Danny wastes no time, in having his hands back. Not that Steve ever doubted he would. Not even when he was slamming through heat and cold at the same seconds, prickling skin and redoubled sensation, want, a flared slam of need that almost defied being able to name the reasons when it ramrodded through. Leaving him catching his next breath right off Danny's lips. That stupid, smug sort of smile Danny's mouth is curving in under his.
When Steve's amazed it isn't a accusative or victorious laugh rumbling through his chest. The kind that Steve only marginally ever admits he wants to feel. Against his fingers, against his own chest, when his arms are wrapped around Danny before they fall into oblivion or whenever he crawls back into bed, half soaked. The way that sound vibrates through him, feeling like it washes over and through him, even when it doesn't sound like anything other than an indignant or denying scoff.
Or when it's low, gravely in his ear, and Danny is actually happy. Or when it's perfectly real, and Steve can't breathe.
When Danny's eyes and his mouth are all crinkled up, and his eyes are bluer than seem possible, when everything is light and hilarious and Steve wants, with some insane abandon, for a way for his hands to sink deeper than Danny's skin. Into his chest. Into wherever that is. That he could shove his hands, his whole self into that so rare, entirely golden sort of laughter and enjoyment that Danny saves for the oddest, rarest, counted moments, and for every single second Grace is near him.
But none of that stays. It dashes in and out on the inhale of a breath, while Danny's fingers, cool and smooth and wet, still, tracing over his skin, are moving. Down his jaw, across his throat. Causing the center of his stomach to stay tight, even as everything else just feels like it throbs everywhere through him, following the soft bite of the chill. Shrinks down to Danny's fingers against the skin under his jaw, this skin over his jugular, the skin over his artery.
Causing his heart to beat harder and harder under that touch. Like it was trying to reach out to Danny, too. Moments like this, it's the opposite. Like Danny's fingers can't even push deep enough into him.
Hard enough. Far enough. Even when he's tilting his head and pushing into Danny's touch before he's even realizing it's happening. He's doing it. Pushing up. Wanting more. God, wanting anything and everything Danny will give him, he can take from him. To have it shoved through and over everything else clogging up every other inch under his skin, in his head. Everywhere beyond the taste of Danny, the feel of it on his tongue, on his skin.
Dissolving the world, and pushing into Danny more. Pushing him toward the couch, toward his other arm. Beginning to seriously reconsider this whole sitting thing, and the way everyone's knees seem just as much in the way as Danny's drink was. Not that Steve is going to fight against that as long as Danny flailed against his chest. Seconds. Seconds are too many. God. He just wants his hands everywhere. And wants Danny's hands everywhere.
Wants to know, solidly, Danny is there, pressed against him, all of him. He didn't just do what he meant to do, and it worked, and then he lost whatever last, long tried strand of his sanity was left with it. He just wants to. Pulls his fingers back from Danny's scalp, fisting all that hair as he does dragging Danny with him, the opposite direction of his last push. Not toward the back of the couch. Partially twisting, muscles already tightening through his coe, when he's really not going to ask about shoving Danny toward's the seated cushions or across the couch.
He already said the only words that mattered, that were the hardest he's had to say so far. He's done with words.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-12 07:49 am (UTC)When Steve's amazed it isn't a accusative or victorious laugh rumbling through his chest. The kind that Steve only marginally ever admits he wants to feel. Against his fingers, against his own chest, when his arms are wrapped around Danny before they fall into oblivion or whenever he crawls back into bed, half soaked. The way that sound vibrates through him, feeling like it washes over and through him, even when it doesn't sound like anything other than an indignant or denying scoff.
Or when it's low, gravely in his ear, and Danny is actually happy. Or when it's perfectly real, and Steve can't breathe.
When Danny's eyes and his mouth are all crinkled up, and his eyes are bluer than seem possible, when everything is light and hilarious and Steve wants, with some insane abandon, for a way for his hands to sink deeper than Danny's skin. Into his chest. Into wherever that is. That he could shove his hands, his whole self into that so rare, entirely golden sort of laughter and enjoyment that Danny saves for the oddest, rarest, counted moments, and for every single second Grace is near him.
But none of that stays. It dashes in and out on the inhale of a breath, while Danny's fingers, cool and smooth and wet, still, tracing over his skin, are moving. Down his jaw, across his throat. Causing the center of his stomach to stay tight, even as everything else just feels like it throbs everywhere through him, following the soft bite of the chill. Shrinks down to Danny's fingers against the skin under his jaw, this skin over his jugular, the skin over his artery.
Causing his heart to beat harder and harder under that touch. Like it was trying to reach out to Danny, too.
Moments like this, it's the opposite. Like Danny's fingers can't even push deep enough into him.
Hard enough. Far enough. Even when he's tilting his head and pushing into Danny's touch before he's even realizing it's happening. He's doing it. Pushing up. Wanting more. God, wanting anything and everything Danny will give him, he can take from him. To have it shoved through and over everything else clogging up every other inch under his skin, in his head. Everywhere beyond the taste of Danny, the feel of it on his tongue, on his skin.
Dissolving the world, and pushing into Danny more. Pushing him toward the couch, toward his other arm. Beginning to seriously reconsider this whole sitting thing, and the way everyone's knees seem just as much in the way as Danny's drink was. Not that Steve is going to fight against that as long as Danny flailed against his chest. Seconds. Seconds are too many. God. He just wants his hands everywhere. And wants Danny's hands everywhere.
Wants to know, solidly, Danny is there, pressed against him, all of him. He didn't just do what he meant to do, and it worked, and then he lost whatever last, long tried strand of his sanity was left with it. He just wants to. Pulls his fingers back from Danny's scalp, fisting all that hair as he does dragging Danny with him, the opposite direction of his last push. Not toward the back of the couch. Partially twisting, muscles already tightening through his coe, when he's really not going to ask about shoving Danny toward's the seated cushions or across the couch.
He already said the only words that mattered, that were the hardest he's had to say so far. He's done with words.