Steve can't stop himself from laughing into Danny's skin, briefly losing his focus entirely for the hilarity of the conversation.
One he's not even needed for, which is even better. Shivers of his chest shaking all through his back and head against Danny. Sarcastic and setting himself up, only to diffuse his own setup, too. Half like Danny's castigating whatever smug thought paraded into Steve's head, and half like he's correcting himself out loud, even through words that are being thrown at Steve's own head for nothing more than thinking.
Okay.
For a little more than thinking.
When Danny's fingers are threading through his short hair, curving around his head. Holding on to him, keeping him where he is, even without a single grip. As though Danny ever needs to use an actual grip. When his fingers circling Steve's wrist, a hand brushing up flat against his chest, the hand of one catching his arm. They all work as well as if someone twice Steve's size stopped him in a sudden choke hold. The whole world stops flat, on a dime, disorienting stillness and air shoved in.
He's never less than aware where Danny's touching him, when he isn't. If he isn't. Every single word rolling out. The way Danny is putting up a fight of still insulting him. Like his voice isn't careening sharper, breathier. As though those words make any of the rest of it less apparent. The way Danny's muscles tighten. The way his chest raises and falls faster, but not as fast as the pounding of his pulse picks up.
Which just leaves Steve where he was, when his laugh died. Mouth finding that same spot, but on the opposite side of his neck now, and sucking a little harder, as his thumb brushed through the stubble on his cheek, before dropping. Finding his shoulder and chasing down the muscles there. Fingers brushing through curls, chasing the line of muscles. Pulling just the smallest bit harder again, on the skin between his lips, when his hand settles against chest, and he, casually, rolled the flat of his thumb over Danny's nipple. And back.
Small steps, more focus, more force. Wanting. Moving gently against him. The rock of his hips, his upper body. Shifting closer, tighter, more into Danny, against his sheet. The ones that already smell like him. His pillow. When he still has his point. That he wants. The is steaming up the glass somewhere in his head. Sliding between it, and just the growing want for it.
no subject
One he's not even needed for, which is even better. Shivers of his chest shaking all through his back and head against Danny. Sarcastic and setting himself up, only to diffuse his own setup, too. Half like Danny's castigating whatever smug thought paraded into Steve's head, and half like he's correcting himself out loud, even through words that are being thrown at Steve's own head for nothing more than thinking.
Okay.
For a little more than thinking.
When Danny's fingers are threading through his short hair, curving around his head. Holding on to him, keeping him where he is, even without a single grip. As though Danny ever needs to use an actual grip. When his fingers circling Steve's wrist, a hand brushing up flat against his chest, the hand of one catching his arm. They all work as well as if someone twice Steve's size stopped him in a sudden choke hold. The whole world stops flat, on a dime, disorienting stillness and air shoved in.
He's never less than aware where Danny's touching him, when he isn't. If he isn't. Every single word rolling out. The way Danny is putting up a fight of still insulting him. Like his voice isn't careening sharper, breathier. As though those words make any of the rest of it less apparent. The way Danny's muscles tighten. The way his chest raises and falls faster, but not as fast as the pounding of his pulse picks up.
Which just leaves Steve where he was, when his laugh died. Mouth finding that same spot, but on the opposite side of his neck now, and sucking a little harder, as his thumb brushed through the stubble on his cheek, before dropping. Finding his shoulder and chasing down the muscles there. Fingers brushing through curls, chasing the line of muscles. Pulling just the smallest bit harder again, on the skin between his lips, when his hand settles against chest, and he, casually, rolled the flat of his thumb over Danny's nipple. And back.
Small steps, more focus, more force. Wanting. Moving gently against him. The rock of his hips, his upper body. Shifting closer, tighter, more into Danny, against his sheet. The ones that already smell like him. His pillow. When he still has his point. That he wants. The is steaming up the glass somewhere in his head. Sliding between it, and just the growing want for it.