When he breathes in, it's the scent of Danny's skin. A little smokey still from the bar, but it's Danny's skin. Warm and rich, something he's found himself more than aware of, especially when he's waking up to the smell of it, only to realize it's his pillow case and not Danny himself. Here, even when he isn't now. Here, in this room, in this bed, in Steve's head.
Filling it up right now, with lightning, so that everything comes in jagged quicksilver seconds. Like the smell of Danny's skin, sweat-slick, from mounting exertion, and smokey, for earlier, when he was snapping at everything. There is nothing like it. Even if the thought comes up, clear as the day, and then is obliterated not even half a second later.
Danny's pushing up, sudden and little wild, shifting up into his hand, while kissing him like he's trying to prove he can light Steve's skin straight from slickening with the beads of his own sweat passed logic straight into being a bonfire. Making Steve try to hold his arm, where his weight is, steadier. When that's like trying to shore up a house in a hurricane.
His hand is pumping at a fast beat, utterly ignoring the burn in the muscles of his forearm, trying to match into Danny's hips at this point. Not moving away at all for Danny pushing up to move him. Not going down or back. Simply wanting him closer, unwilling to be any further away. Trying to hold on to the dwindling lines of logic, of any sanity, plan going on.
Which isn't working as well when Danny's kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he knows how to breathe, no less than he remembers how to hold him hand, his weight, his head anywhere. When his fingers are driving Steve to thrust into his hand, his own body betraying him, chasing the intense pleasure slamming through him each time, chasing the explosion, implosion, disastrous ability to do anything.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2012-12-08 09:35 pm (UTC)Filling it up right now, with lightning, so that everything comes in jagged quicksilver seconds. Like the smell of Danny's skin, sweat-slick, from mounting exertion, and smokey, for earlier, when he was snapping at everything. There is nothing like it. Even if the thought comes up, clear as the day, and then is obliterated not even half a second later.
Danny's pushing up, sudden and little wild, shifting up into his hand, while kissing him like he's trying to prove he can light Steve's skin straight from slickening with the beads of his own sweat passed logic straight into being a bonfire. Making Steve try to hold his arm, where his weight is, steadier. When that's like trying to shore up a house in a hurricane.
His hand is pumping at a fast beat, utterly ignoring the burn in the muscles of his forearm, trying to match into Danny's hips at this point. Not moving away at all for Danny pushing up to move him. Not going down or back. Simply wanting him closer, unwilling to be any further away. Trying to hold on to the dwindling lines of logic, of any sanity, plan going on.
Which isn't working as well when Danny's kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he knows how to breathe, no less than he remembers how to hold him hand, his weight, his head anywhere. When his fingers are driving Steve to thrust into his hand, his own body betraying him, chasing the intense pleasure slamming through him each time, chasing the explosion, implosion, disastrous ability to do anything.