Holy Christ, what is he actually supposed to do with Danny?
When his own mouth is creasing up his cheeks, hard and fast and wide, reminding him all too glaringly of It's fine. Do it everyday. I like it. And that stupid, smile that dragged out across his lips, and he had to turn and walk away. When things like that hit him long before things like this were even the jagged bits of broken glass he was walking barefoot on.
But it's banking to a dangerously sharp edge quickly. Not about forcibly calling him Danno, stealing it from him and batting him about the head with it, until Danny gave him permission. Like Danny keeps doing right now. Danny's voice filling up his head and his chest, until it might burst. Not occasional words. Dozens of them. Staking our their claim on his sanity, on his breath, on the ability to us his head against the movement of his blood thundering.
Still possible. I want to be with you. Good. Because I just want you. Those rules can screw themselves. So then lose it.
Like dropping all the appliances this house owns in a bathtub, only after they've all been cranked up to high, and shoved under his skin, with sparking, frayed wires. So that Danny's words, and the way he's looking up, like there might be nothing else in the world, that Danny wants, that Danny can even see, that guts whatever he had been holding in the way of wanted patience and pressed, flippant amusement.
Like the length of any leash actually holding his want to be cool and smug goes up like flash paper on Danny's mouth losing it there.
"But I'm good at it," is goading and arrogant, every proof and promise, when he's leaning back in. Taking it for a goddamn golden ticket. Raising the hand that had originally stolen Danny's wrist, to find the side of his face, cheek, jaw and tip it up more. Lips splitting against the thick cording muscles and the rapid beat of Danny's pulse.
Running the tip of his tongue against it, before sucking up his skin, gently, between his lips. A tumbler, a thimble of awareness, left, to try and keep to that. Gentle. To a point, if there was a point. When he didn't clarify it at all. His words. If it's blaming Danny. Or losing control. Or dragging every single sound out of Danny that is better, higher, hotter, scorched into his head and his skin, than anything he once imagined.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-03-03 01:48 am (UTC)When his own mouth is creasing up his cheeks, hard and fast and wide, reminding him all too glaringly of It's fine. Do it everyday. I like it. And that stupid, smile that dragged out across his lips, and he had to turn and walk away. When things like that hit him long before things like this were even the jagged bits of broken glass he was walking barefoot on.
But it's banking to a dangerously sharp edge quickly. Not about forcibly calling him Danno, stealing it from him and batting him about the head with it, until Danny gave him permission. Like Danny keeps doing right now. Danny's voice filling up his head and his chest, until it might burst. Not occasional words. Dozens of them. Staking our their claim on his sanity, on his breath, on the ability to us his head against the movement of his blood thundering.
Still possible. I want to be with you. Good. Because I just want you. Those rules can screw themselves. So then lose it.
Like dropping all the appliances this house owns in a bathtub, only after they've all been cranked up to high, and shoved under his skin, with sparking, frayed wires. So that Danny's words, and the way he's looking up, like there might be nothing else in the world, that Danny wants, that Danny can even see, that guts whatever he had been holding in the way of wanted patience and pressed, flippant amusement.
Like the length of any leash actually holding his want to be cool and smug goes up like flash paper on Danny's mouth losing it there.
"But I'm good at it," is goading and arrogant, every proof and promise, when he's leaning back in. Taking it for a goddamn golden ticket. Raising the hand that had originally stolen Danny's wrist, to find the side of his face, cheek, jaw and tip it up more. Lips splitting against the thick cording muscles and the rapid beat of Danny's pulse.
Running the tip of his tongue against it, before sucking up his skin, gently, between his lips. A tumbler, a thimble of awareness, left, to try and keep to that. Gentle. To a point, if there was a point. When he didn't clarify it at all. His words. If it's blaming Danny. Or losing control. Or dragging every single sound out of Danny that is better, higher, hotter, scorched into his head and his skin, than anything he once imagined.