He doesn't think he'll ever get sick of it. The way Steve's voice sounds, grates, rough and at the edge of wrecking itself, against his ear, saying his name. In a whole new way that hasn't gotten old, anywhere near it, in a month, that Danny thinks he could hear forever and never get used to it, never stop feeling that answering torque in his stomach, the squeeze along his spine. Nothing like teasing, sympathy, amusement, conversation. Nothing like his name has ever sounded before.
Pushing one hand between the covers and the back of Steve's shoulder, while the other leaves his hair, too, to slide down his chest, palm running down his stomach, fingers curving around his side. Danny shifting to give his own hand room, needing Steve under his hands, like he somehow hasn't managed to touch him enough, like somehow last night and the other nights this past month got wiped from his memory and all he's had to cling to, ever, were a few brushes at work and an evening of incendiary jealousy out at the bar.
Where Steve wanted him. Even then.
Steve, who's pushing up into him like this already needs to be shoved off a cliff, and, Christ, he should slow down, but he can't, it's too damn hot, brain cells sizzling like they're in a frying pan. Steve's skin salty against his tongue, pulling up on it with his mouth, feeling the pulse beneath go spattering and wild. Running his free hand over everything he can touch: back up over his chest, over his shoulder, along his bicep, where that tattoo is dark and looking blurred without light to pull it from Steve's tan. Down to his wrist, where Danny's fingers curl, possessive, and he pushes down. Like he could possibly pin Steve.
But Steve might. Let him. Just for a second, just while he gets his head back on straight and recognizes the fact that they came back together and fell into bed together and Steve said, he said that thing, that proves he wanted Danny even back in the bar, and he knows that, okay, he knows all of that.
But he still holds Steve's wrist. Anyway. Like it's a grip on the night, the world, this thing that hasn't tossed him off yet, even though he keeps expecting it, every second, but only just now, just tonight, had to come face to face with it.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-06 10:39 pm (UTC)Pushing one hand between the covers and the back of Steve's shoulder, while the other leaves his hair, too, to slide down his chest, palm running down his stomach, fingers curving around his side. Danny shifting to give his own hand room, needing Steve under his hands, like he somehow hasn't managed to touch him enough, like somehow last night and the other nights this past month got wiped from his memory and all he's had to cling to, ever, were a few brushes at work and an evening of incendiary jealousy out at the bar.
Where Steve wanted him. Even then.
Steve, who's pushing up into him like this already needs to be shoved off a cliff, and, Christ, he should slow down, but he can't, it's too damn hot, brain cells sizzling like they're in a frying pan. Steve's skin salty against his tongue, pulling up on it with his mouth, feeling the pulse beneath go spattering and wild. Running his free hand over everything he can touch: back up over his chest, over his shoulder, along his bicep, where that tattoo is dark and looking blurred without light to pull it from Steve's tan. Down to his wrist, where Danny's fingers curl, possessive, and he pushes down. Like he could possibly pin Steve.
But Steve might. Let him. Just for a second, just while he gets his head back on straight and recognizes the fact that they came back together and fell into bed together and Steve said, he said that thing, that proves he wanted Danny even back in the bar, and he knows that, okay, he knows all of that.
But he still holds Steve's wrist. Anyway. Like it's a grip on the night, the world, this thing that hasn't tossed him off yet, even though he keeps expecting it, every second, but only just now, just tonight, had to come face to face with it.