It's everything he wants. The way Danny's hands hold on to him, sudden and hard, like the world is splintering beneath him and the bed isn't beneath him, making it so there is nowhere to fall. But falling, doesn't matter here, does it? They've both already fallen. If it can be called falling. It's a lot like falling to Steve. Not off a bed. Or even a building. But more out of a plane. When his hand can't stop, and Danny is gasping against his lip, pushing into his hand, his stomach.
Saying that, making the world blur like Steve has jumped out of a plane at a questionable height, that is going to make descent rougher and faster than every other time. All wind, and speed, exploding heart and not enough oxygen in the air. Fingers rough and fast. Lips the same. The way those words are, rough and fast, with everything inside of him. Knots of years, mistakes, missteps, walking past, melting into pools of frying, bubbling, splattering heat.
"Tell me," he can hear his own voice saying. Lips nearly against lips.
A demand more than a question, when he has no clue if either of them will even make it through two more sentences. If he wants Danny to tell him, more, everything he's never know, shouldn't know even now or if he's just going to bull rush them through the last wall left standing. The reckless shoving of his own hips, friction of his fingers, the slide and thrust of Danny, in his hands, against his skin, when everything outside of these few feet is gone already.
Gone, forgotten, he doesn't need it. Doesn't need or want anything more than Danny, and it's always been that way, hasn't it. Even when he was lying, even when he was trying.
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It's everything he wants. The way Danny's hands hold on to him, sudden and hard, like the world is splintering beneath him and the bed isn't beneath him, making it so there is nowhere to fall. But falling, doesn't matter here, does it? They've both already fallen. If it can be called falling. It's a lot like falling to Steve. Not off a bed. Or even a building. But more out of a plane. When his hand can't stop, and Danny is gasping against his lip, pushing into his hand, his stomach.
Saying that, making the world blur like Steve has jumped out of a plane at a questionable height, that is going to make descent rougher and faster than every other time. All wind, and speed, exploding heart and not enough oxygen in the air. Fingers rough and fast. Lips the same. The way those words are, rough and fast, with everything inside of him. Knots of years, mistakes, missteps, walking past, melting into pools of frying, bubbling, splattering heat.
"Tell me," he can hear his own voice saying. Lips nearly against lips.
A demand more than a question, when he has no clue if either of them will even make it through two more sentences. If he wants Danny to tell him, more, everything he's never know, shouldn't know even now or if he's just going to bull rush them through the last wall left standing. The reckless shoving of his own hips, friction of his fingers, the slide and thrust of Danny, in his hands, against his skin, when everything outside of these few feet is gone already.
Gone, forgotten, he doesn't need it. Doesn't need or want anything more than Danny, and it's always been that way, hasn't it. Even when he was lying, even when he was trying.