Somewhere a very, very sad bottle a beer is hitting the ground, maybe splashing people, maybe bouncing or breaking, and he'd care, he'd usually care quite a bit, since he isn't drunk enough not to be aware, but he might as well be. Because he needs his other hand and he's given up. The caring. The pretending he isn't so far past drunk on this, Danny, beyond any control, beyond any clarity.
That he doesn't think there even exists a daylight on the end of the tunnel. That there is another end to it. Or one at all.
That he'll ever walk out of the this feeling, expanding in his chest. Recklessly panicked, unapologetic, and guilty, and angry, and desperately at least half-terrified of standing in that darkness of this feeling with all the closed in walls, again, alone forever, all at once. Of having and then losing all of it. Breaking all of it. That is turning into blunt, hard fingers on Danny's skull. Into a hand flat on his back. Into the click of teeth, and the way Danny nearly bites his lip.
The way he's far past any consideration this isn't even half a punishment he's getting. It's like a god damn, full out attack, for daring. Like Danny's found a new way to channel his rage, every vicious word, and everything else digging those finger into Steve's own skull, into his hair. Like Danny is going to put his own vivid, lasting, unremoveable mark down in with all the scars on Steve's skin he can't talk about and can't for the life of him forget.
And, god help him, he wants all of it.
He wants the bloody clear dangerously over the line warning siren's blaring in the distance because they already stampeded them feeling to this, where the world could start falling apart, people could start screaming, and neither of them might be able to let go. When they might start drawing blood with either this kiss or their fingers, because at least it feels real. So, horribly, terribly, desperately, real. And like the only thing on the planet that matters.
Ripping through him. Through his head, through his chest. Until he seriously might drag Danny off the ground, fingers digging into his skin, moving, harder, faster, everywhere across Danny's back, down and up over his shoulder, his neck. When it's easier okay. He doesn't have to push up. He can push in, push down, demand more, and more. Space. Skin. His mouth. Like he could taste this anger. Drink up the fuel and refusal behind it. Nothing close enough to everything. Every getting sharper, fiercer, harder, more painful.
Until Steve jerks back, hard and sudden, gasping down ice shards and blade spikes, half with a need for air and half with the only strand left of not plowing through Danny in some red-haze of need to prove it has absolutely nothing to with the ludicrous fact this will never leave his skin.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-04 04:34 pm (UTC)That he doesn't think there even exists a daylight on the end of the tunnel. That there is another end to it. Or one at all.
That he'll ever walk out of the this feeling, expanding in his chest. Recklessly panicked, unapologetic, and guilty, and angry, and desperately at least half-terrified of standing in that darkness of this feeling with all the closed in walls, again, alone forever, all at once. Of having and then losing all of it. Breaking all of it. That is turning into blunt, hard fingers on Danny's skull. Into a hand flat on his back. Into the click of teeth, and the way Danny nearly bites his lip.
The way he's far past any consideration this isn't even half a punishment he's getting. It's like a god damn, full out attack, for daring. Like Danny's found a new way to channel his rage, every vicious word, and everything else digging those finger into Steve's own skull, into his hair. Like Danny is going to put his own vivid, lasting, unremoveable mark down in with all the scars on Steve's skin he can't talk about and can't for the life of him forget.
And, god help him, he wants all of it.
He wants the bloody clear dangerously over the line warning siren's blaring in the distance because they already stampeded them feeling to this, where the world could start falling apart, people could start screaming, and neither of them might be able to let go. When they might start drawing blood with either this kiss or their fingers, because at least it feels real. So, horribly, terribly, desperately, real. And like the only thing on the planet that matters.
Ripping through him. Through his head, through his chest. Until he seriously might drag Danny off the ground, fingers digging into his skin, moving, harder, faster, everywhere across Danny's back, down and up over his shoulder, his neck. When it's easier okay. He doesn't have to push up. He can push in, push down, demand more, and more. Space. Skin. His mouth. Like he could taste this anger. Drink up the fuel and refusal behind it. Nothing close enough to everything. Every getting sharper, fiercer, harder, more painful.
Until Steve jerks back, hard and sudden, gasping down ice shards and blade spikes, half with a need for air and half with the only strand left of not plowing through Danny in some red-haze of need to prove it has absolutely nothing to with the ludicrous fact this will never leave his skin.