Insamuch as he's hearing anything, when Steve pushes him back, and looms there, smile dark, skin glowing faintly with sweat in the yellow lamplight, disheveled and dangerously close to naked. Suit pants hanging off narrow hips, so low Danny can see the V of muscle disappearing under them. Can see the waistband of his briefs, and the way they pull outward over Steve's thumb. The line of crisp dark curls, shadowing milky pale skin.
He wants to run his thumbs into that groove. Wants to follow them down with his mouth, and feel those curls against his cheek. Wants to be the fabric sliding slowly down Steve's hips, and then his legs.
He wants everything. He wants to beg Steve to stop, so he can slow this down, make sure he gets it right. Gets every part of it. So he can run his hand down Steve's stomach, and hear the sounds he makes when Danny's palm cups the bulge in his briefs. The heat and solidity of him. If he'd shake. If his moans would be anything like the ones Danny pretended for so long that he'd never imagined.
But Steve doesn't slow down, and he doesn't give Danny any mercy or reprieve: just shoves that fabric away, and the briefs, and then kicks them off, along with his shoes, while Danny's brain is still working its way back up to a hard reboot, because that is Steve.
Best friend. Partner. Boss. Steve. The untouchable, unattainable. Perfect. Beautiful. The rock Danny dashes himself against daily, because no matter what, he's always pulled helplessly back in.
And now naked.
For him. Because of him. Because Danny wants him, and Steve wants Danny to want him. Naked. And. Maybe more importantly, when Danny looks up at him, as bare across his face as he is, anywhere else.
Maybe more. Written clear and cracking. Steve doesn't do uncertainty, and he doesn't do easy, but Steve has lost more than Danny can imagine or forgive, and every other person Steve has ever trusted or loved has willfully left him behind. Never found him enough. Wanted something else, more.
They're all idiots. "-- is that you actually listen to me, after all."
Finally finishing his sentence, his thought, from the record-scratch of a second ago, when he's grabbing Steve's wrist to haul himself up along Steve's arm, towards him, so his hands can find skin, can land on Steve's waist, and then travel down the bare, smooth slope of his hips, push back to curve over his ass, as Danny's pushing in to him. Pressure against his stomach, that turns out to be internal as much as not, when one hand is lifting to drag Steve back down to kiss him, and the other is pushing between them to wrap around hot, smooth, hard skin.
It's too fast and he doesn't do too fast, but Steve doesn't do anything else, and it's not the first time he's taken Danny along for the ride, or needed him there, and too fast is still, will always be, a million times better than never at all.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-29 12:52 am (UTC)"You're complaining, but all I'm hearing..."
Insamuch as he's hearing anything, when Steve pushes him back, and looms there, smile dark, skin glowing faintly with sweat in the yellow lamplight, disheveled and dangerously close to naked. Suit pants hanging off narrow hips, so low Danny can see the V of muscle disappearing under them. Can see the waistband of his briefs, and the way they pull outward over Steve's thumb. The line of crisp dark curls, shadowing milky pale skin.
He wants to run his thumbs into that groove. Wants to follow them down with his mouth, and feel those curls against his cheek. Wants to be the fabric sliding slowly down Steve's hips, and then his legs.
He wants everything. He wants to beg Steve to stop, so he can slow this down, make sure he gets it right. Gets every part of it. So he can run his hand down Steve's stomach, and hear the sounds he makes when Danny's palm cups the bulge in his briefs. The heat and solidity of him. If he'd shake. If his moans would be anything like the ones Danny pretended for so long that he'd never imagined.
But Steve doesn't slow down, and he doesn't give Danny any mercy or reprieve: just shoves that fabric away, and the briefs, and then kicks them off, along with his shoes, while Danny's brain is still working its way back up to a hard reboot, because that is Steve.
Best friend. Partner. Boss. Steve. The untouchable, unattainable. Perfect. Beautiful. The rock Danny dashes himself against daily, because no matter what, he's always pulled helplessly back in.
And now naked.
For him. Because of him. Because Danny wants him, and Steve wants Danny to want him. Naked. And. Maybe more importantly, when Danny looks up at him, as bare across his face as he is, anywhere else.
Maybe more. Written clear and cracking. Steve doesn't do uncertainty, and he doesn't do easy, but Steve has lost more than Danny can imagine or forgive, and every other person Steve has ever trusted or loved has willfully left him behind. Never found him enough. Wanted something else, more.
They're all idiots. "-- is that you actually listen to me, after all."
Finally finishing his sentence, his thought, from the record-scratch of a second ago, when he's grabbing Steve's wrist to haul himself up along Steve's arm, towards him, so his hands can find skin, can land on Steve's waist, and then travel down the bare, smooth slope of his hips, push back to curve over his ass, as Danny's pushing in to him. Pressure against his stomach, that turns out to be internal as much as not, when one hand is lifting to drag Steve back down to kiss him, and the other is pushing between them to wrap around hot, smooth, hard skin.
It's too fast and he doesn't do too fast, but Steve doesn't do anything else, and it's not the first time he's taken Danny along for the ride, or needed him there, and too fast is still, will always be, a million times better than never at all.