Steve's saying one thing, but his hands and voice and body are all saying the exact opposite, and Danny's laughing into the side of his neck, pausing where he is. "You telling me you'd rather be sleeping, right now?"
It's such a lie. When Steve's hands are painting up and down his sides, and gripping his hips, fingers curving possessive and greedy over into muscle, and every pitch and roll of his body is an attempt to get closer to Danny, he's pretty sure it's a bald-faced, pathetic attempt at a lie.
Which is heady enough in itself. Steve's focus, all on him. Steve's hands, unable to come off him. Steve reacting to him, like this, only wanting more, letting Danny put him on his back and touch him or kiss him however he wants. It's absurd. Impossible. Somehow happening.
Danny doesn't want to sleep. He's not sure he ever wants to sleep again, if sleeping means waking up and finding that all of this actually was just as impossible as he always thought. "This doesn't seem like the far better option, to you?"
It's not that he doesn't like sleep, or the idea of sleep. It isn't late, but it's not early, either, and he can't go quite as long as he used to, anymore, without a decent rest in between.
He's not even against the idea of sleeping here, with Steve. The idea is actually one he'd rather not touch too abruptly: feels fragile and delicate. Sex is one thing. Sleep is something else. Sleep would mean Steve wants him to stay, here, in this bed. To wake up to the reality of all this, and what it means, in the morning and the broad light of day.
It's an attractive and a terrifying concept all at once, but Danny also has no intention of stopping, even when he pulls back, heavy-lidded and flushed, to grin at Steve. "You want me to stop, so you can get some shut-eye, huh?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-11-23 02:35 am (UTC)Steve's saying one thing, but his hands and voice and body are all saying the exact opposite, and Danny's laughing into the side of his neck, pausing where he is. "You telling me you'd rather be sleeping, right now?"
It's such a lie. When Steve's hands are painting up and down his sides, and gripping his hips, fingers curving possessive and greedy over into muscle, and every pitch and roll of his body is an attempt to get closer to Danny, he's pretty sure it's a bald-faced, pathetic attempt at a lie.
Which is heady enough in itself. Steve's focus, all on him. Steve's hands, unable to come off him. Steve reacting to him, like this, only wanting more, letting Danny put him on his back and touch him or kiss him however he wants. It's absurd. Impossible. Somehow happening.
Danny doesn't want to sleep. He's not sure he ever wants to sleep again, if sleeping means waking up and finding that all of this actually was just as impossible as he always thought. "This doesn't seem like the far better option, to you?"
It's not that he doesn't like sleep, or the idea of sleep. It isn't late, but it's not early, either, and he can't go quite as long as he used to, anymore, without a decent rest in between.
He's not even against the idea of sleeping here, with Steve. The idea is actually one he'd rather not touch too abruptly: feels fragile and delicate. Sex is one thing. Sleep is something else. Sleep would mean Steve wants him to stay, here, in this bed. To wake up to the reality of all this, and what it means, in the morning and the broad light of day.
It's an attractive and a terrifying concept all at once, but Danny also has no intention of stopping, even when he pulls back, heavy-lidded and flushed, to grin at Steve. "You want me to stop, so you can get some shut-eye, huh?"