It's like trying to hold the walls and floor together when a building starts shaking so hard you can watch the screws beginning to come loose, the cracks beginning to get serious. Danny's words followed spot on by the fingers that are brushing his skin, like it's an accident, that could never be an accident. Not when his hand skated there. Not when it was toying with his shirt.
Not when Danny's mouth is suddenly on his neck, and his fingers have somehow found Danny's hair. When he can't tell if he's leaning into Danny's mouth or pushing Danny's head up into his neck. While his heart richoet's like he's been shot. And god he might as well have been. Because fuck. Just fuck. Fucking hell. He can't even. The world goes fuzzy white at the edges of the stain.
Of the fire licking at his skin, and the way his finger are buried as desperate into Danny's hair and the muscles of his side as the sudden series of shaky, barely controlled, thrusts against Danny's still almost fully clothed body is. Because it's not like he needs help. Dammit. He doesn't, okay. He doesn't need any help with that. This. Wanting Danny. Wanting everything of Danny that he could possibly track across his head. Has mapped every inch of that skin with his mouth, with his hands, with his body.
Has watched him in the ocean, with shorts clinging, and in the shower with absolutely nothing, but water sliding down his dark gold skin, sleeping in his bed in the too early dark before he vanishes to ocean. Has thought, treacherous, traitorous thoughts about other hard rung activities to do before dawn, to chase the demons out of his head without leaving Danny behind.
Has though about every possibility for a smooth easier introduction to it than he ever managed, dropping a fucking bomb in Danny's last time. Which is what he did. Shoved a fucking bomb in his hands, and watched him turn white as a ghost, with terror and the realization of how many lines he'd crossed. The way he can't do that. He can't see that any. Can't force that, handle that, make that happen, would do or not do anything to avoid seeing that again.
Which is all splinting on a flare of white, and two completely different washes of want and desperation colliding like flint and steel giving way to even bigger explosion under his skin. When he's shivering with the amount of control it takes to hold back, eyes closing almost completely, barely getting out, "That didn't work so well last time."
Because it's not that he doesn't want Danny. God. Fuck. He wants everything. He's always wanted everything. With every part of himself, no matter what he couldn't have. He still does. But he's doesn't have to listen, doesn't have to have, couldn't doesn't want to make. Even when the temperature raising in his head, the shadow possibilities are each creeping closer, catching on everything spawning even, whispering in Danny's voice now, in his fingers tips, on his tongue.
When has he every been able to actually deny Danny? Not before he left. Especially not since he got back. Not tonight.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-21 05:12 am (UTC)Not when Danny's mouth is suddenly on his neck, and his fingers have somehow found Danny's hair. When he can't tell if he's leaning into Danny's mouth or pushing Danny's head up into his neck. While his heart richoet's like he's been shot. And god he might as well have been. Because fuck. Just fuck. Fucking hell. He can't even. The world goes fuzzy white at the edges of the stain.
Of the fire licking at his skin, and the way his finger are buried as desperate into Danny's hair and the muscles of his side as the sudden series of shaky, barely controlled, thrusts against Danny's still almost fully clothed body is. Because it's not like he needs help. Dammit. He doesn't, okay. He doesn't need any help with that. This. Wanting Danny. Wanting everything of Danny that he could possibly track across his head. Has mapped every inch of that skin with his mouth, with his hands, with his body.
Has watched him in the ocean, with shorts clinging, and in the shower with absolutely nothing, but water sliding down his dark gold skin, sleeping in his bed in the too early dark before he vanishes to ocean. Has thought, treacherous, traitorous thoughts about other hard rung activities to do before dawn, to chase the demons out of his head without leaving Danny behind.
Has though about every possibility for a smooth easier introduction to it than he ever managed, dropping a fucking bomb in Danny's last time. Which is what he did. Shoved a fucking bomb in his hands, and watched him turn white as a ghost, with terror and the realization of how many lines he'd crossed. The way he can't do that. He can't see that any. Can't force that, handle that, make that happen, would do or not do anything to avoid seeing that again.
Which is all splinting on a flare of white, and two completely different washes of want and desperation colliding like flint and steel giving way to even bigger explosion under his skin. When he's shivering with the amount of control it takes to hold back, eyes closing almost completely, barely getting out, "That didn't work so well last time."
Because it's not that he doesn't want Danny. God. Fuck. He wants everything. He's always wanted everything. With every part of himself, no matter what he couldn't have. He still does. But he's doesn't have to listen, doesn't have to have, couldn't doesn't want to make. Even when the temperature raising in his head, the shadow possibilities are each creeping closer, catching on everything spawning even, whispering in Danny's voice now, in his fingers tips, on his tongue.
When has he every been able to actually deny Danny? Not before he left. Especially not since he got back. Not tonight.