It's almost too much. Too much sensation, knocking out bundles of nerves like he's blowing multiple fuses all at once. Steve in his hand, him pressed between their stomachs, knuckles brushing himself and dragging white-hot sparks across his vision. Steve's fingers still there, pushing harder, faster, the slick searing warm from friction and body heat. Steve's mouth finding his, shaky and half-missing it at first, and Steve is getting sloppy, starting to lose that iron control he'd had all night, that blinked on the beach in a kiss that felt like a SOLD sign was being hammered into Danny's back, again on the couch when Danny couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.
He almost can't breathe. Can't figure out if he needs to stop, or if there's nothing at all to do but keep going, push into Steve's stomach and feel his own bottom out, leg hard around Steve's hip, the other leveraging against a blanket that's rumpled and half shoved down the bed, under them. Nothing left but sprinting blindly forward, in some clumsy wending way, tripping over himself and feeling all turned around from the finish line. It's not -- it's too much, everything hitting all at once, and Christ, Christ, he's glad he pulled Steve up when he did, because the thought of this and Steve's mouth at the same time makes him despair, like being touched too soon after coming, every cell in his body still on red alert, screaming sirens into raw nerve endings.
And Steve is barreling into him, loose and long-limbed and doing his best to screw Danny straight through the mattress, bed frame creaking alarmingly against their weight, skin brushing skin and making Danny's head pop in a silent implosion that then rushes in like a dam breaking. Free hand finding Steve's face, feeling it warm under his palm, his hair damp with sweat. Fingers moving. Pulling. Tighter. Harder. Shoving recklessly forward, feeling like they're about to go smashing through a brick wall, and he doesn't care, can't, not when Steve is wanting him like this, like he's sanity, like he's air, and when the hell has anyone ever wanted Danny like that, like he wants Steve, whose name is starting to come in tight, gasping swallows of air.
The one touchstone he's got. The one goddamn thing on this whole island that's supposed to be here, when even Grace could be taken away.
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He almost can't breathe. Can't figure out if he needs to stop, or if there's nothing at all to do but keep going, push into Steve's stomach and feel his own bottom out, leg hard around Steve's hip, the other leveraging against a blanket that's rumpled and half shoved down the bed, under them. Nothing left but sprinting blindly forward, in some clumsy wending way, tripping over himself and feeling all turned around from the finish line. It's not -- it's too much, everything hitting all at once, and Christ, Christ, he's glad he pulled Steve up when he did, because the thought of this and Steve's mouth at the same time makes him despair, like being touched too soon after coming, every cell in his body still on red alert, screaming sirens into raw nerve endings.
And Steve is barreling into him, loose and long-limbed and doing his best to screw Danny straight through the mattress, bed frame creaking alarmingly against their weight, skin brushing skin and making Danny's head pop in a silent implosion that then rushes in like a dam breaking. Free hand finding Steve's face, feeling it warm under his palm, his hair damp with sweat. Fingers moving. Pulling. Tighter. Harder. Shoving recklessly forward, feeling like they're about to go smashing through a brick wall, and he doesn't care, can't, not when Steve is wanting him like this, like he's sanity, like he's air, and when the hell has anyone ever wanted Danny like that, like he wants Steve, whose name is starting to come in tight, gasping swallows of air.
The one touchstone he's got. The one goddamn thing on this whole island that's supposed to be here, when even Grace could be taken away.