More is what he wants to say. More of, Jesus. Everything. More of Steve. More of this heat and pressure and friction. More hands, everywhere, all over his body. Just. Christ. More. Everything he doesn't know yet and has no clue how to ask for, because this is good in a gut-deep, bone-melting way, and panic can't live anywhere near it. Maybe it's yapping somewhere near the base of his skull, sparked into sudden frenzy by the strange feeling of having his leg hiked up by Steve's hip, a weird deja vu of having done that, himself, on plenty of other occasions with a smaller, slimmer, smoother leg, but it's muffled by Steve's hand there. Ignored in favor of rolling his hips and closing his eyes against the wave that pushes straight over him. Forcing them open again to catch the crook of a smile trying to tug Steve's mouth into a negligent curve.
When Steve's trying to sound conversational, but can barely make it a question. Two words that feel like a paper airplane lit with a match and tossed his way, landing like coal.
And it almost does. Almost comes. That word. Almost. He can feel it in a lump in his throat, drying up his mouth, breaking him out into sweat that's slick against skin. Almost. He could. Put it out there. Like before. Like the kitchen. More. More than this, even when this is puddling his brain in a useless melted goo, heating him steadily until he feels flush with sunburn.
It could be. He could. Shut that yapping, annoying, wordless voice up.
And he's not proud knowing it won't. That it will stay there, lodged in his throat, sizzling in his head. Pushing "don't stop" past it instead, low and wrecked, voice feeling like tissue paper.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-15 09:09 pm (UTC)More is what he wants to say. More of, Jesus. Everything. More of Steve. More of this heat and pressure and friction. More hands, everywhere, all over his body. Just. Christ. More. Everything he doesn't know yet and has no clue how to ask for, because this is good in a gut-deep, bone-melting way, and panic can't live anywhere near it. Maybe it's yapping somewhere near the base of his skull, sparked into sudden frenzy by the strange feeling of having his leg hiked up by Steve's hip, a weird deja vu of having done that, himself, on plenty of other occasions with a smaller, slimmer, smoother leg, but it's muffled by Steve's hand there. Ignored in favor of rolling his hips and closing his eyes against the wave that pushes straight over him. Forcing them open again to catch the crook of a smile trying to tug Steve's mouth into a negligent curve.
When Steve's trying to sound conversational, but can barely make it a question. Two words that feel like a paper airplane lit with a match and tossed his way, landing like coal.
And it almost does. Almost comes. That word. Almost. He can feel it in a lump in his throat, drying up his mouth, breaking him out into sweat that's slick against skin. Almost. He could. Put it out there. Like before. Like the kitchen. More. More than this, even when this is puddling his brain in a useless melted goo, heating him steadily until he feels flush with sunburn.
It could be. He could. Shut that yapping, annoying, wordless voice up.
And he's not proud knowing it won't. That it will stay there, lodged in his throat, sizzling in his head. Pushing "don't stop" past it instead, low and wrecked, voice feeling like tissue paper.