Better. The way Steve's smiling, the way he's joking, voice low and a little rough now, like he's got a lungful of smoke, teasing without taking his eyes off Danny's face or his fingers from Danny's hair. Even when they move, it's to push further, firmer, and his eyes have that sleepy half-lidded look that smolders like a smoking campfire, looking innocuous and hiding the flash of brilliant arrogance lurking just below the surface.
He might look like a slow-talking, harmless surfer boy, but it's all an act; Danny can feel the coiled energy, the way he tenses and relaxes at each brush of Danny's fingers over his skin.
It's kind of heady, really. Addicting. Impossible, except implicitly not; possible enough to be dangerous, possible enough Steve felt like he had to shut it down.
At least he's not saying anything so idiotic right now.
"It's a temporary fix," Danny informs him, unfazed by Steve's smug certainty. And it never actually quiets him for long; it's just that the things coming out of his mouth afterwards tend towards the desperate and the indecipherable. Someone screams onscreen, someone else unsheathes a sword in a wet whisper of metal, but he doesn't care, has no idea what's happening. None of it matters even a little, none of it means anything at all or is worth even the tiniest inch of his attention.
Not when Steve is looking at him like this. Like there's nothing else in the room, or on the island, or in the world. Eyes hooked on the tiny flicker of Danny's tongue against his lips, or on some detail only Steve can find in his face, the skin of his throat, the open collar of his shirt. "Don't get used to it."
Which makes him lean up, tug Steve down. Again. Already. Because, fuck it. They're on the couch and Steve is an idiot, and Danny may have made his point, but he can make it again, keep making it, until Steve stops thinking of it as an option, until he's sure Steve will lose that wary, blank look that precedes self-destruction. This isn't a bullet Steve can take; it's not a grenade he can throw himself on. It's just him, and he might not be any prize, but he's sure as hell not going to let himself get pushed out the door while Steve still wants him.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-11 02:46 am (UTC)He might look like a slow-talking, harmless surfer boy, but it's all an act; Danny can feel the coiled energy, the way he tenses and relaxes at each brush of Danny's fingers over his skin.
It's kind of heady, really. Addicting. Impossible, except implicitly not; possible enough to be dangerous, possible enough Steve felt like he had to shut it down.
At least he's not saying anything so idiotic right now.
"It's a temporary fix," Danny informs him, unfazed by Steve's smug certainty. And it never actually quiets him for long; it's just that the things coming out of his mouth afterwards tend towards the desperate and the indecipherable. Someone screams onscreen, someone else unsheathes a sword in a wet whisper of metal, but he doesn't care, has no idea what's happening. None of it matters even a little, none of it means anything at all or is worth even the tiniest inch of his attention.
Not when Steve is looking at him like this. Like there's nothing else in the room, or on the island, or in the world. Eyes hooked on the tiny flicker of Danny's tongue against his lips, or on some detail only Steve can find in his face, the skin of his throat, the open collar of his shirt. "Don't get used to it."
Which makes him lean up, tug Steve down. Again. Already. Because, fuck it. They're on the couch and Steve is an idiot, and Danny may have made his point, but he can make it again, keep making it, until Steve stops thinking of it as an option, until he's sure Steve will lose that wary, blank look that precedes self-destruction. This isn't a bullet Steve can take; it's not a grenade he can throw himself on. It's just him, and he might not be any prize, but he's sure as hell not going to let himself get pushed out the door while Steve still wants him.