Steve's hand shifts into a new angle, and the words trail off into a desperate moan, as the ball of lead in his stomach melts into a sudden pool of lava, licking at his insides and melting away guts, burning ribs and air and thought. "Just -- Christ -- fuck me."
Which he is. Which. God. Steve's fingers filling him up, and hitting right there, every slam like liquid fire dissolving his spine, and, yeah, okay yeah, he's getting it, it's there, the focus point, starting the bloom like a lit match catching on tissue paper. Hips jerking, helpless, trying to get that angle again, that spot, where it felt like every joint came unhinged and every muscle lit like a fuse, and words evaporated like mist.
There. And there. Like getting shot repeatedly in the stomach, shifting his leg off Steve's hip to push it out, find more space, find it. That. Steve's fingers, thumb on flat skin, gut-punching him with something he's never felt before. It's different from a hand or a mouth. Different from everything he's ever had before, and Steve is kissing him through it, mouth heavy and hot and needy, breaking his concentration, his tension, cutting him loose. Like a trapeze arcing down towards the net, only to find it's been set on fire.
A first time, and he can already feel the ache of bruising starting where there's never been bruising before. Stretched muscles complaining, while his nerves spark in a lunatic frenzy, shrieking a high-pitched tea-kettle whistle into his ears.
Everything else is gone. The bed. The mussed sheets and blanket. Gravity. The sweat clinging to his skin, dampening his hair.
Everything except Steve. This. Steve everywhere, crawling under his skin, lighting him up, and, God, who was he, what was he doing, how did he breathe and walk around and talk and act like a normal, whole person before this, because he had all this empty space, was he just rattling around in there like the last toy left in the attic, half a person unless he was with Grace? How else could Steve shove himself in there, take up so much room, and still make Danny want more, want it all, want this, just for him. Want Steve. To be the one who gets to touch him. Kiss him. Argue with him about takeout and how to treat witnesses.
Wants it to be his. This. Steve. Steve is his. Should be. Danny's hand dragging him down, at his neck, the other running hot and steady along his skin, driving them both closer and closer to the edge.
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Steve's hand shifts into a new angle, and the words trail off into a desperate moan, as the ball of lead in his stomach melts into a sudden pool of lava, licking at his insides and melting away guts, burning ribs and air and thought. "Just -- Christ -- fuck me."
Which he is. Which. God. Steve's fingers filling him up, and hitting right there, every slam like liquid fire dissolving his spine, and, yeah, okay yeah, he's getting it, it's there, the focus point, starting the bloom like a lit match catching on tissue paper. Hips jerking, helpless, trying to get that angle again, that spot, where it felt like every joint came unhinged and every muscle lit like a fuse, and words evaporated like mist.
There. And there. Like getting shot repeatedly in the stomach, shifting his leg off Steve's hip to push it out, find more space, find it. That. Steve's fingers, thumb on flat skin, gut-punching him with something he's never felt before. It's different from a hand or a mouth. Different from everything he's ever had before, and Steve is kissing him through it, mouth heavy and hot and needy, breaking his concentration, his tension, cutting him loose. Like a trapeze arcing down towards the net, only to find it's been set on fire.
A first time, and he can already feel the ache of bruising starting where there's never been bruising before. Stretched muscles complaining, while his nerves spark in a lunatic frenzy, shrieking a high-pitched tea-kettle whistle into his ears.
Everything else is gone. The bed. The mussed sheets and blanket. Gravity. The sweat clinging to his skin, dampening his hair.
Everything except Steve. This. Steve everywhere, crawling under his skin, lighting him up, and, God, who was he, what was he doing, how did he breathe and walk around and talk and act like a normal, whole person before this, because he had all this empty space, was he just rattling around in there like the last toy left in the attic, half a person unless he was with Grace? How else could Steve shove himself in there, take up so much room, and still make Danny want more, want it all, want this, just for him. Want Steve. To be the one who gets to touch him. Kiss him. Argue with him about takeout and how to treat witnesses.
Wants it to be his. This. Steve. Steve is his. Should be. Danny's hand dragging him down, at his neck, the other running hot and steady along his skin, driving them both closer and closer to the edge.