It isn't long. And when Steve's other hand presses, a little, into his back, he relaxes his fingers, lifts the weight he'd been pressing. Turns it into any other time he'd circled Steve's wrist, before letting go entirely, and lifting his hand, shifting his whole body. Pushing upwards, palm against Steve's cheek, fingers splayed over his ear, pushing into his hair, to find his mouth again, kiss him deep and deliberate.
As he shifts his weight a little to one side, thankful that at least Steve's rib is mainly knit back together, that he doesn't flinch or tense when Danny presses against that side, which is good, considering Danny might be shorter than Steve, but he's built solid and heavy.
It helped. Okay? It did. Maybe it's crazy, maybe he's crazy -- he definitely is, over Steve, and that can't stay in, gets muttered against Steve's mouth: "You drive me crazy" pushed into a kiss, like Steve is to blame for Danny's loss of sanity, which is totally the case. Why else would he find himself wanting to take the heads off of completely innocent bar-going girls? Why else would he find himself here, night after night, making nights on the pullout even more unbearable than ever.
But it did help. Holding that wrist. Like he could hold Steve here. Like he could ever have that power. Like anyone ever could, unless Steve gave it to them.
And Steve did. Let him. It's not like Danny doesn't know, alright, he does. Steve could break his grip and his wrist in a half a second, and Danny's strong, but he doesn't know what Steve knows, how to do the most damage to delicate joints and bones. So he appreciates Steve's hand lying still, there, grateful for the way this thoughts and mind feel soothed. Like a rough stone washed by waves.
Hand moving again. He can't stop it. Down Steve's neck, over his chest, fingertips brushing a nipple, over the smooth slope of ribcage down to stomach, soft skin, to the cut of his hip. Able to stop kissing him only because he wants to take a second to just look, lift up, watch Steve's face, the play of shadows there, familiar features turned strange by moonlight, beautiful in the dark.
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As he shifts his weight a little to one side, thankful that at least Steve's rib is mainly knit back together, that he doesn't flinch or tense when Danny presses against that side, which is good, considering Danny might be shorter than Steve, but he's built solid and heavy.
It helped. Okay? It did. Maybe it's crazy, maybe he's crazy -- he definitely is, over Steve, and that can't stay in, gets muttered against Steve's mouth: "You drive me crazy" pushed into a kiss, like Steve is to blame for Danny's loss of sanity, which is totally the case. Why else would he find himself wanting to take the heads off of completely innocent bar-going girls? Why else would he find himself here, night after night, making nights on the pullout even more unbearable than ever.
But it did help. Holding that wrist. Like he could hold Steve here. Like he could ever have that power. Like anyone ever could, unless Steve gave it to them.
And Steve did. Let him. It's not like Danny doesn't know, alright, he does. Steve could break his grip and his wrist in a half a second, and Danny's strong, but he doesn't know what Steve knows, how to do the most damage to delicate joints and bones. So he appreciates Steve's hand lying still, there, grateful for the way this thoughts and mind feel soothed. Like a rough stone washed by waves.
Hand moving again. He can't stop it. Down Steve's neck, over his chest, fingertips brushing a nipple, over the smooth slope of ribcage down to stomach, soft skin, to the cut of his hip. Able to stop kissing him only because he wants to take a second to just look, lift up, watch Steve's face, the play of shadows there, familiar features turned strange by moonlight, beautiful in the dark.