Danny's hand went hard and flat on his back, pulling him right back down the few inches Steve had managed to push up. His voice a soaked growl of noise that suddenly cut through the thickness of the room. Complaints that would usually be knife shapes shaped like warm whining even as they were suddenly beleaguered potential seeds toward insults as Danny was drug toward the light, even here in the dark of his bed. Danny, who didn't want him to move at all.
Which made Steve have to shift back, something surprised and uncertain setting through him, which might go easier if his head wasn't still made of fluff. Or he wasn't distracted by the sudden awareness of Danny under him, and the hands over him. That Danny didn't want him to move. Danny wanted him right here. Not moving. Not all off of Danny. Telling him to relax, to shut up. Adding that word that stung at Steve soft and surprising. Like it was nothing.
Enjoying.
Catching under his sternum and tripping him up. Impossible and amazing all at once. It wasn't, okay, like he'd forgotten that face Danny had made as he came, or the existence of that single word -- You -- stumbling at him, before Danny attacked him like Steve had stolen his entire lexicon from Danny's head. But Danny here, wanting him here, not moved even an inch away, pressing him into the mattress, sweaty and a mess....and enjoying it.
By the time the thoughts happen he's already back, movement less a thought than any of the rest of it. Steve's body a god damn traitor, because it listens to Danny's hands more than it's ever listened to him. Especially when he can't think. Or is it, especially because Steve doesn't want to be anywhere else? He wants this doesn't he. That's more of why the fragile uncertainty that looks more like wary jaggedness bubbles in his chest, while he flattens back with a roll of his eyes, and snort, muttering, "Your funeral."
Becuase it isn't.
It's never been like this. Not in his head, and definitely not in his bed. Even in other places with other people. Men. That weren't Danny. Never. Not even if they were picked for something that sunk it's nails into that part of him. He didn't to be there, want to stay. His skin to their skin, sweat and slick chilling, breaths slowly becoming manageable instead of erratic. He wanted as far away from those people as possible once they served a purpose, even if he didn't treat them as such.
He doesn't even want to move, which is worse and better. He could stay here. Making sure Danny doesn't move, and remembering every second again, that it really happened. Shift and tilt his head, letting out a breath, and end up with his cheek on a shoulder and his nose finding Danny's neck, the absolute disaster of his hair, and only just narrowly keep himself from pressing him face in against it or kissing Danny's skin again. Like it was a compulsion that couldn't stop itself, because it might be too soon.
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Danny's hand went hard and flat on his back, pulling him right back down the few inches Steve had managed to push up. His voice a soaked growl of noise that suddenly cut through the thickness of the room. Complaints that would usually be knife shapes shaped like warm whining even as they were suddenly beleaguered potential seeds toward insults as Danny was drug toward the light, even here in the dark of his bed. Danny, who didn't want him to move at all.
Which made Steve have to shift back, something surprised and uncertain setting through him, which might go easier if his head wasn't still made of fluff. Or he wasn't distracted by the sudden awareness of Danny under him, and the hands over him. That Danny didn't want him to move. Danny wanted him right here. Not moving. Not all off of Danny. Telling him to relax, to shut up. Adding that word that stung at Steve soft and surprising. Like it was nothing.
Enjoying.
Catching under his sternum and tripping him up. Impossible and amazing all at once. It wasn't, okay, like he'd forgotten that face Danny had made as he came, or the existence of that single word -- You -- stumbling at him, before Danny attacked him like Steve had stolen his entire lexicon from Danny's head. But Danny here, wanting him here, not moved even an inch away, pressing him into the mattress, sweaty and a mess....and enjoying it.
By the time the thoughts happen he's already back, movement less a thought than any of the rest of it. Steve's body a god damn traitor, because it listens to Danny's hands more than it's ever listened to him. Especially when he can't think. Or is it, especially because Steve doesn't want to be anywhere else? He wants this doesn't he. That's more of why the fragile uncertainty that looks more like wary jaggedness bubbles in his chest, while he flattens back with a roll of his eyes, and snort, muttering, "Your funeral."
Becuase it isn't.
It's never been like this. Not in his head, and definitely not in his bed. Even in other places with other people. Men. That weren't Danny. Never. Not even if they were picked for something that sunk it's nails into that part of him. He didn't to be there, want to stay. His skin to their skin, sweat and slick chilling, breaths slowly becoming manageable instead of erratic. He wanted as far away from those people as possible once they served a purpose, even if he didn't treat them as such.
He doesn't even want to move, which is worse and better. He could stay here. Making sure Danny doesn't move, and remembering every second again, that it really happened. Shift and tilt his head, letting out a breath, and end up with his cheek on a shoulder and his nose finding Danny's neck, the absolute disaster of his hair, and only just narrowly keep himself from pressing him face in against it or kissing Danny's skin again. Like it was a compulsion that couldn't stop itself, because it might be too soon.