It's amazing. Above and beyond, far away, somewhere deliriously past it. When Danny is literally all but graft himself in, and Steve's hand has to find the bed, because someone, somewhere, in this pile of arms, and mass of bodies, has to be able to support all of this. Which is ludicrous, when Danny's lips are brushing his hair and his skin, and going to his head, as clearly as if he shoved Steve's head into hot water.
Causing his brain to feel like the impulses behind even thinking about thinking are shorting out. Sputtering. Causing him to shudder and close his eyes, only pressing into Danny more, only wanting to shove into him, through him, this second, the next minute, when it seems like Danny is doing his literal best to just wrap around him. Arms around his body, tight and firm. Words. Words falling out, through the water in his ears, while Danny is still arguing.
Always arguing. Even when his voice is catching, ground out on skin. It's insane. It's perfect.
Let words, tumble from his mouth, head turning a little into Danny's. The solid block of it at the side of his, his neck. So that he's catching hair, and only a little skin, when he's letting those few sounds scatter and shatter out. Sound about as impossible as his words do. "How are you even still talking?"
"Danno--" That one words, like a hot flared grasp for more attention, is too low, dark and antagonizingly smug.
When he shifts his hand from Danny's hip finally. In against skin, moist and hot from movement, from prolonged contact, while they were laying here. Sliding it between them, the rough moving muscles of stomach and bones of both their hips on this side catching on his wrist and forearm. Hardly stopping him. Barely inches even. Far less burn than a bullet.
To wrap his fingers around Danny's skin, and start pulling, as he finished, so much more taunting than ordering. "--stop talking."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-03-06 07:26 pm (UTC)Causing his brain to feel like the impulses behind even thinking about thinking are shorting out. Sputtering. Causing him to shudder and close his eyes, only pressing into Danny more, only wanting to shove into him, through him, this second, the next minute, when it seems like Danny is doing his literal best to just wrap around him. Arms around his body, tight and firm. Words. Words falling out, through the water in his ears, while Danny is still arguing.
Always arguing. Even when his voice is catching, ground out on skin. It's insane. It's perfect.
Let words, tumble from his mouth, head turning a little into Danny's. The solid block of it at the side of his, his neck. So that he's catching hair, and only a little skin, when he's letting those few sounds scatter and shatter out. Sound about as impossible as his words do. "How are you even still talking?"
"Danno--" That one words, like a hot flared grasp for more attention, is too low, dark and antagonizingly smug.
When he shifts his hand from Danny's hip finally. In against skin, moist and hot from movement, from prolonged contact, while they were laying here. Sliding it between them, the rough moving muscles of stomach and bones of both their hips on this side catching on his wrist and forearm. Hardly stopping him. Barely inches even. Far less burn than a bullet.
To wrap his fingers around Danny's skin, and start pulling, as he finished, so much more taunting than ordering. "--stop talking."