More than anything, probably than is even apparent, Steve is paying attention.
To way Danny's knees move, thighs open, even as he seizes up.
Freezes in place, only to tremor, tightening muscles Steve's hand is pressed against.
The way they tremor with a fight Steve can't even see, but he can feel it. He can feel it when he does nothing more than let his fingertips wander in half inches of space they barely fit into already, with Danny's hellaciously tight pants, and him hard, and a good Steve's forearm down his boxers. The way moving, even to open his legs strains the fabric of Danny's pants and space available in them even. And, god, but these pants need to go sometime soon. That's the thought when Steve makes himself take a breath.
Straining to keep ahead of the voice in his head telling him to stop, stop now and the one whispering go, go, go. Trying to shut both of them behind doors. Made of only the sound of Danny breathing, the silence of his living room and the movie he wants to throw something at the tv screen so it'll shut up. So he can only hear Danny.
The way Danny swallows. The way his breath rushes through his nose. Gets stopped. The way his hand is tightening on Steve's shoulder, but also in other places it hasn't left, other places where it's whiting out his vision a little, pressing his fingers tips a little harder on Danny's skin in new place while he's trying to steady his head, his pounding pulse, but he should be okay, right? Even with that. Unless Danny starts fisting him suddenly. But that really doesn't seem likely.
Not with the fingers in his shoulder. Not with the way Danny is clinging closer, jangle of impulses and reactions, while Steve is stroking thin, sensitive skin soft as he can manage like this. What he can reach. Not that he isn't consider the possibility of, or possibilities of, a few seconds or minutes from here. But for this second he's not. Not aimed at shut gunning to a point, not at fucking crashing through walls with as little restraint as possible.
Not aimed for shoving himself someplace he's not wanted. Not aimed for slamming doors that had only barely cracked.
Not aimed for making Danny back up the words he threw everywhere. Not this exact second at least. Not when Danny is nudging him forward, nudging into him, even with those tremors. Like he's holding on to Steve, because Steve is the only thing he can hold on to, trust to take care of it, him, everything. When Steve can hear the uncertainty and the lace of fear, that was barely a whisper earlier, and even the utter honesty of the words smacked right back to him.
Keeping him focused. Tracing the place where Danny's thigh joins his body. The skin right over his prostate in the middle. The curve right where his cheeks start. Two rising mounds of muscles, from the thin, smooth skin right before it, pushed together by the weight of laying sideway. That he can only barely even touch much of like this. But only just touching, even when it's making his own heart pound hard. Nothing else.
Touching Danny and trying, to shut out the tide of everything else hammering louder and louder, to hear only Danny.
"Nah, pretty sure I missed that all with the yelling and henpecking," Steve offered, sharp insult against Danny's mouth and face so close and pressed up against him, like the rest of Danny pushing him into the couch, maybe like the words were a lifeline. When the only thing he's doing is willing Danny to breathing, to relax even a little, waiting for him. Even if it feels like he can't decide if the waiting is impossible, or the fact he's touching Danny at all is.
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To way Danny's knees move, thighs open, even as he seizes up.
Freezes in place, only to tremor, tightening muscles Steve's hand is pressed against.
The way they tremor with a fight Steve can't even see, but he can feel it. He can feel it when he does nothing more than let his fingertips wander in half inches of space they barely fit into already, with Danny's hellaciously tight pants, and him hard, and a good Steve's forearm down his boxers. The way moving, even to open his legs strains the fabric of Danny's pants and space available in them even. And, god, but these pants need to go sometime soon. That's the thought when Steve makes himself take a breath.
Straining to keep ahead of the voice in his head telling him to stop, stop now and the one whispering go, go, go. Trying to shut both of them behind doors. Made of only the sound of Danny breathing, the silence of his living room and the movie he wants to throw something at the tv screen so it'll shut up. So he can only hear Danny.
The way Danny swallows. The way his breath rushes through his nose. Gets stopped. The way his hand is tightening on Steve's shoulder, but also in other places it hasn't left, other places where it's whiting out his vision a little, pressing his fingers tips a little harder on Danny's skin in new place while he's trying to steady his head, his pounding pulse, but he should be okay, right? Even with that. Unless Danny starts fisting him suddenly. But that really doesn't seem likely.
Not with the fingers in his shoulder. Not with the way Danny is clinging closer, jangle of impulses and reactions, while Steve is stroking thin, sensitive skin soft as he can manage like this. What he can reach. Not that he isn't consider the possibility of, or possibilities of, a few seconds or minutes from here. But for this second he's not. Not aimed at shut gunning to a point, not at fucking crashing through walls with as little restraint as possible.
Not aimed for shoving himself someplace he's not wanted. Not aimed for slamming doors that had only barely cracked.
Not aimed for making Danny back up the words he threw everywhere. Not this exact second at least. Not when Danny is nudging him forward, nudging into him, even with those tremors. Like he's holding on to Steve, because Steve is the only thing he can hold on to, trust to take care of it, him, everything. When Steve can hear the uncertainty and the lace of fear, that was barely a whisper earlier, and even the utter honesty of the words smacked right back to him.
Keeping him focused. Tracing the place where Danny's thigh joins his body. The skin right over his prostate in the middle. The curve right where his cheeks start. Two rising mounds of muscles, from the thin, smooth skin right before it, pushed together by the weight of laying sideway. That he can only barely even touch much of like this. But only just touching, even when it's making his own heart pound hard. Nothing else.
Touching Danny and trying, to shut out the tide of everything else hammering louder and louder, to hear only Danny.
"Nah, pretty sure I missed that all with the yelling and henpecking," Steve offered, sharp insult against Danny's mouth and face so close and pressed up against him, like the rest of Danny pushing him into the couch, maybe like the words were a lifeline. When the only thing he's doing is willing Danny to breathing, to relax even a little, waiting for him. Even if it feels like he can't decide if the waiting is impossible, or the fact he's touching Danny at all is.