He loves this. How could he not. This was something no half-baked, shamed-driven, fantasy could have even been. The restless push of Danny's chest, mindless tenses and twitches, that Steve wants to smother himself over, and would if it weren't for the arm of the chair already pressed against his shoes, faintly annoying him. But it is that. Faint.
Faint, when Danny's digging his head into the cushions, opening his neck wider under Steve's mouth, arching his chest under one of Steve's hands that he doesn't remember when it got there. But he's licking the tang of sweat off Danny's skin, maybe dragging the salt out from inside of it, and his fingers are heavy against Danny's shirt, curled over his side, so his thumb is dragging heavy over ribs.
Loving every single shudder and shove of Danny's body, and the way his mouth just suddenly turns off for a few seconds, caught in the undertow of his body. He can at least lower on to his knees, settle with his weight on his calves, closer. Wanting closer, to be against him, to feel everything, to blot out the exist of the world and the sun and all the things they can't outrun no matter who wins or loses.
But he can at least get closer, he can, continue a plot into madness, as thoughts become thin spread against the fire. Letting him pull a little harder and a little harder on Danny's skin. On his vein. And the blood rising there. On the way his chest rises, and his breaths keep catching. Wanting more. Wanting more of everything. Not caring in the slightest if it's tipped straight over the edge now.
Pulling harder, and running the edges of his teeth far too close, each short half-second he almost lets go of the skin. When maybe he doesn't actually care if this spot is going to end up mottled. Making it look like, somewhere low inside his collar, like he's been marked. Or branded. Or signed. If he didn't want that, he could have gone. Steve gave him the door. He never asked for those words.
The ones bubbling up inside his blood. About fighting for this. For him. For them. Danny could end up wearing them, that way they set fires running through his head. Through his ability to think, focus. Thundering against the racehorse in his chest, when he stretches into the fingers in his hair, but in no way against from Danny's skin. From following it down to the shadow of the corner his shoulder bone Steve can just bare get to with pushing back Danny's loose collar.
Yeah. That might just happened. A ribbon words in color, like the key to language no one else knows. Especially not him. Like the only reminder Steve will understand, that those words, they were really said, here to him at all, that this is his, that somehow Danny chose him in a balance that he'd been entirely positive about.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-15 02:36 am (UTC)Faint, when Danny's digging his head into the cushions, opening his neck wider under Steve's mouth, arching his chest under one of Steve's hands that he doesn't remember when it got there. But he's licking the tang of sweat off Danny's skin, maybe dragging the salt out from inside of it, and his fingers are heavy against Danny's shirt, curled over his side, so his thumb is dragging heavy over ribs.
Loving every single shudder and shove of Danny's body, and the way his mouth just suddenly turns off for a few seconds, caught in the undertow of his body. He can at least lower on to his knees, settle with his weight on his calves, closer. Wanting closer, to be against him, to feel everything, to blot out the exist of the world and the sun and all the things they can't outrun no matter who wins or loses.
But he can at least get closer, he can, continue a plot into madness, as thoughts become thin spread against the fire. Letting him pull a little harder and a little harder on Danny's skin. On his vein. And the blood rising there. On the way his chest rises, and his breaths keep catching. Wanting more. Wanting more of everything. Not caring in the slightest if it's tipped straight over the edge now.
Pulling harder, and running the edges of his teeth far too close, each short half-second he almost lets go of the skin. When maybe he doesn't actually care if this spot is going to end up mottled. Making it look like, somewhere low inside his collar, like he's been marked. Or branded. Or signed. If he didn't want that, he could have gone. Steve gave him the door. He never asked for those words.
The ones bubbling up inside his blood. About fighting for this. For him. For them. Danny could end up wearing them, that way they set fires running through his head. Through his ability to think, focus. Thundering against the racehorse in his chest, when he stretches into the fingers in his hair, but in no way against from Danny's skin. From following it down to the shadow of the corner his shoulder bone Steve can just bare get to with pushing back Danny's loose collar.
Yeah. That might just happened. A ribbon words in color, like the key to language no one else knows. Especially not him. Like the only reminder Steve will understand, that those words, they were really said, here to him at all, that this is his, that somehow Danny chose him in a balance that he'd been entirely positive about.