He grins, wild and sharp, against the prickling stubble on Steve's neck, the muscles of his throat that are working hard, against lips, against tongue and teeth and suction, and that's probably going to leave a mark, but Danny doesn't care. It's not like he's not painted from the neck down, already, due to Steve's complete one-eighty regarding whether or not they should be doing this. Like he needed to have those spots there, to remind him, to keep him focused.
Owning his skin, just like that hand is, hot and firm and it feels like everywhere all at once, palm pressing against spots almost painfully sensitive, and bursting washed-out colors behind his eyes, exploding in his chest, messy, shrapnel getting everywhere, making him bleed out this thing that isn't blood, getting it all over, in sloppy stripes against Steve's skin, making his hands shake and his breath shorten hard, a racehorse getting reined in just before the final turn.
Necessary, maybe, because the way they're pressing against each other, tipping into each other, they might not last long enough to do anything different, to get inside anywhere, and that would be a shame, right, he should try slowing down, hasn't even had his hands on Steve since the couch, hasn't gotten his mouth anywhere on him but lips and here.
Bulling his way back up Steve's neck to cheek and jaw and mouth, getting dragged unceremoniously into what is definitely not any extra space, is just more Steve, unrelenting and unforgiving as a wall, everywhere, because he is a fucking construction project, not a normally built human. "This doesn't seem like action to you?"
Fingers blunting dipped circles into the muscle of his ass, arm going around his shoulders, and he kind of feels like he's climbing up a wall that could collapse on him at any time, but, whatever, Steve has a big enough bed there's plenty fo space to roll around. "Then we must not be doing it right."
Right, wrong, it doesn't matter, not when it's all skin and heavy breaths and getting so hot and hard it's starting to drive him crazy every time their hips tilt toward each other. "I'm waiting on you, big guy. You take that stuff out just for its aesthetic appeal, or were you planning on doing something with it?"
Playing with fire doesn't even begin to describe what he's doing, what he knows he's doing, pushing at the threadbare edges of Steve's sanity, trying, actually trying to snap Steve's self-control, and he'll probably pay for it, but it's better than Steve thinking too hard, focusing too much, forgetting that he gets to enjoy this, too.
And, well. Sometimes it's easier to take the plunge if you rev up your engine and go speeding off the cliff, instead of tiptoeing to the side of the edge.
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Owning his skin, just like that hand is, hot and firm and it feels like everywhere all at once, palm pressing against spots almost painfully sensitive, and bursting washed-out colors behind his eyes, exploding in his chest, messy, shrapnel getting everywhere, making him bleed out this thing that isn't blood, getting it all over, in sloppy stripes against Steve's skin, making his hands shake and his breath shorten hard, a racehorse getting reined in just before the final turn.
Necessary, maybe, because the way they're pressing against each other, tipping into each other, they might not last long enough to do anything different, to get inside anywhere, and that would be a shame, right, he should try slowing down, hasn't even had his hands on Steve since the couch, hasn't gotten his mouth anywhere on him but lips and here.
Bulling his way back up Steve's neck to cheek and jaw and mouth, getting dragged unceremoniously into what is definitely not any extra space, is just more Steve, unrelenting and unforgiving as a wall, everywhere, because he is a fucking construction project, not a normally built human. "This doesn't seem like action to you?"
Fingers blunting dipped circles into the muscle of his ass, arm going around his shoulders, and he kind of feels like he's climbing up a wall that could collapse on him at any time, but, whatever, Steve has a big enough bed there's plenty fo space to roll around. "Then we must not be doing it right."
Right, wrong, it doesn't matter, not when it's all skin and heavy breaths and getting so hot and hard it's starting to drive him crazy every time their hips tilt toward each other. "I'm waiting on you, big guy. You take that stuff out just for its aesthetic appeal, or were you planning on doing something with it?"
Playing with fire doesn't even begin to describe what he's doing, what he knows he's doing, pushing at the threadbare edges of Steve's sanity, trying, actually trying to snap Steve's self-control, and he'll probably pay for it, but it's better than Steve thinking too hard, focusing too much, forgetting that he gets to enjoy this, too.
And, well. Sometimes it's easier to take the plunge if you rev up your engine and go speeding off the cliff, instead of tiptoeing to the side of the edge.