That sound. That one. That one. It's going to be burned into Danny's ears forever. Sudden and sharp, like he shot Steve. Steve's whole body bucking into him, threatening collapse.
It's so perfect it's almost enough to completely quell the misgivings floating around in his head, in his chest, in the nervous clutch of his stomach that says this is too much, too fast, too soon, that neither of them are ready for this and they need to be, or it'll kill them both.
Not ruin. Not wreck. But destroy. Shatter. Murder.
There's too much riding on it, too much that can be lost. Everything he already couldn't stand losing, and this, now, too. That sound. Steve's body curling in to him, hips tipping, helpless. He's not used to Steve being helpless. He's not used to getting swept into Steve's momentum, and meeting him halfway. Steve isn't someone anyone meets halfway, chases after, keeps pace with. He's a hurricane, and Danny has always been only a tortoise.
He should stop. He doesn't want to stop. He should pause them, try to regain some sanity. But that would require letting go, and he hasn't yet quite had enough either of the strain in Steve's voice and fingers that's arcing through the rest of his body in hard shakes, or of the sensation of silky hot skin, smooth over searing hardness, under his fingers, in his palm. Making his groin ache, and the tension of holding back shake in his muscles, even as he experiments with slow strokes, pulling back enough to see Steve's face, to watch this, what it does, if Steve meant it, if he wants this, wants Danny, like he said. "I wanted to bust every finger on that guy's hand."
Fine. Going back to the old topic. One that feels too honest and too raw and too open, still, even when Steve's naked and shivering against him, and Steve's fingers are embedding themselves in Danny's shoulder, and Steve said. For years. "For thinking he could have any part of you, even for a night. And I couldn't."
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That sound. That one. That one. It's going to be burned into Danny's ears forever. Sudden and sharp, like he shot Steve. Steve's whole body bucking into him, threatening collapse.
It's so perfect it's almost enough to completely quell the misgivings floating around in his head, in his chest, in the nervous clutch of his stomach that says this is too much, too fast, too soon, that neither of them are ready for this and they need to be, or it'll kill them both.
Not ruin. Not wreck. But destroy. Shatter. Murder.
There's too much riding on it, too much that can be lost. Everything he already couldn't stand losing, and this, now, too. That sound. Steve's body curling in to him, hips tipping, helpless. He's not used to Steve being helpless. He's not used to getting swept into Steve's momentum, and meeting him halfway. Steve isn't someone anyone meets halfway, chases after, keeps pace with. He's a hurricane, and Danny has always been only a tortoise.
He should stop. He doesn't want to stop. He should pause them, try to regain some sanity. But that would require letting go, and he hasn't yet quite had enough either of the strain in Steve's voice and fingers that's arcing through the rest of his body in hard shakes, or of the sensation of silky hot skin, smooth over searing hardness, under his fingers, in his palm. Making his groin ache, and the tension of holding back shake in his muscles, even as he experiments with slow strokes, pulling back enough to see Steve's face, to watch this, what it does, if Steve meant it, if he wants this, wants Danny, like he said. "I wanted to bust every finger on that guy's hand."
Fine. Going back to the old topic. One that feels too honest and too raw and too open, still, even when Steve's naked and shivering against him, and Steve's fingers are embedding themselves in Danny's shoulder, and Steve said. For years. "For thinking he could have any part of you, even for a night. And I couldn't."