There's something dark and hooded, with too many thoughts, that keeps flashing in and out of Danny's face, his dark eyes, because Danny is always thinking too much. But Steve can't even focus to try and figure what it is, no matter whether it's good or not, because Danny is trying to beat his brain out of his ears with only the curl of his voice and his fingers, both hitting him at the same time and doubling their concussive force.
He can't even answer at first. Crackling sparks of electricity shoved into veins and his bones against Danny's thumb, and then exploded into a wall of black, somehow foreign and blinding as white and red behind his eyelids, when his body shuddered and shoved into the sudden fast movement before his head even had a chance to do anything except emulating being punched to the temple with a brick made of steel.
Everything heat and hunger, when his eyes get back open and his chest, his breathing fast, is going without him, dragging him along after it, the same as his hips. When he can't stop the fast tense and release going on with the muscles burning through his upper thighs, ass, and lower back as they kept meeting Danny's movement. Yet he had to try. Because he was for sure as shit not losing everything right here, in Danny's hand, on his doorstep, this few seconds into even being touched.
He didn't care how long it had been since he'd rubbed one out even to make sleep come faster, or that it'd been months and months since Cath, and there hadn't been anyone iafter, and years since another guy. Which wasn't the same by any measure to, Danny. Danny. For the first time, Danny. When he's losing it on that thought and those fingers, has to drag Danny closer and kiss him.
Bury this into his mouth. Flames licking up his spine, melting and pooling and winding tight in his center. That it's Danny.
But. It's Danny, and it's him, and neither of them go gentle into the dark. Neither of them give up. Give in. Let the other have the last word. Not when they can be bastards. Making Steve drive fingers into the brick walls and chains of his head, and pull out. Talking against the rush, voice getting as ruined on Danny's hands as the rest of Steve. "Midgets with an obsession over smog is in. You didn't get the memo?"
Except he doesn't stop or wait for the answer to what isn't a real question. Like grabbing a ball or a bomb in midair, you keep the momentum going. His fingers in Danny's hair, pulling down to a shoulder, giving Danny an approximation of a withering look.
"How do you still have your pants?" With a small look down, past Danny's hand on him, which makes the world spin, tilt, everything his harder in those strokes. "Fuck-" Rolls into, in the same breath. "And shoes." That Steve sounds deeply bitterly offended by. The ones he still makes fun of all the time, but would silence anyone with his darkest warning look if they tried. When it's still riding him. Having looked down, and he has to kiss Danny again, pushing into his fingers. Greedy, in wanting too many things at once.
Forcing himself to say words into it, because he wants, can't, needs all of it. "God, Danny, just pick one already. The couch or the bed." Even though he just kisses Danny after that, too. Like he can't stop. Because he can't. Doesn't ever want to. Stop. Wake up. Think. "Or I will take you against the door right now." Beat. "Or the floor. Or-" Anything solid.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-31 03:51 am (UTC)There's something dark and hooded, with too many thoughts, that keeps flashing in and out of Danny's face, his dark eyes, because Danny is always thinking too much. But Steve can't even focus to try and figure what it is, no matter whether it's good or not, because Danny is trying to beat his brain out of his ears with only the curl of his voice and his fingers, both hitting him at the same time and doubling their concussive force.
He can't even answer at first. Crackling sparks of electricity shoved into veins and his bones against Danny's thumb, and then exploded into a wall of black, somehow foreign and blinding as white and red behind his eyelids, when his body shuddered and shoved into the sudden fast movement before his head even had a chance to do anything except emulating being punched to the temple with a brick made of steel.
Everything heat and hunger, when his eyes get back open and his chest, his breathing fast, is going without him, dragging him along after it, the same as his hips. When he can't stop the fast tense and release going on with the muscles burning through his upper thighs, ass, and lower back as they kept meeting Danny's movement. Yet he had to try. Because he was for sure as shit not losing everything right here, in Danny's hand, on his doorstep, this few seconds into even being touched.
He didn't care how long it had been since he'd rubbed one out even to make sleep come faster, or that it'd been months and months since Cath, and there hadn't been anyone iafter, and years since another guy. Which wasn't the same by any measure to, Danny. Danny. For the first time, Danny. When he's losing it on that thought and those fingers, has to drag Danny closer and kiss him.
Bury this into his mouth. Flames licking up his spine, melting and pooling and winding tight in his center. That it's Danny.
But. It's Danny, and it's him, and neither of them go gentle into the dark. Neither of them give up. Give in. Let the other have the last word. Not when they can be bastards. Making Steve drive fingers into the brick walls and chains of his head, and pull out. Talking against the rush, voice getting as ruined on Danny's hands as the rest of Steve. "Midgets with an obsession over smog is in. You didn't get the memo?"
Except he doesn't stop or wait for the answer to what isn't a real question. Like grabbing a ball or a bomb in midair, you keep the momentum going. His fingers in Danny's hair, pulling down to a shoulder, giving Danny an approximation of a withering look.
"How do you still have your pants?" With a small look down, past Danny's hand on him, which makes the world spin, tilt, everything his harder in those strokes. "Fuck-" Rolls into, in the same breath. "And shoes." That Steve sounds deeply bitterly offended by. The ones he still makes fun of all the time, but would silence anyone with his darkest warning look if they tried. When it's still riding him. Having looked down, and he has to kiss Danny again, pushing into his fingers. Greedy, in wanting too many things at once.
Forcing himself to say words into it, because he wants, can't, needs all of it. "God, Danny, just pick one already. The couch or the bed." Even though he just kisses Danny after that, too. Like he can't stop. Because he can't. Doesn't ever want to. Stop. Wake up. Think. "Or I will take you against the door right now." Beat. "Or the floor. Or-" Anything solid.