Danny still fighting back, even when he's convulsing. Hips pumping into Steve's hand, sputtering hard and helpless in that first rush, that roll of shakes through. That Steve can feel every inch of across the length of himself still pressed into Danny. Even when there's a hand finding ways to clutch at his hair that's sending a small current of pain, almost noticeable except for the way his shoulders are feeling it through tenses muscles.

Or that other hand. The one at his pants that is doing more in the way of trying to rip at material with almost no grip and slight finger nails, than actually managing to hold still and manage shoving them anywhere. Something even Danny seems to get when he's gritting out words straight into Steve's lips. It doesn't matter if he's heard it before. It doesn't matter, if given the time, that he could draw up names and places. It still cuts through his skin and his organs like acid.

The words falling from Danny's mouth, being said by Danny

Desperate and demanding, rough and just this side refusing to be lost in the shudders rocking his body. Hitting Steve's lungs like the air has actually become fire. And his lungs, more fragile than glass dust, are burning away into ash on contact. Dragging up this dark sound he can't even stop. That sound, or the fact he kisses Danny hard, or that his fingers keep skating fast on his skin. Up and down. Almost like a threat that he's not going to listen, he's just going to shove Danny over.

Nothing like the slam of fire actually for a moment feeling like it shoves Steve into overdrive. Danny still using those words. Remembering those hands, his mouth, teeth, scraping skin. Looking at him like he was something else. Something other than just peak form or worthy of attention. Like he was, god knows, something holy. Something precious or special. Or, even, somehow, worth breaking once Danny started attacking him. And Danny is still demanding more.

I want to see you. No denial for any of Steve's other words. Like somehow it should be obvious. He does this.

They do this. Run the ragged edge of desperation, shoving each other further and further each time. Control becoming less and less involved. Danny says those words, that keep exploding all the windows and doors left in Steve's head. Touching something deeper, riling up something fierce and dark and wanting, until Steve has his head burrowed against Danny's shoulder, mouth pulling on the delicate skin of his neck, as his own skin is shivering and muscles stretching, with it.

When he can barely stop himself. The most he can even do, and it's so not even close to slowing himself down, is find a way to tip. Weight falling to a shoulder against the back of the couch. One hand still on Danny and the other going down to help with his pants. Almost having to fight Danny's hand still at his pants. Except he's got more wits than it. Enough to slip the button with a twist of fingers, and drag down his zipper following it. Starting to shove pants. Pants that fit too well.

Pants designed to fit well and not be a deterrent. Making him know he'll have to move -- again -- to do this.

Steve has to lift, at least, above Danny, stop pressing in, to shove hard against the cargo pants now even tighter than normal across his hips and stomach. Which just makes everything crescendo toward a higher ache, making him look down and ground out, "Lose the boxers," while he's forced to focus on his clothes.

Taking both pieces toward a muddle at his knees, with a winded rush of relief at release from being so tightly pressed inside them it almost slashes his visions, even when it all involves even more shifting to get off the pants, with most of his weight previously resting at his knees and shins.