The bottle drops, knocks against his ankle and splatters his pant leg with beer, then topples to its side to leak against the sole of his shoe, until he kicks at it and sends it God knows where, somewhere across the yard, where he supposes it'll just lie until this madness is spent and one or the other of them remembers to pick it up.
The way this is going, that might not be until morning, but you never know. The return of sanity might be just around the corner.
It's unlikely, but theoretically possible, right?
Except not. Not when Steve's freed hand is now roaming up his side, his back. Not when Steve is pushing so hard into him that Danny has to take a step back to regain his balance and keep from being toppled over, adjusting to the weight, the pressure. Steve falling on him like a landslide, a pile of bricks, but nothing like the loose relaxation after sex, because this is all attack, reaction, as if the whole weight of everything he'd just tried to do suddenly hit Steve all at once, and Danny's not sure how it's possible that he could matter like that, but it seems to be true. Steve is branding him, fingers bruising-hard against his back and skull, mouth desperate, breath ragged, muscles so hard and tense they're shaking.
Making every warning light in Danny's head blink on all at once, because this isn't okay, it's not good, it's fear and panic and desperation, things he wants to wipe out of Steve's head entirely, erase this sudden need for ownership. Danny's not leaving, Steve doesn't need to picket a line of signs around him.
So when Steve pulls back, breathing rough and painful, Danny's hands go to his jaw, let go of his shirt and hair and cup his face, firm and gentle, blunt fingers working carefully, fitting there so Danny can hold him off, look at him, saying "Hey, hey, hey," all pushed together, heyheyheyhey, as soothing as he can make it.
"Steve." Repeating words, requests, handed from one of them to the other when they're needed, necessary. "Breathe, babe." Thumbs stroking along Steve's jaw, blue eyes steady.
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The way this is going, that might not be until morning, but you never know. The return of sanity might be just around the corner.
It's unlikely, but theoretically possible, right?
Except not. Not when Steve's freed hand is now roaming up his side, his back. Not when Steve is pushing so hard into him that Danny has to take a step back to regain his balance and keep from being toppled over, adjusting to the weight, the pressure. Steve falling on him like a landslide, a pile of bricks, but nothing like the loose relaxation after sex, because this is all attack, reaction, as if the whole weight of everything he'd just tried to do suddenly hit Steve all at once, and Danny's not sure how it's possible that he could matter like that, but it seems to be true. Steve is branding him, fingers bruising-hard against his back and skull, mouth desperate, breath ragged, muscles so hard and tense they're shaking.
Making every warning light in Danny's head blink on all at once, because this isn't okay, it's not good, it's fear and panic and desperation, things he wants to wipe out of Steve's head entirely, erase this sudden need for ownership. Danny's not leaving, Steve doesn't need to picket a line of signs around him.
So when Steve pulls back, breathing rough and painful, Danny's hands go to his jaw, let go of his shirt and hair and cup his face, firm and gentle, blunt fingers working carefully, fitting there so Danny can hold him off, look at him, saying "Hey, hey, hey," all pushed together, heyheyheyhey, as soothing as he can make it.
"Steve." Repeating words, requests, handed from one of them to the other when they're needed, necessary. "Breathe, babe." Thumbs stroking along Steve's jaw, blue eyes steady.
"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."