Steve's not sure he believes it. Or if he does believe it, because he's not sure he's actually calling it a lie, that it doesn't seem like either, maybe doesn't think that it's all that's there.
When Danny Williams, fan of the endless storm of sound and movement, settles for silence or for only two, four words when there are two or ten thousand, even when he's close enough, Steve can make out the shape of his mouth smiling. When his tone isn't one of a handful of things that would set off warning bells loud and sharp like even the softest click of a trip wire.
When Steve isn't at all sure what to do with those words that slip out. Appreciating what exactly? His body? The fact he's actually still here? Like anyone else was some place he could be. Or anything else was what he'd turn himself out to the world as. When it's snarling somewhere in the middle of his head. Not know. Not being certain of what exactly this is.
Even when Danny's hand firms again. More pressure, demanding some attention, more focus elsewhere, slipping in between the muscle there. Like his fingers belong, were always meant to fit, somehow, like dove tail edges, locks and keys. A thought that can't even stay long, when Steve own fingers are trying to lock in over Danny's shoulder, across Danny's back, when his mouth attaches back to his skin.
Causing his shoulders to sieze and then stretch outward, following the wave of a low grade shudder from the friction of Danny's teeth against skin, his skin being pulled at by Danny's lips, the brush of his tongue. When it slams straight into the other cloud of confusion, tension snapping right back, never gone. The maddening rush slamming him dead to the face.
When he's held still long enough, too long, and it's far too easy to let it spin out under his skin, glide, hot and a little wicked. Tug Danny's head upward by his head, fingers slipping from Danny's shoulder to his head. Wanting his mouth. Barely getting out the words, "I'll give you something to appreciate," like it's crooked warning, even said that warm, before he's kissing Danny.
And using his other hand -- for the first time still since he laid it flat waiting on Danny's signal -- to push at Danny's shoulder, aiming Danny toward the bed behind him, and pushing himself up. Giving him a better vantage point to launch from.
no subject
When Danny Williams, fan of the endless storm of sound and movement, settles for silence or for only two, four words when there are two or ten thousand, even when he's close enough, Steve can make out the shape of his mouth smiling. When his tone isn't one of a handful of things that would set off warning bells loud and sharp like even the softest click of a trip wire.
When Steve isn't at all sure what to do with those words that slip out. Appreciating what exactly? His body? The fact he's actually still here? Like anyone else was some place he could be. Or anything else was what he'd turn himself out to the world as. When it's snarling somewhere in the middle of his head. Not know. Not being certain of what exactly this is.
Even when Danny's hand firms again. More pressure, demanding some attention, more focus elsewhere, slipping in between the muscle there. Like his fingers belong, were always meant to fit, somehow, like dove tail edges, locks and keys. A thought that can't even stay long, when Steve own fingers are trying to lock in over Danny's shoulder, across Danny's back, when his mouth attaches back to his skin.
Causing his shoulders to sieze and then stretch outward, following the wave of a low grade shudder from the friction of Danny's teeth against skin, his skin being pulled at by Danny's lips, the brush of his tongue. When it slams straight into the other cloud of confusion, tension snapping right back, never gone. The maddening rush slamming him dead to the face.
When he's held still long enough, too long, and it's far too easy to let it spin out under his skin, glide, hot and a little wicked. Tug Danny's head upward by his head, fingers slipping from Danny's shoulder to his head. Wanting his mouth. Barely getting out the words, "I'll give you something to appreciate," like it's crooked warning, even said that warm, before he's kissing Danny.
And using his other hand -- for the first time still since he laid it flat waiting on Danny's signal -- to push at Danny's shoulder, aiming Danny toward the bed behind him, and pushing himself up. Giving him a better vantage point to launch from.