It helps. The challenge. Danny grabs onto it with both hands, hauls it in, something he recognizes, knows the shape of, the steps to. Not like he knows the mirrored version of what's happening now, knows it's not actually that different, right, except he's on the receiving end instead of giving, but it's all mechanics, right? What the fuck does it matter, as long as everyone involved ends up feeling good?
And it's not like Steve hasn't left the door open for escape if it's necessary. He's not trapped, no matter how much weight is on him, or how they might be wrapped around and in each other. He could call it quits, and hopefully Steve would get it, would recognize that even taking this step by step in one night is a hell of a lot faster than Danny ever goes, that he hadn't really expected to get further than talking about it tonight, that each push for Steve to do more was as much testing himself as it was encouraging his partner.
Like this. Like Steve's rasping voice and messy kiss, which makes Danny's clumsy heart go tripping all over itself again, stumbling off the rungs of his ribs into some soupy mess that he, embarrassingly, can't seem to get rid of around Steve anymore.
Even when he's being a dick. Maybe especially when he's being a dick. When he's doing it on purpose, like now, but Danny doesn't care, can't care, is too grateful for the distraction, the new target to focus on. "Yeah? Good. I was getting worried you lost your touch, there, buddy."
Ragging on him right back, like Steve doesn't have two fingers up his ass and Danny's not trying to figure out how he feels about it all, along with how it feels, to begin with, because the physical reactions are all snarled up with everything going on in his head and his stupid floppy heart that just keeps taking hit after hit, too dumb to run away. "I mean, no offense, but I'm still capable of coherent speech."
EVen when it's an act. Even when his heart is jackrabbiting all over the place, skittish and bewildered in his chest, and his muscles keep trying to tighten around Steve's fingers, even while they're starting to give. Starting to feel better. The pressure and strange feeling of fullness doesn't feel good yet, but it's got that edge that he knows probably will, if he rides it out, bluffs long enough to make it real. It's edging into that feeling, into something to like, something recognizably good, maybe even fun, if he can relax, and just go with it.
He's trying. Steve's helping, but first times are rough all around; he knows, he remembers, has all too many memories of previous first times that were nothing like this, physically, but full of the same uncertainty, not sure where to step and where will send him crashing to the ground or the other person off in a cloud of buzzing frustration.
But he can go with it. Now that it doesn't actively hurt, he can feel panic and worry subsiding, concentrates on Steve's mouth instead of Steve's fingers, on Steve's weight and the slickness of sweat under his hands, on the way Steve looks at him, careful, with a held-back wildness that shows in the blown-out retinas of his eyes, the flush Danny can't see but knows is there, climbing his chest, neck, cheeks. Mocking him, now, in this moment, when it's the best damn thing Steve could be doing for him.
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And it's not like Steve hasn't left the door open for escape if it's necessary. He's not trapped, no matter how much weight is on him, or how they might be wrapped around and in each other. He could call it quits, and hopefully Steve would get it, would recognize that even taking this step by step in one night is a hell of a lot faster than Danny ever goes, that he hadn't really expected to get further than talking about it tonight, that each push for Steve to do more was as much testing himself as it was encouraging his partner.
Like this. Like Steve's rasping voice and messy kiss, which makes Danny's clumsy heart go tripping all over itself again, stumbling off the rungs of his ribs into some soupy mess that he, embarrassingly, can't seem to get rid of around Steve anymore.
Even when he's being a dick. Maybe especially when he's being a dick. When he's doing it on purpose, like now, but Danny doesn't care, can't care, is too grateful for the distraction, the new target to focus on. "Yeah? Good. I was getting worried you lost your touch, there, buddy."
Ragging on him right back, like Steve doesn't have two fingers up his ass and Danny's not trying to figure out how he feels about it all, along with how it feels, to begin with, because the physical reactions are all snarled up with everything going on in his head and his stupid floppy heart that just keeps taking hit after hit, too dumb to run away. "I mean, no offense, but I'm still capable of coherent speech."
EVen when it's an act. Even when his heart is jackrabbiting all over the place, skittish and bewildered in his chest, and his muscles keep trying to tighten around Steve's fingers, even while they're starting to give. Starting to feel better. The pressure and strange feeling of fullness doesn't feel good yet, but it's got that edge that he knows probably will, if he rides it out, bluffs long enough to make it real. It's edging into that feeling, into something to like, something recognizably good, maybe even fun, if he can relax, and just go with it.
He's trying. Steve's helping, but first times are rough all around; he knows, he remembers, has all too many memories of previous first times that were nothing like this, physically, but full of the same uncertainty, not sure where to step and where will send him crashing to the ground or the other person off in a cloud of buzzing frustration.
But he can go with it. Now that it doesn't actively hurt, he can feel panic and worry subsiding, concentrates on Steve's mouth instead of Steve's fingers, on Steve's weight and the slickness of sweat under his hands, on the way Steve looks at him, careful, with a held-back wildness that shows in the blown-out retinas of his eyes, the flush Danny can't see but knows is there, climbing his chest, neck, cheeks. Mocking him, now, in this moment, when it's the best damn thing Steve could be doing for him.