There's something vicious that comes up unbidden in a spike from Danny's words, even as Steve's eyes make an effort to roll back in his head when Danny pulls Steve down fully against him. It's not the greatest position for it, with how tall he is, but it could suck more than it does, when all the air in his lungs turns to ash and smoke, a current humming in the roots of his teeth, warm skin everywhere against him, and the prickled need to shift already.
To want to goad and roll Danny right back into action. The want to rock his hips, or shift his weight.
Which does not play well with the spike of ice that slaps into chest with the second set of words Danny tossed out.
It's a good response. Flippant and fast, Danny getting back into the game, even when words are being made of evaporated sounds on contact. Danny being the one to drag him down, shivering under him, and asking if Steve implied it was easy to get him into bed. Like maybe Steve, jokingly, like he could joke about trying to get Danny to shut up, had attempted to keep Danny out of his bed, or himself out of Danny's.
Like he hadn't been doing well -- and why does that make him feel punchy. Wary. Insulted, and suddenly ready to defend. He'd been doing well. He had. He'd learned to live with this. Like the ocean close, but never right. The Navy part of his life, but never enough. Good enough to make it through each day. Good enough to make a real try of things with Catherine. He'd managed this. Enough that prodding at it was dangerous with all the walls shivering against Danny.
"Fuck," Steve groaned, torn between both reactions under his skin, caustic and chaotic, when he can't keep himself from shifting. He can't. The roll of his hips into the rigidness pressing against his groin and into his hip. When his own is warm and rough, sliding against Danny's skin, and then Danny. When it just makes his teeth want to shatter even more. Blinds his vision momentarily and stuff his throat, even as he forces himself to continue. "If I ever knew you were this easy to get into bed--"
The need to lean down and find the side of Danny's throat before something too true falls out of his mouth.
Not sure how bare it will go. If he'd ever known. It was possible. He could. Danny would. He would have burned the world down years ago. He would have made a mockery of every step he was viciously defensive of having made it through. Managed. Handled. Survived. He would have thrown them all away. And what did that really say about him, then? About the whole year of trying, really and truly trying, with Cath? About who he was? Or could have been.
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There's something vicious that comes up unbidden in a spike from Danny's words, even as Steve's eyes make an effort to roll back in his head when Danny pulls Steve down fully against him. It's not the greatest position for it, with how tall he is, but it could suck more than it does, when all the air in his lungs turns to ash and smoke, a current humming in the roots of his teeth, warm skin everywhere against him, and the prickled need to shift already.
To want to goad and roll Danny right back into action. The want to rock his hips, or shift his weight.
Which does not play well with the spike of ice that slaps into chest with the second set of words Danny tossed out.
It's a good response. Flippant and fast, Danny getting back into the game, even when words are being made of evaporated sounds on contact. Danny being the one to drag him down, shivering under him, and asking if Steve implied it was easy to get him into bed. Like maybe Steve, jokingly, like he could joke about trying to get Danny to shut up, had attempted to keep Danny out of his bed, or himself out of Danny's.
Like he hadn't been doing well -- and why does that make him feel punchy. Wary. Insulted, and suddenly ready to defend. He'd been doing well. He had. He'd learned to live with this. Like the ocean close, but never right. The Navy part of his life, but never enough. Good enough to make it through each day. Good enough to make a real try of things with Catherine. He'd managed this. Enough that prodding at it was dangerous with all the walls shivering against Danny.
"Fuck," Steve groaned, torn between both reactions under his skin, caustic and chaotic, when he can't keep himself from shifting. He can't. The roll of his hips into the rigidness pressing against his groin and into his hip. When his own is warm and rough, sliding against Danny's skin, and then Danny. When it just makes his teeth want to shatter even more. Blinds his vision momentarily and stuff his throat, even as he forces himself to continue. "If I ever knew you were this easy to get into bed--"
The need to lean down and find the side of Danny's throat before something too true falls out of his mouth.
Not sure how bare it will go. If he'd ever known. It was possible. He could. Danny would. He would have burned the world down years ago. He would have made a mockery of every step he was viciously defensive of having made it through. Managed. Handled. Survived. He would have thrown them all away. And what did that really say about him, then? About the whole year of trying, really and truly trying, with Cath? About who he was? Or could have been.