Steve pulls, sudden and hard, against his skin, and it's like yanking on the strings of a puppet: all his muscles tense at once, and his fingers dig hard into Steve's side in surprise, while his hand, that traitor, all but pulls Steve's head closer. As if there's any danger of him getting up, as if he's not doing that thing again, the thing he did before, marking up Danny's skin in a way that Kono will absolutely see, she's like a freaking savant when it comes to spotting hickeys.
Maybe not quite the same. There's no fury behind it this time, no calculation; just Steve, holding him down, sucking up hard and lingering, tracking a pathway down his neck that has Danny making a noise that he tries to convince himself is a growl of displeasure, but which breaks in his throat on its way out, stumbles into something lower, needier.
And it's not fair, okay, that Steve is doing this, and he's not flush against Danny, doesn't have his full weight, long body over him, is sitting back on his haunches, weight on Danny's thigh but not spread like a blanket over his chest. Except Steve's hand is there, running over fabric, making him push as a casual palm slides over a nipple, and Danny's hand tracks down from Steve's side, to his hip, curves over the back pocket that's strained tight against the curve of his ass.
"Hey, watch it," he says, in a raw voice, and his fingers fist in Steve's hair, but he can't pull, can't drag him away, wants him, maddeningly, even closer. Needs that weight, the fullness of him, sinking them both into leather cushions, making the couch creak. "What is this, the best two out of three?"
The second time he'll come into work with a mark on his neck, because there's no way that's not sticking, not with the kind of dedication Steve is paying to it, not with the faint sting Danny can feel, that washes away in a flood of simmering pleasure. Fine. Okay? Fine. Steve wants there to be a bruise, Danny's okay with it. At least it'll be like a tag stuck right on his skin, spelling out not going anywhere in a language Steve seems to understand.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-15 03:23 am (UTC)Maybe not quite the same. There's no fury behind it this time, no calculation; just Steve, holding him down, sucking up hard and lingering, tracking a pathway down his neck that has Danny making a noise that he tries to convince himself is a growl of displeasure, but which breaks in his throat on its way out, stumbles into something lower, needier.
And it's not fair, okay, that Steve is doing this, and he's not flush against Danny, doesn't have his full weight, long body over him, is sitting back on his haunches, weight on Danny's thigh but not spread like a blanket over his chest. Except Steve's hand is there, running over fabric, making him push as a casual palm slides over a nipple, and Danny's hand tracks down from Steve's side, to his hip, curves over the back pocket that's strained tight against the curve of his ass.
"Hey, watch it," he says, in a raw voice, and his fingers fist in Steve's hair, but he can't pull, can't drag him away, wants him, maddeningly, even closer. Needs that weight, the fullness of him, sinking them both into leather cushions, making the couch creak. "What is this, the best two out of three?"
The second time he'll come into work with a mark on his neck, because there's no way that's not sticking, not with the kind of dedication Steve is paying to it, not with the faint sting Danny can feel, that washes away in a flood of simmering pleasure. Fine. Okay? Fine. Steve wants there to be a bruise, Danny's okay with it. At least it'll be like a tag stuck right on his skin, spelling out not going anywhere in a language Steve seems to understand.