He's honestly not sure if Danny's face or Danny's hand is worse. The first looks so pleased, so golden and gorgeous, Steve wants to press it into himself, sear it into his skin, so he'd had something to even point to for how when his brain is trying to melt out his ears for Danny's hand, that thing in his chest is just fighting expanding, sloppy, stumbling, exuberant, shoving everything out for that smile, for his tone.
He never wants to stop this, because Danny should look like this at all time.
It's almost painful for a moment, painful air bubbles in his ears burst when he breaks the surface of water after being down too far without the exact proper preparations, disorienting, making you want to slip right back under. And it's not calm or quiet, like slipping under water. This about wanting to step back into fire. Into the twisting slow surge of Danny's hand, and their knocking, crossed forearms.
It would be easy to let it go. His own words, Danny's, to give into the tremor shivering under his skin, the way his body pushes against Danny's impotent fingers, almost making Danny's point for him. Except Steve didn't throw his back into it, or any of the rest of the muscles. There's no denying it feels good. There's no denying he wants to get off, want to come breathing in Danny's voice calling his name.
But it does beg the question, or a thought, and thoughts aren't staying. They don't land and slip slowly through him. They run, carrying torches, burning everything out as they go. Caustic, flippant, and fast. Leaving only a throbbing longing pounding under every inch of his skin. For Danny. For Danny's hands. For Danny's mouth. For this. For everything. For more.
The turn to his expression is dangerous and fast, sharp lines in every inch of pleased derision, dripping with the kind of warning signs that should come before anyone's pushing off a cliff. "You saying you're following my lead now?" Which doesn't even come on it's own whenever, does it.
When does Steve ever fight a war only on one front? His fingers having loosed from a sheath but not stopped moving. Dragging, pushing, cramped fingertips further in, lining his forearm up, so every time it moves, it's friction against Danny's cock and the pressure of pushing it flat against Danny's own stomach. When his fingertips are pushing a line, fighting against the strain of cloth, across Danny's base, across his balls, with only a momentary roll of skin, and the thin, sensitive skin behind them.
To the place right where his skin divides, rising against the fabric, for the twin curves of his ass starting.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-25 02:02 pm (UTC)He never wants to stop this, because Danny should look like this at all time.
It's almost painful for a moment, painful air bubbles in his ears burst when he breaks the surface of water after being down too far without the exact proper preparations, disorienting, making you want to slip right back under. And it's not calm or quiet, like slipping under water. This about wanting to step back into fire. Into the twisting slow surge of Danny's hand, and their knocking, crossed forearms.
It would be easy to let it go. His own words, Danny's, to give into the tremor shivering under his skin, the way his body pushes against Danny's impotent fingers, almost making Danny's point for him. Except Steve didn't throw his back into it, or any of the rest of the muscles. There's no denying it feels good. There's no denying he wants to get off, want to come breathing in Danny's voice calling his name.
But it does beg the question, or a thought, and thoughts aren't staying. They don't land and slip slowly through him. They run, carrying torches, burning everything out as they go. Caustic, flippant, and fast. Leaving only a throbbing longing pounding under every inch of his skin. For Danny. For Danny's hands. For Danny's mouth. For this. For everything. For more.
The turn to his expression is dangerous and fast, sharp lines in every inch of pleased derision, dripping with the kind of warning signs that should come before anyone's pushing off a cliff. "You saying you're following my lead now?" Which doesn't even come on it's own whenever, does it.
When does Steve ever fight a war only on one front? His fingers having loosed from a sheath but not stopped moving. Dragging, pushing, cramped fingertips further in, lining his forearm up, so every time it moves, it's friction against Danny's cock and the pressure of pushing it flat against Danny's own stomach. When his fingertips are pushing a line, fighting against the strain of cloth, across Danny's base, across his balls, with only a momentary roll of skin, and the thin, sensitive skin behind them.
To the place right where his skin divides, rising against the fabric, for the twin curves of his ass starting.