There's a flashing grin at that, crinkling at his eyes and lightening his expression with amusement. "Pretty sure your head's always wound up, babe. Natural state of things."
And better in this moment than it has been for the last few weeks, the majority of the time, which is something else to be glad about. Steve going quiet and still here is still about a thousand times better and more preferable to Steve wiping some poor joker into a smear on the floor for giving him an eyelash-flicker of a reason.
He stretches, a little, shoulders shifting comfortably into the mattress, glancing down towards the top of Steve's head, where he's brushing lips over skin that's no longer on fire, but still sensitive, sweat just past dried. Muscles loose, limbs heavy, the room dark and warm and there is no reason to be anything but relaxed, right now. His bad mood is all burned out, soothed by the persistent proof of Steve here, him still allowed.
He knows better than to think it'll last the next time some handsy or tipsy or overly-confident girl gets the idea that touching Steve or flirting with him is a good idea, but that growling, raging creature has subsided for the moment, curled warily into his chest and sliding back into hibernation. For the moment.
The hand at Steve's shoulder slides a little further, to bicep, while the other moves from where it's been hanging, loose, at the end of the arm slung over his shoulders, toys idly with a few short brown strands of hair. Tiny, truncated versions of his usual grandiose gestures, wound down by lazy contentment and Steve's proximity to little lifts of his fingers, finding parts of Steve -- tattoo or hair -- to focus on.
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And better in this moment than it has been for the last few weeks, the majority of the time, which is something else to be glad about. Steve going quiet and still here is still about a thousand times better and more preferable to Steve wiping some poor joker into a smear on the floor for giving him an eyelash-flicker of a reason.
He stretches, a little, shoulders shifting comfortably into the mattress, glancing down towards the top of Steve's head, where he's brushing lips over skin that's no longer on fire, but still sensitive, sweat just past dried. Muscles loose, limbs heavy, the room dark and warm and there is no reason to be anything but relaxed, right now. His bad mood is all burned out, soothed by the persistent proof of Steve here, him still allowed.
He knows better than to think it'll last the next time some handsy or tipsy or overly-confident girl gets the idea that touching Steve or flirting with him is a good idea, but that growling, raging creature has subsided for the moment, curled warily into his chest and sliding back into hibernation. For the moment.
The hand at Steve's shoulder slides a little further, to bicep, while the other moves from where it's been hanging, loose, at the end of the arm slung over his shoulders, toys idly with a few short brown strands of hair. Tiny, truncated versions of his usual grandiose gestures, wound down by lazy contentment and Steve's proximity to little lifts of his fingers, finding parts of Steve -- tattoo or hair -- to focus on.