He could make some stupid point about how if Steve hadn't liked where his hand was before, he must really hate it now, but then Steve arches up into his touch like a solid wave, like the shoreline fighting back against waves, all strength and no grace. Not for this, even if there's some kind of almost poetry in the way his muscles flex and relax, sliding under tan skin, the perfect deliberation of a body that is always in perfect control. Danny's seen it. Knows it. Has seen Steve balance on a board, launch himself into the air for a tackle, cut through the water. Half fish, half bruiser. The strangest mix of precision and brutality he's ever seen. Capable of taking a man out with three or four lightning-quick hits, as well as sparring, full-body and rapid, with multiple opponents. Sometimes going for the quick and dirty route.
Hell. Even before all of this, it's not like Danny didn't know Steve's body in motion was a beautiful thing. It was just academic. Appreciation. Like appreciating art, or a nice car, or a beautiful woman.
But now. Under his hands? That body edges towards the thin and ragged line of snapped control. Which is crazy. Steve always knows what he's doing. But the way his hands move over Danny's back is thoughtless, the way he pushes up into Danny's body instinctual. It's a heady, crazy thought, how he wants to see Steve fall apart into reflex and reaction, no room for thought or control. Heady, crazy, to think that he could. Can.
Only Steve is shoving at his shirt and it's bunching up uncomfortably under his arms, at the back of his neck, starting to drag against his stomach, and, you know, he really sort of hates this shirt right now. The shirt, and the jeans, and everything Steve is wearing, too, which is nuts. They were just talking. Everything was just quiet, and now it is all on fire and the house is burning down around them.
And it's making him laugh. A stupid, relieved, breathless laugh, that he ducks into the curve of Steve's neck, hand pausing against Steve's skin, body pausing before the sudden headlong dive that he knows will take his brain and punt it into the ocean, tie his willpower up in a dark room and leave it there.
Pushing himself up, to look down at Steve, and he can't help the smile, this stupid brilliant smile tugging at lips and ribs and spreading him wide.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 10:50 pm (UTC)Hell. Even before all of this, it's not like Danny didn't know Steve's body in motion was a beautiful thing. It was just academic. Appreciation. Like appreciating art, or a nice car, or a beautiful woman.
But now. Under his hands? That body edges towards the thin and ragged line of snapped control. Which is crazy. Steve always knows what he's doing. But the way his hands move over Danny's back is thoughtless, the way he pushes up into Danny's body instinctual. It's a heady, crazy thought, how he wants to see Steve fall apart into reflex and reaction, no room for thought or control. Heady, crazy, to think that he could. Can.
Only Steve is shoving at his shirt and it's bunching up uncomfortably under his arms, at the back of his neck, starting to drag against his stomach, and, you know, he really sort of hates this shirt right now. The shirt, and the jeans, and everything Steve is wearing, too, which is nuts. They were just talking. Everything was just quiet, and now it is all on fire and the house is burning down around them.
And it's making him laugh. A stupid, relieved, breathless laugh, that he ducks into the curve of Steve's neck, hand pausing against Steve's skin, body pausing before the sudden headlong dive that he knows will take his brain and punt it into the ocean, tie his willpower up in a dark room and leave it there.
Pushing himself up, to look down at Steve, and he can't help the smile, this stupid brilliant smile tugging at lips and ribs and spreading him wide.
"You have something against my shirt, now?"