The silence could easily be interpreted as nothing. Like the sound was swallowed by the night. But it wasn't. All of it is trapped under Steve's skin. Between his ears and his thoughts. Between his mouthand Danny's skin. Cataloging every syllable, and even the aching, breathing silence before those words, as it scores through his with the visceral, possessive, triumph. And the smallest quiet ripple of relief.
Tucking itself all like a tick buried in his flesh, between his bare shoulder-blades. One that can't be burned out.
Like the whisper of a stinging thought about how easy it should be to slip his shoulder under Danny knee and drag him foreward, flush against him, in a completely different way. A way that makes his heart stutter and stumble, in fits, like it's got faulty wiring, and can't decide whether to flood both chambers or forget how to work. Steaming the air, and driving him further up.
Nose nuzzling against the crease where Danny's thigh meets his hip. Where he could be kind, he could give Danny a moment's air, but why would he ever do that. What uses is there in breathing, when Steve can get Danny's hands off him, mouth off him, and the words he says just dig into his stomach and his chest with lacing tips, shooting the madness from the air even. It's almost fair, to Steve's estimation that he doesn't. Pause. Give Danny any warning.
That there is nothing but a simple, rough, Good in his head, even when he's saying "You haven't seen anything yet."
Tossing it like a threat, a grenade, menacing and full-meaning, half lost on the rise of Danny's hip, before Steve turns his face and lets his cheek and mouth ghost a passing breath across Danny's lower stomach, before he's running both along the side of Danny's cock. His other hand catching Danny's opposite hip to hold him incase. Because Steve is aching to show him what crazy actually is. Looks like. Feels like. Snaps like. Shatters like.
What it can do. How much power even the idea of it has over every square inch of Steve's sanity when Danny touches him.
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Tucking itself all like a tick buried in his flesh, between his bare shoulder-blades. One that can't be burned out.
Like the whisper of a stinging thought about how easy it should be to slip his shoulder under Danny knee and drag him foreward, flush against him, in a completely different way. A way that makes his heart stutter and stumble, in fits, like it's got faulty wiring, and can't decide whether to flood both chambers or forget how to work. Steaming the air, and driving him further up.
Nose nuzzling against the crease where Danny's thigh meets his hip. Where he could be kind, he could give Danny a moment's air, but why would he ever do that. What uses is there in breathing, when Steve can get Danny's hands off him, mouth off him, and the words he says just dig into his stomach and his chest with lacing tips, shooting the madness from the air even. It's almost fair, to Steve's estimation that he doesn't. Pause. Give Danny any warning.
That there is nothing but a simple, rough, Good in his head, even when he's saying "You haven't seen anything yet."
Tossing it like a threat, a grenade, menacing and full-meaning, half lost on the rise of Danny's hip, before Steve turns his face and lets his cheek and mouth ghost a passing breath across Danny's lower stomach, before he's running both along the side of Danny's cock. His other hand catching Danny's opposite hip to hold him incase. Because Steve is aching to show him what crazy actually is. Looks like. Feels like. Snaps like. Shatters like.
What it can do. How much power even the idea of it has over every square inch of Steve's sanity when Danny touches him.