Danny and his mouth. They're going to try to kill Steve. Not that Steve hasn't been aware of this aim and game since the moment the man walked into his house. The first time. But right now, at the bleeding edge of sensitivity, while Danny's throwing smack, between small gasps for air, he thinks Danny might actually be trying for it. When nothing he's doing puts a hand on the heat to turn it even slightly down.

When Steve is trying hard not to focus on the blinding truth burning across his thoughts like a fucking steamroller.

How few inches and how with just the right force of a thrust, core muscles and thighs tight and sudden, focused, he could could be buried in Danny. To his hips. A world of heat and tight, melting the whole world. Especially like this. Especially when Danny is climbing up him, scraping skin, shifting positions, making it feels like his skin is starting to crack from the tension of holding still, of letting him. How little he'd have to move to be there, to do that.

His hand already there, how it would be easy to shove Danny into the right place, inches from where here is.

How close. How easy. How desperately wanted. How much it burns, blotting out the sun.

While Danny is shoving out words about whether he plans to do anything. Making him want to snap back as much as tense his jaw. When he's wrestling free where his other arm is, pulling, pushing, shoving it under Danny, between his shoulder and neck and the bed and turning his face, with a burning exasperation, that comes out sharp with a time-worn insult and strain. "Don't you ever shut up."

Steve leaning in to catch his mouth, hard and fast. Those aren't even the words to describe this kiss. It's more like ruthless. It's more like attack or siege. It's more about plunging into the one place he can at that second, when he needs to shove it all somewhere, while he's having to use all the strength in his arm and his shoulder to just pry his fingers off Danny's ass. To not move, to not touch him, fuck him, strong arm him and send him reeling straight over. Yet. Like this.

To not shove the fuck forward and apologize on the other end, when they're both broken and broken-open and blitzed gone. But he gets there. His fingers, his arm, burning muscles and tension. Letting go. Searching on the bed for the bottle while he's searching the entirity of Danny's mouth for his sanity.

At least he finds the first one. Can vaguely admit he doesn't give a damn about the second, wants to lose it, wants to let go, wants to not give a single fuck about burning every line and wall between them, especially when he's flicking the bottle around in his hand and there's the definite sound of plastic uncapping with a snap. Twisting that until it's the right direction, toward his fingers and palm and aware a dripping mess is just as likely on whatever bits of their skin are right below his hand.

The bottle getting tossed down somewhere behind his legs, too hard to hold on to when he's rubbing his fingers together through lube, and he doesn't wait or ask this time. He just pushes even closer, bumping hip bones and thighs and hips, like it's possible still, when he's sliding one thigh hard and thigh-high between Danny's legs, to create space while he starts slicking up Danny's skin, and pushing, specifically, this time with the tip of his middle finger.

Down, in, around, against muscles he knows will give if he just gives it the right amount of his nearly void patience.