Dani vs. Reese, An Almost Introspective
Title: Dani vs. Reese, An Almost Introspective
Fandom: Life
Characters/Pairings: Dani Reese. A bit of Crews/Reese.
Rating: R
Description: Dani Reese, on Dani Reese. (Sort of.)
She doesn't cum when she fucks them. Generally speaking.
That's not to say that it never happens. It does, from time to time. Sometimes these things can't be helped. But generally speaking - as a broad, sweeping rule of thumb, Dani Reese doesn't derive physical pleasure from the strangers she picks up in dive bars and hotel lobbies, and fucks in backseats and public restrooms. She's just not that kind of girl.
Her "lovers" - if one could call them such - have been adequate, mostly. Some were more memorable than others, some were more passionate, some were gentler, some were… larger. Not that any of this mattered in the end because it wasn't about them, and it certainly wasn't about the sex. It's never about the sex.
Now she's in a room with a man. The room and the man hardly matter. It's room like any other room and a man like any other man, as if there was or ever had been a difference between any and all and holy fuck, I'm starting to sound like him. She shakes her head, grunting in frustration to chase away the irksome distraction. Beneath her, the man (Greg? Grant?) takes credit for this, and thinks that he's done well. Through gritted teeth and ragged breath, he expels a short, forceful "That's right, Annie. That's right." And this makes her feel better, because he doesn't know her name either. (Not that it would change anything. But it's always easier when you're both on the same page, you know?)
Now where was I? Oh, right - It's never about the sex. It's a convenient means to an end, and she's going through the motions. Anyone can mistake her for any other drunken woman (whore) indulging (debasing herself) in a moment of passion (depravity).
A small gasp escapes her half-parted lips as she grinds her hips down. She might as well not even be here. She's outside of her body, methodically observing these procedures, scowling with slight disdain at this wanton display of self-loathing. She's not Dani, that pathetic half-drunk woman flailing on the bed, but Detective Reese, who sees more clearly behind tan sunglasses. And Jack always was a strict disciplinarian. Now where the fuck did that come from?
Graham moves his hands to her hips, gripping down on either side. His touch is light, but it feels like a vise against my- against her skin. She swats them away.
"Don't," she hisses. She's in control. Always. To a mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders. Jesus FUCKING Christ, get out the fuck of my head.
She didn't like him at first. Charlie Crews, that is, not Gary or Gabe or whatever his name is. No, she just doesn't give a shit about this guy. Charlie. When they had first met, before words were even exchanged, she knew that she wouldn't like him. It was the unspeakable serenity that masked his face, the easy way he pulled out that toothy grin and eagerly extended that large palm. Instantly, she distrusted him. She also knew that he was the one she'd want to have her back in a gunfight.
She's used to him by now, sort of. She knows when to talk back, when to stare at him in utter disbelief, and when to ignore him. They're partners. Strictly professional, of course. Charlie isn't her type at all, not dark-haired, not classically handsome with brown puppy eyes. When they had first met, she'd secretly compared him (quite cruelly, yes) to an overgrown orangutan. No attraction there at all.
Grady finishes with a strained groan. She doesn't bother faking it. It doesn't really seem to matter. She starts getting dressed, and maybe he says something to her, but that doesn't matter either. Eventually, Griffith gets the hint and starts pulling on his pants and shirt. He's still talking. She's still not listening. But she is watching. His long fingers are nimble when buttoning up his shirt. Pale, almost alabaster. Delicate, but strong. She can see those fingers digging deep into the rind of an orange and peeling back its cover. Holding the naked fruit, he delves two fingers deep into its core, splitting it open and allowing the juices to seep down the length of his digits. She shudders lightly, pleasantly.
All right. Sometimes, late at night, it'll just be the two of them in the car. She'll look over at him, sleeping or gazing out the window in of his weird trance-like stares, and she'll wonder, briefly, what it would be like to fuck him. Then he'll stir, or look back at her, and she'll turn away, suddenly filled with inexplicable shame. All right. She can admit that much. It doesn't mean anything. Or maybe -
"-maybe you'd like a quesadilla?" Grover (why not?) is asking.
"She can't."
He looks confused. And suddenly, I realize that I've been gone too long. I quickly readjust, trying to remember what it is that this guy's been jabbering on to me about.
"I can't," I say. "I have to…" I realize that I don't care enough to come up with a good excuse. "I have to go."
I'm almost out the door when he catches my arm.
"Wait, Dani." Shit. He remembers my name after all. When I look back at him, he seems awfully young, even though I can at least remember that we're the same age. "Am I going to see you again?"
I think about this. I already know the answer; I just have to decide whether or not to lie.
"Of course." I smile like I mean it. "I'll call you."
As I start walking down the hall, I hear him close the door behind me. And I can't help but think that Detective Reese would've have the guts to tell him the truth.
Fandom: Life
Characters/Pairings: Dani Reese. A bit of Crews/Reese.
Rating: R
Description: Dani Reese, on Dani Reese. (Sort of.)
She doesn't cum when she fucks them. Generally speaking.
That's not to say that it never happens. It does, from time to time. Sometimes these things can't be helped. But generally speaking - as a broad, sweeping rule of thumb, Dani Reese doesn't derive physical pleasure from the strangers she picks up in dive bars and hotel lobbies, and fucks in backseats and public restrooms. She's just not that kind of girl.
Her "lovers" - if one could call them such - have been adequate, mostly. Some were more memorable than others, some were more passionate, some were gentler, some were… larger. Not that any of this mattered in the end because it wasn't about them, and it certainly wasn't about the sex. It's never about the sex.
Now she's in a room with a man. The room and the man hardly matter. It's room like any other room and a man like any other man, as if there was or ever had been a difference between any and all and holy fuck, I'm starting to sound like him. She shakes her head, grunting in frustration to chase away the irksome distraction. Beneath her, the man (Greg? Grant?) takes credit for this, and thinks that he's done well. Through gritted teeth and ragged breath, he expels a short, forceful "That's right, Annie. That's right." And this makes her feel better, because he doesn't know her name either. (Not that it would change anything. But it's always easier when you're both on the same page, you know?)
Now where was I? Oh, right - It's never about the sex. It's a convenient means to an end, and she's going through the motions. Anyone can mistake her for any other drunken woman (whore) indulging (debasing herself) in a moment of passion (depravity).
A small gasp escapes her half-parted lips as she grinds her hips down. She might as well not even be here. She's outside of her body, methodically observing these procedures, scowling with slight disdain at this wanton display of self-loathing. She's not Dani, that pathetic half-drunk woman flailing on the bed, but Detective Reese, who sees more clearly behind tan sunglasses. And Jack always was a strict disciplinarian. Now where the fuck did that come from?
Graham moves his hands to her hips, gripping down on either side. His touch is light, but it feels like a vise against my- against her skin. She swats them away.
"Don't," she hisses. She's in control. Always. To a mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders. Jesus FUCKING Christ, get out the fuck of my head.
She didn't like him at first. Charlie Crews, that is, not Gary or Gabe or whatever his name is. No, she just doesn't give a shit about this guy. Charlie. When they had first met, before words were even exchanged, she knew that she wouldn't like him. It was the unspeakable serenity that masked his face, the easy way he pulled out that toothy grin and eagerly extended that large palm. Instantly, she distrusted him. She also knew that he was the one she'd want to have her back in a gunfight.
She's used to him by now, sort of. She knows when to talk back, when to stare at him in utter disbelief, and when to ignore him. They're partners. Strictly professional, of course. Charlie isn't her type at all, not dark-haired, not classically handsome with brown puppy eyes. When they had first met, she'd secretly compared him (quite cruelly, yes) to an overgrown orangutan. No attraction there at all.
Grady finishes with a strained groan. She doesn't bother faking it. It doesn't really seem to matter. She starts getting dressed, and maybe he says something to her, but that doesn't matter either. Eventually, Griffith gets the hint and starts pulling on his pants and shirt. He's still talking. She's still not listening. But she is watching. His long fingers are nimble when buttoning up his shirt. Pale, almost alabaster. Delicate, but strong. She can see those fingers digging deep into the rind of an orange and peeling back its cover. Holding the naked fruit, he delves two fingers deep into its core, splitting it open and allowing the juices to seep down the length of his digits. She shudders lightly, pleasantly.
All right. Sometimes, late at night, it'll just be the two of them in the car. She'll look over at him, sleeping or gazing out the window in of his weird trance-like stares, and she'll wonder, briefly, what it would be like to fuck him. Then he'll stir, or look back at her, and she'll turn away, suddenly filled with inexplicable shame. All right. She can admit that much. It doesn't mean anything. Or maybe -
"-maybe you'd like a quesadilla?" Grover (why not?) is asking.
"She can't."
He looks confused. And suddenly, I realize that I've been gone too long. I quickly readjust, trying to remember what it is that this guy's been jabbering on to me about.
"I can't," I say. "I have to…" I realize that I don't care enough to come up with a good excuse. "I have to go."
I'm almost out the door when he catches my arm.
"Wait, Dani." Shit. He remembers my name after all. When I look back at him, he seems awfully young, even though I can at least remember that we're the same age. "Am I going to see you again?"
I think about this. I already know the answer; I just have to decide whether or not to lie.
"Of course." I smile like I mean it. "I'll call you."
As I start walking down the hall, I hear him close the door behind me. And I can't help but think that Detective Reese would've have the guts to tell him the truth.