Danny reacts like a live wire. Tensing and nearly grafting to him, pulling him down more, jerking his precarious choice of balance, and he's going to hate the couch sooner or later. But later is good right? Later, when the thought of it isn't be eradicated in the sudden tensing of his the muscles through his side, on fingers indenting themselves like solid rods, while his head is being jerked closer, making his head smack into Danny's jaw slightly, and making him ghost a laugh, right there in Danny's skin.
Warm and smug, mostly caught between the gentle shaking of his chest, and the gusting half breath on Danny's skin. Before he's proudly mumbling, all of dissembling toward any innocence lost in the half-choked, bottom-black amusement. "You wish." Leaning right back into what he was doing, before there's even a second to answer.
Even as the muscles along the base of his head and traveling down his neck all tense under fisting fingers. Tightening up through his jaw and down into his back. But not slowing him down any more than someone punching him in a fight does ever, really. If anything it rides the need to arch toward Danny, shuddering through him, kicking his hips twice erratically and tightening the muscles down his thighs.He rolls with it, still. Pulling it all in.
That sharp sting of pulled hair, when Danny proves yet, again, there really is somehow enough for him to go about pulling on it, even if it is nothing like his own. When Steve gets out his mocking words, managing only to pull in a slightly breathe, before returning to Danny's skin. Even as Danny is still pushing into his hands, and Danny's hands are. Well, the other one, even when it never seems possible he only has the two. Because they end up everywhere. No one has hands hands like this. No one except Danny.
Who's got a hand shoving him forward, and fisting his hair, and the other one. It's sliding down his side, and across his pants, causing muscles to clench even when he's fine with all of it. God. Isn't he though. He wants Danny's hands everywhere. He wants everything. He needs far less clothing, which mean his palm smoothes back over Danny's chest and starts pulling faster and specific at buttons. Sometimes he really doesn't give a damn, but doing this often, it does get back into being something he can do.
Push pull, small buttons, tiny holes. He's done so much more blindfolded in his life. While things were exploded.
Which he's doing, without having to lift his mouth from Danny's skin, until he's gotten at least one or two of them, and can shove at the shirt so he can move onto the rise of his collar bone, lips curving around it like a small frame of one small part, before dropping toward the flat plane of his chest, right next to his breast bone. Still with the edge of determined sharpness, even when his lips and the tip of his nose and the flat of cheeks are brushing into sworls of hair.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-15 04:28 am (UTC)Warm and smug, mostly caught between the gentle shaking of his chest, and the gusting half breath on Danny's skin. Before he's proudly mumbling, all of dissembling toward any innocence lost in the half-choked, bottom-black amusement. "You wish." Leaning right back into what he was doing, before there's even a second to answer.
Even as the muscles along the base of his head and traveling down his neck all tense under fisting fingers. Tightening up through his jaw and down into his back. But not slowing him down any more than someone punching him in a fight does ever, really. If anything it rides the need to arch toward Danny, shuddering through him, kicking his hips twice erratically and tightening the muscles down his thighs.He rolls with it, still. Pulling it all in.
That sharp sting of pulled hair, when Danny proves yet, again, there really is somehow enough for him to go about pulling on it, even if it is nothing like his own. When Steve gets out his mocking words, managing only to pull in a slightly breathe, before returning to Danny's skin. Even as Danny is still pushing into his hands, and Danny's hands are. Well, the other one, even when it never seems possible he only has the two. Because they end up everywhere. No one has hands hands like this. No one except Danny.
Who's got a hand shoving him forward, and fisting his hair, and the other one. It's sliding down his side, and across his pants, causing muscles to clench even when he's fine with all of it. God. Isn't he though. He wants Danny's hands everywhere. He wants everything. He needs far less clothing, which mean his palm smoothes back over Danny's chest and starts pulling faster and specific at buttons. Sometimes he really doesn't give a damn, but doing this often, it does get back into being something he can do.
Push pull, small buttons, tiny holes. He's done so much more blindfolded in his life. While things were exploded.
Which he's doing, without having to lift his mouth from Danny's skin, until he's gotten at least one or two of them, and can shove at the shirt so he can move onto the rise of his collar bone, lips curving around it like a small frame of one small part, before dropping toward the flat plane of his chest, right next to his breast bone. Still with the edge of determined sharpness, even when his lips and the tip of his nose and the flat of cheeks are brushing into sworls of hair.