He could, is the glaring, confused, thought, blurring in and out. Danny. He could have chosen to be done already. A mess, pushed through that once. This. Whatever this is. Done, then. Done enough to get up and go home. Or done, a few minutes ago, when Steve thought the smartest thing was being a crass bastard. Done, then, too. Enough for clothes and shut doors, houses and cars. But he isn't. He isn't, and that just keeps hitting Steve in the few seconds he can think.
Especially, because he isn't trying to. Not anymore. It washes in, scattered, battered pieces, like detris washed up on the beach by the constant waves. Except that here the waves are made of fire, scalding even wet against his skin. Danny mouth on him, while his hands can't stop moving anymore than he can stop pushing into Danny's touching. Hands pushing down Danny's sides. Heavy and hungry across skin he's seen and others he never had.
Here where Steve's hands fit into the space between Danny's ribs and hips. Bones giving to soft skin and Steve wants to brand his ability to touch it finally, the overwhelming sensation that he fits here. They do. Like he should have done this so long ago. Would have. If could have. Here where Danny's hips and thighs meet. Where Steve's thumb fit down into the juncture perfectly, fingers curling the sides of his ass. The constant friction of moving bodies.
Unable not to move under Danny's touch, or capable of keeping himself from touching.
This resurging need to just shove his way into Danny's skin. Or pull Danny into him. Where he's always been.
Steve's second skin, and every bit of him that recognizes he might always be better at what he was trained to be and do than Danny could ever even attempt to emulate, but that when Steve wants to know what to do with anyone else in his life, any other normal situation, that everyone else takes for granted, he asks himself what Danny would do. That voice that is Danny walking around in his head. That shoved in with the same force as Danny years ago and never came out.
Steve holding Danny to him, even as he bucks, only marginally controlled, up into Danny.
His whole body on a livewire from Danny's mouth, while he says, "If you keep doing that, we're never going to sleep tonight."
Not that Steve gives a damn. About sleep, or the world, or the morning that is only so many hours away. Not when Danny is here, like this, touching him, wanting him. The rest of it could burn. For the rest of these dark night hours, and however long he can get away with this. With Danny touching him and wanting him. With being allowed to hold on to Danny so hard he doesn't even know how to question if it's too hard.
While he says it more like it's a threat and a warning, than a complaint. Because nothing in him wants anything else.
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He could, is the glaring, confused, thought, blurring in and out. Danny. He could have chosen to be done already. A mess, pushed through that once. This. Whatever this is. Done, then. Done enough to get up and go home. Or done, a few minutes ago, when Steve thought the smartest thing was being a crass bastard. Done, then, too. Enough for clothes and shut doors, houses and cars. But he isn't. He isn't, and that just keeps hitting Steve in the few seconds he can think.
Especially, because he isn't trying to. Not anymore. It washes in, scattered, battered pieces, like detris washed up on the beach by the constant waves. Except that here the waves are made of fire, scalding even wet against his skin. Danny mouth on him, while his hands can't stop moving anymore than he can stop pushing into Danny's touching. Hands pushing down Danny's sides. Heavy and hungry across skin he's seen and others he never had.
Here where Steve's hands fit into the space between Danny's ribs and hips. Bones giving to soft skin and Steve wants to brand his ability to touch it finally, the overwhelming sensation that he fits here. They do. Like he should have done this so long ago. Would have. If could have. Here where Danny's hips and thighs meet. Where Steve's thumb fit down into the juncture perfectly, fingers curling the sides of his ass. The constant friction of moving bodies.
Unable not to move under Danny's touch, or capable of keeping himself from touching.
This resurging need to just shove his way into Danny's skin. Or pull Danny into him. Where he's always been.
Steve's second skin, and every bit of him that recognizes he might always be better at what he was trained to be and do than Danny could ever even attempt to emulate, but that when Steve wants to know what to do with anyone else in his life, any other normal situation, that everyone else takes for granted, he asks himself what Danny would do. That voice that is Danny walking around in his head. That shoved in with the same force as Danny years ago and never came out.
Steve holding Danny to him, even as he bucks, only marginally controlled, up into Danny.
His whole body on a livewire from Danny's mouth, while he says, "If you keep doing that, we're never going to sleep tonight."
Not that Steve gives a damn. About sleep, or the world, or the morning that is only so many hours away. Not when Danny is here, like this, touching him, wanting him. The rest of it could burn. For the rest of these dark night hours, and however long he can get away with this. With Danny touching him and wanting him. With being allowed to hold on to Danny so hard he doesn't even know how to question if it's too hard.
While he says it more like it's a threat and a warning, than a complaint. Because nothing in him wants anything else.