There's that smile. The one that makes a bad joke utterly worth saying, utterly worth smacking seriousness a little upside the head crooked. Where Danny is literally calling him on it and laughing at him, like there's several hundred dozen screws loose wrong with his head, but somehow he's gotten used to it, gotten to like it. And Steve, Steve would love to touch that smile, taste it.
If it weren't for the fact his chest caves in surprise seconds later. Air unimportant. When there are lips and teeth against his finger, and the only movement he's doing at at all is shifting his wrist so it isn't twinging. Listening to his heart trip into a pounding hard. Just long enough to feel like something in his veins popped before Danny lets go. Cold air and released like a sudden secondary shock, surging through all of him.
Before Danny is leaning back down, lips and tongue on his collarbone when Steve's fingers are pushing back into his hair, holding on, and he might be biting down against his lip. Not because it's too much. But because how the hell. Seriously. How the hell would he ever make it. Getting up and walking away from this. From Danny. Maybe. If Danny came to his senses.
Danny, and that hand that ends up at his wrist or shoulder or flat on his chest. Holding him back better than any solid, cement wall. Telling him to cool the hell down and back the hell off. That they don't kill people and they have due process and rules. Danny, who keeps him straighter than he's ever needed to keep himself. Danny, who could stop him, if he need to be, had to be.
Danny who's not going to stop him. Not with still possible still shaking through Steve's head so much more than his words about hating him. Danny whose choice is somehow him. Leaning down and kissing his skin, hollowing out whatever the hell had built up behind his breastbone, filling his head with all that noise and darkness. With one moment.
Lifting with that smile still on his face. Like someone how if he keeps his mouth straight Steve won't see it. In the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. Won't know it'd be in all the blue of his eyes if there was any light left in this room to see them. He knows. He knows all of it. He knows it's there just in the way Danny holds his head, and breathes in. The way his weight is settled.
The lighter, more prodding, teasing tone of his voice. The way he takes the second to taunt Steve, before kissing him again. Finally.
"Burn the floor," Steve said, against his mouth, whenever that first second burst back through from the necessity of mapping Danny's mouth. Thick and dark, against Danny's mouth. Fingers still in his hair, pulling Danny down toward him. His other hand, pushing himself up, into Danny. Back. Back, closer. Like the words and the thoughts and every eventuality got too close, made too much, and it can all burn.
To a blackened crisp. Until it's all gone. Forgotten. Until it's just Danny. "I don't want anything else."
Even if it isn't absolutely true, about Five-0, about the Navy, it's still true. Too. He doesn't want anything else.
Anything less than all of this, every single second and minute he could have of it. Of Danny. In his hands. His bed. His life.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-03-02 04:58 am (UTC)If it weren't for the fact his chest caves in surprise seconds later. Air unimportant. When there are lips and teeth against his finger, and the only movement he's doing at at all is shifting his wrist so it isn't twinging. Listening to his heart trip into a pounding hard. Just long enough to feel like something in his veins popped before Danny lets go. Cold air and released like a sudden secondary shock, surging through all of him.
Before Danny is leaning back down, lips and tongue on his collarbone when Steve's fingers are pushing back into his hair, holding on, and he might be biting down against his lip. Not because it's too much. But because how the hell. Seriously. How the hell would he ever make it. Getting up and walking away from this. From Danny. Maybe. If Danny came to his senses.
Danny, and that hand that ends up at his wrist or shoulder or flat on his chest. Holding him back better than any solid, cement wall. Telling him to cool the hell down and back the hell off. That they don't kill people and they have due process and rules. Danny, who keeps him straighter than he's ever needed to keep himself. Danny, who could stop him, if he need to be, had to be.
Danny who's not going to stop him. Not with still possible still shaking through Steve's head so much more than his words about hating him. Danny whose choice is somehow him. Leaning down and kissing his skin, hollowing out whatever the hell had built up behind his breastbone, filling his head with all that noise and darkness. With one moment.
Lifting with that smile still on his face. Like someone how if he keeps his mouth straight Steve won't see it. In the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. Won't know it'd be in all the blue of his eyes if there was any light left in this room to see them. He knows. He knows all of it. He knows it's there just in the way Danny holds his head, and breathes in. The way his weight is settled.
The lighter, more prodding, teasing tone of his voice. The way he takes the second to taunt Steve, before kissing him again. Finally.
"Burn the floor," Steve said, against his mouth, whenever that first second burst back through from the necessity of mapping Danny's mouth. Thick and dark, against Danny's mouth. Fingers still in his hair, pulling Danny down toward him. His other hand, pushing himself up, into Danny. Back. Back, closer. Like the words and the thoughts and every eventuality got too close, made too much, and it can all burn.
To a blackened crisp. Until it's all gone. Forgotten. Until it's just Danny. "I don't want anything else."
Even if it isn't absolutely true, about Five-0, about the Navy, it's still true. Too. He doesn't want anything else.
Anything less than all of this, every single second and minute he could have of it. Of Danny. In his hands. His bed. His life.