If the knuckles and backs of fingers weren't moving against the bottom of his stomach, shifting, tugging his belt, popping a button that exposes more skin to Danny, to the air, Steve is pretty sure his head would be on straighter. But isn't. And he would care about that, if he could, and he could, but why the hell would he want to. When his stomach is tightening and there are images of any of the dozen things that come from here already spooling out in his head. None of which include keeping much of his head.
At least Danny does come where he's drawn, when the room is around them, making each actual noise more crisp, louder, in a tiny space. No vaulted ceiling and open space to absorb breaths and snaps. The shuffle of shoes. Even against the blood pounding in his ears, it all stands out. Making him want to grasp all of it, even as it slides like sand through his fingers at each new touch.
Of Danny's fingers against his skin, Danny's skin under his own hand.
This kiss that crushing the world out from between them, again. As though anything could get there, stay there, between them.
When there's something horribly, perversely amused, in Steve's voice, mouth ghosting to Danny's jaw, up toward the juncture of it, his neck, and his ear, "I hadn't actually meant for this."
Which is so much more a lie even as a truth. He's been thinking about this in some part, sick with arrogant giddiness since his mind connected Danny and slamming sound of the beer bottle on the bar top behind him. Making it a necessity to let go of Danny's hair and drag it down. His hand. Find those buttons driving him crazy, start pulling at them, fast and certain after getting to do it so often this month.
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At least Danny does come where he's drawn, when the room is around them, making each actual noise more crisp, louder, in a tiny space. No vaulted ceiling and open space to absorb breaths and snaps. The shuffle of shoes. Even against the blood pounding in his ears, it all stands out. Making him want to grasp all of it, even as it slides like sand through his fingers at each new touch.
Of Danny's fingers against his skin, Danny's skin under his own hand.
This kiss that crushing the world out from between them, again.
As though anything could get there, stay there, between them.
When there's something horribly, perversely amused, in Steve's voice, mouth ghosting to Danny's jaw, up toward the juncture of it, his neck, and his ear, "I hadn't actually meant for this."
Which is so much more a lie even as a truth. He's been thinking about this in some part, sick with arrogant giddiness since his mind connected Danny and slamming sound of the beer bottle on the bar top behind him. Making it a necessity to let go of Danny's hair and drag it down. His hand. Find those buttons driving him crazy, start pulling at them, fast and certain after getting to do it so often this month.