The tension moves out, uncurling against his fingers on Danny's back. This slow slide, against other movements. A hand heavy at Steve's throat, while he's ignoring the faint twitch of too much hyper sharp awareness, that one that makes it easy, too easy, to trigger the low warnings of touch at a very vulnerable spot.
Danny's fingers against which muscles, how far his larynx is from being touched.
Even when Danny's thumb is only brushing his skin, rubbing friction only into the stubble on his jaw.
Fingertips pressing marginally more into the skin of Danny's back, as the only reaction that has to let itself out. Not entirely to gripping or pushing him, but just enough. When he pulls back more, against and into the pillow, away from Danny's mouth, barely, not far enough breath isn't crashing on his lips like waves on the shore. Eyes opening, to look up at Danny, through the shadows of the room, as well the position.
When the war of reactions is still nowhere near settled out under his skin. When he wants to reach up and kiss Danny, again. Push up, and turn him back, and kiss him until whatever it is could be seared from his head. Not knowing is at least a dozen reactions, each next to really better than the one before, when he'd had no idea what to do, except run after, the first time Danny had stared at him like he'd stabbed him without warning tonight. Even pissed insult hadn't hit him that fast. Only desperate necessity.
Steve stared at his eyes, brow and jaw still slightly knit, if not tense anymore. Just taking in Danny's expression, his face. This face, the one Steve feels like he knows better than he knows his own breath. Even when he never could have predicted this. This thing, where Danny is naked against him, in his bed, his hand is in Danny's hair, thumb brushing at his temple, not letting him pull away any. Unable to stop himself, "It can't be that bad."
The smallest of first chosen, unsurrendered, words, only barely not brushing Danny's mouth when he says. Because it can't be. Right? It can't actually be worse than Danny running away, certain beyond any doubt that he'd slept with Cath, looking like Steve had stabbed him, or detonated a bomb in his center, turned his back on all of this, no matter how unstable and lack of any future it is, at the first chance of anything else.
That this, this thing, this them sparking up and burning down everything that had made sense. Breaking every rule like they didn't matter. The way nothing, nothing in the whole fucking world, mattered except Danny in seconds like this. Or the one when Cath had nearly kissed him. Or anytime he reached the end of the day when he was gone too far away, to do more than reach into silence, for Danny's voice, even his anger or desperation trapped in a recording.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-28 05:28 pm (UTC)Danny's fingers against which muscles, how far his larynx is from being touched.
Even when Danny's thumb is only brushing his skin, rubbing friction only into the stubble on his jaw.
Fingertips pressing marginally more into the skin of Danny's back, as the only reaction that has to let itself out. Not entirely to gripping or pushing him, but just enough. When he pulls back more, against and into the pillow, away from Danny's mouth, barely, not far enough breath isn't crashing on his lips like waves on the shore. Eyes opening, to look up at Danny, through the shadows of the room, as well the position.
When the war of reactions is still nowhere near settled out under his skin. When he wants to reach up and kiss Danny, again. Push up, and turn him back, and kiss him until whatever it is could be seared from his head. Not knowing is at least a dozen reactions, each next to really better than the one before, when he'd had no idea what to do, except run after, the first time Danny had stared at him like he'd stabbed him without warning tonight. Even pissed insult hadn't hit him that fast. Only desperate necessity.
Steve stared at his eyes, brow and jaw still slightly knit, if not tense anymore. Just taking in Danny's expression, his face. This face, the one Steve feels like he knows better than he knows his own breath. Even when he never could have predicted this. This thing, where Danny is naked against him, in his bed, his hand is in Danny's hair, thumb brushing at his temple, not letting him pull away any. Unable to stop himself, "It can't be that bad."
The smallest of first chosen, unsurrendered, words, only barely not brushing Danny's mouth when he says. Because it can't be. Right? It can't actually be worse than Danny running away, certain beyond any doubt that he'd slept with Cath, looking like Steve had stabbed him, or detonated a bomb in his center, turned his back on all of this, no matter how unstable and lack of any future it is, at the first chance of anything else.
That this, this thing, this them sparking up and burning down everything that had made sense. Breaking every rule like they didn't matter. The way nothing, nothing in the whole fucking world, mattered except Danny in seconds like this. Or the one when Cath had nearly kissed him. Or anytime he reached the end of the day when he was gone too far away, to do more than reach into silence, for Danny's voice, even his anger or desperation trapped in a recording.