Breathing and thinking seems to leave behind, just until they need to smack him in the face.
A minute or three before a gulp of air goes down hard like swallowing rock. Like nothing in the world sat in this box. Not even a missile launcher. Danny, grinding up into his body, with a jack hammering force and intention. Danny, with his hands digging into Steve's thighs, so much he swore he could feel the fingertips, through the material. Each one marking him brighter and long than the stars striking his vision when he matched the movement.
When all the panic seems gone, replaced by a desperate need to not let go. To take everything now.
Those sharp, correcting words, matching so well with the hands on him. Burning something down that never needed to be.
"Impatient much?" Steve got out, a fire-beaten arrogance claiming bruised lips, and rushed breath, right beyond the roll of brilliant sparklers going off in his head, igniting all his nerve endings and dousing down most of his ability to think with gasoline. God, he can't even pretend he doesn't love this. Danny turned reckless and demanding, wanting him, grabbing him.
Because the thought is insane. But Danny is breathing hard in against his lips and his teeth. Fingers digging into his legs. Dragging him down like it's mutual. That one minute was too long. Even the fact that minutes exists is too much of a threat it might happen again. Driving him back into kissing Danny, into the rough drive of his own hips, his own want. For Danny.
Against a ragged edge he can see without looking at it. Danny had left. Even for a moment. Even if he did the only things he could think of. For one unholy second, everything had shattered, and he'd gone without so much a real word. Sand, fallen throw his fingers. That was real. So much more real and sensible. More than Danny's tongue brushing against. More than the brush of his chest and the rush of his hands.
Real, and likely. More possible, even more probable, than all of this. He knows all of that, too.
He knows he's barreling at it, but he can't care, or chooses not to, or, fuck it, maybe he's asking for it, daring it to try. I tried once and Danny is still right here. Saying he wants to be with him. Under him, moving like every inch of his skin is on fire, and Steve is the only person who can do anything about it. Maybe none of it matters, none of it, except for forgetting all of that and clinging to this, to shoving him even higher.
Matching and answering and taking. Pushing a hand in between them, fast and smooth, inside the band of those low, tight boxer and fitting his fingers around Danny's skin and beginning with a movement that is only an extension of the fast friction they've already got. That Steve could not even stop his own body from still doing unless he stopped everything all together.
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A minute or three before a gulp of air goes down hard like swallowing rock. Like nothing in the world sat in this box. Not even a missile launcher. Danny, grinding up into his body, with a jack hammering force and intention. Danny, with his hands digging into Steve's thighs, so much he swore he could feel the fingertips, through the material. Each one marking him brighter and long than the stars striking his vision when he matched the movement.
When all the panic seems gone, replaced by a desperate need to not let go. To take everything now.
Those sharp, correcting words, matching so well with the hands on him. Burning something down that never needed to be.
"Impatient much?" Steve got out, a fire-beaten arrogance claiming bruised lips, and rushed breath, right beyond the roll of brilliant sparklers going off in his head, igniting all his nerve endings and dousing down most of his ability to think with gasoline. God, he can't even pretend he doesn't love this. Danny turned reckless and demanding, wanting him, grabbing him.
Because the thought is insane. But Danny is breathing hard in against his lips and his teeth. Fingers digging into his legs. Dragging him down like it's mutual. That one minute was too long. Even the fact that minutes exists is too much of a threat it might happen again. Driving him back into kissing Danny, into the rough drive of his own hips, his own want. For Danny.
Against a ragged edge he can see without looking at it. Danny had left. Even for a moment. Even if he did the only things he could think of. For one unholy second, everything had shattered, and he'd gone without so much a real word. Sand, fallen throw his fingers. That was real. So much more real and sensible. More than Danny's tongue brushing against. More than the brush of his chest and the rush of his hands.
Real, and likely. More possible, even more probable, than all of this. He knows all of that, too.
He knows he's barreling at it, but he can't care, or chooses not to, or, fuck it, maybe he's asking for it, daring it to try. I tried once and Danny is still right here. Saying he wants to be with him. Under him, moving like every inch of his skin is on fire, and Steve is the only person who can do anything about it. Maybe none of it matters, none of it, except for forgetting all of that and clinging to this, to shoving him even higher.
Matching and answering and taking. Pushing a hand in between them, fast and smooth, inside the band of those low, tight boxer and fitting his fingers around Danny's skin and beginning with a movement that is only an extension of the fast friction they've already got. That Steve could not even stop his own body from still doing unless he stopped everything all together.