Steve doesn't have to. Prove it. Even if his mouth wasn't busy, even if talking was even an option, this is better than any set of sarcastic, sparking words he could find to string together. When Danny's body arches up, shoving into Steve's mouth, his face. Fingers tensing along Danny side, half pinning him. Even when he really isn't. God. Doesn't want to.
Every muscles beneath his lips, his fingertips, straining tight, pushing upward, demanding more.
Steve could stay in this second, feel the rush of this moment, for hours, days, years.
Danny stretching every muscle and bone to meet his mouth. Danny's hand sliding on his skin, fingers seeking purchase in the muscles of his arm, like neither can decide whether they are pushing off or digging in due to the sharp, overwhelming, reaction, and so each is as necessary as the other. Who would be if he could let that go, who could possibly not push it even further.
Steve shifted, putting his knee on the other side of Danny, pinning the sides of his thighs but not settling his weight on Danny's legs, when he settled. Knees, points of leverage, movement and balance. Barely even considered, because Danny's hands are the only thing in his head, his skin is the only thing registering against his tongue. When the whole world isn't here. Here, in this spot, where he has to push further, take more, go for broke. For everything.
"Good enough?" Steve asked smug, lifting from Danny's skin. Like somehow he can still remember that was a challenge.
Fingers of his free hand, moving, brushing into that same space. Finding the raise of puckered skin, still moist from his mouth, and rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. Bottom lip lightly throbbing, chin still tingling from the friction of stubble rubbing against chest hair, all of his ribs making fast against his jaw bone. When he's not evening thinking of those. They are a wash of sensation, like a ocean that threatens sea-sickness around him, and he stands still in the center of it.
Almost drunk with a crazy sort of amusement, or power. No, that the wrong word. Ability. That Danny lets him. The list in his tone pulls to one side.
"Or, maybe?" The second word more darkly heavy than actually a question is barely out before, he leans down to catch the other in his mouth. Still hard. Harder. Pulling with his lips, against the friction the curl of his tongue around that small raise of skin. Teeth brushing, surrounding like a frame that didn't bite in, but dragged, digging just enough into skin.
The thumb of his other hands, rolling the bud of that first nipple hard against the side of his forefinger as well. Not to pinching it, as he simply rubbed up the pad of his thumb across the skin, across his own finger, matching, or at least trying to mimic the force of his mouth in parallel to it.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-08 05:26 am (UTC)Every muscles beneath his lips, his fingertips, straining tight, pushing upward, demanding more.
Steve could stay in this second, feel the rush of this moment, for hours, days, years.
Danny stretching every muscle and bone to meet his mouth. Danny's hand sliding on his skin, fingers seeking purchase in the muscles of his arm, like neither can decide whether they are pushing off or digging in due to the sharp, overwhelming, reaction, and so each is as necessary as the other. Who would be if he could let that go, who could possibly not push it even further.
Steve shifted, putting his knee on the other side of Danny, pinning the sides of his thighs but not settling his weight on Danny's legs, when he settled. Knees, points of leverage, movement and balance. Barely even considered, because Danny's hands are the only thing in his head, his skin is the only thing registering against his tongue. When the whole world isn't here. Here, in this spot, where he has to push further, take more, go for broke. For everything.
"Good enough?" Steve asked smug, lifting from Danny's skin. Like somehow he can still remember that was a challenge.
Fingers of his free hand, moving, brushing into that same space. Finding the raise of puckered skin, still moist from his mouth, and rolling it between his forefinger and thumb. Bottom lip lightly throbbing, chin still tingling from the friction of stubble rubbing against chest hair, all of his ribs making fast against his jaw bone. When he's not evening thinking of those. They are a wash of sensation, like a ocean that threatens sea-sickness around him, and he stands still in the center of it.
Almost drunk with a crazy sort of amusement, or power. No, that the wrong word. Ability. That Danny lets him. The list in his tone pulls to one side.
"Or, maybe?" The second word more darkly heavy than actually a question is barely out before, he leans down to catch the other in his mouth. Still hard. Harder. Pulling with his lips, against the friction the curl of his tongue around that small raise of skin. Teeth brushing, surrounding like a frame that didn't bite in, but dragged, digging just enough into skin.
The thumb of his other hands, rolling the bud of that first nipple hard against the side of his forefinger as well. Not to pinching it, as he simply rubbed up the pad of his thumb across the skin, across his own finger, matching, or at least trying to mimic the force of his mouth in parallel to it.