Dizzy, drunk, spinning on the way everything is speeding up, tensing up, moving faster. Hooking into the base of his stomach, the bottomed out, melted core, on whatever is left at the base of it and cranking fast and hard, winding it tighter and tighter. He can feel the sweat dripping down his back across his spine, across that have shot straight past burn into a land where everything just moves because it can, because it has to.
Especially when his name is cutting the silence only broken by fast, gulping breaths and the sounds of the friction between their skin. Everywhere. Wage separate wars, that are all one. That are all yanking the drain at the bottom of whatever all this is that's left of Steve's head. When everything he breathe and thinks is heat, tight, harder, faster. When he isn't distinguishing between whether that's his hand or Danny's. Or Danny grinding into him, too.
This mad jostling, ricocheted thing of too much movement and not enough. Not enough now, not enough hands, not enough air left in the entirity of the world. That is winnowing down to Danny's face, and the hand slipping slick on his face. When it feels like an entirely different shard of himself, almost not related, not connected, when he's turning his head. From Danny's mouth. From his name falling out of those lips.
Those words being ripped out, torn out, thrown out, pleaded out. Causing him to ache more still. Somehow.
And still turns from it. Into that touch. Into those fingers. Kissing the inside of Danny's palm, his fingers, whatever his mouth ends up against. Warmth from body heat, and slick with salt that could be from his face, or back, or Danny's skin. Could be both of them on his tongue, on Danny's skin, gotten all over Danny. The way Steve wants it to be, whether it possible or not.
Digging his teeth in just barely at the top of Danny's palm, but without biting down, before kissing more of that skin, hand.
Wants that flicker of a thought, too. As badly as this. As everything else. Agressive as compound, decked out like a lethal announcement every person on the planet could see with a look. That this is his. Danny is his. Crawled in his chest, and demanded his honesty, his trust, broke Steve wide open, wider and deeper than any person to torture him ever managed, got into every fractured place, got Steve all over his hands, his life, his body. Got this. All of this.
Salt and sweat and skin and fingers and lips and hips and breath and drive. That leaves him pushing Danny harder, chasing Danny's touch faster. His own hand shrieking but it's easier to pay attention to when nothing else is sticking. The world is shaking in him, through, hips snapping, meeting, driving themselves, filling his head and his chest threateningly with lightning, shoving clarity along with insanity into over drive, and making him shove Danny, then, too.
Over. On to his back, Steve pushing him into the bed, pushing on to him, wanting him, all of him, everything, nothing else in the world Danny gets but him, covered, with the only words coming being, "Knee," like a sharp fast order, or a decree or a suggestion, he can't tell when he's leaning in to find that space at the side of Danny's neck. Because he'll keep going, fingers not even slowed for the offensive, even with the weight of Danny's leg trapping his forearm and elbow to the bed under Danny, quirking his shoulder something hard, but it would easier without that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:08 am (UTC)Especially when his name is cutting the silence only broken by fast, gulping breaths and the sounds of the friction between their skin. Everywhere. Wage separate wars, that are all one. That are all yanking the drain at the bottom of whatever all this is that's left of Steve's head. When everything he breathe and thinks is heat, tight, harder, faster. When he isn't distinguishing between whether that's his hand or Danny's. Or Danny grinding into him, too.
This mad jostling, ricocheted thing of too much movement and not enough. Not enough now, not enough hands, not enough air left in the entirity of the world. That is winnowing down to Danny's face, and the hand slipping slick on his face. When it feels like an entirely different shard of himself, almost not related, not connected, when he's turning his head. From Danny's mouth. From his name falling out of those lips.
Those words being ripped out, torn out, thrown out, pleaded out. Causing him to ache more still. Somehow.
And still turns from it. Into that touch. Into those fingers. Kissing the inside of Danny's palm, his fingers, whatever his mouth ends up against. Warmth from body heat, and slick with salt that could be from his face, or back, or Danny's skin. Could be both of them on his tongue, on Danny's skin, gotten all over Danny. The way Steve wants it to be, whether it possible or not.
Digging his teeth in just barely at the top of Danny's palm, but without biting down, before kissing more of that skin, hand.
Wants that flicker of a thought, too. As badly as this. As everything else. Agressive as compound, decked out like a lethal announcement every person on the planet could see with a look. That this is his. Danny is his. Crawled in his chest, and demanded his honesty, his trust, broke Steve wide open, wider and deeper than any person to torture him ever managed, got into every fractured place, got Steve all over his hands, his life, his body. Got this. All of this.
Salt and sweat and skin and fingers and lips and hips and breath and drive. That leaves him pushing Danny harder, chasing Danny's touch faster. His own hand shrieking but it's easier to pay attention to when nothing else is sticking. The world is shaking in him, through, hips snapping, meeting, driving themselves, filling his head and his chest threateningly with lightning, shoving clarity along with insanity into over drive, and making him shove Danny, then, too.
Over. On to his back, Steve pushing him into the bed, pushing on to him, wanting him, all of him, everything, nothing else in the world Danny gets but him, covered, with the only words coming being, "Knee," like a sharp fast order, or a decree or a suggestion, he can't tell when he's leaning in to find that space at the side of Danny's neck. Because he'll keep going, fingers not even slowed for the offensive, even with the weight of Danny's leg trapping his forearm and elbow to the bed under Danny, quirking his shoulder something hard, but it would easier without that.