gonna_owe_me | (no subject)

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Steve is really good at avoiding her.

Normally, she probably wouldn't even call it "avoiding." Normally, she would call it his usual M.O. and chalk it up to being a side effect of being halfway around the world from each other. There are times they've gone for months with no contact, and two weeks is barely the blink of an eye, particularly when she's busy and he keeps getting high-profile, high-priority cases.

At least, that's what she hears, when she hears anything at all.

But those weeks and months of zero contact, running silent, off the grid: those days aren't exactly applicable when there are extenuating circumstances such as A. they are living on the same island and B. she knows there's something he really doesn't want to talk to her about.

Ergo, avoidance.

She's not an impatient or nosy person, though, so she lets it slide, for a little while. He clearly needs to get used to the idea himself, and, frankly, so does she. It's not that they haven't stumbled across a situation where one or the other of them was out of commission for their normal arrangement, but in general, those interrupting factors were not potentially career-threatening. Not to the extent of sleeping with a subordinate. Not to the extent of sleeping with a partner. Not seriously.

And it is serious, whether Steve is admitting to it, or not. It's splashed across him like someone doused him in paint and sticky sunlight, in the way he'd magnetized towards the door, the way he'd run out after Danny. Maybe even more because he didn't bring it up until he absolutely had to.

So Steve is avoiding her, and she can sympathize, because this is not a conversation she particularly wants to sit through, either, but it still needs to happen, because, knowing Steve, he hasn't told anyone else and is shutting it back into compartments poorly designed for a situation of this magnitude and complexity.

Which is why, when she called him on the next weekend inferred to be Danny's weekend with Grace, she's given him the benefit of both giving her the slip for two weeks and the peace offering of meeting at a place with really excellent drinks, one of which she has in hand as she sits at a table by an open window, chin in her hand, looking out at the quietly rolling ocean. It's early evening, and she's come off a twelve hour shift, so it's nice to sit, let her thoughts unhinge, ebb and flow with the waves and mild breeze. Wrangling an affirmative had proved to be difficult, but she'd managed it, pointing out that they might as well meet out, seeing as they're definitely going to make it to the restaurant this time.

It strips him of the home field advantage, too, but he's not the only one who knows how to keep a wall at his back and a few tricks up his sleeve.

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Everything. Everything that Danny is. Everything that Danny does. The way he smiles, and laughs. The way the air in his tone sounds like he's fighting for it suddenly. Like the night and the room and the bed and Steve just caught up with him, again, or finally. The tremble under his skin. The way Steve can differentiate the faintest pulls of his muscles.

The faintest tension that is surprise. The small jolt of tightening and releasing, that almost looks, feels, like a rock toward him, that the rest of Danny's body isn't following through on yet. When Danny is throwing out words like they're on high heat summer sale now. Almost hoarse insults, goading Steve's head, while he lets very little less than a grin against Danny's leg pass, as he keeps going.

Pushing Danny's leg a little more away, from himself, from the way Danny had been laying, half-sitting, lounging, whatever. Whatever it was he was shifting, even though his mouth doesn't leave Danny's skin. Let's his mouth skate, glid, rubbing his lips and his cheeks against Danny's skin, with a rough chuckle an inch or two up his thigh, breathing words into Danny's skin, and trying not breath in his skin just as much.

"You're not doing so well at that yourself." His other hand is landing on Danny's other thigh smoothing down the broad fim muscle toward his knee. "Unless you're admitting I've knocked out your ability to tell distance. Because this-" Steve punctuated that smugly with sucking a spot half way up Danny's thigh, light but lightening fast, against his teeth. Running his tongue over it, sweat and the spike of salt as his hand, before he finished. "-is nowhere near fifty feet."

Which Danny would never get, because Steve was done honestly with clothes, and lights, and even one foot of space.

Steve's definitely done something to his ability to determine all kinds of things: personal risk, his own previously certain preferences. They've all gotten shaken around in a box marked "REASSESSMENT," along with his ability to breathe, to speak, to do anything other than keep falling into this heat-driven tornado.

They just can't stop. It's insane. They're both hurtling towards forty, if they manage to live that long; they aren't teenagers, aren't drunk and confused college students. They should be able to touch each other without spontaneously combusting, should be able to have discussions about what they should or shouldn't do, have or haven't done, without dialogue giving way to the need to have Steve's mouth against his, breathe his breath, suddenly terrified it might be the last time, that it might sudden't vanish, sand sinking under his feet like he's trapped in a tipped hourglass.

Steve is seriously detrimental to his ability to think, focus, or exist, in every possible way. For example, there is absolutely, one hundred percent, no reason for him to be so intent on Steve's lips against his skin, on the warmth running like water under his voice, that he can tell Steve's smiling. But he can. And it hits him like a jolt from a defibrillator, because Steve is smiling at him. Because of him.

Steve is running his mouth along the ticklish, sensitive skin of Danny's inner thigh, and gently shifting Danny's leg, and he's smiling, teasing, light-hearted. Shining up so dark and bright at the same time Danny's not sure whether it's moonlight hitting the blanket, or just Steve, reflecting back into the night, who is so much of everything that his smile can stop people dead, that crowds part for him, that Danny has, at times, held entire conversations with nothing more than Steve's raised or lowered eyebrows.

How does he do it? How can he not see it? Doesn't he have any idea, any idea at all, what people would give to be Danny right now? To have all that laser focus directed on them, until any lump of coal could be cut into a diamond. He's already starting to over heat, a dull flush climbing up his chest, pressure beginning to build.

"Then I guess you're not the only one going crazy."

The silence could easily be interpreted as nothing. Like the sound was swallowed by the night. But it wasn't. All of it is trapped under Steve's skin. Between his ears and his thoughts. Between his mouthand Danny's skin. Cataloging every syllable, and even the aching, breathing silence before those words, as it scores through his with the visceral, possessive, triumph. And the smallest quiet ripple of relief.

Tucking itself all like a tick buried in his flesh, between his bare shoulder-blades. One that can't be burned out.

Like the whisper of a stinging thought about how easy it should be to slip his shoulder under Danny knee and drag him foreward, flush against him, in a completely different way. A way that makes his heart stutter and stumble, in fits, like it's got faulty wiring, and can't decide whether to flood both chambers or forget how to work. Steaming the air, and driving him further up.

Nose nuzzling against the crease where Danny's thigh meets his hip. Where he could be kind, he could give Danny a moment's air, but why would he ever do that. What uses is there in breathing, when Steve can get Danny's hands off him, mouth off him, and the words he says just dig into his stomach and his chest with lacing tips, shooting the madness from the air even. It's almost fair, to Steve's estimation that he doesn't. Pause. Give Danny any warning.

That there is nothing but a simple, rough, Good in his head, even when he's saying "You haven't seen anything yet."

Tossing it like a threat, a grenade, menacing and full-meaning, half lost on the rise of Danny's hip, before Steve turns his face and lets his cheek and mouth ghost a passing breath across Danny's lower stomach, before he's running both along the side of Danny's cock. His other hand catching Danny's opposite hip to hold him incase. Because Steve is aching to show him what crazy actually is. Looks like. Feels like. Snaps like. Shatters like.

What it can do. How much power even the idea of it has over every square inch of Steve's sanity when Danny touches him.

Edited 2013-05-29 04:26 (UTC)

"Oh, no?"

It's probably true, but it's a difficult concept to wrap his head around, not knowing the level of crazy of which Steve is capable. You see a guy toss a suspect into a shark cage, hang another one off a roof, you kind of assume you've gotten right up there, right?

Not that it's an assumption he's made about Steve in a very long time. Not that he doesn't know, explicitly, that there are Steve's done, or thought about doing, that make the shark cage, the roof, the blowjob on the picnic table outside seem like child's play, like innocent misunderstandings, easily explainable, fully understandable. And he knows Steve's even been holding back, right, it's been a while since he did anything really insane to threaten anybody's physical well-being except his own.

(Every now and again Danny still wakes up in a cold sweat, imagining the pop-pop-pop of gunfire and a Kevlar vest that doesn't work.)

But if Steve can't stop being crazy, Danny can't stop pushing him, either. "So far I see a lot of talk and not a lot of action."

It's dangerous ground. He knows it. He knows it like he knows stepping onto black ice is either going to send him flat on his ass or underwater, hearing it crack and creak threateningly underfoot. Steve's mouth and cheek brush against him, and his hips jump, knock against the hands holding them down, and, Christ, this is already insane, Steve's lit a fire under his skin, shoved burning coals one by one into his stomach, and his thoughts are already starting to fracture into a high-pitched whine of want, sheer desire, mouth dry and the muscles in his throat working helplessly.

And he knows better. He truly does. He warns everyone they come into contact with not to challenge Steve, not to give him an in or an opening, because Steve never stops competing, never stops trying to win, to be the best, to shove everyone else off the path and trample whoever's left, still a terrible quarterback, the one who makes the run instead of the pass. So he knows better, and here he is, anyway, egging him on, taunting, pushing for it.

But, hell. If Steve's going to break him apart, it's going to be because Danny was asking for it.

Steve's face probably can't be seen in the dark. But there's something like a disbelief, that mingled with some kind of fucked affection, flooding him with the smack of challenge. The utter unruly nature of Danny's Jersey Boy mouth, and the fact he's held back every second, almost, since Danny chose to say anything back. Held back when, if it were anyone else, Steve would have already burned bruises into their hips and taken them for everything.

When the burn of that sizzles under his skin like he's touching a cast iron pan left on high. Because capability when never be the problem. Steve doesn't have any question of whether he could. That has never be in the equation. He's beyond capable. He knows what he's capable of, what he could do. Turn Danny's world on a dime, possibly painfully with only a few seconds of movement. When it might be worth it. God. Fuck. In his head it almost is. Small collateral.

Even when his eyebrows are raised at Danny and his fingers tighten on Danny's hips, jerking Danny's whole body closer to him win a response that is far more than words. Words, words, words. Danny's cloud of defense and brash, ballsy bravery. The weapon left to his name. And Steve's just going to cut through them without a single one of him own. With the hands jerking Danny to him, only to have move hard, and fast inwards.

Wrapping around around the base, catching fingers in curls with almost not thought to them. None at all, because he's flattening his tongue against the bottom of his mouth, forcing his saliva to the front of his mouth, and taking Danny in. Down. Without any lead up, without any consideration or concern or slowness. Shoving full-tilt for the skin at Danny's stomach, his groin, all around the base. Forget air. He doesn't need it. Nose brushing in curls, only for the brush of less than half a second before, he's doing it again. And again.

Because pain isn't part of this. Yet? He doesn't even. Can't finished that. Because there are sharp, hot burning pokers slicing into him. It isn't about pain now. It isn't about riding roughshod, and tossing Danny over the edge of his bed, or his couch, making him eat every single word that's left to cover him that his clothes are gone. But he doesn't want to hurt Danny. God. He never wants to hurt Danny. Never wants to be one of those people.

Even, taking him deep and fast, there's some part of Steve that hopes Danny feels as dumb-foundedly punched in the face as he does. It's not like that. Because if just the possibility of more didn't kill him, and leave him strung out, or the plan burning his fingers tips from his hands, making him want to move them again already, Danny's mouth certainly might.

Edited 2013-05-29 23:54 (UTC)

He'd curse, if he could.

As it is, the best he manages is a kind of ground out ffffffffffffuh sound, feeling like a piece of paper in a hole puncher, as the night obliterates into sudden heat, suction, friction, wet slick Jesus fucking Christ, Steve is going to kill him.

He is. Might. Could. Will, almost definitely. Danny's not built to take that kind of shock. His heart skyrockets into flight, but at least it's still working, even if it's pounding in fits, tripping all over itself, catapulted directly into his throat while the rest of his innards melt into an unrecognizable puddle of liquid metal. Christ. He can taste silver in his mouth. Can't get breath. His head feels like the gong rung mid-fight, just before the boxers decide to take it outside the ring.

Steve's mouth is insanity, deep, deeper, swallowing Danny whole, it feels like, surrounding him completely, nudging him up against his soft palate, and, Christ, fuck, it feels so good it's draining the room away like someone pulled the plug, and Danny only notices he's pressed back into the bed when the pillow tries to fall over onto his face. He bats it aside, other hand gripping the blanket in a white-knuckled fist that he's trying to keep away from Steve's hair, because the last thing Steve needs is for him to shove, or pull, or push. Even though those thoughts keep playing. Even though they're bringing that pool in his stomach to a rapid boil.

Steve never does anything halfway. He doesn't give a shit if Danny wants to appreciate the faint layering of light on his shoulders, how it picks out particular strands in his hair, and this, this is why you don't issue challenges to Steve, because he never just accepts them, he hurdles them and goes headfirst straight into no I'm doing this instead.

When this is currently drawing a series of low, restless moans from Danny's throat, pushing his head back while he tries for air, eyes pressed shut, body shaking like he's been doused in ice water. After the teasing on the couch, hands shifting and fingers searching and his own uncertainty, it's a black and white absolution, stars bursting into fervid, violent life in the space left empty and aching in his chest.

If Steve's trying to make a point, it's working. Whatever it might be.

God. It's glorious. The way Danny jerks, and shakes, as much attacking the bed under him as Steve's mouth in his first reaction. When words are literally melting on Danny's tongue. When Steve can make out the first syllable that then falls apart, inconsequential before fisting the blanket and fighting with his pillow. Before letting out these needy, low, wanting, shoved over and through sounds that slam into Steve's ear. Triumphant and burning.

It's harder than he thought, when the night is sharpening down to Danny, not to shove forward. Just push, drag. Milk Danny for the movement he's not giving. For the way he's holding on to the bed and not to Steve. No fingers in his hair or digging into this shoulders as all the closest things Danny can get his hands on. Not thrusting, not desperate, not wrecked and falling apart. Not yet.

When it would be so easy to push this. The dark, low sounds coming out of Danny's mouth and the way his body is shaking already are telling him that. He could push, drag, pull him the whole way like this. It might not even take that long, really. He could keep going, shove him over, make him come. Low and wanting, uncertain of what to call what he wants even. Blow him until those words dissolve even further, into bitten, broken, desperate groans he can't control.

But that isn't Steve wants it. Even when it's there, in his head, under his hands, in his mouth. Even when it's one of his favorite things. Top of the new charts. Not his favorite, but close. Close enough he'd nowhere near tired of it. And he does need it. Has a use for it. But this isn't the point. When Steve can. Use it. Can steady his mouth in a slow downward drop and lift this time, while sliding his free hand from Danny's hip. Down inside his thigh.

Stroking his thumb across the same place where Danny's thighs meets his body, while raising his mouth to the top of him. Tracing with his tongue around the small bumps of his head, while he changes where his hand is entirely. Fingers spreading out under an ass cheek, while his thumb pad made soft, but firm circles and lines across Danny's skin. All of it laid out so close, nothing in his way. Stroking thin, delicate skin, feeling the tingle in his fingers like he was touching straight electric current with each touch.

The rise of muscle, the fall between them, the knot of a circle that he pressed just enough more around the edges. Before he pulling up, popping his mouth off with a purposefully wet, solid sound to it. Smugly, pointed words caking up the darkness. "Were you saying something?"

Edited 2013-05-30 12:15 (UTC)

Steve will always be physically incapable of keeping back that smugness, won't he. The tone of his voice points it out, easily recognizable from every other time he's done something crazy and succeeded, once again, because as much as the world seems to hate Steve's happiness, entropy and sheer blind luck must have made him their god.

He shouldn't be able to get away with even a quarter of the shit he pulls, and yet here he is, day after day, jumping off buildings like some kind of reversed Superman, chasing down crooks, tackling them into the sides of houses or trucks.

And now this. Where, admittedly, he might have some leverage, because Danny doesn't have the first idea what to do, no matter how Steve had rapidly laid out the possibility of keeping it as close as what he's used to as possible, because there is nothing. There's nothing about this that is anything like what Danny's used to, and it's not even a question of what goes where or who fucks who. It's about the fact that Steve could flatten him, without effort. It's about how a wrestling match between the two of them really is a goddamn wrestling match, and Steve would probably win but by God Danny's not going down without a fight, and he knows a few nasty moves from his days growing up in and around Newark and a few ill-advised trips to Canton, or Atlantic City.

Rachel, Gabby, they're both tiny. Slim. They felt slight and breakable in his hands, gusting breathless laughter into his ear, and any bites were barely enough to redden his skin. Steve's solid. Steve's heavy. And Steve is fucked up in the head in a way that makes both Rachel and Gabby look like the one sober adult at a Florida bar during spring break. Steve bites like he means it, sucks marks into Danny's skin, makes it physical, makes it a fight, makes it a sport.

And then he'll go and do something so goddamned sweet, like pressing a kiss to Danny's hip, or pushing their foreheads together, and it kicks out the rest of Danny's supports, topples him headlong into a soupy messy maelstrom of something too precious to look at head on, to breathe on, to touch without it shattering everywhere.

Not that Steve is being sweet. Steve's being a jackass, and he knows he's being a jackass, but it's not like Danny can't keep up with him there, at least, even if his heart is beating a sickening salsa in his temples at the brush of a fingertip, there, already feeling secret, already feeling like Steve's reaching right inside of him.

"I was saying," he says, gulping against a dry throat, searching for snappy, sarcastic, bravado. "You seem like you're getting distracted."

He's as surprised as he isn't surprised, or just as pleased as he is pleasedly exasperated.

By Danny's mouth, when his fingers can feel the faintest tremble or the push of Danny's body against them, one hand still wrapped tight and the other trailing lighter, but firm, specific fingers. When Danny's voice was lost to himself seconds ago. When he didn't have enough air to breath, to swear, to anything more but try to climb through his backwards, heels digging in along fingers fisting his blanket to white knuckles the darkness hides from his eyes.

And still. This. Snappy. Sassy. Smarting. Backtalk. That makes Steve want to smack him and best him and go back to blowing him and kiss him hard and laugh, until the bed shakes, or at least until it's shaking his chest against Danny knee he's leaning against, and fuck him, until the entire damn world has been tilted sideways and nothing will ever be the same again in Danny's head. It should be annoying.

It pours down his back like hot water after a too long day, champagne bubbles taking up residence in his bloodstream.

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Rolls off his tongue sharp and irreverent, laden with a tractor of smacking sarcasm and the strong arm of authoritative heavy correction, when Steve is suddenly pushing himself up and over Danny's leg, stretching across his bed and away from Danny, but without actually leaving where his knees are.

Dragging open a bed table drawer and rifling in it as he's saying, still razor sharp and unholy bright in the dark room, night, against Danny's slander. The words that roll off the most loved, coveted, arrogantly thick. "Because I was the one of us gagging a few seconds ago." When his mouth was full, but Danny's was the one entirely blown beyond his control to even make his first word form.

Fingers catching without too much problem on the small bottle in question.

Especially given that he didn't abide much mess in most of this house, much less his space, which this room was at least as much as outside, and more than the un-chagned, un-aging larger sections of this house. Fast enough he's got his fingers closed around it and he's shoving the drawer back closer, before half-snapping, half sagging back toward where his balance is still settled.

Steve doesn't actually get distracted, ever. He is occasionally derailed when one of them says or does something he doesn't expect, but it never deters him from the mission du jour. His laser focus doesn't allow for things like distraction, or split-attention. When Steve's attention splits, people die.

So Danny doesn't actually mean distracted, because he's not sure Steve is physically capable of allowing distraction to exist, not just throwing up the mental blinders that must have been handed out with the uniform and the ability to switch off any degree of empathy or feeling when he graduated from Annapolis. Which is handy, when they're chasing down hardened criminals who have a tendency to go after innocent civilians and wreak broad swathes of public damage, but maybe less attractive in bed.

Not that Danny doesn't appreciate the attention. He does. But there are times when a guy could use a little distraction, maybe, when the normal back and forth banter they toss at each other all day -- in the office, on the job, in the car, on the couch -- is enough of a life raft to keep him afloat in a sudden tossing sea.

Okay. He wants this. He asked for it. He pushed and prodded Steve about it, and he's not going to freak out now and freeze up -- he's not -- but that doesn't mean he doesn't kind of want to sidle up to it, a little, take away from the capitalized letters his head keeps trying to type it out in by making it not the only thing going on. So it helps, when Steve teases, when Steve's mouth handily shuts down any attempt or ability to speak, because when Steve gets halfway up, reaches for the bedside table drawer, and rummages inside, there's really no going back.

Frankly, he's a little ashamed of the way his breath catches, knots deep in his lungs, unwilling to play nice. He's not a fan of how he can feel tension lacing up his back, down his legs, of the pit that's just opened up in his stomach. It's just sex. It's different sex, sure, but it's just sex, it's just Steve, and he knows Steve, trusts Steve, has spent the better part of two years cataloguing everything about Steve, in order to complain more efficiently and also, fine, because while it's good to know as much as you can about your partner, that doesn't generally extend to how they take their coffee, what their favorite food is, how they spend a free five, ten, or thirty minutes.

But he knows it all, anyway.

"There was no gagging," he says, because he knows he's supposed to, and he's grateful to Steve for giving him the distraction Steve would never take for himself. "Those were sounds of deep appreciation, my friend, but they were not gags."

You'd have to be blind and deaf and something -- senseless? -- to miss it. The way Danny suddenly loses almost all of his elasticity. It's as drastic and obvious as someone snapping on a light in this room would be. Shifting the mattress right around him with his start. Body tightening up like the wind up clock just hit twelve. Everything pulling inward in a solid movement and stabbing something in Steve's chest, even when Danny is making himself keep up the conversation.

Which loses all its insult, too. He's corrected, but it's an effort. It's an effort Steve can actually hear. In Danny's voice. In the way he shapes the letters, the way the air comes out like somewhere Danny's in there using his back and shoulders, in a way that would ruin his knees, to shove it and the sounds along with it, out of his throat. Aiming for something like holding on. When he isn't holding on. Still isn't actually touching Steve

Whose entire first reaction, while getting his feet back under himself, is to smooth a large hand down Danny's too tight thigh muscles. That is the body having the response to close up and pull in, that his entire body is in the way of Danny's legs listening to. The bottle dropped for the second somewhere between his own legs, so that he can have his hands. To run one loose and heavy down Danny's thigh, while the other returns to the place it left.

A cuff of fingers, dragging up slow, when he leaned back down, laying his mouth against the rise of Danny's hipbone, for words that had nothing to do with Danny's either. "I've got you."

Like anything ever slips past Steve. Steve will bring up conversations held weeks before, after apparently locking them away in some ridiculously over-protected safe somewhere behind the barbed wire and landmines in his head, long after Danny's forgotten about them. He'll wait for the exact right moment, then pull out a direct quote that yanks the rug right out from under Danny's feet, leaves him gaping and bewildered while Steve turns back to whatever he was previously doing with an expression soaked with righteous smugness.

So it comes as no surprise that Steve's keyed to the slightest motions of Danny's body, that he's noticed the tension seeping in and taking up residence, turning the balmy night air into cement dust that weighs heavier and heavier with each breath, while dizziness threatens and Danny's all too aware of the solidity of the bed underneath them.

Of the solidity of Steve's hand. The one stroking down his thigh, making that muscle clutch harder against it, and, no, it's good, but it's not what he wants, this careful preparation, Steve distracting him with mouth and hands and the tight perfect circle of his fingers. It's too much focus, too much space up here, cool air against his skin instead of Steve, thin blankets under his fingers instead of Steve, while Steve is breathing those words against his hip instead of against his mouth, making his stomach tighten like he's waiting for a punch.

Maybe he is.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't -- Steve could probably do just about anything to him when his mouth is doing that, hot and heavy around his cock, and he'd barely notice, too blissed out to be paying attention, but that's not what sex is about, okay, not for him, it's never supposed to just be about him, and that's what it's been ever since those words came out of his mouth.

Which is why he's reaching for Steve's wrist, both of them, tugging them, wanting him back up here, wanting his mouth, to get lost in him, feel all of Steve instead of just his hands and lips and tongue. Voice low, and too sincere, but he doesn't give a single fuck, who cares? Steve's the only one who'll hear it.

"I know. Come on, come up here, with me."

It all hits across his head far too fast. The fingers on his wrists tugging. Danny's voice, that way. It's gotten low and just the edge into plaintive, catching like cold fingers in Steve's intensities and jerking hard. When he's reassessing a world of things. Like how things will be, could be, more problematic, inventive if not at all impossible, elsewhere. Before it slides straight into whether that's a cease fire.

Whether it's because of those precious few seconds of pause when he got the lube. Whether he should have gotten it before getting on the bed, shouldn't have paused at all, or done it later on, or at all even, that one digs in the edge of a shard deeper. Maybe it is as far as Danny can, or will. Maybe he shouldn't have even done that that first night he said anything back. He said.

He said any of those things, that are one side too blistering hot to drag up with fingertips, piercing singe to his thoughts, even as they are sinking like solid steel lumps in the bottom of his stomach suddenly. Maybe he is trampling, already trampled, across the only step Danny wanted to take. Putting it all out there, possible. Possible (still possible) instead of impossible.

Steve's head moving too much, too fast, when seconds are only passing and he keeps coming back to the one thing he can't ignore. Not even for his thoughts. Fingers circled around his wrists. Danny's hands. Warm. Solid. Undeniable. Unignorable. Tugging at him still. Necessary, direct, almost and half of him is already going before the thought about going is even a question about whether to go. Before the reassertment of how moving could, would, might be more problematic.

Before he pulled back at hand, twisting sideways and pulling it for a fast circle, to breaking the hold of Danny's grasp one of his wrists, hand scrabbling down against the blanket for the bottle against one of his calves. Even as he is ending up over there. The other side of Danny's leg. Outside of them, ending up toward Danny's side, on his side, half propped by the arm that caught his weight moving that way.

It's dark, but not dark enough that he doesn't see, okay. He sees. He knows every one of Steve's expressions, from stony to thunderous to brilliantly lit, and this one is some stumbling combination of consternation and the kind of preoccupied withdrawal that comes the second before someones fist comes flying at your face: the anticipation of a hit.

Which is just about the stupidest fucking thing he could be thinking right now, alright? Danny's not going to hit him. Danny's hauling him up, tugging on the one wrist he's still got a hold of, and waiting to find the other one again, fingers looping like warm iron, until Steve is closer, gravity of the bed shifting along with his weight, long lean frame slipping to the side. Propping himself up, which is all wrong, and Danny's deeply annoyed at the whole prospect of it, decides to tell him so.

"What are you doing, where do you think you're going, I said come here, what are you, deaf? Come on, we haven't even gotten to the mindblowing stuff yet, pay attention."

Hands working up Steve's arms like he's pulling in a rope as he talks, fingers finding a shoulder to curl around, the back of Steve's neck and the rough edge of Steve's hair, dragging him down as Danny's whole body shifts towards him, half-rolling, and he's always been a tactile person, but there's so much more than hands that can be put into play, here. He can roll flush against Steve, box him with his whole body, leg sliding over Steve's so the outside of Danny's ankle bumps gently against the inside of Steve's calf. Tangle him up, find every possible connecting point.

Hand drifting from Steve's neck down over his shoulder, pressing firmly down the slope of his back, hooking briefly at his hip, moving to curve, proprietary and jealous, over the curve of muscle that, really, those cargo pants do not do justice. Soft skin, hard muscle, pliant and pale after the long stretch of tanned, tattooed skin -- though Danny's thumb rubs familiarly over the ink that's normally threaded under cargo pants, just peeking past board shorts or boxers.

And because Steve had that look on his face -- that one that said he's thinking too hard, and about something Danny would probably yell at him for -- he keeps it up, nipping at Steve's bottom lip before messing it back up with a kiss that is genuinely messy, open-mouthed and decisive, selfish, wanting Steve's mouth all for himself, wanting Steve's teasing back, not soft words if they're coupled with Steve being too far away to touch.

He doesn't want that. He wants this. To wrap himself entirely around Steve as possible. To be part of this, because Danny accepted long ago that Steve is probably going to be his downfall, but it's not like he's isn't running towards it, refusing to leave.

"They let you get a tramp stamp in the Army?"

Danny smashes back into him with the force of a wave, getting everywhere. Taking every one of his last silent, few words and his efforts to touch anything but Steve, and blowing all of them up with a sudden, absolute onslaught that nearly makes Steve tense up rigid. Muscles tensing under suddenly moving hands, trying to get everywhere, dragging him in, dragging him down, shoving up into his space noisily.

Maybe the water analogy is wrong. Maybe it's more like a bomb. Loud and everywhere, splitting seams without warning, before you can even be sure that walls were around you they are done, gone, every bit of them flying at you. The first set of words shoving sort of like a wire brush, sounds connecting with fingers on the fragile skin of his neck, heels being thrown over digging into his calf like his body is made of pillows that will adjust to Danny.

And just when there's the kind of overhaul of everything everywhere suddenly, rising like unexpected bile, this need to fend off, to shove away, hold, find a breath, breathe is, release five or ten triggers all being jammed, going off at once, loud and red, then Danny's mouth is on his. There are teeth digging sharp into his lip, even if briefly, causing his fingers to catch on Danny's side, dragging him closer as his skin is palmed harder against a shudder. Neither of which he can actually pay attention to. None of it. Because then Danny is kissing him.

Forget explanations, or plans, or yelling at him; Danny is kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he's thinking. Which half is working, when Steve's hand is finding his shoulder and cheek and his hair, and he's kissing Danny back about as recklessly. With a sharp jagged razor of relief that doesn't even stop burning for the hands everywhere, for Danny taking away his air. Because he's wrong and he's an idiot and fucking hell, he doesn't even know, but he knows Danny's mouth, and he's taking on the taste of it like someone who hasn't had anything but sawdust for decades.

When all of that throbs under his rib cage, high pitched and hard, when Danny pulls away to mocking his tattoo, like his fingers are currently tracing it and digging into it, and everything around it, in equal measure. When the first burst of frustration and fire is easy to twist into a word, even the word Danny is begging for. "Navy, Danny." His name, more like he's saying asshole, somewhere between a burst of annoyance and sardonicism.

Then. Like he's saying it for a child, he enunciates it a second time, in two syllables. "Na-vy."

"And no one gives a damn what's under your A.J.'s." he clarifies, like it matters at all here.

With Danny's fingers running prickles down his skin, that are still running both directions in the line of reasoning. When he's dragging Danny closer, liking at the light at the core of madness, because they already are flushed, and it's so goddamn easy to thrust up against Danny and his stomach as he says, "Unless they have a reason to be under them at the time."

Which his tone is already implying, heavy laced, no one ever has a problem with them at that point either.

Edited 2013-06-01 02:19 (UTC)

He can't stop himself. It's like a sickness. Pressing up against Steve's thrust, breathing hard through the way it shorts out his vision for half a heartbeat. "I'm sorry, did you say Marine Corps?" Another push of his hips, fingers tracing the line where Steve's thigh meets the curve of his ass, sensitive thin skin. "Air Force?"

He's so curious, uncertain and blundering but on fire, too, and, Christ, is all night going to be enough time? Part of him wishes they could head back to the beginning of the weekend -- as if their jobs make sure to give them Friday evening through Monday morning off, as if the concept of a weekend applies to the dirtbags they routinely go after.

But if they could. If there were all the time in the world.

He would use it. Could use it. To lay Steve out, sprawled and beautiful in nothing at all but starlight or sunshine. Map him out with mouth and fingers, push him slowly and ruthlessly into restless moans and the short, sharp gasps of no air and no words.

To figure this out. As if it's possible to take a crash course, and be good with it, as if he's probably not going to still be awkward and uncertain about it weeks from now. As if it won't be an embarrassingly long time before he's getting it right.

(Hopefully. Hopefully he'll be able to take an embarrassingly long amount of time, because hopefully Steve's not going to pull this shit again, hopefully Steve won't leave before then.)

"That sounds like the plot to a porno," he points out, as well as he can when his breath is getting tight and he can't really talk too well with his mouth on Steve's, wet and hot, sliding but never falling back far enough to pull in some oxygen or find some space. "No, shut up, I don't want to know."

He would be happy going the rest of his life not knowing, okay? Sure. He's not the first. And it's not like he's been chaste his whole life; no way.

But he can't swallow around the vicious snap of jealously that sinks into his stomach, at the thought of there being other hands touching Steve like this, other mouths on his, that he kissed like this, touched like this. At the thought that it'll be someone else, again, after this, and it shakes him, the flat denial that lifts like a sudden brick wall in the face of those thoughts.

That no one should ever touch Steve like this. No one but him.

There's something sickeningly smug layering itself over the incinerating fire tearing right back into his lungs, sharp and fast and blinding. Popping behind his eyes and in the muscles in his neck, reminding him of how close things could get, or be, if he let them, if he doesn't watch it. If Danny just keeps tilting up into him, against him, or he keeps thrusting into Danny. Listening to those words roll off his tongue, feeling those careful, no quite to and not quite not skittish, fingers testing his skin.

His voice at first flippant and tauntingly disgusted, before Danny contradicts himself with a tone Steve has locked in a specific box of recognition. A special, rare place, where he knows it's wrong, but his fingers are running lines into Danny's back the way Danny's running cracks in the foundation under his feet, under every thought doing this. Used only on specific people Danny really doesn't want anywhere near him.

Old friends, certain superiors, old not-quite-girlfriends. This acid spike that's curling his voice, and cutting his taunting, and, best or worst of all, making Steve rumble a laugh, half in his chest and half onto to Danny's lips, that's smug and too aware, shooting back. "You changed your mind, then?"

When he knows Danny hasn't. Or at least he's pretty sure he hasn't, given all this. But they aren't talking about that. Not when he's using Danny's flippant, sudden, sparking turn around tone as a springboard. Steve's pretty sure Danny's mind hasn't been changed at all, just that he doesn't exactly want the details of other people on top of it. Which, Steve can't actually argue, even when he's cruelly needling.

Which is why he doesn't leave it at that entirely. Because it's not entirely inconvenient, this setup Danny's given him.

Danny wrapped around him, over him, in a way that makes Steve drop his hand from Danny's side and his back to that leg swung over his. Finding the back of Danny's thigh and pulling him closer, pulling Danny's leg higher, pushing into the space under it, getting even closer. Narrow hips rocking a little shamelessly, into a more comfortable position, against the momentarily blinding image of both of Danny's legs both wrapped like this.

Higher. Tighter. Fighting to exist in the same space again. Fingers digging in against the heavy back, inside of Danny's thigh briefly.

Before he's running his palm up the back inside of it. Experimenting with the interestingly wide open space he'd not at all really counted on between Danny's legs given by the position. Even while he was baiting Danny onward, with this syrupy sarcastic lead, when he's capturing Danny's lips to kiss him and to keep poking at the same time. "Because this's just sadistic if you have."

Especially when Steve doesn't sound in the slightest honest, or worried, or like he gives care. Isn't soaking it up like sunshine in the middle of a Saturday afternoon when naps just slam you over with the Aloha feeling of not needing to be anywhere, doing anything but lapping up the sun and the breeze and the shade and the sea.

Like he absolutely loves it every single time Danny turns into a short-sighted, raving idiot due to jealousy.

Edited 2013-06-01 06:12 (UTC)

If he had, if for some ridiculous reason he had actually changed his mind, he thinks this might change it back. Steve's hand, huge on his leg, Steve's voice a low smug rumble in his chest, words smudging into a kiss that's all ownership, and he doesn't give a shit if it's him owning it or Steve or the two of them both just falling headlong into selfish want.

It's Steve. Kissing him, and not anyone else. His hands on Steve's skin. Steve's hips shifting under his thigh. "Did you hit your head on something?"

Moving off Steve's mouth, to the cutting angle of Steve's jaw, down lower, to take revenge for Steve's stupidity on the pulse point just below the line of his chin, mouth latching onto it, sucking hard, a vicious hot pull against his tongue that ends with a dulled bite. "Do I look like I've changed my mind?"

Not when his leg is being hitched up. Not when his hands are all over Steve's skin, and his mouth is seeking out and laying claim to the rapid hammering of Steve's pulse. "Besides, I'm not into that."

Sadism, that is, because in no way is he not deeply responsive to pretty much everything Steve's doing, everywhere he's touching. It's better like this, blanketing each other, getting involved, getting into it, hands tracking Steve's skin just like Steve's are tracking his. The room sinking back into warmth and silence that isn't that warning ringing sound echoing in his ears. Muscles loosening, and there's no holding back, anymore. No gripping the sheets instead of Steve, no intent focus and concentration only making him tense up further.

Just Steve, and that laugh that spills into Danny's chest and bubbles up into his head and makes him want to keep talking to say the stupidest thing he can think of, just so he can hear it again, just so it's Steve's stupid goofy pleased smile pressing into his mouth, his skin, and not soft caution, carefulness that seems so alien to everything he knows about Steve.

Not that he doesn't appreciate it. He appreciates it. This is crazy, even for them, and he kind of would like to keep it from being outright painful as well as awkward, if possible, so a certain degree of care is nice.

But he's not going to break, and he's not going to run, and he's not going to change his mind. "You think maybe it would even be slightly possible to change my mind and not want sex with you? Because I gotta tell you, babe, this is not the way to go about making that happen."

There's half-rusted out groan carving it's way, bloody and dark, already on fire, from his throat before he even knows it's coming. When the world shifts from the endless, low-fire of Danny's skin and his hands, to lips dragging madness down his jaw. Against the underside of it. From him just tilting his head and pushing into the movement without a thought, to the second where his fingers dig into the muscle of Danny's thigh and ass.

To the moment where everything is sharp, hot, sparkling under Danny's mouth on that spot, because he's pulling, because there are suddenly teeth. Wet and hard against Steve's neck, making all of his body feeling like it's throbbing as one thing, surprised by a sudden jolt of lightning. Causing him to grind himself into Danny. His chest, his hips, him. Making his body sieze and shudder a handful of time, even when he's dragging Danny closer, into him, setting explosions off from firecrackers.

Hand sliding over and down and more in. Wanted, burning through him. Grafting across the cheeks of Danny's ass, thumb settled up the crease of that skin and fingertips stretched, in a rough, sudden cup around him. Pressing up on the place where they are slammed together, pushing fingers tips, possessively, against the smooth skin at his center, and the loose skin of his balls and the base of him, as the world burned against teeth, against want, against a desperate, wanted, courted dissolution.

Like there was a need to compress Danny there, flush and flat, touching everywhere, everything, never let him go.

When he wants to kiss Danny, wants to burn it down into his lungs, but he's already tipped his head. He's already pushing his neck still against Danny's mouth, words, voice, cheek, chin, head, even when it's like asking Danny to fry the rest of the wires, when he should care give a damn, tomorrow morning, but it's a long way away and Danny's mouth is here now. He wants it on his skin now.

"Is this your version of less talking, more action?," Steve is grating out, as sarcastic and buoyed by undoing as that undoing was unraveling his want to hold stil, say, think. Shorting his voice out somewhere into Danny's hair, stripping it from his insides like muscles ripping up from bones. Because the idea that Danny is still there, makes him want to fuck the rules, fuck Monday mornings, fuck waiting or asking or anything but up the ante for the reasons Danny is plastered against him.

He grins, wild and sharp, against the prickling stubble on Steve's neck, the muscles of his throat that are working hard, against lips, against tongue and teeth and suction, and that's probably going to leave a mark, but Danny doesn't care. It's not like he's not painted from the neck down, already, due to Steve's complete one-eighty regarding whether or not they should be doing this. Like he needed to have those spots there, to remind him, to keep him focused.

Owning his skin, just like that hand is, hot and firm and it feels like everywhere all at once, palm pressing against spots almost painfully sensitive, and bursting washed-out colors behind his eyes, exploding in his chest, messy, shrapnel getting everywhere, making him bleed out this thing that isn't blood, getting it all over, in sloppy stripes against Steve's skin, making his hands shake and his breath shorten hard, a racehorse getting reined in just before the final turn.

Necessary, maybe, because the way they're pressing against each other, tipping into each other, they might not last long enough to do anything different, to get inside anywhere, and that would be a shame, right, he should try slowing down, hasn't even had his hands on Steve since the couch, hasn't gotten his mouth anywhere on him but lips and here.

Bulling his way back up Steve's neck to cheek and jaw and mouth, getting dragged unceremoniously into what is definitely not any extra space, is just more Steve, unrelenting and unforgiving as a wall, everywhere, because he is a fucking construction project, not a normally built human. "This doesn't seem like action to you?"

Fingers blunting dipped circles into the muscle of his ass, arm going around his shoulders, and he kind of feels like he's climbing up a wall that could collapse on him at any time, but, whatever, Steve has a big enough bed there's plenty fo space to roll around. "Then we must not be doing it right."

Right, wrong, it doesn't matter, not when it's all skin and heavy breaths and getting so hot and hard it's starting to drive him crazy every time their hips tilt toward each other. "I'm waiting on you, big guy. You take that stuff out just for its aesthetic appeal, or were you planning on doing something with it?"

Playing with fire doesn't even begin to describe what he's doing, what he knows he's doing, pushing at the threadbare edges of Steve's sanity, trying, actually trying to snap Steve's self-control, and he'll probably pay for it, but it's better than Steve thinking too hard, focusing too much, forgetting that he gets to enjoy this, too.

And, well. Sometimes it's easier to take the plunge if you rev up your engine and go speeding off the cliff, instead of tiptoeing to the side of the edge.

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.

Does he ever shut up.

Well, yeah. There are plenty of times he'll shut up. This mouth of his gets a vacation in bed, because A. he's usually doing something better with it and B. he's still working on "there's a baby in the house, let's not wake her up and scar her for life."

And there are other times. When he's too preoccupied to even start, when he'd rather play something close to the chest, because he doesn't always need everyone he knows knowing about everything in his life, alright, no matter what Steve says or thinks or how annoying he can be in trying to wheedle out the problem, going into investigative, high-focus mode, like he thinks Danny's being blackmailed or something every time Danny doesn't tell him what's wrong.

But this is not one of those times. This is talking Steve into reality, out from under whatever umbrella of mission-ready focus he'd steeled himself for, because this should all be taken seriously, but that doesn't mean it should be taken seriously, and, really, Danny's warning sirens all go off blaring their unhappiness at him when Steve gets that narrowed concentrating look, like he's defusing a bomb.

Which is not to say that when he gets what he asks for -- a click of plastic and drops of slick liquid falling on his skin, and then, pressure, like before, except Steve doesn't stop, Steve keeps going -- he doesn't tense up.

But it's not like he's under sights of a firing line. It's confusion, uncertainty, bewilderment, muscles not sure what's happening, body trying to adjust, to give more room and take it away at the same time, and he's concentrating too hard on finding that space to really be able to tell if it feels good or not.

It doesn't feel bad. It feels weird. Strange. Pressure where he's not used to pressure. Clarifying for him exactly how tight he is, how new this is, and Steve's fingers are long and clever, but they're not exactly small, either, and this is just the tip.

But it's. It's not bad. Just new. And it's Steve, so, really, when has he ever not gone where Steve went? Next to North Korea, this is a cakewalk.

So he says the first thing that comes to mind, that ricochets off what Steve said downstairs, about what he wants, has wanted, will do, wants to do. "Make me."

Those two words fall like stones. Like a match on a pool of gasoline that's already boiling.Because he could. Because it would be so easy. Because he wants to so much more than he wants to do anything else. Especially when Danny is goading him, and he knows he's goading him for so much less. Because that order, that challenge is coming out on the tension radiating through Danny's body. Making it highlight the need to keep going, to make it work, to make it right.

To not force every single thing that Steve possibly could. Wants to, more than breathing. Is waiting to even have the faintest chance of getting at if he doesn't mess this up. Even when he's hazarding, like he's harrying Danny, a threat that is as much a promise as any other words that had come out of his mouth, ever. "That is the point."

When Steve is nowhere near giving up or considering stopping. Even if it was just prep for more, in any other thing, it takes time. Well. When you aren't just deciding to throw it all to the wall and slam right past it. Which does have it's own pitfalls and amazing points both. Things he's thinking of and trying to cast aside. At least for today. At least until Danny's past this. Chiding the universe on breaking him of the whole idea, rule, thing, of no one brand new.

It's pushing against the muscles suddenly torn between tensing up on his finger, around it, and trying to relax. All in series of movements he can't help but feel. Pulling in and out, as much to manipulate the muscle as to get lube on the inside. To make the friction less and the traction for movement more, when he's past his first knuckle, pulling back and then pushing forward for his second. Not stopping. Dragging his finger, back and forth working at skin he can't see. Only feel this way.

Pushing against tense, confused, resistant muscle. Swallowing through a dry throat and empty lungs. That way he feels like hard is a sensation that left his own body behind an hour ago. Underestimation of where it is now, what he is now. Every part of him keyed to the claustrophobic feeling of being swallowed whole going on around his finger, to there, that want for it to be around him. This friction. This movement. The way he can tell each time it gets marginally easier to move. Further forward or to the sides, to pull back and push back in.

When more of his palm is ending up closer, flatter, flush against Danny's skin. When he can start trying to angle up. To dig back against muscle. To find the the right place to hit just that much harder, firmer. Considering already if he should be moving on to two fingers, even as he keeps going, picking up his speed instead.

Edited 2013-06-01 19:34 (UTC)

Yeah. Definitely weird. Definitely an entirely new feeling, and he'd sort of assumed he was past the age where that was something he might ever come across, but apparently not, because this is not like anything he's ever done before.

And it's strange. A weird mirroring of things he's done, himself, with the women he's been with, only that had been pliant and easy and nobody had ever seemed uncomfortable, generally speaking. There wasn't a lot of prep involved, aside from foreplay, it's not like the mechanics needed to be helped along like this.

But now it's not his finger, it's Steve's, and it feels so bizarre, this fullness that he can't place, hasn't felt before. It's not painful, thankfully, but he wouldn't exactly classify it as comfortable, either. It just...is. And then there's movement, slow but purposeful, and Steve going a little deeper, and this is, he's not, part of him wants to protect his manhood and the other part of him thinks that whole idea is a load of crap, does it matter whose finger is where, who is fucking who? It doesn't make him a girl, doesn't make him any less in control of what he does, what he wants.

Right?

It's definitely not unpleasant, once he gets used to it. Pressure, filling. Slick friction against something that nudges cautiously in the direction of good, and then Steve shifts his hand and it flashes full into it, with a surprising speed that takes what little breath he's got left away, strangles it in his chest and makes his fingers clench, where they've moved to Steve's back and his arm. "That's more like it."

Tense words, confused and dropping like quarters, and he shifts his hips, experimentally, tries pushing himself further, and gets another flash of heat that leaves him shaking gently, from the way his muscles are keyed up, from the surprising shotgun flare of unexpected pleasure.

It's not enough. Not nearly enough, and he's not an idiot, he doesn't expect the first time to be smooth, or good, or to wind up a pro before sleep whacks them over the head with a mallet, but it's heartening, to say the least.

The strangled sudden gasp, when there are two sets of fingers digging into his skin, almost makes him stop. Not because he isn't expecting but because it's entirely possible to hurt him to. But then Danny's words are falling out, baffled and uncertain and just this edge of sound into curiously, almost complimentingly commentary, distracted. Like he's got something better than Steve's head to insult, else to focus on.

And then he's pushing back, getting this snort of a laugh from Steve's mouth. Before Steve is leaning close to Danny. Danny half distracted in newness, pushing down on his hand and then squirming on his hand, muscles shaking throughout Danny's body against his body. Shuddering through Steve this roll of choking black relief, knotted up with arrogant achievement that's getting brighter by the second.

Rolling out of his mouth, dark and menacing, "You sure?"

"I was thinking that this was." The only words to hit the air, before he's taking it for all the encouragement he needs.

His hand moving with only that little warning, before it doesn't stop. Sudden. Faster, harder, deliberate. Once. Twice. Again. The smack of his palm hitting Danny's skin actually beginning to make noise each time now, given the only place his palm can end up, when his finger is all the way back in Danny. He'll get to more fingers in second. He wants Danny back to that soft gasping and shivering now. Again. He wants to shove him into it.