The last thing he wants is what Steve does -- pulls away, and pulls Danny's guts along with him, like he'd causally swiped a knife along Danny's belly and hooked a finger into his entrails to tug them out into a pile on the floor, leaving him feeling hollow, gutted. Sitting here shaking on Steve's bed, while the jackass licks his lip, and smiles, as self-satisfied here as Danny has ever seen him. As proud as if he'd just sandbagged a perp, or beat Danny in a race, and Danny might be concerned about that, if he could look past the way Steve's eyes have gone dark and dilated and more than a little predatory.
Not like he's done. Not like he's about to up and leave, or turn the tables and tell Danny to go, they're done.
Just. Steve. Looking exactly as familiar as he always does, while suddenly taking his own place in the impossible fantasies Danny hasn't been able to avoid, over the last years, and making Danny reach down to catch his jaw between both hands, and drag him up. Not brooking argument. Not allowing Steve to pause, or hesitate, or pull away, any more than he ever does, when its his hand fisting in Steve's shirt or tight around Steve's wrist.
Dragging him up, because Danny's not interested in joking, right now, and he's not interested in prevaricating or pausing or potentially allowing any second thoughts to seep their way in, through the shadows of this room, through the space between them.
Hauling Steve up, and leaning to kiss him at the same time, demanding, feeling it burn like a lit fuse along his spine, sparking, as he shifts back along the bed and drags Steve with him with one hand, pushing at the pants and boxers still on his legs with the other, toeing shoes off, because he is pretty much just done with these clothes, okay. Has been, for a while. The suit is great, but the suit is pretty definitively no longer needed, right now.
Not when he can have Steve all across him, instead.
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The last thing he wants is what Steve does -- pulls away, and pulls Danny's guts along with him, like he'd causally swiped a knife along Danny's belly and hooked a finger into his entrails to tug them out into a pile on the floor, leaving him feeling hollow, gutted. Sitting here shaking on Steve's bed, while the jackass licks his lip, and smiles, as self-satisfied here as Danny has ever seen him. As proud as if he'd just sandbagged a perp, or beat Danny in a race, and Danny might be concerned about that, if he could look past the way Steve's eyes have gone dark and dilated and more than a little predatory.
Not like he's done. Not like he's about to up and leave, or turn the tables and tell Danny to go, they're done.
Just. Steve. Looking exactly as familiar as he always does, while suddenly taking his own place in the impossible fantasies Danny hasn't been able to avoid, over the last years, and making Danny reach down to catch his jaw between both hands, and drag him up. Not brooking argument. Not allowing Steve to pause, or hesitate, or pull away, any more than he ever does, when its his hand fisting in Steve's shirt or tight around Steve's wrist.
Dragging him up, because Danny's not interested in joking, right now, and he's not interested in prevaricating or pausing or potentially allowing any second thoughts to seep their way in, through the shadows of this room, through the space between them.
Hauling Steve up, and leaning to kiss him at the same time, demanding, feeling it burn like a lit fuse along his spine, sparking, as he shifts back along the bed and drags Steve with him with one hand, pushing at the pants and boxers still on his legs with the other, toeing shoes off, because he is pretty much just done with these clothes, okay. Has been, for a while. The suit is great, but the suit is pretty definitively no longer needed, right now.
Not when he can have Steve all across him, instead.