That's pretty good, the best Danny can hope for, because Steve gets -- and somehow this has happened enough times that he can actually say Steve gets a certain way and have other times, proof to back it up, how insane, how absurd -- well, focused. Like Steve always focuses, and it's fucking intense, that laser sight on him, like it is Steve's goddam mission to get Danny off, and he's going to do it the way he does everything else, by burning him to the ground, busting him wide open, shoving him without preamble or hesitation towards a crumbling cliff edge.
And without bothering with himself, either, except as an afterthought, when his other hand creeps down and Danny can see his shoulder moving, which just latches into his gut like a fish hook and rips him open, but that's not how it should go, okay, Danny should get a say in this, no matter what the control freak on top of him thinks.
So he's glad that Steve actually does move, in sort of a distant way. Glad not really being able to stand up to Steve's mouth on his neck, tugging at skin that, Christ, if he leaves another mark there is going to be hell to pay from Kono, but it's also driving him crazy, pulling at nerves and at his wildly beating pulse and at the groans that keep trying to escape the back of his throat. Because Steve's hand is tight and hot and so good, moving slick and fast and hard, each motion up and down like getting punched in the gut, pleasure so intense it's tumbling stomach and lungs and heart and everything else into a puddling mess.
And Steve should know. He should know what's happening, what he's doing, just by existing, by being Steve. He should have known when Danny couldn't take his eyes off him, half-naked and sprawled artfully across the couch. Should have known when Danny couldn't leave. When Danny ran.
Because Danny wants too much, and he always has. He wouldn't say it's that much. Wouldn't ever have. Nobody would look at his life before, a beautiful wife, a loving daughter, a good job, and say, that's too much, too selfish, right? Except it was. Too much. And wanting Steve is wanting too much, too, because --
Because it is. It must be. Has to be. In no world should Steve say those words, the ones still misfiring like a bad song through Danny's brain. And in no world should Steve be here, able to listen to him, willing to strip off pants, shove at them, shove words like an order at Danny, who can't keep his eyes from trailing up and down every new exposed inch, like he's never seen it before, like he's about to go blind and wants this to be the last thing he sees: Steve, his face, blue eyes blow black, skin catching the lamplight and shading it into cuts of muscle and bone.
While Danny's lifting hips off the couch to push off boxers, curling to reach his feet and get rid of the damn socks. "God, you're pushy."
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That's pretty good, the best Danny can hope for, because Steve gets -- and somehow this has happened enough times that he can actually say Steve gets a certain way and have other times, proof to back it up, how insane, how absurd -- well, focused. Like Steve always focuses, and it's fucking intense, that laser sight on him, like it is Steve's goddam mission to get Danny off, and he's going to do it the way he does everything else, by burning him to the ground, busting him wide open, shoving him without preamble or hesitation towards a crumbling cliff edge.
And without bothering with himself, either, except as an afterthought, when his other hand creeps down and Danny can see his shoulder moving, which just latches into his gut like a fish hook and rips him open, but that's not how it should go, okay, Danny should get a say in this, no matter what the control freak on top of him thinks.
So he's glad that Steve actually does move, in sort of a distant way. Glad not really being able to stand up to Steve's mouth on his neck, tugging at skin that, Christ, if he leaves another mark there is going to be hell to pay from Kono, but it's also driving him crazy, pulling at nerves and at his wildly beating pulse and at the groans that keep trying to escape the back of his throat. Because Steve's hand is tight and hot and so good, moving slick and fast and hard, each motion up and down like getting punched in the gut, pleasure so intense it's tumbling stomach and lungs and heart and everything else into a puddling mess.
And Steve should know. He should know what's happening, what he's doing, just by existing, by being Steve. He should have known when Danny couldn't take his eyes off him, half-naked and sprawled artfully across the couch. Should have known when Danny couldn't leave. When Danny ran.
Because Danny wants too much, and he always has. He wouldn't say it's that much. Wouldn't ever have. Nobody would look at his life before, a beautiful wife, a loving daughter, a good job, and say, that's too much, too selfish, right? Except it was. Too much. And wanting Steve is wanting too much, too, because --
Because it is. It must be. Has to be. In no world should Steve say those words, the ones still misfiring like a bad song through Danny's brain. And in no world should Steve be here, able to listen to him, willing to strip off pants, shove at them, shove words like an order at Danny, who can't keep his eyes from trailing up and down every new exposed inch, like he's never seen it before, like he's about to go blind and wants this to be the last thing he sees: Steve, his face, blue eyes blow black, skin catching the lamplight and shading it into cuts of muscle and bone.
While Danny's lifting hips off the couch to push off boxers, curling to reach his feet and get rid of the damn socks. "God, you're pushy."