He isn't surprised it's an effort, even when the muscles in his own back are probably listening as well as Danny is. Detaching slowly, feeling Danny prying up his fingers from those muscles they were gouging in against. Which doesn't hurt, not at least the way he thinks about things hurting. The caustic pause between his words and Danny's, his words and Danny moving, those are more concerning than a little pressure.
He'd rather it was him than the bed. Then pulling way altogether. Than it happening at all.
He breathes out. Danny. And the words come, almost the same as the fingers. But they still mean something. Because Danny's words always do. They don't always mean the words he's shoving out. Whether it's millions, or three. But they always mean something. They always reflect the color of everything inside of him. The ways these ones, and his hands, carefully spreading on Steve's skin do.
Danny careful. Worried. Uncertain. Skittish. Possibly scared. Clinging, but not clinging, against that edge he doesn't mind shoving Steve right over, but that isn't as easy to shove himself straight into. Steve doesn't know what the greater urge is his head is. There are so many of them. Defeat isn't an option. Is. isn't. Should be. Except he isn't stopping, is working against the way Danny is touching him.
Trying to take Danny's words for face value against his body's coiled tension. Continuing to push with his fingers, in and out steady, stretching muscles, pressing in and up, against the wall of skin, more and more. Stretching the rope in his head that gets thinner and longer, patient to a patience he doesn't have, always has, has in the kind of spades that makes other people go insane, because he already is, and needling all at once. Tilting his head and kissing Danny's lightly and sloppy before saying.
"That wasn't it, you know." And he could say those words like an apology. Like a concern. Like he's explaining. Comforting. When all of those might be somewhere buried under it. But he doesn't. He drags it him up on sheering, sharp meat hooks from somewhere.
That tone he uses when Danny needs something to attack, something to focus on or tear apart. So he isn't focusing on himself. Tearing himself apart. Steve prodding at him, a little goading and little taunting, half bland like it's obvious to everyone else on the planet. Raising his eyebrows from a faintly smug flicker to toss it's hat into the ring, too.
Always giving him a better target, a better distraction. Even when his hand never stops.
no subject
He'd rather it was him than the bed. Then pulling way altogether. Than it happening at all.
He breathes out. Danny. And the words come, almost the same as the fingers. But they still mean something. Because Danny's words always do. They don't always mean the words he's shoving out. Whether it's millions, or three. But they always mean something. They always reflect the color of everything inside of him. The ways these ones, and his hands, carefully spreading on Steve's skin do.
Danny careful. Worried. Uncertain. Skittish. Possibly scared. Clinging, but not clinging, against that edge he doesn't mind shoving Steve right over, but that isn't as easy to shove himself straight into. Steve doesn't know what the greater urge is his head is. There are so many of them. Defeat isn't an option. Is. isn't. Should be. Except he isn't stopping, is working against the way Danny is touching him.
Trying to take Danny's words for face value against his body's coiled tension. Continuing to push with his fingers, in and out steady, stretching muscles, pressing in and up, against the wall of skin, more and more. Stretching the rope in his head that gets thinner and longer, patient to a patience he doesn't have, always has, has in the kind of spades that makes other people go insane, because he already is, and needling all at once. Tilting his head and kissing Danny's lightly and sloppy before saying.
"That wasn't it, you know." And he could say those words like an apology. Like a concern. Like he's explaining. Comforting. When all of those might be somewhere buried under it. But he doesn't. He drags it him up on sheering, sharp meat hooks from somewhere.
That tone he uses when Danny needs something to attack, something to focus on or tear apart. So he isn't focusing on himself. Tearing himself apart. Steve prodding at him, a little goading and little taunting, half bland like it's obvious to everyone else on the planet. Raising his eyebrows from a faintly smug flicker to toss it's hat into the ring, too.
Always giving him a better target, a better distraction. Even when his hand never stops.
Beat. "The way I'm going to make you shut up."