It's all contracting. The whole world. To aching stomach muscles, bunching and releasing. To burning lungs. To his hand, dragging up and down, with no finesse and not subtlety, because it's not about teasing Steve into a tottering tip over the edge, it's about throwing the whole train off the cliffside and watching it burn. While everything left of him has coalesced into a molten, burning ball spinning in the lowest part of his gut, spitting fire at every lift and fall of Steve's hand, fingers on every nerve, wrapping the world in heat and flame.
He'll never last. No matter what he says about not being sixteen anymore, and, God, he wishes he were, almost. To try everything for the first time. To experience it all like it's brand new, without the worries, without the fear or the clinging uncertainty.
Like this. When nothing else exists in the world except Steve. Danny's hand slipping, losing purchase on his sweat-slick back, fingers scrabbling to hold on. Steve's face buried close to his shoulder, his neck, breath gusting hard against Danny's skin, flushed and shiny. The curve of Steve's shoulder bare with faint light from the windows, a stark line, moving like a wave. Power and desperation. And Steve. Collapsing against him, pushing through, digging them both deeper, harder. A low whine has started somewhere in Danny's ears, rusted-out, a weird hum that he would absolutely find incredibly unnerving if it weren't for the fact that the room is starting to splinter around him, like Steve's taking a hammer to a wall of mirrors.
"Come on," he says, low. Says. Gasps. Swears. "Come on, babe, like that."
Shaking at the seams like an old car hitting ninety on the freeway. Gorgeous chrysanthemum fireworks blowing his head to bits, but, God, it's spectacular, Steve is, Steve is spectacular, Danny could be lost on the way moonlight plays across his skin and darkens his tattoos if he weren't so entirely lost already. Gone without a map, or compass, or any desire to ever be found.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-03-06 10:44 pm (UTC)He'll never last. No matter what he says about not being sixteen anymore, and, God, he wishes he were, almost. To try everything for the first time. To experience it all like it's brand new, without the worries, without the fear or the clinging uncertainty.
Like this. When nothing else exists in the world except Steve. Danny's hand slipping, losing purchase on his sweat-slick back, fingers scrabbling to hold on. Steve's face buried close to his shoulder, his neck, breath gusting hard against Danny's skin, flushed and shiny. The curve of Steve's shoulder bare with faint light from the windows, a stark line, moving like a wave. Power and desperation. And Steve. Collapsing against him, pushing through, digging them both deeper, harder. A low whine has started somewhere in Danny's ears, rusted-out, a weird hum that he would absolutely find incredibly unnerving if it weren't for the fact that the room is starting to splinter around him, like Steve's taking a hammer to a wall of mirrors.
"Come on," he says, low. Says. Gasps. Swears. "Come on, babe, like that."
Shaking at the seams like an old car hitting ninety on the freeway. Gorgeous chrysanthemum fireworks blowing his head to bits, but, God, it's spectacular, Steve is, Steve is spectacular, Danny could be lost on the way moonlight plays across his skin and darkens his tattoos if he weren't so entirely lost already. Gone without a map, or compass, or any desire to ever be found.