The world is stripping toward a live wire of frayed, sparking cords. All of them connected to the slide of their skin, sticky and hot, and Danny's fingers, in his hair, gripping tighter and tighter, to give his head a dull ache, that he couldn't give a damn about, because Danny's head is so close, his mouth, and his words get higher, and higher, messier and messier on Steve's skin. All those complaints he's always made, but like this.
Picking up the slack Steve can't find words to fill. The way to explain. How it is absolutely everything. It's all of these words. It's everything he's always needed to know, pushed and pushed and pushed for, waiting for Danny to tell him no, to shove him out, to show him the door and tell him he'd crossed the line, five hundred of them, and he had, now and then. But even then it just like this. Words, sharp and caustic in Steve's ears, yelling, and his hands everywhere, waving, instead of on Steve's skin, but giving in, too.
Always telling Steve the answer to everything he taunted, jibed, insulted, bullied for, like Danny had to present the proof. Show up Steve. Prove him wrong, even if every time, he gave Steve what he wanted to. Let Steve have those answers, steal that time, get in his space, into his life. Maybe further than he should have been. Until Danny just drug him into things, like it was given, until even that could confuse him, the givenness of it, the aboluste unquestioned expectation after a while, being wanted there, expected there, but his own finger were knotted knuckles that wouldn't, couldn't let go.
Until it was just them, too. Except that maybe it was this, too. This. Whatever it is. That Danny had been feeling, too. All along.
This thing, between them, boiling over, getting everywhere. While Danny is suddenly swearing, and Steve can't help that he just laughs. Voice gone all rough and dark, a blistered boil, when he shudders, too much weight and ability in the reaction when he suddenly shoves up into Danny's hand, the sudden tightness around him and even more friction, smoothness, caught between them, and Danny's fingers and Danny.
While Danny swears and complains, and Steve all but pushes Danny back into the bed, and himself into more of Danny. Instead catching Danny's mouth, and kissing him through it. That laugh gutting itself on every reaction in himself, in Danny. The blistering mania of it, charging through his veins, demanding more. Always more. Always more and more and more. That everything that Danny wants. The everything that was never enough no matter how many inches into not like everyone else this had ever and always gotten.
Wanting to burn up in his fingers, and dissolve on his tongue. Refusing anything short of abject madness, of everything. When he's pushing up into those fingers, hips and thighs bouncing Danny on them, kissing Danny like air was only accelerant now.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2016-07-27 04:24 pm (UTC)The world is stripping toward a live wire of frayed, sparking cords. All of them connected to the slide of their skin, sticky and hot, and Danny's fingers, in his hair, gripping tighter and tighter, to give his head a dull ache, that he couldn't give a damn about, because Danny's head is so close, his mouth, and his words get higher, and higher, messier and messier on Steve's skin. All those complaints he's always made, but like this.
Picking up the slack Steve can't find words to fill. The way to explain. How it is absolutely everything. It's all of these words. It's everything he's always needed to know, pushed and pushed and pushed for, waiting for Danny to tell him no, to shove him out, to show him the door and tell him he'd crossed the line, five hundred of them, and he had, now and then. But even then it just like this. Words, sharp and caustic in Steve's ears, yelling, and his hands everywhere, waving, instead of on Steve's skin, but giving in, too.
Always telling Steve the answer to everything he taunted, jibed, insulted, bullied for, like Danny had to present the proof. Show up Steve. Prove him wrong, even if every time, he gave Steve what he wanted to. Let Steve have those answers, steal that time, get in his space, into his life. Maybe further than he should have been. Until Danny just drug him into things, like it was given, until even that could confuse him, the givenness of it, the aboluste unquestioned expectation after a while, being wanted there, expected there, but his own finger were knotted knuckles that wouldn't, couldn't let go.
Until it was just them, too. Except that maybe it was this, too. This. Whatever it is. That Danny had been feeling, too. All along.
This thing, between them, boiling over, getting everywhere. While Danny is suddenly swearing, and Steve can't help that he just laughs. Voice gone all rough and dark, a blistered boil, when he shudders, too much weight and ability in the reaction when he suddenly shoves up into Danny's hand, the sudden tightness around him and even more friction, smoothness, caught between them, and Danny's fingers and Danny.
While Danny swears and complains, and Steve all but pushes Danny back into the bed, and himself into more of Danny. Instead catching Danny's mouth, and kissing him through it. That laugh gutting itself on every reaction in himself, in Danny. The blistering mania of it, charging through his veins, demanding more. Always more. Always more and more and more. That everything that Danny wants. The everything that was never enough no matter how many inches into not like everyone else this had ever and always gotten.
Wanting to burn up in his fingers, and dissolve on his tongue. Refusing anything short of abject madness, of everything.
When he's pushing up into those fingers, hips and thighs bouncing Danny on them, kissing Danny like air was only accelerant now.