That groan drops into his stomach like a grenade, but it's the half-choked gasp of his name that sets everything on fire. Crumples up his stomach, rips the roots of any willpower left right out of his skull, his spine, tosses them away like Steve tossed his shirt. Unable to help the sudden flaring driving burning want that sends him back down, mouth trailing harder, hot against flushing skin. Over the lift of muscle that's shaking and flexing against his lips, ducking down to find, capture a nipple. Pulling sensitive skin into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. Tasting salt and Steve, hearing his own breath coming in a ragged wash.
Because Steve looks done in. By him. He's not even doing anything. Barely anything at all. One hand smoothing firm down his side, the other pushing up over his shoulder, running along the arm that's got him braced up against the couch. Ignoring the sudden tight ache in his scalp, sending thrills shrieking down his spine and arrowing into his gut.
Feeling like there's not enough. Not enough of Steve's bare skin. Not enough of him to reach it all, cover it all. Biting lightly into the pad of his muscle, moving down, finding the bumps of his ribs, mouth and teeth and tongue following the brand new gravity that's Steve, only Steve. Who wants him. Like Danny wants him. Who isn't looking smug anymore, whose voice is on the cracking edge of breaking or pleading.
Making Danny have look up along the length of his body, and the only possible way to keep it from spilling out, in words and broken sentences, how gorgeous Steve is, the things he does to Danny, the things he's doing right now, how impossible he is, not matter how Danny might have said it's still possible, he has no idea how this is happening, none at all, is to push up, hand hard on Steve's side and fingers wrapping around Steve's biceps. Find his mouth again, kiss him hard and a little desperate, because this was supposed to be gone, and it isn't, and Danny doesn't know how to make sure it never goes away but, God, he'd give almost anything. Anything at all.
And Steve hasn't laid a finger on him in minutes, but it doesn't matter, a tiny sound like a whimper at the back of his throat, muffled on Steve's mouth in a kiss that feels like it should burst every lightbulb in the house.
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Because Steve looks done in. By him. He's not even doing anything. Barely anything at all. One hand smoothing firm down his side, the other pushing up over his shoulder, running along the arm that's got him braced up against the couch. Ignoring the sudden tight ache in his scalp, sending thrills shrieking down his spine and arrowing into his gut.
Feeling like there's not enough. Not enough of Steve's bare skin. Not enough of him to reach it all, cover it all. Biting lightly into the pad of his muscle, moving down, finding the bumps of his ribs, mouth and teeth and tongue following the brand new gravity that's Steve, only Steve. Who wants him. Like Danny wants him. Who isn't looking smug anymore, whose voice is on the cracking edge of breaking or pleading.
Making Danny have look up along the length of his body, and the only possible way to keep it from spilling out, in words and broken sentences, how gorgeous Steve is, the things he does to Danny, the things he's doing right now, how impossible he is, not matter how Danny might have said it's still possible, he has no idea how this is happening, none at all, is to push up, hand hard on Steve's side and fingers wrapping around Steve's biceps. Find his mouth again, kiss him hard and a little desperate, because this was supposed to be gone, and it isn't, and Danny doesn't know how to make sure it never goes away but, God, he'd give almost anything. Anything at all.
And Steve hasn't laid a finger on him in minutes, but it doesn't matter, a tiny sound like a whimper at the back of his throat, muffled on Steve's mouth in a kiss that feels like it should burst every lightbulb in the house.