Or a madness with only one definition. Reinventing itself in a searing suddenness that flares louder than anything else. The shape of Danny's lips. The sudden feel of Danny's mouth. Wet, and warm, and just the hint of sharpness, layered over something he can't name. The touch of his tongue. The force with which he holds still and then suddenly surges up to meet a kiss Steve isn't even directing, demanding, but chases like it's the last breath of air in the world. The taste of scotch tangled up in this noise that comes from Danny and hits Steve like storm of bullets.
Leaving scars, and shrapnel under his skin. He'll hear it all night.
That should be enough. Disaster, and madness. But he wants it again. He wants it again, now.
When Danny feels like a tidal force against him, hand suddenly at his jaw, and Steve wants to drag that noise out again. He wants to storm through every warning turning into a whisper against this explosion burning through him, ripping up the floor and leaving the only points of reason, if anything could be called reason, and light, the points where Danny is touching him. Warm fingers on his jaw and his cheek, and Steve has to keep moving, keep up with him, take more.
While Danny's hands paint up and his own go down, along the side of this vest he's wanted to touch since that first case.
When he has to push closer into Danny, step between his legs, until a thigh is pushing into the too easily tipped stool and Danny is pushed into the very direct stop of the bar top, into everything so wrong. And explosively, selfishly, disastrously right. That betrays everything he swore he never would. Need. Do. Try to think about. Except in those moments. Those moments no one addressed and everyone and their brother saw and joked about. They joked about. Danny joked about. Before they were put away with back slaps and beers on the beach.
A thing that wasn't a thing. Moments that were but weren't moments.
Like this. A racing madness in overdrive that is chased by the fierce anger at any need to breathe aching in his lungs, not prepared in the slightest for the throat that clear next to them suddenly. Or the voice, familiar and close, making him want to swing back up with a violent snarl, and gritted teeth, vengeant threat in every inch of him, even when it is empty of anything but a professional, "Gentlemen."
Steve having to look, even if the movement, pulling back from Danny to look at the person right behind Danny now, feels like punching himself straight through everywhere. Everything still singed, running lightning, and on fire, while the man behind the bar, who has been behind the bar the whole time, only gives a deft nod toward the back of the room and Steve stares, eyes dark, throat dry and air shallow. Because. Because there were rules catches up with him like a someone dropped a bucket of ice on his head and shoved a knife in his stomach.
Making his eyes dart back to Danny, with the same dreadful reminder, in a completely different, devastating, way.
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It's a madness without definition.
Or a madness with only one definition. Reinventing itself in a searing suddenness that flares louder than anything else. The shape of Danny's lips. The sudden feel of Danny's mouth. Wet, and warm, and just the hint of sharpness, layered over something he can't name. The touch of his tongue. The force with which he holds still and then suddenly surges up to meet a kiss Steve isn't even directing, demanding, but chases like it's the last breath of air in the world. The taste of scotch tangled up in this noise that comes from Danny and hits Steve like storm of bullets.
Leaving scars, and shrapnel under his skin. He'll hear it all night.
That should be enough. Disaster, and madness. But he wants it again. He wants it again, now.
When Danny feels like a tidal force against him, hand suddenly at his jaw, and Steve wants to drag that noise out again. He wants to storm through every warning turning into a whisper against this explosion burning through him, ripping up the floor and leaving the only points of reason, if anything could be called reason, and light, the points where Danny is touching him. Warm fingers on his jaw and his cheek, and Steve has to keep moving, keep up with him, take more.
While Danny's hands paint up and his own go down, along the side of this vest he's wanted to touch since that first case.
When he has to push closer into Danny, step between his legs, until a thigh is pushing into the too easily tipped stool and Danny is pushed into the very direct stop of the bar top, into everything so wrong. And explosively, selfishly, disastrously right. That betrays everything he swore he never would. Need. Do. Try to think about. Except in those moments. Those moments no one addressed and everyone and their brother saw and joked about. They joked about. Danny joked about. Before they were put away with back slaps and beers on the beach.
A thing that wasn't a thing. Moments that were but weren't moments.
Like this. A racing madness in overdrive that is chased by the fierce anger at any need to breathe aching in his lungs, not prepared in the slightest for the throat that clear next to them suddenly. Or the voice, familiar and close, making him want to swing back up with a violent snarl, and gritted teeth, vengeant threat in every inch of him, even when it is empty of anything but a professional, "Gentlemen."
Steve having to look, even if the movement, pulling back from Danny to look at the person right behind Danny now, feels like punching himself straight through everywhere. Everything still singed, running lightning, and on fire, while the man behind the bar, who has been behind the bar the whole time, only gives a deft nod toward the back of the room and Steve stares, eyes dark, throat dry and air shallow. Because. Because there were rules catches up with him like a someone dropped a bucket of ice on his head and shoved a knife in his stomach.
Making his eyes dart back to Danny, with the same dreadful reminder, in a completely different, devastating, way.
Because there were rules.