That's the point, isn't it? Saying things out loud. So Steve doesn't get the wrong idea. So they're on the same page. So he knows, and knows that Danny knows, too. All these things that haven't been said out loud, clarified, put anywhere even close to the table since Steve slammed past both their filters that first night in the kitchen.
Asking for it, even when it feels like there's no air left in the room to use for talking, or breathing, so it's a good thing Steve doesn't wait for an answer, just slides to find his mouth, searing hot, like he wants to brand it on Danny's skin. Voice ripped slow from the bottom of a barrel, absolute, a promise, not a challenge. And it's so clear. It could. It could happen, here, now. Steve is resourceful. Danny's pretty sure there are ways to make it happen, rough and wrecked, a collision of bodies and sheer drive, licking electricity like he's wired into the grid for the whole city, all of Honolulu's lights and heat and laughing freedom shocking straight through them both in a wild ride.
But he doesn't think Steve would. Will. Not when Steve's voice was so broken before, not when he was so careful, words beating rapid and fragile as bird wings, trying to get them out, to make Danny see that it doesn't have to be like that. That it could be slow. Easy. Something like what he's used to. Even though Steve is the guy who rolls off building tops and leaps aboard moving trains, who could burn this whole place down without a second's thought if it needed doing or was in the way.
It's Steve who's hot and hard and heavy on top of him, and it's not weird anymore, watching his eyes go dark, blue swimming thin around black. Steve holding him down, while he's trying to shake, adrenaline winding a high-pitched whine in his head, that drowns out the last hints of the movie, if that's even still on.
He doesn't give a shit. He's got Steve, right now, and that's the only thing on God's green Earth he wants right now.
Fingers digging into Steve's back, before scrabbling at his hem, tugging at it, wanting this shirt off even though he doesn't want Steve's mouth going anywhere, isn't willing to lose any part of him pressed up against Danny's legs, stomach, chest. The leg that got pushed off the couch coming back up now, bending at the knee to push the inside of his thigh snug against Steve's hip. Pretending they fit on the couch. Pretending he's not at the jagged edge of some kind of severe cardiac episode, but how is that anything but the usual, with Steve?
Sex with Steve is like everything else with Steve: dangerous, a slam of adrenaline and excitement, and possibly going to kill him.
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Asking for it, even when it feels like there's no air left in the room to use for talking, or breathing, so it's a good thing Steve doesn't wait for an answer, just slides to find his mouth, searing hot, like he wants to brand it on Danny's skin. Voice ripped slow from the bottom of a barrel, absolute, a promise, not a challenge. And it's so clear. It could. It could happen, here, now. Steve is resourceful. Danny's pretty sure there are ways to make it happen, rough and wrecked, a collision of bodies and sheer drive, licking electricity like he's wired into the grid for the whole city, all of Honolulu's lights and heat and laughing freedom shocking straight through them both in a wild ride.
But he doesn't think Steve would. Will. Not when Steve's voice was so broken before, not when he was so careful, words beating rapid and fragile as bird wings, trying to get them out, to make Danny see that it doesn't have to be like that. That it could be slow. Easy. Something like what he's used to. Even though Steve is the guy who rolls off building tops and leaps aboard moving trains, who could burn this whole place down without a second's thought if it needed doing or was in the way.
It's Steve who's hot and hard and heavy on top of him, and it's not weird anymore, watching his eyes go dark, blue swimming thin around black. Steve holding him down, while he's trying to shake, adrenaline winding a high-pitched whine in his head, that drowns out the last hints of the movie, if that's even still on.
He doesn't give a shit. He's got Steve, right now, and that's the only thing on God's green Earth he wants right now.
Fingers digging into Steve's back, before scrabbling at his hem, tugging at it, wanting this shirt off even though he doesn't want Steve's mouth going anywhere, isn't willing to lose any part of him pressed up against Danny's legs, stomach, chest. The leg that got pushed off the couch coming back up now, bending at the knee to push the inside of his thigh snug against Steve's hip. Pretending they fit on the couch. Pretending he's not at the jagged edge of some kind of severe cardiac episode, but how is that anything but the usual, with Steve?
Sex with Steve is like everything else with Steve: dangerous, a slam of adrenaline and excitement, and possibly going to kill him.