As it is, the best he manages is a kind of ground out ffffffffffffuh sound, feeling like a piece of paper in a hole puncher, as the night obliterates into sudden heat, suction, friction, wet slick Jesus fucking Christ, Steve is going to kill him.
He is. Might. Could. Will, almost definitely. Danny's not built to take that kind of shock. His heart skyrockets into flight, but at least it's still working, even if it's pounding in fits, tripping all over itself, catapulted directly into his throat while the rest of his innards melt into an unrecognizable puddle of liquid metal. Christ. He can taste silver in his mouth. Can't get breath. His head feels like the gong rung mid-fight, just before the boxers decide to take it outside the ring.
Steve's mouth is insanity, deep, deeper, swallowing Danny whole, it feels like, surrounding him completely, nudging him up against his soft palate, and, Christ, fuck, it feels so good it's draining the room away like someone pulled the plug, and Danny only notices he's pressed back into the bed when the pillow tries to fall over onto his face. He bats it aside, other hand gripping the blanket in a white-knuckled fist that he's trying to keep away from Steve's hair, because the last thing Steve needs is for him to shove, or pull, or push. Even though those thoughts keep playing. Even though they're bringing that pool in his stomach to a rapid boil.
Steve never does anything halfway. He doesn't give a shit if Danny wants to appreciate the faint layering of light on his shoulders, how it picks out particular strands in his hair, and this, this is why you don't issue challenges to Steve, because he never just accepts them, he hurdles them and goes headfirst straight into no I'm doing this instead.
When this is currently drawing a series of low, restless moans from Danny's throat, pushing his head back while he tries for air, eyes pressed shut, body shaking like he's been doused in ice water. After the teasing on the couch, hands shifting and fingers searching and his own uncertainty, it's a black and white absolution, stars bursting into fervid, violent life in the space left empty and aching in his chest.
If Steve's trying to make a point, it's working. Whatever it might be.
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As it is, the best he manages is a kind of ground out ffffffffffffuh sound, feeling like a piece of paper in a hole puncher, as the night obliterates into sudden heat, suction, friction, wet slick Jesus fucking Christ, Steve is going to kill him.
He is. Might. Could. Will, almost definitely. Danny's not built to take that kind of shock. His heart skyrockets into flight, but at least it's still working, even if it's pounding in fits, tripping all over itself, catapulted directly into his throat while the rest of his innards melt into an unrecognizable puddle of liquid metal. Christ. He can taste silver in his mouth. Can't get breath. His head feels like the gong rung mid-fight, just before the boxers decide to take it outside the ring.
Steve's mouth is insanity, deep, deeper, swallowing Danny whole, it feels like, surrounding him completely, nudging him up against his soft palate, and, Christ, fuck, it feels so good it's draining the room away like someone pulled the plug, and Danny only notices he's pressed back into the bed when the pillow tries to fall over onto his face. He bats it aside, other hand gripping the blanket in a white-knuckled fist that he's trying to keep away from Steve's hair, because the last thing Steve needs is for him to shove, or pull, or push. Even though those thoughts keep playing. Even though they're bringing that pool in his stomach to a rapid boil.
Steve never does anything halfway. He doesn't give a shit if Danny wants to appreciate the faint layering of light on his shoulders, how it picks out particular strands in his hair, and this, this is why you don't issue challenges to Steve, because he never just accepts them, he hurdles them and goes headfirst straight into no I'm doing this instead.
When this is currently drawing a series of low, restless moans from Danny's throat, pushing his head back while he tries for air, eyes pressed shut, body shaking like he's been doused in ice water. After the teasing on the couch, hands shifting and fingers searching and his own uncertainty, it's a black and white absolution, stars bursting into fervid, violent life in the space left empty and aching in his chest.
If Steve's trying to make a point, it's working. Whatever it might be.