It doesn't actually start that slow. Nothing with Steve ever does, and this is no exception: the push back towards the couch, fingers fisting hard in his hair, dragging and pulling and shoving in equal measures. Steve's weight being used like Danny's seen him use it a million times in a fight; as loose ballast, bringing them both down in a way that feels irrevocable, unstoppable, barely controlled. He gets the warning of Steve's muscles tightening along his side, coiling in his core, and then there's a shift, and he's going down, legs getting in the way and his back complaining at being poorly aligned, because apparently Steve's had enough of the movie, and it pushes out a sound that's half a gusting laugh and half aggravated grumble.
"What is this move, McGarrett? You know, it's a little disturbing, knowing the likely amount of times you've pulled this before."
The movie, the couch. The arm around the shoulders. Even if Danny had leaned into him first, even if this was never electrified with the heady, dizzy uncertainty of teenaged hookups. There are no butterflies in his stomach; he'd squash them out ruthlessly should some attempt to appear.
Sudden squirming nerves aren't the same thing.
The words come out mashed against Steve's mouth, anyway, because as much as he'd roll his eyes at the absurdity of it all, he can't seem to get enough of Steve under his hands, is already looping an arm hard around his neck and flattening a hand in the middle of his back, curved along the semi-circle of ribs. He's letting himself be pushed back, and he's dragging Steve along with him, twisting and impatient, exasperation radiating like heat off a lit stove. Still feeling the echo of Steve's pulse against the pads of his fingers, the way Steve tipped his head, arched into that touch, wanted it, moving in a way that made Danny's mouth dry and apparently snapped something in that crazy head of his.
Because here he is. And here's the couch. And there's the movie neither of them gives a shit about, because Danny can't get enough of that mouth, its molasses-slow smiles and the lost crooked quirks that wander across it when Steve thinks no one's looking.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-13 11:23 pm (UTC)"What is this move, McGarrett? You know, it's a little disturbing, knowing the likely amount of times you've pulled this before."
The movie, the couch. The arm around the shoulders. Even if Danny had leaned into him first, even if this was never electrified with the heady, dizzy uncertainty of teenaged hookups. There are no butterflies in his stomach; he'd squash them out ruthlessly should some attempt to appear.
Sudden squirming nerves aren't the same thing.
The words come out mashed against Steve's mouth, anyway, because as much as he'd roll his eyes at the absurdity of it all, he can't seem to get enough of Steve under his hands, is already looping an arm hard around his neck and flattening a hand in the middle of his back, curved along the semi-circle of ribs. He's letting himself be pushed back, and he's dragging Steve along with him, twisting and impatient, exasperation radiating like heat off a lit stove. Still feeling the echo of Steve's pulse against the pads of his fingers, the way Steve tipped his head, arched into that touch, wanted it, moving in a way that made Danny's mouth dry and apparently snapped something in that crazy head of his.
Because here he is. And here's the couch. And there's the movie neither of them gives a shit about, because Danny can't get enough of that mouth, its molasses-slow smiles and the lost crooked quirks that wander across it when Steve thinks no one's looking.
Danny looks. He always does.