The words are edged like darts. Daggers. Annoyed and sharp, insult and demand. And Steve can almost hear every insult and annoyance to how dare he even touch this subject. At all. But now. Here. Even if Danny did. Could. It's makes him want to laugh. The anger. The irrationality. The jealous possessiveness.

Even here, seconds from being drug into Steve's bed.

But there's no time to laugh, because Danny's fingers find his head and drag him down in a kiss that sets any air gathered in his lungs on fire. Searing through him. Making him drag Danny close, everything close and not close enough. The friction of it, after Danny's fingers, dragging small explosions if white at the edge of his vision.

It's all going backwards. Up in flames, the bare brace of the bed against his skin, while Danny argued with getting the shirt off and Steve was finally getting his belt open, zipper and button going with a flick of his wrist he doesn't even need to pay attention to. Only a step still in it.

Getting to the ability to slide his hands to the side, fingers gripping pants and the elastic top of boxers and shoving them both down. Away. Off. Like they were offensive. Anything keeping itself between him and Danny now. When he's barely waiting for the sound of them getting toward the floor, on the floor before he is.

Dragging Danny back on his bed, down on him.