Not even close. Steve is nowhere near done. If anything he's right at the beginning of something he couldn't even let himself believe was going to happen to even have a beginning, or an ending for that matter. It was something outside the box, and his head, and his world. Like it ever snowing on his house. Like making heads of tails of Doris and Wo Fat. When Danny is muttering, sitting and yanking at his pants, and Steve is trying to find a steadying supply of air again.
Especially once Danny is naked and on the edge of his bed and -- trying to breaking down the walls of anything that looks like control with his tongue. When Danny's mouth is suddenly tracing across the bottom of his stomach, right above his boxers. Annoyedly throwing fire and ash at his skin, trying to singe Steve's control right through him. Mouth on his skin, word on his skin. So sudden and so scalding he can't even remember.
How his hand got tangled in Danny's hair, how Danny got his hands past his pants, how the center of his body jerked hard, repetitively, into Danny's mouth, his face, his hands, even when Steve's stomach caved at the same time as his other hand was gripping tight on Danny's shoulder when Danny's teeth dug into his muscle, dragging out a sound too high and needy, while his torso almost tried to curve around Danny's upperbody.
When everything is threatening, wanting, burning through the edges of the space he needs. Only to snap. Hard. "Danny." Is shoving out this mouth. Hard, harder than he means, desperate to keep his own feet. With reason tonight.
When he's pushing Danny's shoulder back and pulling his head back by a fist of hair. With as much strength as is necessary to shove a foot, or more's, space between them. Because. No. No, he's not going to give in, or fall over. He wants his head. He doesn't care how much he wants Danny's mouth, hot and wet and full of madness, a few inches lower, his fingers to hold on harder, his tongue. Steve wants the ability to think, right now, even more.
As maddeningly insane as that is, as fast it's evaporating, making his grip on it colder, clearer, more necessary.
He lets his hands get free of Danny's hair and his skin, dragging up a leg and catching the toe of his boot on the sideboard of the bed, right between Danny's legs, trying to find space left anywhere in his chest for the air coming in and out hard, to find a perch. Breathing into his own fingers yanking at the knots in his laces, while he's half bent over, his pants sagging toward his knees and his boxers in the crease of hips. Tossing his shoe not far to the side before he's dragging up the other one.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-28 04:00 am (UTC)Especially once Danny is naked and on the edge of his bed and -- trying to breaking down the walls of anything that looks like control with his tongue. When Danny's mouth is suddenly tracing across the bottom of his stomach, right above his boxers. Annoyedly throwing fire and ash at his skin, trying to singe Steve's control right through him. Mouth on his skin, word on his skin. So sudden and so scalding he can't even remember.
How his hand got tangled in Danny's hair, how Danny got his hands past his pants, how the center of his body jerked hard, repetitively, into Danny's mouth, his face, his hands, even when Steve's stomach caved at the same time as his other hand was gripping tight on Danny's shoulder when Danny's teeth dug into his muscle, dragging out a sound too high and needy, while his torso almost tried to curve around Danny's upperbody.
When everything is threatening, wanting, burning through the edges of the space he needs. Only to snap. Hard.
"Danny." Is shoving out this mouth. Hard, harder than he means, desperate to keep his own feet. With reason tonight.
When he's pushing Danny's shoulder back and pulling his head back by a fist of hair. With as much strength as is necessary to shove a foot, or more's, space between them. Because. No. No, he's not going to give in, or fall over. He wants his head. He doesn't care how much he wants Danny's mouth, hot and wet and full of madness, a few inches lower, his fingers to hold on harder, his tongue. Steve wants the ability to think, right now, even more.
As maddeningly insane as that is, as fast it's evaporating, making his grip on it colder, clearer, more necessary.
He lets his hands get free of Danny's hair and his skin, dragging up a leg and catching the toe of his boot on the sideboard of the bed, right between Danny's legs, trying to find space left anywhere in his chest for the air coming in and out hard, to find a perch. Breathing into his own fingers yanking at the knots in his laces, while he's half bent over, his pants sagging toward his knees and his boxers in the crease of hips. Tossing his shoe not far to the side before he's dragging up the other one.