He can't stop himself. It's like a sickness. Pressing up against Steve's thrust, breathing hard through the way it shorts out his vision for half a heartbeat. "I'm sorry, did you say Marine Corps?" Another push of his hips, fingers tracing the line where Steve's thigh meets the curve of his ass, sensitive thin skin. "Air Force?"
He's so curious, uncertain and blundering but on fire, too, and, Christ, is all night going to be enough time? Part of him wishes they could head back to the beginning of the weekend -- as if their jobs make sure to give them Friday evening through Monday morning off, as if the concept of a weekend applies to the dirtbags they routinely go after.
But if they could. If there were all the time in the world.
He would use it. Could use it. To lay Steve out, sprawled and beautiful in nothing at all but starlight or sunshine. Map him out with mouth and fingers, push him slowly and ruthlessly into restless moans and the short, sharp gasps of no air and no words.
To figure this out. As if it's possible to take a crash course, and be good with it, as if he's probably not going to still be awkward and uncertain about it weeks from now. As if it won't be an embarrassingly long time before he's getting it right.
(Hopefully. Hopefully he'll be able to take an embarrassingly long amount of time, because hopefully Steve's not going to pull this shit again, hopefully Steve won't leave before then.)
"That sounds like the plot to a porno," he points out, as well as he can when his breath is getting tight and he can't really talk too well with his mouth on Steve's, wet and hot, sliding but never falling back far enough to pull in some oxygen or find some space. "No, shut up, I don't want to know."
He would be happy going the rest of his life not knowing, okay? Sure. He's not the first. And it's not like he's been chaste his whole life; no way.
But he can't swallow around the vicious snap of jealously that sinks into his stomach, at the thought of there being other hands touching Steve like this, other mouths on his, that he kissed like this, touched like this. At the thought that it'll be someone else, again, after this, and it shakes him, the flat denial that lifts like a sudden brick wall in the face of those thoughts.
That no one should ever touch Steve like this. No one but him.
no subject
He's so curious, uncertain and blundering but on fire, too, and, Christ, is all night going to be enough time? Part of him wishes they could head back to the beginning of the weekend -- as if their jobs make sure to give them Friday evening through Monday morning off, as if the concept of a weekend applies to the dirtbags they routinely go after.
But if they could. If there were all the time in the world.
He would use it. Could use it. To lay Steve out, sprawled and beautiful in nothing at all but starlight or sunshine. Map him out with mouth and fingers, push him slowly and ruthlessly into restless moans and the short, sharp gasps of no air and no words.
To figure this out. As if it's possible to take a crash course, and be good with it, as if he's probably not going to still be awkward and uncertain about it weeks from now. As if it won't be an embarrassingly long time before he's getting it right.
(Hopefully. Hopefully he'll be able to take an embarrassingly long amount of time, because hopefully Steve's not going to pull this shit again, hopefully Steve won't leave before then.)
"That sounds like the plot to a porno," he points out, as well as he can when his breath is getting tight and he can't really talk too well with his mouth on Steve's, wet and hot, sliding but never falling back far enough to pull in some oxygen or find some space. "No, shut up, I don't want to know."
He would be happy going the rest of his life not knowing, okay? Sure. He's not the first. And it's not like he's been chaste his whole life; no way.
But he can't swallow around the vicious snap of jealously that sinks into his stomach, at the thought of there being other hands touching Steve like this, other mouths on his, that he kissed like this, touched like this. At the thought that it'll be someone else, again, after this, and it shakes him, the flat denial that lifts like a sudden brick wall in the face of those thoughts.
That no one should ever touch Steve like this. No one but him.