His intention isn't to make Steve pause, or to bring any kind of wariness or caution to his face, his motions. He's joking, but it's not really a joke, too, because he is out so far beyond over his head now that he doesn't think he could be found without a rescue flare and a crack team of emergency personnel. Brand-new doesn't even begin to cut it, and okay, he gets at least some of the mechanics. Right? He's only got himself for comparison, but the basics are something he gets. The kind of friction that feels good. The spots on Steve's body that make him shiver when they're kissed or touched. He has mapped out rough sketches of things Steve likes, and it has been weird at times, sure, but not panic-inducing. Nothing he couldn't have pictured for himself, on his own.
Past that, though, past the things they've been doing over the past two weeks, the waters don't get so much murky as they are entirely foreign. And part of him his shrieking to take a step back, long enough to ask some questions and get some answers, long enough to breathe and remind himself that not everything has to be dipped into one toe at a time and treated with extreme caution. Steve is not Gabby. Steve is not Rachel. He's already known Steve for two years, knows his flaws and foibles, knows his favorite foods and drinks and schedule, knows the look when Steve's disappearing into his miserable head. It's not like the two of them require any awkward 'getting-to-know-you' stage, although Danny is finding himself more and more curious about certain aspects of Steve's past.
Mainly, the ones that make this so clearly not as strange for him as it is for Danny.
But it doesn't last long, the pause, and it doesn't smack the same self-recrimination across Steve's face as the screeching halt in the kitchen, for which Danny is grateful. It's not a bad thing. Right? Everyone has to start somewhere.
And it doesn't make his throat any less close, or his mouth any less dry, when Steve's giving him that crooked smirk, bright and brilliant, like he can't believe what he's hearing but also could never question hearing it. Like Danny's sure he wouldn't. Nobody who looks like Steve would. Moving in a sudden efficient wave, stomach muscles flexing and standing out under skin, chest stretched, shoulders wide, leaning back into invitation, eyes on Danny's face and a knowing little smirk tucked into his lips. When that expression can't possibly hold the smug expectation that's radiating off every angle, shirt discarded, body on display. No other word for it. Displayed. Put on show. Knowingly, purposefully. For Danny.
Who just. Who just needs to take a second. A second to look. Eyes tracking down faintly fuzzed chest to the ridges of stomach muscles and belly. Steve. Laid out and perfect. Waiting to see what he'll do. But Danny's heart is in his throat, and his tongue feels like someone knotted it onto a bow, or replaced it with a useless piece of felt, because there's nothing he can say. He can just look. Can only shift forward enough to curve his hands around the sides of Steve's waist, thumbs rubbing over the cut of obliques. Run them slowly up his sides. Slow. Reverent. Because, God. He is so damn beautiful. Relaxed and loose. No one should be allowed to touch this. Right? He shouldn't be allowed to.
Fingers and palms moving up, up. Slow. Tracking their path with his eyes. The sheen of warm skin. Deep tan. Dark ink. His hands barely, and then not able at all, to fit around his sides. Pushing up his ribcage, bending forward. Eyes focused on the slope from Steve's ribs to the soft skin over his stomach.
"I, uh. Jesus." His breath gusts in a distracted little laugh, that catches behind his useless tongue. "Yeah, I think so."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-02-12 07:31 pm (UTC)Past that, though, past the things they've been doing over the past two weeks, the waters don't get so much murky as they are entirely foreign. And part of him his shrieking to take a step back, long enough to ask some questions and get some answers, long enough to breathe and remind himself that not everything has to be dipped into one toe at a time and treated with extreme caution. Steve is not Gabby. Steve is not Rachel. He's already known Steve for two years, knows his flaws and foibles, knows his favorite foods and drinks and schedule, knows the look when Steve's disappearing into his miserable head. It's not like the two of them require any awkward 'getting-to-know-you' stage, although Danny is finding himself more and more curious about certain aspects of Steve's past.
Mainly, the ones that make this so clearly not as strange for him as it is for Danny.
But it doesn't last long, the pause, and it doesn't smack the same self-recrimination across Steve's face as the screeching halt in the kitchen, for which Danny is grateful. It's not a bad thing. Right? Everyone has to start somewhere.
And it doesn't make his throat any less close, or his mouth any less dry, when Steve's giving him that crooked smirk, bright and brilliant, like he can't believe what he's hearing but also could never question hearing it. Like Danny's sure he wouldn't. Nobody who looks like Steve would. Moving in a sudden efficient wave, stomach muscles flexing and standing out under skin, chest stretched, shoulders wide, leaning back into invitation, eyes on Danny's face and a knowing little smirk tucked into his lips. When that expression can't possibly hold the smug expectation that's radiating off every angle, shirt discarded, body on display. No other word for it. Displayed. Put on show. Knowingly, purposefully. For Danny.
Who just. Who just needs to take a second. A second to look. Eyes tracking down faintly fuzzed chest to the ridges of stomach muscles and belly. Steve. Laid out and perfect. Waiting to see what he'll do. But Danny's heart is in his throat, and his tongue feels like someone knotted it onto a bow, or replaced it with a useless piece of felt, because there's nothing he can say. He can just look. Can only shift forward enough to curve his hands around the sides of Steve's waist, thumbs rubbing over the cut of obliques. Run them slowly up his sides. Slow. Reverent. Because, God. He is so damn beautiful. Relaxed and loose. No one should be allowed to touch this. Right? He shouldn't be allowed to.
Fingers and palms moving up, up. Slow. Tracking their path with his eyes. The sheen of warm skin. Deep tan. Dark ink. His hands barely, and then not able at all, to fit around his sides. Pushing up his ribcage, bending forward. Eyes focused on the slope from Steve's ribs to the soft skin over his stomach.
"I, uh. Jesus." His breath gusts in a distracted little laugh, that catches behind his useless tongue. "Yeah, I think so."