Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: I'm really not sure where this came from. I sat down to write, and this is what happened.
Danny's ass is a piece of art, Steve thinks, and then frowns at his train of thought which has been derailed, yet again, by the exquisiteness that is Danny's ass.
He's supposed to be doing paperwork to close out their latest case, but his work keeps getting waylaid by thoughts and visions of Danny's ass, and Steve thinks that he might be sick.
He puts the inside of his wrist against his forehead, testing for a fever the way that Danny had taught him to do for Grace and Charlie.
He's no hotter than usual, though the collar of his shirt feels a little too tight, and his pants feel a little too tight, and his mouth is dry, and his palms are sweaty.
I have a fever, Steve thinks. A fever for Danny's ass. He snorts, and groans, at the absurdity of his thoughts.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath, fingers poised over his keyboard, ready, and willing, to type.
Steve's office phone rings at the exact moment that he's about to press down on the 'a' key, and he picks it up, absentmindedly spitting out his usual greeting before whoever has called can get a single word in.
"Stop obsessing, Steven," Danny says. "It's not healthy."
"I'm not." It's a token protest and they both know it.
There's a weighty silence where Steve can hear Danny typing away on his keyboard, fingers flying over it like they do when he's talking, when he's cooking, when they're making love...and Steve wonders, briefly how Danny can so easily divide himself between the two tasks - talking to Steve and working - when Steve can't manage to merely think about Danny's ass and type.
Hell, all he can manage to do when he's thinking about Danny's ass is drool, and fantasize, and...fuck if the room isn't starting to close in on him.
Who knew that thinking about the tight perfection of Danny's ass could make him claustrophobic?
"I can hear your obsession from over here," Danny says, sighing. "Knock it off. Finish typing up the notes from the case so that we can go home and enjoy a couple of beers, maybe a steak, on the lanai."
Steve can still hear the clacking of the keys as Danny talks, and Danny's chair squeaking as he leans back in it. He's got the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, Steve can picture it, and he's wriggling his ass a little as he gets more comfortable in the chair, settling in, he'd call it.
Steve can think of a number of better ways, positions, places, where Danny could settle his ass, one of them is in his office, on his lap. He knows better than to voice any of those ideas aloud right now, though, when Danny is in worker bee mode. It won't get him anywhere, and it might land him in the doghouse later that night, if Danny's in that kind of mood.
"Did you even hear what I said, Steven?" Danny asks, irritation evident in his tone of voice.
"Uh..." Steve blinks when the phone is slammed down, the sound echoing in his head like the retort of a gunshot.
The door to Steve's office swings open, and Danny's there, hands posed in front of him, palms pressed together. His lips are pursed, and Steve can see that he's in full on lecture mode.
Steve's a little dizzy, and he licks his lips, because that ass he's been obsessing about all afternoon is finally there, standing in the center of his office, like the statue of Adonis. He's a hedonist. For Danny's ass.
Am I drooling? he wonders, and he wipes at his mouth. Sure enough, his hand comes back wet, and he just knows that his eyes are nothing but pupil, because Danny's ass is right there in front of him, almost within reach.
His fingers tingle at the very thought of touching that sculpted ass, and his skin feels so tight and hot that Steve thinks he very well might spontaneously combust if he has to listen to one of Danny's lectures about work and responsibility and how important it is to cross every 't' and dot every 'i' on the paperwork without being able to sink fingers, teeth, tongue into Danny's hot ass.
"Steven!" Danny snaps his fingers right in front of Steve's nose, and Steve can't help himself. He really can't.
He'll plead insanity if he has to. He is sick. He's got a fever. A yen. An obsession. Whatever.
He's not responsible for his actions. Not in the face of Danny's superior ass.
He lunges forward, drops to his knees, and works his way around Danny until he's able to rest his forehead against the two rounded mounds of absolute perfection that comprise his partner's ass. He sighs, and smiles when Danny's muscles bunch in reaction to his touch.
"You could bounce a quarter off of this thing," Steve says, voice coming out more than just a little punch drunk. He kneads Danny's ass with his fingers, delighting in the way that Danny's breath hitches, and he reaches back, placing a hand on Steve's head as an anchor.
"Uh, Steve, could you maybe uh...kindly release my derriere? We ah...Kono's watching," Danny says, voice getting higher, and words running together at the end.
Steve tilts his head to the side, a little confused as to why his lover is talking like that, and why on earth Kono has walked in on them, and he sees that Danny's blushing. It's becoming.
"Red looks good on you, Danno," Steve says. "I'm getting you a polo shirt. In red. No, strike that, tomato."
"Wha-who says things like that?" Danny asks, completely flustered, and adorable, ass cheeks bunching beneath Steve's fingertips, skin flush with embarrassment.
Definitely tomato, Steve thinks, makes a mental note to run by the store sometime this weekend, or order something online.
"I would knock, but the door's open," Kono says, and Steve can hear the teasing in her voice, and the reality of where they are - at the office and not at home - nearly sobers Steve, but it doesn't, because he wants this, no, he needs this.
Kono's not at all put out that the door's wide open, that she can see Steve kneeling on the floor, groveling, and worshiping that which rightfully belongs to him. She won't be calling in a complaint on them for misconduct, or sexual harassment, in the workplace.
She's not repentant either, when she walks in, ignoring Danny's spluttering, and places the notes she'd typed up on Steve's desk. She shares a wink with Steve, and blows a kiss in their direction as she leaves the office, curtsying and quietly closing the door behind her.
"The blinds, Steven," Danny hisses when Steve's hands resume their roaming.
Wanting to see his lover's face, Steve peers around Danny's hip, head tilted to the side and up. Not releasing his hold on Danny's ass, lest it get away, Steve tightens his grip, and gazes up at Danny. Danny's lips are slightly parted, his eyes glassy, but fixed on the partially opened blinds. Steve applies some pressure on Danny's hips, drawing his attention away from the blinds, and to Steve, where it should be. He can't wait until they get home to do this. Can't wait another second.
Steve's bottom lip trembles, and he turns his best impression of Grace's puppy dog eyes (he'd taken lessons from her -if he'd learned one thing from his days in the Navy, it was that you should always learn from the best, and, hands down, Grace was the best at wrapping Danno around her little finger) on Danny, silently pleading.
"I need this, Danny," Steve says. "I need you."
Snorting, Danny shakes his head. Giving his lover an indulgent look, he turns away from Steve. "No, you don't. You just love me for my ass. You're not fooling anyone with that whole genuflecting act you've got going on. Go ahead, Steven, get it out of your system."
"Never," Steve says adamantly. "And can you blame me?" Steve asks. "I mean, it's your ass, Danny. I only get to spend limited amounts of time with it. You-"
"Get pains in the ass, pimples, and sores, just like everyone else, and I want to see how much you adore my ass, and wax poetic about it when it's red and inflamed from diarrhea, or all bunched up with constipation, or - fuck, Steven? What...we're...we can't do this in the office..." Danny's protests turn into a moan of pleasure as Steve sinks his teeth into Danny's ass, not hard enough to bruise or cause any lasting damage, but definitely hard enough to make Danny see where Steve is going with this, and that he needs to stop running off at the mouth with horror movie scenarios of what could possibly happen to his flawless ass.
"Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?" Danny asks, voice weak as his knees seem to be getting.
Steve pushes Danny toward his desk, intent on bending him over it, so that he can give it the undivided attention and reverence that it warrants as he plies fingers and tongue and lips and everything that he has at his disposal to the proper adoration that Danny's ass - that Danny himself, always so hard at work, and rarely at play, admittedly like Steve - deserves.
"Let me love you?" Steve asks, and he kisses first one perfectly round globe, and then the other, stomach clenching at the way that Danny holds his breath at his words, and his touch, and then lets it out unsteady, like Steve's words and actions have moved him. And then Danny relaxes, and Steve's stomach does a happy little flip.
It doesn't get any better than this, Steve thinks, as he helps Danny out of his slacks and boxers, eyes feasting on skin that's been evenly tanned thanks to some nude sunbathing on Steve's relatively private stretch of beach.
Anyone who had happened upon Danny, in the nude, had walked away with a happy smile on her, or his, face, and a bounce to their step, and brushing off Danny's embarrassed apologies with eyes glued to his ass, and stammered answers along the lines of: "No, really, it's okay, man. No harm done. Believe me."
"Yeah, Steve," Danny says, voice husky. "Love me."
"Already do; always will," Steve says, more certain of this than anything else in his life, staring at the masterpiece in front of him, and wondering how he got to be so damn lucky.