At least he has some purchase this way, foot up on the couch cushion, inner leg pressing hard against Steve's hip and the outside of his calf, but his foot almost slips back to the floor when Steve moves, a sudden slick powerful wave, allowing a rush of what feels like damn near arctic air between them at the loss of contact. While Danny's still dazed and struck from that sound, licking at his bitten lip and tasting the faint coppery sharpness of skin that's not quite broken, and they're both grabbing for Steve's shirt, tugging it off him, leaving him exposed, perfect, light glancing off his skin in the stuttered strobe of the television screen, flickering with every change of shot and scene.
God. Just. Fuck. He should be on that screen. He should be in a magazine spread. Steve's chest is heaving, stomach muscles contracting and loosening with each breath, and he's so beautiful it actually hurts, aches in a swift blow to Danny's sternum, sinks beneath the bone and clutches at his heart, that poor fractured thing that's bounding recklessly into the fray, keeps stumbling, fumbling, limping every other step, nowhere near able to fly the way it thinks it can. A sorry excuse for one, continually lost and bewildered, too easily stepped on, out in the open like it is.
But chasing Steve, and Steve's impossible beauty, is what it's doing anyway, hammering in his chest like it's trying to burst straight out, leaping into his throat when Steve pulls him up, can't even wait for Danny to get the damn shirt off his shoulders and arms before he's all over him. Hand wrapping at the side of his neck, fingers shoving up into hair. Making Danny shiver, a full-bodied hard shudder that feels like fever, a low groan pulling out of him as Steve's mouth falls on his shoulder. Trying to strip his suddenly clinging shirt off his arms, sleeves catching on his biceps and elbows, shaking rough and unsteady.
"Fuck, Steve."
He's already left marks all down one side of Danny's throat and onto the skin of his shoulder, but apparently that's not good enough, and Danny can feel the blood striking against his own skin as Steve pulls on it, mouth so hot and so good, fitting perfect and slick against bunching muscle.
His shirt can die. That would be fine. He's about three nanoseconds from just ripping the damn thing himself before he feels it finally, finally, slide off his wrists, letting him wad it into a ball and toss it aside, and his hands, his hands are free, finally, Christ, he can't get enough of Steve's skin under them. Sitting up, stomach crunching and back taut, arms circling Steve's ribcage, a wealth of warmth and smooth skin and shifting muscle underneath his palms, fingers, blunt nails trying to find purchase, scraping lines into Steve's perfect skin, soothing them again with fingertips.
Pushing his face into the crook of Steve's neck, trying for more, for closer, because he used up all the words he had, bottomed out, and all he's got left now is to listen to his own harsh breath and sink into Steve, smelling like salt and shampoo and sun-soaked skin.
Holding on. Hard. Like Steve is a life raft, and maybe he is. Danny was sure as hell adrift before they met, and whatever he has to cling to now is all because of Steve.
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God. Just. Fuck. He should be on that screen. He should be in a magazine spread. Steve's chest is heaving, stomach muscles contracting and loosening with each breath, and he's so beautiful it actually hurts, aches in a swift blow to Danny's sternum, sinks beneath the bone and clutches at his heart, that poor fractured thing that's bounding recklessly into the fray, keeps stumbling, fumbling, limping every other step, nowhere near able to fly the way it thinks it can. A sorry excuse for one, continually lost and bewildered, too easily stepped on, out in the open like it is.
But chasing Steve, and Steve's impossible beauty, is what it's doing anyway, hammering in his chest like it's trying to burst straight out, leaping into his throat when Steve pulls him up, can't even wait for Danny to get the damn shirt off his shoulders and arms before he's all over him. Hand wrapping at the side of his neck, fingers shoving up into hair. Making Danny shiver, a full-bodied hard shudder that feels like fever, a low groan pulling out of him as Steve's mouth falls on his shoulder. Trying to strip his suddenly clinging shirt off his arms, sleeves catching on his biceps and elbows, shaking rough and unsteady.
"Fuck, Steve."
He's already left marks all down one side of Danny's throat and onto the skin of his shoulder, but apparently that's not good enough, and Danny can feel the blood striking against his own skin as Steve pulls on it, mouth so hot and so good, fitting perfect and slick against bunching muscle.
His shirt can die. That would be fine. He's about three nanoseconds from just ripping the damn thing himself before he feels it finally, finally, slide off his wrists, letting him wad it into a ball and toss it aside, and his hands, his hands are free, finally, Christ, he can't get enough of Steve's skin under them. Sitting up, stomach crunching and back taut, arms circling Steve's ribcage, a wealth of warmth and smooth skin and shifting muscle underneath his palms, fingers, blunt nails trying to find purchase, scraping lines into Steve's perfect skin, soothing them again with fingertips.
Pushing his face into the crook of Steve's neck, trying for more, for closer, because he used up all the words he had, bottomed out, and all he's got left now is to listen to his own harsh breath and sink into Steve, smelling like salt and shampoo and sun-soaked skin.
Holding on. Hard. Like Steve is a life raft, and maybe he is. Danny was sure as hell adrift before they met, and whatever he has to cling to now is all because of Steve.