"Just because you don't use words longer than two syllables doesn't mean I am incoherent, okay, it means you need to invest in a better dictionary."
God. It's relieving. He wishes it weren't, wishes it weren't so, but it is, having this to fall back on. Insulting Steve like always, getting it tossed back at his own head. This game of ping-pong they play constantly, well-oiled and practiced, and as much as he hates to admit it, it helps.
Helps loosen him up, in more ways than just the one Steve is working at. Starts unlacing his back, his hips, the wide space between his shoulders that had grown uncomfortably narrow.
But it's a blip. Right? It can be, is being, moved past. They've got it under control. Danny's got it under control, is a grown man and a competent cop, one who's seen and gone through far worse than his -- than someone like Steve wanting to sleep with him, and walking him through a first time that in any fair and reasonable world would have happened in his teenage years, like everything else did.
No such luck, but at least he's not going into this completely blind or totally unprepared; at least there've been a few weeks of fooling around, enough that he knows at least some things that Steve likes, that feel good.
Like when he moves his hand off Steve's back, shifts himself a little further away, not to disrupt those fingers stretching and loosening and -- Christ, there before it's gone again -- working him over with ruthless concentration.
No. It's to get enough space to slide his own hand between their hips, because Steve is pressing up against his stomach, hard and insistent, and there is seriously no distraction better than concentrating on someone else, on making them feel good, because that makes him feel good, and he likes to think that he's not a totally selfish bastard in bed, that he can give as good as he gets.
Which is why his fingers are curling around Steve in a warm, firm cuff, sliding up so he can rub his thumb over the smooth head, back down again, picking up the pace of Steve's own fingers, feeling a rhythm, and that helps, too. Moving together and making it seamless. Closing the circuit, so it all goes from Steve to him and back again, and he gets a sudden, mind-melting vision of this, but without hands involved, with Steve, or him, buried in each other, rocking into tight perfect heat. How it could go both ways. Which is. Which is perfect, somehow. Equalizing.
Once he's past the rookie bump, anyway, but nobody could ever say Danny Williams is not determined.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-06-02 09:10 pm (UTC)God. It's relieving. He wishes it weren't, wishes it weren't so, but it is, having this to fall back on. Insulting Steve like always, getting it tossed back at his own head. This game of ping-pong they play constantly, well-oiled and practiced, and as much as he hates to admit it, it helps.
Helps loosen him up, in more ways than just the one Steve is working at. Starts unlacing his back, his hips, the wide space between his shoulders that had grown uncomfortably narrow.
But it's a blip. Right? It can be, is being, moved past. They've got it under control. Danny's got it under control, is a grown man and a competent cop, one who's seen and gone through far worse than his -- than someone like Steve wanting to sleep with him, and walking him through a first time that in any fair and reasonable world would have happened in his teenage years, like everything else did.
No such luck, but at least he's not going into this completely blind or totally unprepared; at least there've been a few weeks of fooling around, enough that he knows at least some things that Steve likes, that feel good.
Like when he moves his hand off Steve's back, shifts himself a little further away, not to disrupt those fingers stretching and loosening and -- Christ, there before it's gone again -- working him over with ruthless concentration.
No. It's to get enough space to slide his own hand between their hips, because Steve is pressing up against his stomach, hard and insistent, and there is seriously no distraction better than concentrating on someone else, on making them feel good, because that makes him feel good, and he likes to think that he's not a totally selfish bastard in bed, that he can give as good as he gets.
Which is why his fingers are curling around Steve in a warm, firm cuff, sliding up so he can rub his thumb over the smooth head, back down again, picking up the pace of Steve's own fingers, feeling a rhythm, and that helps, too. Moving together and making it seamless. Closing the circuit, so it all goes from Steve to him and back again, and he gets a sudden, mind-melting vision of this, but without hands involved, with Steve, or him, buried in each other, rocking into tight perfect heat. How it could go both ways. Which is. Which is perfect, somehow. Equalizing.
Once he's past the rookie bump, anyway, but nobody could ever say Danny Williams is not determined.