He grins against that gasp, the short rasp of surprise that Steve gives against his mouth, like Danny gut-punched him instead of shifted to better fit, to lean towards Steve in a mirror image of the way Steve's leaning toward him.
Not that it's much better like this: knees are whacking together, legs pressing into each other, and they're both sort of contorted into a knot tying itself around each other, but that's fine for now, is livable. It's definitely not uncomfortable enough to move back to where he was, head tipping back and arm reaching awkwardly, beer keeping his other hand occupied. It's a beneficial exchange, the beer bottle for the side of Steve's neck, particularly when Danny can feel the slight rise of goosebumps reacting to the cold, and there's a thrill of tension all down Steve's long lean frame.
You know, fine. If they're going to make out on the couch during a movie, then they may as well do it right. It doesn't have to go anywhere, could stay just like this, exploring mouths, claiming lips with soft or harder kisses, fingers seeking their way across Steve's side and over the thin skin of his neck. He'd be fine with that, with just this, because it's hard to picture anything better than this, right now, when all of Steve's focus is on him, and it's like everything that happened or was said outside is just forgotten. Evaporated. Blown away like it never was, motes of dust in a strong breeze.
So the beer can live on the floor, whatever. He can get it again in a minute, or when he feels like it, and Steve can keep kissing him or Steve can sling a arm across his shoulders and drag him in to watch the damn movie or Steve can lie on him instead of the couch; Danny doesn't give a damn which way it goes, as long as he can kiss Steve for just a few more minutes. Minutes that slow to hours, and speed to nanoseconds, all on the tiny motions of Steve's mouth, the ricochet of the pulse Danny can feel hammering under the pad of his thumb, resting in the vulnerable groove of Steve's throat.
It's fascinating. The parts of Steve he can touch. The ones that he knows would be most protected in a fight, fragile, one-hit spots. Throat. The small of his back. The underside of his knee. The sensitive skin along the groin. The nape of his neck. Place he puts his hands without thinking or hesitation. Like he might own them, somehow. Like Steve would or could allow that.
But he does. Allows touching. And Danny keeps moving his thumb, because he might enjoy shoving past Steve's walls, but he can move on, too, doesn't need to linger there, unless it's to feel that same pulse jump against the flat of his tongue.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-12 03:41 am (UTC)Not that it's much better like this: knees are whacking together, legs pressing into each other, and they're both sort of contorted into a knot tying itself around each other, but that's fine for now, is livable. It's definitely not uncomfortable enough to move back to where he was, head tipping back and arm reaching awkwardly, beer keeping his other hand occupied. It's a beneficial exchange, the beer bottle for the side of Steve's neck, particularly when Danny can feel the slight rise of goosebumps reacting to the cold, and there's a thrill of tension all down Steve's long lean frame.
You know, fine. If they're going to make out on the couch during a movie, then they may as well do it right. It doesn't have to go anywhere, could stay just like this, exploring mouths, claiming lips with soft or harder kisses, fingers seeking their way across Steve's side and over the thin skin of his neck. He'd be fine with that, with just this, because it's hard to picture anything better than this, right now, when all of Steve's focus is on him, and it's like everything that happened or was said outside is just forgotten. Evaporated. Blown away like it never was, motes of dust in a strong breeze.
So the beer can live on the floor, whatever. He can get it again in a minute, or when he feels like it, and Steve can keep kissing him or Steve can sling a arm across his shoulders and drag him in to watch the damn movie or Steve can lie on him instead of the couch; Danny doesn't give a damn which way it goes, as long as he can kiss Steve for just a few more minutes. Minutes that slow to hours, and speed to nanoseconds, all on the tiny motions of Steve's mouth, the ricochet of the pulse Danny can feel hammering under the pad of his thumb, resting in the vulnerable groove of Steve's throat.
It's fascinating. The parts of Steve he can touch. The ones that he knows would be most protected in a fight, fragile, one-hit spots. Throat. The small of his back. The underside of his knee. The sensitive skin along the groin. The nape of his neck. Place he puts his hands without thinking or hesitation. Like he might own them, somehow. Like Steve would or could allow that.
But he does. Allows touching. And Danny keeps moving his thumb, because he might enjoy shoving past Steve's walls, but he can move on, too, doesn't need to linger there, unless it's to feel that same pulse jump against the flat of his tongue.