Apparently that's good enough, or distracting enough, because Steve drops the act and the words and stops taunting Danny only to set about burning down the room around them, the bed underneath them. Letting himself be hauled onto Danny, while Danny's leg bends at the knee, brackets him in, leaning hard against Steve's leg. Danny's arm tight around the back of his waist. Meeting that kiss like a goddamn landslide, threatening to bury Danny under it all, and, Christ, he wouldn't care. Would be happy to let it happen, because he never wants to leave this spot, okay.
Whether Steve is attempting to shatter him, or drag Danny's lungs right out through snapped ribs, or muffling him into the mattress, or not. He likes it here. Said so.
Here is where Steve's hand is flat against his stomach, making Danny's muscles contract, hard, against his touch, like they've been zapped with a jolt. Back arching, shoving shoulders down, torso up. Against Steve's weight. And he'd like to keep his eyes open to watch all this, to make sure it's happening, but he can't, because Steve's mouth is destroying him and building him right back up again, brick by broken brick. Wanting him. Even against the rules.
Danny has never been so glad Steve has never met a rule in the time he's known him that hasn't been left crumpled and cracked open on the wayside.
It's a lie that there's nothing left to say. There's plenty. All about how he still isn't this kind of girl, Steve, only, it appears he is. Falling back into bed, the most complicated bed there is, right here, again. With zero plans to stop it before it stops on its own. And about how Steve should really rethink this Viking mentality, okay, Danny is not a village to be burned and pillaged and sacrificed to whatever horrifying three-faced god or deity that allows Steve to pull the shit he pulls with barely a scratch here and there.
But it just comes out as Steve, Steve, tiny and damaged against Steve's mouth, a fucking litany, like he still can't believe it, even with proof in his hands, pushing against his body, setting off, huh, sparklers in his eyes.
Not the kind to do damage, though. Which, that really was just sick.
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Whether Steve is attempting to shatter him, or drag Danny's lungs right out through snapped ribs, or muffling him into the mattress, or not. He likes it here. Said so.
Here is where Steve's hand is flat against his stomach, making Danny's muscles contract, hard, against his touch, like they've been zapped with a jolt. Back arching, shoving shoulders down, torso up. Against Steve's weight. And he'd like to keep his eyes open to watch all this, to make sure it's happening, but he can't, because Steve's mouth is destroying him and building him right back up again, brick by broken brick. Wanting him. Even against the rules.
Danny has never been so glad Steve has never met a rule in the time he's known him that hasn't been left crumpled and cracked open on the wayside.
It's a lie that there's nothing left to say. There's plenty. All about how he still isn't this kind of girl, Steve, only, it appears he is. Falling back into bed, the most complicated bed there is, right here, again. With zero plans to stop it before it stops on its own. And about how Steve should really rethink this Viking mentality, okay, Danny is not a village to be burned and pillaged and sacrificed to whatever horrifying three-faced god or deity that allows Steve to pull the shit he pulls with barely a scratch here and there.
But it just comes out as Steve, Steve, tiny and damaged against Steve's mouth, a fucking litany, like he still can't believe it, even with proof in his hands, pushing against his body, setting off, huh, sparklers in his eyes.
Not the kind to do damage, though. Which, that really was just sick.