Steve does want the seconds it takes to be pushed half a step back, to give Danny that half step of space, but the thought doesn't even stay after the hungry animal in his veins snaps angrily about it, because he can't even focus on anything else. Not even his own head. Danny is half there, and it's going to be burned into his eyes forever. Tawny hair in swirls and skin that is more tanned after all these years that Danny ever cares to admit.
Steve knows. Steve has seen this all before. Steve's never seen this before. Never.
That's like saying he had any clue what a gun was, and what could be done with it, before he turned twenty-two.
When the muscles of Danny's body strain and straighten as the shirt and the vest come off, dropped by the floor, while Danny bitches and Steve's ears are the deafened ash of a round detonating right next to his head, or in the center of his chest. Without being able to miss it. Danny's voice. Danny's voice like even more oil thrown on a fire. Breathless, dark, and almost too high. Like he can't catch his breath, or figure out a way to regulate his voice. Danny, who always has it.
That he did that. This. All of this. How insane that it is, impossible, when Danny pulls him back in as much as he folds back in, reclaiming his half a foot, Danny. Because even half a minute is too long, and no matter what Danny bitches, he's not stopping Steve. He's spurring him, them, everything on. Wants this, which seems insane. Never stops being insane. When it feels like being able to touch Danny is going to make his hands bubble off.
These ribs and these muscles. He's touched them before. Rarely. But it happened. Not like this.
Even the memories are clinical, focused. Nothing he ever would have used. This isn't ever where he ended up in the moment when he was if Danny needed him to fix something, take care of it. But he's not now. Now he's getting his hands everywhere. The way his chest slides into his neck. The strain-snap of muscles against the gasps for air. The peak of a soft nipple under his thumb. The roughed up softness of the hair pressed flat by his suit. The way Steve wants to put his hands, his mouth, his self against all of it.
"If you're busy having a moment with the front door, I can stop."
No, no he can't. Won't. Doesn't want to. It's not a thing. Especially not when Danny's earlier complaint pops up. He knows it's all fuss and hot air. The way a lot of Danny's are. To him, Grace, the team. Sound put out there. A commentary clocked in a dagger. Not a real complaint, or an order. His hands aren't on Steve shoving him back, fisted in shirt angry with a side of scared, dragging him off someone. They aren't hard, while his voice is sharp or soft. Telling Steve to stop what he's doing, come back down, listen to him, and only him.
When he is. Listening to Danny and only Danny. The pulse under his lips. The body under his hands. The hands on him. All of it, a crescendo of madness, he wants to fall into and forget to breathe out, think, ever again. Sanity isn't welcome here. Only Danny. When he's looking up, past the soft red welt at the juncture of his shoulder, that exist smacks Steve in the face like slamming the ground and again, when he makes it back up.
Danny's eyes, dark, but thin blue, that blue again, and his hair a mess. Danny looking, like this, breathing thin and fast, pinked lips, hair a true mess. Every which way, from Steve's hand and the door. Looking. Like he wants this. Has no intention of letting or making Steve stop. Make good on anyone's threats and complaints. Electricity snapping through him, building so fast even in the half seconds of pausing, when he has to look like, too, doesn't he?
Like the world exploded and he can't stop running. Not even to breathe.
Danny's fingers in his hair, and eyes dark as the darkest want this ever brought up, chest a shuddering demand forgotten.
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Steve does want the seconds it takes to be pushed half a step back, to give Danny that half step of space, but the thought doesn't even stay after the hungry animal in his veins snaps angrily about it, because he can't even focus on anything else. Not even his own head. Danny is half there, and it's going to be burned into his eyes forever. Tawny hair in swirls and skin that is more tanned after all these years that Danny ever cares to admit.
Steve knows. Steve has seen this all before. Steve's never seen this before. Never.
That's like saying he had any clue what a gun was, and what could be done with it, before he turned twenty-two.
When the muscles of Danny's body strain and straighten as the shirt and the vest come off, dropped by the floor, while Danny bitches and Steve's ears are the deafened ash of a round detonating right next to his head, or in the center of his chest. Without being able to miss it. Danny's voice. Danny's voice like even more oil thrown on a fire. Breathless, dark, and almost too high. Like he can't catch his breath, or figure out a way to regulate his voice. Danny, who always has it.
That he did that. This. All of this. How insane that it is, impossible, when Danny pulls him back in as much as he folds back in, reclaiming his half a foot, Danny. Because even half a minute is too long, and no matter what Danny bitches, he's not stopping Steve. He's spurring him, them, everything on. Wants this, which seems insane. Never stops being insane. When it feels like being able to touch Danny is going to make his hands bubble off.
These ribs and these muscles. He's touched them before. Rarely. But it happened. Not like this.
Even the memories are clinical, focused. Nothing he ever would have used. This isn't ever where he ended up in the moment when he was if Danny needed him to fix something, take care of it. But he's not now. Now he's getting his hands everywhere. The way his chest slides into his neck. The strain-snap of muscles against the gasps for air. The peak of a soft nipple under his thumb. The roughed up softness of the hair pressed flat by his suit. The way Steve wants to put his hands, his mouth, his self against all of it.
"If you're busy having a moment with the front door, I can stop."
No, no he can't. Won't. Doesn't want to. It's not a thing. Especially not when Danny's earlier complaint pops up. He knows it's all fuss and hot air. The way a lot of Danny's are. To him, Grace, the team. Sound put out there. A commentary clocked in a dagger. Not a real complaint, or an order. His hands aren't on Steve shoving him back, fisted in shirt angry with a side of scared, dragging him off someone. They aren't hard, while his voice is sharp or soft. Telling Steve to stop what he's doing, come back down, listen to him, and only him.
When he is. Listening to Danny and only Danny. The pulse under his lips. The body under his hands. The hands on him. All of it, a crescendo of madness, he wants to fall into and forget to breathe out, think, ever again. Sanity isn't welcome here. Only Danny. When he's looking up, past the soft red welt at the juncture of his shoulder, that exist smacks Steve in the face like slamming the ground and again, when he makes it back up.
Danny's eyes, dark, but thin blue, that blue again, and his hair a mess. Danny looking, like this, breathing thin and fast, pinked lips, hair a true mess. Every which way, from Steve's hand and the door. Looking. Like he wants this. Has no intention of letting or making Steve stop. Make good on anyone's threats and complaints. Electricity snapping through him, building so fast even in the half seconds of pausing, when he has to look like, too, doesn't he?
Like the world exploded and he can't stop running. Not even to breathe.
Danny's fingers in his hair, and eyes dark as the darkest want this ever brought up, chest a shuddering demand forgotten.