It's a head rush, it always is. Watching Danny react. Feeling it across him. When sensation shudders through Danny's body. Against his hands, against the stiflingly restrained area inside Danny's pants that Steve's hand is now taking up the rest of. Against his legs, the leg clutching around his. The immediate shift of touch, before it's broken the next second with the groan that reaches Danny's mouth finally.
Dragging his mouth from Steve's, and leaving Steve with an explosive bubble of gritty satisfaction exploding inside his chest. Too fast and too big to even really get out a laugh or a snort at it. Running out and wanting more, just as those hands get in on it. Suddenly sliding everywhere, like the objective is for Danny to touch all of him and there's just too much of him everywhere, or like Danny just can't get enough of everything, all at the same second.
Ghost hands on his skin, against his bones, digging into the thick muscles on his sides and across the curved slope of his back. The frantic edge to them probably being the best. When Danny can't even seem to decide whether he's pulling Steve closer, or holding him still, digging fingers and handholds into him. His ass. When there are words, breath-less and thin, and so god damn glorious Steve almost wants to stop just to listen to it. Almost.
Words falling out, pleaded and then petulant, pulling at his clothes and startling that laugh right out of his chest Caustic and mocking like it got poured out of rich sunshine, slow roasted until it could burn brightness even in the dark.
"You can't what?" Steve asked, with taunting kind of insult, the way he asked Danny anything during a day. In the car, at work, on a case. Prod at his skin, his rants, his heart, his feelings. Scoffing out right on it's heels, "Your hands don't look-" There's a telling half second pause and pressed on addition. "-or feel, broke from here."
Which might be two comments he doesn't actually need to make. Because he gets it. He does. God, does he.
All of these clothes could be gone. They could be doing so much more. Might be. But then if he was going to to play anywhere near fair his fingers wouldn't still be stroking up and down Danny's skin, without any pause for the antagonization or the way the movement is running a raw line along his own wrist against the back of Danny's boxers and zipper.
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Dragging his mouth from Steve's, and leaving Steve with an explosive bubble of gritty satisfaction exploding inside his chest. Too fast and too big to even really get out a laugh or a snort at it. Running out and wanting more, just as those hands get in on it. Suddenly sliding everywhere, like the objective is for Danny to touch all of him and there's just too much of him everywhere, or like Danny just can't get enough of everything, all at the same second.
Ghost hands on his skin, against his bones, digging into the thick muscles on his sides and across the curved slope of his back. The frantic edge to them probably being the best. When Danny can't even seem to decide whether he's pulling Steve closer, or holding him still, digging fingers and handholds into him. His ass. When there are words, breath-less and thin, and so god damn glorious Steve almost wants to stop just to listen to it. Almost.
Words falling out, pleaded and then petulant, pulling at his clothes and startling that laugh right out of his chest
Caustic and mocking like it got poured out of rich sunshine, slow roasted until it could burn brightness even in the dark.
"You can't what?" Steve asked, with taunting kind of insult, the way he asked Danny anything during a day. In the car, at work, on a case. Prod at his skin, his rants, his heart, his feelings. Scoffing out right on it's heels, "Your hands don't look-" There's a telling half second pause and pressed on addition. "-or feel, broke from here."
Which might be two comments he doesn't actually need to make. Because he gets it. He does. God, does he.
All of these clothes could be gone. They could be doing so much more. Might be. But then if he was going to to play anywhere near fair his fingers wouldn't still be stroking up and down Danny's skin, without any pause for the antagonization or the way the movement is running a raw line along his own wrist against the back of Danny's boxers and zipper.