In retrospect, he probably should have expected that.
Right? They barely made it up off the couch; he should absolutely not have thought for even one second that it would be a matter of some simplicity getting upstairs, but he did, because he must have forgotten that he's dealing with Steve "No Time Like The Present" McGarrett, here, and Steve does not believe in delays.
Steve believes in momentum and the force of forward motion; he's like a tornado ripping through Danny's world, upending everything he has and knows and thought he wanted, tossing them all into a place Danny had never considered or imagined before. Where all he wants is Steve, and it goes so far beyond just falling into bed: where he wants to wake up with Steve and bitch about coffee with Steve and remind Steve that regular humans sleep in on weekends, instead of go for ten mile swims. He wants to let Grace come play in the cove here, hang out and watch one of Steve's eight thousand channels, because Grace loves Steve and Steve loves Grace and that makes all this both far simpler and so much more complicated than it should be.
That's what he means, when he says he wants Steve in every possible way: not just wants, like this, blood rushing and pulse pounding and the strong possibility of poor decisions being made, but wants, like wanting to be able to sleep and wanting an easy day at work and wanting to get the bad guy early enough in the game that no one has to die.
Which is complicated as hell, but Steve simplifies it, now, by pulling Danny up a few more stairs and then apparently deciding that this is good enough for now, because his mouth is on Danny's and his hand is in Danny's hair, the other one kneading muscles tensing along Danny's back as he tries to keep his balance. His fingers grip the waistband of Steve's pants, yank him closer by instinct, even while he's protesting in noises that get muffled against Steve's lips, disappear on Steve's tongue, and, fuck, Steve is burning him down, right here, on the stairs.
Shoving his heart into overdrive. Cramming a buzzing beehive into his chest, right after shaking it, setting an angry hum starting in his head, in his lungs and ears.
Making him gasp out "Too far?" in the half-second he can get a breath, before Steve's mouth is there again, melting his brain straight out his ears, sharp angles of shoulderblades working against the hand Danny runs up to find them, palm hard and flat against skin that's damp and so flushed it looks like Steve just came in from a sauna.
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Right? They barely made it up off the couch; he should absolutely not have thought for even one second that it would be a matter of some simplicity getting upstairs, but he did, because he must have forgotten that he's dealing with Steve "No Time Like The Present" McGarrett, here, and Steve does not believe in delays.
Steve believes in momentum and the force of forward motion; he's like a tornado ripping through Danny's world, upending everything he has and knows and thought he wanted, tossing them all into a place Danny had never considered or imagined before. Where all he wants is Steve, and it goes so far beyond just falling into bed: where he wants to wake up with Steve and bitch about coffee with Steve and remind Steve that regular humans sleep in on weekends, instead of go for ten mile swims. He wants to let Grace come play in the cove here, hang out and watch one of Steve's eight thousand channels, because Grace loves Steve and Steve loves Grace and that makes all this both far simpler and so much more complicated than it should be.
That's what he means, when he says he wants Steve in every possible way: not just wants, like this, blood rushing and pulse pounding and the strong possibility of poor decisions being made, but wants, like wanting to be able to sleep and wanting an easy day at work and wanting to get the bad guy early enough in the game that no one has to die.
Which is complicated as hell, but Steve simplifies it, now, by pulling Danny up a few more stairs and then apparently deciding that this is good enough for now, because his mouth is on Danny's and his hand is in Danny's hair, the other one kneading muscles tensing along Danny's back as he tries to keep his balance. His fingers grip the waistband of Steve's pants, yank him closer by instinct, even while he's protesting in noises that get muffled against Steve's lips, disappear on Steve's tongue, and, fuck, Steve is burning him down, right here, on the stairs.
Shoving his heart into overdrive. Cramming a buzzing beehive into his chest, right after shaking it, setting an angry hum starting in his head, in his lungs and ears.
Making him gasp out "Too far?" in the half-second he can get a breath, before Steve's mouth is there again, melting his brain straight out his ears, sharp angles of shoulderblades working against the hand Danny runs up to find them, palm hard and flat against skin that's damp and so flushed it looks like Steve just came in from a sauna.