That laugh should be locked up and meted out only under supervision, because it is deadly, seeping into Danny's veins and sparking there like a rogue electrical current. Melting his spine into a pool of uselessness, a puddle of hot metal somewhere at the bottom of his gut. And Steve, still laughing, Steve, still talking, Steve, tracing his teasing mouth down the cord of muscle standing out against Danny's skin, setting off dull explosions in his wake.
Making Danny want to point out that he is perilously close to flirting, right now, and didn't he just say, Steve, even though he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, wants this too much, beyond reason or restraint. Which is still not the answer to that question, that comes rolling, lazy and loose and fond against the pulse that quickens under the touch of tongue and lips.
A question with only one answer. No. Too many answers. He could list off the things he wants, and take all night. The things the world won't ever give him, that he knows, okay, even if he won't accept it. He could. Start with those, scrape up some ridiculous additions, just to get Steve to laugh again, tease more, yeah, flirt, bizarre as it sounds, seems.
But all those things take a backseat, to this, this one. The clearest thing in his head, the only possible answer to that question. "You."
You. You. Steve. Just him.
It's a lot to ask for, he's aware. He's selfish. Jealous. Probably undeserving, definitely a lot to handle. But it's as honest as he can be, even while Steve is joking. And he's said it before: pushed to the edge, near-delirium from pleasure, when Steve takes a hammer to the few walls left in his head and brings them down in a shattering shower of glass. It could be, just flirting. Upping the ante.
But it's not. It's all certain, after the ache of the night, the fear of seeing him slip away. And it's not the heat of the moment. All he wants is Steve. However he can have him, but like this, most of all. Always at his side, dragging each other up after the world takes another swing at them. Feeling the way his skin gets too small for his body when Steve's mouth is on it. Arguing over who is taking up too much space sprawled in bed.
His hand tracks up to the back of Steve's head, eyes sliding half-lidded at the heat of breath and lips against his neck. "Obviously, what kind of detective are you? Oh, right, you're not."
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Making Danny want to point out that he is perilously close to flirting, right now, and didn't he just say, Steve, even though he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, wants this too much, beyond reason or restraint. Which is still not the answer to that question, that comes rolling, lazy and loose and fond against the pulse that quickens under the touch of tongue and lips.
A question with only one answer. No. Too many answers. He could list off the things he wants, and take all night. The things the world won't ever give him, that he knows, okay, even if he won't accept it. He could. Start with those, scrape up some ridiculous additions, just to get Steve to laugh again, tease more, yeah, flirt, bizarre as it sounds, seems.
But all those things take a backseat, to this, this one. The clearest thing in his head, the only possible answer to that question. "You."
You. You. Steve. Just him.
It's a lot to ask for, he's aware. He's selfish. Jealous. Probably undeserving, definitely a lot to handle. But it's as honest as he can be, even while Steve is joking. And he's said it before: pushed to the edge, near-delirium from pleasure, when Steve takes a hammer to the few walls left in his head and brings them down in a shattering shower of glass. It could be, just flirting. Upping the ante.
But it's not. It's all certain, after the ache of the night, the fear of seeing him slip away. And it's not the heat of the moment. All he wants is Steve. However he can have him, but like this, most of all. Always at his side, dragging each other up after the world takes another swing at them. Feeling the way his skin gets too small for his body when Steve's mouth is on it. Arguing over who is taking up too much space sprawled in bed.
His hand tracks up to the back of Steve's head, eyes sliding half-lidded at the heat of breath and lips against his neck. "Obviously, what kind of detective are you? Oh, right, you're not."