Like anything ever slips past Steve. Steve will bring up conversations held weeks before, after apparently locking them away in some ridiculously over-protected safe somewhere behind the barbed wire and landmines in his head, long after Danny's forgotten about them. He'll wait for the exact right moment, then pull out a direct quote that yanks the rug right out from under Danny's feet, leaves him gaping and bewildered while Steve turns back to whatever he was previously doing with an expression soaked with righteous smugness.
So it comes as no surprise that Steve's keyed to the slightest motions of Danny's body, that he's noticed the tension seeping in and taking up residence, turning the balmy night air into cement dust that weighs heavier and heavier with each breath, while dizziness threatens and Danny's all too aware of the solidity of the bed underneath them.
Of the solidity of Steve's hand. The one stroking down his thigh, making that muscle clutch harder against it, and, no, it's good, but it's not what he wants, this careful preparation, Steve distracting him with mouth and hands and the tight perfect circle of his fingers. It's too much focus, too much space up here, cool air against his skin instead of Steve, thin blankets under his fingers instead of Steve, while Steve is breathing those words against his hip instead of against his mouth, making his stomach tighten like he's waiting for a punch.
Maybe he is.
It doesn't matter. He doesn't -- Steve could probably do just about anything to him when his mouth is doing that, hot and heavy around his cock, and he'd barely notice, too blissed out to be paying attention, but that's not what sex is about, okay, not for him, it's never supposed to just be about him, and that's what it's been ever since those words came out of his mouth.
Which is why he's reaching for Steve's wrist, both of them, tugging them, wanting him back up here, wanting his mouth, to get lost in him, feel all of Steve instead of just his hands and lips and tongue. Voice low, and too sincere, but he doesn't give a single fuck, who cares? Steve's the only one who'll hear it.
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So it comes as no surprise that Steve's keyed to the slightest motions of Danny's body, that he's noticed the tension seeping in and taking up residence, turning the balmy night air into cement dust that weighs heavier and heavier with each breath, while dizziness threatens and Danny's all too aware of the solidity of the bed underneath them.
Of the solidity of Steve's hand. The one stroking down his thigh, making that muscle clutch harder against it, and, no, it's good, but it's not what he wants, this careful preparation, Steve distracting him with mouth and hands and the tight perfect circle of his fingers. It's too much focus, too much space up here, cool air against his skin instead of Steve, thin blankets under his fingers instead of Steve, while Steve is breathing those words against his hip instead of against his mouth, making his stomach tighten like he's waiting for a punch.
Maybe he is.
It doesn't matter. He doesn't -- Steve could probably do just about anything to him when his mouth is doing that, hot and heavy around his cock, and he'd barely notice, too blissed out to be paying attention, but that's not what sex is about, okay, not for him, it's never supposed to just be about him, and that's what it's been ever since those words came out of his mouth.
Which is why he's reaching for Steve's wrist, both of them, tugging them, wanting him back up here, wanting his mouth, to get lost in him, feel all of Steve instead of just his hands and lips and tongue. Voice low, and too sincere, but he doesn't give a single fuck, who cares? Steve's the only one who'll hear it.
"I know. Come on, come up here, with me."