There are certain seconds, the world catches up with him, in ways it doesn't have to. Or at least never did before. When the impatient energy, racing through him, thrumming, begging every single touch for more. Exponentially more. Sidesteps accidentally on something more true, more real. That maybe Danny hasn't yet, and he never did before. That they fall into this in a frenzy. The one that had them gripping each other only minutes ago.
That there really aren't minutes in the morning, with work. With being gone. With working three days straight. With hell breathing down their neck. And how each of the specific days when it was more than that. A few hours in the sunshine like the first afternoon, or the Sunday after, there's so much else in the room, there's almost no room to remember. What he's supposed to do here. What the first steps ever were. What Danny might need, or want.
Danny who doesn't have a contested mishmash of memories of things like this.
Anything that isn't running his fingers up and down skin that isn't silk smooth, with downy hair. Light and lithe.
That isn't encounters so brief, fast, and frenzied that they are over in half the time of a watch break, so fast from beginning to end you spend the rest of the hours of an entire night wondering if you just happened to want it so badly you hallucinated the whole thing. A night or a day, somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. Caught on a smile. This certain tip of a head, lift of an eyebrow, the curve of a mouth around the top of a beer bottle or hand around a cue, a can, anything.
A shared secret, lost again in the morning. A night. Maybe a few days. Here or there a week, in decades. More casually, than clinically since he's been grounded. But that meant being even more tightly controlled, not less. How quickly, not matter which situation, you learn how to appreciate something, even the bare seconds, the few minutes where your hand rests, and then take it for granted. Lock it outside, and turn back to the job.
Things Danny has never done. When everything Danny has ever done is painted on Steve's skin. Hands. Mouth.
On that winded, hoarse tone, complaining for Steve to cool his damn horses, and give him a second, taking everything in.
Even if taking everything in equals making it beyond fucking impossible to cool down. Because Danny's fingers are traveling across his skin. And Danny's voice is winded like he's running, just from looking at him, from touching him. And how, how is he supposed to sit still. When it's Danny. Danny Williams. Looking at him like this. Tone like that. How is he not supposed to hold on and ride that for all it's worth, before it's gone.
In every god damn way that is possible, probable, being written in searing profanity across the backs of his eyelids.
When he's swallowing, and staring at those eyes, finally rising to meet his, while Danny's hands are fanned and dragging fingers, coming in across his chest, toward the center, and he can't even help the breath he pulls in. Filling his lungs, stretching his skin and the space Danny's touch is crossing, has to cross, might touch next, like some part of him must move, has to move, before he explodes and truly does body check Danny into the arm rest behind him, burying his fingers in his hair and demanding everything.
Because it's words. Words, words, words. Being batted back and forth, struggling to crawl out of whatever is happening inside of Danny, like somehow it's going to distract him from the way Danny's eyes are so blue and so unfocused for a second, before focusing on him, again. Forcing Steve to gouge out will power, and reach for whatever he can.
The wisp of a goofy cocky smile trying to slide and settle on his lips, even when he shudders faintly against those fingers, heart thundering a marathon in his chest. "You saying you're dream about me like this, now?"
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That there really aren't minutes in the morning, with work. With being gone. With working three days straight. With hell breathing down their neck. And how each of the specific days when it was more than that. A few hours in the sunshine like the first afternoon, or the Sunday after, there's so much else in the room, there's almost no room to remember. What he's supposed to do here. What the first steps ever were. What Danny might need, or want.
Danny who doesn't have a contested mishmash of memories of things like this.
Anything that isn't running his fingers up and down skin that isn't silk smooth, with downy hair. Light and lithe.
That isn't encounters so brief, fast, and frenzied that they are over in half the time of a watch break, so fast from beginning to end you spend the rest of the hours of an entire night wondering if you just happened to want it so badly you hallucinated the whole thing. A night or a day, somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. Caught on a smile. This certain tip of a head, lift of an eyebrow, the curve of a mouth around the top of a beer bottle or hand around a cue, a can, anything.
A shared secret, lost again in the morning. A night. Maybe a few days. Here or there a week, in decades. More casually, than clinically since he's been grounded. But that meant being even more tightly controlled, not less. How quickly, not matter which situation, you learn how to appreciate something, even the bare seconds, the few minutes where your hand rests, and then take it for granted. Lock it outside, and turn back to the job.
Things Danny has never done. When everything Danny has ever done is painted on Steve's skin. Hands. Mouth.
On that winded, hoarse tone, complaining for Steve to cool his damn horses, and give him a second, taking everything in.
Even if taking everything in equals making it beyond fucking impossible to cool down. Because Danny's fingers are traveling across his skin. And Danny's voice is winded like he's running, just from looking at him, from touching him. And how, how is he supposed to sit still. When it's Danny. Danny Williams. Looking at him like this. Tone like that. How is he not supposed to hold on and ride that for all it's worth, before it's gone.
In every god damn way that is possible, probable, being written in searing profanity across the backs of his eyelids.
When he's swallowing, and staring at those eyes, finally rising to meet his, while Danny's hands are fanned and dragging fingers, coming in across his chest, toward the center, and he can't even help the breath he pulls in. Filling his lungs, stretching his skin and the space Danny's touch is crossing, has to cross, might touch next, like some part of him must move, has to move, before he explodes and truly does body check Danny into the arm rest behind him, burying his fingers in his hair and demanding everything.
Because it's words. Words, words, words. Being batted back and forth, struggling to crawl out of whatever is happening inside of Danny, like somehow it's going to distract him from the way Danny's eyes are so blue and so unfocused for a second, before focusing on him, again. Forcing Steve to gouge out will power, and reach for whatever he can.
The wisp of a goofy cocky smile trying to slide and settle on his lips, even when he shudders faintly against those fingers, heart thundering a marathon in his chest. "You saying you're dream about me like this, now?"