This is maybe not terribly worse, when Danny doesn't pull away. In fact, there's the whole question left hanging, by flickers of movement, leaning, pulling back, barely even half inches, when he wonders if Danny won't even permit him to breathe, think, speak. Wants to just push him back under. Has any clue how easily that would be accomplished give enough focus toward shoving at him.
Like this. Here. Danny. Everything, and, even, anything, Danny is. Will. Can. He couldn't stop. Wouldn't want to.
Except he doesn't. He stays there. Barely an inch away, looking down. Maybe a little pained for the reminder. Like some part of him was certain Steve would, could, just forget for the breath of a kiss. For the rubbing warmth, enfolding weight and cover, of Danny slowly ending up across more of him. Their legs, and the arm across his chest, leading to the hand curved at the bottom of his face.
How simple that would be. How normal. Easy. Even, damnably, tempting. Except that this is Danny.
Except that even when he wants that, to slip under it, shove all of this away, it's Danny. And he always wants more. Wants everything.
When believing him is a two-fifths game of chance. Especially after the frantic, long winded, spiel of absolutely nothing about anything is wrong. But there is nothing frantic about these words here. Nothing drastic, or desperate. It's just quietly pained and sore. His thumb still stroking Steve's skin in a way, that sends warmth and friction rippling down through his skin and muscles like hot water. Dragging his eyelids lazy, and a small leaning into that touch, that feels harder to resist that necessary.
If Danny isn't pulling away, why should he. Even if he doesn't really believe the words fall around him. Like raindrops. Commentary. Shading in an absent shape. Negative space around the unknown. When all of it has a twined fire and ache. Shifting a little in Danny's touch, reaching up and nearly brushing his lips, again. Frustrated want in different directions, for wholly different things. Everything.
Brushing the his nose against the skin of Danny's cheek, when he's leaning into him, dragging him down a little, letting his mouth touch against Danny's, the whisper of a touch, of an arch into the man above him, against him. His words so much more smart mouthed, in and of themselves, than that tone they fall out with, quiet and rough and just the hairsbreadth beyond flatly pushing, negating. "Little early for 'it's not you, it's me,' isn't it?"
They were both here. Both here, with their hands, and their making a mess, and he's pretty sure whatever it is wouldn't happen it Danny wasn't. Here. Which does make it his fault. Something he should have known. Should have stopped. Should be able to make better. Everything could not have happened earlier, to fall apart right here, and now.
Not when Danny is touching him like this still. Not when every part of him is focused on touching him back. While he can. Dipping his fingers into Danny's hair and pulling him, like it's necessary, like it isn't the space of a breath, lifting from the pillow at the same second, to kiss him, again. Again, while he can, as long as it's possible he still can.
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Like this. Here. Danny. Everything, and, even, anything, Danny is. Will. Can. He couldn't stop. Wouldn't want to.
Except he doesn't. He stays there. Barely an inch away, looking down. Maybe a little pained for the reminder. Like some part of him was certain Steve would, could, just forget for the breath of a kiss. For the rubbing warmth, enfolding weight and cover, of Danny slowly ending up across more of him. Their legs, and the arm across his chest, leading to the hand curved at the bottom of his face.
How simple that would be. How normal. Easy. Even, damnably, tempting. Except that this is Danny.
Except that even when he wants that, to slip under it, shove all of this away, it's Danny. And he always wants more. Wants everything.
When believing him is a two-fifths game of chance. Especially after the frantic, long winded, spiel of absolutely nothing about anything is wrong. But there is nothing frantic about these words here. Nothing drastic, or desperate. It's just quietly pained and sore. His thumb still stroking Steve's skin in a way, that sends warmth and friction rippling down through his skin and muscles like hot water. Dragging his eyelids lazy, and a small leaning into that touch, that feels harder to resist that necessary.
If Danny isn't pulling away, why should he. Even if he doesn't really believe the words fall around him. Like raindrops. Commentary. Shading in an absent shape. Negative space around the unknown. When all of it has a twined fire and ache. Shifting a little in Danny's touch, reaching up and nearly brushing his lips, again. Frustrated want in different directions, for wholly different things. Everything.
Brushing the his nose against the skin of Danny's cheek, when he's leaning into him, dragging him down a little, letting his mouth touch against Danny's, the whisper of a touch, of an arch into the man above him, against him. His words so much more smart mouthed, in and of themselves, than that tone they fall out with, quiet and rough and just the hairsbreadth beyond flatly pushing, negating. "Little early for 'it's not you, it's me,' isn't it?"
They were both here. Both here, with their hands, and their making a mess, and he's pretty sure whatever it is wouldn't happen it Danny wasn't. Here. Which does make it his fault. Something he should have known. Should have stopped. Should be able to make better. Everything could not have happened earlier, to fall apart right here, and now.
Not when Danny is touching him like this still. Not when every part of him is focused on touching him back. While he can. Dipping his fingers into Danny's hair and pulling him, like it's necessary, like it isn't the space of a breath, lifting from the pillow at the same second, to kiss him, again. Again, while he can, as long as it's possible he still can.