He's breathing hard when Steve pulls away, after blanketing across him, shoving him into the wall like he wants to hang Danny there on a hook, in a frame. It's probably a good thing Steve's got his fingers curled into Danny's pants, because he stumbles a little, trips on the last stair, and it would really be an ignominious way to go, falling down Steve's stairs and breaking his neck, half-dressed and desperate to get Steve's body up against his again. "Either they have some incredibly strong magnetic force, or someone keeps shoving me into them, huh, what do you think, Steven?"
Biting out Steve's full name in a pissy complaint, like Steve just dropped grape juice all over a white sofa, or filled the cab of the Camaro with smoke.
But they've made it. Mostly. They're on the landing, without anyone losing balance or the rest of their clothes, and Danny's got his hands on Steve's pants, tugging at the material as they stumble towards the bedroom, half wondering how it is that a month in they're still doing this, still unable to keep their hands off each other once they've started, still feels like tossing himself into a bonfire every time Steve touches him, kisses him, and half thinking about the fact that Steve still has his boots on, the moron, how the hell is Danny supposed to get him naked when he's still wearing hiking boots?
The door is here, somewhere; he misjudges a step and knocks a shoulder against the wall and the jamb with a hiss of annoyed pain, before one hand gives up on Steve's pants and reaches for Steve's hair, drags him back down, to find that mouth, slippery now and slightly swollen from pressure, lips that keep smiling and turning Danny's stomach, chest, innards upside down, before stirring them into useless, gooey warmth.
It can't possibly be a good way to feel around Steve McGarrett. At the very least, it's not exactly topping the list of 'things that will aid self-preservation,' but Danny's basically given up on that, at this point.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-28 01:59 am (UTC)He's breathing hard when Steve pulls away, after blanketing across him, shoving him into the wall like he wants to hang Danny there on a hook, in a frame. It's probably a good thing Steve's got his fingers curled into Danny's pants, because he stumbles a little, trips on the last stair, and it would really be an ignominious way to go, falling down Steve's stairs and breaking his neck, half-dressed and desperate to get Steve's body up against his again. "Either they have some incredibly strong magnetic force, or someone keeps shoving me into them, huh, what do you think, Steven?"
Biting out Steve's full name in a pissy complaint, like Steve just dropped grape juice all over a white sofa, or filled the cab of the Camaro with smoke.
But they've made it. Mostly. They're on the landing, without anyone losing balance or the rest of their clothes, and Danny's got his hands on Steve's pants, tugging at the material as they stumble towards the bedroom, half wondering how it is that a month in they're still doing this, still unable to keep their hands off each other once they've started, still feels like tossing himself into a bonfire every time Steve touches him, kisses him, and half thinking about the fact that Steve still has his boots on, the moron, how the hell is Danny supposed to get him naked when he's still wearing hiking boots?
The door is here, somewhere; he misjudges a step and knocks a shoulder against the wall and the jamb with a hiss of annoyed pain, before one hand gives up on Steve's pants and reaches for Steve's hair, drags him back down, to find that mouth, slippery now and slightly swollen from pressure, lips that keep smiling and turning Danny's stomach, chest, innards upside down, before stirring them into useless, gooey warmth.
It can't possibly be a good way to feel around Steve McGarrett. At the very least, it's not exactly topping the list of 'things that will aid self-preservation,' but Danny's basically given up on that, at this point.