Steve's mouth is going to be the end of him, he knows it. Every touch of it streaks lightning across his skin, chasing it with fire, like touching a match to a trail of gasoline, or lighting the smoke of a just blown-out candle. It laces across his whole chest, around his back and ribcage, threads into his stomach and hangs on as his muscles tighten and tighten further. Steve's marking him up, and Danny can feel it, feels the bruises forming, the scrape of teeth that will turn into pink lines once it's all over and leave him reminders in the mirror, as if he could forget.
As if there's any way to forget the fact the he didn't go anywhere. Told Steve he'd do whatever it took. Pushed into his space and said don't, said please, and Steve isn't doing anything nearly as polite as that. He's painting thick swathes of ownership over Danny's skin, leaving behind angry red marks that may actually muddy into purples and blues by morning, as if Danny hasn't had enough of bruises, as if the last few weeks weren't spent mostly recovering from the previous ones. Not that this is anything like being attacked in an alley, except that --
Well, it is kind of like being attacked in an alley. Able to fight back, but unwilling to, even when Steve's shoving them both towards the couch again, the fingers that had just been sliding up into his hair now fisting, yanking dull pain into Danny's scalp, dragging him down like an undertow. Mouth hard and hot, muscles flexing under Danny's fingers, into his nails, pushing up into his grip like he can't get enough of it. Even after almost shoving it all out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Trying to push Danny out to the car, out of his life, out of his bed, out of his arms, but it was all a lie, had to be, because it's like he can't let go, now.
Pressing Danny back down. Smothering the world in him, in Steve, scent of him and taste of him and the solid heavy reality of him. Dragging madness through his skin, mouth latching onto his nipple, tongue hot and wet and just this side of rough, enough to make Danny roll his head back from where his face was buried in Steve's neck, chest heaving without any breath finding its way through. Shoving up, mindlessly, hips pushing, core contracting so hard he wonders if it'll be sore tomorrow, the way it is if he does too many crunches or spends more time than he's used to on a surfboard.
Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters, except for Steve, and the way Steve's not arguing with him anymore, or trying to say he doesn't want this, isn't deflecting, isn't holding back. Spiking Danny's heartrate into the red zone, and he's not sure if his hands are all over Steve more for as much contact as he can get, or just to hold on, while Steve douses him in gasoline and lights a match.
Steve's a man of action, after all. Why wait and talk about it, think it over, when he can just throw himself off the cliff into the fire and drag Danny with him?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-23 09:58 pm (UTC)As if there's any way to forget the fact the he didn't go anywhere. Told Steve he'd do whatever it took. Pushed into his space and said don't, said please, and Steve isn't doing anything nearly as polite as that. He's painting thick swathes of ownership over Danny's skin, leaving behind angry red marks that may actually muddy into purples and blues by morning, as if Danny hasn't had enough of bruises, as if the last few weeks weren't spent mostly recovering from the previous ones. Not that this is anything like being attacked in an alley, except that --
Well, it is kind of like being attacked in an alley. Able to fight back, but unwilling to, even when Steve's shoving them both towards the couch again, the fingers that had just been sliding up into his hair now fisting, yanking dull pain into Danny's scalp, dragging him down like an undertow. Mouth hard and hot, muscles flexing under Danny's fingers, into his nails, pushing up into his grip like he can't get enough of it. Even after almost shoving it all out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Trying to push Danny out to the car, out of his life, out of his bed, out of his arms, but it was all a lie, had to be, because it's like he can't let go, now.
Pressing Danny back down. Smothering the world in him, in Steve, scent of him and taste of him and the solid heavy reality of him. Dragging madness through his skin, mouth latching onto his nipple, tongue hot and wet and just this side of rough, enough to make Danny roll his head back from where his face was buried in Steve's neck, chest heaving without any breath finding its way through. Shoving up, mindlessly, hips pushing, core contracting so hard he wonders if it'll be sore tomorrow, the way it is if he does too many crunches or spends more time than he's used to on a surfboard.
Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters, except for Steve, and the way Steve's not arguing with him anymore, or trying to say he doesn't want this, isn't deflecting, isn't holding back. Spiking Danny's heartrate into the red zone, and he's not sure if his hands are all over Steve more for as much contact as he can get, or just to hold on, while Steve douses him in gasoline and lights a match.
Steve's a man of action, after all. Why wait and talk about it, think it over, when he can just throw himself off the cliff into the fire and drag Danny with him?