Steve spends a lot of time laughing at him when they're like this, and Danny's never totally sure what, exactly, is so amusing, mainly because he's never totally sure just what's going through Steve's head. Actual amusement seems unlikely, considering. It's not like Danny thinks Steve finds any of this funny, when Steve is doing his best to level every thought, every word that might not be related directly to what he's doing, splintering Danny's sanity with dedicated focus.
Muscles and bone of shoulder blades moving smoothly under tan skin, reminding Danny of the way Steve had leaned over the pool table, a long line drawing down his back to hips, all control, all efficiency. When that gets a little rocky, at moments like this -- Steve's control starting to tug at itself, efficiency tossed out the window in favor of finding every possible spot, like he might, somehow, have missed something obvious in the last month of these nights.
Like there might still be some secret code to Danny's skin, some pattern of nerves to be hit, electrified, shattered. Added to every spot Steve's already found, everything he's already discovered about Danny's body, and the way his fingers fit along lines of muscle, into the dip of his spine, splayed across his stomach.
Pushing forward like he wants to bury this under Danny's skin. Some reminder. The asked-for proof. While it feels like the heat's been cranked up in the room, or maybe like someone's lit the house on fire, and finally, finally, he feels like he can shove past earlier, not being here, before they came back, at the bar, and everything, everyone there, to just.
Here. Steve's breath and low chuckle the only sounds, against the faint hush of waves and wind. The rustle of sheets and blankets and skin. His own pulse, thundering in his ears. The shoving, pressing, pushing feeling in his chest, like a buffalo trying to push its way out of a cocoon. Grinning like a fool at the way Steve shakes his head at him. "What, huh, shaking your head like I'm some kind of lost cause?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2012-12-08 04:55 pm (UTC)Muscles and bone of shoulder blades moving smoothly under tan skin, reminding Danny of the way Steve had leaned over the pool table, a long line drawing down his back to hips, all control, all efficiency. When that gets a little rocky, at moments like this -- Steve's control starting to tug at itself, efficiency tossed out the window in favor of finding every possible spot, like he might, somehow, have missed something obvious in the last month of these nights.
Like there might still be some secret code to Danny's skin, some pattern of nerves to be hit, electrified, shattered. Added to every spot Steve's already found, everything he's already discovered about Danny's body, and the way his fingers fit along lines of muscle, into the dip of his spine, splayed across his stomach.
Pushing forward like he wants to bury this under Danny's skin. Some reminder. The asked-for proof. While it feels like the heat's been cranked up in the room, or maybe like someone's lit the house on fire, and finally, finally, he feels like he can shove past earlier, not being here, before they came back, at the bar, and everything, everyone there, to just.
Here. Steve's breath and low chuckle the only sounds, against the faint hush of waves and wind. The rustle of sheets and blankets and skin. His own pulse, thundering in his ears. The shoving, pressing, pushing feeling in his chest, like a buffalo trying to push its way out of a cocoon. Grinning like a fool at the way Steve shakes his head at him. "What, huh, shaking your head like I'm some kind of lost cause?"