Jesus. He might actually come undone just from this -- not the finger pushing slowly back, or Steve's arm pressing him into his own stomach, but this. Steve's voice. Winded and hoarse, like his throat's gone dry, and, Christ, he's not sure he's ever really heard Steve want before.
Not like this. Not with his whole body tense and withholding, restrained in a perfect straitjacket that only allows the faintest of tremors to show how much control it's taking, how telling it is. Not when he's trying to sound normal, and only succeeds in sounding like a man lost in a desert, offered a way out, and it scrapes over Danny's raw nerves like sandpaper.
Everything seems so quiet against the buzzing in his head, the jagged attempts at breathing, the low panicked hum of he's touching there and it feels weird and it feels invasive and it feels kind of good at the same time, while he wonders in a tilting carousel of detaching thoughts what the protocol for this is. Like...is this clean enough? Was his shower this morning too long ago? What exactly are the expectations for unpleasant surprises, for body hair or lack thereof, for...seriously, how does anything fit?
There might already be something wrong. Hell. It's not like he woke up today and decided it was a good day to ask Steve to start fingering him, he's got no idea what level of preparation is necessary or, you know, polite.
It's the whisper-lightest of pressures, but enough to make his whole body clench in confusion, muscles not sure why it isn't being rejected, head pausing, considering, it's Steve, so he needs to wait, to listen, to pay attention. And Steve is shifting, tugging at the lack of room in Danny's pants, and, shit, it's about to get real, if they lose clothes it's really happening and he has simultaneously never wanted anything so much and never wanted to run so far away in his life.
Which is a shitty, cowardly reaction to have. He's still breathing. Steve's still careful, even with the toll it's taking, that he's trying to pretend isn't there. Asking, without demanding. Letting Danny bring this as far as he wants, without pushing him any further. Which means when Danny nudges experimentally against that finger, it's because he wants to, trying to figure out how this feels, beyond strange.
"In that case, we may as well go upstairs."
Where there's space. Room. A comfortable bed. Not a couch they might roll off any second, even if he's compelled by more than just lack of space to hang onto Steve, fingers curling against bluff muscle.
But upstairs is something else, too. Upstairs is bed. Upstairs is reality. It's not just fooling around on the couch, which has the sheen of casual to it. And his heart's hammering against his ribs, in his head, but he's not about to back down, either.
no subject
Not like this. Not with his whole body tense and withholding, restrained in a perfect straitjacket that only allows the faintest of tremors to show how much control it's taking, how telling it is. Not when he's trying to sound normal, and only succeeds in sounding like a man lost in a desert, offered a way out, and it scrapes over Danny's raw nerves like sandpaper.
Everything seems so quiet against the buzzing in his head, the jagged attempts at breathing, the low panicked hum of he's touching there and it feels weird and it feels invasive and it feels kind of good at the same time, while he wonders in a tilting carousel of detaching thoughts what the protocol for this is. Like...is this clean enough? Was his shower this morning too long ago? What exactly are the expectations for unpleasant surprises, for body hair or lack thereof, for...seriously, how does anything fit?
There might already be something wrong. Hell. It's not like he woke up today and decided it was a good day to ask Steve to start fingering him, he's got no idea what level of preparation is necessary or, you know, polite.
It's the whisper-lightest of pressures, but enough to make his whole body clench in confusion, muscles not sure why it isn't being rejected, head pausing, considering, it's Steve, so he needs to wait, to listen, to pay attention. And Steve is shifting, tugging at the lack of room in Danny's pants, and, shit, it's about to get real, if they lose clothes it's really happening and he has simultaneously never wanted anything so much and never wanted to run so far away in his life.
Which is a shitty, cowardly reaction to have. He's still breathing. Steve's still careful, even with the toll it's taking, that he's trying to pretend isn't there. Asking, without demanding. Letting Danny bring this as far as he wants, without pushing him any further. Which means when Danny nudges experimentally against that finger, it's because he wants to, trying to figure out how this feels, beyond strange.
"In that case, we may as well go upstairs."
Where there's space. Room. A comfortable bed. Not a couch they might roll off any second, even if he's compelled by more than just lack of space to hang onto Steve, fingers curling against bluff muscle.
But upstairs is something else, too. Upstairs is bed. Upstairs is reality. It's not just fooling around on the couch, which has the sheen of casual to it. And his heart's hammering against his ribs, in his head, but he's not about to back down, either.