There's some tiny shift of motion, that's not quite a warning and not quite compliance, either, where Danny's not sure what, exactly, is happening in Steve's head, but it's definitely something.
Again. Something Steve's keeping to himself, with the slight concession of those half-heard words, that are disappearing partially into Danny's shoulder and neck, warm breath and mumbles. They make Danny's eyebrows pull together, amused and a little nonplussed, but Steve is still lying half across him like a wet towel, so he's going to take it as a good thing until it is proved to be otherwise.
He keeps his fingers moving, slow firm circles, drawing loops against Steve's scalp, more purposeful now that he hasn't been told to stop. And, hey, if it feels good? That's all he cares about, right now. Being the one who gets to do this is just icing on the cake, compared to the bone deep satisfaction of seeing Steve flaked out like he's on a beach, soaking up sun and salt air.
It's enough to let him close his own eyes, let out a breath that feels like it deflates not just his chest, but his whole body, rumbling a low, contented noise of agreement deep in his chest. Warm and washing, like sinking into a hot bath.
Cheek against Steve's forehead and hair, feeling heavy, feeling like the slow spin of the world is pinning him here as much as Steve's arm and weight is. And it does feel good. It feels like a perfect fit, which is crazy, and it's crazy that Steve is letting him do this at all, without teasing about him being sensitive or handsy. Who needs a pillow, like this? Why would he possibly want to let go, just to move somewhere else?
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-16 03:38 pm (UTC)Again. Something Steve's keeping to himself, with the slight concession of those half-heard words, that are disappearing partially into Danny's shoulder and neck, warm breath and mumbles. They make Danny's eyebrows pull together, amused and a little nonplussed, but Steve is still lying half across him like a wet towel, so he's going to take it as a good thing until it is proved to be otherwise.
He keeps his fingers moving, slow firm circles, drawing loops against Steve's scalp, more purposeful now that he hasn't been told to stop. And, hey, if it feels good? That's all he cares about, right now. Being the one who gets to do this is just icing on the cake, compared to the bone deep satisfaction of seeing Steve flaked out like he's on a beach, soaking up sun and salt air.
It's enough to let him close his own eyes, let out a breath that feels like it deflates not just his chest, but his whole body, rumbling a low, contented noise of agreement deep in his chest. Warm and washing, like sinking into a hot bath.
Cheek against Steve's forehead and hair, feeling heavy, feeling like the slow spin of the world is pinning him here as much as Steve's arm and weight is. And it does feel good. It feels like a perfect fit, which is crazy, and it's crazy that Steve is letting him do this at all, without teasing about him being sensitive or handsy. Who needs a pillow, like this? Why would he possibly want to let go, just to move somewhere else?