One Dream On Repeat. [1/1]
Title :: One Dream On Repeat
Fandom :: NFL:RPS
Pairing :: Sam Bradford//Danny Amendola
Rating :: PG
Summary :: They’ve been sleeping together for over two months, been teammates for almost four times as long as that, and Danny still doesn’t know what Sam’s favorite color is.
Warnings :: Bittersweetness and subtle angst.
Word Count :: 442
Notes :: Established relationship. You have to watch this video before you read. Title taken from a line in "Mowgli's Road" by Marina & the Diamonds.
They’ve been sleeping together for over two months, been teammates for almost four times as long as that, and Danny still doesn’t know what Sam’s favorite color is.
The thought stops him dead in his tracks, and he feels the soft, questioning brush of fingertips over his bare shoulder when Sam steps past him, slipping gracefully between Danny’s body and the wall into the kitchen.
“Sam,” he begins, notices the way the taller man stiffens ever so slightly before he relaxes, and on anyone else it would be suspicious, but not for Sam.
Never for Sam.
“Yeah?” is the quiet response after a few seconds of silence, the growing curls on Sam’s head moving when he looks up from the counter, and Danny steps forward and pushes a hand through those curls just because he can.
Sam tilts his head into the touch, dark eyelashes fluttering to cover even darker eyes, and Danny’s momentarily distracted by the long column of Sam’s throat, tan skin pulled tightly over the dips and grooves of his neck.
Danny’s breath catches in his chest when he slides his hand down to press his thumb softly into the pulse point under Sam’s jaw, the other man’s breath hitching this time, and Danny is suddenly struck by how beautiful Sam is.
“What’s your favorite color?” he whispers, as if afraid to break the silence that had enveloped them, and anyone else might have laughed, might have shook their head and asked him, “What the hell kind of question is that?”
But Sam doesn’t.
Instead, his chest collapses when he breathes out, pulse almost comatose slow under the pad of Danny’s thumb, and he opens his eyes to look down at Danny, the few inches between them suddenly feeling like so much more, and Danny almost feels sick.
“Burnt orange,” Sam answers, voice airy and distant, and there’s a peculiar smile twitching on his mouth, too much teeth and not enough lips and it looks like it hurts more than anything.
Danny feels this strange sense of vertigo, of aching confusion, like he’s missing out on some big inside joke, and it’s like someone punched him in the chest.
“Yours is seafoam green, even though you tell everyone it’s red.” Sam laughs softly, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and that snaps Danny out of it. He looks up, hand now cupped around the back of Sam’s neck, and there’s no trace of that painful smile on Sam’s face anymore.
“You know me so well,” Danny murmurs, and then drags Sam down for a kiss that the taller man submits to easily.
The subject doesn’t come up again.
Fandom :: NFL:RPS
Pairing :: Sam Bradford//Danny Amendola
Rating :: PG
Summary :: They’ve been sleeping together for over two months, been teammates for almost four times as long as that, and Danny still doesn’t know what Sam’s favorite color is.
Warnings :: Bittersweetness and subtle angst.
Word Count :: 442
Notes :: Established relationship. You have to watch this video before you read. Title taken from a line in "Mowgli's Road" by Marina & the Diamonds.
They’ve been sleeping together for over two months, been teammates for almost four times as long as that, and Danny still doesn’t know what Sam’s favorite color is.
The thought stops him dead in his tracks, and he feels the soft, questioning brush of fingertips over his bare shoulder when Sam steps past him, slipping gracefully between Danny’s body and the wall into the kitchen.
“Sam,” he begins, notices the way the taller man stiffens ever so slightly before he relaxes, and on anyone else it would be suspicious, but not for Sam.
Never for Sam.
“Yeah?” is the quiet response after a few seconds of silence, the growing curls on Sam’s head moving when he looks up from the counter, and Danny steps forward and pushes a hand through those curls just because he can.
Sam tilts his head into the touch, dark eyelashes fluttering to cover even darker eyes, and Danny’s momentarily distracted by the long column of Sam’s throat, tan skin pulled tightly over the dips and grooves of his neck.
Danny’s breath catches in his chest when he slides his hand down to press his thumb softly into the pulse point under Sam’s jaw, the other man’s breath hitching this time, and Danny is suddenly struck by how beautiful Sam is.
“What’s your favorite color?” he whispers, as if afraid to break the silence that had enveloped them, and anyone else might have laughed, might have shook their head and asked him, “What the hell kind of question is that?”
But Sam doesn’t.
Instead, his chest collapses when he breathes out, pulse almost comatose slow under the pad of Danny’s thumb, and he opens his eyes to look down at Danny, the few inches between them suddenly feeling like so much more, and Danny almost feels sick.
“Burnt orange,” Sam answers, voice airy and distant, and there’s a peculiar smile twitching on his mouth, too much teeth and not enough lips and it looks like it hurts more than anything.
Danny feels this strange sense of vertigo, of aching confusion, like he’s missing out on some big inside joke, and it’s like someone punched him in the chest.
“Yours is seafoam green, even though you tell everyone it’s red.” Sam laughs softly, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and that snaps Danny out of it. He looks up, hand now cupped around the back of Sam’s neck, and there’s no trace of that painful smile on Sam’s face anymore.
“You know me so well,” Danny murmurs, and then drags Sam down for a kiss that the taller man submits to easily.
The subject doesn’t come up again.