I want to get out of here, he nearly says. It slams his teeth like a tank.
The thought is disastrous. The way it hits him hard, when Danny is shrugging smugly, like this is nothing. Like his mouth isn't slightly pink and wet in a way Steve has never, never, never seen it, and will never, never, never see again, and will never, never, never forget seeing now. Danny putting his hand on Steve's waist and making Steve's body give off every urge it shouldn't. The want to lean in even more, sick and twisted. Every bit every insult Danny has said of his head and never meant.
When he shoves it down. Shoves the fire, not even into ice, but into blackness. It's a box so deep. Trying to force himself as far from the bare inches from Danny he is. A thousand miles. A million leagues. Draws a breath in and with it a lazy, arrogant smirk out for the bartender when Danny's hand is on his chest, blistering through his shirt like a brand, and giving him a push.
That he moves away with. Like his steps are easy.
Like he wants to move away from Danny; like he doesn't want to run.
But he doesn't run. SEALs don't run. They make a strategic retreat only to better attack of the OA and only when there are no other options that won't eradicate all resources and man power on hand. So. He doesn't. Run. He doesn't freeze. He doesn't let himself feel everything running through him, scatter shot and battered, feeling cut and burned everywhere. Just lets himself smirk like the bartender is still in on it with him.
Like he's just won the establishment what he was supposed to.
A pleased patron, who can't keep their hands off him. Or pocketbook to himself.
He makes the hand on Danny's chest still release the cloth between his fingers, like it's a lever and pulley. A machine only barely attached to him. Smooth though. Like diffusing a bomb. Hand sliding up Danny's arm fast to catch the hand that just pushed him, and say, "I didn't think you needed things spelled out."
Beat. "Didn't feel like it."
His throat is made of ashes and glass shards as he doesn't wait for Danny's reaction. His fingers sliding around Danny's wrist as his feet swivel and he pulls Danny to follow him. The way he should. The spider to the fly. To take him where he should be wanting to go already. Somewhere more secluded. Somewhere that things are more acceptably loose. Hotter. Harder. Welcome.
Lets his eyes slide across the room, like he isn't looking at anyone, avoiding anyone behind him, looking for the right person of the handful watching them and decidedly not watching them at all. Some who approved of the spectacle, seeing either what they want to watch or wanted to be doing, being done to them, and even those who find it distasteful. And then him. The man watching them the way a wolf would. The one Steve wants to stare down, feels his muscles tremble with the wanting to tense and bull rush, put all of this insanity to something good, something right, something he's allowed, but he doesn't.
His eyes, laughing eyes, glide over him as fast as the rest of the room.
As though he is only focused on dragging away the quarry he already had.
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I want to get out of here, he nearly says. It slams his teeth like a tank.
The thought is disastrous. The way it hits him hard, when Danny is shrugging smugly, like this is nothing. Like his mouth isn't slightly pink and wet in a way Steve has never, never, never seen it, and will never, never, never see again, and will never, never, never forget seeing now. Danny putting his hand on Steve's waist and making Steve's body give off every urge it shouldn't. The want to lean in even more, sick and twisted. Every bit every insult Danny has said of his head and never meant.
When he shoves it down. Shoves the fire, not even into ice, but into blackness. It's a box so deep. Trying to force himself as far from the bare inches from Danny he is. A thousand miles. A million leagues. Draws a breath in and with it a lazy, arrogant smirk out for the bartender when Danny's hand is on his chest, blistering through his shirt like a brand, and giving him a push.
That he moves away with. Like his steps are easy.
Like he wants to move away from Danny; like he doesn't want to run.
But he doesn't run. SEALs don't run. They make a strategic retreat only to better attack of the OA and only when there are no other options that won't eradicate all resources and man power on hand. So. He doesn't. Run. He doesn't freeze. He doesn't let himself feel everything running through him, scatter shot and battered, feeling cut and burned everywhere. Just lets himself smirk like the bartender is still in on it with him.
Like he's just won the establishment what he was supposed to.
A pleased patron, who can't keep their hands off him. Or pocketbook to himself.
He makes the hand on Danny's chest still release the cloth between his fingers, like it's a lever and pulley. A machine only barely attached to him. Smooth though. Like diffusing a bomb. Hand sliding up Danny's arm fast to catch the hand that just pushed him, and say, "I didn't think you needed things spelled out."
Beat. "Didn't feel like it."
His throat is made of ashes and glass shards as he doesn't wait for Danny's reaction. His fingers sliding around Danny's wrist as his feet swivel and he pulls Danny to follow him. The way he should. The spider to the fly. To take him where he should be wanting to go already. Somewhere more secluded. Somewhere that things are more acceptably loose. Hotter. Harder. Welcome.
Lets his eyes slide across the room, like he isn't looking at anyone, avoiding anyone behind him, looking for the right person of the handful watching them and decidedly not watching them at all. Some who approved of the spectacle, seeing either what they want to watch or wanted to be doing, being done to them, and even those who find it distasteful. And then him. The man watching them the way a wolf would. The one Steve wants to stare down, feels his muscles tremble with the wanting to tense and bull rush, put all of this insanity to something good, something right, something he's allowed, but he doesn't.
His eyes, laughing eyes, glide over him as fast as the rest of the room.
As though he is only focused on dragging away the quarry he already had.