"On the floor, maybe," is such a lie, no matter how much truth is in it, too. No matter how hotly he can toss it out.
When Danny is seated on him. Sitting. Moved to change his posture entirely. Straddling him. Asking him to think about Danny's jeans. The denim very few feet from him, and how his hands find Danny's hips, just to help him settle at first. Incase. But how that doesn't stop his thumbs from from sliding into the creases of the denim where Danny's hips bend, stroking pads of thumbs in the bend there, or him from feeling the steady weight of all of Danny's body settling on him.
Danny's words, asking about them, to make him look at the jeans. At Danny's waist, and his straddling legs, and the tight lines and bunching areas of jean, tight, created by the way he's sitting straddled alone, his own knuckles faintly white with pressing in. Remember that he did make that comment. When it's an overwhelming feat not to move beneath him. Shift his hips. Tip up just too far up from Danny, solid weight and almost painfully unhelpful imagination, on pure impulse.
When he's not even sure he can convince himself he didn't. Doesn't. Isn't. Dragging his eyes back up to Danny, anything but easy or light, and his fingers up to find belt loops, already torn between driving fingers into them and jerking him back down or pushing up and meeting him, even now, in the middle, before possibly toppling him over the other way.
no subject
When Danny is seated on him. Sitting. Moved to change his posture entirely. Straddling him. Asking him to think about Danny's jeans. The denim very few feet from him, and how his hands find Danny's hips, just to help him settle at first. Incase. But how that doesn't stop his thumbs from from sliding into the creases of the denim where Danny's hips bend, stroking pads of thumbs in the bend there, or him from feeling the steady weight of all of Danny's body settling on him.
Danny's words, asking about them, to make him look at the jeans. At Danny's waist, and his straddling legs, and the tight lines and bunching areas of jean, tight, created by the way he's sitting straddled alone, his own knuckles faintly white with pressing in. Remember that he did make that comment. When it's an overwhelming feat not to move beneath him. Shift his hips. Tip up just too far up from Danny, solid weight and almost painfully unhelpful imagination, on pure impulse.
When he's not even sure he can convince himself he didn't. Doesn't. Isn't. Dragging his eyes back up to Danny, anything but easy or light, and his fingers up to find belt loops, already torn between driving fingers into them and jerking him back down or pushing up and meeting him, even now, in the middle, before possibly toppling him over the other way.