If he doesn't let go, can't let go, it's almost like he can't hold on at the same time, too. Not the same way. Not when Danny's leg is sliding across one of his, making enough room for itself between both of his legs. Pressing them even closer together. Thighs, stomachs, sides, chests. Each expand of Danny's chest for a breath pushing in on his chest, or out against his hand on Danny's back. Blotting out the space, from somewhere in Steve's head.
That high pitched alarm, that somehow slipped and started murmuring against Danny's skin and his mouth, still here like the jackhammering flutter of a hummingbird heartbeat. Which doesn't make anymore sense than the rest of it, but at least Danny isn't holding himself apart, barely using words, barely moving his hands. At least this he gets. Or can't not get. Or can't not feel himself sliding on slick too fast toward.
The brush of Danny's lips, this kissing that just pulls at him. That his focus moves toward like a plant moving toward water or sunshine it hasn't seen in ages. Like everything else short circuits, briefly electrocuted, beyond comprehension of any other choice or action that could be taken. Fingers sliding further into Danny's hair, heedless of the mess it's become. Heedless of the mess it feels like everything all around them, including them, has become.
Unable to stop the burn of relief from clouding up his lungs, when his own lips keep sliding open, keep following Danny's mouth, like it's a hook he got caught on and can't get free from. Causing his focus to slip, some. Ebbing into this. The need to trace Danny's lower lip, against the taste of salt and friction of stubble. The brush of his tongue. The way breath puffs from that mouth against his own. His mouth, his skin.
Danny being more receptive in seconds to this, than he had been the entire last few minutes standing. Talking. They way Danny loosens only slowly, dragging Steve back and forth like a tide between effect and a cause that is still beyond elusive, but still there is ever smallest pausing hesitation, like Danny is bringing himself back, still. From wherever he'd gone, whatever had bitten him. How achingly hard and easy it is, to want, to know, to try to pull Danny back to him, slow and sure, or how much slow and sure is the last thing other parts of him want, too.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-28 03:36 pm (UTC)That high pitched alarm, that somehow slipped and started murmuring against Danny's skin and his mouth, still here like the jackhammering flutter of a hummingbird heartbeat. Which doesn't make anymore sense than the rest of it, but at least Danny isn't holding himself apart, barely using words, barely moving his hands. At least this he gets. Or can't not get. Or can't not feel himself sliding on slick too fast toward.
The brush of Danny's lips, this kissing that just pulls at him. That his focus moves toward like a plant moving toward water or sunshine it hasn't seen in ages. Like everything else short circuits, briefly electrocuted, beyond comprehension of any other choice or action that could be taken. Fingers sliding further into Danny's hair, heedless of the mess it's become. Heedless of the mess it feels like everything all around them, including them, has become.
Unable to stop the burn of relief from clouding up his lungs, when his own lips keep sliding open, keep following Danny's mouth, like it's a hook he got caught on and can't get free from. Causing his focus to slip, some. Ebbing into this. The need to trace Danny's lower lip, against the taste of salt and friction of stubble. The brush of his tongue. The way breath puffs from that mouth against his own. His mouth, his skin.
Danny being more receptive in seconds to this, than he had been the entire last few minutes standing. Talking. They way Danny loosens only slowly, dragging Steve back and forth like a tide between effect and a cause that is still beyond elusive, but still there is ever smallest pausing hesitation, like Danny is bringing himself back, still. From wherever he'd gone, whatever had bitten him. How achingly hard and easy it is, to want, to know, to try to pull Danny back to him, slow and sure, or how much slow and sure is the last thing other parts of him want, too.