There's something a little tight, and a little caustic, about the way Steve's mouth twists at Danny's words.
Even if it gets lost for a second in a slide of movement, and a near snap of teeth, back arching, and fingers tightening on skin. In the hands on his skin, and the riot of movement that is Danny pushing, curving, driving into him, along him, at the same time as Steve kisses his mouth, and there's more, something more like the air of smugness and laughter than the actual sound of it. Because Danny rarely admits to that either, but it's very him, too. He keeps to what he likes.
"Maybe." Is half burned out. Dizzying, disastrous heat, twisting like a chain, tighter and tighter in his gut.
Maybe he did hate Danny's shoes and his hair at the beginning. His every thrown about hand and dancing movements. So much movement, that seemed like flashing signals and plane directions anytime he got going, that Steve never knew, never could have dreamed hard enough, to think would become this. The rampant press and slide of every ounce of that movement being played out against his skin. Rubbing thighs, and lips that could barely part for long enough.
He has to move. It's just a necessity, pushing them upward, taking Danny's weight with him toward sitting, not stopping his movements in the slightest, even as the muscle burn slid into Steve's lower back and his thighs. Keeping his hand along Danny's neck and the back of his head, fingers tightened in his hair, kissing him as it happens. Shifting, but keeping close enough, unable, unwanting, to stop any part of this friction, drive, dizzy dive toward sparklers crackling through more and more of his veins, as the floor was singeing to a smoulder everywhere again.
Because, maybe, he's never been able to stop any part of this. Ever. Drown it under. Cover it up. But not stop it. Never stop it.
Not when he was heartbroken over Rachel, or drunk on Gabby. When Steve was trying with Cath, and Amber appeared at the beginning, lightening Danny up again. It was always there. Those moments. Those sessions. Those days where the world demanded they keep choosing each other, again and again and again. Because they were partners. Because they were friends. Because no one else could, would, had, and really because it wasn't even a choice. It was less choice than breathing. It was who they were, who'd they almost always been now, too. Like one breath in and out.
"Everything," Steve said, after another kiss, he didn't know how many later, forehead pressing Danny's briefly in a thrust of movement. Taking Danny's word, his tell me everything, and throwing it back at his own mouth. Danny's mouth that got Steve in so much trouble, in the day, from the screaming and in the black of the night. When it was his fingers he'd been thrusting up into and not Danny's skin, and his eyes had been tight as death, instead of drilling into Danny's like this even in the dark. "-is a lot."
And he'd already gone miles to prove he was shit at it in the last twenty minutes, hadn't he?
And for some miracle reason Danny was still right here, fingers on his skin, breath heavy and fast against his lip, his cheek, somehow?
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There's something a little tight, and a little caustic, about the way Steve's mouth twists at Danny's words.
Even if it gets lost for a second in a slide of movement, and a near snap of teeth, back arching, and fingers tightening on skin. In the hands on his skin, and the riot of movement that is Danny pushing, curving, driving into him, along him, at the same time as Steve kisses his mouth, and there's more, something more like the air of smugness and laughter than the actual sound of it. Because Danny rarely admits to that either, but it's very him, too. He keeps to what he likes.
"Maybe." Is half burned out. Dizzying, disastrous heat, twisting like a chain, tighter and tighter in his gut.
Maybe he did hate Danny's shoes and his hair at the beginning. His every thrown about hand and dancing movements. So much movement, that seemed like flashing signals and plane directions anytime he got going, that Steve never knew, never could have dreamed hard enough, to think would become this. The rampant press and slide of every ounce of that movement being played out against his skin. Rubbing thighs, and lips that could barely part for long enough.
He has to move. It's just a necessity, pushing them upward, taking Danny's weight with him toward sitting, not stopping his movements in the slightest, even as the muscle burn slid into Steve's lower back and his thighs. Keeping his hand along Danny's neck and the back of his head, fingers tightened in his hair, kissing him as it happens. Shifting, but keeping close enough, unable, unwanting, to stop any part of this friction, drive, dizzy dive toward sparklers crackling through more and more of his veins, as the floor was singeing to a smoulder everywhere again.
Because, maybe, he's never been able to stop any part of this. Ever. Drown it under. Cover it up. But not stop it. Never stop it.
Not when he was heartbroken over Rachel, or drunk on Gabby. When Steve was trying with Cath, and Amber appeared at the beginning, lightening Danny up again. It was always there. Those moments. Those sessions. Those days where the world demanded they keep choosing each other, again and again and again. Because they were partners. Because they were friends. Because no one else could, would, had, and really because it wasn't even a choice. It was less choice than breathing. It was who they were, who'd they almost always been now, too. Like one breath in and out.
"Everything," Steve said, after another kiss, he didn't know how many later, forehead pressing Danny's briefly in a thrust of movement. Taking Danny's word, his tell me everything, and throwing it back at his own mouth. Danny's mouth that got Steve in so much trouble, in the day, from the screaming and in the black of the night. When it was his fingers he'd been thrusting up into and not Danny's skin, and his eyes had been tight as death, instead of drilling into Danny's like this even in the dark. "-is a lot."
And he'd already gone miles to prove he was shit at it in the last twenty minutes, hadn't he?
And for some miracle reason Danny was still right here, fingers on his skin, breath heavy and fast against his lip, his cheek, somehow?