Steve pushes up in an instant, in a visceral reminder of how fast Steve is, when he wants to be, and how much bigger he actually is than Danny, and how much of pinning him, without actively trying, is an illusion.
Pushing up, and burning those words against his mouth, while Danny's hand goes automatically, instinctively, to the back of his head, fingers spreading and holding, dragging Steve in as much as he's being dragged down. The other landing on the mattress to support them both. The sudden shift causing friction against Steve's stomach, and punching a groan out of Danny, along with a sudden and vivid slew of mental images about how this could be so much better, how they could be so much closer, if he just shifted a few inches down.
Hitting like a hockey puck to the head, or being doused with a flaming shot. Nothing he's prepared for, and everything he wants.
Steve, under him. Pushing up into him. Steve's mouth on his, kissing him with this forceful intent, veering on the edge of desperate, when Steve is never. Not with Danny.
Telling him not to stop. Echoing Danny's own words, from downstairs. Every inch of his long body thrumming and responsive and enthusiastic.
Telling him he's felt this for years. For so much longer than Danny even imagined, even realized for himself.
He meets it. Pushes back. He might get flipped, or Steve might let himself be shoved back into the bed, but Danny doesn't care, either way, he just wants to be, needs to be, closer. To slide his legs back, and press himself as fully against Steve as he can. Chest to chest. Belly to belly. To wind themselves up, legs and arms and hands everywhere. Pushing the thought of Steve's balking at telling him the truth of how long it's been away, to think over, mull over, chew on, another time.
Later. When Steve isn't trying to boil the blood straight out of his veins.
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Steve pushes up in an instant, in a visceral reminder of how fast Steve is, when he wants to be, and how much bigger he actually is than Danny, and how much of pinning him, without actively trying, is an illusion.
Pushing up, and burning those words against his mouth, while Danny's hand goes automatically, instinctively, to the back of his head, fingers spreading and holding, dragging Steve in as much as he's being dragged down. The other landing on the mattress to support them both. The sudden shift causing friction against Steve's stomach, and punching a groan out of Danny, along with a sudden and vivid slew of mental images about how this could be so much better, how they could be so much closer, if he just shifted a few inches down.
Hitting like a hockey puck to the head, or being doused with a flaming shot. Nothing he's prepared for, and everything he wants.
Steve, under him. Pushing up into him. Steve's mouth on his, kissing him with this forceful intent, veering on the edge of desperate, when Steve is never. Not with Danny.
Telling him not to stop. Echoing Danny's own words, from downstairs. Every inch of his long body thrumming and responsive and enthusiastic.
Telling him he's felt this for years. For so much longer than Danny even imagined, even realized for himself.
He meets it. Pushes back. He might get flipped, or Steve might let himself be shoved back into the bed, but Danny doesn't care, either way, he just wants to be, needs to be, closer. To slide his legs back, and press himself as fully against Steve as he can. Chest to chest. Belly to belly. To wind themselves up, legs and arms and hands everywhere. Pushing the thought of Steve's balking at telling him the truth of how long it's been away, to think over, mull over, chew on, another time.
Later. When Steve isn't trying to boil the blood straight out of his veins.