It's angry and claiming. It's the only thought that charges through him when Danny's hand wraps around his arm, and his gaze slides there, murderous and a little impossibly desperate. Like he still needed to cover this space from anyone pop up in the room or can't stop still needing to remove the hand that had been resting on Steve's arm, asking for more, even though Steve got her to stop.
That part he doesn't fight against. That part just inflates this white hot electricity through him. Jump starting straight through his heart, and down through every single vein. Because even here there's something for him to defend against, rail from-for. Because Danny's voice is shattering sharp, with so many different things inside of it. When his hand moves up, and Steve's stomach drags with it, suddenly.
Almost against the notion. Against wanting Danny to move or let go of that spot, even when there're suddenly fingers sliding needles up the tight shirt over his shoulders and then the more sensitive skin of his neck. When Danny's still pressing in, like even this is too much space. Words so pissed off, scalding the air, filling his chest with helium, and something so big it pressing out against his ribs again.
Threatening to crack his ribs, to make space for itself, with every new explosive word Danny was shooting out.
Words that should be a threat, should be insulting, should be like steel spikes pinning him into place for knowing what would happen and giving in and going where Danny wanted anyway. For lapping up every single second from the moment he noticed, and even on the ones he hadn't. When he wouldn't forget the look on Danny's face, or the way he held himself, for weeks. Weeks, if ever.
When Steve matches him for the stretch of voice, but it's not insult he throws back. Christ. When his hand snakes up from that shoulder. To find Danny's hair, fingers up the back of his neck and into his scalp, and drag him closer. Close enough Steve can see the faint reflective qualities of his eyes in the dark and feeling the rush of his breaths, the brush of his chest, the tighten of his hands, dragging him with back into the center of a field of fire.
But not kissing him. He's so close he should be. So close the fact he isn't make his heart feel like it's going to spasm until he gives in. Like he's denying a necessity. Like breathing of his heart beat.
But he doesn't. He leans in. Tall and looking down, that thing in his chest so fucking hot and wide, like the fire is only learning how to take flight in this job, with no inch of remorse in it when it washing through him, overwhelming like a tide, like every second spent watching Danny take on people who more like wind and ghosts than real to him. When all he wanted was more. All he wanted was to touch it, to drag Danny against him, and taste it.
"Did I like it that you couldn't stand still?" Fingers digging into that hair. Chest tightening like a vice with each breath out and swelling like a balloon of guilty arrogant possessiveness refusing to apologize with each new word. "Couldn't handle polite conversation. Or any other person. Without firing off your mouth, shoving in, answering things that weren't directed at you."
Christ. How is ever supposed to not have liked it. Seriously? Danny, could just stomp in and own all of it. Shove each of those people aside. Because he can't. God. He can't. At all. He wants all of this. If he could cut Danny open and put this part of it in himself, to remember it was real. To feel it, so it still didn't feel impossible, like he'd just somehow dreamed another insane, upside down spin to his life that was less a life and more a tilt-o-whirl that fallen off its track.
"That you were acting--" When his mouth can't even stop, not here, not in the dark, no when it's just them. "--jealous--." The word just slides out, oozes. Warm and smug and so his. Accusation point as much as shielded possession, that is his and can't be fought free from being his now. "--like you wearing a damn neon sign, that I'd be surprised if anyone missed, over nothing?"
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That part he doesn't fight against. That part just inflates this white hot electricity through him. Jump starting straight through his heart, and down through every single vein. Because even here there's something for him to defend against, rail from-for. Because Danny's voice is shattering sharp, with so many different things inside of it. When his hand moves up, and Steve's stomach drags with it, suddenly.
Almost against the notion. Against wanting Danny to move or let go of that spot, even when there're suddenly fingers sliding needles up the tight shirt over his shoulders and then the more sensitive skin of his neck. When Danny's still pressing in, like even this is too much space. Words so pissed off, scalding the air, filling his chest with helium, and something so big it pressing out against his ribs again.
Threatening to crack his ribs, to make space for itself, with every new explosive word Danny was shooting out.
Words that should be a threat, should be insulting, should be like steel spikes pinning him into place for knowing what would happen and giving in and going where Danny wanted anyway. For lapping up every single second from the moment he noticed, and even on the ones he hadn't. When he wouldn't forget the look on Danny's face, or the way he held himself, for weeks. Weeks, if ever.
When Steve matches him for the stretch of voice, but it's not insult he throws back. Christ. When his hand snakes up from that shoulder. To find Danny's hair, fingers up the back of his neck and into his scalp, and drag him closer. Close enough Steve can see the faint reflective qualities of his eyes in the dark and feeling the rush of his breaths, the brush of his chest, the tighten of his hands, dragging him with back into the center of a field of fire.
But not kissing him. He's so close he should be. So close the fact he isn't make his heart feel like it's going to spasm until he gives in. Like he's denying a necessity. Like breathing of his heart beat.
But he doesn't. He leans in. Tall and looking down, that thing in his chest so fucking hot and wide, like the fire is only learning how to take flight in this job, with no inch of remorse in it when it washing through him, overwhelming like a tide, like every second spent watching Danny take on people who more like wind and ghosts than real to him. When all he wanted was more. All he wanted was to touch it, to drag Danny against him, and taste it.
"Did I like it that you couldn't stand still?" Fingers digging into that hair. Chest tightening like a vice with each breath out and swelling like a balloon of guilty arrogant possessiveness refusing to apologize with each new word. "Couldn't handle polite conversation. Or any other person. Without firing off your mouth, shoving in, answering things that weren't directed at you."
Christ. How is ever supposed to not have liked it. Seriously? Danny, could just stomp in and own all of it. Shove each of those people aside. Because he can't. God. He can't. At all. He wants all of this. If he could cut Danny open and put this part of it in himself, to remember it was real. To feel it, so it still didn't feel impossible, like he'd just somehow dreamed another insane, upside down spin to his life that was less a life and more a tilt-o-whirl that fallen off its track.
"That you were acting--" When his mouth can't even stop, not here, not in the dark, no when it's just them. "--jealous--." The word just slides out, oozes. Warm and smug and so his. Accusation point as much as shielded possession, that is his and can't be fought free from being his now. "--like you wearing a damn neon sign, that I'd be surprised if anyone missed, over nothing?"