He feels like a home run. Not like the batter; like the ball. Smacked clean over the fence, flying high and impossible, without any tug of gravity or reality. Except for the way Steve drags him back in, something lit dark in his eyes, grabbing at his shirt in suddenly forceful fingers, leaning into him to claim Danny's mouth, like he's the only one who should ever get to decide what words do or don't come out of it, and how it is used.
After breathing that insult against his lips. And there's so much Danny could say to that: the state of Hawaii doesn't pay him nearly enough for the crap he goes through every week, where the hell is the hazard pay from being Steve's partner, that's what he'd like to know. And no, he is not a multitasker, he likes to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, that thing is Steve, Steve's mouth and the way he crushes any possible reaction into the space of a breath Danny can no longer take and doesn't want, because breathing is another distraction. And it's not important.
Nothing is, except Steve's fingers tucking at his shirt like he wants to climb up under it already, and this being a habit of the most insane variety. He shifts on the couch to get a better angle, tucking one knee into the dip where the cushions meet the back, the other leg almost straight, propped from the floor, so he can turn fully towards Steve, fingers sinking into hair, traveling down from ribs to the waist of his pants. It's going to suck for his knee, but he doesn't give a damn about his knee when this way he can lean towards Steve, brace himself, give into the need for closer, more.
Breathless and winded, eyes wanting to fall closed, dazed and with his head spinning when Steve slides to his bottom lip and Danny can feel the tip of his tongue and the gust of his breath. It winds him up like a spring about to blow, stomach contracting, heart leaping and slipping and falling all over itself, because Steve wants him and he can't get over it no matter how many times he reminds himself of those words.
Voice coming winded and barely there, even when he's trying to keep up conversation, like this is all totally normal. "I like my regular pants. They're comfortable and far more useful."
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After breathing that insult against his lips. And there's so much Danny could say to that: the state of Hawaii doesn't pay him nearly enough for the crap he goes through every week, where the hell is the hazard pay from being Steve's partner, that's what he'd like to know. And no, he is not a multitasker, he likes to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, that thing is Steve, Steve's mouth and the way he crushes any possible reaction into the space of a breath Danny can no longer take and doesn't want, because breathing is another distraction. And it's not important.
Nothing is, except Steve's fingers tucking at his shirt like he wants to climb up under it already, and this being a habit of the most insane variety. He shifts on the couch to get a better angle, tucking one knee into the dip where the cushions meet the back, the other leg almost straight, propped from the floor, so he can turn fully towards Steve, fingers sinking into hair, traveling down from ribs to the waist of his pants. It's going to suck for his knee, but he doesn't give a damn about his knee when this way he can lean towards Steve, brace himself, give into the need for closer, more.
Breathless and winded, eyes wanting to fall closed, dazed and with his head spinning when Steve slides to his bottom lip and Danny can feel the tip of his tongue and the gust of his breath. It winds him up like a spring about to blow, stomach contracting, heart leaping and slipping and falling all over itself, because Steve wants him and he can't get over it no matter how many times he reminds himself of those words.
Voice coming winded and barely there, even when he's trying to keep up conversation, like this is all totally normal. "I like my regular pants. They're comfortable and far more useful."