It's what he wants, and it's nothing like what he wants. More of the same. Everything they've ever tossed at each other, in a brand new context. All the old insults, that feel both wrong and right, when Steve is shoving them through kisses getting messier and messier, and Danny's whole body is getting hotter and hotter, winding tighter and tighter from the way their hips are rolling, skin rubbing on skin, hot and tight and almost perfect. "Now I know you're lying."
Which is a joke. Or, it is, more than it isn't. "You hate my shoes."
And not in the way Steve hated the suit that's currently taking up residence on Steve's floor. They were the mark of his status of outsider, that haole cop who might have finally given up the ties for everyday wear, but who would never really belong. "Even I know they're terrible."
Hideous, but comfortable. They're functional, and he's used to them, and even when he tries his best to shine up, these days, he knows they're not what might be called attractive. His work shoes and work pants and shirts, there's nothing special about any of them. He takes care in how he dresses, but he knows what the end result is: Steve's mocked him for it, endlessly, for years.
But he shouldn't be surprised. Isn't, if he stops to think about it, which is difficult, because Steve is trying to take him apart, unscrewing every nut and bolt holding him together. This is how they communicate, right? Steve says something ridiculous, Danny counters with every word he can haul from his sizable collection, lying in wait.
Still, he refuses to believe it. That Steve wants him for his hair and his shoes and his one good suit. That those things encompass those too-fragile, easily shattered words, that are still slipping closer and closer into his soft inner organs. I just want you, he'd said. He said those words. Steve did. In a way that Danny doesn't think has anything to do with his shoes, at all.
no subject
"My shoes?"
It's what he wants, and it's nothing like what he wants. More of the same. Everything they've ever tossed at each other, in a brand new context. All the old insults, that feel both wrong and right, when Steve is shoving them through kisses getting messier and messier, and Danny's whole body is getting hotter and hotter, winding tighter and tighter from the way their hips are rolling, skin rubbing on skin, hot and tight and almost perfect. "Now I know you're lying."
Which is a joke. Or, it is, more than it isn't. "You hate my shoes."
And not in the way Steve hated the suit that's currently taking up residence on Steve's floor. They were the mark of his status of outsider, that haole cop who might have finally given up the ties for everyday wear, but who would never really belong. "Even I know they're terrible."
Hideous, but comfortable. They're functional, and he's used to them, and even when he tries his best to shine up, these days, he knows they're not what might be called attractive. His work shoes and work pants and shirts, there's nothing special about any of them. He takes care in how he dresses, but he knows what the end result is: Steve's mocked him for it, endlessly, for years.
But he shouldn't be surprised. Isn't, if he stops to think about it, which is difficult, because Steve is trying to take him apart, unscrewing every nut and bolt holding him together. This is how they communicate, right? Steve says something ridiculous, Danny counters with every word he can haul from his sizable collection, lying in wait.
Still, he refuses to believe it. That Steve wants him for his hair and his shoes and his one good suit. That those things encompass those too-fragile, easily shattered words, that are still slipping closer and closer into his soft inner organs. I just want you, he'd said. He said those words. Steve did. In a way that Danny doesn't think has anything to do with his shoes, at all.