Jesus. Okay. This, this is better, this is something he understands, knows, and it clicks like a key sliding home, hitting all the right tumblers and unlocking the muscles that had been so tightly wound. Steve's rolling them half over, and Danny goes, back sticky against the leather of the couch, which is honestly going to have to get cleaned, wiped down, something, because they keep doing this, keep losing clothing and the couch is going to get absolutely ruined, which is maybe just as well, because it's John McGarrett's couch, not Steve's.
Not that this is the time to engage in idle musings about interior design.
Not when Steve's hand lifts off his skin, and Danny hears the clatter of things on the table being shoved around; books and coasters and whatever else Steve has on there, hopefully not a gun, hopefully not a knife, fingers seeking something out without him actually lifting up to look, without him seeming to really care at all if he finds whatever it is, and that's fine, that works for Danny just great. The last thing he wants to do is let go of Steve, now that he's back on solid ground, now that he knows what he's doing, and Steve's skin is right there, warm and a little sweat-slick, Danny's fingers skating across, leaving tracks of dull red from barely there pressure, the blood so close to the surface it rises with hardly any help at all.
All he wants to do is knot himself here, and refuse to let go. Stay like a snarl that would have to be cut away, nothing Steve can just shoo out the door and be done with; tangle and put down stubborn roots and be unmovable, a thorny, prickly cluster that isn't going anywhere. Legs wrapping around the back of Steve's knees, across his calves, bellies pressing close, hips shoving together and whiting out his vision, his plan, every thought for a jarring half-beat of blinding heat.
They might actually fall off the couch. He's not sure he'd care, is too wild with the sudden release of tension, adrenaline flooding his system and bursting bubbles in his head like champagne. He feels giddy, drunk, high, wants to laugh, wants to prod at Steve and tease him and shove him further along, because that was a step and everything is still fine, the floor didn't fall out from under him, and maybe it was a tiny step, barely a step at all, but everything is still fine.
How the hell does he begin to express that, if not like this?
Kisses open-mouthed, tongues and slick lips and the scrape of stubble, rubbing on him like raw wires, bursts of electricity pushing through, and he's grinning when he can, feeling absolutely stupid with relief, with still being here, with getting to stay.
"We seem to have taken a few steps backwards."
From the going upstairs plan, anyway. Maybe not anything else.
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Not that this is the time to engage in idle musings about interior design.
Not when Steve's hand lifts off his skin, and Danny hears the clatter of things on the table being shoved around; books and coasters and whatever else Steve has on there, hopefully not a gun, hopefully not a knife, fingers seeking something out without him actually lifting up to look, without him seeming to really care at all if he finds whatever it is, and that's fine, that works for Danny just great. The last thing he wants to do is let go of Steve, now that he's back on solid ground, now that he knows what he's doing, and Steve's skin is right there, warm and a little sweat-slick, Danny's fingers skating across, leaving tracks of dull red from barely there pressure, the blood so close to the surface it rises with hardly any help at all.
All he wants to do is knot himself here, and refuse to let go. Stay like a snarl that would have to be cut away, nothing Steve can just shoo out the door and be done with; tangle and put down stubborn roots and be unmovable, a thorny, prickly cluster that isn't going anywhere. Legs wrapping around the back of Steve's knees, across his calves, bellies pressing close, hips shoving together and whiting out his vision, his plan, every thought for a jarring half-beat of blinding heat.
They might actually fall off the couch. He's not sure he'd care, is too wild with the sudden release of tension, adrenaline flooding his system and bursting bubbles in his head like champagne. He feels giddy, drunk, high, wants to laugh, wants to prod at Steve and tease him and shove him further along, because that was a step and everything is still fine, the floor didn't fall out from under him, and maybe it was a tiny step, barely a step at all, but everything is still fine.
How the hell does he begin to express that, if not like this?
Kisses open-mouthed, tongues and slick lips and the scrape of stubble, rubbing on him like raw wires, bursts of electricity pushing through, and he's grinning when he can, feeling absolutely stupid with relief, with still being here, with getting to stay.
"We seem to have taken a few steps backwards."
From the going upstairs plan, anyway. Maybe not anything else.