It was never like this in his head. He doesn't know anymore how he thought anything he pictured was good enough, even for a one off, when this is like this. When Danny writhes beneath him, fingers digging bruises into his skin. Body shuddering and bucking into his. Those hands, that Danny can't ever stop moving, somehow in his hips and across him, still. Tracing up his back and down into the small of it.
Greedy and tiny and largely warm, and everywhere all at once, and Steve wants to push up into them as much as he wants to keep pushing right back down into Danny, dragging that groan out of him. Dark and sparking. The flaming sputtering toward what he doesn't know. Does. Wants to find out. Wants all of it. Every part of Danny, suddenly here, somehow, naked and under him, holding on to him, touching him everywhere.
Danny pushing up into him, while he says those words that go to Steve head almost as hard and hot as each thrust of his body. Danny, saying this is easy. When he probably means the same thing. Has to. Right. The thing where neither of them can hold on, or back, and keep shoving forward. This thing where they are on fire, a blaze made to burn down this bed and this room, Steve's whole house. Just that, right. Just.
Except Danny is never about just sex. Ever. Not with any of them. Steve knows. Steve's watched him get screwed each time. Them throwing him away, because Danny is never the one to leave. He holds on until the floor caves out from under him.
Steve can't think about that though, even as it starts licking at everything. Pulling up stakes and pulling chains tight. The idea that somehow Danny feels the same. The someone how you're my best friend, and I love you means what it sounds like, when it suddenly bursts in his head like a volcano reappearing after a century forgotten. Too easy, too perfect, and it could have been like this so long ago.
They could have fucked it up. They could have gotten it right.
Maybe Danny never would have been stabbed and Cath never would have picked Doris.
He doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. Wants to punch that sound from Danny's lungs into his mouth again.
This tumble of shuddering, spasming, limbs they've become, where Danny is clinging to him, grinding into him, and he wants everything. Everything he's never allowed himself to think about. That nearly makes him want to come remembering, while doing this, that he had Danny in his mouth and Danny nearly begging, on the edge of coming already. Only minutes ago. Him. Danny. Them. Making his own body spasm as it slides through him like a physical blow instead of a series of thoughts and images.
Maybe someone else would think of time and plans, but that person isn't Steve. The way the person who is stopping them and demanding they talk, think, isn't Danny. Danny who is just kissing him back, and getting his hands, his legs everywhere. More space when he wraps a leg around Steve's, giving him more weight to one knee, space to his hips and more leverage to thrust. More thoughts about where he could be thrusting. Thinking isn't a thing, and this isn't good enough. He wants more. He wants everything.
He wants to watch Danny shatter on him, and fall apart, unable to pick himself or any of his words back.
He wants that to be his, in a way no one else can take back from him, when he slides a hand between them, circling both of them and starting fast. His mouth harder on Danny when there's a collision of stars behind his eyes, and nearly moaned into Danny's mouth at the sudden increase of friction and closed-in pressure even on his own skin, but definitely at lining them up together and pushing closer, faster.
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It was never like this in his head. He doesn't know anymore how he thought anything he pictured was good enough, even for a one off, when this is like this. When Danny writhes beneath him, fingers digging bruises into his skin. Body shuddering and bucking into his. Those hands, that Danny can't ever stop moving, somehow in his hips and across him, still. Tracing up his back and down into the small of it.
Greedy and tiny and largely warm, and everywhere all at once, and Steve wants to push up into them as much as he wants to keep pushing right back down into Danny, dragging that groan out of him. Dark and sparking. The flaming sputtering toward what he doesn't know. Does. Wants to find out. Wants all of it. Every part of Danny, suddenly here, somehow, naked and under him, holding on to him, touching him everywhere.
Danny pushing up into him, while he says those words that go to Steve head almost as hard and hot as each thrust of his body. Danny, saying this is easy. When he probably means the same thing. Has to. Right. The thing where neither of them can hold on, or back, and keep shoving forward. This thing where they are on fire, a blaze made to burn down this bed and this room, Steve's whole house. Just that, right. Just.
Except Danny is never about just sex. Ever. Not with any of them. Steve knows. Steve's watched him get screwed each time.
Them throwing him away, because Danny is never the one to leave. He holds on until the floor caves out from under him.
Steve can't think about that though, even as it starts licking at everything. Pulling up stakes and pulling chains tight. The idea that somehow Danny feels the same. The someone how you're my best friend, and I love you means what it sounds like, when it suddenly bursts in his head like a volcano reappearing after a century forgotten. Too easy, too perfect, and it could have been like this so long ago.
They could have fucked it up. They could have gotten it right.
Maybe Danny never would have been stabbed and Cath never would have picked Doris.
He doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. Wants to punch that sound from Danny's lungs into his mouth again.
This tumble of shuddering, spasming, limbs they've become, where Danny is clinging to him, grinding into him, and he wants everything. Everything he's never allowed himself to think about. That nearly makes him want to come remembering, while doing this, that he had Danny in his mouth and Danny nearly begging, on the edge of coming already. Only minutes ago. Him. Danny. Them. Making his own body spasm as it slides through him like a physical blow instead of a series of thoughts and images.
Maybe someone else would think of time and plans, but that person isn't Steve. The way the person who is stopping them and demanding they talk, think, isn't Danny. Danny who is just kissing him back, and getting his hands, his legs everywhere. More space when he wraps a leg around Steve's, giving him more weight to one knee, space to his hips and more leverage to thrust. More thoughts about where he could be thrusting. Thinking isn't a thing, and this isn't good enough. He wants more. He wants everything.
He wants to watch Danny shatter on him, and fall apart, unable to pick himself or any of his words back.
He wants that to be his, in a way no one else can take back from him, when he slides a hand between them, circling both of them and starting fast. His mouth harder on Danny when there's a collision of stars behind his eyes, and nearly moaned into Danny's mouth at the sudden increase of friction and closed-in pressure even on his own skin, but definitely at lining them up together and pushing closer, faster.