Steve's starting to move, after a moment when it seemed like every muscle in his body was waiting, listening, reacting with absolute stillness to Danny's touch, and it goes straight to his head like tequila. The fact that he can do that. Is allowed to do it. Is wanted. Only you.
Words stitching themselves into the walls of his chest, needle-sharp and sweet at the same time. That he wants to record and play back, over and over, on the nights like last night. The moments like ten minutes ago. Impossible. But said. And Steve always has been the person to do the impossible.
The stillness doesn't last, even with the low rough smile in his voice, low near Danny's ear, spoken into his hair and skin. Making Danny want to trace a pattern of goosebumps up the line and curve of Steve's neck, lay his tongue against that flickering pulse point, drag a shiver out of Steve, the sounds he knows he can find. But Steve is moving, never really caught in between stasis and motion, never idly considering it without going anywhere the way Danny does. Directing them towards the couch, fingers curving against his ass in that back pocket, the other hand gripping the waist of his jeans, like this whole it's a good look statement is just code for them being excellent handles by which to pull Danny towards the furniture.
Which is fine by Danny. He can't be reasonably expected to hear those words and be able to remain standing with any amount of stability. Not after the shock and sickening loss he'd put himself through, and the sudden brilliant sunshine now clearing the air and proving that everything is actually just like it was. Not lost. Not vanished. This is no fever dream that Steve is going to shatter.
So the couch is a good idea, even if once they find it, they have to shift, can't be all pressed up together, not without lying down. Meaning his hands have to leave Steve's back and their careful exploration there, but one slides up to spread flat along the back curve of his ribs and the other moves up his arm, along his shoulder, blunt fingers slipping into his hair. "It's a weekend look, you goof. What's the point of getting my work clothes ruined seven days out of the week instead of only five?"
Right before the fingers curving into Steve's hair tighten and he tracks back up with the taste of Steve's skin still on his lips to find his mouth again instead.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-09 04:07 pm (UTC)Words stitching themselves into the walls of his chest, needle-sharp and sweet at the same time. That he wants to record and play back, over and over, on the nights like last night. The moments like ten minutes ago. Impossible. But said. And Steve always has been the person to do the impossible.
The stillness doesn't last, even with the low rough smile in his voice, low near Danny's ear, spoken into his hair and skin. Making Danny want to trace a pattern of goosebumps up the line and curve of Steve's neck, lay his tongue against that flickering pulse point, drag a shiver out of Steve, the sounds he knows he can find. But Steve is moving, never really caught in between stasis and motion, never idly considering it without going anywhere the way Danny does. Directing them towards the couch, fingers curving against his ass in that back pocket, the other hand gripping the waist of his jeans, like this whole it's a good look statement is just code for them being excellent handles by which to pull Danny towards the furniture.
Which is fine by Danny. He can't be reasonably expected to hear those words and be able to remain standing with any amount of stability. Not after the shock and sickening loss he'd put himself through, and the sudden brilliant sunshine now clearing the air and proving that everything is actually just like it was. Not lost. Not vanished. This is no fever dream that Steve is going to shatter.
So the couch is a good idea, even if once they find it, they have to shift, can't be all pressed up together, not without lying down. Meaning his hands have to leave Steve's back and their careful exploration there, but one slides up to spread flat along the back curve of his ribs and the other moves up his arm, along his shoulder, blunt fingers slipping into his hair. "It's a weekend look, you goof. What's the point of getting my work clothes ruined seven days out of the week instead of only five?"
Right before the fingers curving into Steve's hair tighten and he tracks back up with the taste of Steve's skin still on his lips to find his mouth again instead.