He has to jerk forward, when his pants get dragged. Hips jerked by pants, knees and thighs colliding, a shuffled step he wasn't planning for and they're quickly losing any space there was. Quickly losing the being any air left. Like this space, with it's wide layout and vaulted ceilings has shrunk sudden and drastic in a fire flash to the space barely right here. Not even enough of it for a bubble around them.
When his stomach seizes and coils on contact, driving his fingers in Danny's hair a little harder, and his other hand to find the side of Danny's body. Rumpled fabric and ribs. The fast rise and fall of them, like air can't seem to get out or in, among all the words that are taking up Danny's throat and his mouth. When Steve literally can't take his eyes off this, can't even wish for light, to see this more, because he can't envision it.
Anything that involves being one step away, one inch away, not flush with Danny. Able to feel him nearly vibrating to break open.
When Danny's mouth might as well be throwing shattering glass shards, vicious, defensive and offensive, all at the same time. While he's grafting himself in against every inch of viably able skin, and Steve is lost between the want to remind him this whole night was his and just to bite his tongue, finally. Because Danny even sounds like he just wants track down that unnamed girl and slash off her finger tips still.
Like it was Danny she was accosting by touching Steve, and not Steve, himself.
How. In any sane and rational mind is he supposed to hate this. He should feel terrible. He might. A small bit. It's not what he wanted, wants. But he does, too. He wants all of this. The anger. The possession. For everything to matter. Everything. Even that word. Confused and angry and thrown back at him two more times. Making him shake his head, heart headed for jumping jacks.
When he enjoys it too much still. Sharp, painful, hot, beautiful. That question barely taking a second to have, "Yes," fly out of his mouth as dark as it is bright. It's nothing. They were nothing. Absolutely nothing. He didn't feel anything like this. Need anything like this from any of them. Names and faces, sliding in and out. When the only thing that stayed the same was Danny. At his side. Danny. Loud and annoyed.
Like an electric current he wanted to shove his hand into even if it might burn off all his skin, wreck all the walls left standing.
Because. Just. There isn't even an explicative strong enough. When he's staring down at Danny. Because he doesn't want anything from his days, anything from this night. Not as much as he wants Danny. He wouldn't have even been there if it wasn't for following Danny's lead, and him wanting to have a night out, where he could bitch about the day out.
When both of them are ruined and riddled with fuck all from the world messing up anything they try. Delighted with Danny, but beyond done with the rest of everything and everyone that don't matter.
"Because it was, Danny." Nothing. When he's leaning closer. His forehead is going to be brushing Danny's skin in second. The whole world is just going to turn into an inferno that's based on the rhythm of two hearts beating in, through, against his chest. "You're angry -- for what now? A drink, at a place you wanted to go? An accident, you would have stopped just the same if you'd been in my chair? One game, you didn't say no to either?"
He knows what it is. What it is more than that. When he's joining to jerk Danny even closer, even when there shouldn't be closer. When his spine is threatening to turn itself into lightning, grinding through his muscles, setting fire through his back, along his ribs, making his shirt too tight, hot, constricting, dividing. "I wouldn't have even been there, if it wasn't for you. I haven't wanted, even for a moment, one thing that wasn't--"
Except the word catches, angry and hot and bright, like silver melt fired so high it's nearly bleeding white-yellow. You. You. You. When he's done. He's just done. And his head tilts and he's demanding Danny's mouth again. Crashing his own against him with force that should involve far more space or lead up than the little space it gets. When he wants this still. He wants all of it. Insanity. Desperation. Anger. Possession.
Without a bar or people or the world or the stupid center console. Because this is close, and it's not close enough, and it's already so much everything he should step back and box it off, and he can't. He can't anymore than Danny can't. Because close is never close enough, and every time he can't have any of this he's so on edge, threatening his own seams like they are fragile as the first day and not decades old anymore.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-02 05:08 pm (UTC)When his stomach seizes and coils on contact, driving his fingers in Danny's hair a little harder, and his other hand to find the side of Danny's body. Rumpled fabric and ribs. The fast rise and fall of them, like air can't seem to get out or in, among all the words that are taking up Danny's throat and his mouth. When Steve literally can't take his eyes off this, can't even wish for light, to see this more, because he can't envision it.
Anything that involves being one step away, one inch away, not flush with Danny. Able to feel him nearly vibrating to break open.
When Danny's mouth might as well be throwing shattering glass shards, vicious, defensive and offensive, all at the same time. While he's grafting himself in against every inch of viably able skin, and Steve is lost between the want to remind him this whole night was his and just to bite his tongue, finally. Because Danny even sounds like he just wants track down that unnamed girl and slash off her finger tips still.
Like it was Danny she was accosting by touching Steve, and not Steve, himself.
How. In any sane and rational mind is he supposed to hate this. He should feel terrible. He might. A small bit. It's not what he wanted, wants. But he does, too. He wants all of this. The anger. The possession. For everything to matter. Everything. Even that word. Confused and angry and thrown back at him two more times. Making him shake his head, heart headed for jumping jacks.
When he enjoys it too much still. Sharp, painful, hot, beautiful. That question barely taking a second to have, "Yes," fly out of his mouth as dark as it is bright. It's nothing. They were nothing. Absolutely nothing. He didn't feel anything like this. Need anything like this from any of them. Names and faces, sliding in and out. When the only thing that stayed the same was Danny. At his side. Danny. Loud and annoyed.
Like an electric current he wanted to shove his hand into even if it might burn off all his skin, wreck all the walls left standing.
Because. Just. There isn't even an explicative strong enough. When he's staring down at Danny. Because he doesn't want anything from his days, anything from this night. Not as much as he wants Danny. He wouldn't have even been there if it wasn't for following Danny's lead, and him wanting to have a night out, where he could bitch about the day out.
When both of them are ruined and riddled with fuck all from the world messing up anything they try.
Delighted with Danny, but beyond done with the rest of everything and everyone that don't matter.
"Because it was, Danny." Nothing. When he's leaning closer. His forehead is going to be brushing Danny's skin in second. The whole world is just going to turn into an inferno that's based on the rhythm of two hearts beating in, through, against his chest. "You're angry -- for what now? A drink, at a place you wanted to go? An accident, you would have stopped just the same if you'd been in my chair? One game, you didn't say no to either?"
He knows what it is. What it is more than that. When he's joining to jerk Danny even closer, even when there shouldn't be closer. When his spine is threatening to turn itself into lightning, grinding through his muscles, setting fire through his back, along his ribs, making his shirt too tight, hot, constricting, dividing. "I wouldn't have even been there, if it wasn't for you. I haven't wanted, even for a moment, one thing that wasn't--"
Except the word catches, angry and hot and bright, like silver melt fired so high it's nearly bleeding white-yellow. You. You. You. When he's done. He's just done. And his head tilts and he's demanding Danny's mouth again. Crashing his own against him with force that should involve far more space or lead up than the little space it gets. When he wants this still. He wants all of it. Insanity. Desperation. Anger. Possession.
Without a bar or people or the world or the stupid center console. Because this is close, and it's not close enough, and it's already so much everything he should step back and box it off, and he can't. He can't anymore than Danny can't. Because close is never close enough, and every time he can't have any of this he's so on edge, threatening his own seams like they are fragile as the first day and not decades old anymore.