He just can't stop himself, has to keep it up, even when his stomach is squirming and Steve is dipping his head closer, that half-hook of a smile spreading, turning knowing and sly, and it doesn't matter. Whether Steve listens or not. Danny can't think of a single less important question, when it's clear that Steve's listening to something else, the thing he hasn't been saying out loud but which has been thrumming in his blood and head and ears for the last few minutes.
Electricity leaping at the brushing of a nosetip, the puff of breath, long fingers sliding along his jaw like they own it, and that smirk. That mocking, arrogant, slow and warm as honey half-smile, cocky and fully self-aware in a way that's nothing like the uncertainty of earlier, the way Steve had drawn in on himself, disappeared behind a haze of smoke and barbed wire.
This is better. Nothing like outside, either; no desperation and no violence. It's not a reminder, or proof, hard evidence they can point to and say this isn't gone yet; it's not a fight to keep the right to stay here. To be this person. The one Steve looks at like that, like there are no movies and no worries and no responsibilities, no bad guys or disappointing parents or evil lawyers. Like there is absolutely nothing else he needs in the world.
Making Danny's fingers tighten on Steve's leg, before he has to move them, run them along Steve's jaw and throat and sink them into Steve's hair, retracing paths that almost disappeared on him, that haven't been detailed in days too long. Paths he'd been burning down before, that he wants to just re-find now, wander over, a million times more addictive and intriguing than whatever the hell's going on onscreen.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-08 02:00 pm (UTC)He just can't stop himself, has to keep it up, even when his stomach is squirming and Steve is dipping his head closer, that half-hook of a smile spreading, turning knowing and sly, and it doesn't matter. Whether Steve listens or not. Danny can't think of a single less important question, when it's clear that Steve's listening to something else, the thing he hasn't been saying out loud but which has been thrumming in his blood and head and ears for the last few minutes.
Electricity leaping at the brushing of a nosetip, the puff of breath, long fingers sliding along his jaw like they own it, and that smirk. That mocking, arrogant, slow and warm as honey half-smile, cocky and fully self-aware in a way that's nothing like the uncertainty of earlier, the way Steve had drawn in on himself, disappeared behind a haze of smoke and barbed wire.
This is better. Nothing like outside, either; no desperation and no violence. It's not a reminder, or proof, hard evidence they can point to and say this isn't gone yet; it's not a fight to keep the right to stay here. To be this person. The one Steve looks at like that, like there are no movies and no worries and no responsibilities, no bad guys or disappointing parents or evil lawyers. Like there is absolutely nothing else he needs in the world.
Making Danny's fingers tighten on Steve's leg, before he has to move them, run them along Steve's jaw and throat and sink them into Steve's hair, retracing paths that almost disappeared on him, that haven't been detailed in days too long. Paths he'd been burning down before, that he wants to just re-find now, wander over, a million times more addictive and intriguing than whatever the hell's going on onscreen.