He wants to almost turn his head and lay his cheek against Danny's chest.
Against the ragged, rushing shudder of movement that is his heart beat. The one Steve can feel with his lips and his nose and parts of his cheeks when he touches Danny's skin. Almost like he could bow his head against that noise, preso his forehead, press in against the thing keep Danny alive, somehow keeping him here. Like pushing against it would make any of this make more sense. That rushing, pounding movement, that shoves a fire into Steve's skin and an ache, like everything's been scooped out, into his own chest.
He doesn't. Doesn't even pause. Doesn't even consider. Definitely doesn't lay his head against Danny's chest. His shirt pressed hair on his skin, beginning to sheen slowly. Does not, would not, give in to anything as sensitive as all that. Because it is so easy. To just let it and out, like the rush of anything truly disastrous he contemplates to doing to a case, to a building, a person. As fast as the most violent, visceral urges, this feeling like getting slammed in the chest with an ice pick, waltzes in and out.
Being over run, by ironically and hilariously, Danny. Danny, and Danny's hands. The one slipping from his hair, down his neck, and across his shoulder. Demanding his attention as the zip of his muscles tightening and loosening, shoving a stretching of themselves into those moving fingers, the cup of his palm, pushing him upward into that that touch as much as possible. And the other one, that he lost. Briefly.
Shoving him into the surprise grunt, caught in the back of his throat and closed mouth, when his pants are tugged up, by a belt loop, tightening the cloth on his legs, across his lap, digging into his stomach, all with a shower of sparks behind his eyes. That near obliterates everything for at least half a second. Maybe a second. No, more. When there's a second sound dragging up his throat that tries to sound winded and put upon for being manhandled, that might not have worked so well when everything is throbbing for the seconds after.
When the last thing he wants is for Danny's hand to stop anything. Especually if he's lifting his head to find Danny's face and his mouth, again. Needs to kiss him, the same way magnets have to meet, can old hold so far apart.
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Against the ragged, rushing shudder of movement that is his heart beat. The one Steve can feel with his lips and his nose and parts of his cheeks when he touches Danny's skin. Almost like he could bow his head against that noise, preso his forehead, press in against the thing keep Danny alive, somehow keeping him here. Like pushing against it would make any of this make more sense. That rushing, pounding movement, that shoves a fire into Steve's skin and an ache, like everything's been scooped out, into his own chest.
He doesn't. Doesn't even pause. Doesn't even consider. Definitely doesn't lay his head against Danny's chest. His shirt pressed hair on his skin, beginning to sheen slowly. Does not, would not, give in to anything as sensitive as all that. Because it is so easy. To just let it and out, like the rush of anything truly disastrous he contemplates to doing to a case, to a building, a person. As fast as the most violent, visceral urges, this feeling like getting slammed in the chest with an ice pick, waltzes in and out.
Being over run, by ironically and hilariously, Danny. Danny, and Danny's hands. The one slipping from his hair, down his neck, and across his shoulder. Demanding his attention as the zip of his muscles tightening and loosening, shoving a stretching of themselves into those moving fingers, the cup of his palm, pushing him upward into that that touch as much as possible. And the other one, that he lost. Briefly.
Shoving him into the surprise grunt, caught in the back of his throat and closed mouth, when his pants are tugged up, by a belt loop, tightening the cloth on his legs, across his lap, digging into his stomach, all with a shower of sparks behind his eyes. That near obliterates everything for at least half a second. Maybe a second. No, more. When there's a second sound dragging up his throat that tries to sound winded and put upon for being manhandled, that might not have worked so well when everything is throbbing for the seconds after.
When the last thing he wants is for Danny's hand to stop anything. Especually if he's lifting his head to find Danny's face and his mouth, again. Needs to kiss him, the same way magnets have to meet, can old hold so far apart.