Steve, like this, shining like he's been plugged in, half undone in a way that's worse on the imagination than even flat-out nakedness would be, laid out and perfect. This is rough, rumpled, unruly, makes Danny want to button him up, makes Danny want to wreck him further, twist fingers through his hair until it's standing on end and sticking every possible direction, graze teeth along the lift of his collar bone and the bumps of muscle bricked across his stomach. Wants to see that back arch, those shoulders taut and trembling.
And Steve, Steve's smiling at him, dragging him, pulling him up and off the couch while Danny's head swims from lack of blood and too close proximity to too much light. It's like staring into a wave caught in the sun, water shattering into blue glass, perfect and clear and dangerous, about to roll him onto the sand, a reef, rocks, the tendrils of another wave ready to fall right on his head.
He can't care. There's nothing in the room but this, nowhere to go byt where Steve is pulling him, even though he complains, even though he bats at those grabbing hands and grumbles at the smile Steve's got beaming high wattage glory at him. "I'm up, Jesus, I can move on my own, you lunatic, let go of me."
Shoving at Steve's shoulder and chest with a palm, pushing him back towards the stairs. "Quit complaining and get moving, wile you, before I trip over your gargantuan feet."
Acidic, words spat at Steve's stupid goofy head, that must be filled with cotton and sunshine right now, or something, because he just looks so damn pleased, impatient and delighted, like this is a great game, the best game ever, Danno, and sometimes being around Steve is like throwing sticks for a giant friendly dog to catch, with the knowledge that if one gets thrown too far, things like gardens and cars and windows will probably get run through and wrecked.
But they are, actually, moving, and it's not so bad, even if he's just as undone as Steve, pants loose and falling low on his hips, shirt God knows where, shoes still by the coffee table where he left them earlier. Moving is good. Moving will get them upstairs, and that is a goal he can get behind.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-27 05:10 pm (UTC)And Steve, Steve's smiling at him, dragging him, pulling him up and off the couch while Danny's head swims from lack of blood and too close proximity to too much light. It's like staring into a wave caught in the sun, water shattering into blue glass, perfect and clear and dangerous, about to roll him onto the sand, a reef, rocks, the tendrils of another wave ready to fall right on his head.
He can't care. There's nothing in the room but this, nowhere to go byt where Steve is pulling him, even though he complains, even though he bats at those grabbing hands and grumbles at the smile Steve's got beaming high wattage glory at him. "I'm up, Jesus, I can move on my own, you lunatic, let go of me."
Shoving at Steve's shoulder and chest with a palm, pushing him back towards the stairs. "Quit complaining and get moving, wile you, before I trip over your gargantuan feet."
Acidic, words spat at Steve's stupid goofy head, that must be filled with cotton and sunshine right now, or something, because he just looks so damn pleased, impatient and delighted, like this is a great game, the best game ever, Danno, and sometimes being around Steve is like throwing sticks for a giant friendly dog to catch, with the knowledge that if one gets thrown too far, things like gardens and cars and windows will probably get run through and wrecked.
But they are, actually, moving, and it's not so bad, even if he's just as undone as Steve, pants loose and falling low on his hips, shirt God knows where, shoes still by the coffee table where he left them earlier. Moving is good. Moving will get them upstairs, and that is a goal he can get behind.