He's not even sure he expects Danny to say anything. Not when he's not actually stopping to ask the question. Like maybe it's just a sort of boastful rib at him. Some point that Steve can put words together. Still find a way to get under Danny skin, when every inch of it is pressed against some part of him. When Danny's movement are awkward only for a second, adjusting, a long enough half second Steve considers laying a hand on Danny's thigh.
Considers whether to apologize, or whether to move it back without a single word. What might be -- except then Danny is arching up to him, slamming every single thought in his head, a like a wave coming up and washing the deck blinding white. Making his hand tighten, against the back of the couch, behind Danny's head, catching himself as his hips answered without the need for any other part of him to think about it first. Like there could be any other answer.
Which makes it hilarious that Danny's words come about then, forced out, drug out like he's using a tow truck. Hilarious like the sky raining fire. Hilarious like the ability to stop breathing because someone dared you to. Like to possibly could. Stop breathing. Out run any of this. Like he could even manage walking away.
It'd be easier to go down under the waves and never come up, beyond all his training to succeed and survive.
He leans down, letting his voice stay ragged, rough and thick, keeping it low, against Danny's ear, saying, "I wasn't planning on it." Anything other that continuing this. Pushing toward insanity. Emphasizing those words with moving faster, thrusting with more force in against Danny.
That hand actually dropping to Danny's hips, his thigh, holding him close, pulling him closed, matching the tips of Danny's own body, and those hands on his back, his sides, pulling him, digging in, like close might never be close enough. Weight settling back on his knees, his legs, and shoving forward against Danny each time like a loaded recoil snapping, again and again.
Clenching his jaw against other considerations, fingertips digging in, straining to keep certain things in line, out of a burning clarity of thought, even more than aligned. Against the back and forth, dragging Steve's ability to focus from himself in waves.
no subject
Considers whether to apologize, or whether to move it back without a single word. What might be -- except then Danny is arching up to him, slamming every single thought in his head, a like a wave coming up and washing the deck blinding white. Making his hand tighten, against the back of the couch, behind Danny's head, catching himself as his hips answered without the need for any other part of him to think about it first. Like there could be any other answer.
Which makes it hilarious that Danny's words come about then, forced out, drug out like he's using a tow truck. Hilarious like the sky raining fire. Hilarious like the ability to stop breathing because someone dared you to. Like to possibly could. Stop breathing. Out run any of this. Like he could even manage walking away.
It'd be easier to go down under the waves and never come up, beyond all his training to succeed and survive.
He leans down, letting his voice stay ragged, rough and thick, keeping it low, against Danny's ear, saying, "I wasn't planning on it." Anything other that continuing this. Pushing toward insanity. Emphasizing those words with moving faster, thrusting with more force in against Danny.
That hand actually dropping to Danny's hips, his thigh, holding him close, pulling him closed, matching the tips of Danny's own body, and those hands on his back, his sides, pulling him, digging in, like close might never be close enough. Weight settling back on his knees, his legs, and shoving forward against Danny each time like a loaded recoil snapping, again and again.
Clenching his jaw against other considerations, fingertips digging in, straining to keep certain things in line, out of a burning clarity of thought, even more than aligned. Against the back and forth, dragging Steve's ability to focus from himself in waves.