His hands have to move, following back up Steve's body as he comes back down, palming hips before sliding to the dip at the small of his back and running up over skin surprisingly soft, cross-hatched here and there with interrupting scars far tinier than the things that must have caused them, days of smoke and sand and grit, bullets chopping air, explosions spitting destruction. Things Steve never details, and Danny doesn't ask about, that are hidden behind a particular kind of smile and arms that cross across his chest like a DO NOT ENTER sign, taping it all off in crime scene yellow and black.
There's nothing like that up right now, though. Not when Steve is moving back into his hands, back against his body, and it's so much better with skin than caught under too hot, too tight clothes. Not when he's sleek and settling between Danny's legs, letting him hook a leg over the back of Steve's knee. Not when there's a groan against Danny's mouth, and fingers carding through his hair, and, seriously, Steve seems to have a thing about his hair, those hands seem to keep ending up in it, pushing through it or tangling in it or fisting hard in it, each time tugging on every nerve ending in Danny's body along with each strand.
Making him want things he doesn't even have words for and others he does. Has too many words for. Words that can ring all the more hollow for everything they used to carry, that strike like fear, the gut-twisting anticipation before getting hit.
But even that doesn't matter, not with this searing comprehension right out of his brain. A hand finding the back of Steve's neck, the other searching for a hip, right before they slide just there and he sucks in a breath against a world of piercing white and soundless noise. It trips back out over his tongue, taking "Steve" with it, and he'd say something else, but no other words come, just "Steve" again, soft and thready and without any punch behind it. One word, said, shouted, groaned and insulted so many ways, for so many times, over so many months. An exasperated second syllable added for extra emphasis when he is being especially insane. Called out against the sharp report of gunfire. Desperate, last week, when bullets punched into Kevlar and Danny felt them like this hit his own chest.
Now said thin into Steve's mouth, like he still can't get over it. This being Steve. Not some shoddy substitute that couldn't even exist. Not his hand and imagination. Not Gabby, or Rachel, tiny and near weightless compared to the natural disaster currently blanketing him. Steve. Who wants him. Who told him to stay. Twice. Three times. More than that. Making that name so much more than a name. Making it everything he could want, and the confusion of being handed it all when he keeps expecting it to punch him in the jaw instead.
Maybe not everything. But enough. More than. More than there should be. And he's, god. Selfish. Greedy. And Steve somehow hasn't caught on yet that Danny wants too much, shouldn't have any of this, it wasn't supposed to happen. None of it.
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There's nothing like that up right now, though. Not when Steve is moving back into his hands, back against his body, and it's so much better with skin than caught under too hot, too tight clothes. Not when he's sleek and settling between Danny's legs, letting him hook a leg over the back of Steve's knee. Not when there's a groan against Danny's mouth, and fingers carding through his hair, and, seriously, Steve seems to have a thing about his hair, those hands seem to keep ending up in it, pushing through it or tangling in it or fisting hard in it, each time tugging on every nerve ending in Danny's body along with each strand.
Making him want things he doesn't even have words for and others he does. Has too many words for. Words that can ring all the more hollow for everything they used to carry, that strike like fear, the gut-twisting anticipation before getting hit.
But even that doesn't matter, not with this searing comprehension right out of his brain. A hand finding the back of Steve's neck, the other searching for a hip, right before they slide just there and he sucks in a breath against a world of piercing white and soundless noise. It trips back out over his tongue, taking "Steve" with it, and he'd say something else, but no other words come, just "Steve" again, soft and thready and without any punch behind it. One word, said, shouted, groaned and insulted so many ways, for so many times, over so many months. An exasperated second syllable added for extra emphasis when he is being especially insane. Called out against the sharp report of gunfire. Desperate, last week, when bullets punched into Kevlar and Danny felt them like this hit his own chest.
Now said thin into Steve's mouth, like he still can't get over it. This being Steve. Not some shoddy substitute that couldn't even exist. Not his hand and imagination. Not Gabby, or Rachel, tiny and near weightless compared to the natural disaster currently blanketing him. Steve. Who wants him. Who told him to stay. Twice. Three times. More than that. Making that name so much more than a name. Making it everything he could want, and the confusion of being handed it all when he keeps expecting it to punch him in the jaw instead.
Maybe not everything. But enough. More than. More than there should be. And he's, god. Selfish. Greedy. And Steve somehow hasn't caught on yet that Danny wants too much, shouldn't have any of this, it wasn't supposed to happen. None of it.