Steve moves like a riptide. Danny's still lost in that kiss, in the fire-fueled clenching fingers in his hair, Steve's mouth clashing against his and swallowing that sound, the desperate tiny one that still wasn't soft because there is nothing soft about any of this. Not Steve's muscles suddenly all contracting at once, not Steve's mouth demanding his, his breath, his skidding pulse and the lights flashing behind his eyes. Not Steve's arm, biceps bunching and pushing, as Steve bunches and pushes, sending Danny tripping back towards the other end of the couch with Steve following after. Bodyslammed into the corner, and he actually can almost stretch out, shoves one leg between Steve and the couch back, knee bending, the other on the other side of Steve's hips.

Pressure flashing white and dangerous, and Steve a blur of vengeful motion. Mouth attacking Danny's throat, while Danny pushes his head back to expose more, more skin, more threading pulse. Hands pushing at Danny's shirt like it's the most hateful thing Steve can imagine, like it's burning his fingers. Both of them scrambling to tug it -- Danny's back arching to clear the cushions, his arms crossing -- fabric tugging over his head to get dropped God knows where.

Sure that cool air won't get a chance to rush in, that his skin is flushing hot and pink under a tan he'd tried his damndest not to get. Not when Steve had nearly been threatening. Voice warning and teetering on the edge of snapped self-control, but now that the shirt is gone, Danny's hands are free, and they run down Steve's back, skating to his hips, fingers catching beltloops and tugging them, hard, down and closer, his own hips bucking up on instinct in a way that makes him go momentarily blind.