Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction and no profit is being made, monetarily or otherwise, though the writing of this.

A/N: This is a story set in a future of sexual enlightenment. It features adult situations and a very open attitude toward sex and the indulgence in sexual fantasies. I wanted to do an ABC story, but start with Z and work my way toward A. Not every story in this series will be connected, and not every story will feature Danny and Steve. Some will feature other characters.

Warning: Smut and extreme tooth rotting fluff; this is very sappy and does feature love at first sight

Zabaglione: a simple Italian custard-like dessert; it can be served warm, or cool (even frozen), and is often garnished with berries. I've had it once before. It was rather delicious. Technically, it is classified as a "caudle, which is a sauce used as a custard to fill pies or tarts."

5244 words to count toward my Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Fanfiction Writing Month challenge.

"I'll have this," Steve says, pointing to the dessert item on the menu that he wants. He doesn't even attempt to pronounce the name. There's a picture of it, and a brief description with fancy words about how 'decadent' and 'light' and 'creamy' it is.

Zabaglione, Steve tries to sound the word out in his head, and gives it up as a lost cause.

He's nervous. He's never done anything like this before, but Kono, his best friend since high school, gives him an encouraging smile, and a secretive thumb's up. This whole 'decadent dessert' thing was her idea, and Steve's starting to think that, while these businesses are perfectly legal, and sanctioned by the government, that maybe it's a bad idea for him to be here.

"You're going to love it, I'm sure," Kono says, and she squeezes his hand beneath the table.

"Would you like the dessert with, or without, berries?" the waiter asks.

Steve blushes, and stares hard at the menu. Kono squeezes his hand, and he says, "With berries, please."

"And how do you prefer your dessert to be displayed?" The waiter points to the second menu, the one that, with Kono's gentle guidance, and prodding, Steve had perused (in its entirety) with no mild embarrassment.

Steve shifts his gaze toward the second menu - a squarish picture book separated into five distinct categories (some of which had made Steve blush fiercely) - and with a shaky hand hastily flips to the display that he'd liked since the moment he'd set eyes on it.

He'd looked through all of the other displays, only because Kono had urged him to (more like kicked his shin under the table until he'd complied). Once his gaze had landed on this particular display, though, Steve had known, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was what he wanted. Maybe even what he needed.

It's been so long since Steve has indulged in anything even remotely like this that he's forgotten what it was like to feel anticipation. He wonders if his sweaty palms, and the tightness in his chest are normal.

The waiter smiles, and says, "Very good choice, sir, I'm sure that your appetite will be more than satisfied."

Steve's heart flutters, and he almost loses his nerve, but Kono squeezes his hand again, and he stays.

"And for you, miss?" the waiter asks. "Unless you're sharing?" His tone indicates that he doesn't believe the two are sharing their dessert, but he has to be polite and ask anyway.

"I'll have the strawberry shortcake with display A on page 13," Kono says without hesitation. She doesn't even need to look at the menu. She's been here before, and is dragging Steve along to 'lighten him up' after his latest 'train wreck of a relationship' had ended, disastrously.

"Excellent choice," the waiter assures her, and Kono winks at both the waiter, and Steve.

"I'll send out an escort as soon as your desserts are ready," the waiter says as he types their orders into his tablet, and then he bows - a slight tilt of his head - and leaves.

"I don't know if I can do this," Steve says. "I -"

"Nonsense," Kono says, slapping him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine, trust me."

"I've never done anything like this in my life," Steve says, voice strained. "What would my father and Chin think if they saw me now, sitting in a sensational decadent dessert place?"

"They'd think that it's about time you loosened up and lived a little, Steve," Kono says. "Who do you think's helping to pay for this night?"

Steve pales, and, if it wasn't for Kono's hand on his arm, he'd have fled.

"Relax, and breathe," Kono says. "Honestly, if we didn't grow up together, I'd think that you were a throwback to the era of sexual suppression and repression. We, as a society, have moved beyond those dark times, and you've yet to embrace the enlightenment. Wake up, Steve, and smell the new era that's been dawning for the past several years before it slaps you in the face like I'm about to."

"I..." Steve didn't know how to put in words what it was that he was feeling. It was one thing to watch commercials for places like this, and get turned on, it was another, entirely, to be sitting in a booth, waiting for an 'escort' to take him into one of the rooms located on the other side of the dessert parlor to partake of his decadent dessert in privacy.

"You'll be fine, Steve," Kono repeats. "Just relax, and stop thinking so damn hard. Just live in the moment for once. Please? For me?" Kono purses her lips and bats her eyelashes at him, and Steve laughs.

"Fine, I'll...try to relax," Steve promises. "What's your display look like?"

Though he'd looked through all of them, because Kono had forced him to, Steve hadn't paid attention to any of the other displays once he'd seen 'the one'.

Kono shakes her head, but pulls the square portfolio closer, and opens her display of choice. Steve picks it up and scrutinizes the picture.

"Pretty," he says, and hands the portfolio back.

"Pretty?" Kono hits him in the chest with the portfolio. "This display is gorgeous, not 'pretty'."

"It's not as gorgeous as the display that I've chosen," Steve says, feeling a little more at ease.

Kono easily flips to that page, and sighs as she trails a finger along the center of it. "Yes, equally gorgeous. I can see why you chose this display. It's very ample, and there's so much promise of adventure, and enjoyment. Still, I'll stick to mine."

"And I'll stick to mine," Steve says, heart clamoring in his chest as a young man dressed in a suit similar to the one that their waiter had worn approaches their table.

"Sir, Miss, your desserts are ready, if you'll just follow me, I will lead you to your respective indulgence rooms," the young man says.

He holds out a gloved hand, which Kono takes, and gestures with his other hand for Steve to follow. Kono is led to her room first. It has a pink door, with a heart shaped knob, and a 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging from it. The escort explains that, when Kono's finished with her dessert, she simply needs to flip the sign over for 'Clean Up' and wait for an attendant to show her to guest services, which is in another section of the dessert shop.

Steve's mouth is dry, and his palms are sweaty, and his heart is a hammer in his chest. He can't do this, yet his legs carry him forward, after the escort, and, before he knows it, he's standing in front of a golden door, with a doorknob that looks like a diamond. There's a 'Do Not Disturb' sign in place, and he gets the same spiel from the escort as Kono did, but Steve barely hears a word of it over the pounding of his heart.

The escort waits patiently for Steve to knock on the door, and then enter the room. He gives Steve a brief, encouraging smile, and then nods as he takes his leave.

"You gonna come in, sugar, or stand in the doorway all night, letting flies in?" The voice startles Steve, though it shouldn't. It's an accented voice, one that's not from the islands. Steve's almost afraid to shut the door, to turn around and see the display that he'd chosen for his dessert in the flesh.

"Come on, I won't bite," the man says; Steve thinks the accent's from the East Coast, maybe New Jersey. "Unless you want me to." There's a seductive quality to the voice.

Steve's throat constricts, and his knees feel a little like jelly. He closes the door, though, and turns around, and he can't breathe. The air is sucked right out of him, out of the room, and he's dizzy.

The portfolio picture hadn't done the display - Steve's not sure if he should think of what is lying, all decked out in zabaglione, as a display, or as a man - justice. He's not sure what the proper protocol is. The Navy had not prepared him for this. Not at all.

Steve knows a hundred different ways to kill a man, but he isn't sure what to do with a man who's been splayed out on a burgundy colored tablecloth for his carnal pleasure.

He stands there, staring at his 'dessert' for what feels like a lifetime before, feasting his eyes on every inch of the display - the man - he takes a step forward.

"Don't tell me," the man - dessert display - says, voice filled with humor, "this is your first time, isn't it, babe?"

Steve likes the way that the word, babe, rolls off the man's, the dessert's, the display's, tongue. It makes his stomach knot, and his toes curl, and fuck if he isn't going to come before he's even tasted the dessert that he'd ordered.

His mind flashes briefly on Kono, and he wonders if the curvy blonde that she'd chosen to display her strawberry shortcake on is as alluring as the blonde that he'd chosen is. He highly doubts it, though Steve's pretty sure that Kono's moved on from awkward staring, getting to know you before I eat custard off your body stage, to hot sex by now.

"Don't be shy," the dessert, man, says. "Don't you like what you see?" the man pouts, and Steve's heart does a funny little flip-flop, and then he's beside the man, as though he's been pulled by a string.

"I like what I see," Steve says, mouth bone dry so that the words come out as though they're rusty.

The man, display, dessert, arches his back, just a little, and Steve's eyes zero in on the zabaglione stuffed strawberry that's been expertly placed on the nipple closest to him. His mouth waters, and he leans closer, feels soft pressure at the nape of his neck as the man squeezes it with the tips of his fingers, gentle, yet firm.

"It's okay," the man-dessert says. "I'm not a damsel in distress, or some down on his luck prostitute that you've got to rescue, hero. I like what I do, and I'm here of my own free will. Promise. Relax," he whispers the last into Steve's ear, tickling it, and making shivers run up and down Steve's spine. "I'm all yours tonight, babe. Indulge yourself. Take a bite, trust me, I'm downright delicious."

Steve wants to know more about this man, about why he works in such a place, about how he knows exactly what it is that's keeping Steve from doing just what he's encouraged him to do. But the plump strawberry is right there, and the fingers are now massaging the nape of his neck, and he can't seem to find the words to ask.

Steve wraps his lips around the strawberry, brushing against the man's warm, sun-bronzed skin, making gooseflesh break out in the wake of his touch. It's all Steve can do not to cum when the sweet ambrosia of the strawberry and zabaglione, coupled with the saltiness of the man whom he'd chosen to display it, bursts out on his tongue.

He moans around the strawberry in his mouth, tongue darting out to lap up the remnants of the zabaglione that cling to the display's nipple, making it hard. Caught up in the moment, Steve sucks on the hardness, nips at it, and makes the man, the dessert, arch his back and hiss in response. The fingers dig into the nape of his neck, grounding him, keeping him in place until every last sticky trace of the dessert is gone, and the man's nipple is swollen from the attention that Steve's given it.

"Yes," the dessert man says, breathy. "Fuck, yes."

Reluctantly, Steve pulls back a little, eyes darting over to the other zabaglione-filled strawberry. "What's your name?" he asks.

The man blinks at him and frowns. He lets out a shaky breath, the fingers that he's pressing into the nape of Steve's neck let up just a little.

"You can call me, Danny," he says after a pause, blue eyes piercing Steve's with an intensity that makes Steve's stomach flutter.

"Danny," Steve whispers. "I like that."

"And here I thought that it was my body you liked," Danny says, pouting, rubbing the nape of Steve's neck. "If it's my name you like, then -"

"Oh, I like your body just fine," Steve rushes to say, face heating up as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Danny chuckles. It's a sweet sound, and Steve wonders if he can take his dessert home, and keep it for the rest of his life. He wonders, idly, what the expiration of freshly prepared zabaglione is, though it's not the zabaglione he's interested in spiriting home, but rather the man upon which it's been displayed.

"So, show me," Danny says, breath husky. "Show me just how much you like this body. Eat to your heart's content."

Steve blinks at Danny, and he suddenly feels too hot, too constricted in the clothes that he's wearing - a tight black tee-shirt, and a pair of faded blue jeans (they're what Kono picked out for him) - and he has to take them off before he goes any further.

"I...is it okay if I -"

"Take your clothes off, babe," Danny says. "I'll wait."

His eyes are dancing with mirth, and his lips are curved upward in a smile that makes Steve want to both kiss and punch the man, because it's an indulgent, smirk of a smile that lets him know that Danny's more than well aware of Steve's nervous uncertainty.

Steve steps back from the table, and shucks off his jeans, he tugs his tee-shirt up over his head, and wads it up, discarding it beside his pooled jeans. The room's warm, but Steve shivers. He hasn't been naked in front of a stranger since his boot camp days. He can feel the pulse of the various scars that mar his stomach, back and arms. He feels small, and vulnerable, and terrified, because he hadn't expected to feel like this at all. When Kono had invited him to come, he hadn't thought about this part of the whole affair, and it seems foolish to him now that he hadn't.

A low, appreciative whistle startles Steve out of his self-consciousness, and he can feel himself blushing, can see it in the flushed tone of his skin. The fingers that had gently held him in place earlier are back, this time on his wrist.

When he looks up, he sees blue eyes regarding him kindly. The pupils are distinct, and Steve can see that Danny's cock, covered in a thick, frothy layer of zabaglione, is very much erect. He's not sure which he should attend to first, the neglected strawberry-decked nipple, or the epicurean cock.

"Eat me," Danny says, and Steve breathes in sharply. His own cock is definitely up for the act of eating to indulgence.

"Fuck," Steve breathes the word out. He's hard, and so damn hungry for Danny, with or without the zabaglione that covers the man's balls, and cock, and the berries that are displayed so prettily in his navel.

"C'mon, you know you want to," Danny says. He's biting his lip, his fingers are a vise on Steve's wrist. "C'mon, soldier boy, show me what you did to earn those scars and tattoos. I love a man in uniform."

"Sailor, not soldier," Steve corrects, though it's irrelevant. That Danny had correctly guessed he was in one of the armed forces, based on his tattoos and scars alone, is impressive, though it also makes Steve wonder how many service men, and possibly women, Danny's been dressed up as dessert for.

"Navy man?" Danny asks, thumb rubbing over one of the scars on the outside of Steve's wrist.

"SEAL," Steve says, knowing that the sense of pride instilled in him by his commanding officers over the years is ringing in the tone of his voice by the way that Danny's breath hitches.

Danny's looking at him with an intensity that belies the light atmosphere he'd attempted to cultivate earlier. Steve knows that he should be doing something other than standing there, open-mouthed, staring, but Danny's eyes are the color of the ocean when the sun's shining on it. They're light, and yet deep, and Steve could probably drown himself in them without even being aware that he'd been breathless until the very end, and then it would be too late.

"Where are you, babe?" Danny asks, voice quiet, fingers warm on Steve's wrist.

"Drowning in your eyes," Steve says automatically, without thinking, and is rewarded with another ringing bark of laughter that makes his heart feel a little lighter, and his cock a little heavier.

"Come up for air," Danny whispers, and he pulls Steve by the wrist, jerking him forward, causing him to almost fall into him. "It wouldn't do for a sailor to drown on dry land."

Steve knows that he's being foolishly romantic. That this whole thing is ridiculous. But he doesn't care. He wants a bit of ridiculous, romantic foolishness in his life right now. He wants Danny, and everything the man has to offer him, even if it's just berries and sugary zabaglione, and a few hours of his time.

"It's not dry land I'm drowning on," Steve says, voice husky.

He dips his head to Danny's neck, and sucks at the heated skin there. It's a taste that he wants to memorize, not sweet, but salty and manly, and everything that Steve didn't know that he wanted until just now.

"Fuck," Danny says the word like a prayer, and Steve answers it with tongue, teeth, and lips, tasting every inch of Danny's body, delighting in the way that the man seems to come undone under the onslaught of his gluttony.

Danny's fingers tangle in Steve's hair as best as they can. Steve keeps it short, and spares a brief thought to growing it a little longer.

Steve pauses when he reaches the zabaglione-filled, chocolate covered strawberry before latching onto it, teeth bruising Danny's flesh as he bites, and then sucks, and laves the sensitive patch of skin, working the strawberry in and out of his mouth, teasing the nipple with it before eating it, lips, and teeth brushing over Danny's rock hard nipple as he does so. The strawberry tastes sickly sweet in comparison to the tangy flavor of Danny's skin, and Steve's stomach is a coiled snake, ready to strike out, and paralyze what it wants - Danny - so that it can have his wicked, wicked way with its helpless prey.

Danny's no helpless prey, though. Wordlessly, he directs Steve to his navel, using the pressure of his fingertips alone to guide him toward the jeweled treasure buried there - blueberries and raspberries swimming in a shallow pool of zabaglione.

Steve removes the berries, one at a time, with his lips, teasing them from Danny's belly, relishing in the way that the man is panting, and stuttering out half words in a kind of agonized voice.

Steve thinks he understands, maybe, why Danny does this for a living.

The man seems a glutton for the teasing punishment that Steve is putting him though (there is no doubt in Steve's mind that others have teased Danny like this as well) as much as the men, and women, he services are gluttons for sex and savory treats upon which to indulge themselves.

When Steve has swallowed the last berry, he presses his mouth to Danny's stomach, and kisses around the pool of zabaglione, before turning his attention to it. Danny's fingers are back on the nape of his neck, digging in, pinching, massaging, and coaxing.

"You're killing me, babe," Danny says, voice little more than a breath. "Shit...c'mon, babe, you gotta eat, you know you want to."

Steve smiles, places his lips around Danny's navel, and then he digs his tongue into the zabaglione, lapping at it, pushing his tongue in, and then pulling it out rhythmically so that he's fucking Danny's navel with his tongue. Danny bucks, and his fingers spasm as they dig into Steve's neck, hard.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Danny gasps the words, and when Steve has lapped up every last drop of the zabaglione from his navel, and simply continues to dive into and out of it with his tongue, Danny moans and pants, and keeps Steve's in place until Steve stops.

"Babe, you're not supposed to make me cum before you've feasted on the main course, the pièce de resistance," Danny says, voice shaky as his fingers on the back of Steve's neck.

Danny's stomach is quivering, and Steve notes how muscular, how beautiful the man is.

"Is that your pet name for your dick?" Steve asks, voice teasing.

His head's resting on Danny's stomach, and he's got a nice view of said pièce de résistance. It's impressive. For now, though, Steve's enjoying the sensation of Danny's fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle massage that Danny's applying to his neck now that he's no longer being mercilessly teased by Steve's tongue.

"Har, har," Danny says.

Steve can hear the pout in the man's voice, and picture it in his mind. He feels like he knows Danny now, though he estimates that he's spent less than an hour with the man. It feels like he's spent a lifetime with him, and he wants to spend a whole lifetime of lifetimes with Danny until the world dies away to nothing.

Steve's never felt this way for anyone that he's been with. He'd thought he'd understood what love was, and what it meant, when he'd been with Freddy. It hadn't lasted, though, and then he'd met Catherine, and the sex had been great, but it hadn't been love. And then there'd been his latest train wreck, Victor. Steve hadn't even entertained thoughts of love when he'd been with Victor. It had only been about sex, and pain, and Steve wonders why he'd even been with the man in the first place. Victor had been a masochist. Steve'd started to think that he was, too.

"And what do you call yours? The Prince of Wales, or, no, let me guess, the Titanic?" Danny's laughter rings clear, and true, and Steve huffs out a laugh of his own, not nearly as light and carefree as Danny's.

"It has been known to sink down deep," Steve says, lips brushing against Danny's skin, eliciting goosebumps.

"Enough with the tactless, dirty metaphors," says Danny. "It's time for you to eat. You came here for dessert. Eat your fill, sailor boy; I promise that the pièce de résistance is well worth its name."

"Is it, now?" Steve asks.

His eyes are locked on the pièce de résistance, teeth and jaw aching in anticipation of what's to come. Danny hadn't said anything about dirty puns being off limits, and Steve figures he's safe if he doesn't say that last thought aloud.

"Damn right it is," Danny brags. "It's a veritable chefs-d'oeuvre."

"All this French, and here I thought I'd ordered an Italian dessert," Steve quips back.

The stomach muscles beneath him clench, and Steve flinches as the back of his neck is flicked, hard by the very fingers that had been massaging it so nicely.

"Ouch," Steve complains, and he rubs at the back of his neck, and turns his head to glare at Danny.

"Just because I'm an Italian dessert does not mean that I'm unintelligent, or ignorant," Danny says, arms now crossed over his chest. "So, I know French, so I use it when I'm trying, in vain, mind you, to get arrogant, newbie soldier sons of bitches to suck my cock."

Danny's ire is impressive, and Steve knows that Danny's insulting him, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips, or the way that his cock stirs at the vehement display. Danny's skin is flush with anger, and what Steve hopes is a result of his attentions to it, and Steve could not be more turned on.

"Arrogant?" Steve asks, cocking an eyebrow. "I'll give you newbie, but arrogant. I'm not arrogant. I think that's a distinct case of the pot calling the kettle black, buddy."

"I'm not your buddy," Danny says the words through his teeth. Steve can see, out of the corner of his eye, that the man's cock is not flagging any for this display of anger. If anything, it seems to be that much more interested in what Steve has to offer it.

"Fine," Steve says, leaning close to Danny's face, towering over him, and noting the way that the man's nostrils flare, and his pupils grow wider. Steve moves closer, so that his lips are against Danny's ear, and he smiles when the man jerks and shivers.

"You're not my buddy, Danny," Steve whispers. "You're a glorified dessert, and I am going to eat you."

Steve relishes the way that Danny seems to tremble at his words, not in fear, but in ill-contained excitement. Danny's a glutton for punishment, and Steve's more than prepared to give him what he wants, now, and for as long as Danny will let him.

Steve takes his time working his way down to Danny's self christened, chefs-d'oeuvre, expertly plying lips, tongue, teeth and fingers to Danny's flesh, marking the man, and cooling Danny's anger off, even while he heats the man up.

Danny's fingers find their way back to Steve's neck and hair, and when Steve lines himself up with Danny's zabaglione glazed cock, the man pushes himself up on his elbows so that he can watch.

Keeping his eyes locked on Danny's, enraptured by the thin line of crystalline blue that rimmed the dark pupils, Steve starts to dine on the saporous delight, moaning at the fusion of flavors - sweet, salty, tangy - that are comprised of both dessert and man.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Danny says, hips jerking, fingers flying to Steve's hair as Steve sucks and licks the sacchariferous caudle off of each of Danny's balls, making sure to pay each of them due, and equal, attention.

By the time Steve finishes licking his balls clean, Danny's babbling incoherently, body completely flushed, and fingers twined almost painfully in Steve's hair. Steve thinks that he may have lost a few hairs along the way, but he feels good. He likes making someone come, and enjoys this sensual act of lovemaking more than he enjoys having it done to him.

Steve takes a moment to breathe, to smile in satisfaction at the needy, strung out look on Danny's face before he turns his attention to the true pièce de résistance. Steve's breath tickles the tip of Danny's cock, making it twitch, and Danny groan.

"Please, babe, please," Danny pleads.

"What do you want me to do, Danny?" Steve asks coyly.

"What the fuck?" Danny's face contorts in what looks like a cross between pain and disbelief. "You, my man, are a cock tease," he accuses, pouting.

"Tell me what you want, Danny," Steve urges, fingers reaching down to wrap around his own erection, finally paying it some of the attention that it's been begging for.

One of the rules for establishments like this, other than the requirement that displays, and customers, be disease free, is that the dessert does not actively pleasure the customer, and there is no penetration beyond that of fingers, should the dessert allow it. Steve wonders if customers ever cross that line, and if they do, what happens to them? He wonders if they've ever crossed that line with Danny. It makes him angry just thinking about the possibility of it.

"Fuck, fuck you," Danny says, voice hoarse.

"What do you want, Danny?" Steve repeats the question, and strokes himself. He imagines that it's Danny's fingers touching him, that the man's broad hand, not his own, is wrapped around his shaft, moving up and down along it, making it shoot through with electrical impulses.

"Fuck it all." Danny whimpers, digs his fingers into Steve's scalp. "I want you to finish what you started. Eat my cock, and make me come so hard that I'll feel it into next week. Shit, but you're a demanding bastard."

Steve smiles, and strokes himself, and gets down to the business of doing just what Danny's asked him to do. The zabaglione's warm, and toothsome. Mixed with Danny's precum, it tastes almost like saltwater taffy.

Steve takes his time, working his way down from the tip, to the base, employing his tongue, and lips; kissing, and sucking at times to remove every last trace of the gooey dessert before he's completely satisfied his hunger for sweet, and is ready to move on to that which is more salt and bitter than anything else.

Danny's fingers are gripping Steve's hair tightly, and he's panting, and moaning, and urging Steve to do this and that, and Steve's listening, complying, and steadily stroking himself to the point of cumming, but he doesn't want to push himself over the edge before he brings Danny there.

Steve meets Danny's glazed eye look, and then he places his lips around the head of Danny's cock, and works his tongue into the slit, teasing at it, and sucking, and drawing it further into his mouth, and sucking for all he's worth.

Steve hasn't done this since Victor, and his acerbic lover hadn't been appreciative of it, but when he starts to bob his head, and take more of Danny's erection into his mouth, partially down his throat, the look on Danny's flushed face is one of awe, and utter bliss. Steve hums, and the vibrations cause Danny to spasm.

"Oh, fuck, I'm going to, going to..." Danny's lips move soundlessly as Steve continues to suck Danny. He strokes himself with one hand, while the other strokes the inside of Danny's thigh.

A guttural cry is the only verbal warning that Steve gets when Danny comes, and Steve comes a stroke later, the hot sticky substance coating his stomach, and the underside of the table that Danny's lying on. Steve swallows Danny's come. It's as salty and bitter as he'd expected it to be, a perfect piquant antithesis to the overly sugary taste of the zabaglione.

"You didn't have to do that," Danny says, once he's regained his faculties. He's lying - spent, limbs lax - on the table, eyes once more a striking blue. The evidence of Steve's attentions to his body stand out starkly in the room's atmospheric lighting - bruises in the shape of Steve's teeth, hickies, flesh reddened and raised - and it's only in the glowing aftermath that Steve sees that Danny's got some scars of his own, though his body's tattoo-free.

One day, he'll ask Danny about his scars, Steve thinks, even as he yawns into his hand, climbs onto the table and lies beside the other man, not caring if it's proper protocol. Danny doesn't protest, much, other than to shove at Steve to keep him from crushing him, and jamming an elbow in his stomach.

When he wakes after a short, well-deserved nap, they'll talk, and Steve resolves to have his way - dessert to go - come hell or high water. With Danny, Steve thinks that it'll be a case of having to overcome both, but he's looking forward to it.