He wouldn't put it past Steve to just tip his weight forward and roll both of them onto the floor -- the thought crosses his mind that the beer bottle will be a bitch to land on -- but Steve doesn't.
He makes kind of a surprised noise, and his muscles and fingers tense, but he doesn't actually fight it, or push back, or wrestle Danny back into the couch cushion. All he does is slide an arm underneath him, so they're both hanging on to each other, bicep and forearm muscles bunching, fingers grasping for purchase on skin that's growing slick with sweat.
And, of course, talking out his ass. Still. Because Steve never tires of criticizing Danny. There's always something about his clothes, or his social life; his taste in food, music, or alcohol, his vocabulary, for Steve to pick apart and niggle at, like he's auditioning for the role of Danny's mother. Nitpicking decisions, commenting on the length of his toenails or his choice of lunch food, picking at every detail until Danny bursts a gasket or two and tells him off. Steve will argue with him about literally anything, so it's no surprise he's been found wanting, here, too.
Except he knows it's a lie.
He knows it, because he can hear, see, feel the way Steve's whole body goes suddenly tense and still, coiling in on itself like a struck snake, until he lets out a breath the breaks against Danny's mouth, carries snide words that smudge against kisses, getting sloppy, open-mouthed, catching each other after every other word.
Making Danny laugh, a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, because Steve is good, Steve sounds happy, Steve is mocking him and that's so much better than the distance of before, that felt like Steve was shoving a javelin into Danny's chest and using it as a guide of how far he should stay away.
Instead, Steve is gripping at him, pulling streaks of lightning up and down his spine with each shift of his hand, and Danny can feel him swelling against his palm, which is, fuck, unbelievably, unfairly hot. "Yeah?"
As conversational as he can make it, when each word feels like a match striking somewhere down deep, lighting tiny fires in quick succession. "I didn't think we ever got off that topic."
no subject
He makes kind of a surprised noise, and his muscles and fingers tense, but he doesn't actually fight it, or push back, or wrestle Danny back into the couch cushion. All he does is slide an arm underneath him, so they're both hanging on to each other, bicep and forearm muscles bunching, fingers grasping for purchase on skin that's growing slick with sweat.
And, of course, talking out his ass. Still. Because Steve never tires of criticizing Danny. There's always something about his clothes, or his social life; his taste in food, music, or alcohol, his vocabulary, for Steve to pick apart and niggle at, like he's auditioning for the role of Danny's mother. Nitpicking decisions, commenting on the length of his toenails or his choice of lunch food, picking at every detail until Danny bursts a gasket or two and tells him off. Steve will argue with him about literally anything, so it's no surprise he's been found wanting, here, too.
Except he knows it's a lie.
He knows it, because he can hear, see, feel the way Steve's whole body goes suddenly tense and still, coiling in on itself like a struck snake, until he lets out a breath the breaks against Danny's mouth, carries snide words that smudge against kisses, getting sloppy, open-mouthed, catching each other after every other word.
Making Danny laugh, a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, because Steve is good, Steve sounds happy, Steve is mocking him and that's so much better than the distance of before, that felt like Steve was shoving a javelin into Danny's chest and using it as a guide of how far he should stay away.
Instead, Steve is gripping at him, pulling streaks of lightning up and down his spine with each shift of his hand, and Danny can feel him swelling against his palm, which is, fuck, unbelievably, unfairly hot. "Yeah?"
As conversational as he can make it, when each word feels like a match striking somewhere down deep, lighting tiny fires in quick succession. "I didn't think we ever got off that topic."