Said with a twist of his hand, a long slow stroke up, and he can't stop grinning, the kind of stupid, goofy grin that fills his whole face and makes every word sound like it's supposed to be laughed. He can't help it. It's insane. This. Steve. Him, with his hand down Steve's pants, jacking each other off like they're teenagers who snuck into school after hours and are afraid of getting caught by the janitor.
As an experiment, he pauses, and loosens the cuff of his fingers, just to see what Steve will do.
It's not a discussion. None of it is. They're well past the discussing stage for pretty much all of this, and they're only getting further and further now that shirts are going and pants are undone. Steve's hand is merciless, squeezing mercury into his veins, making the muscles between his shoulder blades pinch and roll, seeking out more, more contact, even as he teases at stopping, at letting go.
Like he could. Like either of them could.
"Who started this, huh? Who out their hands down whose pants first, here?"
Without bothering to get rid of them first, because Steve doesn't bother with details like pants when he's got an objective in mind. He goes straight in, never mind they were just talking about more than this, and Danny's already shaking, hard, desperately calling up old baseball and hockey plays to keep his grip, not suddenly skyrocket into oblivion, no matter how good it feels, no matter what Steve's words did to him before.
About not remembering how to speak. About his fingers fisting in the sheets. About not being able to so much as hold himself up.
Christ. Steve's mouth, Steve's hands -- they should be weaponized. Illegal to use. They're unfair, like Steve himself is unfair, GQ looks and a body that won't quit and, Christ, that smile, that scraped out black oil tone of voice. The way Steve keeps pushing closer and closer, even when there's nowhere closer to get. Arm hard and stubborn around him, responding in tiny tics that are starting to become familiar. The doped look to his eyes, heavy-lidded and blown dark. The faint tremors that mean strain is starting to tell on him. The flush that creeps up through his chest to his throat and cheeks.
It's an effort to tease a stop, but worth it to see Steve eat his words.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-25 04:06 am (UTC)Said with a twist of his hand, a long slow stroke up, and he can't stop grinning, the kind of stupid, goofy grin that fills his whole face and makes every word sound like it's supposed to be laughed. He can't help it. It's insane. This. Steve. Him, with his hand down Steve's pants, jacking each other off like they're teenagers who snuck into school after hours and are afraid of getting caught by the janitor.
As an experiment, he pauses, and loosens the cuff of his fingers, just to see what Steve will do.
It's not a discussion. None of it is. They're well past the discussing stage for pretty much all of this, and they're only getting further and further now that shirts are going and pants are undone. Steve's hand is merciless, squeezing mercury into his veins, making the muscles between his shoulder blades pinch and roll, seeking out more, more contact, even as he teases at stopping, at letting go.
Like he could. Like either of them could.
"Who started this, huh? Who out their hands down whose pants first, here?"
Without bothering to get rid of them first, because Steve doesn't bother with details like pants when he's got an objective in mind. He goes straight in, never mind they were just talking about more than this, and Danny's already shaking, hard, desperately calling up old baseball and hockey plays to keep his grip, not suddenly skyrocket into oblivion, no matter how good it feels, no matter what Steve's words did to him before.
About not remembering how to speak. About his fingers fisting in the sheets. About not being able to so much as hold himself up.
Christ. Steve's mouth, Steve's hands -- they should be weaponized. Illegal to use. They're unfair, like Steve himself is unfair, GQ looks and a body that won't quit and, Christ, that smile, that scraped out black oil tone of voice. The way Steve keeps pushing closer and closer, even when there's nowhere closer to get. Arm hard and stubborn around him, responding in tiny tics that are starting to become familiar. The doped look to his eyes, heavy-lidded and blown dark. The faint tremors that mean strain is starting to tell on him. The flush that creeps up through his chest to his throat and cheeks.
It's an effort to tease a stop, but worth it to see Steve eat his words.