It's perfect. He could die on that noise and never --
No. That's not true. Not in the slightest. He doesn't want to die on that noise. He has so much more he wants to do. To Danny. For the rest of this night. He wants to make that noise shoving under his skin, like jagged shards of glass, happen over and over and over, until it's the only noise the entire top floor of his house even remembers.
This sound, the way it just keeps going on, and Danny shaking, then pushing, himself into Steve even harder and more forcefully than he'd been when he was just attacking Steve's skin. Grinding into his hand, and Steve's hand into himself along with the rest of the flat of Danny, due to the lack of any room between them.
There's something like manic glee evoked by the tone of Danny's voice when he finally speaks again. Thin and so high that Steve wants this recorded, too. Painted on his skin, in his ears. The tone of the voice and exactly what he asks. Tossing it back at Steve, like he's holding them up, causing more problems. Like he's the one that punched them into the wall and started this.
"It's helping me," Steve shot right back, caustic amusement, as his hands tightened just enough to squeeze gentle, but serious, around the whole of where his hand was cupped. Because. It was, and god, but it wasn't. Because all it made him certain of was the fact he wanted Danny out of these pants, and up those stairs, and to go wherever the rest of this could.
Which should mean he'd stop. But when had logic ever really dictated anything when they were shoving at each other?
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It's perfect. He could die on that noise and never --
No. That's not true. Not in the slightest. He doesn't want to die on that noise. He has so much more he wants to do. To Danny. For the rest of this night. He wants to make that noise shoving under his skin, like jagged shards of glass, happen over and over and over, until it's the only noise the entire top floor of his house even remembers.
This sound, the way it just keeps going on, and Danny shaking, then pushing, himself into Steve even harder and more forcefully than he'd been when he was just attacking Steve's skin. Grinding into his hand, and Steve's hand into himself along with the rest of the flat of Danny, due to the lack of any room between them.
There's something like manic glee evoked by the tone of Danny's voice when he finally speaks again. Thin and so high that Steve wants this recorded, too. Painted on his skin, in his ears. The tone of the voice and exactly what he asks. Tossing it back at Steve, like he's holding them up, causing more problems. Like he's the one that punched them into the wall and started this.
"It's helping me," Steve shot right back, caustic amusement, as his hands tightened just enough to squeeze gentle, but serious, around the whole of where his hand was cupped. Because. It was, and god, but it wasn't. Because all it made him certain of was the fact he wanted Danny out of these pants, and up those stairs, and to go wherever the rest of this could.
Which should mean he'd stop. But when had logic ever really dictated anything when they were shoving at each other?