It's dark, but not dark enough that he doesn't see, okay. He sees. He knows every one of Steve's expressions, from stony to thunderous to brilliantly lit, and this one is some stumbling combination of consternation and the kind of preoccupied withdrawal that comes the second before someones fist comes flying at your face: the anticipation of a hit.
Which is just about the stupidest fucking thing he could be thinking right now, alright? Danny's not going to hit him. Danny's hauling him up, tugging on the one wrist he's still got a hold of, and waiting to find the other one again, fingers looping like warm iron, until Steve is closer, gravity of the bed shifting along with his weight, long lean frame slipping to the side. Propping himself up, which is all wrong, and Danny's deeply annoyed at the whole prospect of it, decides to tell him so.
"What are you doing, where do you think you're going, I said come here, what are you, deaf? Come on, we haven't even gotten to the mindblowing stuff yet, pay attention."
Hands working up Steve's arms like he's pulling in a rope as he talks, fingers finding a shoulder to curl around, the back of Steve's neck and the rough edge of Steve's hair, dragging him down as Danny's whole body shifts towards him, half-rolling, and he's always been a tactile person, but there's so much more than hands that can be put into play, here. He can roll flush against Steve, box him with his whole body, leg sliding over Steve's so the outside of Danny's ankle bumps gently against the inside of Steve's calf. Tangle him up, find every possible connecting point.
Hand drifting from Steve's neck down over his shoulder, pressing firmly down the slope of his back, hooking briefly at his hip, moving to curve, proprietary and jealous, over the curve of muscle that, really, those cargo pants do not do justice. Soft skin, hard muscle, pliant and pale after the long stretch of tanned, tattooed skin -- though Danny's thumb rubs familiarly over the ink that's normally threaded under cargo pants, just peeking past board shorts or boxers.
And because Steve had that look on his face -- that one that said he's thinking too hard, and about something Danny would probably yell at him for -- he keeps it up, nipping at Steve's bottom lip before messing it back up with a kiss that is genuinely messy, open-mouthed and decisive, selfish, wanting Steve's mouth all for himself, wanting Steve's teasing back, not soft words if they're coupled with Steve being too far away to touch.
He doesn't want that. He wants this. To wrap himself entirely around Steve as possible. To be part of this, because Danny accepted long ago that Steve is probably going to be his downfall, but it's not like he's isn't running towards it, refusing to leave.
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Which is just about the stupidest fucking thing he could be thinking right now, alright? Danny's not going to hit him. Danny's hauling him up, tugging on the one wrist he's still got a hold of, and waiting to find the other one again, fingers looping like warm iron, until Steve is closer, gravity of the bed shifting along with his weight, long lean frame slipping to the side. Propping himself up, which is all wrong, and Danny's deeply annoyed at the whole prospect of it, decides to tell him so.
"What are you doing, where do you think you're going, I said come here, what are you, deaf? Come on, we haven't even gotten to the mindblowing stuff yet, pay attention."
Hands working up Steve's arms like he's pulling in a rope as he talks, fingers finding a shoulder to curl around, the back of Steve's neck and the rough edge of Steve's hair, dragging him down as Danny's whole body shifts towards him, half-rolling, and he's always been a tactile person, but there's so much more than hands that can be put into play, here. He can roll flush against Steve, box him with his whole body, leg sliding over Steve's so the outside of Danny's ankle bumps gently against the inside of Steve's calf. Tangle him up, find every possible connecting point.
Hand drifting from Steve's neck down over his shoulder, pressing firmly down the slope of his back, hooking briefly at his hip, moving to curve, proprietary and jealous, over the curve of muscle that, really, those cargo pants do not do justice. Soft skin, hard muscle, pliant and pale after the long stretch of tanned, tattooed skin -- though Danny's thumb rubs familiarly over the ink that's normally threaded under cargo pants, just peeking past board shorts or boxers.
And because Steve had that look on his face -- that one that said he's thinking too hard, and about something Danny would probably yell at him for -- he keeps it up, nipping at Steve's bottom lip before messing it back up with a kiss that is genuinely messy, open-mouthed and decisive, selfish, wanting Steve's mouth all for himself, wanting Steve's teasing back, not soft words if they're coupled with Steve being too far away to touch.
He doesn't want that. He wants this. To wrap himself entirely around Steve as possible. To be part of this, because Danny accepted long ago that Steve is probably going to be his downfall, but it's not like he's isn't running towards it, refusing to leave.
"They let you get a tramp stamp in the Army?"