Danny says words that start this bubble of laughter in his chest that never quite gets out. It shatters somewhere in his throat, on the way to pointing out that Danny is obviously still thinking too much, and hadn't he managed to stop that yet given the last twenty minutes. Except Danny. Danny and all his insulting nicknames cobbled together with sass and logic. Is kissing him again.
Hands gripping his pants, curled knuckles digging in against firm, built, but still insanely sensitive skin. Before you even got to Danny's mouth. Which Steve was pretty sure needed be marked as weaponized in at least four or five brand new ways just in the last month. One of which was trying to drag his sanity out, through the bottom of his stomach, with those lips pressed up against him.
Like even Danny couldn't stand still long enough, couldn't pull away long enough, to follow his own wound advice.
And that goes straight to Steve's head, with a groan, when his fingers are spreading against Danny's skin.
As much as every backhanded apology. Every second he watched Danny's knuckles go white on a bottle or a cue. Every time he leveled his gaze at the person standing next to Steve, barely existing on Steve's own radar, like Danny needed to put that person down for the good of the universe. Or else he might just explode. All of it so fast and hard, making his head spin, making his want to fall under it.
When he's trying, god dammit, somewhere aside from the finger tips curving Danny's side, pressing against tighter shirt fabric the further they reach up, or his thumb tracing into Danny's stomach. In against warm hair, curled tight and pressed flat by these shirts and his skin. When how much he can reach is already starting to wear against what he wants which wears fast on his actual consideration for Danny's shirts. And their stupid buttons.
When it takes an entirely different kind of hatred to want his head to work at all. When he's tipping them one way, and then taking steps, fingertips firming into Danny's back, along the back of his neck and shoulders, all but dragging him. Into his bedroom. Toward his bed. Why did he have anything else on that would involve his hands, that are both very busy right now. Higher priority busy with keeping Danny as close as possible.
This plan was supposed to involve a lack of shoes originally, that were still here.
But Steve was starting to need it to involve a lack of a whole lot of other things now.
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Hands gripping his pants, curled knuckles digging in against firm, built, but still insanely sensitive skin. Before you even got to Danny's mouth. Which Steve was pretty sure needed be marked as weaponized in at least four or five brand new ways just in the last month. One of which was trying to drag his sanity out, through the bottom of his stomach, with those lips pressed up against him.
Like even Danny couldn't stand still long enough, couldn't pull away long enough, to follow his own wound advice.
And that goes straight to Steve's head, with a groan, when his fingers are spreading against Danny's skin.
As much as every backhanded apology. Every second he watched Danny's knuckles go white on a bottle or a cue. Every time he leveled his gaze at the person standing next to Steve, barely existing on Steve's own radar, like Danny needed to put that person down for the good of the universe. Or else he might just explode. All of it so fast and hard, making his head spin, making his want to fall under it.
When he's trying, god dammit, somewhere aside from the finger tips curving Danny's side, pressing against tighter shirt fabric the further they reach up, or his thumb tracing into Danny's stomach. In against warm hair, curled tight and pressed flat by these shirts and his skin. When how much he can reach is already starting to wear against what he wants which wears fast on his actual consideration for Danny's shirts. And their stupid buttons.
When it takes an entirely different kind of hatred to want his head to work at all. When he's tipping them one way, and then taking steps, fingertips firming into Danny's back, along the back of his neck and shoulders, all but dragging him. Into his bedroom. Toward his bed. Why did he have anything else on that would involve his hands, that are both very busy right now. Higher priority busy with keeping Danny as close as possible.
This plan was supposed to involve a lack of shoes originally, that were still here.
But Steve was starting to need it to involve a lack of a whole lot of other things now.