste of himself on Sam’s lips. It made him think of second-times, which he’d never allowed. They had a succession of first times, three by three. One stump, one inauguration and one state of the union. Three more states of the union. One more inauguration, and two goodbyes. Sam’s words were his in a way Sam never was. He answers: ps. No. No. No.
This page arrives alone, without the cover of other words. The handwriting slants more than usual. I’m in bed and you’re. With me. And I know that it’s different because it’s never been in my bed before. You unbutton my shirt and I loosen your tie. You kiss me straight on the mouth and don’t stop until I’m gasping for air and stealing yours. Your hands are covered in ink and leave thumbprints on my hips and my shoulders. I open myself up for you, and you watch, you. Watch me. When I’m ready, you’re hard though I haven’t touched you. You push into me and you’re talking the whole time, just one word over and over.
The letter stops, but Toby doesn’t, making a tight fist from his slicked-up hand and fucking his cock into it. He comes with sunlight behind his eyelids, and the blood where he has bitten his lip reminds him of the times it didn’t taste like victory.
He sends back one piece of paper folded three times. The only word on it is Sam.
FIN