It's not enough for Danny to be trying to make fire of his bloodstream, his hands have to be everywhere. Like when he's talking, when they are absolutely not necessary. But they are so much a part of Danny. Everywhere in the air, moving, gesturing, gesticulating shapes that somehow go along with the sounds, make pictures. Except that's only vaguely related. Because they aren't making shapes right now.
They are tracing down his skin. One way and then another, while Danny remained a not-all-that-heavy weight on top of him, that he might never grow to find cumbersome. Sliding up one side of him, down another. Fingers curling, palm dragging. Tighter and looser, pressing fingers in against him, making him feel entirely bare in a way that walkin around with nothing on, or nearly nothing, hardly ever even registered again. Like Danny was going to find every single patch of skin, hollow between bones, the shape of each muscle.
Like somehow he hadn't figure it all out before. Every time he could get away with it.
The first impulse is always to resist.
When anything is restricted. It's trained deeper than thought. Leverage his elbow, stretch the muscles along his ulna, twist his wrist so that his palm turns up and his fingertips are grazing the point of pressure being held down. That is the back of a hand, Danny's. Which is the second his movement twinges. Danny. Who would never, had never done, anything to hurt him, hold him.
Who was doing a great job at keeping Steve head and his impulses at completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Fingertips grazing the back of Danny's wrist, wrist twisting only slightly for another second. Like maybe he was checking Danny's hold. When maybe this does get the small bit of a twist to look toward him in the dark, the location of his face. To figure out, somewhere inside the maddening race of his heartbeat and his blood thundering, if that's a sign Danny needs him to stop.
Stop....he doesn't even know what. But he knows, beyond any words they never ascribe to it, that he listens. He listens when Danny gets in between him and someone. The smallest touch. Completely inconsequential to the damage Steve could do. And he stands there. The fury of a racehorse and the violence of trained battering-ram held in check by the flick of fingers at his chest or fisted in his shirt.
A pressure, a stop gap. He gets lost in things, caught up in the direct line, the white and black, and Danny drags him back.
The fingers of his other hand tighten a very little, barely his fingertips pushing in, against the side-small of Danny's back on one side. But more like he needs that pressure, that movement to hold himself still, than like he's dragging Danny. And his other hand doesn't move at all, anymore, more and more aware of the weight and pressure Danny has against it.
The way he could snap his wrist back with barely any consideration or fight to it. The same as he could flip this entire set up.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-07 01:40 am (UTC)They are tracing down his skin. One way and then another, while Danny remained a not-all-that-heavy weight on top of him, that he might never grow to find cumbersome. Sliding up one side of him, down another. Fingers curling, palm dragging. Tighter and looser, pressing fingers in against him, making him feel entirely bare in a way that walkin around with nothing on, or nearly nothing, hardly ever even registered again. Like Danny was going to find every single patch of skin, hollow between bones, the shape of each muscle.
Like somehow he hadn't figure it all out before. Every time he could get away with it.
The first impulse is always to resist.
When anything is restricted. It's trained deeper than thought. Leverage his elbow, stretch the muscles along his ulna, twist his wrist so that his palm turns up and his fingertips are grazing the point of pressure being held down. That is the back of a hand, Danny's. Which is the second his movement twinges. Danny. Who would never, had never done, anything to hurt him, hold him.
Who was doing a great job at keeping Steve head and his impulses at completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Fingertips grazing the back of Danny's wrist, wrist twisting only slightly for another second. Like maybe he was checking Danny's hold. When maybe this does get the small bit of a twist to look toward him in the dark, the location of his face. To figure out, somewhere inside the maddening race of his heartbeat and his blood thundering, if that's a sign Danny needs him to stop.
Stop....he doesn't even know what. But he knows, beyond any words they never ascribe to it, that he listens. He listens when Danny gets in between him and someone. The smallest touch. Completely inconsequential to the damage Steve could do. And he stands there. The fury of a racehorse and the violence of trained battering-ram held in check by the flick of fingers at his chest or fisted in his shirt.
A pressure, a stop gap. He gets lost in things, caught up in the direct line, the white and black, and Danny drags him back.
The fingers of his other hand tighten a very little, barely his fingertips pushing in, against the side-small of Danny's back on one side. But more like he needs that pressure, that movement to hold himself still, than like he's dragging Danny. And his other hand doesn't move at all, anymore, more and more aware of the weight and pressure Danny has against it.
The way he could snap his wrist back with barely any consideration or fight to it. The same as he could flip this entire set up.
But he won't.