Whatever peace there had been back when there were words, before Steve thought he could attempt any words and even shatter that, is gone. Which he's sure, any other day, one where Danny didn't have his mouth against the pounding point of Steve's heart, he'd say Steve didn't know how to be. Peaceful. Calm. Able to breathe. Relax. Do anything more than push forward toward the next rush. Thrum. Conflict. Fight. It's true, isn't it. Even here. Going up in flames, exploding heat under Steve's skin and setting a fire back in his center.
Except that, if Steve had proves that back with the talk, Danny is the culprit now.
Danny is slamming at everything he can. His hands on Steve's skin, making everything tune itself to him instead of the tension that had crawled up his spine and taken up residence in his bones. There's no room for it, when Danny is suddenly touching him like this. Making it impossible to even want to think about anything but wet suction and pressure on his skin. The flat of Danny's hands and the brush of his stomach and his chest against Steve's as he does this.
It should feel like being pinned. He should have more than the faintest, far-off, flicker sputtering about being stuck and the delicate, and easily deadly, places Danny puts his mouth and his hands. Without asking, without noticing. But he doesn't. Danny would never. Danny's been the person who got his hands on Steve, wherever he could get them, to drag him down and around and be a big stop sign in front of him for years. And his want for this is so much stronger than any warning.
It should feel like he's stuck, but it feels amazing. Danny's weight pressed against him everywhere, not because they are dodging bullets or just happened to have ended up in the same space, passing out on the couch against a late movie or a recorded copy of a game that played while they were on the job, from an equally far away time zone that didn't' fit Hawaii's off the chart maritime either or a too late BBQ, with too much to drink, where all the talking slipping into silence and pressed shoulders.
Steve drew in a sharp hiss and shuddered shaking through him, against the bed, and Danny, and his own bones, when Danny's teeth raked the edge of his ear, following the sharpness with the soft, wet heat of his lips and then words. Nothing makes sense, except holding on to Danny. Not that Danny still wants him here, or wants him at all, but Steve can't let go. Doesn't want Danny to stop. Touching him. Hands, and body, and tongue, and teeth. Kissing his skin.
Talking to him like this. His voice gone dark and hot breath pressing into his skin where lips had been.
Saying things Steve could hardly even imagine Danny of all people saying. Meaning.
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Whatever peace there had been back when there were words, before Steve thought he could attempt any words and even shatter that, is gone. Which he's sure, any other day, one where Danny didn't have his mouth against the pounding point of Steve's heart, he'd say Steve didn't know how to be. Peaceful. Calm. Able to breathe. Relax. Do anything more than push forward toward the next rush. Thrum. Conflict. Fight. It's true, isn't it. Even here. Going up in flames, exploding heat under Steve's skin and setting a fire back in his center.
Except that, if Steve had proves that back with the talk, Danny is the culprit now.
Danny is slamming at everything he can. His hands on Steve's skin, making everything tune itself to him instead of the tension that had crawled up his spine and taken up residence in his bones. There's no room for it, when Danny is suddenly touching him like this. Making it impossible to even want to think about anything but wet suction and pressure on his skin. The flat of Danny's hands and the brush of his stomach and his chest against Steve's as he does this.
It should feel like being pinned. He should have more than the faintest, far-off, flicker sputtering about being stuck and the delicate, and easily deadly, places Danny puts his mouth and his hands. Without asking, without noticing. But he doesn't. Danny would never. Danny's been the person who got his hands on Steve, wherever he could get them, to drag him down and around and be a big stop sign in front of him for years. And his want for this is so much stronger than any warning.
It should feel like he's stuck, but it feels amazing. Danny's weight pressed against him everywhere, not because they are dodging bullets or just happened to have ended up in the same space, passing out on the couch against a late movie or a recorded copy of a game that played while they were on the job, from an equally far away time zone that didn't' fit Hawaii's off the chart maritime either or a too late BBQ, with too much to drink, where all the talking slipping into silence and pressed shoulders.
Steve drew in a sharp hiss and shuddered shaking through him, against the bed, and Danny, and his own bones, when Danny's teeth raked the edge of his ear, following the sharpness with the soft, wet heat of his lips and then words. Nothing makes sense, except holding on to Danny. Not that Danny still wants him here, or wants him at all, but Steve can't let go. Doesn't want Danny to stop. Touching him. Hands, and body, and tongue, and teeth. Kissing his skin.
Talking to him like this. His voice gone dark and hot breath pressing into his skin where lips had been.
Saying things Steve could hardly even imagine Danny of all people saying. Meaning.