So there's Steve, pressed flush up against him, like Danny's an over-sized teddy bear, a body pillow. Something to grab onto and curl around, all rough affection, blunt fingers sliding between his side and the mattress, and it washes over him in swirling, suffocating relief.
With Steve shifting back there, long and heavy and boneless, voice raw-edged, sandpapery and sarcastic, and it all helps, because Steve's not going anywhere if his arm is belted across Danny's side and chest, he's not going anywhere sounding like something that got washed up on shore. And then there's that. Steve's nose.
Just the tip of it. Nudging into the back of his neck. And then. Steve's face. Mouth, nose. Pressing into warm skin still a little damp and flushed from sex. Burying there. Breathing him in.
Making Danny's stomach fold over on itself unexpectedly. Making his eyes close, creasing a little, and it might look almost like he's in pain, but that's because it is, a kind of, it's an ache, sweet and spreading slow from some crack that just appeared in his chest that should make it impossible to breathe, right, and that's why it's impossible to breathe, for a second.
That's all. Nothing else.
Not words smudged into his skin. Not Steve nosing the back of his neck, breathing gently against his shoulder. Not the pit that's opened in his stomach, that his heart trips against and falls into, banging against unseen walls on the way down.
Every breath suddenly as fragile as glass. That skip in his pulse totally normal, considering how difficult it is to breathe right, and it's for balance that his hand goes to cover Steve's forearm, nothing else. Thumb stroking along his skin because. Because.
Not because he just needs to touch him. Find a way to sneak between his ribs and set up shop there, the way Steve's doing right now, has done, has taken over, bought out the space, claimed it as his own.
Not for that. Maybe because Steve's not breathing, either, and one of them should be getting a decent oxygen flow, if only so they can be able to drag the other one back to consciousness if necessary. "Yeah, right," he bluffs, blusters. When his thumb never moves faster. His fingers never tighten or grip harder.
"Shut up, you're embarrassing yourself. Next time, I expect you to deliver on this so-called ability to reduce me to an inability to speak, okay. That was just sad."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 12:30 am (UTC)With Steve shifting back there, long and heavy and boneless, voice raw-edged, sandpapery and sarcastic, and it all helps, because Steve's not going anywhere if his arm is belted across Danny's side and chest, he's not going anywhere sounding like something that got washed up on shore. And then there's that. Steve's nose.
Just the tip of it. Nudging into the back of his neck. And then. Steve's face. Mouth, nose. Pressing into warm skin still a little damp and flushed from sex. Burying there. Breathing him in.
Making Danny's stomach fold over on itself unexpectedly. Making his eyes close, creasing a little, and it might look almost like he's in pain, but that's because it is, a kind of, it's an ache, sweet and spreading slow from some crack that just appeared in his chest that should make it impossible to breathe, right, and that's why it's impossible to breathe, for a second.
That's all. Nothing else.
Not words smudged into his skin. Not Steve nosing the back of his neck, breathing gently against his shoulder. Not the pit that's opened in his stomach, that his heart trips against and falls into, banging against unseen walls on the way down.
Every breath suddenly as fragile as glass. That skip in his pulse totally normal, considering how difficult it is to breathe right, and it's for balance that his hand goes to cover Steve's forearm, nothing else. Thumb stroking along his skin because. Because.
Not because he just needs to touch him. Find a way to sneak between his ribs and set up shop there, the way Steve's doing right now, has done, has taken over, bought out the space, claimed it as his own.
Not for that. Maybe because Steve's not breathing, either, and one of them should be getting a decent oxygen flow, if only so they can be able to drag the other one back to consciousness if necessary. "Yeah, right," he bluffs, blusters. When his thumb never moves faster. His fingers never tighten or grip harder.
"Shut up, you're embarrassing yourself. Next time, I expect you to deliver on this so-called ability to reduce me to an inability to speak, okay. That was just sad."