There's a second where Steve almost pauses. Not an actual hesitation, but a continuation of motion that's suddenly so focused and determined that Danny can't not notice the fact that it actually seems tough for Steve to be doing it, for a second. Tracing his mouth across skin warm and just beginning to moisten with sweat, despite cool air striking against it directly, the thin barrier of shirt pushed aside. Like it's an effort. Just for a second.
Which is strange, but then Steve shifts smoothly past it, mouth steady, tongue darting in slow streaks of lightning, until Danny tugs on his beltloop, and his whole body clutches, the way tugging a fraying string makes fabric pucker. Tugging a grin across Danny's lips at the same time, meandering and caught a little flat-footed, eyes heavy-lidded and twinkling.
He does that. He does. Only him. That's what Steve said. And Steve doesn't say those things, never says what he can't do, doesn't mean. He meant it. No matter what bricks were built up around him over the weekend, that Danny's been pulling from the mortar one by one until this happened and they all tumbled into this heap around them that Steve is now blithely setting on fire.
At least Steve seems pretty decisive, now. At least he's not arguing, seems to have decided that if Danny didn't leave fifteen minutes ago, it means he belongs to Steve, now, because the way he's laying into Danny's skin, there are going to be marks that last for days. None of which can be blamed on the kidnappers, or Kono, or anyone but his fictional girlfriend who Kono is so dying to meet.
Except now Steve is pushing back up, a wave running over hard-packed sand, hand flat and weight hard on Danny's chest, pushing out a puff of breath right before the rest of it gets snatched right out of his chest, left hollow and aching, hands climbing up Steve's back, trying to drag him down, fingers scaling the ladder of his spine, palms pressed hard against the curving back of ribs. Lips opening, body shifting, trying to find room on this godforsaken couch where there isn't any; Steve just doesn't fit on this thing, octopus arms and legs folding in awkwardly, trying to compact a body that's not meant to be anything but stretched out and expansive.
But he doesn't care. He wants it all; wants Steve's weight and body heat and the awkwardness of making out on the couch fully clothed while Uma Thurman skids through a vendetta of epic proportions. He wants Steve's fingers in his hair and wants to drag another groan out of Steve's mouth, chase it with more and more until all Steve's words are broken into shards and there's nothing to hear but the sound of his breath and the restless, tiny noises at the back of his throat. Wants the sprawled limbs and huge hands, the annoyance of having to shift to try to fit them both on a couch that can barely fit one.
He just wants it all. And he can have it. Right? That's what Steve's saying, now that he's not telling Danny to leave.
no subject
Which is strange, but then Steve shifts smoothly past it, mouth steady, tongue darting in slow streaks of lightning, until Danny tugs on his beltloop, and his whole body clutches, the way tugging a fraying string makes fabric pucker. Tugging a grin across Danny's lips at the same time, meandering and caught a little flat-footed, eyes heavy-lidded and twinkling.
He does that. He does. Only him. That's what Steve said. And Steve doesn't say those things, never says what he can't do, doesn't mean. He meant it. No matter what bricks were built up around him over the weekend, that Danny's been pulling from the mortar one by one until this happened and they all tumbled into this heap around them that Steve is now blithely setting on fire.
At least Steve seems pretty decisive, now. At least he's not arguing, seems to have decided that if Danny didn't leave fifteen minutes ago, it means he belongs to Steve, now, because the way he's laying into Danny's skin, there are going to be marks that last for days. None of which can be blamed on the kidnappers, or Kono, or anyone but his fictional girlfriend who Kono is so dying to meet.
Except now Steve is pushing back up, a wave running over hard-packed sand, hand flat and weight hard on Danny's chest, pushing out a puff of breath right before the rest of it gets snatched right out of his chest, left hollow and aching, hands climbing up Steve's back, trying to drag him down, fingers scaling the ladder of his spine, palms pressed hard against the curving back of ribs. Lips opening, body shifting, trying to find room on this godforsaken couch where there isn't any; Steve just doesn't fit on this thing, octopus arms and legs folding in awkwardly, trying to compact a body that's not meant to be anything but stretched out and expansive.
But he doesn't care. He wants it all; wants Steve's weight and body heat and the awkwardness of making out on the couch fully clothed while Uma Thurman skids through a vendetta of epic proportions. He wants Steve's fingers in his hair and wants to drag another groan out of Steve's mouth, chase it with more and more until all Steve's words are broken into shards and there's nothing to hear but the sound of his breath and the restless, tiny noises at the back of his throat. Wants the sprawled limbs and huge hands, the annoyance of having to shift to try to fit them both on a couch that can barely fit one.
He just wants it all. And he can have it. Right? That's what Steve's saying, now that he's not telling Danny to leave.