Jesus. He doesn't see how he's managed to survive a month of this. He's got no idea how he's lived through the last hour, how he ever thought he might have any control over any of this, because Steve burns through it like a flaming brand through tissue paper. His muscles are shaking, hand squeezing tight, and that, Christ, that look, it's gorgeous, the best thing he's seen all night. Rivals the smile Steve's been wearing since the bar, since the girls, since Danny started snapping at them and Steve didn't bother telling him to back off. Like he didn't mind. Like he was amused.
Or better.
Grabbing him in the living room, like something was about to break. Like something is, here. Now. Pressing his forehead against him, eyes tight, face crumpling.
Until it all goes up, sudden, like a cliff sliding sheer into the ocean. Roller after roller crashing into his gut, punching out a desperate sound, somewhere between pleading and Steve's name and a curse. Spasms splintering behind his eyes, as everything goes too sharp, too sensitive, too much, impossible to hold back, hips stuttering, and he's got to keep pushing, pumping his hand, shoving Steve, wanting him closer, lips on skin, hands denting accidental bruises into hip or arm or back.
Fuck. How's he supposed to react to anyone trying to come between him and this? Of course he was jealous. Of course he'd hate them. And this, that second of hanging by a slowly spinning, fraying thread before crashing down in a shower of glass shards and pleasure so intense he feels it like a dull explosion at the back of his skull. Forcing him to hold onto sensation and reality with a drowning man's grip, unwilling to slide down into oblivion alone.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-11 01:30 am (UTC)Or better.
Grabbing him in the living room, like something was about to break. Like something is, here. Now. Pressing his forehead against him, eyes tight, face crumpling.
Until it all goes up, sudden, like a cliff sliding sheer into the ocean. Roller after roller crashing into his gut, punching out a desperate sound, somewhere between pleading and Steve's name and a curse. Spasms splintering behind his eyes, as everything goes too sharp, too sensitive, too much, impossible to hold back, hips stuttering, and he's got to keep pushing, pumping his hand, shoving Steve, wanting him closer, lips on skin, hands denting accidental bruises into hip or arm or back.
Fuck. How's he supposed to react to anyone trying to come between him and this? Of course he was jealous. Of course he'd hate them. And this, that second of hanging by a slowly spinning, fraying thread before crashing down in a shower of glass shards and pleasure so intense he feels it like a dull explosion at the back of his skull. Forcing him to hold onto sensation and reality with a drowning man's grip, unwilling to slide down into oblivion alone.