Nowhere. That's what Steve said, before. This goes nowhere. Nowhere Danny needed, but Danny has to disagree with that assessment, would suggest maybe Steve can kindly stick his opinion of what Danny does or doesn't need where the sun doesn't shine, because, Christ, this is need.
This, shaking, gripping, grabbing for Steve like a junkie chasing down a fix. Feverish and flushed, so deadly addicted that the idea of letting go is insanity, because Steve is gravity and air and the electric shocks shooting under his skin; he's boiling Danny's blood and evaporating his brain into a fogged up cloud of steam. Danny can feel the path of his tongue, striping his skin, like Steve's tracing that line with coals, and then his mouth is under attack, the button and zipper of his pants. Steve is besieging him, like Danny is enemy and ally and objective all at once, and, Jesus, Danny would slow him down if he could, point out that there's no need for desperation, he's right here, isn't going anywhere, isn't planning on it, obviously just proved to Steve's thick head that he means to stick around as long as he can, but that would require talking.
Which, still, stupidly, needs breath. Oxygen. The ability to sift through his vast mental dictionary, find words, string them together into what is traditionally known as a sentence.
Something he was maybe still able to do, before Steve shoved a hot, impatient hand into the sudden space in Danny's pants, and that high-pitched whine ringing in his ears screeches a few decibels higher, turns into the kind of white noise you know is there but can't hear clearly anymore, the sound equivalent to watching a muted explosion, and, Christ, Christ, fuck, he couldn't give this up. How could anyone give this up, Catherine must be dumber than he thought she was, how could she just let Steve go?
Steve, who is making Danny come all undone with a single hand, and Danny feels like a hockey skate being unlaced, swift, Steve's long finger hooking behind his bellybutton and yanking him into clumsy loops. His stomach clenches so tight it feels like being punched, and his groan interrupts Steve's mouth in its mission to seek out and destroy each remaining individual braincell.
He'd love to be able to talk. Would love to try saying a few more things, see what reaction he'd get, working Steve even further, pushing him, coaxing him, needling him, but he's not sure he'd survive it, isn't positive he'll come out of just this in one piece. His hands are making a frantic study of Steve's back and sides and hips, coasting over his back pockets, palming the curve of his ass through too-thick, too-annoying material. Trying not to pull him and erase the space Steve's putting to use, but hating the way they aren't pressed skin-tight to each other, like he wants.
More than this. He wants more. He wants it all, everything Steve might want to give, everything he can offer up, wants to know. Being with Steve has always been a singularly new experience; this is just one more, something else he can trust Steve with, wants Steve with him for, at his side, always.
Making his voice come threadbare and pleading, no matter how he tries to shove it back, pace himself, saying "Jesus, babe, that's so good, Christ. Steve. I can't --" With a petulant tug on Steve's pants. "These are in the way."
no subject
This, shaking, gripping, grabbing for Steve like a junkie chasing down a fix. Feverish and flushed, so deadly addicted that the idea of letting go is insanity, because Steve is gravity and air and the electric shocks shooting under his skin; he's boiling Danny's blood and evaporating his brain into a fogged up cloud of steam. Danny can feel the path of his tongue, striping his skin, like Steve's tracing that line with coals, and then his mouth is under attack, the button and zipper of his pants. Steve is besieging him, like Danny is enemy and ally and objective all at once, and, Jesus, Danny would slow him down if he could, point out that there's no need for desperation, he's right here, isn't going anywhere, isn't planning on it, obviously just proved to Steve's thick head that he means to stick around as long as he can, but that would require talking.
Which, still, stupidly, needs breath. Oxygen. The ability to sift through his vast mental dictionary, find words, string them together into what is traditionally known as a sentence.
Something he was maybe still able to do, before Steve shoved a hot, impatient hand into the sudden space in Danny's pants, and that high-pitched whine ringing in his ears screeches a few decibels higher, turns into the kind of white noise you know is there but can't hear clearly anymore, the sound equivalent to watching a muted explosion, and, Christ, Christ, fuck, he couldn't give this up. How could anyone give this up, Catherine must be dumber than he thought she was, how could she just let Steve go?
Steve, who is making Danny come all undone with a single hand, and Danny feels like a hockey skate being unlaced, swift, Steve's long finger hooking behind his bellybutton and yanking him into clumsy loops. His stomach clenches so tight it feels like being punched, and his groan interrupts Steve's mouth in its mission to seek out and destroy each remaining individual braincell.
He'd love to be able to talk. Would love to try saying a few more things, see what reaction he'd get, working Steve even further, pushing him, coaxing him, needling him, but he's not sure he'd survive it, isn't positive he'll come out of just this in one piece. His hands are making a frantic study of Steve's back and sides and hips, coasting over his back pockets, palming the curve of his ass through too-thick, too-annoying material. Trying not to pull him and erase the space Steve's putting to use, but hating the way they aren't pressed skin-tight to each other, like he wants.
More than this. He wants more. He wants it all, everything Steve might want to give, everything he can offer up, wants to know. Being with Steve has always been a singularly new experience; this is just one more, something else he can trust Steve with, wants Steve with him for, at his side, always.
Making his voice come threadbare and pleading, no matter how he tries to shove it back, pace himself, saying "Jesus, babe, that's so good, Christ. Steve. I can't --" With a petulant tug on Steve's pants. "These are in the way."