He loves that laugh. There's nothing else for it; it comes, breathless and stilted and there is nothing in Danny except unabashed appreciation and a churning ache in his chest that's like being slowly crushed in reverse. Expanding from the inside out, chest and ribs threatening to snap, lungs and heart barely able to keep up. Everything getting shoved to the side to make room for it, whatever this is that has him staring up at Steve, unable to breathe, still not sure he can really believe it's all happening. That Steve is stripping off his jeans, with that laugh, and that look, and those words. Like Danny is driving him crazy. Like his insanity is Danny's fault, Danny's fault for wearing jeans, for showing up in the evening and getting jealous. Like Steve can't be held accountable for what he does now.
The jeans, yeah. They may need to go into rotation more often, much as he actually does prefer khakis or work clothes. This is worth it, right, worth Hawaiian humidity and heat and sand getting caught under denim.
Disagreeing with the way Steve gets up, but not with the efficient way the jeans get discarded, or how he pushes back in, searching out Danny's mouth, hand hard at Danny's jaw and the other trailing down to his hip, the low-slung line of boxers, as Danny's got one forearm on the cushion to push himself up, the other hand gripping into what little he can get between his fingers of Steve's hair. Too short, nothing he can wrap around his fingers and tangle them in, but it doesn't matter, not when Steve is straddling him like this and making instinct and reflex kick in, burning gasps of thoughts sizzling through his head. Hips grinding up, into his weight, the hand that he'd been balancing on moving to find Steve's thigh, fingers and thumb gripping hard.
"No, wrong, insanity is the incentive."
Or it is now. It will be. Because he had no idea he could make Steve look at him like Steve is looking at him, when he's far enough away to see that expression, to catch wide-blown eyes and flushed face. And Steve is crazy, but Steve's crazy is normally of the horribly violent variety, where the burning he's likely to do would be a building, or an automobile, or something large-scale, like a plane. Not Danny.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-02-13 07:02 pm (UTC)The jeans, yeah. They may need to go into rotation more often, much as he actually does prefer khakis or work clothes. This is worth it, right, worth Hawaiian humidity and heat and sand getting caught under denim.
Disagreeing with the way Steve gets up, but not with the efficient way the jeans get discarded, or how he pushes back in, searching out Danny's mouth, hand hard at Danny's jaw and the other trailing down to his hip, the low-slung line of boxers, as Danny's got one forearm on the cushion to push himself up, the other hand gripping into what little he can get between his fingers of Steve's hair. Too short, nothing he can wrap around his fingers and tangle them in, but it doesn't matter, not when Steve is straddling him like this and making instinct and reflex kick in, burning gasps of thoughts sizzling through his head. Hips grinding up, into his weight, the hand that he'd been balancing on moving to find Steve's thigh, fingers and thumb gripping hard.
"No, wrong, insanity is the incentive."
Or it is now. It will be. Because he had no idea he could make Steve look at him like Steve is looking at him, when he's far enough away to see that expression, to catch wide-blown eyes and flushed face. And Steve is crazy, but Steve's crazy is normally of the horribly violent variety, where the burning he's likely to do would be a building, or an automobile, or something large-scale, like a plane. Not Danny.