How is he. How is anyone. Supposed to be able to think straight? When Steve slides back up, fingers dragging madness over Danny's skin, and Danny's hand goes to his jaw, the side of his face, fingertips brushing hair. Fire scraping at his lungs, because breathing is not, could never be, as important as this. His other hand rounding over Steve's hip.
Only able to say, "Who says that's what I wanted?" after clawing his way back up to the surface, past the swimming sparks in his vision, the feeling of being shoved to the edge of everything. Who gives a damn. When he loves the back and forth, the words thrown at each other like darts or bricks or toothpicks.
And the only thing he wanted, wants, is right here already. Kissing him hard and certain, lips opening, teeth and tongue and the low noise that starts somewhere in the center of Danny's chest and tugs out by inches. Hand sliding from Steve's hip, reaching, fingertips brushing the lowest part of his stomach, to find him, wrap his fingers around him.
It's impossible to do too much, though he pushes up against an elbow, leans up, forward, to drag the circle of his hand up, back down, trying to focus through Steve's kisses and the maddening friction of his hand. Even when it's like trying to hold back waves from washing away a sandcastle.
This. And Steve's voice, low and scraping. He wants that, too. Wants Steve's breath against his ear, his neck. Wants Steve's mouth and his hands, his skin and weight and tattoos and scars over, under, so tangled up in Danny he can't pull free. Wants to wake up in the morning and not wonder how many more times he'll get to be here.
But, Steve. Just that. Him. All of this. Too much to ask for, but Danny's a selfish bastard, wanting the skin hot under his hand and the sounds he knows he can drag out of Steve. Everything he can get.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-08 07:35 pm (UTC)Only able to say, "Who says that's what I wanted?" after clawing his way back up to the surface, past the swimming sparks in his vision, the feeling of being shoved to the edge of everything. Who gives a damn. When he loves the back and forth, the words thrown at each other like darts or bricks or toothpicks.
And the only thing he wanted, wants, is right here already. Kissing him hard and certain, lips opening, teeth and tongue and the low noise that starts somewhere in the center of Danny's chest and tugs out by inches. Hand sliding from Steve's hip, reaching, fingertips brushing the lowest part of his stomach, to find him, wrap his fingers around him.
It's impossible to do too much, though he pushes up against an elbow, leans up, forward, to drag the circle of his hand up, back down, trying to focus through Steve's kisses and the maddening friction of his hand. Even when it's like trying to hold back waves from washing away a sandcastle.
This. And Steve's voice, low and scraping. He wants that, too. Wants Steve's breath against his ear, his neck. Wants Steve's mouth and his hands, his skin and weight and tattoos and scars over, under, so tangled up in Danny he can't pull free. Wants to wake up in the morning and not wonder how many more times he'll get to be here.
But, Steve. Just that. Him. All of this. Too much to ask for, but Danny's a selfish bastard, wanting the skin hot under his hand and the sounds he knows he can drag out of Steve. Everything he can get.