TITLE: Who's the King Now?
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: PG-13
POSTED: Feb. 13, 2004
SUMMARY: Wherein Dan gives up the throne.
NOTES: Pure, silly, unbeta'd beginning-of-smut. Written on the sly in the middle of the day for an extremely bored Celli who wanted football, couch, smut. And no offense intended to either Jets or Dolphins fans, but c'mon. Who else was I going to pick on? Buffalo?
DISCLAIMER: Wouldn't want to be Sorkin, even if it were possible. Read.

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They'd been fooling around for hours -- a teasing hand here during a repeat commercial, a whispered suggestion there after the announcers made a particularly inane call. But about ten minutes into halftime, Dan almost lost his grip on the neck of his beer bottle when the condensation, slippery by nature, got more than a little help from Casey's mouth closing hot and wet over Dan's thumb.

"Oh, shit, that's..." Dan shut his eyes to block out the sight and ordered the rest of his fingers to close tighter around the glass. Casey started sucking, drawing gentle-hard-long, and Dan gasped, "Casey, man, you've got to stop."

"Hmm?"

Darkness was not helping. Jeez, why'd he teach Casey that little tongue maneuver...ohhh, yeah. Dan snapped his eyes open in time to see as well as feel Casey's lips slide off the thumb, then purse to blow a puff of warm air. Dan shivered.

"You really want me to stop?" Casey asked. A man shouted the merits of a large red truck in the background, but Dan was fixated in Casey's smug smile. "I thought you didn't care about the 'over-analysis of two bottom-dwelling teams.'"

"I only said--" Dan cleared his throat and transferred the bottle to his other hand before he tried again. "No. But unless you want to be wearing the beer, it might be a good idea to let me put this down."

"Wouldn't you clean it off me?"

Dan's brain stuttered to a halt, caught by the dark heat in Casey's eyes as much as the picture his words drew. "Um..." So much for his title as the king of smut-talk. Maybe they'd keep him around as king-emeritus.

Casey snagged the beer out of Dan's hand, and Dan glanced at the television as the music blared, signaling the start of the second half. Then Casey tipped the bottle, a cold stream of liquid dampened Dan's jeans, and Casey started licking as Dan's head fell back against the couch cushions.

If Casey had decided this was the afternoon to flex his take-charge muscles, a December Jets-Dolphins faceoff just wasn't going to measure up.

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