Danny isn't actually, traditionally, great at willpower. He's never been someone who holds back anything: not his love or affection, not his dislikes or fears or opinions or actions. The only thing that ever manages to keep him under control are The Rules. The same ones Steve loves to make fun of him for abiding by. The ones he's throwing out the window without a second glance, now.
Because Steve is bending back in, and saying those words. That Danny was wrong. Completely wrong. About everything. All of it. Everything he thought at the club. Everything he worried over in the car. Everything gnawing at his stomach lining, once he convinced Steve to let him in so he could throw himself on his own sword.
Steve is saying they're all wrong, completely wrong, except he's not saying it, he's breathing it against Danny's lips, that can't help but part for him, with a sharp intake of breath, that gets muffled into Steve's mouth. Into Danny's chest. Short and sharply sweet, and impossible, but that's wrong. Completely wrong.
Because Steve is kissing him again, and Danny's only human. Can only hold out against so much. Can only toe the line for so long, against only so much temptation, before he has to give in, and Steve is kissing him. Again. Or for the first time, maybe, because before was less of a kiss than a landslide, but this --
He can feel Steve's mouth. The brush of his tongue. His fingers, that are sliding into Danny's hair, but really slipping into his chest, behind the cage of bone, to wrap around his heart, and squeeze. Dragging Danny up off the door towards him, and Danny goes, is gone, gone, gone, pushing into that pull because Steve has been his gravity for longer than he even knows how to define, and he has to go where Steve drags him. Pressed into his chest, with Steve's hand in his hair, and Danny's heart collapsing, or expanding into a balloon about to burst, in his chest.
Until there's a pause, and the squeeze becomes an ache, desperate and fearful, because Steve just said, he can't have changed his mind already -- but then there's a hand at his jaw, and Steve's thumb laid against his skin. Impossible. Delicate in a way Steve never is. Careful, like Danny might break.
Making the spinning room stop dead for a moment, while this thing in Danny's chest threatens to flood it all, but instead only punches itself into the back of his throat as a soft, winded, aching groan. A sound like he's been locked away for a hundred years, and this is the first human touch he's felt. Pained, and perfect.
In this pause, this held breath, before his fingers loose Steve's wrist, and his palm runs up Steve's arm to his neck, the other hand slipping below his jacket to grip his beltloop, and pull. Drag Steve in, while pushing himself up, because Steve said he was wrong, and Steve said Danny wasn't kissing him like he did in the club, and that means, it means Danny can do better.
Feeling it pop in the back of his skull, like a sparkler going off, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. Steve said. And that means he can.
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Danny isn't actually, traditionally, great at willpower. He's never been someone who holds back anything: not his love or affection, not his dislikes or fears or opinions or actions. The only thing that ever manages to keep him under control are The Rules. The same ones Steve loves to make fun of him for abiding by. The ones he's throwing out the window without a second glance, now.
Because Steve is bending back in, and saying those words. That Danny was wrong. Completely wrong. About everything. All of it. Everything he thought at the club. Everything he worried over in the car. Everything gnawing at his stomach lining, once he convinced Steve to let him in so he could throw himself on his own sword.
Steve is saying they're all wrong, completely wrong, except he's not saying it, he's breathing it against Danny's lips, that can't help but part for him, with a sharp intake of breath, that gets muffled into Steve's mouth. Into Danny's chest. Short and sharply sweet, and impossible, but that's wrong. Completely wrong.
Because Steve is kissing him again, and Danny's only human. Can only hold out against so much. Can only toe the line for so long, against only so much temptation, before he has to give in, and Steve is kissing him. Again. Or for the first time, maybe, because before was less of a kiss than a landslide, but this --
He can feel Steve's mouth. The brush of his tongue. His fingers, that are sliding into Danny's hair, but really slipping into his chest, behind the cage of bone, to wrap around his heart, and squeeze. Dragging Danny up off the door towards him, and Danny goes, is gone, gone, gone, pushing into that pull because Steve has been his gravity for longer than he even knows how to define, and he has to go where Steve drags him. Pressed into his chest, with Steve's hand in his hair, and Danny's heart collapsing, or expanding into a balloon about to burst, in his chest.
Until there's a pause, and the squeeze becomes an ache, desperate and fearful, because Steve just said, he can't have changed his mind already -- but then there's a hand at his jaw, and Steve's thumb laid against his skin. Impossible. Delicate in a way Steve never is. Careful, like Danny might break.
Making the spinning room stop dead for a moment, while this thing in Danny's chest threatens to flood it all, but instead only punches itself into the back of his throat as a soft, winded, aching groan. A sound like he's been locked away for a hundred years, and this is the first human touch he's felt. Pained, and perfect.
In this pause, this held breath, before his fingers loose Steve's wrist, and his palm runs up Steve's arm to his neck, the other hand slipping below his jacket to grip his beltloop, and pull. Drag Steve in, while pushing himself up, because Steve said he was wrong, and Steve said Danny wasn't kissing him like he did in the club, and that means, it means Danny can do better.
Feeling it pop in the back of his skull, like a sparkler going off, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. Steve said. And that means he can.