Danny gives it a second, stretching Steve's want for patience and expectation of it. But not unusually so at this second. Even if it feels even more like straining against a bond now. When absolutely nothing is actually holding him down or back. He's got his weight supported on his hands, and he could push up, stop Danny, do whatever. Which would work well, if that whole part about stopping Danny didn't catch under every inch of skin.
Like the idea of stopping Danny now, would stop the gravity of the planet, or the ability to breathe in his body. Not that he was doing a whole lot of that right now. Like he'd rather have his skin melt away than stop Danny. Whose fingers are roaming his skin, like it isn't just pock marked with regimental routines and scars with less than ghost stories. When he's actually feeling his brow lift in some curiosity.
And then. It's like being spattered with boiling oil. It has to be.
When his whole body literally seizes and shakes, hard, on that new touch, so soft, lips brushing his skin, with hot breath, so gentle and yet pervasive it feels like the skin under that mouth is going snap, like the ground just bucked him, knocking him into Danny's legs and spine, everything.
One hand digging hard into the leather cushion and sweating suddenly the whole weight of his upper body alone, because the other one is lodged in blonde hair, curling it around fingers, when he can't even stop the garbled groan getting dashed on the rocks of the back of his throat, even when his teeth clench tight, and he's barely getting air out his nose or Danny's name out between his teeth, not even sure if it's a warning or a plea.
Especially not with those words. With the whole idea like a flash flare being thrown straight down his veins on the movement of Danny's lips. Golden. Golden. Golden hair, and face, blue eyes, hovering so close and so far, using his own words, and insinuating he thinks about this. About Steve laid out like this. About doing all of this to him. Trying to snap his restrain one thread at a time, and call it some kind of kindness.
Like it can't even possibly be a secret, even as he uses those words. Throws them back in Steve's face. Every ounce of control.
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Like the idea of stopping Danny now, would stop the gravity of the planet, or the ability to breathe in his body. Not that he was doing a whole lot of that right now. Like he'd rather have his skin melt away than stop Danny. Whose fingers are roaming his skin, like it isn't just pock marked with regimental routines and scars with less than ghost stories. When he's actually feeling his brow lift in some curiosity.
And then. It's like being spattered with boiling oil. It has to be.
When his whole body literally seizes and shakes, hard, on that new touch, so soft, lips brushing his skin, with hot breath, so gentle and yet pervasive it feels like the skin under that mouth is going snap, like the ground just bucked him, knocking him into Danny's legs and spine, everything.
One hand digging hard into the leather cushion and sweating suddenly the whole weight of his upper body alone, because the other one is lodged in blonde hair, curling it around fingers, when he can't even stop the garbled groan getting dashed on the rocks of the back of his throat, even when his teeth clench tight, and he's barely getting air out his nose or Danny's name out between his teeth, not even sure if it's a warning or a plea.
Especially not with those words. With the whole idea like a flash flare being thrown straight down his veins on the movement of Danny's lips. Golden. Golden. Golden hair, and face, blue eyes, hovering so close and so far, using his own words, and insinuating he thinks about this. About Steve laid out like this. About doing all of this to him. Trying to snap his restrain one thread at a time, and call it some kind of kindness.
Like it can't even possibly be a secret, even as he uses those words. Throws them back in Steve's face. Every ounce of control.