There's nothing quite like the sensation of being wanted. Of hearing the way Steve's voice bottoms out, feeling fingers dig into his side and his hair, a long tension of muscle contracting above him, because of him. Because Steve wants him.
Enough to sound distracted. Almost drugged. Voice barely there at all, rubbing itself over sandpaper as his hips rub over Danny's slacks. Danny can feel Steve's pulse tapping hard at his tongue; opens his mouth to pull at the skin, rewarded with the hand at the back of his head pushing harder, the body over him trying to move, restless, straight through him.
It's such a high he's not sure he'll ever be able to come back down. Biting gently on the cord of muscle, licking at damp, flushed skin, is like having that one last shot, the one that's really a bad idea, that'll send him into a spiral of fogged up, boozy poor decisions. The one that unlocks words, drops filters, numbs him to the possibility of repercussion. How the hell is he supposed to think about next when right the fuck now is already smoldering impatient coals under his skin, shoving them into his skull and making every single bad idea he's ever had seem like fate?
"Yeah, well..."
The hand not currently sliding up under Steve's shirt moves to the side of Steve's head, tips it with blunt square fingers threading into short hair, so Danny can chase the line of Steve's rabbiting pulse up to the soft underside of his jaw. "Last time was a month ago, and you have to admit there was a lot going on at the time."
Like, for example, every barrier he'd held, smashed in the space of a few second, a few hours, a single day. Gone from bro hugs and back pats to trying to climb down each others' throats, unable to keep their hands off each other for longer than a ten minute stretch. The words I want you screaming like falling meteors in his ears. When, Christ, he never just falls into bed with somebody, works up to it through coffee and dinners and movies and a few sessions of making out on the couch.
But not one of his roadblocks stopped him, that day. Not until that. The kitchen. The look on Steve's face. The apology, when there wasn't any need for apologizing. Not having any clue of how the mechanics of it all worked, terrified at the sudden loss of all control.
And. Well. If he's being honest?
Terrified of putting it all on the line, in one day. That Steve would be satisfied with it. That one day would have been all there was.
His fingertips track along Steve's waistband, palm filling with warm, soft skin and firm muscle, light cotton an afterthought across the top of his hand. "But I'd hate to think that took any options off the table."
He won't lie. The whole idea makes him nervous as hell, skittery as a racehorse and just as prone to tossing himself into a wall. But he wants so much it feels like it's going to start cracking bone, splitting skin, wants it all, everything Steve's willing to give or show or do, with only the vaguest idea of what that might actually be.
no subject
Enough to sound distracted. Almost drugged. Voice barely there at all, rubbing itself over sandpaper as his hips rub over Danny's slacks. Danny can feel Steve's pulse tapping hard at his tongue; opens his mouth to pull at the skin, rewarded with the hand at the back of his head pushing harder, the body over him trying to move, restless, straight through him.
It's such a high he's not sure he'll ever be able to come back down. Biting gently on the cord of muscle, licking at damp, flushed skin, is like having that one last shot, the one that's really a bad idea, that'll send him into a spiral of fogged up, boozy poor decisions. The one that unlocks words, drops filters, numbs him to the possibility of repercussion. How the hell is he supposed to think about next when right the fuck now is already smoldering impatient coals under his skin, shoving them into his skull and making every single bad idea he's ever had seem like fate?
"Yeah, well..."
The hand not currently sliding up under Steve's shirt moves to the side of Steve's head, tips it with blunt square fingers threading into short hair, so Danny can chase the line of Steve's rabbiting pulse up to the soft underside of his jaw. "Last time was a month ago, and you have to admit there was a lot going on at the time."
Like, for example, every barrier he'd held, smashed in the space of a few second, a few hours, a single day. Gone from bro hugs and back pats to trying to climb down each others' throats, unable to keep their hands off each other for longer than a ten minute stretch. The words I want you screaming like falling meteors in his ears. When, Christ, he never just falls into bed with somebody, works up to it through coffee and dinners and movies and a few sessions of making out on the couch.
But not one of his roadblocks stopped him, that day. Not until that. The kitchen. The look on Steve's face. The apology, when there wasn't any need for apologizing. Not having any clue of how the mechanics of it all worked, terrified at the sudden loss of all control.
And. Well. If he's being honest?
Terrified of putting it all on the line, in one day. That Steve would be satisfied with it. That one day would have been all there was.
His fingertips track along Steve's waistband, palm filling with warm, soft skin and firm muscle, light cotton an afterthought across the top of his hand. "But I'd hate to think that took any options off the table."
He won't lie. The whole idea makes him nervous as hell, skittery as a racehorse and just as prone to tossing himself into a wall. But he wants so much it feels like it's going to start cracking bone, splitting skin, wants it all, everything Steve's willing to give or show or do, with only the vaguest idea of what that might actually be.