Steve is grateful when Danny doesn't pull back. When he doesn't simply kiss him back and keep going. When everything, everything winds to a snap and suddenly Danny is kissing him back the way he's kissing Danny. When words, words, seems shattered, scattered broken, even when each one if sitting in a cage, to be thought about later, to shove up under his skin in the wrong ways in seconds from now.
When Danny wants that to happen. Danny made that happen. Danny is shoving him closer and closer to it.
While Danny's hands are jerking at his shirt, and his legs are crossing around Steve. Where he finds the urge to laugh and almost let loose a noise from the bottom of his chest that will be more wild than sinful. God. He wants to dig his fingers into Danny. Bites his lip like a punishment, before that sound that comes out between his parted lips is more like dangerous frustration that he has to let go at all now.
Of Danny's skin, of Danny, to get his hands down there on his own shirt. Crossing his arms and tugging it off with the help of the other hands all over him. But not going back. No. No. He's not waiting. He's got no patience. He wants everything and he wants not to explode before he gets there in the fastest flash bright burst of a lack of any control ever. Wants him. Now. Wants everything. Every word. Danny.
"Up, up, up," word repeating, splintering, a hard firm, buck no responses, five AM, crack of dawn, authoritarian, order. While Steve's using all his strength and dragging Danny up from the couch cushions, by the edges of his shirt thrown wide open, wanting it gone next. Needing it gone. Wanting all of Danny's skin and his hands. Wanting everything he should never be allowed to have or touch or keep breaking, tonight, or ever, that keeps laying itself out in front of him like he's done something to ever deserve the best person he's ever met.
When he can't even wait. One of his hands is shoving at the cloth over a bicep and the other is at the side of Danny's throat, as careful as it is demanding and sudden, hair-fine-line controlled, palm wrapping stiff around the column of muscle, fingers in his hair, pulling his head one way, because he's already leaning in, finding Danny's shoulders, the solid muscle there with his mouth and pulling at the skin, like he's going to make Danny wear all of his promises.
So that Steve can see them every time he's certain he just went crazy again, and can't open his mouth to ask.
So that when he gets lost, and he forgets, and he sets it aside, he can find himself again, the way Danny always does.
no subject
When Danny wants that to happen. Danny made that happen. Danny is shoving him closer and closer to it.
While Danny's hands are jerking at his shirt, and his legs are crossing around Steve. Where he finds the urge to laugh and almost let loose a noise from the bottom of his chest that will be more wild than sinful. God. He wants to dig his fingers into Danny. Bites his lip like a punishment, before that sound that comes out between his parted lips is more like dangerous frustration that he has to let go at all now.
Of Danny's skin, of Danny, to get his hands down there on his own shirt. Crossing his arms and tugging it off with the help of the other hands all over him. But not going back. No. No. He's not waiting. He's got no patience. He wants everything and he wants not to explode before he gets there in the fastest flash bright burst of a lack of any control ever. Wants him. Now. Wants everything. Every word. Danny.
"Up, up, up," word repeating, splintering, a hard firm, buck no responses, five AM, crack of dawn, authoritarian, order. While Steve's using all his strength and dragging Danny up from the couch cushions, by the edges of his shirt thrown wide open, wanting it gone next. Needing it gone. Wanting all of Danny's skin and his hands. Wanting everything he should never be allowed to have or touch or keep breaking, tonight, or ever, that keeps laying itself out in front of him like he's done something to ever deserve the best person he's ever met.
When he can't even wait. One of his hands is shoving at the cloth over a bicep and the other is at the side of Danny's throat, as careful as it is demanding and sudden, hair-fine-line controlled, palm wrapping stiff around the column of muscle, fingers in his hair, pulling his head one way, because he's already leaning in, finding Danny's shoulders, the solid muscle there with his mouth and pulling at the skin, like he's going to make Danny wear all of his promises.
So that Steve can see them every time he's certain he just went crazy again, and can't open his mouth to ask.
So that when he gets lost, and he forgets, and he sets it aside, he can find himself again, the way Danny always does.