He forgets around almost as soon as it's past Danny's wrists. That shirt.
Wherever it goes, when they both let go, when Steve darts back in. Mouth taking liberty back with the skin he had, Danny stretching out beneath him, close and tight, straining to give him more, as Danny's hands landed just as possessive on his skin. Sliding, running down his skin, hard and heavy. Catching his hips, his pants, and jerking him directly into Danny bucking up into him.
Barely giving Steve more than a moment, before it's shocking straight through him. Hardly more than a second it takes to turn, to consider the damnation of visibility, and bite down against Danny's shoulder. When the rest of his body is beyond ready to listen to Danny's hands, his hips. Beyond it. To listen and respond and run right the hell over any impulse asking for a moments air.
Thrusting hard and fast down against the solidness Danny, several times, in a way that is not helping him remember any single thought he had in his head. That he had any restraint in his skin, or control left between his body and his choices, and the slam of want driving like a jack hammer down his veins. Any time before this second. Any thoughts. Any consideration. Going up like flash paper.
With a groan of something very lost, thick as black tar, and nearly muffled into Danny's skin, "Fucking Christ, Danny."
It'd be an accusation, if he wasn't hanging off the same cliff, hating every last stitch of clothing, or thought under the fire, himself.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-13 01:28 am (UTC)Wherever it goes, when they both let go, when Steve darts back in. Mouth taking liberty back with the skin he had, Danny stretching out beneath him, close and tight, straining to give him more, as Danny's hands landed just as possessive on his skin. Sliding, running down his skin, hard and heavy. Catching his hips, his pants, and jerking him directly into Danny bucking up into him.
Barely giving Steve more than a moment, before it's shocking straight through him. Hardly more than a second it takes to turn, to consider the damnation of visibility, and bite down against Danny's shoulder. When the rest of his body is beyond ready to listen to Danny's hands, his hips. Beyond it. To listen and respond and run right the hell over any impulse asking for a moments air.
Thrusting hard and fast down against the solidness Danny, several times, in a way that is not helping him remember any single thought he had in his head. That he had any restraint in his skin, or control left between his body and his choices, and the slam of want driving like a jack hammer down his veins. Any time before this second. Any thoughts. Any consideration. Going up like flash paper.
With a groan of something very lost, thick as black tar, and nearly muffled into Danny's skin, "Fucking Christ, Danny."
It'd be an accusation, if he wasn't hanging off the same cliff, hating every last stitch of clothing, or thought under the fire, himself.