Danny doesn't stop, or even slow down. Not even from Steve kissing him like he's trying to take out the perfect madness expanding threateningly inside his skin and find a way to push it back into Danny, or drag Danny with him. He needs all of it, with Danny, right there with him. Which he isn't. When he's laughing at Steve's questions and throwing it back at Steve like it's his own fault. He chose wrong when he did. He should have gone for undressing Danny instead of himself.
He hadn't. He could have. Hadn't. Because he was busy with his own clothes, is a damn lie, and so is that he didn't think about it, when the fire of Danny's hand is making it impossible to hide anything behind, stripping all the muscle down to a single bone. It was easier if it was him. Wasn't it. Hadn't it been. If Danny just told him to stop when he was undressing himself, that would have been easier. To watch it crash and burn on.
If it'd been Danny. Danny who had lost his shirt, moaning and groaning. If Danny had stopped him then.
Hands on Danny. Undressing Danny entirely. Like they were allowed to be there. To take everything, demand everything. The way he did every day with Danny, except more. Like this now, pertaining to every part of his body. An evasion he hadn't even thought of or acknowledged as one. One he didn't even need, right, if Danny was standing here, trying to liquefy his bones. Hadn't even taken more than a second to run into him, drag him back, start jacking him off like Steve needed none of his brain cells.
All of it sliding through his fingers, caustic, like sands he could barely acknowledge, lest think about. There, but not.
Especially when Danny does it again. Another joke. Another reminder they are right here, with the clothes and the door, because Steve didn't choose something else earlier. When it's all gravel and grit, looking up at Danny's eyes, snap fast and the words are falling out too fast, too bare, more bare than he's got no clothes and Danny is stripping his skin with one set of fingers, bare. "No, I want you."
He couldn't give a damn about the door or the floor, or the couch or the bed. But he's supposed to.
Somewhere in the back that's wrong, too, isn't it. It worries like the broke part of a tooth after a too hard fight. He does. It says everything. About whether he gives a damn. About how he's felt about anyone he ever brought into this house. What they could have. Or see. What they couldn't see, and what parts of him he didn't want known. Whether he wanted to remember if this was real in the light of day.
It's not even that he's never been ashamed of Danny that strikes into his gut, but that something wholly not a part of this. That he wants it to be real, right now, right here, but later, too, because he wants to wake up tomorrow morning and still know it was. He wants Danny to be there, on the other side of him, his bed, still. It's not even a complex thought, it's a flash. That he wants more than this. More than just the sex. He wants Danny not to leave. Escape. Think he has to, or to want to.
Danny's hasn't been a guest in years, and Danny could never be just a fuck, which means it all very stupid, isn't it?.
Making it all zero in on him, like the world has a scope on him. His face. Hands. That thing in his chest.
"Get with the program already." Steve barked, a mocking smoking sound. Derision, like Danny has been standing here doing absolutely nothing, holding up the party the whole time. While Steve moves. Dragging Danny in to kiss him, again, and then even more. Taking all momentum and charge with it, stepping backward and taking Danny with him. Headed for the stairs behind him. It's not the first time he's tried them without seeing.
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Danny doesn't stop, or even slow down. Not even from Steve kissing him like he's trying to take out the perfect madness expanding threateningly inside his skin and find a way to push it back into Danny, or drag Danny with him. He needs all of it, with Danny, right there with him. Which he isn't. When he's laughing at Steve's questions and throwing it back at Steve like it's his own fault. He chose wrong when he did. He should have gone for undressing Danny instead of himself.
He hadn't. He could have. Hadn't. Because he was busy with his own clothes, is a damn lie, and so is that he didn't think about it, when the fire of Danny's hand is making it impossible to hide anything behind, stripping all the muscle down to a single bone. It was easier if it was him. Wasn't it. Hadn't it been. If Danny just told him to stop when he was undressing himself, that would have been easier. To watch it crash and burn on.
If it'd been Danny. Danny who had lost his shirt, moaning and groaning. If Danny had stopped him then.
Hands on Danny. Undressing Danny entirely. Like they were allowed to be there. To take everything, demand everything. The way he did every day with Danny, except more. Like this now, pertaining to every part of his body. An evasion he hadn't even thought of or acknowledged as one. One he didn't even need, right, if Danny was standing here, trying to liquefy his bones. Hadn't even taken more than a second to run into him, drag him back, start jacking him off like Steve needed none of his brain cells.
All of it sliding through his fingers, caustic, like sands he could barely acknowledge, lest think about. There, but not.
Especially when Danny does it again. Another joke. Another reminder they are right here, with the clothes and the door, because Steve didn't choose something else earlier. When it's all gravel and grit, looking up at Danny's eyes, snap fast and the words are falling out too fast, too bare, more bare than he's got no clothes and Danny is stripping his skin with one set of fingers, bare. "No, I want you."
He couldn't give a damn about the door or the floor, or the couch or the bed. But he's supposed to.
Somewhere in the back that's wrong, too, isn't it. It worries like the broke part of a tooth after a too hard fight. He does. It says everything. About whether he gives a damn. About how he's felt about anyone he ever brought into this house. What they could have. Or see. What they couldn't see, and what parts of him he didn't want known. Whether he wanted to remember if this was real in the light of day.
It's not even that he's never been ashamed of Danny that strikes into his gut, but that something wholly not a part of this. That he wants it to be real, right now, right here, but later, too, because he wants to wake up tomorrow morning and still know it was. He wants Danny to be there, on the other side of him, his bed, still. It's not even a complex thought, it's a flash. That he wants more than this. More than just the sex. He wants Danny not to leave. Escape. Think he has to, or to want to.
Danny's hasn't been a guest in years, and Danny could never be just a fuck, which means it all very stupid, isn't it?.
Making it all zero in on him, like the world has a scope on him. His face. Hands. That thing in his chest.
"Get with the program already." Steve barked, a mocking smoking sound. Derision, like Danny has been standing here doing absolutely nothing, holding up the party the whole time. While Steve moves. Dragging Danny in to kiss him, again, and then even more. Taking all momentum and charge with it, stepping backward and taking Danny with him. Headed for the stairs behind him. It's not the first time he's tried them without seeing.