(no subject)
Mar. 26th, 2013 10:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gonna_owe_meSteve is really good at avoiding her.
Normally, she probably wouldn't even call it "avoiding." Normally, she would call it his usual M.O. and chalk it up to being a side effect of being halfway around the world from each other. There are times they've gone for months with no contact, and two weeks is barely the blink of an eye, particularly when she's busy and he keeps getting high-profile, high-priority cases.
At least, that's what she hears, when she hears anything at all.
But those weeks and months of zero contact, running silent, off the grid: those days aren't exactly applicable when there are extenuating circumstances such as A. they are living on the same island and B. she knows there's something he really doesn't want to talk to her about.
Ergo, avoidance.
She's not an impatient or nosy person, though, so she lets it slide, for a little while. He clearly needs to get used to the idea himself, and, frankly, so does she. It's not that they haven't stumbled across a situation where one or the other of them was out of commission for their normal arrangement, but in general, those interrupting factors were not potentially career-threatening. Not to the extent of sleeping with a subordinate. Not to the extent of sleeping with a partner. Not seriously.
And it is serious, whether Steve is admitting to it, or not. It's splashed across him like someone doused him in paint and sticky sunlight, in the way he'd magnetized towards the door, the way he'd run out after Danny. Maybe even more because he didn't bring it up until he absolutely had to.
So Steve is avoiding her, and she can sympathize, because this is not a conversation she particularly wants to sit through, either, but it still needs to happen, because, knowing Steve, he hasn't told anyone else and is shutting it back into compartments poorly designed for a situation of this magnitude and complexity.
Which is why, when she called him on the next weekend inferred to be Danny's weekend with Grace, she's given him the benefit of both giving her the slip for two weeks and the peace offering of meeting at a place with really excellent drinks, one of which she has in hand as she sits at a table by an open window, chin in her hand, looking out at the quietly rolling ocean. It's early evening, and she's come off a twelve hour shift, so it's nice to sit, let her thoughts unhinge, ebb and flow with the waves and mild breeze. Wrangling an affirmative had proved to be difficult, but she'd managed it, pointing out that they might as well meet out, seeing as they're definitely going to make it to the restaurant this time.
It strips him of the home field advantage, too, but he's not the only one who knows how to keep a wall at his back and a few tricks up his sleeve.
Normally, she probably wouldn't even call it "avoiding." Normally, she would call it his usual M.O. and chalk it up to being a side effect of being halfway around the world from each other. There are times they've gone for months with no contact, and two weeks is barely the blink of an eye, particularly when she's busy and he keeps getting high-profile, high-priority cases.
At least, that's what she hears, when she hears anything at all.
But those weeks and months of zero contact, running silent, off the grid: those days aren't exactly applicable when there are extenuating circumstances such as A. they are living on the same island and B. she knows there's something he really doesn't want to talk to her about.
Ergo, avoidance.
She's not an impatient or nosy person, though, so she lets it slide, for a little while. He clearly needs to get used to the idea himself, and, frankly, so does she. It's not that they haven't stumbled across a situation where one or the other of them was out of commission for their normal arrangement, but in general, those interrupting factors were not potentially career-threatening. Not to the extent of sleeping with a subordinate. Not to the extent of sleeping with a partner. Not seriously.
And it is serious, whether Steve is admitting to it, or not. It's splashed across him like someone doused him in paint and sticky sunlight, in the way he'd magnetized towards the door, the way he'd run out after Danny. Maybe even more because he didn't bring it up until he absolutely had to.
So Steve is avoiding her, and she can sympathize, because this is not a conversation she particularly wants to sit through, either, but it still needs to happen, because, knowing Steve, he hasn't told anyone else and is shutting it back into compartments poorly designed for a situation of this magnitude and complexity.
Which is why, when she called him on the next weekend inferred to be Danny's weekend with Grace, she's given him the benefit of both giving her the slip for two weeks and the peace offering of meeting at a place with really excellent drinks, one of which she has in hand as she sits at a table by an open window, chin in her hand, looking out at the quietly rolling ocean. It's early evening, and she's come off a twelve hour shift, so it's nice to sit, let her thoughts unhinge, ebb and flow with the waves and mild breeze. Wrangling an affirmative had proved to be difficult, but she'd managed it, pointing out that they might as well meet out, seeing as they're definitely going to make it to the restaurant this time.
It strips him of the home field advantage, too, but he's not the only one who knows how to keep a wall at his back and a few tricks up his sleeve.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 01:35 am (UTC)Which is just about the stupidest fucking thing he could be thinking right now, alright? Danny's not going to hit him. Danny's hauling him up, tugging on the one wrist he's still got a hold of, and waiting to find the other one again, fingers looping like warm iron, until Steve is closer, gravity of the bed shifting along with his weight, long lean frame slipping to the side. Propping himself up, which is all wrong, and Danny's deeply annoyed at the whole prospect of it, decides to tell him so.
"What are you doing, where do you think you're going, I said come here, what are you, deaf? Come on, we haven't even gotten to the mindblowing stuff yet, pay attention."
Hands working up Steve's arms like he's pulling in a rope as he talks, fingers finding a shoulder to curl around, the back of Steve's neck and the rough edge of Steve's hair, dragging him down as Danny's whole body shifts towards him, half-rolling, and he's always been a tactile person, but there's so much more than hands that can be put into play, here. He can roll flush against Steve, box him with his whole body, leg sliding over Steve's so the outside of Danny's ankle bumps gently against the inside of Steve's calf. Tangle him up, find every possible connecting point.
Hand drifting from Steve's neck down over his shoulder, pressing firmly down the slope of his back, hooking briefly at his hip, moving to curve, proprietary and jealous, over the curve of muscle that, really, those cargo pants do not do justice. Soft skin, hard muscle, pliant and pale after the long stretch of tanned, tattooed skin -- though Danny's thumb rubs familiarly over the ink that's normally threaded under cargo pants, just peeking past board shorts or boxers.
And because Steve had that look on his face -- that one that said he's thinking too hard, and about something Danny would probably yell at him for -- he keeps it up, nipping at Steve's bottom lip before messing it back up with a kiss that is genuinely messy, open-mouthed and decisive, selfish, wanting Steve's mouth all for himself, wanting Steve's teasing back, not soft words if they're coupled with Steve being too far away to touch.
He doesn't want that. He wants this. To wrap himself entirely around Steve as possible. To be part of this, because Danny accepted long ago that Steve is probably going to be his downfall, but it's not like he's isn't running towards it, refusing to leave.
"They let you get a tramp stamp in the Army?"
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 02:14 am (UTC)Maybe the water analogy is wrong. Maybe it's more like a bomb. Loud and everywhere, splitting seams without warning, before you can even be sure that walls were around you they are done, gone, every bit of them flying at you. The first set of words shoving sort of like a wire brush, sounds connecting with fingers on the fragile skin of his neck, heels being thrown over digging into his calf like his body is made of pillows that will adjust to Danny.
And just when there's the kind of overhaul of everything everywhere suddenly, rising like unexpected bile, this need to fend off, to shove away, hold, find a breath, breathe is, release five or ten triggers all being jammed, going off at once, loud and red, then Danny's mouth is on his. There are teeth digging sharp into his lip, even if briefly, causing his fingers to catch on Danny's side, dragging him closer as his skin is palmed harder against a shudder. Neither of which he can actually pay attention to. None of it. Because then Danny is kissing him.
Forget explanations, or plans, or yelling at him; Danny is kissing him like he wants Steve to forget he's thinking. Which half is working, when Steve's hand is finding his shoulder and cheek and his hair, and he's kissing Danny back about as recklessly. With a sharp jagged razor of relief that doesn't even stop burning for the hands everywhere, for Danny taking away his air. Because he's wrong and he's an idiot and fucking hell, he doesn't even know, but he knows Danny's mouth, and he's taking on the taste of it like someone who hasn't had anything but sawdust for decades.
When all of that throbs under his rib cage, high pitched and hard, when Danny pulls away to mocking his tattoo, like his fingers are currently tracing it and digging into it, and everything around it, in equal measure. When the first burst of frustration and fire is easy to twist into a word, even the word Danny is begging for. "Navy, Danny." His name, more like he's saying asshole, somewhere between a burst of annoyance and sardonicism.
Then. Like he's saying it for a child, he enunciates it a second time, in two syllables. "Na-vy."
"And no one gives a damn what's under your A.J.'s." he clarifies, like it matters at all here.
With Danny's fingers running prickles down his skin, that are still running both directions in the line of reasoning. When he's dragging Danny closer, liking at the light at the core of madness, because they already are flushed, and it's so goddamn easy to thrust up against Danny and his stomach as he says, "Unless they have a reason to be under them at the time."
Which his tone is already implying, heavy laced, no one ever has a problem with them at that point either.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 04:31 am (UTC)He's so curious, uncertain and blundering but on fire, too, and, Christ, is all night going to be enough time? Part of him wishes they could head back to the beginning of the weekend -- as if their jobs make sure to give them Friday evening through Monday morning off, as if the concept of a weekend applies to the dirtbags they routinely go after.
But if they could. If there were all the time in the world.
He would use it. Could use it. To lay Steve out, sprawled and beautiful in nothing at all but starlight or sunshine. Map him out with mouth and fingers, push him slowly and ruthlessly into restless moans and the short, sharp gasps of no air and no words.
To figure this out. As if it's possible to take a crash course, and be good with it, as if he's probably not going to still be awkward and uncertain about it weeks from now. As if it won't be an embarrassingly long time before he's getting it right.
(Hopefully. Hopefully he'll be able to take an embarrassingly long amount of time, because hopefully Steve's not going to pull this shit again, hopefully Steve won't leave before then.)
"That sounds like the plot to a porno," he points out, as well as he can when his breath is getting tight and he can't really talk too well with his mouth on Steve's, wet and hot, sliding but never falling back far enough to pull in some oxygen or find some space. "No, shut up, I don't want to know."
He would be happy going the rest of his life not knowing, okay? Sure. He's not the first. And it's not like he's been chaste his whole life; no way.
But he can't swallow around the vicious snap of jealously that sinks into his stomach, at the thought of there being other hands touching Steve like this, other mouths on his, that he kissed like this, touched like this. At the thought that it'll be someone else, again, after this, and it shakes him, the flat denial that lifts like a sudden brick wall in the face of those thoughts.
That no one should ever touch Steve like this. No one but him.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 05:56 am (UTC)His voice at first flippant and tauntingly disgusted, before Danny contradicts himself with a tone Steve has locked in a specific box of recognition. A special, rare place, where he knows it's wrong, but his fingers are running lines into Danny's back the way Danny's running cracks in the foundation under his feet, under every thought doing this. Used only on specific people Danny really doesn't want anywhere near him.
Old friends, certain superiors, old not-quite-girlfriends. This acid spike that's curling his voice, and cutting his taunting, and, best or worst of all, making Steve rumble a laugh, half in his chest and half onto to Danny's lips, that's smug and too aware, shooting back. "You changed your mind, then?"
When he knows Danny hasn't. Or at least he's pretty sure he hasn't, given all this. But they aren't talking about that. Not when he's using Danny's flippant, sudden, sparking turn around tone as a springboard. Steve's pretty sure Danny's mind hasn't been changed at all, just that he doesn't exactly want the details of other people on top of it. Which, Steve can't actually argue, even when he's cruelly needling.
Which is why he doesn't leave it at that entirely. Because it's not entirely inconvenient, this setup Danny's given him.
Danny wrapped around him, over him, in a way that makes Steve drop his hand from Danny's side and his back to that leg swung over his. Finding the back of Danny's thigh and pulling him closer, pulling Danny's leg higher, pushing into the space under it, getting even closer. Narrow hips rocking a little shamelessly, into a more comfortable position, against the momentarily blinding image of both of Danny's legs both wrapped like this.
Higher. Tighter. Fighting to exist in the same space again. Fingers digging in against the heavy back, inside of Danny's thigh briefly.
Before he's running his palm up the back inside of it. Experimenting with the interestingly wide open space he'd not at all really counted on between Danny's legs given by the position. Even while he was baiting Danny onward, with this syrupy sarcastic lead, when he's capturing Danny's lips to kiss him and to keep poking at the same time. "Because this's just sadistic if you have."
Especially when Steve doesn't sound in the slightest honest, or worried, or like he gives care. Isn't soaking it up like sunshine in the middle of a Saturday afternoon when naps just slam you over with the Aloha feeling of not needing to be anywhere, doing anything but lapping up the sun and the breeze and the shade and the sea.
Like he absolutely loves it every single time Danny turns into a short-sighted, raving idiot due to jealousy.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 03:00 pm (UTC)It's Steve. Kissing him, and not anyone else. His hands on Steve's skin. Steve's hips shifting under his thigh. "Did you hit your head on something?"
Moving off Steve's mouth, to the cutting angle of Steve's jaw, down lower, to take revenge for Steve's stupidity on the pulse point just below the line of his chin, mouth latching onto it, sucking hard, a vicious hot pull against his tongue that ends with a dulled bite. "Do I look like I've changed my mind?"
Not when his leg is being hitched up. Not when his hands are all over Steve's skin, and his mouth is seeking out and laying claim to the rapid hammering of Steve's pulse. "Besides, I'm not into that."
Sadism, that is, because in no way is he not deeply responsive to pretty much everything Steve's doing, everywhere he's touching. It's better like this, blanketing each other, getting involved, getting into it, hands tracking Steve's skin just like Steve's are tracking his. The room sinking back into warmth and silence that isn't that warning ringing sound echoing in his ears. Muscles loosening, and there's no holding back, anymore. No gripping the sheets instead of Steve, no intent focus and concentration only making him tense up further.
Just Steve, and that laugh that spills into Danny's chest and bubbles up into his head and makes him want to keep talking to say the stupidest thing he can think of, just so he can hear it again, just so it's Steve's stupid goofy pleased smile pressing into his mouth, his skin, and not soft caution, carefulness that seems so alien to everything he knows about Steve.
Not that he doesn't appreciate it. He appreciates it. This is crazy, even for them, and he kind of would like to keep it from being outright painful as well as awkward, if possible, so a certain degree of care is nice.
But he's not going to break, and he's not going to run, and he's not going to change his mind. "You think maybe it would even be slightly possible to change my mind and not want sex with you? Because I gotta tell you, babe, this is not the way to go about making that happen."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 03:59 pm (UTC)To the moment where everything is sharp, hot, sparkling under Danny's mouth on that spot, because he's pulling, because there are suddenly teeth. Wet and hard against Steve's neck, making all of his body feeling like it's throbbing as one thing, surprised by a sudden jolt of lightning. Causing him to grind himself into Danny. His chest, his hips, him. Making his body sieze and shudder a handful of time, even when he's dragging Danny closer, into him, setting explosions off from firecrackers.
Hand sliding over and down and more in. Wanted, burning through him. Grafting across the cheeks of Danny's ass, thumb settled up the crease of that skin and fingertips stretched, in a rough, sudden cup around him. Pressing up on the place where they are slammed together, pushing fingers tips, possessively, against the smooth skin at his center, and the loose skin of his balls and the base of him, as the world burned against teeth, against want, against a desperate, wanted, courted dissolution.
Like there was a need to compress Danny there, flush and flat, touching everywhere, everything, never let him go.
When he wants to kiss Danny, wants to burn it down into his lungs, but he's already tipped his head. He's already pushing his neck still against Danny's mouth, words, voice, cheek, chin, head, even when it's like asking Danny to fry the rest of the wires, when he should care give a damn, tomorrow morning, but it's a long way away and Danny's mouth is here now. He wants it on his skin now.
"Is this your version of less talking, more action?," Steve is grating out, as sarcastic and buoyed by undoing as that undoing was unraveling his want to hold stil, say, think. Shorting his voice out somewhere into Danny's hair, stripping it from his insides like muscles ripping up from bones. Because the idea that Danny is still there, makes him want to fuck the rules, fuck Monday mornings, fuck waiting or asking or anything but up the ante for the reasons Danny is plastered against him.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 04:41 pm (UTC)Owning his skin, just like that hand is, hot and firm and it feels like everywhere all at once, palm pressing against spots almost painfully sensitive, and bursting washed-out colors behind his eyes, exploding in his chest, messy, shrapnel getting everywhere, making him bleed out this thing that isn't blood, getting it all over, in sloppy stripes against Steve's skin, making his hands shake and his breath shorten hard, a racehorse getting reined in just before the final turn.
Necessary, maybe, because the way they're pressing against each other, tipping into each other, they might not last long enough to do anything different, to get inside anywhere, and that would be a shame, right, he should try slowing down, hasn't even had his hands on Steve since the couch, hasn't gotten his mouth anywhere on him but lips and here.
Bulling his way back up Steve's neck to cheek and jaw and mouth, getting dragged unceremoniously into what is definitely not any extra space, is just more Steve, unrelenting and unforgiving as a wall, everywhere, because he is a fucking construction project, not a normally built human. "This doesn't seem like action to you?"
Fingers blunting dipped circles into the muscle of his ass, arm going around his shoulders, and he kind of feels like he's climbing up a wall that could collapse on him at any time, but, whatever, Steve has a big enough bed there's plenty fo space to roll around. "Then we must not be doing it right."
Right, wrong, it doesn't matter, not when it's all skin and heavy breaths and getting so hot and hard it's starting to drive him crazy every time their hips tilt toward each other. "I'm waiting on you, big guy. You take that stuff out just for its aesthetic appeal, or were you planning on doing something with it?"
Playing with fire doesn't even begin to describe what he's doing, what he knows he's doing, pushing at the threadbare edges of Steve's sanity, trying, actually trying to snap Steve's self-control, and he'll probably pay for it, but it's better than Steve thinking too hard, focusing too much, forgetting that he gets to enjoy this, too.
And, well. Sometimes it's easier to take the plunge if you rev up your engine and go speeding off the cliff, instead of tiptoeing to the side of the edge.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 05:32 pm (UTC)When Steve is trying hard not to focus on the blinding truth burning across his thoughts like a fucking steamroller.
How few inches and how with just the right force of a thrust, core muscles and thighs tight and sudden, focused, he could could be buried in Danny. To his hips. A world of heat and tight, melting the whole world. Especially like this. Especially when Danny is climbing up him, scraping skin, shifting positions, making it feels like his skin is starting to crack from the tension of holding still, of letting him. How little he'd have to move to be there, to do that.
His hand already there, how it would be easy to shove Danny into the right place, inches from where here is.
How close. How easy. How desperately wanted. How much it burns, blotting out the sun.
While Danny is shoving out words about whether he plans to do anything. Making him want to snap back as much as tense his jaw. When he's wrestling free where his other arm is, pulling, pushing, shoving it under Danny, between his shoulder and neck and the bed and turning his face, with a burning exasperation, that comes out sharp with a time-worn insult and strain. "Don't you ever shut up."
Steve leaning in to catch his mouth, hard and fast. Those aren't even the words to describe this kiss. It's more like ruthless. It's more like attack or siege. It's more about plunging into the one place he can at that second, when he needs to shove it all somewhere, while he's having to use all the strength in his arm and his shoulder to just pry his fingers off Danny's ass. To not move, to not touch him, fuck him, strong arm him and send him reeling straight over. Yet. Like this.
To not shove the fuck forward and apologize on the other end, when they're both broken and broken-open and blitzed gone. But he gets there. His fingers, his arm, burning muscles and tension. Letting go. Searching on the bed for the bottle while he's searching the entirity of Danny's mouth for his sanity.
At least he finds the first one. Can vaguely admit he doesn't give a damn about the second, wants to lose it, wants to let go, wants to not give a single fuck about burning every line and wall between them, especially when he's flicking the bottle around in his hand and there's the definite sound of plastic uncapping with a snap. Twisting that until it's the right direction, toward his fingers and palm and aware a dripping mess is just as likely on whatever bits of their skin are right below his hand.
The bottle getting tossed down somewhere behind his legs, too hard to hold on to when he's rubbing his fingers together through lube, and he doesn't wait or ask this time. He just pushes even closer, bumping hip bones and thighs and hips, like it's possible still, when he's sliding one thigh hard and thigh-high between Danny's legs, to create space while he starts slicking up Danny's skin, and pushing, specifically, this time with the tip of his middle finger.
Down, in, around, against muscles he knows will give if he just gives it the right amount of his nearly void patience.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 06:56 pm (UTC)Well, yeah. There are plenty of times he'll shut up. This mouth of his gets a vacation in bed, because A. he's usually doing something better with it and B. he's still working on "there's a baby in the house, let's not wake her up and scar her for life."
And there are other times. When he's too preoccupied to even start, when he'd rather play something close to the chest, because he doesn't always need everyone he knows knowing about everything in his life, alright, no matter what Steve says or thinks or how annoying he can be in trying to wheedle out the problem, going into investigative, high-focus mode, like he thinks Danny's being blackmailed or something every time Danny doesn't tell him what's wrong.
But this is not one of those times. This is talking Steve into reality, out from under whatever umbrella of mission-ready focus he'd steeled himself for, because this should all be taken seriously, but that doesn't mean it should be taken seriously, and, really, Danny's warning sirens all go off blaring their unhappiness at him when Steve gets that narrowed concentrating look, like he's defusing a bomb.
Which is not to say that when he gets what he asks for -- a click of plastic and drops of slick liquid falling on his skin, and then, pressure, like before, except Steve doesn't stop, Steve keeps going -- he doesn't tense up.
But it's not like he's under sights of a firing line. It's confusion, uncertainty, bewilderment, muscles not sure what's happening, body trying to adjust, to give more room and take it away at the same time, and he's concentrating too hard on finding that space to really be able to tell if it feels good or not.
It doesn't feel bad. It feels weird. Strange. Pressure where he's not used to pressure. Clarifying for him exactly how tight he is, how new this is, and Steve's fingers are long and clever, but they're not exactly small, either, and this is just the tip.
But it's. It's not bad. Just new. And it's Steve, so, really, when has he ever not gone where Steve went? Next to North Korea, this is a cakewalk.
So he says the first thing that comes to mind, that ricochets off what Steve said downstairs, about what he wants, has wanted, will do, wants to do. "Make me."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 07:33 pm (UTC)To not force every single thing that Steve possibly could. Wants to, more than breathing. Is waiting to even have the faintest chance of getting at if he doesn't mess this up. Even when he's hazarding, like he's harrying Danny, a threat that is as much a promise as any other words that had come out of his mouth, ever. "That is the point."
When Steve is nowhere near giving up or considering stopping. Even if it was just prep for more, in any other thing, it takes time. Well. When you aren't just deciding to throw it all to the wall and slam right past it. Which does have it's own pitfalls and amazing points both. Things he's thinking of and trying to cast aside. At least for today. At least until Danny's past this. Chiding the universe on breaking him of the whole idea, rule, thing, of no one brand new.
It's pushing against the muscles suddenly torn between tensing up on his finger, around it, and trying to relax. All in series of movements he can't help but feel. Pulling in and out, as much to manipulate the muscle as to get lube on the inside. To make the friction less and the traction for movement more, when he's past his first knuckle, pulling back and then pushing forward for his second. Not stopping. Dragging his finger, back and forth working at skin he can't see. Only feel this way.
Pushing against tense, confused, resistant muscle. Swallowing through a dry throat and empty lungs. That way he feels like hard is a sensation that left his own body behind an hour ago. Underestimation of where it is now, what he is now. Every part of him keyed to the claustrophobic feeling of being swallowed whole going on around his finger, to there, that want for it to be around him. This friction. This movement. The way he can tell each time it gets marginally easier to move. Further forward or to the sides, to pull back and push back in.
When more of his palm is ending up closer, flatter, flush against Danny's skin. When he can start trying to angle up. To dig back against muscle. To find the the right place to hit just that much harder, firmer. Considering already if he should be moving on to two fingers, even as he keeps going, picking up his speed instead.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 08:05 pm (UTC)And it's strange. A weird mirroring of things he's done, himself, with the women he's been with, only that had been pliant and easy and nobody had ever seemed uncomfortable, generally speaking. There wasn't a lot of prep involved, aside from foreplay, it's not like the mechanics needed to be helped along like this.
But now it's not his finger, it's Steve's, and it feels so bizarre, this fullness that he can't place, hasn't felt before. It's not painful, thankfully, but he wouldn't exactly classify it as comfortable, either. It just...is. And then there's movement, slow but purposeful, and Steve going a little deeper, and this is, he's not, part of him wants to protect his manhood and the other part of him thinks that whole idea is a load of crap, does it matter whose finger is where, who is fucking who? It doesn't make him a girl, doesn't make him any less in control of what he does, what he wants.
Right?
It's definitely not unpleasant, once he gets used to it. Pressure, filling. Slick friction against something that nudges cautiously in the direction of good, and then Steve shifts his hand and it flashes full into it, with a surprising speed that takes what little breath he's got left away, strangles it in his chest and makes his fingers clench, where they've moved to Steve's back and his arm. "That's more like it."
Tense words, confused and dropping like quarters, and he shifts his hips, experimentally, tries pushing himself further, and gets another flash of heat that leaves him shaking gently, from the way his muscles are keyed up, from the surprising shotgun flare of unexpected pleasure.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough, and he's not an idiot, he doesn't expect the first time to be smooth, or good, or to wind up a pro before sleep whacks them over the head with a mallet, but it's heartening, to say the least.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 08:31 pm (UTC)And then he's pushing back, getting this snort of a laugh from Steve's mouth. Before Steve is leaning close to Danny. Danny half distracted in newness, pushing down on his hand and then squirming on his hand, muscles shaking throughout Danny's body against his body. Shuddering through Steve this roll of choking black relief, knotted up with arrogant achievement that's getting brighter by the second.
Rolling out of his mouth, dark and menacing, "You sure?"
"I was thinking that this was." The only words to hit the air, before he's taking it for all the encouragement he needs.
His hand moving with only that little warning, before it doesn't stop. Sudden. Faster, harder, deliberate. Once. Twice. Again. The smack of his palm hitting Danny's skin actually beginning to make noise each time now, given the only place his palm can end up, when his finger is all the way back in Danny. He'll get to more fingers in second. He wants Danny back to that soft gasping and shivering now. Again. He wants to shove him into it.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 09:02 pm (UTC)It's not quite up to what Steve was talking about, before. He hasn't lost the ability to speak, hasn't forgotten how to make words, push them into the air; he's just got a few other things on his plate, like struggling with his body's contradictory impulses to make this stop and get more of it all at the same time.
Hips shifting, legs moving awkwardly, trying to find the best spot, the one hitched up by Steve's hip trembling slightly with the effort of staying there. Muscles he'd never even considered, starting to ache from a combination of tension and trying to stay in the best position -- whatever that might be.
And then Steve's hand is moving, finger harder and faster, and even if it isn't mind-blowing, even if he's too tense and too uncertain to just lay back and enjoy it, it feels good, better than he expected, and he can feel himself loosening up, allowing it, the slick-slide of lube making things easier, erasing any fear of dry rubbing friction, and, okay. It's just one finger, but that's one more than he's ever had there before and he feels like he's doing pretty well with the whole not-freaking-out-about-gay-sex thing, all things considered.
"It's a good start," he tosses back, finally, hand going to Steve's jaw and dragging him in for a kiss, open-mouthed, wet and clumsy, and it's maybe to hide the way his breathing is getting shorter, shallower, and maybe it's because this is a touchstone. Steve's mouth. Steve's breath, and smile, and the triumphant smirk on Steve's face that Danny can't even try to wipe away, because, all right, this is pretty amazing. Isn't it?
Of everything he ever thought would never happen, this is right at the top of the list.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-01 09:37 pm (UTC)With his damnedable wardrobe that is nothing like a teenagers and frequently make Steve feel like someone turned back the clock and made him one though. Made it so he can't deal sometimes with a pair a perfect sized pants and a long set of shirts that have to be custom made. Nothing fits like that. Even when custom isn't Danny, and it leaves Steve ache everywhere from his chest to his pants, like he just hit fourteen again, he still doesn't want them to go.
Because nothing about this is about teenagers. But Danny is in the middle of something so new Steve isn't even quite sure he can remember how 'new' felt the first time. Awkward? Strange? Odd? Rushed. Not the first time. But definitely the second first. When he knows it's all new for Danny. Every reaction, every impulse. When he's momentarily tensing his jaw when Danny is shifting his hips and moving against him, where Danny doesn't even seem to know, but it's tearing showers of electric sparks up the center of Steve's stomach, hazing out his vision for at least a full second.
Making his grip stick for a second, as Danny's is pulling on his face. Danny. Danny who suddenly needs something to move, to do, there's almost a frantic energy to it. His words, his face, the way he's breathing in and our faster than would have it getting much to his lungs at all. When he's kissing Steve like somehow he's going to miss all of this. Miss how he's cataloging the sprint of Danny's heartbeat into a slow racing gallop. The more serious, necessary grip of his fingers. The focus of his mouth. Needing Steve.
Needing Steve's attention, Steve's mouth, Steve to be there with him, have him, keep him floating from both ends. Even when he's returning the kiss rather than finding words to give back to Danny's. How he's shifting his finger in a wide circle, before pulling out. Before rubbing at his pointer finger before he's pressing down again with both. Stretching his fingers apart at the same time as pushing down now. Because this is only going one direction, now, and it's not backwards or slower.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 04:00 am (UTC)Right.
Which is all the more necessary when Steve's finger slips out, leaving him feeling strangely empty, and then pushes back in, with another, scissoring apart and ripping the first true tear of actual pain through him. Not just discomfort. Like tearing skin, ripping stitches, and his breath catches in all the wrong ways while he rides it out, muscles thrumming and fingers white-knuckled against Steve's skin, breath shoving straight out of his chest.
It doesn't last, thankfully. Pain dulls quickly and it has a way of carting away even the memory of it as soon as it stops being felt, but his body is cautious, uncertain, unsure if it's going to happen again, if it'll be like that every time, even as he starts adjusting to further intrusion, two fingers stretching parts of him that's he's pretty sure were never meant to be stretched. Steve's palm cupped between his legs. A low groan that's more reaction to discomfort than it is to desire, but it's getting better.
More quickly than he'd think, though there was definitely a backwards step for a second, there, muscles clenching hard, body freezing up briefly, breathing against Steve's mouth as his eyes close and he focuses. Lets it roll through him. Makes relaxation a conscious effort, breathes it in and out until he can feel himself opening up.
And maybe this is the flaw in his plan, because he's good at talking Steve over a ledge or off one, but this is verging into brand-new territory and he needs a second just as much as he doesn't, as much as he's sure it's probably better to just shove ahead and damn the consequences.
Or maybe not. He doesn't know, which is sort of the point.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 05:28 am (UTC)That nearly makes Steve's chest try to jump outside of himself. Idiocy and concern vying for each other, against something slick, oiled, and stupid clawing its way up the inside of his chest, inside of his ribs, his spine with long needle like claws. Something like desperation smashing in those waves rocking up from the pit in his stomach that has nothing left to stand on.
"Hey," Steve said. Firm, firmer than anything feels in him. Moving a little slower, a pacing consistency, but not stopping. Not about to stop. Not about to let Danny's seize up entirely and undo all he's already done, doing so well with, pushing into himself. Not until or unless Danny asks him to. Needs him to. Which isn't quite yet. He thinks. Hopes. Pushes. Himself, and Danny, fingers still moving.
When he's licking his lips and talking into Danny's mouth. Keeping his voice that way. "Stay with me, Danny."
Here, with him. Where Danny drug him up to. Here, with him, where he keeps telling Danny he is. Where he keeps shoving everything else out for, no matter how loud and dizzyingly distracting it gets, or how much it feels like he's going to combust if something doesn't happen, because he wants Danny, here with him, wants to be here with Danny, more than he wants any of the rest of it. Because he'd still choose to be here, here with Danny, even if he hadn't said anything on the couch downstairs.
Which makes him all the more of fool for pushing and then needing to say it. For needing to find his way into Danny's mouth, pulling on his bottom lip before kissing him, like an even more immediate request, or demand, teasing drag to pull Danny's focus back to him, back to the better things. Because it'll get easier. He knows that. If it doesn't stop, it'll get better. Along with the list of reasons he doesn't do this kind of thing, but would rather have his skin boiled off before he'd leave Danny or stop or want it to be anyone else.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 01:07 pm (UTC)A partnership. That's what it is. A good one, the kind where they trust each other, know how far the other one can be pushed, be certain that they always have each other's backs. A friendship where they share everything, triumphs and problems and losses.
And now Steve wants to share this. Wants him here, present, right now, in this second, which means Danny needs to drag himself out of his preoccupied focus, the way he'd dragged Steve earlier, and respond, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, pressing up for a kiss, letting his fingers let go, even when it feels like prying them off Steve's skin or moving them to another spot is just asking to slide right off the cliff face.
Except he won't. Because Steve's got him. Steve's right here. Moving careful and slow, without stopping, pushing in, and Danny's struck for a second by how right it is that Steve, who's been metaphorically shoving himself into Danny's chest and head and under his skin for two years now is the one to be doing it for real, to slip inside and make room for himself where there wasn't any before.
Making his voice hoarse when he answers, but it's there. He's here. Is along for this ride, just like he said. He's not leaving Steve hanging out here alone, no matter how strange it all feels.
"Okay," he says, lets his iron grip relax, spreads his fingers, skates palm and careful fingers over Steve's skin instead of digging in again. "I'm here."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 03:04 pm (UTC)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."
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 03:40 pm (UTC)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.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 04:12 pm (UTC)As much as he could ever ignore this. Touching Danny. Danny on him. Around him. His fingers, his hips, grafted close with just a much fear about the whole thing as trust that Steve isn't going to drop him suddenly. Steve who's pushing through the feeling clouding up his chest, surprising him for it happening now, again, to swat back at Danny's complaints about his style, about the time he's taking, about firsts and Danny's own reactions, like smacking a fly.
Steve says, heavy and sarcastic, sharp insulting bite to his words, "You haven't been coherent a day in your life."
It's not entirely untrue that Steve misses the looks people throw Danny. But he does catch some of them. The ones that get made because of that. Because Danny is mouthy Jersey cop, with a flash-paper short temper and hands that act like planes. Who goes off at the drop of hat, ready to throw several volumes of a dictionary at unsuspecting people's head, with those dangerous hands flying everywhere.
That it can confuse people just as fast when he's happy as when he's angry. Because he's kind of like a massive wave, just hitting you and drenching you with everything all at once. Just keeps coming and covering everything. An onslaught. A squall. Maybe Steve didn't mind because he learned how to stand all those things before he got to it. Or maybe because he catches on to the pea sized matter behind Danny's bluster every time.
Catches on to the way it matters. All of it, even now. Needing to be coherent, needing to be sure, needing to push forward as much as not say he's obviously thought about running away. That it's not easy. And running would be, stopping would be. That easy just took a dive off the cliff Danny shoved Steve over, and he's still gripping the top with his fingers.
Clutching every single known thing he has to consider normal, right, something he already knows and knows he's good at.
All of those things Danny Williams likes having as his foundation. The things he's good at, that he likes to hear he's good at.
(no subject)
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.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 10:00 pm (UTC)There were words on his tongue a second ago. There was a goal in his head. There were careful, precise rules somewhere under them. Trigger-wire specific about what not to do, again, labeling half of half everything. There was even some semblance of caustic frustations-patience-want and a whole new card hand of belligerence distracting him as much as it was distracting Danny.
Before Danny's hand. Before every inch of his skin -- already screaming at a pitch he had marked down for ignoring, like it was thing he'd seen and left and maybe even locked away behind Door 1 while he was standing over in 4 or 5, with the more important things happening -- seemed to spasm like a single large living organism cracking, crashing, giving birth to wave of overwhelming fire that slammed with as unexpected a force as being punched in the face in in the middle of being dead asleep.
There is no stopping that sound being torn from the bottom of stomach, or his feet, or peeled off his spine, when his body shoves into Danny, Danny's hand with, there, the undeniable response not too unalike to being electrocuted. Which. Which is all in good. All of it. If any of it hurt. If what was crumpling his thoughts, his very want to breathe or remember, whatever he was supposed to be remember that was empty, blowing away, blown out, if it hurt. He could handle that.
But it doesn't hurt.
Nothing hurts.
Nothing.
There's fire crackling in his vocal cords, behind his eyes, filling up his nose and his mouth, every vertebrae in his spine with a burst of blinding light, rolling fog, the sensation that feels so good, so complete and indestructible, unassailable, it nearly might as well be pain. Nothing that overwhelming ever isn't, is it? Tearing him apart. Shoving into every atom of space, laughing in the wake of destruction like every wall and door and plan and thought had been made of plaster and well-drawn on parchment paper.
When he can't tell if he's shoving into Danny, or dragging him closer, can't control for a moment the speed or depth or grip of his hand, because every other fingers in that hand is presently busy. Grafting his fingertips, fingers, palm, into the mound of muscle under it when he's shaking. Thrusting back, muscle control a memory. When the world is only laughably beginning to give him windows that imply he had eyes, or the capability for vision from them, a second ago.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 10:26 pm (UTC)To watch Steve lose it. Making Danny wonder how far out on this plank Steve walked, telling himself he was in control, ignoring himself so he could focus on Danny, because it hits like someone jumping through a plate glass window, unexpected and complete. Landing like a boulder in his chest, that starts rolling casually around that crammed space, crushing everything it comes across, flattening him out leaving him as winded as if it were Steve's hand on him, instead of the other way around.
Making him, wildly, want to call a halt to everything else, push down, get his mouth there, reduce Steve to a shaking, groaning mess, every constructed wall tumbling away, every barred off door ripping off its hinges. Lay him out on the mattress, sweat-slick and beautiful, with no one else's hands or mouth and no one else's name dropping off his lips in restless moans. Because no one gets to be here. If they're stupid enough to let Steve go, they've lost their chance. Danny's made plenty of mistake in his life, but this, this is not one of them, he knows it down deep in his bones, knows it like he knows Grace is beautiful and brilliant and best of all good, like he knows coins will drop and birds will fly.
It can't come to nothing. It's already this, and this is already too much for him to hold without being terrified it will fall out of his hands and smash on the floor; this already shoves his hapless heart out of the way to make more room for Steve, for Steve's smiles and frowns and testiness and the way he knocks the cap off a bottle of beer without looking at it, for the larger than life Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett who is too big for every room and takes up too much space in the car and the bed and the couch, who only seems to fit when he's out on the ocean, where the horizons are boundless and the sky gives him all the space he needs.
That's what tries to fit inside Danny's chest, in his head, and it will never, could never work, but it's there anyway, and Steve should never be surprised that Danny wants to touch him. To make him make that sound. To reduce him to trembling muscles, snapped self-control, rasping voice that lacks any kind of sense or words.
Like this. Shoving deeper, harder, into Danny, and it hurts, but it's good, too, making his eyes squeeze shut and his breath grow labored, shallow pants gusting against Steve's lips, chin, cheek. Racing up his spine in looping threads that squeeze, pushing everything out of the way except Steve, who really is everywhere, now, around and on top and inside and if Danny could fit all of him under his skin, he would.
He can't, though, so his fingers just tighten, and keep pace, and his hips are moving, pushing back and forth, asking for more, more, more Steve, more of this, more.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-02 11:59 pm (UTC)Danny and Danny's breaths. The fingers sheathing up and down his skin, dragging madness, bumping and bungling knuckles into his stomach as it goes. The thigh clenched over his skin. Not because it's clenched. Because it's moving. Because it connects the fast shifting dragging along his leg, hips pumping against his hips, making him realize his own hips are, and that those other hips, their butting up against his hand. His hand, moving at about the same second as the realizing its attached, buried, that Danny is pushing against it.
When everything comes back with the kind of burning sudden intensity it failed, fled, burned out with it's almost as staggering. Even when rationality says the whole of it can't have been more that seconds, it still feels staggering. Stay. Is building. With each move of Danny's fingers, and his hips. That is being matched very suddenly by a drive. To keep up, to run beyond, to push deeper, more solid. When really the rest of him doesn't give a single damn about where his head is or whether he needs it. That. That can tatter and tear, be lost in the wind.
He doesn't need it for this. He doesn't need it to figure out how to move his hand, his wrist like a pistone. Like the reverse of the one his own hips are pushing into Danny. His hands, his body, the movement of his hips, the drag of him hard and solid pressing into Steve's own stomach, and those hands, and himself. And he doesn't. He doesn't need to think. Thinking. Thinking is hard and high and so overrated it could be sold out and he wouldn't remember to care right now.
He wants this. He wants that indescribable madness where it's blurring in his head. The feeling of his fingers getting lost in Danny's skin, with the one where there's tension, tightness pulling, grasping, warmth cuffed all around him. Almost. Almost like. Close enough it seems insane, and not insane, blurs, bleeds, desperate wants and blinding bursts pleasure. And all he wants is this. All of this. And to move his head and find Danny's mouth. To give up on that, too.
Because he doesn't need to breathe. Anymore than he needs to think. But he needs Danny.
Needs to know. Needs to feel him, touch him, taste him, check in with him for even losing it for a single second, find the only air and answers that even matter in the world, on his lips, his tongue, in the air and the words he has, shove everything into him, to be there with him, drag him down, make sure he's here, in this sudden set of stairs that turned into a tilting carousel, sudden drastic, tipping, sliding toward free fall.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-03 02:29 am (UTC)He almost can't breathe. Can't figure out if he needs to stop, or if there's nothing at all to do but keep going, push into Steve's stomach and feel his own bottom out, leg hard around Steve's hip, the other leveraging against a blanket that's rumpled and half shoved down the bed, under them. Nothing left but sprinting blindly forward, in some clumsy wending way, tripping over himself and feeling all turned around from the finish line. It's not -- it's too much, everything hitting all at once, and Christ, Christ, he's glad he pulled Steve up when he did, because the thought of this and Steve's mouth at the same time makes him despair, like being touched too soon after coming, every cell in his body still on red alert, screaming sirens into raw nerve endings.
And Steve is barreling into him, loose and long-limbed and doing his best to screw Danny straight through the mattress, bed frame creaking alarmingly against their weight, skin brushing skin and making Danny's head pop in a silent implosion that then rushes in like a dam breaking. Free hand finding Steve's face, feeling it warm under his palm, his hair damp with sweat. Fingers moving. Pulling. Tighter. Harder. Shoving recklessly forward, feeling like they're about to go smashing through a brick wall, and he doesn't care, can't, not when Steve is wanting him like this, like he's sanity, like he's air, and when the hell has anyone ever wanted Danny like that, like he wants Steve, whose name is starting to come in tight, gasping swallows of air.
The one touchstone he's got. The one goddamn thing on this whole island that's supposed to be here, when even Grace could be taken away.
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