Maybe there's a grating note, crumbling glass dust under his feet, the length of his skin, going wanting for the necessary focus to wonder if that wasn't right. Maybe hitting as not much more than a blip somewhere in there. When the only thing he space the do with right now, the only space he has left in his head is taking Danny at the same sharp, smarting pace he has since there were fingers lodged in his back.
Which is take it and spit it back out going, voice caked in derision, if you can even call the smolder wreckage happening under it, against, trying to overtake his vocal cords and make them hoarse, "You are the only person--" there a pressed, not exact pause, like a hard breath, against the movement of a hand, his hips, Danny, him, himself, them. "--on the planet who'd rather stop and talk at this point."
At a point when Steve doesn't even know if there are breaks on this thing. Ever were.
If things like breaks ever existed as walls somewhere in his mind.
Somewhere before the point when Danny got his own hands involved and took off every ounce of restraint Steve had towards training wheels. Being a thing. Existing. At all. Before it was the madness of Danny's uncoordinated movement between them, under him, dragging him down, and under, and in, and through, now. If there have ever been, will ever be, training wheels or walls.
From the second Danny twitched wrong in that restaurant, said those words in his living room, kissed him back as the world he knew, that hardly even had cohesion again even, split and broke, shattered and faded away, as ruined and intractable as though it had been exploded, never returned again. Replacing itself with this. With the way Danny fights back, pushes forward, demands and denies all in one breath now, had screamed at and pleaded with him earlier, making Steve feel like even if he's over, he's being bowled over from the inside.
Where for a second searing too hot, everything goes hazy with clarity, even amid the heat and rush, and it's not just this. This moment, this night, this thing that Danny is doing for the first time that is threatening to tear him apart. It's Danny. Danny Williams with his five million words, scathing temper, rushing at him, like a twenty-footer, aimed at drowning every single carefully laid line and wall in his life, and the feeling there is nowhere far enough he could run to stop it, nowhere he wouldn't go he wouldn't see it hit and drenched and took everything out with it too long ago.
And nothing, and no part of him that's willing to take the first step, when every other inch of his skin is screaming, pushing, shoving, into Danny's hands, catching on the skin of his shoulder, sliding slick into warm skin. Gone, gone, gone, already. Without having ever given a damn in the first place about order and regiment and rules. So long as it was Danny. Always Danny. Being the one breaking every single thing apart. Even if he may actually be the next thing to slip right through Steve's hands.
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Maybe there's a grating note, crumbling glass dust under his feet, the length of his skin, going wanting for the necessary focus to wonder if that wasn't right. Maybe hitting as not much more than a blip somewhere in there. When the only thing he space the do with right now, the only space he has left in his head is taking Danny at the same sharp, smarting pace he has since there were fingers lodged in his back.
Which is take it and spit it back out going, voice caked in derision, if you can even call the smolder wreckage happening under it, against, trying to overtake his vocal cords and make them hoarse, "You are the only person--" there a pressed, not exact pause, like a hard breath, against the movement of a hand, his hips, Danny, him, himself, them. "--on the planet who'd rather stop and talk at this point."
At a point when Steve doesn't even know if there are breaks on this thing. Ever were.
If things like breaks ever existed as walls somewhere in his mind.
Somewhere before the point when Danny got his own hands involved and took off every ounce of restraint Steve had towards training wheels. Being a thing. Existing. At all. Before it was the madness of Danny's uncoordinated movement between them, under him, dragging him down, and under, and in, and through, now. If there have ever been, will ever be, training wheels or walls.
From the second Danny twitched wrong in that restaurant, said those words in his living room, kissed him back as the world he knew, that hardly even had cohesion again even, split and broke, shattered and faded away, as ruined and intractable as though it had been exploded, never returned again. Replacing itself with this. With the way Danny fights back, pushes forward, demands and denies all in one breath now, had screamed at and pleaded with him earlier, making Steve feel like even if he's over, he's being bowled over from the inside.
Where for a second searing too hot, everything goes hazy with clarity, even amid the heat and rush, and it's not just this. This moment, this night, this thing that Danny is doing for the first time that is threatening to tear him apart. It's Danny. Danny Williams with his five million words, scathing temper, rushing at him, like a twenty-footer, aimed at drowning every single carefully laid line and wall in his life, and the feeling there is nowhere far enough he could run to stop it, nowhere he wouldn't go he wouldn't see it hit and drenched and took everything out with it too long ago.
And nothing, and no part of him that's willing to take the first step, when every other inch of his skin is screaming, pushing, shoving, into Danny's hands, catching on the skin of his shoulder, sliding slick into warm skin. Gone, gone, gone, already. Without having ever given a damn in the first place about order and regiment and rules. So long as it was Danny. Always Danny. Being the one breaking every single thing apart. Even if he may actually be the next thing to slip right through Steve's hands.