Steve's face probably can't be seen in the dark. But there's something like a disbelief, that mingled with some kind of fucked affection, flooding him with the smack of challenge. The utter unruly nature of Danny's Jersey Boy mouth, and the fact he's held back every second, almost, since Danny chose to say anything back. Held back when, if it were anyone else, Steve would have already burned bruises into their hips and taken them for everything.
When the burn of that sizzles under his skin like he's touching a cast iron pan left on high. Because capability when never be the problem. Steve doesn't have any question of whether he could. That has never be in the equation. He's beyond capable. He knows what he's capable of, what he could do. Turn Danny's world on a dime, possibly painfully with only a few seconds of movement. When it might be worth it. God. Fuck. In his head it almost is. Small collateral.
Even when his eyebrows are raised at Danny and his fingers tighten on Danny's hips, jerking Danny's whole body closer to him win a response that is far more than words. Words, words, words. Danny's cloud of defense and brash, ballsy bravery. The weapon left to his name. And Steve's just going to cut through them without a single one of him own. With the hands jerking Danny to him, only to have move hard, and fast inwards.
Wrapping around around the base, catching fingers in curls with almost not thought to them. None at all, because he's flattening his tongue against the bottom of his mouth, forcing his saliva to the front of his mouth, and taking Danny in. Down. Without any lead up, without any consideration or concern or slowness. Shoving full-tilt for the skin at Danny's stomach, his groin, all around the base. Forget air. He doesn't need it. Nose brushing in curls, only for the brush of less than half a second before, he's doing it again. And again.
Because pain isn't part of this. Yet? He doesn't even. Can't finished that. Because there are sharp, hot burning pokers slicing into him. It isn't about pain now. It isn't about riding roughshod, and tossing Danny over the edge of his bed, or his couch, making him eat every single word that's left to cover him that his clothes are gone. But he doesn't want to hurt Danny. God. He never wants to hurt Danny. Never wants to be one of those people.
Even, taking him deep and fast, there's some part of Steve that hopes Danny feels as dumb-foundedly punched in the face as he does. It's not like that. Because if just the possibility of more didn't kill him, and leave him strung out, or the plan burning his fingers tips from his hands, making him want to move them again already, Danny's mouth certainly might.
no subject
When the burn of that sizzles under his skin like he's touching a cast iron pan left on high. Because capability when never be the problem. Steve doesn't have any question of whether he could. That has never be in the equation. He's beyond capable. He knows what he's capable of, what he could do. Turn Danny's world on a dime, possibly painfully with only a few seconds of movement. When it might be worth it. God. Fuck. In his head it almost is. Small collateral.
Even when his eyebrows are raised at Danny and his fingers tighten on Danny's hips, jerking Danny's whole body closer to him win a response that is far more than words. Words, words, words. Danny's cloud of defense and brash, ballsy bravery. The weapon left to his name. And Steve's just going to cut through them without a single one of him own. With the hands jerking Danny to him, only to have move hard, and fast inwards.
Wrapping around around the base, catching fingers in curls with almost not thought to them. None at all, because he's flattening his tongue against the bottom of his mouth, forcing his saliva to the front of his mouth, and taking Danny in. Down. Without any lead up, without any consideration or concern or slowness. Shoving full-tilt for the skin at Danny's stomach, his groin, all around the base. Forget air. He doesn't need it. Nose brushing in curls, only for the brush of less than half a second before, he's doing it again. And again.
Because pain isn't part of this. Yet? He doesn't even. Can't finished that. Because there are sharp, hot burning pokers slicing into him. It isn't about pain now. It isn't about riding roughshod, and tossing Danny over the edge of his bed, or his couch, making him eat every single word that's left to cover him that his clothes are gone. But he doesn't want to hurt Danny. God. He never wants to hurt Danny. Never wants to be one of those people.
Even, taking him deep and fast, there's some part of Steve that hopes Danny feels as dumb-foundedly punched in the face as he does. It's not like that. Because if just the possibility of more didn't kill him, and leave him strung out, or the plan burning his fingers tips from his hands, making him want to move them again already, Danny's mouth certainly might.