There's a sharp, derisive, snort when Steve gets out from under hand and foot, but not far enough Danny couldn't smack him with a hand. Just enough to let him stand, let him go, close enough Steve could definitely drag him right back in. Even consider it. Watching Danny amble toward uprightness, bitching but never once touching any actual anger or annoyance.
He coming, at least. Not that Steve doesn't expect him to. Even if there is some small quashable, ball of nerves, tight and small as the beginning of a rubberband ball, somewhere in the center of his stomach, floating, half melted in the pool melted silver making up the middle of his body. The part that whispers there's the smallest percent that isn't sure. The smallest flicker he drowns out, with his smile, with taking a look at him, watching Danny check like he needs to check for things.
For his shoes or his clothes or something, when Steve already got designs, instead, on the rest of what is more off Danny than on him, decorating the floor next to his bed. Or his stairs. Or anywhere at all that isn't Danny's skin. So that he can let his thumbs catch on the pointed bones of Danny's hips. Catch and drag in the cut of muscles going down the sides of his stomach. Let his hands drift, drop from his waist, across all of his skin.
When it's only a handful of steps to have them hit the base of the stairs and he's still looking more to Danny than them.
If there's even a glitch of a second wondering if he should be stopping to think of this, remember this, it's gone.
It's nothing, not in comparison to how much he wants Danny. Danny with his stubble covered flushed cheeks, his messed up hair, his pink-wet lips and his wide shoulders. Wants him on his bed. Wants him so far bar overboard he won't be able to move himself, or trip over anything, because standing won't be an option. There is nothing but the quick one-two clomp of his boots going up the stairs, and the glance at Danny at his side, simultaneously ready and waiting for it to hit, again.
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He coming, at least. Not that Steve doesn't expect him to. Even if there is some small quashable, ball of nerves, tight and small as the beginning of a rubberband ball, somewhere in the center of his stomach, floating, half melted in the pool melted silver making up the middle of his body. The part that whispers there's the smallest percent that isn't sure. The smallest flicker he drowns out, with his smile, with taking a look at him, watching Danny check like he needs to check for things.
For his shoes or his clothes or something, when Steve already got designs, instead, on the rest of what is more off Danny than on him, decorating the floor next to his bed. Or his stairs. Or anywhere at all that isn't Danny's skin. So that he can let his thumbs catch on the pointed bones of Danny's hips. Catch and drag in the cut of muscles going down the sides of his stomach. Let his hands drift, drop from his waist, across all of his skin.
When it's only a handful of steps to have them hit the base of the stairs and he's still looking more to Danny than them.
If there's even a glitch of a second wondering if he should be stopping to think of this, remember this, it's gone.
It's nothing, not in comparison to how much he wants Danny. Danny with his stubble covered flushed cheeks, his messed up hair, his pink-wet lips and his wide shoulders. Wants him on his bed. Wants him so far bar overboard he won't be able to move himself, or trip over anything, because standing won't be an option. There is nothing but the quick one-two clomp of his boots going up the stairs, and the glance at Danny at his side, simultaneously ready and waiting for it to hit, again.