He's everywhere. You'd think it would be impossible. He's smaller. Maybe broader in some places, but definitely a lot shorter. Couldn't even lay out over Steve like a blanket. And somehow he's everywhere. Everything. Every sensation. Clinging to him with fingers digging into his back, his shoulders, his arms. Thighs that keep tightening on his sides, calves at his back, the inside of knees and the curved end of heels digging in behind. Hard. Hard enough it isn't hard enough.
Because it's burning at all his edges. How easily. From here. Like this. With Danny holding on him desperately, pushing into him for more, more, more. Burning, blistering fireworks with every rise of his hips. And he wants to be able to. Push in and pull out, drag stars across Danny's vision with the movement of a single inch, the madness of just holding still for a few seconds longer when you think you can't take it. Pummel forward, hard and fast and deep, beyond sanity or thought.
Especially when he's throwing it all into kissing Danny. Holding on that simplicity, like it's the last burning torch of a look out tower in the dark. The taste of his mouth, against a torrent of fire. The softness of his lips beneath teeth, against the insane galloping march and muscle burn in his legs, nowhere near stopping. The way Danny pushes up from the couch, gasping for air and pushing for more, more, more, too. Meeting it out, dragging it down into him.
Nothing still and stated about either of them. About any of this. Nothing simple or easy or for granted. Danny nearly left.
A thought that can't hold as Danny goes deadly still for the breifest second, every hand, arm, leg, seizing around Steve harder before he's shuddering erratically, riding hard against Steve's own body, slamming up into him, out of control, and Steve has to look up to see his face. Doesn't want it buried and lost. He gets this. Still gets this. Doesn't have to wait. Isn't tearing himself apart, desperate in a way he never is. Never. Not with anyone.
Danny's hand coming up to cup his cheek only to fly away toward his shoulder, and there's something in that. The movements, the touching, the desperation of it, the last second of the world falling part, he thinks he recognizes and he says, "I got you," even when he isn't sure Danny will even hear the words, or even if they are true because of all he's thinking. Because it's true. Because it's truer than everything else going on in his head and every offer Cath flashed in his direction.
And he's not about to let Danny fall on purpose. Not here, like this. Not before, like that. Never. Not Danny. He won't let him.
Even if everything else in his head is coming in as a fast falling fade. When Danny is already going, going, gone, curled under him heavy and shaking and looser, and Steve can just curl forward. Leaning his head against Danny's, against the couch arm, and push against the gate of hell inside his head. Shove hard against the now even wetter skin of Danny's stomach, and let the image in his head burn out, seer his skin, his stomach, his throat. Give it the inch of his head, because Danny is already, and he's not actually giving in to moving anywhere else or doing anything else.
"Danny, Danny, Danny," falling out, endless low feverish, repeating whisper, his hips at a dangerously snapping pace.
Everything, everything obliterating inward, almost without warning. A fast void-like stunning swoop of momentarily razor sharp terrifying relief, and then it explodes outward like a bomb. Taking all the walls, taking all his thoughts, taking all the struggle and the images, slamming through him in a sensation blinding the world outside his head goes with one inside it. Leaving him without a though in the world, not even the one where he's probably more half off the couch like this than he is half on it.
When what part of him all is, mostly spans across Danny, which is where he's going to end up.
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Because it's burning at all his edges. How easily. From here. Like this. With Danny holding on him desperately, pushing into him for more, more, more. Burning, blistering fireworks with every rise of his hips. And he wants to be able to. Push in and pull out, drag stars across Danny's vision with the movement of a single inch, the madness of just holding still for a few seconds longer when you think you can't take it. Pummel forward, hard and fast and deep, beyond sanity or thought.
Especially when he's throwing it all into kissing Danny. Holding on that simplicity, like it's the last burning torch of a look out tower in the dark. The taste of his mouth, against a torrent of fire. The softness of his lips beneath teeth, against the insane galloping march and muscle burn in his legs, nowhere near stopping. The way Danny pushes up from the couch, gasping for air and pushing for more, more, more, too. Meeting it out, dragging it down into him.
Nothing still and stated about either of them. About any of this. Nothing simple or easy or for granted. Danny nearly left.
A thought that can't hold as Danny goes deadly still for the breifest second, every hand, arm, leg, seizing around Steve harder before he's shuddering erratically, riding hard against Steve's own body, slamming up into him, out of control, and Steve has to look up to see his face. Doesn't want it buried and lost. He gets this. Still gets this. Doesn't have to wait. Isn't tearing himself apart, desperate in a way he never is. Never. Not with anyone.
Danny's hand coming up to cup his cheek only to fly away toward his shoulder, and there's something in that. The movements, the touching, the desperation of it, the last second of the world falling part, he thinks he recognizes and he says, "I got you," even when he isn't sure Danny will even hear the words, or even if they are true because of all he's thinking. Because it's true. Because it's truer than everything else going on in his head and every offer Cath flashed in his direction.
And he's not about to let Danny fall on purpose. Not here, like this. Not before, like that. Never. Not Danny. He won't let him.
Even if everything else in his head is coming in as a fast falling fade. When Danny is already going, going, gone, curled under him heavy and shaking and looser, and Steve can just curl forward. Leaning his head against Danny's, against the couch arm, and push against the gate of hell inside his head. Shove hard against the now even wetter skin of Danny's stomach, and let the image in his head burn out, seer his skin, his stomach, his throat. Give it the inch of his head, because Danny is already, and he's not actually giving in to moving anywhere else or doing anything else.
"Danny, Danny, Danny," falling out, endless low feverish, repeating whisper, his hips at a dangerously snapping pace.
Everything, everything obliterating inward, almost without warning. A fast void-like stunning swoop of momentarily razor sharp terrifying relief, and then it explodes outward like a bomb. Taking all the walls, taking all his thoughts, taking all the struggle and the images, slamming through him in a sensation blinding the world outside his head goes with one inside it. Leaving him without a though in the world, not even the one where he's probably more half off the couch like this than he is half on it.
When what part of him all is, mostly spans across Danny, which is where he's going to end up.