Broken Words

by Jane Davitt

"Let me --" Steve says, but Danny's already sliding down the bed, mumbling words shaped like kisses against Steve's skin on the way.

Steve sighs, not entirely regretfully, and reaches down to touch Danny's hair, a tacit acceptance of the inevitable. Danny won't kneel for him -- something tells Steve that it's not just the knee injury to blame for that -- but he blows Steve every chance he gets. Looking down his body at Danny lying between his spread legs is a rush but Steve wants to try the view from below sometime and he'd fall to his knees in a fucking heartbeat to get Danny's cock in his mouth.

"You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?" he says just as Danny's tongue curls wetly, warmly around the tip of his cock. "Jesus, do that again."

"Mixed messages," Danny says and runs the edge of his front teeth across all that licked skin, making it sting and throb just this side of worrying if Steve didn't trust Danny not to break his favorite toy. "If I was writing your performance appraisal, which I'm not, I'd have to mark you down for that. Lack of clarity in oral communication. Me, on the other hand, I'm real good at getting a message across. See?"

Steve closes his eyes as Danny sucks him in deep for a brief space of time before going back to teasing him and tries to remember how to speak in anything but gasps and grunts and Danny's name. No matter how out of it he gets when Danny's getting creative, he never forgets how to say that.

"I just mean that sometimes I want to do you, you know?" he says later, when he's come, his cock safely enclosed inside Danny's mouth, feeling each spurt of spunk leave him and be swallowed, part of him left behind even when he eases out, his cock tingling, tender, his balls achingly empty. "You never let me. Well, not often."

He thinks back to the time he'd used his handcuffs to keep Danny in place, snapping them around a wrist and the handle of the cupboard holding his cereal boxes when Danny was searching for the pancake mix. Danny had cursed him, threatened to pour syrup down on Steve's head, and wriggled like a puppy getting its ears scratched, but he'd used his free hand to untie the knotted belt on his robe and arched into Steve's waiting mouth with an eagerness that Steve had gotten off on as much as the way Danny's cock had hardened for him with just a look, a touch.

That'd been a month ago, though. Steve's starting to wonder if he didn't do a good job of it. If Danny's happier with his dick in Steve's ass, calling the shots.

Danny grimaces. "I want to," he says, just a hint of apology peeking out. "God, every time I eat a pancake, I get hard remembering what you did to me, even if next time you try to cuff me, I'll punch you out, just so we're clear on how I feel about you sneaking up on me."

"Good to know," Steve says, not letting his relief show but suspecting that he fails because Danny pats his face gently and kisses him with lips still chafed and warm.

"You were great," Danny whispers, his sincerity plain. "It's just that you -- don't laugh."

"Cross my heart," Steve says instantly, already fighting a smile.

"You taste good," Danny says simply. "You're uh, you're broke da mout', okay?"

"I'm what?" Steve asks and yeah, he's laughing, can't help it, a delighted chuckle breaking free. "Did you just use pidgin, Jersey boy?"

"I picked it up," Danny says. "What is this, be mean to the haole day?" His face is flushed as he tries to roll over and out of the bed.

Not gonna happen. Steve gentles him down with his hands and mouth, losing the smile because he can't smile and kiss Danny's throat at the same time, feeling the hammer-fast pulse beneath his lips slow to normal.

"I'm delicious?" he murmurs. "Thanks."

"Maybe," Danny says, closing up, his mouth a mutinous line. God, he's hard work sometimes, but that's something that Steve's never been afraid of. "It sounded stupid, huh? "

"No," Steve says. "Not stupid at all. I'm flattered, but you know, who does who doesn't have to be something we fight over. We can always just…" He gestures with his hands, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Sixty-nine?" Danny asks and purses his lips when Steve nods and shrugs. "Okay, I think your creative thinking mark just went up."

Steve sighs. That was too easy and vague, but he's not going to be getting hard again before they fall asleep and Danny's jerked off in the shower so he doesn't push for a promise. "Next time we do it that way?"

"Next time," Danny says and grins. "My little mahimahi."

"Now, wait just a minute --"

"My mushy little pineapple --"

"You don't like pineapple --" Steve says indignantly, obligingly and lets himself be teased until Danny's smiling again, his composure restored, the awkward moment glossed over.

When Danny's asleep beside him, sprawled out, relaxed, one hand on Steve like he needs to be sure he's not been left alone, it should be easy to forget the moments when Danny's fighting to get away, to be the first to walk out.

It isn't. It never will be.


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