Danny smashes back into him with the force of a wave, getting everywhere. Taking every one of his last silent, few words and his efforts to touch anything but Steve, and blowing all of them up with a sudden, absolute onslaught that nearly makes Steve tense up rigid. Muscles tensing under suddenly moving hands, trying to get everywhere, dragging him in, dragging him down, shoving up into his space noisily.
Maybe the water analogy is wrong. Maybe it's more like a bomb. Loud and everywhere, splitting seams without warning, before you can even be sure that walls were around you they are done, gone, every bit of them flying at you. The first set of words shoving sort of like a wire brush, sounds connecting with fingers on the fragile skin of his neck, heels being thrown over digging into his calf like his body is made of pillows that will adjust to Danny.
And just when there's the kind of overhaul of everything everywhere suddenly, rising like unexpected bile, this need to fend off, to shove away, hold, find a breath, breathe is, release five or ten triggers all being jammed, going off at once, loud and red, then Danny's mouth is on his. There are teeth digging sharp into his lip, even if briefly, causing his fingers to catch on Danny's side, dragging him closer as his skin is palmed harder against a shudder. Neither of which he can actually pay attention to. None of it. Because then Danny is kissing him.
Forget explanations, or plans, or yelling at him; Danny is kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he's thinking. Which half is working, when Steve's hand is finding his shoulder and cheek and his hair, and he's kissing Danny back about as recklessly. With a sharp jagged razor of relief that doesn't even stop burning for the hands everywhere, for Danny taking away his air. Because he's wrong and he's an idiot and fucking hell, he doesn't even know, but he knows Danny's mouth, and he's taking on the taste of it like someone who hasn't had anything but sawdust for decades.
When all of that throbs under his rib cage, high pitched and hard, when Danny pulls away to mocking his tattoo, like his fingers are currently tracing it and digging into it, and everything around it, in equal measure. When the first burst of frustration and fire is easy to twist into a word, even the word Danny is begging for. "Navy, Danny." His name, more like he's saying asshole, somewhere between a burst of annoyance and sardonicism.
Then. Like he's saying it for a child, he enunciates it a second time, in two syllables. "Na-vy."
"And no one gives a damn what's under your A.J.'s." he clarifies, like it matters at all here.
With Danny's fingers running prickles down his skin, that are still running both directions in the line of reasoning. When he's dragging Danny closer, liking at the light at the core of madness, because they already are flushed, and it's so goddamn easy to thrust up against Danny and his stomach as he says, "Unless they have a reason to be under them at the time."
Which his tone is already implying, heavy laced, no one ever has a problem with them at that point either.
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Maybe the water analogy is wrong. Maybe it's more like a bomb. Loud and everywhere, splitting seams without warning, before you can even be sure that walls were around you they are done, gone, every bit of them flying at you. The first set of words shoving sort of like a wire brush, sounds connecting with fingers on the fragile skin of his neck, heels being thrown over digging into his calf like his body is made of pillows that will adjust to Danny.
And just when there's the kind of overhaul of everything everywhere suddenly, rising like unexpected bile, this need to fend off, to shove away, hold, find a breath, breathe is, release five or ten triggers all being jammed, going off at once, loud and red, then Danny's mouth is on his. There are teeth digging sharp into his lip, even if briefly, causing his fingers to catch on Danny's side, dragging him closer as his skin is palmed harder against a shudder. Neither of which he can actually pay attention to. None of it. Because then Danny is kissing him.
Forget explanations, or plans, or yelling at him; Danny is kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he's thinking. Which half is working, when Steve's hand is finding his shoulder and cheek and his hair, and he's kissing Danny back about as recklessly. With a sharp jagged razor of relief that doesn't even stop burning for the hands everywhere, for Danny taking away his air. Because he's wrong and he's an idiot and fucking hell, he doesn't even know, but he knows Danny's mouth, and he's taking on the taste of it like someone who hasn't had anything but sawdust for decades.
When all of that throbs under his rib cage, high pitched and hard, when Danny pulls away to mocking his tattoo, like his fingers are currently tracing it and digging into it, and everything around it, in equal measure. When the first burst of frustration and fire is easy to twist into a word, even the word Danny is begging for. "Navy, Danny." His name, more like he's saying asshole, somewhere between a burst of annoyance and sardonicism.
Then. Like he's saying it for a child, he enunciates it a second time, in two syllables. "Na-vy."
"And no one gives a damn what's under your A.J.'s." he clarifies, like it matters at all here.
With Danny's fingers running prickles down his skin, that are still running both directions in the line of reasoning. When he's dragging Danny closer, liking at the light at the core of madness, because they already are flushed, and it's so goddamn easy to thrust up against Danny and his stomach as he says, "Unless they have a reason to be under them at the time."
Which his tone is already implying, heavy laced, no one ever has a problem with them at that point either.