Which Danny takes pretty personally, right, because he's damned if he's going to die before he gets to feel these things, see them, know them for real, and not just as a heated, imperfect, fuzzy fantasy, or Steve making it look good.
All ready with a retort, about how Steve's the one complaining, here, and talking too much, until Steve's mouth touches the spot beneath his jaw, and it all dissolves like a sand castle in a wave. Flipping him unceremoniously back to that dim back room, Steve pressed against him into a wall, his mouth on Danny's throat. That Danny had thought was just Steve playing the part, too well, and too accurately, that might have been -- must have been? -- the thing Danny himself kept trying to hide. That it wasn't making it look real. That he had to keep remembering to pull back so it didn't look, feel, too real. But kept forgetting, because Steve had never been that close and Steve had never touched him like that before, and Danny is only human.
Which. Maybe Steve is, too, and that thought alone is enough to nuke Danny's entire thought process, all over again, this whole evening fulls of starts and stops as confessions are made and connections are drawn, because the idea of Steve couldn't control himself because Danny was too tempting is crazy talk. Beyond crazy. No matter what Steve says about hating or loving this suit.
He slipped up. Did it by accident, because he wanted to so much.
And now he's doing it on purpose, burning strips into Danny's skin, while his fingers are at work on Danny's clothing, and all Danny can really do is hold on, and try to keep breathing, even while his own hands are slipping back under Steve's jacket to his sides.
Vest and shirt finally falling open, but without cooling him off. Only contacting another sheet of flame, when Steve's hands are on his bare skin, and Danny pushed him here, but he didn't know, couldn't have: suit and shirt in disarray, Steve's mouth on his neck, Steve's hands shoving at fabric and taking over his skin. Painting it into real life. Solid and heavy and possessive hands on his stomach, sides.
Less skin that's exposed even at the beach, but so much more intimate, because he's never this undone, never lets a button slip out of place or a hair, keeps his clothes pressed and neat.
But letting Steve take him apart, against Steve's front door, which is probably not the best place, because he's starting to remember that Steve only has one gear: forward, with no mercy and no breaks and no sideslipping or room for uncertainty.
Anything he might say strangled by a dark, needy, whine of a sound that he can't stop, when Steve's teeth are against his pulse, and Steve's mouth is driving it faster, harder, making him dizzy with it, while one hand lifts to cup the back of Steve's head and push his face harder into Danny's neck.
Or try not to, and fail, while Danny swears, helpless, feeling like a burning coal lodged in the wood of this door. "God, Steve."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-26 04:50 pm (UTC)Steve is, he thinks, trying to kill him.
Which Danny takes pretty personally, right, because he's damned if he's going to die before he gets to feel these things, see them, know them for real, and not just as a heated, imperfect, fuzzy fantasy, or Steve making it look good.
All ready with a retort, about how Steve's the one complaining, here, and talking too much, until Steve's mouth touches the spot beneath his jaw, and it all dissolves like a sand castle in a wave. Flipping him unceremoniously back to that dim back room, Steve pressed against him into a wall, his mouth on Danny's throat. That Danny had thought was just Steve playing the part, too well, and too accurately, that might have been -- must have been? -- the thing Danny himself kept trying to hide. That it wasn't making it look real. That he had to keep remembering to pull back so it didn't look, feel, too real. But kept forgetting, because Steve had never been that close and Steve had never touched him like that before, and Danny is only human.
Which. Maybe Steve is, too, and that thought alone is enough to nuke Danny's entire thought process, all over again, this whole evening fulls of starts and stops as confessions are made and connections are drawn, because the idea of Steve couldn't control himself because Danny was too tempting is crazy talk. Beyond crazy. No matter what Steve says about hating or loving this suit.
He slipped up. Did it by accident, because he wanted to so much.
And now he's doing it on purpose, burning strips into Danny's skin, while his fingers are at work on Danny's clothing, and all Danny can really do is hold on, and try to keep breathing, even while his own hands are slipping back under Steve's jacket to his sides.
Vest and shirt finally falling open, but without cooling him off. Only contacting another sheet of flame, when Steve's hands are on his bare skin, and Danny pushed him here, but he didn't know, couldn't have: suit and shirt in disarray, Steve's mouth on his neck, Steve's hands shoving at fabric and taking over his skin. Painting it into real life. Solid and heavy and possessive hands on his stomach, sides.
Less skin that's exposed even at the beach, but so much more intimate, because he's never this undone, never lets a button slip out of place or a hair, keeps his clothes pressed and neat.
But letting Steve take him apart, against Steve's front door, which is probably not the best place, because he's starting to remember that Steve only has one gear: forward, with no mercy and no breaks and no sideslipping or room for uncertainty.
Anything he might say strangled by a dark, needy, whine of a sound that he can't stop, when Steve's teeth are against his pulse, and Steve's mouth is driving it faster, harder, making him dizzy with it, while one hand lifts to cup the back of Steve's head and push his face harder into Danny's neck.
Or try not to, and fail, while Danny swears, helpless, feeling like a burning coal lodged in the wood of this door. "God, Steve."