It all hits across his head far too fast. The fingers on his wrists tugging. Danny's voice, that way. It's gotten low and just the edge into plaintive, catching like cold fingers in Steve's intensities and jerking hard. When he's reassessing a world of things. Like how things will be, could be, more problematic, inventive if not at all impossible, elsewhere. Before it slides straight into whether that's a cease fire.
Whether it's because of those precious few seconds of pause when he got the lube. Whether he should have gotten it before getting on the bed, shouldn't have paused at all, or done it later on, or at all even, that one digs in the edge of a shard deeper. Maybe it is as far as Danny can, or will. Maybe he shouldn't have even done that that first night he said anything back. He said.
He said any of those things, that are one side too blistering hot to drag up with fingertips, piercing singe to his thoughts, even as they are sinking like solid steel lumps in the bottom of his stomach suddenly. Maybe he is trampling, already trampled, across the only step Danny wanted to take. Putting it all out there, possible. Possible (still possible) instead of impossible.
Steve's head moving too much, too fast, when seconds are only passing and he keeps coming back to the one thing he can't ignore. Not even for his thoughts. Fingers circled around his wrists. Danny's hands. Warm. Solid. Undeniable. Unignorable. Tugging at him still. Necessary, direct, almost and half of him is already going before the thought about going is even a question about whether to go. Before the reassertment of how moving could, would, might be more problematic.
Before he pulled back at hand, twisting sideways and pulling it for a fast circle, to breaking the hold of Danny's grasp one of his wrists, hand scrabbling down against the blanket for the bottle against one of his calves. Even as he is ending up over there. The other side of Danny's leg. Outside of them, ending up toward Danny's side, on his side, half propped by the arm that caught his weight moving that way.
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Whether it's because of those precious few seconds of pause when he got the lube. Whether he should have gotten it before getting on the bed, shouldn't have paused at all, or done it later on, or at all even, that one digs in the edge of a shard deeper. Maybe it is as far as Danny can, or will. Maybe he shouldn't have even done that that first night he said anything back. He said.
He said any of those things, that are one side too blistering hot to drag up with fingertips, piercing singe to his thoughts, even as they are sinking like solid steel lumps in the bottom of his stomach suddenly. Maybe he is trampling, already trampled, across the only step Danny wanted to take. Putting it all out there, possible. Possible (still possible) instead of impossible.
Steve's head moving too much, too fast, when seconds are only passing and he keeps coming back to the one thing he can't ignore. Not even for his thoughts. Fingers circled around his wrists. Danny's hands. Warm. Solid. Undeniable. Unignorable. Tugging at him still. Necessary, direct, almost and half of him is already going before the thought about going is even a question about whether to go. Before the reassertment of how moving could, would, might be more problematic.
Before he pulled back at hand, twisting sideways and pulling it for a fast circle, to breaking the hold of Danny's grasp one of his wrists, hand scrabbling down against the blanket for the bottle against one of his calves. Even as he is ending up over there. The other side of Danny's leg. Outside of them, ending up toward Danny's side, on his side, half propped by the arm that caught his weight moving that way.