He doesn't fit, but really he has to give Danny points for just going the hell with his decision, flipping Steve and leaving him with almost nowhere to shove his legs that isn't still hitting the arm of the couch with the foot of the one under him now, leaving it cramped and bent, and one that magically somehow ends up with his foot off the couch, stretching calf and thigh muscles that haven't in long enough there's a low grade burn in with the surprise.
But none of it. Not Danny rearannging him like he's furntiture, like this a wrestling match, and throwing him at the couch, that he's certain moved an inch or two there, with his weight tossed at it. Not his shoulder smacking the couch. Or having to negotiate Danny's knees, and the damnably important part of managing not to tense his hand on Danny the any more than tense handshake.
None of it is as problematic as Danny's fingers ending up on him, rubbing over his pants.
In the way his shoulders re-shifting, twice, is the first sign that he'd shuddered hard enough it made his own teeth snap. When there's blinding inferno lighting itself up and down every inch of his skin, taking out his vision, and his body doesn't need reminding, doesn't need prompting or leading. It's so ready already, after his own words, after Danny's, that it's a miracle he isn't just gone the second Danny touches him. Making a mockery of every ounce of his claim at self control over any of this.
When it's so strong he might have been thrown into a wall and not a couch. Not Danny's mouth on his, working smug words into his mouth, and forcing him to come back. To dig his fingers into the wall of his head, of thoughts over sensation, like icepicks and make it back. To where he can make his vision focus on Danny's face. On the words shoved into between kisses Steve can feel himself returning even before there's any thought about doing so.
When that's only going to increase, because Danny isn't even touching his skin but he's aimed for it. He is. Making him tense his core, his stomach, pushing down through his thighs with something like a desperate silent prayer, shifting into arms pulling him closer, and dragging Danny against him, half wondering too many things. Losing them in Danny's mouth, and moving his arm now. Shoving the one under himself out under Danny's side, to curl up around his back and drag Danny even closer.
Fingers of his hand, wrist, shifting, trying to find a more comfortable way to keep his hand in Danny's pants. Even when his hips are moving half without his say so -- shifting and push-pull through the cuff of Danny's fingers, up into the movement at the top -- and he keeps returning each of Danny's kisses, a little more ragged than he'd already been, he finds the breath to say, sharp and snappy. "Yeah. Sure. Danno. That looks great."
Just the edge of too tight, when everything, everything is Danny's hand and his eyes, how close his mouth is. Words grated out saccharine sarcastic, and maybe overly supportive, like you'd say it to a child, about an art drawing. Except that no child does what Danny's hands are doing, what Steve's mind is bolting toward, hard and fast. "This looks so much like you managed to get rid of my pants."
Maybe parts of his spine. Parts that are melting into the already boiling center of him. But not his pants. Which he'd really be grateful to have spontaneously combust at this point, honestly. He's got dozens more upstairs. Like he's got smartass to spare, while he's pretty sure the tips of his ears and the edges of his vision are burning. But he's not about to give. "I think we need to revisit your having any idea how this works."
no subject
But none of it. Not Danny rearannging him like he's furntiture, like this a wrestling match, and throwing him at the couch, that he's certain moved an inch or two there, with his weight tossed at it. Not his shoulder smacking the couch. Or having to negotiate Danny's knees, and the damnably important part of managing not to tense his hand on Danny the any more than tense handshake.
None of it is as problematic as Danny's fingers ending up on him, rubbing over his pants.
In the way his shoulders re-shifting, twice, is the first sign that he'd shuddered hard enough it made his own teeth snap. When there's blinding inferno lighting itself up and down every inch of his skin, taking out his vision, and his body doesn't need reminding, doesn't need prompting or leading. It's so ready already, after his own words, after Danny's, that it's a miracle he isn't just gone the second Danny touches him. Making a mockery of every ounce of his claim at self control over any of this.
When it's so strong he might have been thrown into a wall and not a couch. Not Danny's mouth on his, working smug words into his mouth, and forcing him to come back. To dig his fingers into the wall of his head, of thoughts over sensation, like icepicks and make it back. To where he can make his vision focus on Danny's face. On the words shoved into between kisses Steve can feel himself returning even before there's any thought about doing so.
When that's only going to increase, because Danny isn't even touching his skin but he's aimed for it. He is. Making him tense his core, his stomach, pushing down through his thighs with something like a desperate silent prayer, shifting into arms pulling him closer, and dragging Danny against him, half wondering too many things. Losing them in Danny's mouth, and moving his arm now. Shoving the one under himself out under Danny's side, to curl up around his back and drag Danny even closer.
Fingers of his hand, wrist, shifting, trying to find a more comfortable way to keep his hand in Danny's pants. Even when his hips are moving half without his say so -- shifting and push-pull through the cuff of Danny's fingers, up into the movement at the top -- and he keeps returning each of Danny's kisses, a little more ragged than he'd already been, he finds the breath to say, sharp and snappy. "Yeah. Sure. Danno. That looks great."
Just the edge of too tight, when everything, everything is Danny's hand and his eyes, how close his mouth is. Words grated out saccharine sarcastic, and maybe overly supportive, like you'd say it to a child, about an art drawing. Except that no child does what Danny's hands are doing, what Steve's mind is bolting toward, hard and fast. "This looks so much like you managed to get rid of my pants."
Maybe parts of his spine. Parts that are melting into the already boiling center of him. But not his pants. Which he'd really be grateful to have spontaneously combust at this point, honestly. He's got dozens more upstairs. Like he's got smartass to spare, while he's pretty sure the tips of his ears and the edges of his vision are burning. But he's not about to give. "I think we need to revisit your having any idea how this works."