It takes Steve a second, but he does actually move. Let go. Slide his hand out from between Danny's legs, leaving him feeling strangely bereft at the lack of warm pressure, careful fingertips.
That's a good sign, right? It must be, when he sort of misses Steve's hand there, wants to feel it back again, if only so he can figure out whether he likes it or not, so he can figure out how to do the same thing to Steve, if Steve wants him to, and he thinks Steve probably does.
He wonders how many times Steve has done this, with who, and feels a sudden sickening flash of jealousy that shoots into his stomach and leaves him feeling shaky and more than a little unnerved, because whoever it was, they aren't around now, no one's around now, except for him. Steve said so. Said he wanted Danny. Only him, and Danny doesn't think he was lying, or exaggerating. He's not sure it's possible to fake the kind of desperation that was in Steve's voice, in the way he kept himself between Danny and the door, in his eyes and frustrated arguments. No one else. Nothing else.
Steve. Trying to push him away, because he thought it was the right thing to do, for Danny, for Grace. Holding onto him, kissing him right into the ground outside, vicious and possessive, laced with loss Danny never wants to see on his face again, ever again.
And now finding Danny's chest with that hand, warm palm over Danny's sprinting heart, eyes wide and looking more than a little crazy, faintly unhinged, like Danny hit him in the temple with a rock instead of suggesting they take this upstairs, but Danny only sees it for a second before that hand is moving again, and Steve is kissing him, tangling them up, pushing Danny back and making the world and all his reasons for moving vanish in a blip like a soap bubble popping. Danny's hands move over his back, wide expanse of skin, rolling muscles, and for a minute, there's no fear. No panic, no nerves.
Just Steve, everywhere. All around him, over him, wrapping around him with long octopus arms and legs, dragging him close and tight, owning him like Danny's damn sure he's never been owned before, like Steve is staking a claim, won't ever be satisfied with the marks raised up on Danny's skin or the fact that he's the first to do so much of this.
They may not be moving upstairs, but it's not like there's any huge rush, right? It's still early. They have all night, and that might have been presumptive before, but there's no chance Danny's heading out that door before morning arrives. No chance he's going to give Steve the space to think and reconsider.
And he's not exactly dying to pull apart and take the few minutes to walk upstairs, either. Appealing as the thought of getting there is, he rebels against the idea of letting go, of being able to breathe, to think, to move without tripping over his own heart or Steve's obnoxiously long limbs.
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That's a good sign, right? It must be, when he sort of misses Steve's hand there, wants to feel it back again, if only so he can figure out whether he likes it or not, so he can figure out how to do the same thing to Steve, if Steve wants him to, and he thinks Steve probably does.
He wonders how many times Steve has done this, with who, and feels a sudden sickening flash of jealousy that shoots into his stomach and leaves him feeling shaky and more than a little unnerved, because whoever it was, they aren't around now, no one's around now, except for him. Steve said so. Said he wanted Danny. Only him, and Danny doesn't think he was lying, or exaggerating. He's not sure it's possible to fake the kind of desperation that was in Steve's voice, in the way he kept himself between Danny and the door, in his eyes and frustrated arguments. No one else. Nothing else.
Steve. Trying to push him away, because he thought it was the right thing to do, for Danny, for Grace. Holding onto him, kissing him right into the ground outside, vicious and possessive, laced with loss Danny never wants to see on his face again, ever again.
And now finding Danny's chest with that hand, warm palm over Danny's sprinting heart, eyes wide and looking more than a little crazy, faintly unhinged, like Danny hit him in the temple with a rock instead of suggesting they take this upstairs, but Danny only sees it for a second before that hand is moving again, and Steve is kissing him, tangling them up, pushing Danny back and making the world and all his reasons for moving vanish in a blip like a soap bubble popping. Danny's hands move over his back, wide expanse of skin, rolling muscles, and for a minute, there's no fear. No panic, no nerves.
Just Steve, everywhere. All around him, over him, wrapping around him with long octopus arms and legs, dragging him close and tight, owning him like Danny's damn sure he's never been owned before, like Steve is staking a claim, won't ever be satisfied with the marks raised up on Danny's skin or the fact that he's the first to do so much of this.
They may not be moving upstairs, but it's not like there's any huge rush, right? It's still early. They have all night, and that might have been presumptive before, but there's no chance Danny's heading out that door before morning arrives. No chance he's going to give Steve the space to think and reconsider.
And he's not exactly dying to pull apart and take the few minutes to walk upstairs, either. Appealing as the thought of getting there is, he rebels against the idea of letting go, of being able to breathe, to think, to move without tripping over his own heart or Steve's obnoxiously long limbs.