It's probably good Danny knocks off the option, because Steve can't help thinking he already missed his chance. Danny. He had the chance twenty or thirty minutes back. He wanted to and Steve would have let him. He would have stood there and taken getting clocked by Danny, deservedly hard and vicious, without fighting back. After taking everything from Danny, to make sure he never took anything that really mattered.
That's part of it, too, isn't it? When Danny shudders just enough under him, rolling his head into the cushions and pillows, neither of which have been moved by anyone to help anything, and that sound drags up his throat, wanting and dark. It has to be. Part of it. Part of the whole never telling anyone ever thing. The part where what the hell would he even say. Because he knows this. Knows tracing his lips down.
But how could he ever explain. They should be fighting. Danny should have left in a hand waving huff, after hitting him with that right hook even Steve never saw coming from Danny the first time. How would he every explain that this is happening. Not as a distraction, or an amusement, or something to bide the time before sleep, and goodbye's and work, but, simply, because it is.
Danny is. Here. Under him. Still in his house. Making shallow soft noises Steve wants to fill the room with. Wants to make overshadow the dialogue of the movie he's not even paying attention. Tracing down his neck, doing the same, every half inch or so, before his collar. Not hard enough to break skin, not hard to bruise, but not exactly like he's paying attention to it either. If there was a razor edge, they already passed that at least twenty minutes ago, too.
Because he doesn't want to lose the arm curled, dangerously around his neck, or the flutter of a pulse he can't help dragging into his mouth. Pulling at with his lips, his tongue. When it feels like that pulse is thundering in his own head. Down his veins, and there's something completely reckless and hapless about it. He wouldn't know what to say. Even if there was someone, anyone he wanted to say it to.
He doesn't know how it happened the first time -- oh, he has the words, and he could diagram what, but not now how -- not then, and not thirty minutes ago, and not now, when Danny is talking into the side of his face and his hair, as he works down. Not when there's too much space left still and too little world even left anywhere. There's just this. And it happens. And it keeps happening.
And he's not even brave enough to let the thought stop more than glancing that he's glad he lost.
That he's glad he didn't lose this. Not quite yet. Not this set of of minutes. Not this day. Not Danny, not quite yet.
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That's part of it, too, isn't it? When Danny shudders just enough under him, rolling his head into the cushions and pillows, neither of which have been moved by anyone to help anything, and that sound drags up his throat, wanting and dark. It has to be. Part of it. Part of the whole never telling anyone ever thing. The part where what the hell would he even say. Because he knows this. Knows tracing his lips down.
But how could he ever explain. They should be fighting. Danny should have left in a hand waving huff, after hitting him with that right hook even Steve never saw coming from Danny the first time. How would he every explain that this is happening. Not as a distraction, or an amusement, or something to bide the time before sleep, and goodbye's and work, but, simply, because it is.
Danny is. Here. Under him. Still in his house. Making shallow soft noises Steve wants to fill the room with. Wants to make overshadow the dialogue of the movie he's not even paying attention. Tracing down his neck, doing the same, every half inch or so, before his collar. Not hard enough to break skin, not hard to bruise, but not exactly like he's paying attention to it either. If there was a razor edge, they already passed that at least twenty minutes ago, too.
Because he doesn't want to lose the arm curled, dangerously around his neck, or the flutter of a pulse he can't help dragging into his mouth. Pulling at with his lips, his tongue. When it feels like that pulse is thundering in his own head. Down his veins, and there's something completely reckless and hapless about it. He wouldn't know what to say. Even if there was someone, anyone he wanted to say it to.
He doesn't know how it happened the first time -- oh, he has the words, and he could diagram what, but not now how -- not then, and not thirty minutes ago, and not now, when Danny is talking into the side of his face and his hair, as he works down. Not when there's too much space left still and too little world even left anywhere. There's just this. And it happens. And it keeps happening.
And he's not even brave enough to let the thought stop more than glancing that he's glad he lost.
That he's glad he didn't lose this. Not quite yet. Not this set of of minutes. Not this day. Not Danny, not quite yet.