[He drives them together over the edge once again but Chuck keeps fueling him further, with every nook and corner that darkens with Mike's own shadow, every ripple of his muscles under his fingers, every fold of rumpled clothing pressing and rubbing and aching against him, the low rumble of his voice on the strings of his neck and slipping into the back of his mouth. He feels he's not Chuck anymore, but a source of movement and energy that he cannot control, that would be foolish to even try. If he's driving them into a chasm of something they never knew, it's because Chuck had been holding tightly onto him after a claim of how it wouldn't make any sense if they weren't together when they did.
Because it's what they do. It's what they live for, it's what connects them, fuel and fire and rubber and gravel, holograms and fumes. And it's driving Mike crazy because he isn't sure who's making what sound, who's shivering and who's writhing, breaths and bodies in synch, words muffled and lost in translation against their skins and tongues but understood and replied.
He only wins some self-awareness when the heat and buzz coursing through his body stagnate, coil under his spine, making it tense, snapping his hips into an electrical storm that shuts down his brain, and there's only the liquid pleasure stretching too thin and breaking. The only thing he knows is that he stopped kissing Chuck because he suddenly needed air, then not so much - he doesn't realize he breathes his name into Chuck's cheek, spilling incoherence that dies in half within his own respiration [most things, feelings, thoughts or their lack, he didn't know, so it strikes him at the back of his mind, where it's not intoxicated by their scent and sounds, like a well-aimed punch to his gut, to reach and take a good grip of their existence before he lets go] as he spills into both their hands.
(He does. He holds on like this when he needs to grip onto what he cares about. Onto what he needs to justify his very own substance.) ]
no subject
Because it's what they do. It's what they live for, it's what connects them, fuel and fire and rubber and gravel, holograms and fumes. And it's driving Mike crazy because he isn't sure who's making what sound, who's shivering and who's writhing, breaths and bodies in synch, words muffled and lost in translation against their skins and tongues but understood and replied.
He only wins some self-awareness when the heat and buzz coursing through his body stagnate, coil under his spine, making it tense, snapping his hips into an electrical storm that shuts down his brain, and there's only the liquid pleasure stretching too thin and breaking. The only thing he knows is that he stopped kissing Chuck because he suddenly needed air, then not so much - he doesn't realize he breathes his name into Chuck's cheek, spilling incoherence that dies in half within his own respiration [most things, feelings, thoughts or their lack, he didn't know, so it strikes him at the back of his mind, where it's not intoxicated by their scent and sounds, like a well-aimed punch to his gut, to reach and take a good grip of their existence before he lets go] as he spills into both their hands.
(He does. He holds on like this when he needs to grip onto what he cares about. Onto what he needs to justify his very own substance.) ]