Everything is getting lost in a blur of Danny. The couch isn't big enough. The movie is playing somewhere feet away, another pointless fight scene no one cares about. Busily jammed into this space that one of them barely would fit in no less two. And certainly not two people, their size, doing this. Which should dictate something else to happen.
Something that isn't catching Danny's mouth between his words. Dragging them on to his tongue, sucking them down like the acrid air for a volcano he's teetering on the edge of falling into already. Or maybe he already got burned alive and he's just letting himself think there's still a rim and a chance. There's still anything, anywhere, in the world that isn't the rises and fall of his fist, of Danny's.
The way their chests bumps, and the speed of everyone's breath, mingled as one. Sharing the exact same few feet of air back and forth between themselves. While Danny is laughing, bumping into his stomach and his chest, shaking with that brightness, that Steve swears lightens everything about him. His eyes, and his face, and his hair, his skin. It's like the world reacts to Danny when he's happy.
It all changes, it all stops to pay singular pay attention. Or maybe that's just Steve.
Steve who's keeping his head about the water, above the flames, taking Danny's words and throwing them back.
"If you're get off in your shorts, you're failing it." Steve smoldering, smug smirk is winded only by the constant need for air. The way it feels like his skin can't decide between the want to lose cohesion now and the decision to try and blunt it out, knock focus down, hold out. If should, if they're, whether.
Images crowding Steve's head. Logistics, pants and shoes, stairs and lube, things that aren't staying, because of the warm wide expanse of a palm and the pads of fingers rubbing his skin, which in turn are gouging nails through his ability to think. Melting the wall of wanting to think. To do anything but keep meeting it. To hitch his hips faintly faster. To pull Danny closer. To have more of his skin.
"This-" Which as a single word, is almost more of a grunt when Steve emphasizes that word with thrusting hard into Danny's hand, dragging his hand fast up and down over Danny's skin, and kissing his mouth, like he was going to take Danny's air, and his lungs, and his heart straight up without asking. Which maybe doesn't surprise him that everything burning when he's shoving out the last words like they more than half melted on his own point. "-isn't a discussion."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-25 02:52 am (UTC)Something that isn't catching Danny's mouth between his words. Dragging them on to his tongue, sucking them down like the acrid air for a volcano he's teetering on the edge of falling into already. Or maybe he already got burned alive and he's just letting himself think there's still a rim and a chance. There's still anything, anywhere, in the world that isn't the rises and fall of his fist, of Danny's.
The way their chests bumps, and the speed of everyone's breath, mingled as one. Sharing the exact same few feet of air back and forth between themselves. While Danny is laughing, bumping into his stomach and his chest, shaking with that brightness, that Steve swears lightens everything about him. His eyes, and his face, and his hair, his skin. It's like the world reacts to Danny when he's happy.
It all changes, it all stops to pay singular pay attention. Or maybe that's just Steve.
Steve who's keeping his head about the water, above the flames, taking Danny's words and throwing them back.
"If you're get off in your shorts, you're failing it." Steve smoldering, smug smirk is winded only by the constant need for air. The way it feels like his skin can't decide between the want to lose cohesion now and the decision to try and blunt it out, knock focus down, hold out. If should, if they're, whether.
Images crowding Steve's head. Logistics, pants and shoes, stairs and lube, things that aren't staying, because of the warm wide expanse of a palm and the pads of fingers rubbing his skin, which in turn are gouging nails through his ability to think. Melting the wall of wanting to think. To do anything but keep meeting it. To hitch his hips faintly faster. To pull Danny closer. To have more of his skin.
"This-" Which as a single word, is almost more of a grunt when Steve emphasizes that word with thrusting hard into Danny's hand, dragging his hand fast up and down over Danny's skin, and kissing his mouth, like he was going to take Danny's air, and his lungs, and his heart straight up without asking. Which maybe doesn't surprise him that everything burning when he's shoving out the last words like they more than half melted on his own point. "-isn't a discussion."