It's insanity. Honestly. Like breathing pure oxygen, or a bullet fired at his head. How he's so much closer to Steve than he's ever been, is all but crawling under his jacket and shirt, and it's still not close enough.
Which is insane. It has to be. It's been years, since the closest he was allowed, could expect, was totally fine with, was a hand on Steve's arm or back. This was never even imagined as possible, on the table, and it's still, somehow, already, not enough.
It's probably because there's still some part of him that's waiting for Steve to wake up and realize what's happening, and shove Danny away, and maybe that part is just hoping to get what it can before the inevitable happens and Steve not only never touches, but also never talks to or looks at him again, but Steve said that part was lying. That it was wrong. (Completely wrong.) And proved it by flicking a match into life and tossing it onto the pile of dormant dynamite than Danny mistakenly thought was his rational self.
And now, he can't seem to stop. There's no mark here to watch, no audience to be wary of, and Steve is telling him to. Wants him to. There's no incentive, other than the need, eventually, for oxygen, to do anything but let the madness burn, and bury him. Send his hand running along Steve's waist, until his hand is flat against Steve's back, under the jacket, over the thin dress shirt, that feels like it might go up in flames like tissue paper over a lit candle. Other palm against Steve's neck, fingers spread wide. He's spent years touching Steve, but never once like this. Imagined it, without any real idea.
How warm his skin is. How soft, from the late-evening shave just prior to the job. What he smells like. Tastes like. Sounds like.
Danny feels like a toaster, overloading, setting itself on fire. A computer spilling over with data, too much electricity. He needs something to ground himself on, but Steve isn't the lightning rod, he's the storm. The wildfire. An earthquake cracking open the ground beneath Danny's feet, and swallowing him whole.
Even when Danny pulls back, half an inch, for air, he can't, doesn't want to, let go, or move further. It's too soon. He's still not sure it's even real.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-23 03:31 am (UTC)It's insanity. Honestly. Like breathing pure oxygen, or a bullet fired at his head. How he's so much closer to Steve than he's ever been, is all but crawling under his jacket and shirt, and it's still not close enough.
Which is insane. It has to be. It's been years, since the closest he was allowed, could expect, was totally fine with, was a hand on Steve's arm or back. This was never even imagined as possible, on the table, and it's still, somehow, already, not enough.
It's probably because there's still some part of him that's waiting for Steve to wake up and realize what's happening, and shove Danny away, and maybe that part is just hoping to get what it can before the inevitable happens and Steve not only never touches, but also never talks to or looks at him again, but Steve said that part was lying. That it was wrong. (Completely wrong.) And proved it by flicking a match into life and tossing it onto the pile of dormant dynamite than Danny mistakenly thought was his rational self.
And now, he can't seem to stop. There's no mark here to watch, no audience to be wary of, and Steve is telling him to. Wants him to. There's no incentive, other than the need, eventually, for oxygen, to do anything but let the madness burn, and bury him. Send his hand running along Steve's waist, until his hand is flat against Steve's back, under the jacket, over the thin dress shirt, that feels like it might go up in flames like tissue paper over a lit candle. Other palm against Steve's neck, fingers spread wide. He's spent years touching Steve, but never once like this. Imagined it, without any real idea.
How warm his skin is. How soft, from the late-evening shave just prior to the job. What he smells like. Tastes like. Sounds like.
Danny feels like a toaster, overloading, setting itself on fire. A computer spilling over with data, too much electricity. He needs something to ground himself on, but Steve isn't the lightning rod, he's the storm. The wildfire. An earthquake cracking open the ground beneath Danny's feet, and swallowing him whole.
Even when Danny pulls back, half an inch, for air, he can't, doesn't want to, let go, or move further. It's too soon. He's still not sure it's even real.