Wants to press it into Steve's skin, until it's written there like a tattoo. How it matters. How that year matters because Steve matters, because Danny's been in love with him for longer than he could even recognize.
Except he can't say that, because it is actual insanity, to start babbling about being in love, a surefire way to send anyone running for the door on the very first night, during the very first time, but he wants to. It hammers at the back of his teeth. Stamps itself on his tongue, when he's got it flat against Steve's throat, and Steve's pulse is pounding against it, and Steve's fingers are in his hair, driving Danny's face into his own neck, harder, because Steve doesn't believe in slowing down, and he doesn't believe in safe.
Which is all the more reason to swallow everything he wants to say, the words than want to come spilling out, another confessional to at least match the one from downstairs, back when he thought Steve was going to hit him, yell at him, fire him.
Never this. Never this.
Steve's hand, hard on his hip. Steve's skin under his palms and fingers. Steve's throat against his mouth. Not safe. But not as deadly as those words have been, all of Steve's life, handed off by people who didn't give a damn, or who did, but sent Steve away anyway, or left him behind.
And Danny won't. Not until he's proven it. That he's different. That he won't leave, and he won't lie, and he'll do whatever he can to make up for the times that he did, the times he let Steve down. Should have known better.
Except all he knows right now, is that Steve tastes like salt, and he smells better than anything Danny could have imagined, and he feels, under Danny's hands, like the precursor to an earthquake. A faint tremor running through muscles, jacking up his pulse.
The hair behind his ear damp with sweat, when Danny makes his way there, to that flat, soft, delicate spot just behind his earlobe. Running the edge of his teeth, brushing lips along the shell of Steve's ear, exactly like he'd pictured and hated himself for picturing in the club. "You feel too good."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-11-19 05:07 am (UTC)He wants to say it. Insanely.
Wants to press it into Steve's skin, until it's written there like a tattoo. How it matters. How that year matters because Steve matters, because Danny's been in love with him for longer than he could even recognize.
Except he can't say that, because it is actual insanity, to start babbling about being in love, a surefire way to send anyone running for the door on the very first night, during the very first time, but he wants to. It hammers at the back of his teeth. Stamps itself on his tongue, when he's got it flat against Steve's throat, and Steve's pulse is pounding against it, and Steve's fingers are in his hair, driving Danny's face into his own neck, harder, because Steve doesn't believe in slowing down, and he doesn't believe in safe.
Which is all the more reason to swallow everything he wants to say, the words than want to come spilling out, another confessional to at least match the one from downstairs, back when he thought Steve was going to hit him, yell at him, fire him.
Never this. Never this.
Steve's hand, hard on his hip. Steve's skin under his palms and fingers. Steve's throat against his mouth. Not safe. But not as deadly as those words have been, all of Steve's life, handed off by people who didn't give a damn, or who did, but sent Steve away anyway, or left him behind.
And Danny won't. Not until he's proven it. That he's different. That he won't leave, and he won't lie, and he'll do whatever he can to make up for the times that he did, the times he let Steve down. Should have known better.
Except all he knows right now, is that Steve tastes like salt, and he smells better than anything Danny could have imagined, and he feels, under Danny's hands, like the precursor to an earthquake. A faint tremor running through muscles, jacking up his pulse.
The hair behind his ear damp with sweat, when Danny makes his way there, to that flat, soft, delicate spot just behind his earlobe. Running the edge of his teeth, brushing lips along the shell of Steve's ear, exactly like he'd pictured and hated himself for picturing in the club. "You feel too good."