It's a little like clawing back up a cliff, and more than Danny should ever know, like coming back from being minorly deafened. That doesn't always come back gently either. One second it's all gone, ringing, endless bubble and sometimes it just snaps, everything flows back in like water. This cascade of indistinguishable screaming cacophony. The way the sound of Danny breathing hard into his skin. Short, heavy, restless breaths invades Steve's awareness first.
Danny and Danny's breaths. The fingers sheathing up and down his skin, dragging madness, bumping and bungling knuckles into his stomach as it goes. The thigh clenched over his skin. Not because it's clenched. Because it's moving. Because it connects the fast shifting dragging along his leg, hips pumping against his hips, making him realize his own hips are, and that those other hips, their butting up against his hand. His hand, moving at about the same second as the realizing its attached, buried, that Danny is pushing against it.
When everything comes back with the kind of burning sudden intensity it failed, fled, burned out with it's almost as staggering. Even when rationality says the whole of it can't have been more that seconds, it still feels staggering. Stay. Is building. With each move of Danny's fingers, and his hips. That is being matched very suddenly by a drive. To keep up, to run beyond, to push deeper, more solid. When really the rest of him doesn't give a single damn about where his head is or whether he needs it. That. That can tatter and tear, be lost in the wind.
He doesn't need it for this. He doesn't need it to figure out how to move his hand, his wrist like a pistone. Like the reverse of the one his own hips are pushing into Danny. His hands, his body, the movement of his hips, the drag of him hard and solid pressing into Steve's own stomach, and those hands, and himself. And he doesn't. He doesn't need to think. Thinking. Thinking is hard and high and so overrated it could be sold out and he wouldn't remember to care right now.
He wants this. He wants that indescribable madness where it's blurring in his head. The feeling of his fingers getting lost in Danny's skin, with the one where there's tension, tightness pulling, grasping, warmth cuffed all around him. Almost. Almost like. Close enough it seems insane, and not insane, blurs, bleeds, desperate wants and blinding bursts pleasure. And all he wants is this. All of this. And to move his head and find Danny's mouth. To give up on that, too.
Because he doesn't need to breathe. Anymore than he needs to think. But he needs Danny.
Needs to know. Needs to feel him, touch him, taste him, check in with him for even losing it for a single second, find the only air and answers that even matter in the world, on his lips, his tongue, in the air and the words he has, shove everything into him, to be there with him, drag him down, make sure he's here, in this sudden set of stairs that turned into a tilting carousel, sudden drastic, tipping, sliding toward free fall.
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Danny and Danny's breaths. The fingers sheathing up and down his skin, dragging madness, bumping and bungling knuckles into his stomach as it goes. The thigh clenched over his skin. Not because it's clenched. Because it's moving. Because it connects the fast shifting dragging along his leg, hips pumping against his hips, making him realize his own hips are, and that those other hips, their butting up against his hand. His hand, moving at about the same second as the realizing its attached, buried, that Danny is pushing against it.
When everything comes back with the kind of burning sudden intensity it failed, fled, burned out with it's almost as staggering. Even when rationality says the whole of it can't have been more that seconds, it still feels staggering. Stay. Is building. With each move of Danny's fingers, and his hips. That is being matched very suddenly by a drive. To keep up, to run beyond, to push deeper, more solid. When really the rest of him doesn't give a single damn about where his head is or whether he needs it. That. That can tatter and tear, be lost in the wind.
He doesn't need it for this. He doesn't need it to figure out how to move his hand, his wrist like a pistone. Like the reverse of the one his own hips are pushing into Danny. His hands, his body, the movement of his hips, the drag of him hard and solid pressing into Steve's own stomach, and those hands, and himself. And he doesn't. He doesn't need to think. Thinking. Thinking is hard and high and so overrated it could be sold out and he wouldn't remember to care right now.
He wants this. He wants that indescribable madness where it's blurring in his head. The feeling of his fingers getting lost in Danny's skin, with the one where there's tension, tightness pulling, grasping, warmth cuffed all around him. Almost. Almost like. Close enough it seems insane, and not insane, blurs, bleeds, desperate wants and blinding bursts pleasure. And all he wants is this. All of this. And to move his head and find Danny's mouth. To give up on that, too.
Because he doesn't need to breathe. Anymore than he needs to think. But he needs Danny.
Needs to know. Needs to feel him, touch him, taste him, check in with him for even losing it for a single second, find the only air and answers that even matter in the world, on his lips, his tongue, in the air and the words he has, shove everything into him, to be there with him, drag him down, make sure he's here, in this sudden set of stairs that turned into a tilting carousel, sudden drastic, tipping, sliding toward free fall.