There's not enough of his sanity or sense of self-preservation to wonder if he's gone too far, to try and figure out what he'll say about this, when Steve asks him later, and how he could possibly try to lie when the truth is so obvious. There's nothing in his head except a loud buzz, drowning out all thought, killing itself on the taste of Steve in his mouth, filling up his nose.
Steve, who curves into him like the tide, and the closest comparison Danny can come up with is that it's not unlike the times Steve has body-checked a perp into a brick wall, or oncoming traffic. He's never seen Steve kiss anyone like this. He has seen Steve hit people like this.
With everything he has. Throwing every ounce of effort into it, every pound of muscle and bone. Bending all his willpower into it.
Doing exactly what he would be doing, if Steve were the guy Steve demonstrably isn't. One who would come here.
But Danny can't even think that clearly, when Steve's kissing him into the doorframe, and Danny's hand is fisting in Steve's shirt, material too thin to not sear his hand on the heat radiating off his skin. He can't not feel it, and he won't be able to forget, not if he sticks his head in the sink and runs the cold water tap over it for the rest of the night, or stands in a cold shower, or dumps ice over his head. Steve's hot against his hand, and Danny wishes he didn't know it, almost as much as he's desperate to know what it would be like with no fabric in the way at all. Each contraction of the muscle his fingers are against like a kick to the chest.
It's madness. He needs to pull back, but there is no place to pull back too, because Steve's blanketing him, and the doorframe is at Danny's back. His lungs are burning. Heart hammering, fast enough to make him dizzy. Or it could be the lack of oxygen. Or it could be Steve.
He needs to get eyes on the perp, before he comes up and drugs one of them to drag off, or gets the drop on them. He needs to get his hands everywhere on Steve that he can. He needs to get his hands right the fuck off of Steve, before it's too late, before this stops being something they'll be able to work past, or ignore.
Before he ruins it. As if he hasn't, probably, already ruined it. Fear and longing mixing sour and sharp in his throat, while Steve's dedicatedly trying to melt Danny's brains out of his ears. Giving it all he's got. Maybe punishing Danny the only way he can, right now.
It's too much. It's not enough. It's so wrong. Everything he needs to stop.
But he can't take his hands off Steve. And pulling back feels like ripping duct tape off his own skin, even when there's no room to go.
no subject
There's not enough of his sanity or sense of self-preservation to wonder if he's gone too far, to try and figure out what he'll say about this, when Steve asks him later, and how he could possibly try to lie when the truth is so obvious. There's nothing in his head except a loud buzz, drowning out all thought, killing itself on the taste of Steve in his mouth, filling up his nose.
Steve, who curves into him like the tide, and the closest comparison Danny can come up with is that it's not unlike the times Steve has body-checked a perp into a brick wall, or oncoming traffic. He's never seen Steve kiss anyone like this. He has seen Steve hit people like this.
With everything he has. Throwing every ounce of effort into it, every pound of muscle and bone. Bending all his willpower into it.
Doing exactly what he would be doing, if Steve were the guy Steve demonstrably isn't. One who would come here.
But Danny can't even think that clearly, when Steve's kissing him into the doorframe, and Danny's hand is fisting in Steve's shirt, material too thin to not sear his hand on the heat radiating off his skin. He can't not feel it, and he won't be able to forget, not if he sticks his head in the sink and runs the cold water tap over it for the rest of the night, or stands in a cold shower, or dumps ice over his head. Steve's hot against his hand, and Danny wishes he didn't know it, almost as much as he's desperate to know what it would be like with no fabric in the way at all. Each contraction of the muscle his fingers are against like a kick to the chest.
It's madness. He needs to pull back, but there is no place to pull back too, because Steve's blanketing him, and the doorframe is at Danny's back. His lungs are burning. Heart hammering, fast enough to make him dizzy. Or it could be the lack of oxygen. Or it could be Steve.
He needs to get eyes on the perp, before he comes up and drugs one of them to drag off, or gets the drop on them. He needs to get his hands everywhere on Steve that he can. He needs to get his hands right the fuck off of Steve, before it's too late, before this stops being something they'll be able to work past, or ignore.
Before he ruins it. As if he hasn't, probably, already ruined it. Fear and longing mixing sour and sharp in his throat, while Steve's dedicatedly trying to melt Danny's brains out of his ears. Giving it all he's got. Maybe punishing Danny the only way he can, right now.
It's too much. It's not enough. It's so wrong. Everything he needs to stop.
But he can't take his hands off Steve. And pulling back feels like ripping duct tape off his own skin, even when there's no room to go.