This is so much better than alcohol, heady like a shot of whiskey, the way that sound thumps into his gut and fills his head with some stupid bubble that won't pop. Amused as hell when Steve starts moving them, all impatience all of a sudden, working them towards the open door to join the abandoned t-shirt, a sad lump of cloth on the floor. While Steve does his best to get a hand that was never meant to fit between shirt and skin there anyway, and Danny would like to point out that Steve has, really, zero respect for his clothing, like he has extra money to buy new shirts these days, Steven, try not to wreck them all, huh?
But can't, because he doesn't give a damn about the shirt. The shirt can die a fiery death, as far as he's concerned -- he can always steal one of Steve's in the morning, and no piece of fabric, no matter how nicely tailored, can compare to the sheets of fire licking over his skin, the way he wants that hand there.
Buttons could be managed, but that would require letting go of Steve, and he's not willing to do that, but he's happy to compromise, and does, sliding fingers along between waistband and skin to start tugging at the loop of leather belt, the top button there. Registering, somewhere, that they've at least made it out of the hallway, which is great, but also, shouldn't some of this have burned out, by now? A month in, shouldn't some be, he doesn't know, a little less of a thrill, shouldn't some familiarity add a degree of calm to the hurricane that tossed them into this to begin with?
Instead, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Knowing. Wanting more. Wanting it back again, during the days and the nights when he can't have any of this, when they can't, have to be careful.
Except right now he gives as much of a damn about being careful as he does about the shirt. It's not like the rest of his life isn't getting laid out and dissected, broken into chunks of data that don't look anything like what he's lived through, who he is, but which can be typed into reports and recommendations and summons and proposals and counter-offers.
Which is crazy, and it'll be crazy in the morning, but, God, right now the only thing that's straight in his head is the sure knowledge that he can't hide any of this, that it's got to be written like a tattoo right across his skin, kicking his heart into high gear and narrowing the world's focus down to just this, their breath, pulse, heated skin and dark, quiet room.
no subject
But can't, because he doesn't give a damn about the shirt. The shirt can die a fiery death, as far as he's concerned -- he can always steal one of Steve's in the morning, and no piece of fabric, no matter how nicely tailored, can compare to the sheets of fire licking over his skin, the way he wants that hand there.
Buttons could be managed, but that would require letting go of Steve, and he's not willing to do that, but he's happy to compromise, and does, sliding fingers along between waistband and skin to start tugging at the loop of leather belt, the top button there. Registering, somewhere, that they've at least made it out of the hallway, which is great, but also, shouldn't some of this have burned out, by now? A month in, shouldn't some be, he doesn't know, a little less of a thrill, shouldn't some familiarity add a degree of calm to the hurricane that tossed them into this to begin with?
Instead, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Knowing. Wanting more. Wanting it back again, during the days and the nights when he can't have any of this, when they can't, have to be careful.
Except right now he gives as much of a damn about being careful as he does about the shirt. It's not like the rest of his life isn't getting laid out and dissected, broken into chunks of data that don't look anything like what he's lived through, who he is, but which can be typed into reports and recommendations and summons and proposals and counter-offers.
Which is crazy, and it'll be crazy in the morning, but, God, right now the only thing that's straight in his head is the sure knowledge that he can't hide any of this, that it's got to be written like a tattoo right across his skin, kicking his heart into high gear and narrowing the world's focus down to just this, their breath, pulse, heated skin and dark, quiet room.