There. Like that. He loves this. Seeing it. Making it happen. Never sure how, or why, blown away by the fact that his hands, fingers, voice, body, are pushing Steve to the brittle edge and then blowing the floor out from underneath him.
Making Steve lose all control, body moving in a shockwave, all instinct and pure animal want, searching for that last push, that just right spot, the switch that gets flicked and melts him down. And it's. God. Glorious. Like someone doused him in gasoline and tossed a lit match his way. Exploding, not crumbling. Hard and hot under Danny's hand, and he can feel it, the way Steve tightens. Coils. Releases in a snap that feels like getting slammed by a truck.
He wants to be there. Feel himself snap apart, have nothing but Steve, hands, weight, scent. Lose it all. Stop thinking so much, about what they're doing, how it feels, how it doesn't feel, what it isn't like. What it won't ever be like.
Later. Later. He can think about it later. Steve's still pushing, shoulder shaking with the struggle of moving on now, and Danny's got no idea how he's doing it, he should be collapsed, out for the count, done, and he's still moving, muscles standing out in sharp relief, slicked skin, harsh breath.
It's so close. There. Almost there. He opens his hand, widens it, wraps around them both. Enough slick and sweat, and heat pools, sudden and sharp in his gut, gives him a second's warning to close his eyes, before one, two, just a handful of strokes and it drops out from under him, shoves him through glass. Everything coils together, hard; his fingers, around Steve's fingers, stomach, chest, and rushes out again like a bullet from a gun barrel, melting everything in its path, sending the world into a cartwheel, heart catapulting, flying out of his chest.
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Making Steve lose all control, body moving in a shockwave, all instinct and pure animal want, searching for that last push, that just right spot, the switch that gets flicked and melts him down. And it's. God. Glorious. Like someone doused him in gasoline and tossed a lit match his way. Exploding, not crumbling. Hard and hot under Danny's hand, and he can feel it, the way Steve tightens. Coils. Releases in a snap that feels like getting slammed by a truck.
He wants to be there. Feel himself snap apart, have nothing but Steve, hands, weight, scent. Lose it all. Stop thinking so much, about what they're doing, how it feels, how it doesn't feel, what it isn't like. What it won't ever be like.
Later. Later. He can think about it later. Steve's still pushing, shoulder shaking with the struggle of moving on now, and Danny's got no idea how he's doing it, he should be collapsed, out for the count, done, and he's still moving, muscles standing out in sharp relief, slicked skin, harsh breath.
It's so close. There. Almost there. He opens his hand, widens it, wraps around them both. Enough slick and sweat, and heat pools, sudden and sharp in his gut, gives him a second's warning to close his eyes, before one, two, just a handful of strokes and it drops out from under him, shoves him through glass. Everything coils together, hard; his fingers, around Steve's fingers, stomach, chest, and rushes out again like a bullet from a gun barrel, melting everything in its path, sending the world into a cartwheel, heart catapulting, flying out of his chest.