(no subject)
Mar. 26th, 2013 10:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gonna_owe_meSteve is really good at avoiding her.
Normally, she probably wouldn't even call it "avoiding." Normally, she would call it his usual M.O. and chalk it up to being a side effect of being halfway around the world from each other. There are times they've gone for months with no contact, and two weeks is barely the blink of an eye, particularly when she's busy and he keeps getting high-profile, high-priority cases.
At least, that's what she hears, when she hears anything at all.
But those weeks and months of zero contact, running silent, off the grid: those days aren't exactly applicable when there are extenuating circumstances such as A. they are living on the same island and B. she knows there's something he really doesn't want to talk to her about.
Ergo, avoidance.
She's not an impatient or nosy person, though, so she lets it slide, for a little while. He clearly needs to get used to the idea himself, and, frankly, so does she. It's not that they haven't stumbled across a situation where one or the other of them was out of commission for their normal arrangement, but in general, those interrupting factors were not potentially career-threatening. Not to the extent of sleeping with a subordinate. Not to the extent of sleeping with a partner. Not seriously.
And it is serious, whether Steve is admitting to it, or not. It's splashed across him like someone doused him in paint and sticky sunlight, in the way he'd magnetized towards the door, the way he'd run out after Danny. Maybe even more because he didn't bring it up until he absolutely had to.
So Steve is avoiding her, and she can sympathize, because this is not a conversation she particularly wants to sit through, either, but it still needs to happen, because, knowing Steve, he hasn't told anyone else and is shutting it back into compartments poorly designed for a situation of this magnitude and complexity.
Which is why, when she called him on the next weekend inferred to be Danny's weekend with Grace, she's given him the benefit of both giving her the slip for two weeks and the peace offering of meeting at a place with really excellent drinks, one of which she has in hand as she sits at a table by an open window, chin in her hand, looking out at the quietly rolling ocean. It's early evening, and she's come off a twelve hour shift, so it's nice to sit, let her thoughts unhinge, ebb and flow with the waves and mild breeze. Wrangling an affirmative had proved to be difficult, but she'd managed it, pointing out that they might as well meet out, seeing as they're definitely going to make it to the restaurant this time.
It strips him of the home field advantage, too, but he's not the only one who knows how to keep a wall at his back and a few tricks up his sleeve.
Normally, she probably wouldn't even call it "avoiding." Normally, she would call it his usual M.O. and chalk it up to being a side effect of being halfway around the world from each other. There are times they've gone for months with no contact, and two weeks is barely the blink of an eye, particularly when she's busy and he keeps getting high-profile, high-priority cases.
At least, that's what she hears, when she hears anything at all.
But those weeks and months of zero contact, running silent, off the grid: those days aren't exactly applicable when there are extenuating circumstances such as A. they are living on the same island and B. she knows there's something he really doesn't want to talk to her about.
Ergo, avoidance.
She's not an impatient or nosy person, though, so she lets it slide, for a little while. He clearly needs to get used to the idea himself, and, frankly, so does she. It's not that they haven't stumbled across a situation where one or the other of them was out of commission for their normal arrangement, but in general, those interrupting factors were not potentially career-threatening. Not to the extent of sleeping with a subordinate. Not to the extent of sleeping with a partner. Not seriously.
And it is serious, whether Steve is admitting to it, or not. It's splashed across him like someone doused him in paint and sticky sunlight, in the way he'd magnetized towards the door, the way he'd run out after Danny. Maybe even more because he didn't bring it up until he absolutely had to.
So Steve is avoiding her, and she can sympathize, because this is not a conversation she particularly wants to sit through, either, but it still needs to happen, because, knowing Steve, he hasn't told anyone else and is shutting it back into compartments poorly designed for a situation of this magnitude and complexity.
Which is why, when she called him on the next weekend inferred to be Danny's weekend with Grace, she's given him the benefit of both giving her the slip for two weeks and the peace offering of meeting at a place with really excellent drinks, one of which she has in hand as she sits at a table by an open window, chin in her hand, looking out at the quietly rolling ocean. It's early evening, and she's come off a twelve hour shift, so it's nice to sit, let her thoughts unhinge, ebb and flow with the waves and mild breeze. Wrangling an affirmative had proved to be difficult, but she'd managed it, pointing out that they might as well meet out, seeing as they're definitely going to make it to the restaurant this time.
It strips him of the home field advantage, too, but he's not the only one who knows how to keep a wall at his back and a few tricks up his sleeve.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 10:00 pm (UTC)There were words on his tongue a second ago. There was a goal in his head. There were careful, precise rules somewhere under them. Trigger-wire specific about what not to do, again, labeling half of half everything. There was even some semblance of caustic frustations-patience-want and a whole new card hand of belligerence distracting him as much as it was distracting Danny.
Before Danny's hand. Before every inch of his skin -- already screaming at a pitch he had marked down for ignoring, like it was thing he'd seen and left and maybe even locked away behind Door 1 while he was standing over in 4 or 5, with the more important things happening -- seemed to spasm like a single large living organism cracking, crashing, giving birth to wave of overwhelming fire that slammed with as unexpected a force as being punched in the face in in the middle of being dead asleep.
There is no stopping that sound being torn from the bottom of stomach, or his feet, or peeled off his spine, when his body shoves into Danny, Danny's hand with, there, the undeniable response not too unalike to being electrocuted. Which. Which is all in good. All of it. If any of it hurt. If what was crumpling his thoughts, his very want to breathe or remember, whatever he was supposed to be remember that was empty, blowing away, blown out, if it hurt. He could handle that.
But it doesn't hurt.
Nothing hurts.
Nothing.
There's fire crackling in his vocal cords, behind his eyes, filling up his nose and his mouth, every vertebrae in his spine with a burst of blinding light, rolling fog, the sensation that feels so good, so complete and indestructible, unassailable, it nearly might as well be pain. Nothing that overwhelming ever isn't, is it? Tearing him apart. Shoving into every atom of space, laughing in the wake of destruction like every wall and door and plan and thought had been made of plaster and well-drawn on parchment paper.
When he can't tell if he's shoving into Danny, or dragging him closer, can't control for a moment the speed or depth or grip of his hand, because every other fingers in that hand is presently busy. Grafting his fingertips, fingers, palm, into the mound of muscle under it when he's shaking. Thrusting back, muscle control a memory. When the world is only laughably beginning to give him windows that imply he had eyes, or the capability for vision from them, a second ago.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 10:26 pm (UTC)To watch Steve lose it. Making Danny wonder how far out on this plank Steve walked, telling himself he was in control, ignoring himself so he could focus on Danny, because it hits like someone jumping through a plate glass window, unexpected and complete. Landing like a boulder in his chest, that starts rolling casually around that crammed space, crushing everything it comes across, flattening him out leaving him as winded as if it were Steve's hand on him, instead of the other way around.
Making him, wildly, want to call a halt to everything else, push down, get his mouth there, reduce Steve to a shaking, groaning mess, every constructed wall tumbling away, every barred off door ripping off its hinges. Lay him out on the mattress, sweat-slick and beautiful, with no one else's hands or mouth and no one else's name dropping off his lips in restless moans. Because no one gets to be here. If they're stupid enough to let Steve go, they've lost their chance. Danny's made plenty of mistake in his life, but this, this is not one of them, he knows it down deep in his bones, knows it like he knows Grace is beautiful and brilliant and best of all good, like he knows coins will drop and birds will fly.
It can't come to nothing. It's already this, and this is already too much for him to hold without being terrified it will fall out of his hands and smash on the floor; this already shoves his hapless heart out of the way to make more room for Steve, for Steve's smiles and frowns and testiness and the way he knocks the cap off a bottle of beer without looking at it, for the larger than life Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett who is too big for every room and takes up too much space in the car and the bed and the couch, who only seems to fit when he's out on the ocean, where the horizons are boundless and the sky gives him all the space he needs.
That's what tries to fit inside Danny's chest, in his head, and it will never, could never work, but it's there anyway, and Steve should never be surprised that Danny wants to touch him. To make him make that sound. To reduce him to trembling muscles, snapped self-control, rasping voice that lacks any kind of sense or words.
Like this. Shoving deeper, harder, into Danny, and it hurts, but it's good, too, making his eyes squeeze shut and his breath grow labored, shallow pants gusting against Steve's lips, chin, cheek. Racing up his spine in looping threads that squeeze, pushing everything out of the way except Steve, who really is everywhere, now, around and on top and inside and if Danny could fit all of him under his skin, he would.
He can't, though, so his fingers just tighten, and keep pace, and his hips are moving, pushing back and forth, asking for more, more, more Steve, more of this, more.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 11:59 pm (UTC)Danny and Danny's breaths. The fingers sheathing up and down his skin, dragging madness, bumping and bungling knuckles into his stomach as it goes. The thigh clenched over his skin. Not because it's clenched. Because it's moving. Because it connects the fast shifting dragging along his leg, hips pumping against his hips, making him realize his own hips are, and that those other hips, their butting up against his hand. His hand, moving at about the same second as the realizing its attached, buried, that Danny is pushing against it.
When everything comes back with the kind of burning sudden intensity it failed, fled, burned out with it's almost as staggering. Even when rationality says the whole of it can't have been more that seconds, it still feels staggering. Stay. Is building. With each move of Danny's fingers, and his hips. That is being matched very suddenly by a drive. To keep up, to run beyond, to push deeper, more solid. When really the rest of him doesn't give a single damn about where his head is or whether he needs it. That. That can tatter and tear, be lost in the wind.
He doesn't need it for this. He doesn't need it to figure out how to move his hand, his wrist like a pistone. Like the reverse of the one his own hips are pushing into Danny. His hands, his body, the movement of his hips, the drag of him hard and solid pressing into Steve's own stomach, and those hands, and himself. And he doesn't. He doesn't need to think. Thinking. Thinking is hard and high and so overrated it could be sold out and he wouldn't remember to care right now.
He wants this. He wants that indescribable madness where it's blurring in his head. The feeling of his fingers getting lost in Danny's skin, with the one where there's tension, tightness pulling, grasping, warmth cuffed all around him. Almost. Almost like. Close enough it seems insane, and not insane, blurs, bleeds, desperate wants and blinding bursts pleasure. And all he wants is this. All of this. And to move his head and find Danny's mouth. To give up on that, too.
Because he doesn't need to breathe. Anymore than he needs to think. But he needs Danny.
Needs to know. Needs to feel him, touch him, taste him, check in with him for even losing it for a single second, find the only air and answers that even matter in the world, on his lips, his tongue, in the air and the words he has, shove everything into him, to be there with him, drag him down, make sure he's here, in this sudden set of stairs that turned into a tilting carousel, sudden drastic, tipping, sliding toward free fall.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 02:29 am (UTC)He almost can't breathe. Can't figure out if he needs to stop, or if there's nothing at all to do but keep going, push into Steve's stomach and feel his own bottom out, leg hard around Steve's hip, the other leveraging against a blanket that's rumpled and half shoved down the bed, under them. Nothing left but sprinting blindly forward, in some clumsy wending way, tripping over himself and feeling all turned around from the finish line. It's not -- it's too much, everything hitting all at once, and Christ, Christ, he's glad he pulled Steve up when he did, because the thought of this and Steve's mouth at the same time makes him despair, like being touched too soon after coming, every cell in his body still on red alert, screaming sirens into raw nerve endings.
And Steve is barreling into him, loose and long-limbed and doing his best to screw Danny straight through the mattress, bed frame creaking alarmingly against their weight, skin brushing skin and making Danny's head pop in a silent implosion that then rushes in like a dam breaking. Free hand finding Steve's face, feeling it warm under his palm, his hair damp with sweat. Fingers moving. Pulling. Tighter. Harder. Shoving recklessly forward, feeling like they're about to go smashing through a brick wall, and he doesn't care, can't, not when Steve is wanting him like this, like he's sanity, like he's air, and when the hell has anyone ever wanted Danny like that, like he wants Steve, whose name is starting to come in tight, gasping swallows of air.
The one touchstone he's got. The one goddamn thing on this whole island that's supposed to be here, when even Grace could be taken away.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:08 am (UTC)Especially when his name is cutting the silence only broken by fast, gulping breaths and the sounds of the friction between their skin. Everywhere. Wage separate wars, that are all one. That are all yanking the drain at the bottom of whatever all this is that's left of Steve's head. When everything he breathe and thinks is heat, tight, harder, faster. When he isn't distinguishing between whether that's his hand or Danny's. Or Danny grinding into him, too.
This mad jostling, ricocheted thing of too much movement and not enough. Not enough now, not enough hands, not enough air left in the entirity of the world. That is winnowing down to Danny's face, and the hand slipping slick on his face. When it feels like an entirely different shard of himself, almost not related, not connected, when he's turning his head. From Danny's mouth. From his name falling out of those lips.
Those words being ripped out, torn out, thrown out, pleaded out. Causing him to ache more still. Somehow.
And still turns from it. Into that touch. Into those fingers. Kissing the inside of Danny's palm, his fingers, whatever his mouth ends up against. Warmth from body heat, and slick with salt that could be from his face, or back, or Danny's skin. Could be both of them on his tongue, on Danny's skin, gotten all over Danny. The way Steve wants it to be, whether it possible or not.
Digging his teeth in just barely at the top of Danny's palm, but without biting down, before kissing more of that skin, hand.
Wants that flicker of a thought, too. As badly as this. As everything else. Agressive as compound, decked out like a lethal announcement every person on the planet could see with a look. That this is his. Danny is his. Crawled in his chest, and demanded his honesty, his trust, broke Steve wide open, wider and deeper than any person to torture him ever managed, got into every fractured place, got Steve all over his hands, his life, his body. Got this. All of this.
Salt and sweat and skin and fingers and lips and hips and breath and drive. That leaves him pushing Danny harder, chasing Danny's touch faster. His own hand shrieking but it's easier to pay attention to when nothing else is sticking. The world is shaking in him, through, hips snapping, meeting, driving themselves, filling his head and his chest threateningly with lightning, shoving clarity along with insanity into over drive, and making him shove Danny, then, too.
Over. On to his back, Steve pushing him into the bed, pushing on to him, wanting him, all of him, everything, nothing else in the world Danny gets but him, covered, with the only words coming being, "Knee," like a sharp fast order, or a decree or a suggestion, he can't tell when he's leaning in to find that space at the side of Danny's neck. Because he'll keep going, fingers not even slowed for the offensive, even with the weight of Danny's leg trapping his forearm and elbow to the bed under Danny, quirking his shoulder something hard, but it would easier without that.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:31 am (UTC)The thing that actually makes him forget how to speak, what, words vanishing from his mind like soap bubbles popping. Just like Steve promised. Threatened. He can't. It's not the fingers. It's not the kiss. It's not the volcanic heat of the room, twisting up into a tornado that's trying to rip him apart piece by ungainly piece.
It's this. So simple. Steve's lips on his palm. Steve's face turned into his hand. And a look. A look of such perfect, sweet concentration, brow furrowed, eyes closed soft against the dark and the push and the pull. A single second, moment, heartbeat, that stretches for years, flashes Danny straight out of this bed and into everything he could want, wants, can't, won't admit to, because he could be gone, soon, soon, Vegas and Rachel and Stan's hotel, his case that looks worse and worse every day, but Steve --
He wants this. Christ. Fucking Christ. He wants it more than he wants anything. He wants Rachel to stay on the island, and he wants to be more than a shadow in his daughter's life, and he wants Steve. Needs this. To breathe. To balance. For himself. This selfish, greedy thing he wants. Bursting painfully, splitting him wide open, leaving him aching, limping.
Because Steve is kissing his palm. Nipping lightly at it. Like he. Like it's. This is. Like Steve feels this. The thing Danny can't say, can't look at, shoves behind every locked door he can, piles furniture in front of them, and still, it's banging there, waiting to be heard and allowed.
He can't. Not if he's leaving. It isn't fair. But it's so hard to ignore, so hard to pretend what he's gotten so good at pretending, when Steve does this, makes Danny forget all about the discomfort, the heat and the dripping sweat and the burn in his chest from a lack of air, lips feeling swollen and tender. When Steve cares about his hand. His throat. Shoulder. The bump of his hip bone.
He's still staring when Steve shoves him over, moves his leg when the order gets snapped out, and he'd keep staring if the new position didn't lay him open and, God, there's suddenly so much space, Steve's fingers working, angling, there, fuck, Christ, there, driving his head back into the sheets -- the pillow's gone, somewhere, knocked away -- hitching his whole body like he'd just been caught on a hook, dragged in some speedboats wake. Hissing "fuck, Steve, that's --"
And still lacking words, because they're all surrounding his heart where it stumbled, tripped, rolled down a cliffside, is dizzy trying to get up, keeps foundering. Hand tightening despite himself, in reaction, and it would be so much better, wouldn't it, if their hands were free, if they were just sliding into each other, could hold on as hard as they need. It's Steve. Steve could never take away anything from him. They're better together, always have been.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 03:38 pm (UTC)Shaking his skin, and the bed, between both their movements, and shattering out those words, hissing that Steve wants to go down breathing. If he ever goes down at all. It may never happen. It feels like fire and gasoline and helium are expanding as at an explosive rate when Danny's voice is like that. When his words can't even finish and Steve shoves into them, the way he shoves into everything else. Can't stop pushing into Danny.
"--better?" Steve opts, mouth pushing the word into Danny's skin with something like vicious success spattered all through with the burning oil of a black sort of laughing smugness, agreement, soaking his words without even shaking his chest. When he's moving only to find Danny's face, again, shifting his arm, and readjusting around Danny digging his head into the bed.
Burning, "Told you," without any remorse or restraint into Danny's lips with righteous fire.
Fingers slamming into skin, thumb rubbing down harder on the flat over his prostate above that.
All of that is somewhere far, far away from this. Remorse. Regret. Second thoughts. First ones. Tossed off the bed, with dignity, fear, sanity, sense. When he can still feel the burning muscles in his thighs, his hips. Reacting no less to Danny's fingers squeezing into a fist, bringing him burst of pain that is standing on shards of pleasure. Hazy explosive mixture making him groan into Danny's skin even as his spine straightens and he thrust harder. Into that tighter circle of fingers.
Into Danny's solidness beneath him, the way it should be, could be, almost is. Burning through the edges of his vision. Feelings like the plug on his vision is being yanked on again. Leaving him with the awareness of Danny's skin. Around his fingers, around his body, against his forehead wherever it's fallen to. But pushing, sprinting, shoving everything that's left into these movements. Aiming to snap, aiming to go hard enough, fast enough, long enough he slams into a wall.
Knowing that it's chasing him, pelting his last thoughts, ambling toward clobbering him and all control left already.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 08:10 pm (UTC)Gasped, shoved, strangled. Pushed out into the world through sheer willpower, when Steve's hand is driving madness and fire straight up his spine slamming over and over, glass shards that splinter everywhere, blinding him. "You never said, you never said anything."
Steve didn't protest when Danny dragged him up, or rolled onto his side. He didn't say anything about what they're doing, what he's doing, what he was planning. He just did it, and this is what's left, a screaming confused explosion of too much sensation, so good it's too good, lacing lightning along stripped bare nerves, burning him out, pressure and pain and pleasure all gnawing on each other and doing their best to crack him wide open.
It's a shame he can't relax and enjoy it more, but it would be like saying he can relax and enjoy being run over by a Zamboni, or by a stampede of wild animals. He has no idea if he likes it; it's too much like being caught in a wicked hurricane and whipped into the side of a building. His hand is moving erratically, and he's barely conscious of the effort or rhythm, just that it's more, it's faster, it's in tune with Steve's ragged breath and the way his hips push.
Dragging them both closer to the edge. Of something. While his body tries to decide if this is good, or bad, if it's too much, if it's not enough, and it's a little frustrating, getting dragged beneath the surface, but the white-hot molten lead ball in his stomach is sitting there, getting hotter and more insistent by the second, while he tries to ride the wave and keeps getting dragged along the sand instead.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-04 01:08 am (UTC)Maybe there's a grating note, crumbling glass dust under his feet, the length of his skin, going wanting for the necessary focus to wonder if that wasn't right. Maybe hitting as not much more than a blip somewhere in there. When the only thing he space the do with right now, the only space he has left in his head is taking Danny at the same sharp, smarting pace he has since there were fingers lodged in his back.
Which is take it and spit it back out going, voice caked in derision, if you can even call the smolder wreckage happening under it, against, trying to overtake his vocal cords and make them hoarse, "You are the only person--" there a pressed, not exact pause, like a hard breath, against the movement of a hand, his hips, Danny, him, himself, them. "--on the planet who'd rather stop and talk at this point."
At a point when Steve doesn't even know if there are breaks on this thing. Ever were.
If things like breaks ever existed as walls somewhere in his mind.
Somewhere before the point when Danny got his own hands involved and took off every ounce of restraint Steve had towards training wheels. Being a thing. Existing. At all. Before it was the madness of Danny's uncoordinated movement between them, under him, dragging him down, and under, and in, and through, now. If there have ever been, will ever be, training wheels or walls.
From the second Danny twitched wrong in that restaurant, said those words in his living room, kissed him back as the world he knew, that hardly even had cohesion again even, split and broke, shattered and faded away, as ruined and intractable as though it had been exploded, never returned again. Replacing itself with this. With the way Danny fights back, pushes forward, demands and denies all in one breath now, had screamed at and pleaded with him earlier, making Steve feel like even if he's over, he's being bowled over from the inside.
Where for a second searing too hot, everything goes hazy with clarity, even amid the heat and rush, and it's not just this. This moment, this night, this thing that Danny is doing for the first time that is threatening to tear him apart. It's Danny. Danny Williams with his five million words, scathing temper, rushing at him, like a twenty-footer, aimed at drowning every single carefully laid line and wall in his life, and the feeling there is nowhere far enough he could run to stop it, nowhere he wouldn't go he wouldn't see it hit and drenched and took everything out with it too long ago.
And nothing, and no part of him that's willing to take the first step, when every other inch of his skin is screaming, pushing, shoving, into Danny's hands, catching on the skin of his shoulder, sliding slick into warm skin. Gone, gone, gone, already. Without having ever given a damn in the first place about order and regiment and rules. So long as it was Danny. Always Danny. Being the one breaking every single thing apart. Even if he may actually be the next thing to slip right through Steve's hands.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-04 03:43 am (UTC)Steve's hand shifts into a new angle, and the words trail off into a desperate moan, as the ball of lead in his stomach melts into a sudden pool of lava, licking at his insides and melting away guts, burning ribs and air and thought. "Just -- Christ -- fuck me."
Which he is. Which. God. Steve's fingers filling him up, and hitting right there, every slam like liquid fire dissolving his spine, and, yeah, okay yeah, he's getting it, it's there, the focus point, starting the bloom like a lit match catching on tissue paper. Hips jerking, helpless, trying to get that angle again, that spot, where it felt like every joint came unhinged and every muscle lit like a fuse, and words evaporated like mist.
There. And there. Like getting shot repeatedly in the stomach, shifting his leg off Steve's hip to push it out, find more space, find it. That. Steve's fingers, thumb on flat skin, gut-punching him with something he's never felt before. It's different from a hand or a mouth. Different from everything he's ever had before, and Steve is kissing him through it, mouth heavy and hot and needy, breaking his concentration, his tension, cutting him loose. Like a trapeze arcing down towards the net, only to find it's been set on fire.
A first time, and he can already feel the ache of bruising starting where there's never been bruising before. Stretched muscles complaining, while his nerves spark in a lunatic frenzy, shrieking a high-pitched tea-kettle whistle into his ears.
Everything else is gone. The bed. The mussed sheets and blanket. Gravity. The sweat clinging to his skin, dampening his hair.
Everything except Steve. This. Steve everywhere, crawling under his skin, lighting him up, and, God, who was he, what was he doing, how did he breathe and walk around and talk and act like a normal, whole person before this, because he had all this empty space, was he just rattling around in there like the last toy left in the attic, half a person unless he was with Grace? How else could Steve shove himself in there, take up so much room, and still make Danny want more, want it all, want this, just for him. Want Steve. To be the one who gets to touch him. Kiss him. Argue with him about takeout and how to treat witnesses.
Wants it to be his. This. Steve. Steve is his. Should be. Danny's hand dragging him down, at his neck, the other running hot and steady along his skin, driving them both closer and closer to the edge.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-04 04:24 am (UTC)At those words, that tone, the image they shove into his head on razor blades and bloody want at the same speed as the hand shoving madness into his veins, hard and harsh into his hips, his desires. Danny's hands or his own, both, this endless loop of frantic building fire. But there isn't. There isn't air. There aren't vocal cords. There just this stutter of a breath, at Danny's words, and the feeling like something snaps.
Like a bridge giving way. Like the keystone in an arch dissolving as though it were made of sugar, caving and vanished, like an axe head cleaved straight through it and found not stone there to begin with. Steve's head, what's left his control, of the feeling of Danny's mouth and his hand, his body, goes with it. With less warning than even a whisper. Crashing through and down and out everywhere. The smallest flick, and then everything is going.
Walls like pushed over bookshelves slamming through him. His stomach, his hips, his head. Moving him, when all he feels is jerked along by it, brought up only for the next shelf, the next wave, the next wall to slam into his face. Wave on wave of white light and an inferno of heat. Sending him reeling, running, jerking into hands, stomach, the bed that gives too easy, even for as solid as it is, groaning and grinding out a noise against the floor for him.
When there isn't even enough of his head left to whisper Danny's name, or do more than catch breaths against his shoulder, against the madness toppling, crumbling, exact every inch of revenge for each slight of control. Pulling him down, down, down, the drain in his head, in his stomach, in his feet. Every born in his body turning to molten puddles of molten steel, even when he's trying to keep going.
Banging out a useless war against the tide, because Danny told him to. Danny gave him a directive.
Two words in a place where words and voices aren't even registering. Two words. An order.
He's not about to forget. Not about to let it be wiped out even as he's shaking, sweating.
Because he's not going anywhere. Not without Danny. Not even if he's already gone.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 02:49 pm (UTC)Making Steve lose all control, body moving in a shockwave, all instinct and pure animal want, searching for that last push, that just right spot, the switch that gets flicked and melts him down. And it's. God. Glorious. Like someone doused him in gasoline and tossed a lit match his way. Exploding, not crumbling. Hard and hot under Danny's hand, and he can feel it, the way Steve tightens. Coils. Releases in a snap that feels like getting slammed by a truck.
He wants to be there. Feel himself snap apart, have nothing but Steve, hands, weight, scent. Lose it all. Stop thinking so much, about what they're doing, how it feels, how it doesn't feel, what it isn't like. What it won't ever be like.
Later. Later. He can think about it later. Steve's still pushing, shoulder shaking with the struggle of moving on now, and Danny's got no idea how he's doing it, he should be collapsed, out for the count, done, and he's still moving, muscles standing out in sharp relief, slicked skin, harsh breath.
It's so close. There. Almost there. He opens his hand, widens it, wraps around them both. Enough slick and sweat, and heat pools, sudden and sharp in his gut, gives him a second's warning to close his eyes, before one, two, just a handful of strokes and it drops out from under him, shoves him through glass. Everything coils together, hard; his fingers, around Steve's fingers, stomach, chest, and rushes out again like a bullet from a gun barrel, melting everything in its path, sending the world into a cartwheel, heart catapulting, flying out of his chest.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 04:12 pm (UTC)Weight caving from his shoulders, his spine, thighs. Rolling outward, crashing like waves outward across his muscles. When Danny's fingers are still tangled between them, while he shudders, and Steve's hand is still well stuck between four pairs of legs and Danny's skin. Warm, loose, there as much as everything is nowhere, is nothing. Is floating away on that. Relief. Exhaustion. The aftershocks of his own orgasm still too great for smug success even.
The burn in his shoulder, the strain of awareness obliterating like flood, like a popped bubble. The endless fog angrily, absolutely filling his head, his veins, his thoughts. Even when there's sparks of sensation, severe and sharp, so hot it's nearing painful, going off somewhere at the other end of his skin. Still touching. But nothing matters. Nothing exists. Everything, everything rolls away into an endless emptiness, so full there isn't the space for thought, for breath, for movement. Clogging up, shutting out, existence.
Laying him out, aware oddly enough of the quiet, distant beat of the waves for the first time in hours, fading in and out, rolling into and out. Against Danny's breath, against his own, the bubbling, failing existence of thought, awareness, against absolutely nothing, and the silence that rings through all of them like knoll of absolute stillness after a building is brought down.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 08:02 pm (UTC)Steve's always heavy, but he's especially huge and immovable when he's been smacked over the head like this, unable to make his arms and legs do anything but collapse, a human landslide burying him against the bed.
It's kind of nice. He's adrift on the floating, comfortable waves of total relaxation, and after he pries his fingers open and slides them clumsily out from between the two of them, riding out the unpleasant shock of too much sensation and the way they make him jerk and twitch, he slips back into it without effort. Eyes closed. The air in the room soft and thick as cotton. Smelling like salt and sex and Steve. Sweat sticking between their bodies, bellies pressed together, matting coarse chest hair, cooling on his forehead, neck, shoulders.
The descent of silence. No more rush and push of breath, rustle of sheets, the pounding roar in his head, thundering pulse.
Just quiet. It's almost peaceful, would be, were he not starting to feel the discomfort of this, now that he's not caught up in a tidal rip of sensation and momentum. He grunts, low, and deep in his chest, protesting, edges his hips away from Steve's hand, which...feels weird. Still.
Even weirder, now that there's nothing to distract from the weirdness of it, and he'd appreciate it just, not. Existing anymore. So he can relax, and become one with the mattress, like Steve's weight is slowly threatening him with.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 08:44 pm (UTC)When Steve is pushing Danny's thigh with the back of his hand, sort of settlingly, but also to have anywhere to drag him hand out to, from, before he's got his hand away. Before he's resting is awkwardly, on it's heel side against his blankets and giving a sort of cracked-eye glared toward the part of his head that is suddenly so very much not anywhere near silent, bowled over, and caved-in. When he can hold for a few more seconds, but really it's just starting to harp and grate between his shoulder blades.
There are things he's willing to wipe off on his bed, and there are things he's jut not going to. At least not right now, not tonight. The mess between their bellies he could deal with, deal with sleeping on and in even, but there are some things that don't get that. Not unless he's just so slammed under, or passed out, circumstances demand it, and he's nowhere near so checked by the bricks that still have a hold on that grey space between orientation and disorientation, that he can't handle it. It's not like it was so hard he couldn't move or think or make himself get up if shooting started.
He shifts his weight, catching his other hand on the bed the other side of Danny's arm, finding his legs. Pushing off the bed, with one hand, and the wrist-heel of his other, with something too fuzzy to even really equal a sort of muted resignation or frustration. His throat still full of wind and gravel, the all too unhelpful gentle sway of the room and the way none of his muscles really want to pretend they're attached to any of his bones currently.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 10:17 pm (UTC)That, he actively dislikes.
Steve's fingers sliding back out, with an unsettling motion that feels like his guts are slipping out along after them. It leaves him feeling wide open and empty, and uncomfortably slimy from the lube, and this is probably going to take some getting used to. It's a strange, slick feeling, slippery between the clumsy fingers he's got trying to chase it down and grab it, and he doesn't like it. Things he's never done, before. Things he would never have let anyone do to him, before.
That he offered. And got. Gave permission. Asked for.
The whole thing is turning his usual doped-up drowsiness into something that settles wrong in his stomach. Bad mayonnaise, or shellfish that wasn't cooked quite right, jostling sudden jagged edges against senses that should be too dulled to feel them, or anything else. He feels like he needs a shower. He feels like he needs to -- what. Get up. Go home. Go downstairs. Anything, other than stay right here testing out the strangeness of shifting his hips, the loose slippery feel of muscles that were never meant to be stretched or pushed or slammed into the way they just were.
And Steve gets up, moving like all his body parts aren't quite connected to each other, feet shuffling on the floor, looking like he went ten rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels or that cage fighter from last year, or both, which is both relieving and also more than a little annoying.
The best way to quit these thoughts, push aside this feeling of being not-quite-sure, is to let himself flop into Steve's warmth, close his eyes, and let sleep pull him away from all of it. Isn't it?
For now, what he does is let Steve untangle from him, shove one hand up by the headboard to find a pillow, and drag it under his head, lets the other come to rest high on his stomach, settling himself. Re-settling himself.
And again.
The ceiling's going to have to do for interesting things to look at until Steve gets back, apparently.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 10:35 pm (UTC)He washes his hands, even uses the soap, and grabs a hand towel to wash off his stomach, because, what the hell he's already there, he might as well. Plus, maybe it runs the water a little longer like somehow it'll out run the strange echoing silence after every sudden sound of shifting about Danny is making. Without saying a word. Is just about to throw the washcloth back in the sink and deal with come morning, when he thinks better of it.
Runs the water again. Rubs it at least minorly clean. Wrings it out, gets it just to point of damp and shuts off the water. Then heads back from the bathroom. Awareness settled in through something like a scope, close enough for the little he has needs of. Enough for operations. Enough to operate a gun and survey his living room for a second on the walk back, even if it doesn't stop him. He's head right back for his bed, and for Danny, who is staring at the ceiling.
It's more than a little underwhelming. A little nerve-spiking. That staring. The stillness. That silence. But he settles, hard, on one side of the bed like isn't, jostling it and Danny, forcing his voice out and into saying, "Hey." And following up with, "Here," when he's offering Danny the damp rag, like newest thing bring him fully back into awareness, seizing his stomach in tight with tight fingers, is that maybe this is when it happens.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 11:00 pm (UTC)All about things Steve wants, and gets, or doesn't want, and doesn't ask for. Things he does and doesn't do. And how this just launched them off the sinking island of not talked about, and undefined, and into a whirling, churning pool Danny's not sure he can keep his head above water in.
Because it makes things serious. But it only makes them serious for him, which, fine, has sort of been the case from the first day it all got started, from the first weekend, trying to get Steve to understand that he's no good at keeping his emotions out of sex, that he won't be able to just shake Steve's hand and walk away from this. This, whatever it is. That isn't a joke, to Steve, but that isn't him being called a boyfriend except by someone who would probably only ever use the term sarcastically when used in conjunction with Steve.
But he keeps tripping on them, and it's starting to piss him off, so it's just as well Steve comes back when he does, dips the mattress with his weight, offers the washcloth, which is really kind of a nice touch. He takes it with a grunt of thanks, wipes at his stomach and the mess stuck all over his skin. Considers that maybe he should head to the bathroom himself, for a more thorough clean-up, because even after what just happened, he's -- Steve's right there and, fine, he's feeling a little self-conscious.
A lot. Whatever.
He tips his head in Steve's general direction, where he's sitting, watching Danny with an unreadable expression but something like wariness in his tone, and, fuck it, Danny would really rather not go there tonight, right now. He's exhausted, and feeling more than a little unnerved, and that's not a great combination when added to Steve being cautious around him.
"You planning on going somewhere?" he asks, instead, shifting. Thinking. "I'll take it back. Lie down, I'm exhausted just looking at you sitting up like that."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 11:18 pm (UTC)To snapping at him, short and sharp and ordering, like his not getting right back into bed fast enough is actually something to lob at Steve's head. So, yeah. Steve snorts, shaking his head, and standing up halfway, but only enough to grab the top of the now drastically rumpled and messed up blanket and tug it and the sheets under Danny. Getting into his own bed, like somehow anything about this spot is his. And not just his until and so long as Danny says it is or isn't.
When he can make it as far as pushing blanket out from under Danny, and dropped down on his mattress, maybe still far too warm for blankets, but not even keeping that though long enough. Dragging blankets over Danny like somehow that will do something toward keeping him over there. But really the only thing that ticks over is that a few inches is too much over there happening to between here and there, him and Danny.
And so he does the only thing he can think of, wants, hopes isn't wrong. Shifted closer toward Danny at the same time as he snakes a hand under the blankets, crossing Danny's stomach to latch on his other side and bodily drag him back into Steve's chest, at the same time as he's pushing in. Close enough that if anything is about to go down, it'll go down right all across him. But at least it'll be right here. Next him. Against him. Somehow unwinding one inch of his lungs to get more air and tightening another small knot in his shoulders, when he's stealing Danny and for this moment it really does feel like stealing him from something, somewhere else.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 11:51 pm (UTC)That Steve's not going back out to the beach, to lose himself in the waves and the sky and whatever bear-trap thoughts are rattling around in his minefield of a head. That Steve's not shoving him out of his bed, telling him to go home, or go clean up. That Danny's still welcome here.
The rag gets tossed somewhere in the general direction of Steve's clothes from earlier, and he fiddles with the sheets until there's space to slide under them, to drag them up, because the sweat's starting to cool on his skin and even in Hawaii, that means sheets and maybe even a blanket are not only nice, but actually wanted.
Not that they're really needed in a second, because Steve has apparently decided to go full-on octopus mode, one long heavy arm snaking over and across Danny's chest and dragging him backwards, ignoring the disgruntled sound startled out of him, and pressing his long, stupidly warm body up against Danny's back, chest to the flat between his shoulderblades, tucked behind him skin to skin.
"Hey!"
He doesn't know why he bothers protesting. It has never once, in the history of knowing Steve, helped.
But he does it anyway. "You, you have been masquerading as the wrong sea creature this whole time, you're not a SEAL, you're an octopus, what the hell, Steve."
Spat out into the air, tough and snapping, but all the complaints he could pour into the dark room can't hide the way he relaxes, after the first sudden tension of surprise. How his shoulders loosen. How the knot in his gut decides to go ahead and just fall apart into a few lazy loops.
Steve wants him here. Still.
Okay. He can work with that.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 12:04 am (UTC)And he makes a show, a faint spectacle of finding the right place to tuck his hand under Danny's side, like he couldn't for the life of him care what's coming out of Danny's mouth. Even though he does. Even though it's like hot water tugging the muscles into his shoulders free.
Danny griping loud and annoyed, like he's not settling back into Steve's arms, relaxing. Like Steve's not going to notice the trashing, wiggling and smacking of blankets or arms, tugging at being restrained back and down a little, actually does not look anything like trying to get free at all.
"You're noisy," Steve said, gruff and low against part of Danny's shoulder and the back of his neck. Against breathing in his skin. Skin that still smelled of sex and sweat, of Steve, and Danny. Danny. His whole bed smells like Danny. It always does. And he buried his nose just a tiny bit more against Danny's neck, even when his words are quiet, but sharply derisive. "What was that? Two-three minutes only?"
And just to push it a little, like he's not stepping on ice, he smothers in easily. "Guess I'll have to go harder you next time."
If he holds his breath just a little, counting the spaces of darkness and silence, after it's nothing, right?
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 12:30 am (UTC)With Steve shifting back there, long and heavy and boneless, voice raw-edged, sandpapery and sarcastic, and it all helps, because Steve's not going anywhere if his arm is belted across Danny's side and chest, he's not going anywhere sounding like something that got washed up on shore. And then there's that. Steve's nose.
Just the tip of it. Nudging into the back of his neck. And then. Steve's face. Mouth, nose. Pressing into warm skin still a little damp and flushed from sex. Burying there. Breathing him in.
Making Danny's stomach fold over on itself unexpectedly. Making his eyes close, creasing a little, and it might look almost like he's in pain, but that's because it is, a kind of, it's an ache, sweet and spreading slow from some crack that just appeared in his chest that should make it impossible to breathe, right, and that's why it's impossible to breathe, for a second.
That's all. Nothing else.
Not words smudged into his skin. Not Steve nosing the back of his neck, breathing gently against his shoulder. Not the pit that's opened in his stomach, that his heart trips against and falls into, banging against unseen walls on the way down.
Every breath suddenly as fragile as glass. That skip in his pulse totally normal, considering how difficult it is to breathe right, and it's for balance that his hand goes to cover Steve's forearm, nothing else. Thumb stroking along his skin because. Because.
Not because he just needs to touch him. Find a way to sneak between his ribs and set up shop there, the way Steve's doing right now, has done, has taken over, bought out the space, claimed it as his own.
Not for that. Maybe because Steve's not breathing, either, and one of them should be getting a decent oxygen flow, if only so they can be able to drag the other one back to consciousness if necessary. "Yeah, right," he bluffs, blusters. When his thumb never moves faster. His fingers never tighten or grip harder.
"Shut up, you're embarrassing yourself. Next time, I expect you to deliver on this so-called ability to reduce me to an inability to speak, okay. That was just sad."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 03:48 am (UTC)"Whenever you think you're ready." Half threat and half promise, both entirely, scaldingly, unwavering.
When there's something oddly amusing about the words, that trip out. Tugging at his memory. Something about words like it. From the first day, first-second night. Something he can't quite put his finger on, because everything from that time is a little hazy. The way everything is in periods when he hasn't slept or eaten correctly for so long he can't even tell when it stopped being bearable, survivable, strain and started being constant, well-trained, surviving.
But there was something like that. He vaguely remembers it. Some kind of laughter. Banter. Bluster. Boasting.
Yet there's no way he doesn't mean it, too. He's ready. He could, wants. Wants to run Danny through every pace he's ever gone himself, been shoved by someone else, wants to give him every good piece, sheared from every worst cold, empty second stored right there with the rest of his. Ready. Ready, and waiting. And willing to wait. And conflicted, but willing to let it stop. Willing to just lay here, and pretend that it isn't like every other part of his body has grown shadowy and half dissolved, except from where his skin is touching Danny's.
Except for where that fingers of Danny's is stroking his skin. Soft enough not too be desperate, hard enough that it feels like Danny needs to make sure his skin is there. The kind of words that don't have words. The kind of message he doesn't know what to do with, does't what to say to, doesn't know what means at all. And still he can't help feeling like there's a spotlight there. Like he's supposed to. Know. Say. Do. Something with it.
Danny's thumb rubbing back and forth like a lifeline. His breathing thin, the way people actually shot in the chest do.
When Steve could -- would -- right now, if the answer was right now, yes, let's go. But it won't be. He's mostly certain. As certain as he ever is about Danny, given that he was utterly wrong about this. All of this never happening. Danny never wanting anything to do with this. Utterly wrong about this earlier evening. Continues to be utterly wrong at every turn, and still Danny doesn't leave. Burned words on to his lips like Steve could ever forget. Will be ever able to.
Please. Don't.
And
Please.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
When it's easier to let those sail past him that to think he'd really like ten or twenty minutes of sleep, himself, before considering anything. Against the burn in his bicep and wrist. The coil half unfettered and half too tight in his gut. When there are half a dozens questions on his tongue, barred by his lips, and he has no idea how to even frame or phrase a single. All he really has is the way everything smells like Danny when he breathes in.
And this tiny part of his head echoing those words Danny said to him. Except to Danny, himself, now.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 01:41 pm (UTC)Next time. Because there will be a next time. Even if he's not sure yet that he wants a next time, can handle a next time. He'd bluffed his way through this, tonight, and it's starting to show, to press and prod and suggest, annoyingly, that maybe he shouldn't have. Should have. Shouldn't. Should have known more, done some legwork on his own, figured it out, tried -- who knows? Gauging the looseness of complaining muscles. Forgetting all about the strange, slick feeling, until he tries moving again. "You're gonna have to give me a second."
Or a night. A day. Maybe a couple. Enough time for him to work through whatever it was that just happened. That he wanted, yeah. If not because he wanted it, for him, then because he wants Steve, and if this is going to happen, that's a part of it. He's not going to plant himself on Steve's chest and keep him from leaving, and then refuse the basic building block of sex, okay, he's not that guy. Doesn't want Steve to feel like he's missing out on anything, being here. Staying. Isn't giving anything up to do that.
Except he is. And Danny knows he is. He's too new at it, and too jaded by it at the same time. Different parts of the same whole. Has no idea what to do with these new ideas, possibilities; is all too aware of what can, will probably, go wrong.
But Steve's still here. Arm tucked firmly around him. Settled in like gravity, going nowhere fast, mumbling words into the back of his neck. Claiming. Possessive. Like Danny's another piece of this bed. House. Life. Steve's hand snug and stubborn against his side, bracing against argument.
It's nice, considering the free fall his thoughts are taking, of good, bad, weird. Steps he never takes, that he'd pole-vaulted over. Not sure if he recognizes or is sure of the place he's landed, feet sinking into quicksand, threatening to drag him down, suffocate him, snuff this all out with moving too fast, too much, too soon. Unable to do anything else, because it could all go in the blink of an eye, the sharp report of a firing gun.
He just needs a second. Or two. Or several thousand. It's fine.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 02:18 pm (UTC)Maybe even looking for Danny to smack back at him. Words warm against cooling sweat and drying skin. The tickle of the mess of Danny's hair against most of his face, where his eyes are closed. Where he's not counting, maybe if only because he doesn't know. Whether it count up or count down, or where to, whether, how, when. Only why. He knows that one, but it's not like it clarifies a damn thing.
Even though Steve doesn't move in the slightest for being a bastard and poking that. Danny saying he needs a second and counting for one. He doesn't move at all. Just throws it out there like a target, letting himself soak into the bed. The exhaustion in his bones that exists. He can feel it. But it's beneath a glass wall, again. Where everything else is so highly keyed to Danny.
To each breath. To his few words. To when he moves. To how he holds still. To the way the stillness and the silence wouldn't bother him, not with anyone else. He'd roll over, or depending say goodnights, or whatever. Whatever the situation called for. Usually sleep. Just let himself sleep. Done with everything that needed doing. Except. That Danny doesn't do still, or quiet, or the smallest touch. Not when any of the three can be grand, large, and loud.
Not when every single thing he just did is nothing he's done before, and it's highlighted by all three of those.
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