Muttered petulantly, faintly annoyed at Steve for pulling back, even as Danny's legs hit the mattress and the bedframe, for losing Steve's hot slick mouth and that perfect sound, dragged out and reluctant and never previously scripted, never faked, scratching phosphorus into flaring, brilliant life in the cage of Danny's ribs and lungs and faulty, irresponsible heart.
This stupid thing that hears Steve's voice, in the darkened, intimate shadows of the bedroom, and goes flopping heavily sideways, making the kind of flutter Danny's doctor would probably be extremely concerned by, that must be some kind of hypertension, right, possibly pre-cardiac issues that are undoubtedly signs of worse things to come, because they can't all be Steve-related, though. Under further consideration, Danny is almost completely sure Steve will probably be to blame for any heart attacks he has, that aren't entirely Grace-related.
But not now. Now, it's just making a painful, knifing, sideways beat that makes him catch his breath like he's been stabbed, and it's not such a completely different feeling, really; his breath leaves his lungs in a vacuum and it makes everything spin in an unsettling kind of way, while his hands leave Steve's hair and skin and help shove at his own pants, boxers, needing to sit back on the mattress to get them all the way off, along with the socks.
At least sitting means he's at a decent level to work at Steve's pants, too, leaning in to trace the flat skin under Steve's belly-button with his mouth, shaking his head as he works at thick khaki fabric. "Christ, you're bossy. Ordering me around, get upstairs, these are done, shut up, already, and get rid of these, huh, your clodhoppers are in the way."
Words painting right into Steve's skin, the sharp, disappearing line of muscle angling in from his hip, that gets a nip of teeth and then laved with the flat of his tongue, shoving Steve's pants down over the curve of his ass, and letting his hands find that rounded muscle, under palms, under proprietary fingertips, before he's tugging at fabric again.
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Muttered petulantly, faintly annoyed at Steve for pulling back, even as Danny's legs hit the mattress and the bedframe, for losing Steve's hot slick mouth and that perfect sound, dragged out and reluctant and never previously scripted, never faked, scratching phosphorus into flaring, brilliant life in the cage of Danny's ribs and lungs and faulty, irresponsible heart.
This stupid thing that hears Steve's voice, in the darkened, intimate shadows of the bedroom, and goes flopping heavily sideways, making the kind of flutter Danny's doctor would probably be extremely concerned by, that must be some kind of hypertension, right, possibly pre-cardiac issues that are undoubtedly signs of worse things to come, because they can't all be Steve-related, though. Under further consideration, Danny is almost completely sure Steve will probably be to blame for any heart attacks he has, that aren't entirely Grace-related.
But not now. Now, it's just making a painful, knifing, sideways beat that makes him catch his breath like he's been stabbed, and it's not such a completely different feeling, really; his breath leaves his lungs in a vacuum and it makes everything spin in an unsettling kind of way, while his hands leave Steve's hair and skin and help shove at his own pants, boxers, needing to sit back on the mattress to get them all the way off, along with the socks.
At least sitting means he's at a decent level to work at Steve's pants, too, leaning in to trace the flat skin under Steve's belly-button with his mouth, shaking his head as he works at thick khaki fabric. "Christ, you're bossy. Ordering me around, get upstairs, these are done, shut up, already, and get rid of these, huh, your clodhoppers are in the way."
Words painting right into Steve's skin, the sharp, disappearing line of muscle angling in from his hip, that gets a nip of teeth and then laved with the flat of his tongue, shoving Steve's pants down over the curve of his ass, and letting his hands find that rounded muscle, under palms, under proprietary fingertips, before he's tugging at fabric again.
"Off, off."