It's ludicrous, to be caught on the way Steve bites his bottom lip. A sharp press into skin pinked and slick, and Danny realizes that he has actually lost his mind, right, because he's staring, gutted like a fish, on even white teeth, the bunching muscles in his jaw. He's such a goner.
"Problem, no, I have no problem here, I think that's great. It's definitely only fair, considering --"
Which turns into a strangled sound at the way Steve moves, sliding, slow and deliberate, and, Christ, he inspires the filthiest thoughts, things Danny should never, ever, have been thinking about his partner, things he had to be half-asleep to even allow, that he was always worried might somehow teleport themselves through space straight into Steve's head. Thoughts about Steve's long, lean body, and his long, quick fingers and the squared off angle of his jaw, the shadows it drops against his throat that Danny wants to taste like they might be different from the rest of him. He'd wanted to know exactly how much of Steve's body was covered in ink, wanted to trace every line with his fingers and tongue.
Wanted to hear Steve's voice turn threadbare and wanting. Wanted to be shoved against a wall, to shove Steve against a wall. Wanted to feel him hot and hard against his thigh or belly.
And it turns out, when it all happens, like it was never supposed to happen, he gets as hung up on Steve's mouth, alone, as anything else. When Steve isn't even doing anything with it, except letting out a few words, dropping curses that plop with a sizzle into Danny's stomach. "You're already crazy, that hardly counts."
Putting him on? Maybe not. But that doesn't make it any easier to believe. Even when Steve's hand is pressed firm and sweet to the small of his back, pulling them close in a way that's not just about a rut and tumble of heat and blurring, world-shaking sensation. That feels almost protective. That vulnerable spot, where Steve's hand fits completely, like it was always supposed to be there, which is exactly the kind of romantic nonsense Danny should not be thinking about a hand that he has, personally, seen turn people's faces into blurry red sponges.
That is now pressed, flat and warm and perfect, tucking him closer, neatly, and Danny's just going to give, up, alright. If this is insanity, they may as well park him in an institution and leave him there, because he would go willingly.
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"Problem, no, I have no problem here, I think that's great. It's definitely only fair, considering --"
Which turns into a strangled sound at the way Steve moves, sliding, slow and deliberate, and, Christ, he inspires the filthiest thoughts, things Danny should never, ever, have been thinking about his partner, things he had to be half-asleep to even allow, that he was always worried might somehow teleport themselves through space straight into Steve's head. Thoughts about Steve's long, lean body, and his long, quick fingers and the squared off angle of his jaw, the shadows it drops against his throat that Danny wants to taste like they might be different from the rest of him. He'd wanted to know exactly how much of Steve's body was covered in ink, wanted to trace every line with his fingers and tongue.
Wanted to hear Steve's voice turn threadbare and wanting. Wanted to be shoved against a wall, to shove Steve against a wall. Wanted to feel him hot and hard against his thigh or belly.
And it turns out, when it all happens, like it was never supposed to happen, he gets as hung up on Steve's mouth, alone, as anything else. When Steve isn't even doing anything with it, except letting out a few words, dropping curses that plop with a sizzle into Danny's stomach. "You're already crazy, that hardly counts."
Putting him on? Maybe not. But that doesn't make it any easier to believe. Even when Steve's hand is pressed firm and sweet to the small of his back, pulling them close in a way that's not just about a rut and tumble of heat and blurring, world-shaking sensation. That feels almost protective. That vulnerable spot, where Steve's hand fits completely, like it was always supposed to be there, which is exactly the kind of romantic nonsense Danny should not be thinking about a hand that he has, personally, seen turn people's faces into blurry red sponges.
That is now pressed, flat and warm and perfect, tucking him closer, neatly, and Danny's just going to give, up, alright. If this is insanity, they may as well park him in an institution and leave him there, because he would go willingly.