Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

[gonna_owe_me]

It doesn't come as any kind of surprise to her that she hasn't been able to stop thinking about Steve.

Neither does the fact that those thoughts come with a hefty side-helping of guilt. She should have known those trees were too close to the window. She should have been faster, more alert. Maybe they could have caught him, if she'd been doing the damn job Steve told her to do, if she'd done it the way he thought she could.

No surprise there: like she told him, she's not a bodyguard. She's a long way from basic, or doing anything that isn't in a gym or in front of a computer, and he doesn't blame her, but in some ways that just makes it worse.

So she puts in her request for leave right away, requests the weekend, and it's granted without too many hoops to jump through, but she's got to give up her Friday night and part of Saturday morning, which is fine, too. All she needs is to change, find a pair of shorts and a breezy, teal-colored top that hangs loose off her shoulders. Slides a pair of sandals on, brushes out her hair, washes her face, puts on a little makeup. She skips the gym, but throws running shoes, shorts, and a sports bra into the little bag she packs, along with a swimsuit, before slinging it over a shoulder and hitting the pavement.

The sun is high and hot, and she stops at a food truck, first, grabs two cardboard boxes, steaming with a scent that makes her stomach rumble and curl in on itself, before hailing a cab and sliding into the too-warm, hot polyester scented backseat, and giving the address.

It's been a while since she's been here. Cab rolling off in a faint crunch of gravel, leaving her with the tote over her arm, the food in her hand, looking up at the house with eyes squinting in the sun.

Doris left last night. Right? That gives Steve last evening, all night, and this morning to do his thing, be alone, brood if he wants to, deal with the admittedly ridiculous hand he's been given, and she'd have respected that, even if she didn't have to work, which is why she didn't call or text, just let him be, but it's daylight now, and it's gorgeous out, and there's only so much alone time Steve can really take. No matter what he might think.

Leading her up the path to the door, to knock, adjusting the slippery straps of her shirt, brushing hair out of her eyes as she waits. Rearranging her expression just like she does her makeup, or her clothes, so that when the door opens, she's got nothing there but a smile and the usual pleased light at seeing him.

Comments

[thebesteverseen]

The muscles in his stomach are trying to turn rubbery and trembling under Danny's touch. Tightening and releasing in fast spurts against the friction of that finger. But Steve's hardly letting it slow him down, if anything it just adds to everything. More kindling tossed at a fire begging to be allowed to get out of hand already. When Steve's attack comes in three completely different parts, going two directions, all at once.

His knee under Danny lifts and bends at the crook, at the same time as those fingers in Danny's belt loops are pulling him closer, pulling the jeans tight, down the leg that is becoming a fast incline. Paying some attention, but honestly probably not enough, to where exactly Danny is keeping his knees, near the center of Steve's body. He doesn't really think about a lot of that, a lot of the time, but with Danny even more. He just trusts that it'll work, trusts Danny's got himself as much as he's got Danny.

Both of those happen at the same time as all Steve's stomach muscles roll tight, as he uses Danny's weight on him, and not the belt loops, to roll-pull half-crunch himself up to sitting. Without dislodging Danny, and ending up right a breath from him again now. Eyes dark and heavy with something almost exponentially five worlds larger than cocky and fired beyond the shadow of a single doubt with something that is far more a promise to Danny than a comment about it, when he says, "You have no idea."

Yet. He could say so much worse than a side comment about pants on a floor, if it'll make Danny keep looking giddy like that.

If it could smack that smile right off Danny's face and make the paint peel and Danny's heart race with the sudden heat in the room, just on a few words, an image dropped in his ear. In this, in this he has either none or so few doubts that are almost lost in the shuffle. What he can do, could do, has done, has not ever had complaints about. To whom, or how many. The things he could say to Danny, do to Danny, if he wanted them.

Things Danny has probably not considered existing that fall in Steve's standard operating procedure.

[haole_cop]

Maybe not no idea. Sure. He's willing to believe that there's a hell of a lot he's got no clue about, that he's coming to the realization Steve has more than a clue, this is clearly not Steve's first rodeo, and that's fostered all kinds of questions he hasn't really looked at too hard over the last, what, twelve days?

Things that haven't been detailed. Haven't been offered, or even mentioned, aside from that once, that one time in the kitchen the very first night, when he went careening off a cliff of sudden uncertainty straight into panic and Steve never brought it up again. And he has to say he's grateful. This is already moving at light-speed for him, that we're taking it slow he'd hid behind in the car losing all credibility and dissolving into meaningless fog every time they're together. Like all it takes is one touch to short-circuit his willpower and restraint, turn him into a teenager who can't even wait the thirty seconds it would take to get upstairs, let alone the minutes or hours of talking they have yet to do.

And it's not, okay, he has no intention of putting the brakes on every time. He's not stupid, he can guess how this is going to go eventually, but the idea sort of stalls in the back of his head and grips hard onto a handle of fear. Edging towards this sudden hole in his education. A gut reaction he's not proud of that caused a face he'd be happy never to see on Steve again.

But he hardly needs to know details to make some educated guesses when Steve is surging up, gripping his hips, tipping Danny forward and pushing himself close, when Steve's eyes are more black than blue and wicked, wicked, lighting a bonfire in Danny's suddenly tight chest. He doesn't need to know. Steve can do what he wants. He can say what he wants. Danny doesn't care, as long as he keeps looking at him like that, like he is the last fraying thread of Steve's sanity, like restraint is a fragile cardboard web about to be blasted out of existence by a grenade already pulled and primed.

"Give me a break, I'm new to this whole thing."

Right this second, he wishes he did know. That he knew everything. Everything he can do to Steve, everything Steve wants. That he could make more than a guess. When those words come out low and wanting and nothing like the brash, prodding argument it could be. Fingers tugging at the hem of Steve's shirt. "But getting rid of this does seem to be a good starting point, I wholeheartedly."

[thebesteverseen]

The first thing to come out of Danny's mouth nearly makes him groan, fingerings tightening on those belt loops on the still present persistent need for Danny to be closer. Still closer than every second before the second he's in now. The way Danny's tone is so long and beaten, vibrating into his lungs and belly, turning one toward steam and the other toward a puddle, and those words. Those words are still so true.

When some part of his brain somehow catches on to that, like the one person who realizes in a pack of forty or fifty, at the top of the roller coaster, how terrible the coming swoop might be, even when they've been convincing themselves it won't. But the breaks are entirely out of their control compared to everything else going on. Not that Steve is beyond control, but he can feel the grumbling whine spreading like pistons on high are jamming, through himself, at the idea of it, already.

Tightening his fingers, sharpening his gaze. On Danny, with bitten bright lips and bright blue blown eyes.

This expression, this different wanting, almost begging to be broken open expression, he keeps finding on Danny's face. Never knew what looked like before. Never wants to not be seeing it. Again and again and again. When he can drag this out, make Danny voice go low and warm and asking him, so clearly, to follow through as his threats and promises. And the last thing Steve wants is to remember.

That it's so true. That it's not even two weeks, and he knows, beyond a shadow of any doubt anywhere, that before two weeks were done with Gabby and Danny they were hardly figuring out how or where to have dinner a first or second time. It wasn't this. It wasn't anything like this. Rushed and reckless, and threatening to rip apart everything. That Steve might throw everything to the wind, give all of this on one, first night, good time.

But that isn't Danny. It isn't even Danny when his voice is warm in his viens, reminder and request all at once.
They've never even seen a dinner table. If there was ever supposed to be one. Aside from with the team last weekend.

Which doesn't even touch the fact, Danny is new to this whole thing. Here. On Steve's lap. Drug every direction by their hands.

And, fuck, but every part of him still wants, when Danny is looking at him like that. His voice is dipping low, still, and his knuckles are brushing Steve's stomach and the top of his pants, sparks shooting off in his middle even more for the idea of anything being forbidden or requiring patience or him to stop, fireworks lighting his skin when Danny is tugging at his shirt.

When that is anything but please stop, and everything is torn and tossed together all at once, on high, in a wind storm. Where the brush of his skin is like singeing lightning, trying to take that wash of thoughts back out to sea. When Steve can't even stop how low, and overboard that tone is, or that he breathes in sharp without even filling his lungs at the touch and the tugging, smirk tagging in, bright and prodding "Yeah?"

He lets go of Danny's belt loops in a single fast motion, snatching fistfuls of the bottom of his shirt, right out of Danny's hands and pulling it off fast and easy over his head. Left with a handful of cloth, that he pitches somewhere over a shoulder with a brilliantly devil may care expression of almost asking to be called on it. Like he isn't half dressed now, skin flushed, chest rising and falling faster than normal breath, on display simply because Danny requested it.

Everywhere all over his face, when he can't stop his mouth, or the way he leans back for a second, one hand catching the couch to prop himself, unabashed in leaving himself stretched and nearly posed in front of Danny, as he is in the fact his eyes never leave Danny's face, smug as the high sun, and the smallest bit more watchful. "Better?"

[haole_cop]

His intention isn't to make Steve pause, or to bring any kind of wariness or caution to his face, his motions. He's joking, but it's not really a joke, too, because he is out so far beyond over his head now that he doesn't think he could be found without a rescue flare and a crack team of emergency personnel. Brand-new doesn't even begin to cut it, and okay, he gets at least some of the mechanics. Right? He's only got himself for comparison, but the basics are something he gets. The kind of friction that feels good. The spots on Steve's body that make him shiver when they're kissed or touched. He has mapped out rough sketches of things Steve likes, and it has been weird at times, sure, but not panic-inducing. Nothing he couldn't have pictured for himself, on his own.

Past that, though, past the things they've been doing over the past two weeks, the waters don't get so much murky as they are entirely foreign. And part of him his shrieking to take a step back, long enough to ask some questions and get some answers, long enough to breathe and remind himself that not everything has to be dipped into one toe at a time and treated with extreme caution. Steve is not Gabby. Steve is not Rachel. He's already known Steve for two years, knows his flaws and foibles, knows his favorite foods and drinks and schedule, knows the look when Steve's disappearing into his miserable head. It's not like the two of them require any awkward 'getting-to-know-you' stage, although Danny is finding himself more and more curious about certain aspects of Steve's past.

Mainly, the ones that make this so clearly not as strange for him as it is for Danny.

But it doesn't last long, the pause, and it doesn't smack the same self-recrimination across Steve's face as the screeching halt in the kitchen, for which Danny is grateful. It's not a bad thing. Right? Everyone has to start somewhere.

And it doesn't make his throat any less close, or his mouth any less dry, when Steve's giving him that crooked smirk, bright and brilliant, like he can't believe what he's hearing but also could never question hearing it. Like Danny's sure he wouldn't. Nobody who looks like Steve would. Moving in a sudden efficient wave, stomach muscles flexing and standing out under skin, chest stretched, shoulders wide, leaning back into invitation, eyes on Danny's face and a knowing little smirk tucked into his lips. When that expression can't possibly hold the smug expectation that's radiating off every angle, shirt discarded, body on display. No other word for it. Displayed. Put on show. Knowingly, purposefully. For Danny.

Who just. Who just needs to take a second. A second to look. Eyes tracking down faintly fuzzed chest to the ridges of stomach muscles and belly. Steve. Laid out and perfect. Waiting to see what he'll do. But Danny's heart is in his throat, and his tongue feels like someone knotted it onto a bow, or replaced it with a useless piece of felt, because there's nothing he can say. He can just look. Can only shift forward enough to curve his hands around the sides of Steve's waist, thumbs rubbing over the cut of obliques. Run them slowly up his sides. Slow. Reverent. Because, God. He is so damn beautiful. Relaxed and loose. No one should be allowed to touch this. Right? He shouldn't be allowed to.

Fingers and palms moving up, up. Slow. Tracking their path with his eyes. The sheen of warm skin. Deep tan. Dark ink. His hands barely, and then not able at all, to fit around his sides. Pushing up his ribcage, bending forward. Eyes focused on the slope from Steve's ribs to the soft skin over his stomach.

"I, uh. Jesus." His breath gusts in a distracted little laugh, that catches behind his useless tongue. "Yeah, I think so."

[thebesteverseen]

He expects a joke. Some terrible, biting comment about making messes on his own floor like a child. Or something pointed about basically laying himself out in front of Danny, in the air, with that goading statement and his arrogant belief in his physique being utterly unbecoming, no matter what his neanderthal head or the people in his life have led him to believe this far.

Anything but the way way Danny's face shifts. The way his shoulders tense a little under that plain t-shirt, and he swallows hard, like there's a rock in his throat he either can't breathe around, or can't swallow, or maybe both all at once. Eyes riveted to Steve's skin. Like. Like it might be more than just his skin. When Steve keeps waiting for the snap, the moment those words will pour out.

Danny will snap back, and that mouth, with the smile it can't keep out, will spear him, happily. Both said and wanted.

Because Danny has seen this. Okay. Danny saw it early on. When Steve was willing to get half undressed for any necessity of a case. More willing to ask it of himself than anyone else on his team. And Danny had gotten his fair share of seeing him, this all, his body, for years already. Which, sure, he'd looked. The first time like it was a hilarious unfairness that Steve got to look like this and be as insane as Danny found him.

Until there were events through the last year or so, where Danny was still looking and Steve could only bewilderingly have no idea why or what it was. Maybe that he was still insane even years later, untempered by Five-0. Because, obviously, it wasn't anything else when Danny was back to normal minutes or seconds later every time. And Steve got it. Okay. That it was nothing actually. A note. Observation.

That he was one looking for there to be more in it, and how there really was. Case or surfing. Accepted that.

But he doesn't look back up, and as much as Steve can tell, and he's so close, too close to not be sure, Danny doesn't even take another breath in while his eyes trace down Steve's chest with the thickness of an actual touch. A slow, settled, need to see all of it, that makes Steve swallow, watching him heavy lidded. Stomach muscles and lungs all but shuddering the moment Danny's hands touch his sides after those long seconds.

How Danny's still not looking up. How Danny, and his five thousands words, are actually so pin drop quiet it's like shouting.

His thumbs are pressing into the ridges of muscles, tracing, lacing fire into Steve's skin for every quarter inch of skin touched and left behind as he keeps touching more. Brushing slowly, so slowly, it makes him hold so still he think he may start trembling with the sheer effort it takes not to move. Across his obliques, up each rung of his ribs on both sides.

Until he can't help that he's pushing up into the sensation. Into those fingers. Wanting this. More. Everything.

And finally Danny's mouth moves, but not his eyes. He's still not even looking up. His sentence stutters stops twice. First.

What the hell is he even supposed to do, make of that. How is Steve even supposed to breathe, pretend the inside of his stomach and chest don't slip on something oily or fill full of an unexpected free fall, a hard jolt in the center of his chest, a want to grab Danny and kiss him, fiercely, all over again. When he's saying that. When it takes him time to even get to the ability to say that.

That somehow, it is. It is better, actually truly better, a better that looks like it is short circuiting Danny's brain and his mouth in one go, beyond being a smug mocking joke, when Steve is there, under his hands, half dressed, filling his face up with everything shining there that Steve can't even begin to name, and Danny wants him. To touch him. To look at him.

And Steve has nothing better than to rib it, because if he doesn't something else will come out, he doesn't even know what or how or the shape, but it's clogging up his chest and expanding so fast, so hard, taking out the walls and the floors, and it's threatening to just shatter everything else in there his body doesn't need anymore, by command decision of itself. "I'm sorry. What was that? Did you say something?"

Like he could not. Hear Danny's little choked breath. Stutter. Soft swearing. Confession. Burning themselves into his skin.

[haole_cop]

Did he say something?

He's honestly not totally, one hundred percent, sure. He feels like he's swallowed his own tongue, that's lumping in his throat and making words impossible. Like he's back to being thirteen years old and shy around girls. Like he can't even rally his misfiring brain cells enough to string a full sentence together. Just by looking at him.

Because, Christ, Steve is. Steve is. His brain is sorting through every word he knows, and he just can't seem to land on any of them. He's seen this. Seen Steve in board shorts at the beach. In cargo pants, first dry, then wet at work, with his easy refusal to miss a chance to go in the water. Seen him in sleeveless SEAL tanks, and white wifebeaters that stuck to him like a second skin. Seen him preen and unfold himself for the benefit of nearby appreciate girls, on occasion, when they catch him in a generous mood.

Danny's seen it. Him. Multiple times. Enough that he could details Steve's tattoos, and a few more visible scars. He's seen him in daylight, on the beach, in public, in private. Seen him drenched and dry, beaten and bruised, and back to fighting fit. And now, he's seen him smudged in dim light, felt the play of muscles under taut skin without having to watch it.

But it's different. This. Steve's willingness to shed clothes, like they're no big deal. And, well. They probably aren't, to him. Not like they are to Danny. To most people. To anyone with the usual insecurities about lack of muscle or a pudgy stomach, a too-hairy chest or strange creases. No. It's Steve's willingness to strip that shirt off and throw it away like it's nothing, because he asked him to. Because he's seen like this before, but not like this. Not laid out underneath him, pushing minutely up into his hands, like this slow exploration isn't enough. Not for him.

And Steve is gorgeous. There's no questioning it. Even before, Danny would have said so. Would have admired him, and been more than a little envious. And like he said, it's not that he hasn't noticed Steve is a guy. The textbook definition. Tall. Heavy muscled. Still looking like a quarterback years later, with half-lidded eyes that would make a member of the clergy lock themselves in the confessional and then break out for some serious sinning.

But there are a lot of gorgeous people, especially here, where the vast majority of the population spends their lives in bathing suits, on the beach, in the water, in the sun. He could toss a rock and hit a dozen that could be photographed and put in a magazine with barely any touch-ups.

But none of them are Steve. None of them have Steve's crazy, or Steve's stupidly giant heart, that gets Steve in so much trouble. None of them have Steve's smile, or have had Danny's back through everything, everything, two women and a freak poisoning accident and more calls with lawyers than he can count and too many shootouts. None of them are Danny's best friend and partner. He is looking at the only person like Steve in the world, and that person is letting him. Wants him to look. To touch.

"Shut up." A little hoarse, but he at least seems to be regaining speech control. Sort of. While everything in his chest is jumbled and sifting into new spots, like a shaken snow globe. "Let me appreciate something for once in my life, you destroyer of dreams. Huh? Can't I take a moment to enjoy this? Is that too much to ask?"

Thumbs moving solidly towards the center of his chest, eyes flicking up to Steve's face with something like amusement that's been batted back into being, somewhere across the tattered remains of something too like awe, no matter what he says. They're just words. They don't mean a damn thing right now.

[thebesteverseen]

There are certain seconds, the world catches up with him, in ways it doesn't have to. Or at least never did before. When the impatient energy, racing through him, thrumming, begging every single touch for more. Exponentially more. Sidesteps accidentally on something more true, more real. That maybe Danny hasn't yet, and he never did before. That they fall into this in a frenzy. The one that had them gripping each other only minutes ago.

That there really aren't minutes in the morning, with work. With being gone. With working three days straight. With hell breathing down their neck. And how each of the specific days when it was more than that. A few hours in the sunshine like the first afternoon, or the Sunday after, there's so much else in the room, there's almost no room to remember. What he's supposed to do here. What the first steps ever were. What Danny might need, or want.

Danny who doesn't have a contested mishmash of memories of things like this.

Anything that isn't running his fingers up and down skin that isn't silk smooth, with downy hair. Light and lithe.

That isn't encounters so brief, fast, and frenzied that they are over in half the time of a watch break, so fast from beginning to end you spend the rest of the hours of an entire night wondering if you just happened to want it so badly you hallucinated the whole thing. A night or a day, somewhere, in the middle of nowhere. Caught on a smile. This certain tip of a head, lift of an eyebrow, the curve of a mouth around the top of a beer bottle or hand around a cue, a can, anything.

A shared secret, lost again in the morning. A night. Maybe a few days. Here or there a week, in decades. More casually, than clinically since he's been grounded. But that meant being even more tightly controlled, not less. How quickly, not matter which situation, you learn how to appreciate something, even the bare seconds, the few minutes where your hand rests, and then take it for granted. Lock it outside, and turn back to the job.

Things Danny has never done. When everything Danny has ever done is painted on Steve's skin. Hands. Mouth.

On that winded, hoarse tone, complaining for Steve to cool his damn horses, and give him a second, taking everything in.

Even if taking everything in equals making it beyond fucking impossible to cool down. Because Danny's fingers are traveling across his skin. And Danny's voice is winded like he's running, just from looking at him, from touching him. And how, how is he supposed to sit still. When it's Danny. Danny Williams. Looking at him like this. Tone like that. How is he not supposed to hold on and ride that for all it's worth, before it's gone.

In every god damn way that is possible, probable, being written in searing profanity across the backs of his eyelids.

When he's swallowing, and staring at those eyes, finally rising to meet his, while Danny's hands are fanned and dragging fingers, coming in across his chest, toward the center, and he can't even help the breath he pulls in. Filling his lungs, stretching his skin and the space Danny's touch is crossing, has to cross, might touch next, like some part of him must move, has to move, before he explodes and truly does body check Danny into the arm rest behind him, burying his fingers in his hair and demanding everything.

Because it's words. Words, words, words. Being batted back and forth, struggling to crawl out of whatever is happening inside of Danny, like somehow it's going to distract him from the way Danny's eyes are so blue and so unfocused for a second, before focusing on him, again. Forcing Steve to gouge out will power, and reach for whatever he can.

The wisp of a goofy cocky smile trying to slide and settle on his lips, even when he shudders faintly against those fingers, heart thundering a marathon in his chest. "You saying you're dream about me like this, now?"

[haole_cop]

The easiest, simple, truest answer is yes. Yes, he does. Which makes it all the more bizarre to wake up and have the reality lying next to him. Or makes it feel all the more like a fever dream when he wakes up alone, in the puddled sheets of the pullout, turned on and confused like time's rewound and made him a horny teenager again.

But there's that word now that catches him, because. Well. He's been having dreams like that for a little while, now. Since that night, the one he told Steve about yesterday morning. The first time. The first shudder. The first dream, barely even a dream. Half-awake, hands sliding across himself and thoughts drifting down into a gravity well he never saw coming. Full of flickers of Steve. Like this. Only not like this, because he never saw this. At the beach, sand on his skin. Water in his hair. Island brilliance in his smile. Lit up and joyful. The best Danny could do, because he'd never seen this dark heat, couldn't have imagined Steve's heart knocking against his fingertips like it's trying desperately to beat itself right out of his body.

Or maybe he'd just pretended it was a dream. Closed his eyes and willed himself asleep, so he wouldn't know better. So he wouldn't be thinking about his partner and his best friend when he was gasping and shaking. So he wouldn't have the reminder of Steve's voice in his ear, a succinct, nearly terse voicemail greeting that managed to morph into so many things. So many words. Ones he was so ashamed of having pretended, of having wanted.

Only now Steve's real, no dream, no fantasy. Stretching under Danny's hand, heart careening under this touch, being an arrogant bastard, a vain dick, and Danny would toss insults at his head until the swelling went down if those words didn't come out thin and reedy. If they weren't being said, low, through a smile that's like the goddamn sun coming up, splashing Danny with warm and brilliance, focusing all the color and light in the room on that one goofy curve of lips. If they didn't sound pushed, not tossed and easy. If the muscles he's tracing weren't shaking with restraint under his fingers.

"What's that you're always telling me?" Easy to feign innocence or consideration when he's leaning forward, finding the flat slope of one pec and brushing lips there, kissing along the skin towards the slight dip of his breastbone, before glancing up, a stupid smirk of his own pulling like a loose thread.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement."

[thebesteverseen]

Danny gives it a second, stretching Steve's want for patience and expectation of it. But not unusually so at this second. Even if it feels even more like straining against a bond now. When absolutely nothing is actually holding him down or back. He's got his weight supported on his hands, and he could push up, stop Danny, do whatever. Which would work well, if that whole part about stopping Danny didn't catch under every inch of skin.

Like the idea of stopping Danny now, would stop the gravity of the planet, or the ability to breathe in his body. Not that he was doing a whole lot of that right now. Like he'd rather have his skin melt away than stop Danny. Whose fingers are roaming his skin, like it isn't just pock marked with regimental routines and scars with less than ghost stories. When he's actually feeling his brow lift in some curiosity.

And then. It's like being spattered with boiling oil. It has to be.

When his whole body literally seizes and shakes, hard, on that new touch, so soft, lips brushing his skin, with hot breath, so gentle and yet pervasive it feels like the skin under that mouth is going snap, like the ground just bucked him, knocking him into Danny's legs and spine, everything.

One hand digging hard into the leather cushion and sweating suddenly the whole weight of his upper body alone, because the other one is lodged in blonde hair, curling it around fingers, when he can't even stop the garbled groan getting dashed on the rocks of the back of his throat, even when his teeth clench tight, and he's barely getting air out his nose or Danny's name out between his teeth, not even sure if it's a warning or a plea.

Especially not with those words. With the whole idea like a flash flare being thrown straight down his veins on the movement of Danny's lips. Golden. Golden. Golden hair, and face, blue eyes, hovering so close and so far, using his own words, and insinuating he thinks about this. About Steve laid out like this. About doing all of this to him. Trying to snap his restrain one thread at a time, and call it some kind of kindness.

Like it can't even possibly be a secret, even as he uses those words. Throws them back in Steve's face. Every ounce of control.

[haole_cop]

That groan drops into his stomach like a grenade, but it's the half-choked gasp of his name that sets everything on fire. Crumples up his stomach, rips the roots of any willpower left right out of his skull, his spine, tosses them away like Steve tossed his shirt. Unable to help the sudden flaring driving burning want that sends him back down, mouth trailing harder, hot against flushing skin. Over the lift of muscle that's shaking and flexing against his lips, ducking down to find, capture a nipple. Pulling sensitive skin into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. Tasting salt and Steve, hearing his own breath coming in a ragged wash.

Because Steve looks done in. By him. He's not even doing anything. Barely anything at all. One hand smoothing firm down his side, the other pushing up over his shoulder, running along the arm that's got him braced up against the couch. Ignoring the sudden tight ache in his scalp, sending thrills shrieking down his spine and arrowing into his gut.

Feeling like there's not enough. Not enough of Steve's bare skin. Not enough of him to reach it all, cover it all. Biting lightly into the pad of his muscle, moving down, finding the bumps of his ribs, mouth and teeth and tongue following the brand new gravity that's Steve, only Steve. Who wants him. Like Danny wants him. Who isn't looking smug anymore, whose voice is on the cracking edge of breaking or pleading.

Making Danny have look up along the length of his body, and the only possible way to keep it from spilling out, in words and broken sentences, how gorgeous Steve is, the things he does to Danny, the things he's doing right now, how impossible he is, not matter how Danny might have said it's still possible, he has no idea how this is happening, none at all, is to push up, hand hard on Steve's side and fingers wrapping around Steve's biceps. Find his mouth again, kiss him hard and a little desperate, because this was supposed to be gone, and it isn't, and Danny doesn't know how to make sure it never goes away but, God, he'd give almost anything. Anything at all.

And Steve hasn't laid a finger on him in minutes, but it doesn't matter, a tiny sound like a whimper at the back of his throat, muffled on Steve's mouth in a kiss that feels like it should burst every lightbulb in the house.

[thebesteverseen]

He's swearing into clenched teeth, the snapping red-line of his jaw, and he knows his fingers must have made a fist of Danny's hair, but he can't stop. Not once Danny ducks his head right back down. And it's not a kiss this time. It's not a gentle, maddening brush of lips. It's wide, warm, no, hot and wet. Danny's mouth making contact with his skin. When barely has time to be registering it.

When he's jerking from the sudden wash of sensation, and it doesn't stop or slow now. Danny's mouth latching on to a nipple. The feel of warmth, of suction, the graze of teeth, and fast flick of his tongue on a direct collision and control of Steve's hips, grinding into Danny's body. Fingers making it everywhere suddenly. Not the slow, every line drag up his body they'd been doing. Everywhere. Suddenly flitting, digging in, moving, like it can't touch enough, fast enough.

He's going to burn up before this ends, when Danny doesn't even stay at his chest. There are lips and teeth making their way down his chest, fighting against his ribs, snapping apart his holds. And then, in a movement that seems to happen like a void filling itself in, Danny is attacking his mouth. And Steve can feel it going. Everything. With a sickening explosion he doesn't even give a damn about. Both sets of hands finding the sides of Danny's head, finger tips digging in too hard, but he can't stop.

He's held so still, moving feels like the whole world is exploding around him, like he has to kiss Danny, down into the marrow of his bones, almost vicious and proprietary, every bit as hard and as hot as he's being kissed, like it's the only way he can breathe or keep his heart going. That tiny desperately soft whimper slamming into him, eaten by his lips, and shoving itself like burning steal under skin, shoving him up and Danny back. All movement, the world swimming almost to vertigo, after none.

Pulling his legs out from under Danny as he's pushing Danny into the opposte end of the couch, by shoulders, always against him, under him. Never letting go. Covering Danny in a corner of two cushions without any consideration for the small space, or not tossing himself across and on Danny. Mouth moving, still hard, pulling at skin grazing teeth, along his jaw, the hollow under his ear, down across Danny's throat.

Pulling skin hard without warning while his hands are going fast down across Danny, ripping at the bottom of his shirt, fingers under the cloth, catching only for seconds in the skin at Danny's stomach before he's back to pulling it up, without a single care for whether this t-shirt survives the next three seconds, which shows when he's jerking it upward, saying roughly into Danny's skin. "Off, now."

It's almost a growl compared to any of the other words or laughter he had earlier. One with no qualms about making it happen.

[haole_cop]

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.

[thebesteverseen]

He forgets around almost as soon as it's past Danny's wrists. That shirt.

Wherever it goes, when they both let go, when Steve darts back in. Mouth taking liberty back with the skin he had, Danny stretching out beneath him, close and tight, straining to give him more, as Danny's hands landed just as possessive on his skin. Sliding, running down his skin, hard and heavy. Catching his hips, his pants, and jerking him directly into Danny bucking up into him.

Barely giving Steve more than a moment, before it's shocking straight through him. Hardly more than a second it takes to turn, to consider the damnation of visibility, and bite down against Danny's shoulder. When the rest of his body is beyond ready to listen to Danny's hands, his hips. Beyond it. To listen and respond and run right the hell over any impulse asking for a moments air.

Thrusting hard and fast down against the solidness Danny, several times, in a way that is not helping him remember any single thought he had in his head. That he had any restraint in his skin, or control left between his body and his choices, and the slam of want driving like a jack hammer down his veins. Any time before this second. Any thoughts. Any consideration. Going up like flash paper.

With a groan of something very lost, thick as black tar, and nearly muffled into Danny's skin, "Fucking Christ, Danny."

It'd be an accusation, if he wasn't hanging off the same cliff, hating every last stitch of clothing, or thought under the fire, himself.

[haole_cop]

Teeth, sharp against his shoulder, a sudden sting and ache that's bound to leave a mark, and he's breathless, head back against the cushion, hips canting up helplessly, half laughing and half groaning, saying, "Jesus, Steve, don't damage the merchandise, huh?" but you break it you bought it doesn't seem like it would stop Steve right now.

Neither would reminding him that as much as Danny hates going to the beach, it does, occasionally happen, and this, this is exactly the kind of thing Kono would never let him live down. Not that Danny is thinking clearly enough to point that out. Not when Steve is shoving into him, grinding hard and hot. Forcing himself closer. Making one of Danny's hands run up his back, over shifting, twisting muscle. The other dropping to curve, hard, down over the back of his pants. Fingers pressing hard into the curve of his ass, pulling his tighter, closer.

Because it's still not close enough. Not even when it's bare skin sliding against bare skin, and Steve's mouth is hard against his shoulder. Not when Steve is groaning into his skin, swearing into it, his name dragging in some three a.m. version of his voice, thick and scraped from the bottom of the barrel, a dull razorblade over Danny's nerves, snapping each one of them, one at a time, like strings snapping on a violin.

When the only thing he can think is more and Steve and he can't even, can barely register the fact that Steve is doing this to him, that he's doing it to Steve, his hands gripping and owning that expanse of skin, the beltloops, pants, legs. Feeling like he's getting rolled out by a cement mixer, Steve is so heavy and he's big, it's like being attacked by a mountainside, crushing Danny into the couch and Danny does not give a single fuck, as long as Steve doesn't stop what he's doing. Curling up into him, to give as good as he gets, as much as he can, cheek pressing into the cushion, neck stretched and straining under Steve's mouth.

So much for taking a minute, taking a second to adjust, to consider, to enjoy, but everything is burning and his heart is catapulting, head singing, and he doesn't care, there's time later, there will be. Right now it's only Steve, only him, the rest of the world can burn to a crisp except for Grace and him.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve huffed a sound that was maybe about as evocative as his ability to have a through process at the time. That he might be a lot more careful if Danny wasn't dragging his brain out by his -- but you know, that's not even entirely true. Even when he can't slow down. Even when the teeth pulling at his skin are a ghost echo compared to Danny. Laughing and groaning in the same caught breathe, complaints reaching his ears, while he was rocking into Steve's body with a reckless abandon not even faltered by it.

When there's not enough room on this couch really, and not enough give a damn going on in Steve's head. Even if he nips Danny's neck softly, as though it's recompense for the aggravation. Whether that's for complaining, while not not complaining. Or making him want to do it over, and over again, until Danny was shaking, and asking him not to stop. Or because all he wanted to do was wrap Danny's leg around his waist and forget he knew how to think or breathe at all. Until Danny couldn't think or breathe or do anything but shake around him.

When that is a blistering thing, he's trying to outpace, stretching up to claim Danny's mouth again, not all that against how the couch arm and back keeps him bracketed between Steve and a stationary object. Pretty much all over. Giving him control to push in, against Danny. Or pull back the slightest, in the middle, and let his hand have more than just Danny's sides. All of his skin.

Warm, soft and solid different places. Muscles straining tense and tight under him, release and tightening with every kick of hips.

When Danny's got his hands on Steve back, moving everything. Across muscles, down into the small of his back, across the round of his ass. Pulling him tight and close, making it almost impossible to keep a straight thought that is not being slammed by rivers of light. Everything throbbing hard, heavy, loud in his veins. How much he wants Danny.

When he doesn't even know how much of it is next step and how much of it is a heady swoop of need so deep it scoring itself on Danny's body through two layers of pants. Dragging back enough in the center, hands, finding the top of his jeans, the metal button and pulling at them almost too forcefully, open and beginning to shove the now tented-tight fabric down Danny's hips, even while he was laying heavy right on it.

Steve's mouth is muttering words straight into this kiss. "These are definitely better the floor."

Even if they were, honestly, proving highly worthwhile in pretty much every other place they'd been so far, too.

[haole_cop]

There's a little nip, gentler, like an apology, but it still shoots daggers into Danny's gut, where they melt into a pool of boiling lead along with the rest of his organs and what feels like any possible remaining sense of restraint or willpower. Kissing him in a way he hasn't since, Christ. Maybe that first day, when Steve came back and he wasn't dead, wasn't broken into pieces, was gone for six weeks and came back with that stupid look on his face and his breathless book 'em, Danno.

Because he's still here. Came running out to stop Danny from leaving, to explain, not to say it's been fun, see you at work, not to point out that any man in their right mind would prefer Cath and her simplicity, her familiarity, to Danny and all his fears, all his sensitivity and petty jealousies. Who needs the aggravation?

Steve, apparently. Steve, who pushes up to kiss him again, hard and hot, like Danny might dissolve underneath him, hands running heavy over every part of exposed skin, pushing up to find a little room between them, which Danny hates, even when it leads to fingers fumbling at the button and zipper of his jeans, the ones Steve liked so much. Enough that he almost might wear them more often, on a weekend or after work, now and again, just to see what happens, to see if he can catch the second Steve's pulse lifts and his eyes catch.

But the jeans are done, now, too hot, clinging to hips and legs and harder than they look to push off, especially since he's still wearing shoes. Those getting toed off and dropped someplace, one hand leaving Steve to shove at denim, and he's laughing, or groaning, impatient and exasperated at the same time, into Steve's mouth.

"I told you I hated these things, why are jeans so hard to get off?"

[thebesteverseen]

They are. So done. When Steve is actually annoyed at a pair of pants. A pair of amazing pants, the hug all the right places, that he'd barely gotten a few minutes to see doing so. They aren't skin tight, because it is Danny they're talking about, choosing something to wear around his daughter, but they fit well. At least as well as any of his dress slacks, and his dress slacks had attempt killing Steve's mind enough over the last year.

He wants to see every angle of them, still. When Danny isn't leaning on his fridge, staring at a bottle of beer, with the most hangdog expression possible. When he could be appreciating them and not caught up in so much awkwardness you could use something to cut it. But not right now. Not today. Not this second. Not when his hands are literally sliding under Danny, tilting him by his ass and his hips to grab denim, and pull hard.

The whole process, and Danny's bitching about not being undressed fast enough, or already, make Steve laugh a laugh that has so little air actually in it, saying only, "Half the incentive, or insanity," even as he has to move to be able to pull or push the jeans anywhere past where his own legs intersect Danny. Making him spring back with a step, to half standing off the couch, and keep pulling.

Until all Danny has left is boxers and socks, which shouldn't make him smile, but it does. The whole thing does.

Pants hitting the ground, and Steve lunging right back for where he had been. Straddling Danny's legs, when one hand is demanding his jaw and his lips, kissing Danny like the minute involved in getting him out of his clothes might have been too long. One minute away from him. One minute gone. The other hand moving from catching and balancing himself over Danny, to find Danny's side, muscles there. Warm and just a little slick.

But not stopping, until his fingers are rubbing the rise of Danny's body only broken by over-warmed boxer material now.

[haole_cop]

He loves that laugh. There's nothing else for it; it comes, breathless and stilted and there is nothing in Danny except unabashed appreciation and a churning ache in his chest that's like being slowly crushed in reverse. Expanding from the inside out, chest and ribs threatening to snap, lungs and heart barely able to keep up. Everything getting shoved to the side to make room for it, whatever this is that has him staring up at Steve, unable to breathe, still not sure he can really believe it's all happening. That Steve is stripping off his jeans, with that laugh, and that look, and those words. Like Danny is driving him crazy. Like his insanity is Danny's fault, Danny's fault for wearing jeans, for showing up in the evening and getting jealous. Like Steve can't be held accountable for what he does now.

The jeans, yeah. They may need to go into rotation more often, much as he actually does prefer khakis or work clothes. This is worth it, right, worth Hawaiian humidity and heat and sand getting caught under denim.

Disagreeing with the way Steve gets up, but not with the efficient way the jeans get discarded, or how he pushes back in, searching out Danny's mouth, hand hard at Danny's jaw and the other trailing down to his hip, the low-slung line of boxers, as Danny's got one forearm on the cushion to push himself up, the other hand gripping into what little he can get between his fingers of Steve's hair. Too short, nothing he can wrap around his fingers and tangle them in, but it doesn't matter, not when Steve is straddling him like this and making instinct and reflex kick in, burning gasps of thoughts sizzling through his head. Hips grinding up, into his weight, the hand that he'd been balancing on moving to find Steve's thigh, fingers and thumb gripping hard.

"No, wrong, insanity is the incentive."

Or it is now. It will be. Because he had no idea he could make Steve look at him like Steve is looking at him, when he's far enough away to see that expression, to catch wide-blown eyes and flushed face. And Steve is crazy, but Steve's crazy is normally of the horribly violent variety, where the burning he's likely to do would be a building, or an automobile, or something large-scale, like a plane. Not Danny.

[thebesteverseen]

Breathing and thinking seems to leave behind, just until they need to smack him in the face.

A minute or three before a gulp of air goes down hard like swallowing rock. Like nothing in the world sat in this box. Not even a missile launcher. Danny, grinding up into his body, with a jack hammering force and intention. Danny, with his hands digging into Steve's thighs, so much he swore he could feel the fingertips, through the material. Each one marking him brighter and long than the stars striking his vision when he matched the movement.

When all the panic seems gone, replaced by a desperate need to not let go. To take everything now.

Those sharp, correcting words, matching so well with the hands on him. Burning something down that never needed to be.

"Impatient much?" Steve got out, a fire-beaten arrogance claiming bruised lips, and rushed breath, right beyond the roll of brilliant sparklers going off in his head, igniting all his nerve endings and dousing down most of his ability to think with gasoline. God, he can't even pretend he doesn't love this. Danny turned reckless and demanding, wanting him, grabbing him.

Because the thought is insane. But Danny is breathing hard in against his lips and his teeth. Fingers digging into his legs. Dragging him down like it's mutual. That one minute was too long. Even the fact that minutes exists is too much of a threat it might happen again. Driving him back into kissing Danny, into the rough drive of his own hips, his own want. For Danny.

Against a ragged edge he can see without looking at it. Danny had left. Even for a moment. Even if he did the only things he could think of. For one unholy second, everything had shattered, and he'd gone without so much a real word. Sand, fallen throw his fingers. That was real. So much more real and sensible. More than Danny's tongue brushing against. More than the brush of his chest and the rush of his hands.

Real, and likely. More possible, even more probable, than all of this. He knows all of that, too.

He knows he's barreling at it, but he can't care, or chooses not to, or, fuck it, maybe he's asking for it, daring it to try. I tried once and Danny is still right here. Saying he wants to be with him. Under him, moving like every inch of his skin is on fire, and Steve is the only person who can do anything about it. Maybe none of it matters, none of it, except for forgetting all of that and clinging to this, to shoving him even higher.

Matching and answering and taking. Pushing a hand in between them, fast and smooth, inside the band of those low, tight boxer and fitting his fingers around Danny's skin and beginning with a movement that is only an extension of the fast friction they've already got. That Steve could not even stop his own body from still doing unless he stopped everything all together.

[haole_cop]

Steve looks, sounds, pleased. Ragged. Breathless. But pleased. Ragging on him through a tone as wrung out like a dishrag, voice straining, muscles straining. A smile flashing and disappearing again, against Danny's lips, before they're taken again, Steve leaning down and Danny pushing up. Not giving a single damn that he's desperate, that it's showing, that Steve's got the upper hand here and those slow, drawn-out moments of earlier have burned up like so much tissue paper in a firepit.

Like there's no time, now, and he needs Steve more than air. Which. Air is so unnecessary, and it's useless when all it does it sizzle into steam the second it hits his lungs. When Steve is saying those words, low and darkly delighted, making Danny groan, half exasperated, half impatient, all wanting . Fingers digging into cotton and the muscle beneath, before sweeping around to the back of his leg, curving there, hard, pulling him closer. "You cannot possibly blame me for being impatient."

No one could. No one in their right mind. No one, pinned under Steve, back slick and sticking to a leather couch, could possibly question the frantic, frenzied desire that's laying him to waste. Tossing any semblance of good sense out a high-rise window in a spectacular shatter of glass, just before Steve's hand snakes under his boxers and the whole world freezes, paralyzed.

Caught on one hand. Fingers, wrapping. A sudden explosion of sensation, hitting him like a punch to the jaw, bursting in hard white light. Fast and slick, stroking up and down, melting what's left of Danny's brain right down his spine and short-circuiting his nerves until all he can do for a second is go with it, hips pushing helpless, head pushing back. Steve's fingers done with coaxing, now threading him into an outlet and shorting out the fuse, throwing breakers along the way until there's nothing but pure current pulsing through his body with each slide of Steve's hand.

Making his own shake as he tries to find the waistband of Steve's pants, fumbling at the button, unwilling to untangle his fingers from Steve's hair but wanting him, now, hating these layers of cloth, wanting. Wanting. Everything. Eyes trying to roll back in his head, breathing rough and ragged. Fingers so clumsy, unable to move in the correct patterns when Steve is massacring every previously known ability.

Gasping out "c'mon" into Steve's mouth and, "I want to see you." All of him. Wants it all. Anything Steve might be willing to give. Anything he might want to offer. Anything at all, because he didn't change his mind tonight, which means Danny gets at least one more night's reprieve before he might, will, could.

Anything at all to keep against that moment. When there's already all of this, but Danny still wants more.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny still fighting back, even when he's convulsing. Hips pumping into Steve's hand, sputtering hard and helpless in that first rush, that roll of shakes through. That Steve can feel every inch of across the length of himself still pressed into Danny. Even when there's a hand finding ways to clutch at his hair that's sending a small current of pain, almost noticeable except for the way his shoulders are feeling it through tenses muscles.

Or that other hand. The one at his pants that is doing more in the way of trying to rip at material with almost no grip and slight finger nails, than actually managing to hold still and manage shoving them anywhere. Something even Danny seems to get when he's gritting out words straight into Steve's lips. It doesn't matter if he's heard it before. It doesn't matter, if given the time, that he could draw up names and places. It still cuts through his skin and his organs like acid.

The words falling from Danny's mouth, being said by Danny

Desperate and demanding, rough and just this side refusing to be lost in the shudders rocking his body. Hitting Steve's lungs like the air has actually become fire. And his lungs, more fragile than glass dust, are burning away into ash on contact. Dragging up this dark sound he can't even stop. That sound, or the fact he kisses Danny hard, or that his fingers keep skating fast on his skin. Up and down. Almost like a threat that he's not going to listen, he's just going to shove Danny over.

Nothing like the slam of fire actually for a moment feeling like it shoves Steve into overdrive. Danny still using those words. Remembering those hands, his mouth, teeth, scraping skin. Looking at him like he was something else. Something other than just peak form or worthy of attention. Like he was, god knows, something holy. Something precious or special. Or, even, somehow, worth breaking once Danny started attacking him. And Danny is still demanding more.

I want to see you. No denial for any of Steve's other words. Like somehow it should be obvious. He does this.

They do this. Run the ragged edge of desperation, shoving each other further and further each time. Control becoming less and less involved. Danny says those words, that keep exploding all the windows and doors left in Steve's head. Touching something deeper, riling up something fierce and dark and wanting, until Steve has his head burrowed against Danny's shoulder, mouth pulling on the delicate skin of his neck, as his own skin is shivering and muscles stretching, with it.

When he can barely stop himself. The most he can even do, and it's so not even close to slowing himself down, is find a way to tip. Weight falling to a shoulder against the back of the couch. One hand still on Danny and the other going down to help with his pants. Almost having to fight Danny's hand still at his pants. Except he's got more wits than it. Enough to slip the button with a twist of fingers, and drag down his zipper following it. Starting to shove pants. Pants that fit too well.

Pants designed to fit well and not be a deterrent. Making him know he'll have to move -- again -- to do this.

Steve has to lift, at least, above Danny, stop pressing in, to shove hard against the cargo pants now even tighter than normal across his hips and stomach. Which just makes everything crescendo toward a higher ache, making him look down and ground out, "Lose the boxers," while he's forced to focus on his clothes.

Taking both pieces toward a muddle at his knees, with a winded rush of relief at release from being so tightly pressed inside them it almost slashes his visions, even when it all involves even more shifting to get off the pants, with most of his weight previously resting at his knees and shins.

[haole_cop]

At least he listens.

That's pretty good, the best Danny can hope for, because Steve gets -- and somehow this has happened enough times that he can actually say Steve gets a certain way and have other times, proof to back it up, how insane, how absurd -- well, focused. Like Steve always focuses, and it's fucking intense, that laser sight on him, like it is Steve's goddam mission to get Danny off, and he's going to do it the way he does everything else, by burning him to the ground, busting him wide open, shoving him without preamble or hesitation towards a crumbling cliff edge.

And without bothering with himself, either, except as an afterthought, when his other hand creeps down and Danny can see his shoulder moving, which just latches into his gut like a fish hook and rips him open, but that's not how it should go, okay, Danny should get a say in this, no matter what the control freak on top of him thinks.

So he's glad that Steve actually does move, in sort of a distant way. Glad not really being able to stand up to Steve's mouth on his neck, tugging at skin that, Christ, if he leaves another mark there is going to be hell to pay from Kono, but it's also driving him crazy, pulling at nerves and at his wildly beating pulse and at the groans that keep trying to escape the back of his throat. Because Steve's hand is tight and hot and so good, moving slick and fast and hard, each motion up and down like getting punched in the gut, pleasure so intense it's tumbling stomach and lungs and heart and everything else into a puddling mess.

And Steve should know. He should know what's happening, what he's doing, just by existing, by being Steve. He should have known when Danny couldn't take his eyes off him, half-naked and sprawled artfully across the couch. Should have known when Danny couldn't leave. When Danny ran.

Because Danny wants too much, and he always has. He wouldn't say it's that much. Wouldn't ever have. Nobody would look at his life before, a beautiful wife, a loving daughter, a good job, and say, that's too much, too selfish, right? Except it was. Too much. And wanting Steve is wanting too much, too, because --

Because it is. It must be. Has to be. In no world should Steve say those words, the ones still misfiring like a bad song through Danny's brain. And in no world should Steve be here, able to listen to him, willing to strip off pants, shove at them, shove words like an order at Danny, who can't keep his eyes from trailing up and down every new exposed inch, like he's never seen it before, like he's about to go blind and wants this to be the last thing he sees: Steve, his face, blue eyes blow black, skin catching the lamplight and shading it into cuts of muscle and bone.

While Danny's lifting hips off the couch to push off boxers, curling to reach his feet and get rid of the damn socks. "God, you're pushy."

[thebesteverseen]

"Excuse you?" Steve's sputtering in a semblance of annoyance, that isn't quite real, and involves words getting tossed at him in gulps of air over there. And shoes. Shoes that suddenly happen to exist at him. At the end of his feet. In the way of his pants. The kind good for hiking a mountain. And he was going to have to get to them, as Danny was curling, getting rid of boxers and sock, and tossing words at his head.

"Weren't you just the person making demands about less clothing?" He's jerking at knots, pants around his tights and calves and getting in the way sloppy on the tops of those boots, and only half entertaining the inconsequential prices of shoelaces and the easy, convenient uses of knives. How the air in the room is making his skin prickle and how much time he doesn't want to have for shoes. Did not care about these things. But Danny asked.

And, really, how much wouldn't he give if Danny wanted it. Especially right now. When gravity is existing like the swoop of a ship rocking on waves, even when you're standing still. He tossed off one boot, sock still half hanging in it, with a resounding thud against the floor, and moves on to the other, still talking. Jerking at more laces. Jerking sound at the air.

Tugging at Danny in the only way he can for another twenty or forty seconds. "Or are against anything being fair tonight?"

Like he's not aware, not already casting a side glance, knowing Danny is at that before he is already, too. But knowing that, thinking about it, just makes it both harder and more focused to be yanking at knots till they go. Danny. Already clothing free. Not currently brushing his skin anywhere, now, making all of it tighten and spark with sensation, like loss can be felt physically across every inch he'd been against second ago.

Lending him to half yanking, half kicking off his second shoe, and grabbing the pants around his thighs, knees, and ankles, starting skinning out of them in the next breath after the boots are gone.

[haole_cop]

"Hey, I am fair. Fairness is my middle name. You are the one who likes to maintain clear levels of tactical superiority."

Which he actually has, for maybe the first time ever, because his shoes got kicked off already and that means he can lie back, one hand on his chest, fingers trailing lightly, the other propping up and gesturing a little lazily to find his point, which is...

Well, he had one. He thinks. And he's pretty sure it started and ended with Steve being naked, which is currently on it's way to happening, possibly by way of violent boot death, the way Steve is attacking it. Like that boot killed his dog, and then stole his car. Like it's a sleazy bookie dating his baby sister. Like he hates that boot, with the growl transferring to his comments to Danny, who is enjoying this way too much.

It's just that, come on. How often does he get to see Steve not one hundred percent on top of a situation? And having a hard time getting the upper hand with an inanimate object, no less?

Which makes Danny's eyebrows lift as the shoes get kicked off, and he's going to say something about watching out for the nearby lamp, but then Steve is all motion and rapidly baring skin and all those words just kind of dry up and drift away, unimportant. Nothing is, except to lean up and meet him again, hands seeking out hips and ass and thighs, everything that had been covered and is now laid out, for him, because he asked, and he really thinks his heart might explode, soft and messy, painting the walls of his chest like a gunshot, because this is better, it's so much better, there's nothing at all except skin and pulling Steve back down to him, nothing in the world.

[thebesteverseen]

He does like tactical superiority. Loves it. Would be raising an eyebrows toward Danny about his choice of words, or maybe his choice of pointing out there that Steve has nothing to do with fairness, when he can be overrunning it. Control something. Which might be true. Even when he's about to toss a tired comment at Danny, which would help if when he looks up from skinning boots and pants, Danny didn't still have that look on his face.

That one that had been pretty much wiped away with deep kisses, with so much less than threaded breath, and grasping hands. Back there. Earlier with the stuttering, and making his mocking of the word better sound like a sudden commitment to the idea that the word couldn't even fit it. Lining his mouth and the color of his eyes, and the hands, that are rapidly finding him. Dragging him back in and down.

And for a moment, it's seriously like being shot. Again. All over, again.

That look he can't explain or justify. Doesn't have the words to even pry from Danny.

Now at this second. Not when Danny is inches away from touching, and then not at all. Fingers skirting his hips, the first touch on newly bared skin, but they aren't staying, still headed back further, curving and pulling with the same earlier strength and thinking about that face even is going to have to wait. Because Steve doesn't have room for both of them, and there is no room for anything but following that touch, but getting back to Danny.

One knee landing between Danny's legs, the other following close behind, and the first hand threading back in his hair, down his head, to the back and his neck tipping his head up. Catching his mouth as Danny drag him back down. When it's going from the brush of fingers on his skin, to the brush of legs and leg hair, to mouth, opening soft, slipping too quickly, too easily back toward wanting more, wanting the everything of seconds ago.

He can't help the groan that splits free, spills on to Danny's lips, tightening fingers briefly, nerve ending firing like a dominio chain of fireworks in his skin. The rest of the world slipping to the side, out of the room, off the too small couch, beyond anything that is not Danny and Danny's hands and and Danny's skin under him. And the way, his weight settles against Danny's body for only a moment, before he has to shift. Tip his hips and rub into Danny, shallow, shameless movements.