Logs:Basic Decency

Basic Decency
CN: sexual assault mention, sexual/emotional intimacy
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Steve
In Absentia	2020-08-15 "This feels good because you're nothing like him."
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. It is the witching hour, and all's quiet in Harlem. For a short while, at least, the usual city noises seem to fall away. The lamp on the drafting table in Steve's room is still on, but probably only because he cannot reach it without jostling his bedfellow and does not want to when Dawson is so rarely, soundly asleep. Steve himself has lain still for a while now, the fingertips of his free hand tapping the thumb of the same in slow, rhythmic turn as he stares up at the shadow up the lamp shade on the ceiling. Every so often he shifts minutely to accommodate his lover, or to tug up the lightweight sheet, but there's no restlessness in this. If anything, he is starting to look sleepy, himself. Steve's latest small shift of motion prompts a larger one from Dawson, turning over in his sleep to nestle closer against the other man's side, head tucking against Steve's shoulder. He doesn't quite re-settle, a small tension slipping into his frame. At first minute but slowly growing into more noticeable shudders, a frown, quiet truncated whimpers. His fingers clench and twitch against Steve's side, breathing shifting from deep and rhythmic to shorter, more erratic. Steve frowns. Curls his arm more securely around Dawson -- just for an instant, his grip loosening again almost at once, hand stroking down his side gently. He presses a kiss to the top of the other man's head. "Hey." This is whispered, low and soothing. "Hey, it's Steve. I've got you." Dawson's eyes snap open, his hand curling harder where he's been blindly grasping at Steve's side. The latest whimper dies strangled in his throat; for a moment he doesn't breathe. Just lies silent and extremely still. A beat passes and then another, but at the next gentle stroke of Steve's hand he exhales quick and sharp, turning to press his face against the other man's chest. The twitchy spasms of his body give way to a low steady trembling that would barely be noticeable if not for the close contact. "Sorry," is mumbled low, and again, shaky, "sorry." Steve continues stroking gently, his own breathing speeding to match Dawson's -- but steadily, deliberately. "Hey." Again, softly, though not quite a whisper this time. "It's OK. You had a nightmare." He hesitates a beat, then, "You didn't wake me, in case you were worried." His hand smooths slowly down Dawson's side again, after the brief hitch. "I've got you." "...was bad." There is a trace of dampness where Dawson's closed eyes press to Steve's side, though it isn't growing. His unsteady breathing levels, falling into rhythm with Steve's. "You've got me." This echo comes softly, a quiet but determined reminder. The trembling does not quite ease. "It's late." He lifts his head, squinting blearily towards the lamp and then the window. "Was I keeping you up? I -- sorry." "Seemed upsetting, from what I could see." Steve's breathing slows -- not quite back to his usual rhythm, but gradually settling back down. "I surely do." The flex of his arm against Dawson's back doesn't pull him inward -- more just a brief tension, a reminder that he's there. The hand resumes stroking. "I just can't sleep, but it's fine. Happens sometimes. It was still nice -- holding you." Dawson shudders, squeezes his eyes tightly shut. "Should be used to it by now. I just --" His breathing slows as well, his body starting to relax at that brief flex of tension. By the time he opens his eyes again there's a fresh trickle of tears pressed up against Steve's chest. "Thank you. This is nice." There's a quiet note of wonder in his voice. His face turns back in against Steve; it makes the next words come out slightly muffled. "... sometimes feels like it shouldn't be. But you're so..." His head gives a very small shake. "You." "Hard getting used to nightmares." Steve's voice is still quiet and calm, but there's a sort of fatalistic knowing beneath it, too. "They're all too real while they're happening." His arm tightens around Dawson again, experimentally. "I do try to be me," he offers with a soft chuckle, "whenever I can. Why does it feel like it -- shouldn't be nice?" This time the pressure elicits a soft sigh, Dawson's body pressing closer to Steve's. At first he doesn't answer. Just holds tight to the other man, taking a few slow deep breaths. There's something cautious in his expression when his head tips up, eyes lifting to Steve's face. Something cautious in his voice when he finds it again. "You're very strong." Not, presumably, that this comes as much surprise to Steve. He swallows, tries again: "I don't always get -- this comfortable with men who could hurt me." Steve gathers Dawson closer, his own sigh coming ever so naturally -- perhaps a remnant of breathing deliberately in time. He looks down to meet Dawson's gaze, his eyes slightly wide, guileless. "I don't ever want to hurt you," he replies, very seriously. "I doubt I could so easily but --" He cuts himself off. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry if someone hurt you. Someone...like me. Even if only in dreams." "More like memories." Dawson's eyes lower, a slight unsteadiness returning to his voice with that quieter admission. "I know you don't. That's why it --" He shakes his head, tips it back up. Presses his mouth to Steve's, sudden and fierce. Even though they are naked and in bed together, Steve seems just a touch startled at the kiss. He responds readily enough, a soft groan rising up out of him. Both his arms wrap around Dawson now, drawing them tighter together. When he breaks the kiss he's just a little breathless, just a little wild-eyed. "I -- this feels good?" It's only barely a question, his hands slipping beneath the sheet to caress Dawson's back and side. "Even if it's. Like those memories?" "Please --" It's soft and breathy, half-moaned against Steve's mouth. Dawson wraps his arm around Steve, fingers curling against the other man's back and a small but insistent tug of pressure wordlessly encouraging his lover more firmly atop him. His head shakes at Steve's question -- firm -- his eyes bright when they meet the other man's. "This feels good." It comes out a little shaky, faltering. "I can't tell you how much this --" He swallows. Closes his eyes only briefly. There's a keener intensity to his voice when he finds it again. "This feels good because you're nothing like him." Steve carefully obliges, rolling himself on top of Dawson. His own breathing is speeding again. He carefully distributes his not inconsiderable weight off of Dawson, but even so his body is heavy and firm where they press together. "Good. I don't ever want to be like someone who -- like that man." His head dips to press a kiss to Dawson's neck. "Does it...does it...help?" His voice is tight, fiercely controlled. The softer ease that spreads through Dawson's body, tension released from him like a breath held too long, might provide a hint as to the answer to this. Even so, Dawson doesn't offer any immediate reply. His head tilts slightly at the kiss, a pleased shiver of breath escaping him at the touch of Steve's mouth. His legs shift, curling up around Steve's hips. "Is it terrible if I say yes?" His fingers trail down Steve's spine, his forehead tipping up to rest against Steve's shoulder. "It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense. But there are times when you touch me and I feel how easily you could --" He lets out a quick breath. "-- but I've never had a second of doubt that when I say stop, you'll stop." "I don't really understand it, but that doesn't make it -- terrible." Steve's breathing grows ragged with need, but he still continues. "I think it just means I'm lucky." He shivers at the touch of Dawson's fingers along his spine. "That's just such -- basic decency -- ohh..." His hips roll gently against Dawson. "I can't promise I will never hurt you, but I will stop, when you say stop." He swallows hard, his heartbeat palpable where their bodies are pressed together. "Do you want me? Now." "You're lucky?" Dawson's eyes widen, slightly incredulous. This puts a darker flush in his cheeks, another shiver passing through him at the roll of Steve's hips. This time, the soft breath he lets out is almost a laugh -- almost. "I don't think the guards in the labs give a lot of thought to basic decency." The amusement in the statement is a little dry. Whatever his previous unsteadiness, there is only quiet assurance when he does answer. "I want you." There's an urgency in his next kiss, a deeper heat blossoming. "Now."