When Danny's hands hook on his jaw, Steve thinks that. Well. He thinks two things really. One, that it probably wouldn't work with anyone else. This sudden jerking direction by, if anything, a delicate part of the human body. Two, that if it wasn't Danny Steve wouldn't be disregarding the sharp slash of piercing tension that creeps up his muscles fast for a second, at fingers curled and pressed under his jaw, into soft, easily broken skin where no bones sit to protect it, inches from his windpipe
But it is Danny. Danny, with his hands on Steve. Dragging him up. Demanding him this way.
Knowing Steve will come and Steve will be fine and Steve will listen to him. Already is, without really thinking.
Pushing off the ground and getting one knee on the bed, barely balanced, with something of a laugh when Danny says absolutely nothing. Except that he can't keep it. The joke, or the sweet triumph, of actually silencing Danny. Making a comeback impossible. Which is exploding through him. When Danny's drug his face up far enough it's not a tug, but a collision of mouths, into a kiss that feels like Danny is trying to put every ounce of what he was just feeling straight into Steve's mouth.
When it's dark and hot, demanding fire, and nothing matters from seconds ago. Nothing at all. When it's perfect, snapping, sharp and explosive, and he wants to fall into this, and shove through it, and never, never, never stop running straight into it. Hard and fast as he can. Like if he could keep up with it, it could never outrun him, never be done, never be gone, never have to stop. He wants to own every second of knowing he did this, made this, deserves it. Is getting burned alive on burning up Danny. That he can, has, is.
Even if it's, also, caught up in trying to keeps one hand on Danny's shoulder, pinning him back to the bed, and one knee on the bed, balancing himself, while his other hand is shoving at Danny's pants along with Danny, in the haphazard agreement with Danny's hands and Danny's mouth. Sense gone somewhere far, far away, when he has to finishing laughing where he started. "That was all it took, after years of trying anything and everything else?"
He might never sleep. He might never shut up. He might never come back down. Or remember how to do anything with a gun or a vehicle, again. Or be able to remember anything aside from the need to run his hand down Danny's leg and back up his knee, his thigh, and back, again, as he was helping push, and kick, pants away. Nothing else in the world felt as important or as necessary as trying to get his fingers everywhere.
Touching every place he'd seen, and cataloged, and knew empirically, but was never going to know like this. But was. Now.
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When Danny's hands hook on his jaw, Steve thinks that. Well. He thinks two things really. One, that it probably wouldn't work with anyone else. This sudden jerking direction by, if anything, a delicate part of the human body. Two, that if it wasn't Danny Steve wouldn't be disregarding the sharp slash of piercing tension that creeps up his muscles fast for a second, at fingers curled and pressed under his jaw, into soft, easily broken skin where no bones sit to protect it, inches from his windpipe
But it is Danny. Danny, with his hands on Steve. Dragging him up. Demanding him this way.
Knowing Steve will come and Steve will be fine and Steve will listen to him. Already is, without really thinking.
Pushing off the ground and getting one knee on the bed, barely balanced, with something of a laugh when Danny says absolutely nothing. Except that he can't keep it. The joke, or the sweet triumph, of actually silencing Danny. Making a comeback impossible. Which is exploding through him. When Danny's drug his face up far enough it's not a tug, but a collision of mouths, into a kiss that feels like Danny is trying to put every ounce of what he was just feeling straight into Steve's mouth.
When it's dark and hot, demanding fire, and nothing matters from seconds ago. Nothing at all. When it's perfect, snapping, sharp and explosive, and he wants to fall into this, and shove through it, and never, never, never stop running straight into it. Hard and fast as he can. Like if he could keep up with it, it could never outrun him, never be done, never be gone, never have to stop. He wants to own every second of knowing he did this, made this, deserves it. Is getting burned alive on burning up Danny. That he can, has, is.
Even if it's, also, caught up in trying to keeps one hand on Danny's shoulder, pinning him back to the bed, and one knee on the bed, balancing himself, while his other hand is shoving at Danny's pants along with Danny, in the haphazard agreement with Danny's hands and Danny's mouth. Sense gone somewhere far, far away, when he has to finishing laughing where he started. "That was all it took, after years of trying anything and everything else?"
He might never sleep. He might never shut up. He might never come back down. Or remember how to do anything with a gun or a vehicle, again. Or be able to remember anything aside from the need to run his hand down Danny's leg and back up his knee, his thigh, and back, again, as he was helping push, and kick, pants away. Nothing else in the world felt as important or as necessary as trying to get his fingers everywhere.
Touching every place he'd seen, and cataloged, and knew empirically, but was never going to know like this. But was. Now.