Relief is dizzying, exhaustion ultimate and overwhelming, like contact with slamming the ground from too high up, when you lose the ability to see straight, to hold your own weight, to make the bones in a skeleton connect right, be used at all. He doesn't fall. He already fell, earlier, he thinks, doesn't know. Care. But Danny. Danny is shaking, starting, shoving, hard, harder, and then clinging, and Steve can feel the iron will, shoved into his shoulders by every last drop of a thought, vanish.
Weight caving from his shoulders, his spine, thighs. Rolling outward, crashing like waves outward across his muscles. When Danny's fingers are still tangled between them, while he shudders, and Steve's hand is still well stuck between four pairs of legs and Danny's skin. Warm, loose, there as much as everything is nowhere, is nothing. Is floating away on that. Relief. Exhaustion. The aftershocks of his own orgasm still too great for smug success even.
The burn in his shoulder, the strain of awareness obliterating like flood, like a popped bubble. The endless fog angrily, absolutely filling his head, his veins, his thoughts. Even when there's sparks of sensation, severe and sharp, so hot it's nearing painful, going off somewhere at the other end of his skin. Still touching. But nothing matters. Nothing exists. Everything, everything rolls away into an endless emptiness, so full there isn't the space for thought, for breath, for movement. Clogging up, shutting out, existence.
Laying him out, aware oddly enough of the quiet, distant beat of the waves for the first time in hours, fading in and out, rolling into and out. Against Danny's breath, against his own, the bubbling, failing existence of thought, awareness, against absolutely nothing, and the silence that rings through all of them like knoll of absolute stillness after a building is brought down.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-06-05 04:12 pm (UTC)Weight caving from his shoulders, his spine, thighs. Rolling outward, crashing like waves outward across his muscles. When Danny's fingers are still tangled between them, while he shudders, and Steve's hand is still well stuck between four pairs of legs and Danny's skin. Warm, loose, there as much as everything is nowhere, is nothing. Is floating away on that. Relief. Exhaustion. The aftershocks of his own orgasm still too great for smug success even.
The burn in his shoulder, the strain of awareness obliterating like flood, like a popped bubble. The endless fog angrily, absolutely filling his head, his veins, his thoughts. Even when there's sparks of sensation, severe and sharp, so hot it's nearing painful, going off somewhere at the other end of his skin. Still touching. But nothing matters. Nothing exists. Everything, everything rolls away into an endless emptiness, so full there isn't the space for thought, for breath, for movement. Clogging up, shutting out, existence.
Laying him out, aware oddly enough of the quiet, distant beat of the waves for the first time in hours, fading in and out, rolling into and out. Against Danny's breath, against his own, the bubbling, failing existence of thought, awareness, against absolutely nothing, and the silence that rings through all of them like knoll of absolute stillness after a building is brought down.