Back to the rush and push and press of this second, wrestling with clothes, shoving everything aside that is not skin, that his hands run up and down, along the bumps of Steve's ribs, cut and rise of muscle. Momentum dragging them closer, gravity kicking in like a freight train hitting, when Steve drops back, pulling Danny with him, while he's still trying to figure out how to get rid of these slacks and boxers that can really, just, go away, he doesn't care how.
Fingers finding Steve's hair, hands at both sides of his head, like he still needs to demand Steve's attention, the way he couldn't in the bar. And, really, he's not going to trace disapproval across skin in purple-blue blotches that take the better part of a week to fade, but that doesn't mean he's not doing his damndest to burn himself right into Steve's skin. Mark himself there, to match the tattoos the girl had found so compelling. Like he could ink a sign, here, across Steve's chest, warning anyone else who even tries to back off, that they aren't allowed, wanted, needed.
Selfish. He is. Undeserving, taking too much, like always, and here he is, burning up with jealousy, unable to consider the possibility of someone else coming between them, here. Or anywhere.
Unable to let himself be jealous of Cath, the way he wants to be, because she's different, special, been there for years, long before him, and, fine. Fine. He and Cath can...make it work. He likes Cath, wouldn't want ever to hate her the way he hated the girls, the world and everyone in it tonight.
But he is free to hate them. So he does. Stokes the fire going in his chest, kisses Steve hard, because he can, before finding the cord of muscle at the side of his neck and starting his way down, again, where he was before. Before getting distracted by Steve and his words. Smartass.
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Back to the rush and push and press of this second, wrestling with clothes, shoving everything aside that is not skin, that his hands run up and down, along the bumps of Steve's ribs, cut and rise of muscle. Momentum dragging them closer, gravity kicking in like a freight train hitting, when Steve drops back, pulling Danny with him, while he's still trying to figure out how to get rid of these slacks and boxers that can really, just, go away, he doesn't care how.
Fingers finding Steve's hair, hands at both sides of his head, like he still needs to demand Steve's attention, the way he couldn't in the bar. And, really, he's not going to trace disapproval across skin in purple-blue blotches that take the better part of a week to fade, but that doesn't mean he's not doing his damndest to burn himself right into Steve's skin. Mark himself there, to match the tattoos the girl had found so compelling. Like he could ink a sign, here, across Steve's chest, warning anyone else who even tries to back off, that they aren't allowed, wanted, needed.
Selfish. He is. Undeserving, taking too much, like always, and here he is, burning up with jealousy, unable to consider the possibility of someone else coming between them, here. Or anywhere.
Unable to let himself be jealous of Cath, the way he wants to be, because she's different, special, been there for years, long before him, and, fine. Fine. He and Cath can...make it work. He likes Cath, wouldn't want ever to hate her the way he hated the girls, the world and everyone in it tonight.
But he is free to hate them. So he does. Stokes the fire going in his chest, kisses Steve hard, because he can, before finding the cord of muscle at the side of his neck and starting his way down, again, where he was before. Before getting distracted by Steve and his words. Smartass.