This ain't the handsy, reckless, clumsy bump and grinds of his teenage years, fumbling over clothes and shoving awkwardly together, just to feel the desperate burn of friction. It's not the directionless dry humps of someone just starting to figure this whole thing out, how bodies work and fit and move together. This is his legs cinching tighter against Steve's hips, one curled, one caught between Steve and the couch back. It's hot sweaty slick pure motion, rolling like a wave, like a straight shot of highway free and clear, narrowing towards a fast-approaching horizon.
It's his fingers digging five dents in the muscle over the back curve of Steve's ribs. His mouth hard on Steve's neck, finding the delicate spot just below his jaw and biting down on the corded muscle there. Unable to keep it soft, when that sound Steve made is stumbling down into the coiled, tangled knot of his stomach and melting on contact there. Bleeding heat, small sounds getting lost on Steve's skin, at the taste of salt and sweat and that something else, the clean deep something that's just Steve, that's now all over Danny and his clothes, that he can sometimes find himself breathing in even if Steve isn't there, after leaving in the morning.
And the whole concept of sex on a couch, with all the lights on, in the still early evening, is nothing short of bonkers. His mind keeps tripping on thoughts resurfacing from years spent drowned under a crushing weight of bitter cynicism. Wondering in a panic what if Gracie comes downstairs? before remembering this is Steve's house, and Grace doesn't live here. That he doesn't have to muffle himself, swallow sounds or gasps or groans, because there are no small ears to disturb. No one is likely to come knocking on this door, except for him, and he's already here.
But he does, anyway. Pushes moans that can't be held back into the skin of Steve's neck, Leg tightening, trembling, hips stuttering. More. Steve. Pushing up into him, core tightening and aching, skin sweat-slippery and feverish. More. Faster. And harder. Eyes screwed shut, breath tearing at what's left of his lungs, the space in his chest where it feels like something very necessary has gotten crushed to make way for everything else. All of this. Steve. A coil that's starting sudden and demanding in the lowest part of himself, and he knows where it's going, is torn towards rushing towards it and holding back. Just for more. A little longer. A little rougher. Good, and then better. And better. Heart careening towards a crash that he can't stop and wouldn't if he could.
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It's his fingers digging five dents in the muscle over the back curve of Steve's ribs. His mouth hard on Steve's neck, finding the delicate spot just below his jaw and biting down on the corded muscle there. Unable to keep it soft, when that sound Steve made is stumbling down into the coiled, tangled knot of his stomach and melting on contact there. Bleeding heat, small sounds getting lost on Steve's skin, at the taste of salt and sweat and that something else, the clean deep something that's just Steve, that's now all over Danny and his clothes, that he can sometimes find himself breathing in even if Steve isn't there, after leaving in the morning.
And the whole concept of sex on a couch, with all the lights on, in the still early evening, is nothing short of bonkers. His mind keeps tripping on thoughts resurfacing from years spent drowned under a crushing weight of bitter cynicism. Wondering in a panic what if Gracie comes downstairs? before remembering this is Steve's house, and Grace doesn't live here. That he doesn't have to muffle himself, swallow sounds or gasps or groans, because there are no small ears to disturb. No one is likely to come knocking on this door, except for him, and he's already here.
But he does, anyway. Pushes moans that can't be held back into the skin of Steve's neck, Leg tightening, trembling, hips stuttering. More. Steve. Pushing up into him, core tightening and aching, skin sweat-slippery and feverish. More. Faster. And harder. Eyes screwed shut, breath tearing at what's left of his lungs, the space in his chest where it feels like something very necessary has gotten crushed to make way for everything else. All of this. Steve. A coil that's starting sudden and demanding in the lowest part of himself, and he knows where it's going, is torn towards rushing towards it and holding back. Just for more. A little longer. A little rougher. Good, and then better. And better. Heart careening towards a crash that he can't stop and wouldn't if he could.