Steve shifts, and for a second, Danny's arm tightens, until it becomes clear that Steve is shifting closer, close enough to brush his lips against Danny's neck, in a way that would make him shiver, if his nerves weren't over-stimulated and shut down for repair. It does tug a little sound out of him, content and soft and low in his chest, while he turns his head so his mouth is against Steve's hair, Steve's forehead, thinking about it, drowsily.
The faint kiss. Steve, staying here. Saying that.
Something that should have been an insult, but isn't, because Danny's too distracted by what it means to pay any attention to the half-hearted attempt at mockery. "You thought about what I'd be like after sex?"
He doesn't want to joke about it. Doesn't want to trade barbs back and forth. They aren't in the car, or at the office, or on the couch downstairs, where a solid ninety percent of their conversation might be made up of digs at each other.
They're here. In Steve's bed. Naked. Had sex.
None of it anything like what Danny now knows were pale imitations of the real thing, and this -- he wouldn't have known where to start, even if he'd ever allowed himself to think about it. Sex could be a fantasy, a harmless daydream, or a more realistic, guilt-ridden one in the middle of the night, but after?
After is personal. Intimate. It seemed like too much of a betrayal of trust, too real, too raw. He never let himself. Would never have been able to come up with anything even slightly, remotely, resembling actuality.
Wouldn't have been able to imagine Steve's loose weight on top of him, or how much he wants it to stay exactly there. How Steve's voice goes low and rumbled, dopey and tired. How Steve's mouth feels, brushing gently against his skin and lighting Danny's whole system right back up again, like someone threw a fuse.
Or the idea that Steve might have thought about it. Any of this. From the doorway, on.
He wants to know, if he did. He wants to know everything.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-11-14 03:36 am (UTC)Steve shifts, and for a second, Danny's arm tightens, until it becomes clear that Steve is shifting closer, close enough to brush his lips against Danny's neck, in a way that would make him shiver, if his nerves weren't over-stimulated and shut down for repair. It does tug a little sound out of him, content and soft and low in his chest, while he turns his head so his mouth is against Steve's hair, Steve's forehead, thinking about it, drowsily.
The faint kiss. Steve, staying here. Saying that.
Something that should have been an insult, but isn't, because Danny's too distracted by what it means to pay any attention to the half-hearted attempt at mockery. "You thought about what I'd be like after sex?"
He doesn't want to joke about it. Doesn't want to trade barbs back and forth. They aren't in the car, or at the office, or on the couch downstairs, where a solid ninety percent of their conversation might be made up of digs at each other.
They're here. In Steve's bed. Naked. Had sex.
None of it anything like what Danny now knows were pale imitations of the real thing, and this -- he wouldn't have known where to start, even if he'd ever allowed himself to think about it. Sex could be a fantasy, a harmless daydream, or a more realistic, guilt-ridden one in the middle of the night, but after?
After is personal. Intimate. It seemed like too much of a betrayal of trust, too real, too raw. He never let himself. Would never have been able to come up with anything even slightly, remotely, resembling actuality.
Wouldn't have been able to imagine Steve's loose weight on top of him, or how much he wants it to stay exactly there. How Steve's voice goes low and rumbled, dopey and tired. How Steve's mouth feels, brushing gently against his skin and lighting Danny's whole system right back up again, like someone threw a fuse.
Or the idea that Steve might have thought about it. Any of this. From the doorway, on.
He wants to know, if he did. He wants to know everything.