Danny isn't quiet unless there's a problem. That fact is coded somewhere in Steve's DNA now. He knows it like breathing.
It prickles up under his skin, when Danny's fingers stay buried. When Danny shifts, irritably, fighting with his clothes, or maybe Steve's hand, only to go still again. When Danny's breathing only when and where it seems absolutely imperative to his body taking over. Which keeps going. Danny not speaking. Danny quiet and trapped somewhere behind his forehead digging into Steve's, and his eyes closed so tight there are creases at the edges of his eyes and between them.
When Steve can't tell if he should breathe, or he should stop. Can't look away from Danny's face, because it's the only handhold he has left, with Danny's mouth tight and closed and silent. When he's running out of space, but Danny isn't pulling away. He isn't frozen solid. He's just still, just focusing. That it goes like that until he'll let a breath out and suck one in, until he's shaking his head at Steve.
When Steve has no idea if that's good or it's the lid top on a panic he can't see, can't read. He doesn't think it is, but they've already covered that Steve's judgement here is broken. Beyond broken. In what he wants, in what he assumes, in what he tries to do when he thinks. Of knowing what Danny thinks or wants from him. When he's sliding his middle finger back, pulse pounding in his ears, between Danny's ass cheeks. Following the flat small valley of skin there, even when it's pressed together due to this position.
Letting his fingertip skate across puckered skin, and almost feeling the temptation to close his own eyes. Because there's so much else, so much he could, he wants, holy fucking god he wants, all of it, everything, Danny, to be touching him, to be fucking him, for any of it to be true, and not back to gone in seconds, to have it all. It aches through his chest, screaming in the awkward position of his arm and his hand, when all he's doing is the same.
Letting his finger tip run over Danny's skin, trying to hold himself still. Keep himself in check against the reaction to Danny's skin. A smooth, small valley of skin, starting and ending with a puckered circle of skin. That it takes all his power not to spend more time focused on immediately. When his voice is broken, and a little hoarse, trying for solid, when he's saying against Danny's lips, "We should get rid of these."
Which comes with the motion of Steve letting his arm strain outward, in direct motion against Danny's boxers and pants. It's the closest he's going to get to a question, and he doesn't think ripping them off would go so well at this moment. Even if the image is violently splashed in red and gold paint behind his eyes, making his voice thick and tempting him more with a grain of sand slipping through his head every second.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-25 08:00 pm (UTC)It prickles up under his skin, when Danny's fingers stay buried. When Danny shifts, irritably, fighting with his clothes, or maybe Steve's hand, only to go still again. When Danny's breathing only when and where it seems absolutely imperative to his body taking over. Which keeps going. Danny not speaking. Danny quiet and trapped somewhere behind his forehead digging into Steve's, and his eyes closed so tight there are creases at the edges of his eyes and between them.
When Steve can't tell if he should breathe, or he should stop. Can't look away from Danny's face, because it's the only handhold he has left, with Danny's mouth tight and closed and silent. When he's running out of space, but Danny isn't pulling away. He isn't frozen solid. He's just still, just focusing. That it goes like that until he'll let a breath out and suck one in, until he's shaking his head at Steve.
When Steve has no idea if that's good or it's the lid top on a panic he can't see, can't read. He doesn't think it is, but they've already covered that Steve's judgement here is broken. Beyond broken. In what he wants, in what he assumes, in what he tries to do when he thinks. Of knowing what Danny thinks or wants from him. When he's sliding his middle finger back, pulse pounding in his ears, between Danny's ass cheeks. Following the flat small valley of skin there, even when it's pressed together due to this position.
Letting his fingertip skate across puckered skin, and almost feeling the temptation to close his own eyes. Because there's so much else, so much he could, he wants, holy fucking god he wants, all of it, everything, Danny, to be touching him, to be fucking him, for any of it to be true, and not back to gone in seconds, to have it all. It aches through his chest, screaming in the awkward position of his arm and his hand, when all he's doing is the same.
Letting his finger tip run over Danny's skin, trying to hold himself still. Keep himself in check against the reaction to Danny's skin. A smooth, small valley of skin, starting and ending with a puckered circle of skin. That it takes all his power not to spend more time focused on immediately. When his voice is broken, and a little hoarse, trying for solid, when he's saying against Danny's lips, "We should get rid of these."
Which comes with the motion of Steve letting his arm strain outward, in direct motion against Danny's boxers and pants. It's the closest he's going to get to a question, and he doesn't think ripping them off would go so well at this moment. Even if the image is violently splashed in red and gold paint behind his eyes, making his voice thick and tempting him more with a grain of sand slipping through his head every second.