There's the hairline edge of something completely else that shudders down his back, through him, under Danny's fingers. The forearm against at his back, and Danny's leg tightening, shifting more comfortable, more fitting, easier to squeeze, heel pushing into the tight muscle low on Steve's back, his ass. It has to say something, somewhere that he just bites his cheek on something more scalding than surprise and lets it burn all the way down into his chest.
While Danny is laughing into his skin, and his head feels like it's being slammed by even more than every single smash of pleasure trying to boil the bottom of his stomach and all the organs in there he supposedly needs. When he's gripping the couch hard enough to feel it in the ache of his knuckles, and still slips a little, when Danny's mouth finds his neck. Dragging fire down on a vein, like he dropped a match. A million matches. Causing everything to skip, slip, split on a dragged up, beaten sound of near surrender.
Shifting lower, hips sputtering hard against Danny's skin and his own, slick with sweat and more by now. A little frantic.
That he's refusing, by the edges of his fingertips, somewhere against the pain in his hand and the faint taste of blood in his mouth. Forcing himself to breathe in, and push outward. Not reckless, not losing control completely, not now. Not because this feels so damn good he wants to stop fighting and give in, not because he has some idea what better might be, not because it might be another step easily slid toward another and another.
Because it is still Danny. Danny still doing this, still is clinging to him, begging him not to stop, curled around him this tight, again, making every inch of him ache in a new way, with those two words. That voice shaking into his shoulder. Lips still tugging on his skin, at his pulse careening wildly, thundering through him. Danny. Trusting him. To listen. Trusting him. Still. To keep it together. To not ride ragged right over him. Not again. But not to stop.
He can do this. He's done so much more, and he's done so much worse, right? He can do this, too.
Wants this. Wants Danny more than he wants anything else trying to help him go blind. Danny, here, with him.
Steve grit his eye lids closed, unable not to twist so Danny's mouth would have more skin, more of him, as much of him as he wanted. Leaning his weight on his hand on the couch, and ignoring the pain, or the ache. Focusing on Danny. The rush of movement. The way it's like wire dropped in water. Everything is snapping and popping on every single strike of movement front or back.
Building in the back of his head, and the bottom of his stomach, clenching like a rock, desperate, tight and fast, efficient movements. Threatening he knows. The way buildings sway in high winds. Held usually girders, but all of his are falling away. Cementing wobbling over sand, teetering toward a brink, and keeping simple thoughts at the blistering forefront. Danny. Danny. Danny. His breathing. The pressure of his fingers, his leg, the impact of his hip bones. Holding out until.
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While Danny is laughing into his skin, and his head feels like it's being slammed by even more than every single smash of pleasure trying to boil the bottom of his stomach and all the organs in there he supposedly needs. When he's gripping the couch hard enough to feel it in the ache of his knuckles, and still slips a little, when Danny's mouth finds his neck. Dragging fire down on a vein, like he dropped a match. A million matches. Causing everything to skip, slip, split on a dragged up, beaten sound of near surrender.
Shifting lower, hips sputtering hard against Danny's skin and his own, slick with sweat and more by now. A little frantic.
That he's refusing, by the edges of his fingertips, somewhere against the pain in his hand and the faint taste of blood in his mouth. Forcing himself to breathe in, and push outward. Not reckless, not losing control completely, not now. Not because this feels so damn good he wants to stop fighting and give in, not because he has some idea what better might be, not because it might be another step easily slid toward another and another.
Because it is still Danny. Danny still doing this, still is clinging to him, begging him not to stop, curled around him this tight, again, making every inch of him ache in a new way, with those two words. That voice shaking into his shoulder. Lips still tugging on his skin, at his pulse careening wildly, thundering through him. Danny. Trusting him. To listen. Trusting him. Still. To keep it together. To not ride ragged right over him. Not again. But not to stop.
He can do this. He's done so much more, and he's done so much worse, right? He can do this, too.
Wants this. Wants Danny more than he wants anything else trying to help him go blind. Danny, here, with him.
Steve grit his eye lids closed, unable not to twist so Danny's mouth would have more skin, more of him, as much of him as he wanted. Leaning his weight on his hand on the couch, and ignoring the pain, or the ache. Focusing on Danny. The rush of movement. The way it's like wire dropped in water. Everything is snapping and popping on every single strike of movement front or back.
Building in the back of his head, and the bottom of his stomach, clenching like a rock, desperate, tight and fast, efficient movements. Threatening he knows. The way buildings sway in high winds. Held usually girders, but all of his are falling away. Cementing wobbling over sand, teetering toward a brink, and keeping simple thoughts at the blistering forefront. Danny. Danny. Danny. His breathing. The pressure of his fingers, his leg, the impact of his hip bones. Holding out until.