He never sees it. Danny. Not Steve, Danny. When Steve can watch them almost like exact tics. The way his eyes and his face tip, just enough, like he's struggling not to look away, to burry his face down, the way there are fingers digging into Steve's skin. A little harder for every single set of words etching into his head with the kind of finite scorching fire and razor sharp focus, pain, precision that only comes from a tattoo pen.
The way every single set of words in painstakingly sure, even when Steve can watch being dragged out by a force of will that shows clear as day in Danny's eyes. Electric blue, electrified, scared. Scared, but not stopping. It's in his face, turning red. It's in his fingers, digging hard into muscle. It's in the way he's holding on to Steve for life, the way he holds on to the console, the door, his own legs, the dashboard when Steve is chasing another car.
Holding on to Steve, like he needs Steve to keep him from falling off the cliff, to be his lifeline, even when he's trying to shove Steve there the same time. With the exact same words. And it's not that it isn't hot. It's not that his body isn't on board with every single word falling out Danny's mouth, melting down that second, seconds ago, when he'd been smiling, slipping back to normal and social and here. It's that Danny does it anyway.
Even afraid, even terrified, pulse pounding at juncture of his neck, where the open shirt has left it frames, he's brave. He gives Steve's reckless a run for its money, and he never sees it. God. That's as clear as everything on Danny's face. His lips, his words, his movements. Want, yes, and fear, and god, the mouth on him. That Steve can't tell if he wants more to shut up or listen to or put to work on some part of his skin, tattooing any chance of any of that into him already.
Even then he pushes forward, brave and solid. And Steve knows he's right. Knows every single word is right. The redder fog in his head, the heavy move of his hand over Danny's skin, the way he's hard and his skin is steaming, suffocating inside his clothes, every single image bypassing his head and lodging in the melted silver pooling at the base of his gut and his spine, twisting him, stroking him like it might as well be Danny's fingers.
And still. Even with all of that his chest is flooded with this overwhelming feeling. Nebulous. Like he wants to jerk Danny up to sitting and just kiss him. Just somehow convey that he sees it. All of it. All of what Danny's doing. Whether he deserves it or not. Especially tonight. When he's stuck with that in his throat, along with the inability to deny anything Danny accuses him of. He does want all of it. He does want all of Danny. In every way he says.
Rolling words off his tongue that will never be silent, unspoken secrets again.
Because -- You want to get buried so deep in me you don't even know where you start anymore. is true, and You want to make sure I can't even breathe without it coming back out as your name barely begins to scratch the surface of the desperation laced in wanting to know what happens when Danny can't even remember how to talk.
Because he's selfish. Because he's fucking selfish bastard, who just tried with all his might to shove Danny, head and shoulders out of all of this, and Danny is still right. He wants every single piece of Danny no one has ever touched, not even himself. Definitely not Rachel or Gabby or any number of his past harem of slim, petite, women with bright, eyes and classic, restrained upscale fashion.
He wants to be first. The first person to take Danny. The first guy Danny ever fucks. Wants Danny to have to compare him to every single person who might come after and find them wanting, find them mediocre and himself aching beyond the ability to breathe or lie, for this, because it was all done better, best, first here. Wants to burn these people alive, for even existing in his head to touch Danny, fuck Danny, exist anywhere near him. Wants to be the only person allowed to touch, look at, have Danny. And he's never even had him.
Was willing to leave him not long enough ago that the burn marks aren't everywhere around him. The hypocrite.
Never let himself think he might still get to except in moments of weakness, want, desperation, the heat of the moment, the black of imagination. The burning edge of reality and whatever, whatever this actually is. That won't end. That didn't end when he left the island, or they came inside tonight. All of these words, thoughts, carved out organs of truths, like coals, shameful and dark, certain and beyond ferally possessive, set in his gut when Danny's words are ripping out the guts in the walls left, burning through his skin.
Turning his muscles tense and his eyes dark like Danny has found a way to name him truer than his own name is.
He's thinking about the fact that he wants something means nothing. Not with his family. Not with his job. Not with stupid jokes about rocket launchers. But the joke is dead in his throat, from Danny's words, breathed on his lips, and the only thing that tumbles out. Doesn't tumble. It's clear, and it's dark, scorched straight through low and blacker, thicker than tar, threaded with every bit of that truth. "Be careful what you ask for, or I will."
Lose everything. Lose every last shred of everything that is tremulously waiting, wanting, thrumming harder with every second when he has to kiss Danny now. Has to. Has to taste these words, and even the most thin possibility any of them are true. Has to have them, have him. Because the world can splinter, and fall apart, and be sucked into the sea. But he can't not be here, pulling Danny into him, as hard as the fingers digging into his back, demanding Danny say more, say it in a different way, back it up as more than words and wind.
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The way every single set of words in painstakingly sure, even when Steve can watch being dragged out by a force of will that shows clear as day in Danny's eyes. Electric blue, electrified, scared. Scared, but not stopping. It's in his face, turning red. It's in his fingers, digging hard into muscle. It's in the way he's holding on to Steve for life, the way he holds on to the console, the door, his own legs, the dashboard when Steve is chasing another car.
Holding on to Steve, like he needs Steve to keep him from falling off the cliff, to be his lifeline, even when he's trying to shove Steve there the same time. With the exact same words. And it's not that it isn't hot. It's not that his body isn't on board with every single word falling out Danny's mouth, melting down that second, seconds ago, when he'd been smiling, slipping back to normal and social and here. It's that Danny does it anyway.
Even afraid, even terrified, pulse pounding at juncture of his neck, where the open shirt has left it frames, he's brave. He gives Steve's reckless a run for its money, and he never sees it. God. That's as clear as everything on Danny's face. His lips, his words, his movements. Want, yes, and fear, and god, the mouth on him. That Steve can't tell if he wants more to shut up or listen to or put to work on some part of his skin, tattooing any chance of any of that into him already.
Even then he pushes forward, brave and solid. And Steve knows he's right. Knows every single word is right. The redder fog in his head, the heavy move of his hand over Danny's skin, the way he's hard and his skin is steaming, suffocating inside his clothes, every single image bypassing his head and lodging in the melted silver pooling at the base of his gut and his spine, twisting him, stroking him like it might as well be Danny's fingers.
And still. Even with all of that his chest is flooded with this overwhelming feeling. Nebulous. Like he wants to jerk Danny up to sitting and just kiss him. Just somehow convey that he sees it. All of it. All of what Danny's doing. Whether he deserves it or not. Especially tonight. When he's stuck with that in his throat, along with the inability to deny anything Danny accuses him of. He does want all of it. He does want all of Danny. In every way he says.
Rolling words off his tongue that will never be silent, unspoken secrets again.
Because -- You want to get buried so deep in me you don't even know where you start anymore. is true, and You want to make sure I can't even breathe without it coming back out as your name barely begins to scratch the surface of the desperation laced in wanting to know what happens when Danny can't even remember how to talk.
Because he's selfish. Because he's fucking selfish bastard, who just tried with all his might to shove Danny, head and shoulders out of all of this, and Danny is still right. He wants every single piece of Danny no one has ever touched, not even himself. Definitely not Rachel or Gabby or any number of his past harem of slim, petite, women with bright, eyes and classic, restrained upscale fashion.
He wants to be first. The first person to take Danny. The first guy Danny ever fucks. Wants Danny to have to compare him to every single person who might come after and find them wanting, find them mediocre and himself aching beyond the ability to breathe or lie, for this, because it was all done better, best, first here. Wants to burn these people alive, for even existing in his head to touch Danny, fuck Danny, exist anywhere near him. Wants to be the only person allowed to touch, look at, have Danny. And he's never even had him.
Was willing to leave him not long enough ago that the burn marks aren't everywhere around him. The hypocrite.
Never let himself think he might still get to except in moments of weakness, want, desperation, the heat of the moment, the black of imagination. The burning edge of reality and whatever, whatever this actually is. That won't end. That didn't end when he left the island, or they came inside tonight. All of these words, thoughts, carved out organs of truths, like coals, shameful and dark, certain and beyond ferally possessive, set in his gut when Danny's words are ripping out the guts in the walls left, burning through his skin.
Turning his muscles tense and his eyes dark like Danny has found a way to name him truer than his own name is.
He's thinking about the fact that he wants something means nothing. Not with his family. Not with his job. Not with stupid jokes about rocket launchers. But the joke is dead in his throat, from Danny's words, breathed on his lips, and the only thing that tumbles out. Doesn't tumble. It's clear, and it's dark, scorched straight through low and blacker, thicker than tar, threaded with every bit of that truth. "Be careful what you ask for, or I will."
Lose everything. Lose every last shred of everything that is tremulously waiting, wanting, thrumming harder with every second when he has to kiss Danny now. Has to. Has to taste these words, and even the most thin possibility any of them are true. Has to have them, have him. Because the world can splinter, and fall apart, and be sucked into the sea. But he can't not be here, pulling Danny into him, as hard as the fingers digging into his back, demanding Danny say more, say it in a different way, back it up as more than words and wind.