He's not laughing. No, really, he isn't. Which is kind of hilarious, or maybe it's just insane. Because he wants to laugh. Maybe he even meant to laugh. Or grin at Danny words turning sharp, underlined desperate. Railing at him to shut up. It would be the right, and perfect, place for a laugh. A joke. More fierce prodding. Except he can't make it happen. Because everything else is just rolling itself like a boulder right over it.
That thin desperate edge under Danny's voice. The way he shudders, hard, fast, and curls up into Steve's skin, Steve's body, holding on and pushing back. Muffling far more desperate words into Steve's neck, half escaped, half wanting, all of it like he's injecting alcohol straight into Steve's blood stream. It's slamming his head, and tightening his fingers on Danny's back as he tries to hold on, through the onslaught of Danny, of his shaking. Gets smacked with wanting that even, too.
Just to curl Danny up into him, curve around Danny, and never let him move forever. Hold him close. Keep him safe.
Never need him to worry about any of the things Steve's brain refuses to think enough to supply belonging here, in this thought. Just burning in and out the image of pulling Danny to him, and keeping him, curled up like this, to him, against him, in his arms as long as he could. Beyond the sensation burning through him, steadily more blinding.
Steve even loves this voice. The threat and darkness of the words being shoved at him. Biting at him, words like sharp knives, the wash of the ability to think, to do more than feel, that is chipping further and further away, like ice that can't stand, can't stay solid under the roaring torment of flames. When somehow it seems right and proper and just too impossible to deny, just to retort, "You started it."
Not that he knows if he means, giving those words in the conversation. Or falling in that doorway. Or simply being the person Steve could never look away from, never burn out with someone else. Or maybe even for only making it, barely, six hours the morning he returned. It didn't matter. All of it was true, but most true at the moment was everything burning away except this feeling at the bottom of it all.
Endless, corrosive, overwhelming. The way control slips on this conversation, this point, this joke, this whatever. The way it always does with Danny. When he knows his jaw his is tightening and he's moving more deliberately. An actual rhythm, and not points of insanity occasionally. The fingers on Danny's back coming up, around a shoulder, to find his head, his hair, and tip his head, because he has to be kissing him. Again. Now.
Can feel the ragged edge of desperation growing, pricking everywhere like thin, tight needles across his skin in so many places. The want to shove it all into Danny, until he is feeling it, until Steve can see it on his every movement, hear it in every word, every impossible to catch breath. When surrender isn't even the right word anymore, because it's nothing that clear, that concise, even.
It's the just the whole world shattering on them, between them, while all they can do is hold on and fall apart, all at once.
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That thin desperate edge under Danny's voice. The way he shudders, hard, fast, and curls up into Steve's skin, Steve's body, holding on and pushing back. Muffling far more desperate words into Steve's neck, half escaped, half wanting, all of it like he's injecting alcohol straight into Steve's blood stream. It's slamming his head, and tightening his fingers on Danny's back as he tries to hold on, through the onslaught of Danny, of his shaking. Gets smacked with wanting that even, too.
Just to curl Danny up into him, curve around Danny, and never let him move forever. Hold him close. Keep him safe.
Never need him to worry about any of the things Steve's brain refuses to think enough to supply belonging here, in this thought. Just burning in and out the image of pulling Danny to him, and keeping him, curled up like this, to him, against him, in his arms as long as he could. Beyond the sensation burning through him, steadily more blinding.
Steve even loves this voice. The threat and darkness of the words being shoved at him. Biting at him, words like sharp knives, the wash of the ability to think, to do more than feel, that is chipping further and further away, like ice that can't stand, can't stay solid under the roaring torment of flames. When somehow it seems right and proper and just too impossible to deny, just to retort, "You started it."
Not that he knows if he means, giving those words in the conversation. Or falling in that doorway. Or simply being the person Steve could never look away from, never burn out with someone else. Or maybe even for only making it, barely, six hours the morning he returned. It didn't matter. All of it was true, but most true at the moment was everything burning away except this feeling at the bottom of it all.
Endless, corrosive, overwhelming. The way control slips on this conversation, this point, this joke, this whatever. The way it always does with Danny. When he knows his jaw his is tightening and he's moving more deliberately. An actual rhythm, and not points of insanity occasionally. The fingers on Danny's back coming up, around a shoulder, to find his head, his hair, and tip his head, because he has to be kissing him. Again. Now.
Can feel the ragged edge of desperation growing, pricking everywhere like thin, tight needles across his skin in so many places. The want to shove it all into Danny, until he is feeling it, until Steve can see it on his every movement, hear it in every word, every impossible to catch breath. When surrender isn't even the right word anymore, because it's nothing that clear, that concise, even.
It's the just the whole world shattering on them, between them, while all they can do is hold on and fall apart, all at once.