This is going to be the death of him. He's sure of it. The way Steve grins, lunatic and fond all at the same time. The way he pushes at Steve's chest but can't actually convince himself to try pulling away, or moving, or letting go of Steve at all.
Doesn't actually try to take his wrist or hand back, though he does pull at it, more with exasperation than any desire to actually have it freed. Really, Steve? "You think pinning me down is going to help with any of that? Your inability to keep from giving me bitemarks and hickeys, I mean. Are you thirteen? Is that what this is?"
Even if he thought he could get away with it, he wouldn't try. Or couldn't, maybe. Has to be right here, holding Steve as firmly as he's trying to shove at him. While Steve just laughs, cocky and self-assured, a wide smile stretching so teeth glint white in the dark, so the corners of his eyes crease up and he looks actually happy for a second. In a way Danny hasn't seen enough of, ever. Can't get enough of the smile that lights this whole room and blitzes the inside of Danny's chest like a floodlight.
He'd do anything. Say anything. Keep poking and prodding and protesting, keep tossing stupid insults at Steve's stupid head, keep giving in to Steve's mouth on his skin, whatever it takes, just to keep seeing it. To wipe away the memory of that other, so lost, look. The one that felt like someone attached Danny's ribcage to a short rope and then dropped the rest of him off a rooftop. "I should not be responsible for your lack of self-control, Steven."
Dropping his name in two disapproving syllables, even when his skin is shivering against that bare touch. Shorting out nerves like Steve's lips are brushing past skin, right against the sensitive, too large, too fragile, glass-blown thing that's taking up residence in Danny's chest. And knowing that Steve shouldn't stop. Shouldn't ever stop. That Danny would give almost anything to make sure this keeps happening, insane as it all is.
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This is going to be the death of him. He's sure of it. The way Steve grins, lunatic and fond all at the same time. The way he pushes at Steve's chest but can't actually convince himself to try pulling away, or moving, or letting go of Steve at all.
Doesn't actually try to take his wrist or hand back, though he does pull at it, more with exasperation than any desire to actually have it freed. Really, Steve? "You think pinning me down is going to help with any of that? Your inability to keep from giving me bitemarks and hickeys, I mean. Are you thirteen? Is that what this is?"
Even if he thought he could get away with it, he wouldn't try. Or couldn't, maybe. Has to be right here, holding Steve as firmly as he's trying to shove at him. While Steve just laughs, cocky and self-assured, a wide smile stretching so teeth glint white in the dark, so the corners of his eyes crease up and he looks actually happy for a second. In a way Danny hasn't seen enough of, ever. Can't get enough of the smile that lights this whole room and blitzes the inside of Danny's chest like a floodlight.
He'd do anything. Say anything. Keep poking and prodding and protesting, keep tossing stupid insults at Steve's stupid head, keep giving in to Steve's mouth on his skin, whatever it takes, just to keep seeing it. To wipe away the memory of that other, so lost, look. The one that felt like someone attached Danny's ribcage to a short rope and then dropped the rest of him off a rooftop. "I should not be responsible for your lack of self-control, Steven."
Dropping his name in two disapproving syllables, even when his skin is shivering against that bare touch. Shorting out nerves like Steve's lips are brushing past skin, right against the sensitive, too large, too fragile, glass-blown thing that's taking up residence in Danny's chest. And knowing that Steve shouldn't stop. Shouldn't ever stop. That Danny would give almost anything to make sure this keeps happening, insane as it all is.