"You know, it's not actually all that comforting when you laugh like that at a time like this. I would even maybe classify it as 'unsettling.' Occasionally deeply so."
Okay, maybe it's ridiculous that he's still trying, but words are his only defense, when Steve is rolling a little further over him, and Steve is laughing into the thin, sensitive skin of his neck. Lighting Danny up like some circuit board got thrown and everything plugged in at once, traveling in sheets of light that travel under his skin and won't dim for anything. That laugh shaking into his core, sounding like the greatest thing Danny's ever heard.
So far from Steve's tense words and cold terse anger during their standoff in front of the door. Not even anywhere close to the quiet coaxing of earlier. This is something different. Something Danny's. And he's filled with the urge to just be ridiculous, to hear it again. Rant and rave, insult Steve, toss whatever absurdities into the air he can find, just to keep it coming. Recording it somewhere, deep inside, to play back, as if he might be able to convince himself that way that it's real. That Steve's laughing, muddling breath into Danny's skin, and lighting that patch with every possible nerve, until Danny's making his own words a lie by craning his head away to give him more room.
Whatever he wants. Every inch of skin. Breathing in sharp and hard at the thumb rubbing over skin that feels suddenly like the focal point of his whole body, everything clustered together under Steve's fingers. Stomach contracting, back trying to arch, shoulder blades pushing back.
Shifting, rolling towards Steve. Pushing into the gentle rocking motion. Wanting it all. Not to burn down the house, or the bed. Not to run sprinting to the finish line.
Just to feel Steve all pressed up against him. Stomach, thigh, leg. Steve's breath sifting into his. Steve's skin so warm and surprisingly soft under his hands, that feel so big and clumsy when he is struck with the ridiculous desire to be gentle. With Steve. Who is the human version of a tank. Who is nigh unbreakable. Heavy and fit, prone to acts of extreme violence, and currently on top of Danny and apparently determined to thread what's left of Danny's steadily melting brain right out through his spine.
But it's there. The want to trace light fingertips over the muscles of Steve's back as they flex and relax. Memorizing the way they move, how they feel. Down to his hip, before palming that rise of bone and muscle.
Realizing belatedly that he's stopped talking, because the air in the room seems to have been suctioned all away. It must be, because he's breathing faster and harder than ever, but his head is as dizzy as if he's looking off a mountaintop onto a sheer drop.
no subject
Okay, maybe it's ridiculous that he's still trying, but words are his only defense, when Steve is rolling a little further over him, and Steve is laughing into the thin, sensitive skin of his neck. Lighting Danny up like some circuit board got thrown and everything plugged in at once, traveling in sheets of light that travel under his skin and won't dim for anything. That laugh shaking into his core, sounding like the greatest thing Danny's ever heard.
So far from Steve's tense words and cold terse anger during their standoff in front of the door. Not even anywhere close to the quiet coaxing of earlier. This is something different. Something Danny's. And he's filled with the urge to just be ridiculous, to hear it again. Rant and rave, insult Steve, toss whatever absurdities into the air he can find, just to keep it coming. Recording it somewhere, deep inside, to play back, as if he might be able to convince himself that way that it's real. That Steve's laughing, muddling breath into Danny's skin, and lighting that patch with every possible nerve, until Danny's making his own words a lie by craning his head away to give him more room.
Whatever he wants. Every inch of skin. Breathing in sharp and hard at the thumb rubbing over skin that feels suddenly like the focal point of his whole body, everything clustered together under Steve's fingers. Stomach contracting, back trying to arch, shoulder blades pushing back.
Shifting, rolling towards Steve. Pushing into the gentle rocking motion. Wanting it all. Not to burn down the house, or the bed. Not to run sprinting to the finish line.
Just to feel Steve all pressed up against him. Stomach, thigh, leg. Steve's breath sifting into his. Steve's skin so warm and surprisingly soft under his hands, that feel so big and clumsy when he is struck with the ridiculous desire to be gentle. With Steve. Who is the human version of a tank. Who is nigh unbreakable. Heavy and fit, prone to acts of extreme violence, and currently on top of Danny and apparently determined to thread what's left of Danny's steadily melting brain right out through his spine.
But it's there. The want to trace light fingertips over the muscles of Steve's back as they flex and relax. Memorizing the way they move, how they feel. Down to his hip, before palming that rise of bone and muscle.
Realizing belatedly that he's stopped talking, because the air in the room seems to have been suctioned all away. It must be, because he's breathing faster and harder than ever, but his head is as dizzy as if he's looking off a mountaintop onto a sheer drop.