He has to rely on Danny to help. His weight, his knees. The forearm over by Danny's shoulder. Because his hand is busy. Not that he's discounting the whole idea of his weight being on and against Danny, either. Not even with the leg wrapping back around his hip, upper thigh, sliding and clutching, following his order, and the faint twist of his own body to make sure there's nothing in the way of his hand, of the way Danny's body reacts suddenly like he's hit a live wire.
Shaking his skin, and the bed, between both their movements, and shattering out those words, hissing that Steve wants to go down breathing. If he ever goes down at all. It may never happen. It feels like fire and gasoline and helium are expanding as at an explosive rate when Danny's voice is like that. When his words can't even finish and Steve shoves into them, the way he shoves into everything else. Can't stop pushing into Danny.
"--better?" Steve opts, mouth pushing the word into Danny's skin with something like vicious success spattered all through with the burning oil of a black sort of laughing smugness, agreement, soaking his words without even shaking his chest. When he's moving only to find Danny's face, again, shifting his arm, and readjusting around Danny digging his head into the bed.
Burning, "Told you," without any remorse or restraint into Danny's lips with righteous fire.
Fingers slamming into skin, thumb rubbing down harder on the flat over his prostate above that.
All of that is somewhere far, far away from this. Remorse. Regret. Second thoughts. First ones. Tossed off the bed, with dignity, fear, sanity, sense. When he can still feel the burning muscles in his thighs, his hips. Reacting no less to Danny's fingers squeezing into a fist, bringing him burst of pain that is standing on shards of pleasure. Hazy explosive mixture making him groan into Danny's skin even as his spine straightens and he thrust harder. Into that tighter circle of fingers.
Into Danny's solidness beneath him, the way it should be, could be, almost is. Burning through the edges of his vision. Feelings like the plug on his vision is being yanked on again. Leaving him with the awareness of Danny's skin. Around his fingers, around his body, against his forehead wherever it's fallen to. But pushing, sprinting, shoving everything that's left into these movements. Aiming to snap, aiming to go hard enough, fast enough, long enough he slams into a wall.
Knowing that it's chasing him, pelting his last thoughts, ambling toward clobbering him and all control left already.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:38 pm (UTC)Shaking his skin, and the bed, between both their movements, and shattering out those words, hissing that Steve wants to go down breathing. If he ever goes down at all. It may never happen. It feels like fire and gasoline and helium are expanding as at an explosive rate when Danny's voice is like that. When his words can't even finish and Steve shoves into them, the way he shoves into everything else. Can't stop pushing into Danny.
"--better?" Steve opts, mouth pushing the word into Danny's skin with something like vicious success spattered all through with the burning oil of a black sort of laughing smugness, agreement, soaking his words without even shaking his chest. When he's moving only to find Danny's face, again, shifting his arm, and readjusting around Danny digging his head into the bed.
Burning, "Told you," without any remorse or restraint into Danny's lips with righteous fire.
Fingers slamming into skin, thumb rubbing down harder on the flat over his prostate above that.
All of that is somewhere far, far away from this. Remorse. Regret. Second thoughts. First ones. Tossed off the bed, with dignity, fear, sanity, sense. When he can still feel the burning muscles in his thighs, his hips. Reacting no less to Danny's fingers squeezing into a fist, bringing him burst of pain that is standing on shards of pleasure. Hazy explosive mixture making him groan into Danny's skin even as his spine straightens and he thrust harder. Into that tighter circle of fingers.
Into Danny's solidness beneath him, the way it should be, could be, almost is. Burning through the edges of his vision. Feelings like the plug on his vision is being yanked on again. Leaving him with the awareness of Danny's skin. Around his fingers, around his body, against his forehead wherever it's fallen to. But pushing, sprinting, shoving everything that's left into these movements. Aiming to snap, aiming to go hard enough, fast enough, long enough he slams into a wall.
Knowing that it's chasing him, pelting his last thoughts, ambling toward clobbering him and all control left already.