The first thing to come out of Danny's mouth nearly makes him groan, fingerings tightening on those belt loops on the still present persistent need for Danny to be closer. Still closer than every second before the second he's in now. The way Danny's tone is so long and beaten, vibrating into his lungs and belly, turning one toward steam and the other toward a puddle, and those words. Those words are still so true.
When some part of his brain somehow catches on to that, like the one person who realizes in a pack of forty or fifty, at the top of the roller coaster, how terrible the coming swoop might be, even when they've been convincing themselves it won't. But the breaks are entirely out of their control compared to everything else going on. Not that Steve is beyond control, but he can feel the grumbling whine spreading like pistons on high are jamming, through himself, at the idea of it, already.
Tightening his fingers, sharpening his gaze. On Danny, with bitten bright lips and bright blue blown eyes.
This expression, this different wanting, almost begging to be broken open expression, he keeps finding on Danny's face. Never knew what looked like before. Never wants to not be seeing it. Again and again and again. When he can drag this out, make Danny voice go low and warm and asking him, so clearly, to follow through as his threats and promises. And the last thing Steve wants is to remember.
That it's so true. That it's not even two weeks, and he knows, beyond a shadow of any doubt anywhere, that before two weeks were done with Gabby and Danny they were hardly figuring out how or where to have dinner a first or second time. It wasn't this. It wasn't anything like this. Rushed and reckless, and threatening to rip apart everything. That Steve might throw everything to the wind, give all of this on one, first night, good time.
But that isn't Danny. It isn't even Danny when his voice is warm in his viens, reminder and request all at once. They've never even seen a dinner table. If there was ever supposed to be one. Aside from with the team last weekend.
Which doesn't even touch the fact, Danny is new to this whole thing. Here. On Steve's lap. Drug every direction by their hands.
And, fuck, but every part of him still wants, when Danny is looking at him like that. His voice is dipping low, still, and his knuckles are brushing Steve's stomach and the top of his pants, sparks shooting off in his middle even more for the idea of anything being forbidden or requiring patience or him to stop, fireworks lighting his skin when Danny is tugging at his shirt.
When that is anything but please stop, and everything is torn and tossed together all at once, on high, in a wind storm. Where the brush of his skin is like singeing lightning, trying to take that wash of thoughts back out to sea. When Steve can't even stop how low, and overboard that tone is, or that he breathes in sharp without even filling his lungs at the touch and the tugging, smirk tagging in, bright and prodding "Yeah?"
He lets go of Danny's belt loops in a single fast motion, snatching fistfuls of the bottom of his shirt, right out of Danny's hands and pulling it off fast and easy over his head. Left with a handful of cloth, that he pitches somewhere over a shoulder with a brilliantly devil may care expression of almost asking to be called on it. Like he isn't half dressed now, skin flushed, chest rising and falling faster than normal breath, on display simply because Danny requested it.
Everywhere all over his face, when he can't stop his mouth, or the way he leans back for a second, one hand catching the couch to prop himself, unabashed in leaving himself stretched and nearly posed in front of Danny, as he is in the fact his eyes never leave Danny's face, smug as the high sun, and the smallest bit more watchful. "Better?"
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When some part of his brain somehow catches on to that, like the one person who realizes in a pack of forty or fifty, at the top of the roller coaster, how terrible the coming swoop might be, even when they've been convincing themselves it won't. But the breaks are entirely out of their control compared to everything else going on. Not that Steve is beyond control, but he can feel the grumbling whine spreading like pistons on high are jamming, through himself, at the idea of it, already.
Tightening his fingers, sharpening his gaze. On Danny, with bitten bright lips and bright blue blown eyes.
This expression, this different wanting, almost begging to be broken open expression, he keeps finding on Danny's face. Never knew what looked like before. Never wants to not be seeing it. Again and again and again. When he can drag this out, make Danny voice go low and warm and asking him, so clearly, to follow through as his threats and promises. And the last thing Steve wants is to remember.
That it's so true. That it's not even two weeks, and he knows, beyond a shadow of any doubt anywhere, that before two weeks were done with Gabby and Danny they were hardly figuring out how or where to have dinner a first or second time. It wasn't this. It wasn't anything like this. Rushed and reckless, and threatening to rip apart everything. That Steve might throw everything to the wind, give all of this on one, first night, good time.
But that isn't Danny. It isn't even Danny when his voice is warm in his viens, reminder and request all at once.
They've never even seen a dinner table. If there was ever supposed to be one. Aside from with the team last weekend.
Which doesn't even touch the fact, Danny is new to this whole thing. Here. On Steve's lap. Drug every direction by their hands.
And, fuck, but every part of him still wants, when Danny is looking at him like that. His voice is dipping low, still, and his knuckles are brushing Steve's stomach and the top of his pants, sparks shooting off in his middle even more for the idea of anything being forbidden or requiring patience or him to stop, fireworks lighting his skin when Danny is tugging at his shirt.
When that is anything but please stop, and everything is torn and tossed together all at once, on high, in a wind storm. Where the brush of his skin is like singeing lightning, trying to take that wash of thoughts back out to sea. When Steve can't even stop how low, and overboard that tone is, or that he breathes in sharp without even filling his lungs at the touch and the tugging, smirk tagging in, bright and prodding "Yeah?"
He lets go of Danny's belt loops in a single fast motion, snatching fistfuls of the bottom of his shirt, right out of Danny's hands and pulling it off fast and easy over his head. Left with a handful of cloth, that he pitches somewhere over a shoulder with a brilliantly devil may care expression of almost asking to be called on it. Like he isn't half dressed now, skin flushed, chest rising and falling faster than normal breath, on display simply because Danny requested it.
Everywhere all over his face, when he can't stop his mouth, or the way he leans back for a second, one hand catching the couch to prop himself, unabashed in leaving himself stretched and nearly posed in front of Danny, as he is in the fact his eyes never leave Danny's face, smug as the high sun, and the smallest bit more watchful. "Better?"