Steve tries not to smile, but he knows he's probably failing it. Doesn't give a damn really.
He can feel the muscles at the edge of his mouth twinging the way they always do whenever anything even slightly irreverent comes out of Danny's pressed, pink, slightly swollen mouth. Anything that might be construed as lewd, or involve swearing. God. He should not find it hot and fucking endearing all at once, like a gout of flames from nowhere.
Maybe it's easier than hedging the bet on the one shard of chill that sits somewhere at the heart of the rest of wanting to groan, making him press his lips together look too pleased, maybe even a little stunned and left-footed, when it feels like not his throat, but his entire chest goes dry for second. At even the concept. That somewhere in here Danny has been thinking about it, envisioning it. Them. Fucking.
But the want that floods him -- the want to peel back the skin on Danny's head, and pry every word from his lips, of what he's thought of, what he wants, what makes his blood boil and his fingers shake, drives the most desperate longing into those blue eyes, who, where, what, anything he wants, everything -- is almost as staggering as hearing Danny's words the second before it strikes.
When maybe it's easier than what crawls up his throat. The words about to roll off his tongue like a smug banner following that arrogantly victorious smirk, that barely looks insulted or castigated for the point. That aren't the single word, settled like an ice cube in the far back of his throat, hanging by a noose down his throat, so that it can't swing there, roughly battering the side side of his heart and kicking the top of his stomach with too much honesty. That part of him that wants to just say 'Maybe.'
But never wants to either. Because it would be too much. Too small. Too true. Too real.
"You've done more than that." None of it is exactly marginal, but then, Steve's not really counting.
Steve's still trying to wrap his head around mornings, and burying his head into empty pillows when someone isn't there, and it has nothing to do with sex already, and when forcing this is not something he's ever really given a thought to. A frustrated want, yes. Once or twice. But he's had worse, and this. All of this, is more than he was ever supposed to have already. Is so much, sometimes he can't sleep for the exhausted fear it will all be a dream when his eyes open.
"Besides, I thought you just spent your last eternity of million years yelling at me about the fact I wasn't allowed to think anything about any of this anymore, because I was unequipped for that?" It's poppish and it's not exactly a sidestep. He knows it'll be right back there in a second, but only half an hour, if even that, Danny was yelling at him about not being allowed to think for them anymore, too.
It's ironic if nothing else. It's something to focus on that isn't the way his heart is pounding and his hand has stopped rubbing and is gently gripping into Danny's side and the way his mind is slipping in a direction he's done his damnedest to keep it from slipping toward with Danny here. And Danny wants him to. To go there. To think about it. With him. With him here. Pressed closed, messed up, and already flush with want.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-21 01:22 am (UTC)He can feel the muscles at the edge of his mouth twinging the way they always do whenever anything even slightly irreverent comes out of Danny's pressed, pink, slightly swollen mouth. Anything that might be construed as lewd, or involve swearing. God. He should not find it hot and fucking endearing all at once, like a gout of flames from nowhere.
Maybe it's easier than hedging the bet on the one shard of chill that sits somewhere at the heart of the rest of wanting to groan, making him press his lips together look too pleased, maybe even a little stunned and left-footed, when it feels like not his throat, but his entire chest goes dry for second. At even the concept. That somewhere in here Danny has been thinking about it, envisioning it. Them. Fucking.
But the want that floods him -- the want to peel back the skin on Danny's head, and pry every word from his lips, of what he's thought of, what he wants, what makes his blood boil and his fingers shake, drives the most desperate longing into those blue eyes, who, where, what, anything he wants, everything -- is almost as staggering as hearing Danny's words the second before it strikes.
When maybe it's easier than what crawls up his throat. The words about to roll off his tongue like a smug banner following that arrogantly victorious smirk, that barely looks insulted or castigated for the point. That aren't the single word, settled like an ice cube in the far back of his throat, hanging by a noose down his throat, so that it can't swing there, roughly battering the side side of his heart and kicking the top of his stomach with too much honesty. That part of him that wants to just say 'Maybe.'
But never wants to either. Because it would be too much. Too small. Too true. Too real.
"You've done more than that." None of it is exactly marginal, but then, Steve's not really counting.
Steve's still trying to wrap his head around mornings, and burying his head into empty pillows when someone isn't there, and it has nothing to do with sex already, and when forcing this is not something he's ever really given a thought to. A frustrated want, yes. Once or twice. But he's had worse, and this. All of this, is more than he was ever supposed to have already. Is so much, sometimes he can't sleep for the exhausted fear it will all be a dream when his eyes open.
"Besides, I thought you just spent your last eternity of million years yelling at me about the fact I wasn't allowed to think anything about any of this anymore, because I was unequipped for that?" It's poppish and it's not exactly a sidestep. He knows it'll be right back there in a second, but only half an hour, if even that, Danny was yelling at him about not being allowed to think for them anymore, too.
It's ironic if nothing else. It's something to focus on that isn't the way his heart is pounding and his hand has stopped rubbing and is gently gripping into Danny's side and the way his mind is slipping in a direction he's done his damnedest to keep it from slipping toward with Danny here. And Danny wants him to. To go there. To think about it. With him. With him here. Pressed closed, messed up, and already flush with want.