Danny isn't wrong, even when he's laughing, taunting, goading with those words. Having no clue. Not the faintest concept. How many times and how many ways Steve has wanted it. Consider it. Seen it flash across his mind, and have to be shoved back, like somehow it was painted on his face. Startling and too true in that moment than it had ever been before it, until this newest one was missed, too.
Wanting to shove Danny into a wall. Or a crate. Hugging him too tight while other urged ran rampant in the swell of relief and success that felt sharper than a hair split by a knife from everything going the opposite way, and losing Danny entirely. The madness of the days when only one of Danny's button's would stay, while out on the beach or the water, constantly dragging in Steve's attention and his want to at least undo it and stop the madness from wanting to undo. Just to set it looking normal.
Somehow it worse then. Somewhere in between. The tight pressed shirt and the absolute nothing. A burn worse than either.
Like this one right here -- Danny's bare chest bumping into his, Danny's bare hands on his own bare skin, and the cloth that feels too thick and too wrong in contrast -- except this one is nothing like it. While Danny is talking about him wanting to undress Danny. That he has. That he was. Like his hands aren't on Danny now, while Danny's breath was not catching, his body not shivering or straining toward Steve.
Steve looked up at Danny's face, appraising for one steady blink. The faint narrow of his eyes, press at the edge of his mouth, the meant a ledge was about to be lept. A roof climb. A door blown off. The car was going to go through a gate. On a boat. A wall scaled when already ten floors up. A leap, even once he'd run out of ammo two minutes back. Before his mouth twists a little crooked, and he's pushing down Danny's pants and boxers with one hand, and shoves Danny in the opposite direction of Danny's obvious attempt to remain standing and holding on to him with other.
"At least I'll finally know if this will finally make you stop talking."
It's said already in movement. Steve dropping, fingers sliding to Danny's hips, stomach, groin. Hard to say, really, if it's Steve's right knee that finds that ground or Steve's mouth suddenly shoving straight down around all of Danny, fast and cheeks pulled in tight. Only one of them matters to Steve anyway, and it isn't the ground. He can manage even the ground forgets to exist. If Danny falls back on the bed, or sits, or refuses, clinging to standing. Everything is details against the scent and texture and taste filling his mind, nose, mouth.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-11-06 01:27 am (UTC)Danny isn't wrong, even when he's laughing, taunting, goading with those words. Having no clue. Not the faintest concept. How many times and how many ways Steve has wanted it. Consider it. Seen it flash across his mind, and have to be shoved back, like somehow it was painted on his face. Startling and too true in that moment than it had ever been before it, until this newest one was missed, too.
Wanting to shove Danny into a wall. Or a crate. Hugging him too tight while other urged ran rampant in the swell of relief and success that felt sharper than a hair split by a knife from everything going the opposite way, and losing Danny entirely. The madness of the days when only one of Danny's button's would stay, while out on the beach or the water, constantly dragging in Steve's attention and his want to at least undo it and stop the madness from wanting to undo. Just to set it looking normal.
Somehow it worse then. Somewhere in between. The tight pressed shirt and the absolute nothing. A burn worse than either.
Like this one right here -- Danny's bare chest bumping into his, Danny's bare hands on his own bare skin, and the cloth that feels too thick and too wrong in contrast -- except this one is nothing like it. While Danny is talking about him wanting to undress Danny. That he has. That he was. Like his hands aren't on Danny now, while Danny's breath was not catching, his body not shivering or straining toward Steve.
Steve looked up at Danny's face, appraising for one steady blink. The faint narrow of his eyes, press at the edge of his mouth, the meant a ledge was about to be lept. A roof climb. A door blown off. The car was going to go through a gate. On a boat. A wall scaled when already ten floors up. A leap, even once he'd run out of ammo two minutes back. Before his mouth twists a little crooked, and he's pushing down Danny's pants and boxers with one hand, and shoves Danny in the opposite direction of Danny's obvious attempt to remain standing and holding on to him with other.
"At least I'll finally know if this will finally make you stop talking."
It's said already in movement. Steve dropping, fingers sliding to Danny's hips, stomach, groin. Hard to say, really, if it's Steve's right knee that finds that ground or Steve's mouth suddenly shoving straight down around all of Danny, fast and cheeks pulled in tight. Only one of them matters to Steve anyway, and it isn't the ground. He can manage even the ground forgets to exist. If Danny falls back on the bed, or sits, or refuses, clinging to standing. Everything is details against the scent and texture and taste filling his mind, nose, mouth.