The thing that actually makes him forget how to speak, what, words vanishing from his mind like soap bubbles popping. Just like Steve promised. Threatened. He can't. It's not the fingers. It's not the kiss. It's not the volcanic heat of the room, twisting up into a tornado that's trying to rip him apart piece by ungainly piece.
It's this. So simple. Steve's lips on his palm. Steve's face turned into his hand. And a look. A look of such perfect, sweet concentration, brow furrowed, eyes closed soft against the dark and the push and the pull. A single second, moment, heartbeat, that stretches for years, flashes Danny straight out of this bed and into everything he could want, wants, can't, won't admit to, because he could be gone, soon, soon, Vegas and Rachel and Stan's hotel, his case that looks worse and worse every day, but Steve --
He wants this. Christ. Fucking Christ. He wants it more than he wants anything. He wants Rachel to stay on the island, and he wants to be more than a shadow in his daughter's life, and he wants Steve. Needs this. To breathe. To balance. For himself. This selfish, greedy thing he wants. Bursting painfully, splitting him wide open, leaving him aching, limping.
Because Steve is kissing his palm. Nipping lightly at it. Like he. Like it's. This is. Like Steve feels this. The thing Danny can't say, can't look at, shoves behind every locked door he can, piles furniture in front of them, and still, it's banging there, waiting to be heard and allowed.
He can't. Not if he's leaving. It isn't fair. But it's so hard to ignore, so hard to pretend what he's gotten so good at pretending, when Steve does this, makes Danny forget all about the discomfort, the heat and the dripping sweat and the burn in his chest from a lack of air, lips feeling swollen and tender. When Steve cares about his hand. His throat. Shoulder. The bump of his hip bone.
He's still staring when Steve shoves him over, moves his leg when the order gets snapped out, and he'd keep staring if the new position didn't lay him open and, God, there's suddenly so much space, Steve's fingers working, angling, there, fuck, Christ, there, driving his head back into the sheets -- the pillow's gone, somewhere, knocked away -- hitching his whole body like he'd just been caught on a hook, dragged in some speedboats wake. Hissing "fuck, Steve, that's --"
And still lacking words, because they're all surrounding his heart where it stumbled, tripped, rolled down a cliffside, is dizzy trying to get up, keeps foundering. Hand tightening despite himself, in reaction, and it would be so much better, wouldn't it, if their hands were free, if they were just sliding into each other, could hold on as hard as they need. It's Steve. Steve could never take away anything from him. They're better together, always have been.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:31 am (UTC)The thing that actually makes him forget how to speak, what, words vanishing from his mind like soap bubbles popping. Just like Steve promised. Threatened. He can't. It's not the fingers. It's not the kiss. It's not the volcanic heat of the room, twisting up into a tornado that's trying to rip him apart piece by ungainly piece.
It's this. So simple. Steve's lips on his palm. Steve's face turned into his hand. And a look. A look of such perfect, sweet concentration, brow furrowed, eyes closed soft against the dark and the push and the pull. A single second, moment, heartbeat, that stretches for years, flashes Danny straight out of this bed and into everything he could want, wants, can't, won't admit to, because he could be gone, soon, soon, Vegas and Rachel and Stan's hotel, his case that looks worse and worse every day, but Steve --
He wants this. Christ. Fucking Christ. He wants it more than he wants anything. He wants Rachel to stay on the island, and he wants to be more than a shadow in his daughter's life, and he wants Steve. Needs this. To breathe. To balance. For himself. This selfish, greedy thing he wants. Bursting painfully, splitting him wide open, leaving him aching, limping.
Because Steve is kissing his palm. Nipping lightly at it. Like he. Like it's. This is. Like Steve feels this. The thing Danny can't say, can't look at, shoves behind every locked door he can, piles furniture in front of them, and still, it's banging there, waiting to be heard and allowed.
He can't. Not if he's leaving. It isn't fair. But it's so hard to ignore, so hard to pretend what he's gotten so good at pretending, when Steve does this, makes Danny forget all about the discomfort, the heat and the dripping sweat and the burn in his chest from a lack of air, lips feeling swollen and tender. When Steve cares about his hand. His throat. Shoulder. The bump of his hip bone.
He's still staring when Steve shoves him over, moves his leg when the order gets snapped out, and he'd keep staring if the new position didn't lay him open and, God, there's suddenly so much space, Steve's fingers working, angling, there, fuck, Christ, there, driving his head back into the sheets -- the pillow's gone, somewhere, knocked away -- hitching his whole body like he'd just been caught on a hook, dragged in some speedboats wake. Hissing "fuck, Steve, that's --"
And still lacking words, because they're all surrounding his heart where it stumbled, tripped, rolled down a cliffside, is dizzy trying to get up, keeps foundering. Hand tightening despite himself, in reaction, and it would be so much better, wouldn't it, if their hands were free, if they were just sliding into each other, could hold on as hard as they need. It's Steve. Steve could never take away anything from him. They're better together, always have been.