Liam’s up first on Sunday morning and once again cuts his run short, this time with the intention of getting back and showered before Sam even drags himself out of bed. It’s not that Sam’s not perfectly capable of rising and shining when it’s called for at a con—especially when there’s breakfast on offer—but his kids are still young enough that the opportunity to sleep in, when it presents itself, is never turned down.
Aside from that, Sam looks peaceful. Sometimes he’s mouth-gaping and snoring, and Liam loves him then; right now he’s just breathing quietly, not a snore to be heard, and Liam loves him now.
He takes the pumps into the bathroom, wears them while he showers, the pull of the suction given extra warmth by the water. He takes them off when he towels off and sets them out on a washcloth to air dry; he doesn’t think any water got inside but it can’t hurt to be sure. Digging into the bag from the sex shop again, he finds the next thing that he bought: hip-hugging shiny green satin underwear trimmed with lace. Miles away from his usual choice of undergarment. Liam’s reasonably sure that flashing Sam a peek or two at these is going to either turn him on beyond reason, or end with Sam rolling on the floor in fits of laughter and Liam’s face red as raspberries.
Making sure he’s thoroughly dry, Liam steps into the unfamiliar underwear. They fit him rather well, save for the obvious bulge at the front. His jeans are next, before he takes up the razor to shave. Nothing is particularly pressing him to be scruffy at the moment, and he thinks as Sam’s wife it’s only fair to be clean-shaven. Not everywhere, though; he’s done that before and the prickle of the regrowth is just not worth it.
“Honey, are you almost done? I need to pee.”
Liam finishes up, blots a single dot of blood from his chin, and steps out into the bedroom. “All yours, darling.”
Sam kisses him briefly in passing, eyeing him appreciatively: apparently being barefoot and shirtless in only jeans suits him. That and his still-hard nipples. Then Sam remembers his need to pee and closes the door behind himself. They’ve done all sorts of things with and to one another, but it’s still nice to maintain some semblance of privacy at times.
Liam finishes dressing, putting on a Decemberists t-shirt that, while not actually white, still shows off his dark hard nipples more than a black one would. They’ll be less noticeable within an hour or so, but he’ll just do like he did yesterday and use the pumps again whenever he gets the chance.
He calls home in this rare moment of quiet just to check in on his family; the phone gets passed around the breakfast table and by the end of the call he has warm fuzzy feelings and also a request to check the dealers’ hall for several minis.
“Are you really going out there like that?” Sam asks when he’s done.
Liam looks down at himself. “I was planning to put on shoes…”
Sam plants a hand on this chest, flicks a thumb over Liam’s nipple, and Liam lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak. “You’d better be careful.” His tone is possessive, and so is the arm that slips around Liam’s waist. “There might be men out there who can’t keep their eyes off you… or more than their eyes.” He pulls Liam close against him. “Nobody else is getting their hands on my wife,” he adds, and Liam actually goes a little weak at the knees when they kiss.
“I wish you could put a ring on it,” he says, mouth still half on Sam’s.
“Darling, if only I could.”
*
Their schedules have them more or less apart for most of the day—signings don’t count as there is zero privacy—aside from a Critical Role panel in the afternoon that’s going to be livestreamed on Twitch, for which Mary will be joining them, exponentially increasing the chance of innuendo.
This means that when Liam gets up from the breakfast table he makes a point of stretching so the hem of his t-shirt rides up and hitches his jeans back up over the hint of green at his waist. He doesn’t need to be looking at Sam to know Sam’s watching the movement of his hands, but he is; Sam’s eyes go wide and there’s clearly something ticking over in his mind, but before he can blurt anything out Liam leaves the table.
His phone buzzes not thirty seconds later.
What are you up to?
Hitting the dealers’ hall before I have to sit and sign for two hours.
Not what I meant.
Do you need any minis?
LIAM
Just clarify for me, is that a no?
ASSHOLE
I don’t think they have asshole minis.
The thought occurs to Liam a minute later that he should not have googled “asshole minis”, but by then he’s reading through Amazon reviews of a product that bills itself as a “mini anus male masturbator” with the same kind of horrified curiosity as he reads virtually any thread on Reddit. He closes the page, then reopens the browser and wipes its history. If Sam—actually, if anyone—thinks he’s got any intention of owning a chunk of poorly reviewed silicone to jerk off with, then he’ll never hear the end of it, and there are already too many things in his life that he doesn’t hear the end of.
It’s impossible to browse the dealers’ hall incognito, but most people have the nous and respect to let him be. He buys a fanart print, a couple of stickers and enamel pins for the kids, and has no luck with any of the minis that they asked about. He does find a honey badger mini and promptly buys it for Brian.
His volunteer handler for the day tracks him down fifteen minutes before he’s due to do signings and berates him gently the whole time she’s walking him to the signing tables for going off on his own. Liam offers her an apology and a hug, both of which she accepts before settling him in with four different colored Sharpies, a stack of prints (mostly Vax, some official Illidan art, and one rather disturbing one from Sagas where he looks barely conscious in a bathtub—still not the weirdest print he’s seen), and two bottles of water.
The line is already forming and the table beside him is vacant. He can sense Sam behind him though, waiting behind the long line of temporary walling that gives the guests a way to move around the con without elbowing through the crowds.
Sam predictably pops out thirty seconds after the signing is meant to start, grinning enormously, getting a laugh from the line. His handler looks faux-exasperated and puts his hand firmly on Sam’s head, reaching up exaggeratedly to push Sam down into his seat.
As usual they’re on adjacent tables close enough for anyone who wants signing with both of them to go easily from one to the other, but far enough apart not to touch each other, not even the idle brush of fingers while handing over a Sharpie or somesuch.
This of course does not prevent Liam from doing his utmost to torment the hell out of Sam. Unnecessary stretching across the table for requested hugs to let his t-shirt ride up and flash skin and green, slipping words of innuendo into conversation that the congoers won’t pick up on but Sam will, and in a brief moment of mad genius spilling a good ounce of water down his front in an elaborate spittake to something not all that funny—just enough to make his white t-shirt cling to his skin.
By the time the two hours are up and they get backstage, Sam’s riled up enough to grab Liam by the front of his shirt and slam him up against the temporary walling so hard it shudders.
“You. Are. Evil,” he says right in Liam’s face.
Liam looks one way, Sam looks the other, and when they’ve established nobody else is around there’s a kiss that’s messy, teeth-clashing, and hot. Sam even gets a hand under Liam’s t-shirt, pinching his nipple, making Liam gasp into Sam’s open mouth, before Mary pulls them apart. Fortunately her handler is still on the other side of the wall, packing up the table.
“You horny idiots,” she says fondly. “Either go up to your room and get this out of your systems, or calm the fuck down.”
“Are you saying we’re being indiscreet?” Sam asks.
“I’m saying that if you don’t untuck your shirt and use it as cover, people are going to think you’re smuggling socks down your pants.”
Liam fishes Sam’s hand out of his t-shirt and tugs it down; Sam untucks his own shirt as instructed, letting the tails fall to somewhat obscure the front of his pants. Mary watches them with a critical eye. It’s not like she doesn’t know about them but Liam does wonder what specifics she saw, if any.
“Are you going to go take care of this?” Mary asks with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes that suggests she’s angling for an invitation to watch.
“We’re kind of… waiting,” Liam says.
“In that case I’m going to take one of you to lunch, in case you forget where you are and start defiling Stan Lee’s photo booth.”
“Now you’re just giving us ideas,” Sam says.
Mary takes him by the ear and tugs. “Come on, you. Liam… behave.”
Liam watches them disappear deeper into the maze of backstage corridors and then goes up to their room to play with his nipples.
"Shiny" (Glow Night Three), Sam/Liam, Explicit (1/?)
Aside from that, Sam looks peaceful. Sometimes he’s mouth-gaping and snoring, and Liam loves him then; right now he’s just breathing quietly, not a snore to be heard, and Liam loves him now.
He takes the pumps into the bathroom, wears them while he showers, the pull of the suction given extra warmth by the water. He takes them off when he towels off and sets them out on a washcloth to air dry; he doesn’t think any water got inside but it can’t hurt to be sure. Digging into the bag from the sex shop again, he finds the next thing that he bought: hip-hugging shiny green satin underwear trimmed with lace. Miles away from his usual choice of undergarment. Liam’s reasonably sure that flashing Sam a peek or two at these is going to either turn him on beyond reason, or end with Sam rolling on the floor in fits of laughter and Liam’s face red as raspberries.
Making sure he’s thoroughly dry, Liam steps into the unfamiliar underwear. They fit him rather well, save for the obvious bulge at the front. His jeans are next, before he takes up the razor to shave. Nothing is particularly pressing him to be scruffy at the moment, and he thinks as Sam’s wife it’s only fair to be clean-shaven. Not everywhere, though; he’s done that before and the prickle of the regrowth is just not worth it.
“Honey, are you almost done? I need to pee.”
Liam finishes up, blots a single dot of blood from his chin, and steps out into the bedroom. “All yours, darling.”
Sam kisses him briefly in passing, eyeing him appreciatively: apparently being barefoot and shirtless in only jeans suits him. That and his still-hard nipples. Then Sam remembers his need to pee and closes the door behind himself. They’ve done all sorts of things with and to one another, but it’s still nice to maintain some semblance of privacy at times.
Liam finishes dressing, putting on a Decemberists t-shirt that, while not actually white, still shows off his dark hard nipples more than a black one would. They’ll be less noticeable within an hour or so, but he’ll just do like he did yesterday and use the pumps again whenever he gets the chance.
He calls home in this rare moment of quiet just to check in on his family; the phone gets passed around the breakfast table and by the end of the call he has warm fuzzy feelings and also a request to check the dealers’ hall for several minis.
“Are you really going out there like that?” Sam asks when he’s done.
Liam looks down at himself. “I was planning to put on shoes…”
Sam plants a hand on this chest, flicks a thumb over Liam’s nipple, and Liam lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak. “You’d better be careful.” His tone is possessive, and so is the arm that slips around Liam’s waist. “There might be men out there who can’t keep their eyes off you… or more than their eyes.” He pulls Liam close against him. “Nobody else is getting their hands on my wife,” he adds, and Liam actually goes a little weak at the knees when they kiss.
“I wish you could put a ring on it,” he says, mouth still half on Sam’s.
“Darling, if only I could.”
*
Their schedules have them more or less apart for most of the day—signings don’t count as there is zero privacy—aside from a Critical Role panel in the afternoon that’s going to be livestreamed on Twitch, for which Mary will be joining them, exponentially increasing the chance of innuendo.
This means that when Liam gets up from the breakfast table he makes a point of stretching so the hem of his t-shirt rides up and hitches his jeans back up over the hint of green at his waist. He doesn’t need to be looking at Sam to know Sam’s watching the movement of his hands, but he is; Sam’s eyes go wide and there’s clearly something ticking over in his mind, but before he can blurt anything out Liam leaves the table.
His phone buzzes not thirty seconds later.
What are you up to?
Hitting the dealers’ hall before I have to sit and sign for two hours.
Not what I meant.
Do you need any minis?
LIAM
Just clarify for me, is that a no?
ASSHOLE
I don’t think they have asshole minis.
The thought occurs to Liam a minute later that he should not have googled “asshole minis”, but by then he’s reading through Amazon reviews of a product that bills itself as a “mini anus male masturbator” with the same kind of horrified curiosity as he reads virtually any thread on Reddit. He closes the page, then reopens the browser and wipes its history. If Sam—actually, if anyone—thinks he’s got any intention of owning a chunk of poorly reviewed silicone to jerk off with, then he’ll never hear the end of it, and there are already too many things in his life that he doesn’t hear the end of.
It’s impossible to browse the dealers’ hall incognito, but most people have the nous and respect to let him be. He buys a fanart print, a couple of stickers and enamel pins for the kids, and has no luck with any of the minis that they asked about. He does find a honey badger mini and promptly buys it for Brian.
His volunteer handler for the day tracks him down fifteen minutes before he’s due to do signings and berates him gently the whole time she’s walking him to the signing tables for going off on his own. Liam offers her an apology and a hug, both of which she accepts before settling him in with four different colored Sharpies, a stack of prints (mostly Vax, some official Illidan art, and one rather disturbing one from Sagas where he looks barely conscious in a bathtub—still not the weirdest print he’s seen), and two bottles of water.
The line is already forming and the table beside him is vacant. He can sense Sam behind him though, waiting behind the long line of temporary walling that gives the guests a way to move around the con without elbowing through the crowds.
Sam predictably pops out thirty seconds after the signing is meant to start, grinning enormously, getting a laugh from the line. His handler looks faux-exasperated and puts his hand firmly on Sam’s head, reaching up exaggeratedly to push Sam down into his seat.
As usual they’re on adjacent tables close enough for anyone who wants signing with both of them to go easily from one to the other, but far enough apart not to touch each other, not even the idle brush of fingers while handing over a Sharpie or somesuch.
This of course does not prevent Liam from doing his utmost to torment the hell out of Sam. Unnecessary stretching across the table for requested hugs to let his t-shirt ride up and flash skin and green, slipping words of innuendo into conversation that the congoers won’t pick up on but Sam will, and in a brief moment of mad genius spilling a good ounce of water down his front in an elaborate spittake to something not all that funny—just enough to make his white t-shirt cling to his skin.
By the time the two hours are up and they get backstage, Sam’s riled up enough to grab Liam by the front of his shirt and slam him up against the temporary walling so hard it shudders.
“You. Are. Evil,” he says right in Liam’s face.
Liam looks one way, Sam looks the other, and when they’ve established nobody else is around there’s a kiss that’s messy, teeth-clashing, and hot. Sam even gets a hand under Liam’s t-shirt, pinching his nipple, making Liam gasp into Sam’s open mouth, before Mary pulls them apart. Fortunately her handler is still on the other side of the wall, packing up the table.
“You horny idiots,” she says fondly. “Either go up to your room and get this out of your systems, or calm the fuck down.”
“Are you saying we’re being indiscreet?” Sam asks.
“I’m saying that if you don’t untuck your shirt and use it as cover, people are going to think you’re smuggling socks down your pants.”
Liam fishes Sam’s hand out of his t-shirt and tugs it down; Sam untucks his own shirt as instructed, letting the tails fall to somewhat obscure the front of his pants. Mary watches them with a critical eye. It’s not like she doesn’t know about them but Liam does wonder what specifics she saw, if any.
“Are you going to go take care of this?” Mary asks with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes that suggests she’s angling for an invitation to watch.
“We’re kind of… waiting,” Liam says.
“In that case I’m going to take one of you to lunch, in case you forget where you are and start defiling Stan Lee’s photo booth.”
“Now you’re just giving us ideas,” Sam says.
Mary takes him by the ear and tugs. “Come on, you. Liam… behave.”
Liam watches them disappear deeper into the maze of backstage corridors and then goes up to their room to play with his nipples.