Steve's fingers sliding back out, with an unsettling motion that feels like his guts are slipping out along after them. It leaves him feeling wide open and empty, and uncomfortably slimy from the lube, and this is probably going to take some getting used to. It's a strange, slick feeling, slippery between the clumsy fingers he's got trying to chase it down and grab it, and he doesn't like it. Things he's never done, before. Things he would never have let anyone do to him, before.
That he offered. And got. Gave permission. Asked for.
The whole thing is turning his usual doped-up drowsiness into something that settles wrong in his stomach. Bad mayonnaise, or shellfish that wasn't cooked quite right, jostling sudden jagged edges against senses that should be too dulled to feel them, or anything else. He feels like he needs a shower. He feels like he needs to -- what. Get up. Go home. Go downstairs. Anything, other than stay right here testing out the strangeness of shifting his hips, the loose slippery feel of muscles that were never meant to be stretched or pushed or slammed into the way they just were.
And Steve gets up, moving like all his body parts aren't quite connected to each other, feet shuffling on the floor, looking like he went ten rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels or that cage fighter from last year, or both, which is both relieving and also more than a little annoying.
The best way to quit these thoughts, push aside this feeling of being not-quite-sure, is to let himself flop into Steve's warmth, close his eyes, and let sleep pull him away from all of it. Isn't it?
For now, what he does is let Steve untangle from him, shove one hand up by the headboard to find a pillow, and drag it under his head, lets the other come to rest high on his stomach, settling himself. Re-settling himself.
And again.
The ceiling's going to have to do for interesting things to look at until Steve gets back, apparently.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-05 10:17 pm (UTC)That, he actively dislikes.
Steve's fingers sliding back out, with an unsettling motion that feels like his guts are slipping out along after them. It leaves him feeling wide open and empty, and uncomfortably slimy from the lube, and this is probably going to take some getting used to. It's a strange, slick feeling, slippery between the clumsy fingers he's got trying to chase it down and grab it, and he doesn't like it. Things he's never done, before. Things he would never have let anyone do to him, before.
That he offered. And got. Gave permission. Asked for.
The whole thing is turning his usual doped-up drowsiness into something that settles wrong in his stomach. Bad mayonnaise, or shellfish that wasn't cooked quite right, jostling sudden jagged edges against senses that should be too dulled to feel them, or anything else. He feels like he needs a shower. He feels like he needs to -- what. Get up. Go home. Go downstairs. Anything, other than stay right here testing out the strangeness of shifting his hips, the loose slippery feel of muscles that were never meant to be stretched or pushed or slammed into the way they just were.
And Steve gets up, moving like all his body parts aren't quite connected to each other, feet shuffling on the floor, looking like he went ten rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels or that cage fighter from last year, or both, which is both relieving and also more than a little annoying.
The best way to quit these thoughts, push aside this feeling of being not-quite-sure, is to let himself flop into Steve's warmth, close his eyes, and let sleep pull him away from all of it. Isn't it?
For now, what he does is let Steve untangle from him, shove one hand up by the headboard to find a pillow, and drag it under his head, lets the other come to rest high on his stomach, settling himself. Re-settling himself.
And again.
The ceiling's going to have to do for interesting things to look at until Steve gets back, apparently.