The muscles in his arm actually shake. Not from surprise, but from how strong the reaction after the first one, but the reaction to try and make himself hold still. How strong that one has to be. While Danny is wiggling. Just a little. Just enough. Pushing back and down against his hand. His fingers. Finger. This isn't the angle. This really isn't the space to. But it's still there. The second Steve's jaw locks and his head is still leaned in, and his eyes clench closed a second.
And he's trying so hard not to shove forward, not to give up on, give a damn about Danny's pants. Let it all fall by the wayside like the buttons they've scattered all over his house in the last month. Like every inch of Steve that's been scattered and burned. Shove for space. Shove against Danny's skin, the ring of muscle not far from him, without anything on hand, on his own hand or Danny's skin to make any of that easier for a first time.
When he knows it's only been a month. Which might at times feel like an eternity to him, but sometimes it feels like seconds. And a lot of the time it still feels like never, if Danny isn't nearby to blunt that. And Danny doesn't even approve of coffee with people he's actually flatfooted and tongue tripping over. Which doesn't change the way he's pushing down against Steve's hand. Careful, uncertain, like someone holding on to a ladder testing the ground.
But still doing it. Shoving a spike of overwhelming fire anywhere Steve had air seconds ago.
"Couldn't hurt," Steve said, agreed, like there was any option in him not to, any air to use to speak. Like he wasn't fighting back an incredible world of options that shoved at his head, like a torrent on top of Danny's movements. His bed. The things in his room. His bed table "More room." Danny on his bed. Bereft of clothes and. He doesn't even know how to finish that. There. There. Possible. Something. Maybe. When he can't help the way his fingers curl against Danny's skin.
Tracing with a pressure that isn't as light as it was, but isn't as focused either. Because they're talking to. Tearing a divide in his mind, that he knows his mouth is losing out to his hand. To his couch. To not letting go yet. Even when he adds, like it's important at all at this second. "A lot less Tarantino."
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And he's trying so hard not to shove forward, not to give up on, give a damn about Danny's pants. Let it all fall by the wayside like the buttons they've scattered all over his house in the last month. Like every inch of Steve that's been scattered and burned. Shove for space. Shove against Danny's skin, the ring of muscle not far from him, without anything on hand, on his own hand or Danny's skin to make any of that easier for a first time.
When he knows it's only been a month. Which might at times feel like an eternity to him, but sometimes it feels like seconds. And a lot of the time it still feels like never, if Danny isn't nearby to blunt that. And Danny doesn't even approve of coffee with people he's actually flatfooted and tongue tripping over. Which doesn't change the way he's pushing down against Steve's hand. Careful, uncertain, like someone holding on to a ladder testing the ground.
But still doing it. Shoving a spike of overwhelming fire anywhere Steve had air seconds ago.
"Couldn't hurt," Steve said, agreed, like there was any option in him not to, any air to use to speak. Like he wasn't fighting back an incredible world of options that shoved at his head, like a torrent on top of Danny's movements. His bed. The things in his room. His bed table "More room." Danny on his bed. Bereft of clothes and. He doesn't even know how to finish that. There. There. Possible. Something. Maybe. When he can't help the way his fingers curl against Danny's skin.
Tracing with a pressure that isn't as light as it was, but isn't as focused either. Because they're talking to. Tearing a divide in his mind, that he knows his mouth is losing out to his hand. To his couch. To not letting go yet. Even when he adds, like it's important at all at this second. "A lot less Tarantino."