Danny unglues his eyes open. It's painful, his lashes clumped together, his eyeballs dry and sore. Something unspeakably disgusting has crapped and then died in his mouth, by the taste of it, and there's a heavy weight pinning him to the bed. He lets his eyes squeeze to a crack and peers down.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
He follows that familiar arm to an even more familiar shoulder tattoo, and there's no hiding from this -- he is in Steve's bed. Steve is cuddled to his back, holding him close like Danny's his favourite teddybear. When Danny makes an involuntary twitch, the warm, reassuring weight of Steve's arm shifts with him, settles around him again when he lies back and tries to remember how to breathe.
If this has finally happened, if he has at long last given in to the knee-buckling need to maul Steve, kiss him and hold him close and strip that clinging t-shirt off him and straddle him and grind down -- if that's what happened last night, and Danny can't remember it, there will be blood. He's not even kidding.
Steve shifts behind him, burying his nose in the nape of Danny's neck. It feels... nice. More than nice. It feels fucking spectacular, and Steve's barely touched him yet.
There's another weight pressing into him, this one much lower than the incriminating arm. Danny's skin bursts out in scalding goosebumps all over when he realises that it's Steve's cock that's digging into his ass. He finds himself, all of a sudden, excruciatingly hard. Steve's fingers dig into his bare stomach gently, scratching lightly at the furry trail leading down to where Danny desperately wants him.
"You freaking out yet?" Steve murmurs hoarsely into his shoulder, where his lips have taken up delicious residence.
"No," Danny snaps back reflexively, and then thinks about it. "Actually, that depends on what happened last night and whether or not it coincides with what I can remember of it. Did we fuck?"
Steve pauses for a long moment, much too long for Danny's poor nerves. "Not for lack of trying on your part," he says at last, sounding cautious. "I just didn't think you'd want to not remember it in the morning. So no."
The air Danny wasn't quite aware he was holding rushes out, relieved beyond words. "Excellent. Get up."
"Uh. What?"
"Get up, McGarrett, surely you know how to do that, put your feet on the floor and stand up, come on."
Steve doesn't move for just long enough for Danny to feel the way his arm tightens a little and then reluctantly slides away, like Steve's worried he won't be allowed to do that, ever again. Which is simply laughable, what with the way Danny fucking yearns for this guy, it's embarrassing.
"Bathroom, come on." He marches Steve inside, squeezes toothpaste over his toothbrush and sticks it in Steve's hand, roots around in the cabinet over the sink until he unearths a fresh one, repeats the procedure.
"Brush, what, do I have to do it for you? Brush and spit."
Steve, looking utterly bemused, does as he's told. As soon as he's done, Danny spits, too, rinses his mouth while he watches Steve do the same, and once they've spat for the last time he's on Steve like a limpet, crowds him against the door, tugs his head down and does the best he can to climb him like a fucking tree.
Steve makes a surprised sound, but he gets with the program admirably quickly, with a stifled eye-roll that Danny graciously ignores.
"And to think you're usually so good with words," Steve says, dead-pan, which has no effect on Danny whatsoever considering the way Steve's clinging to him, hands closed firmly over his ass.
"You wanna talk? Now? Fuck you, I have better uses for my mouth. And this time we'll both remember it."
Predictably enough, Steve's pretty happy with that.
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Date: 2011-10-23 11:18 pm (UTC)Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
He follows that familiar arm to an even more familiar shoulder tattoo, and there's no hiding from this -- he is in Steve's bed. Steve is cuddled to his back, holding him close like Danny's his favourite teddybear. When Danny makes an involuntary twitch, the warm, reassuring weight of Steve's arm shifts with him, settles around him again when he lies back and tries to remember how to breathe.
If this has finally happened, if he has at long last given in to the knee-buckling need to maul Steve, kiss him and hold him close and strip that clinging t-shirt off him and straddle him and grind down -- if that's what happened last night, and Danny can't remember it, there will be blood. He's not even kidding.
Steve shifts behind him, burying his nose in the nape of Danny's neck. It feels... nice. More than nice. It feels fucking spectacular, and Steve's barely touched him yet.
There's another weight pressing into him, this one much lower than the incriminating arm. Danny's skin bursts out in scalding goosebumps all over when he realises that it's Steve's cock that's digging into his ass. He finds himself, all of a sudden, excruciatingly hard. Steve's fingers dig into his bare stomach gently, scratching lightly at the furry trail leading down to where Danny desperately wants him.
"You freaking out yet?" Steve murmurs hoarsely into his shoulder, where his lips have taken up delicious residence.
"No," Danny snaps back reflexively, and then thinks about it. "Actually, that depends on what happened last night and whether or not it coincides with what I can remember of it. Did we fuck?"
Steve pauses for a long moment, much too long for Danny's poor nerves. "Not for lack of trying on your part," he says at last, sounding cautious. "I just didn't think you'd want to not remember it in the morning. So no."
The air Danny wasn't quite aware he was holding rushes out, relieved beyond words. "Excellent. Get up."
"Uh. What?"
"Get up, McGarrett, surely you know how to do that, put your feet on the floor and stand up, come on."
Steve doesn't move for just long enough for Danny to feel the way his arm tightens a little and then reluctantly slides away, like Steve's worried he won't be allowed to do that, ever again. Which is simply laughable, what with the way Danny fucking yearns for this guy, it's embarrassing.
"Bathroom, come on." He marches Steve inside, squeezes toothpaste over his toothbrush and sticks it in Steve's hand, roots around in the cabinet over the sink until he unearths a fresh one, repeats the procedure.
"Brush, what, do I have to do it for you? Brush and spit."
Steve, looking utterly bemused, does as he's told. As soon as he's done, Danny spits, too, rinses his mouth while he watches Steve do the same, and once they've spat for the last time he's on Steve like a limpet, crowds him against the door, tugs his head down and does the best he can to climb him like a fucking tree.
Steve makes a surprised sound, but he gets with the program admirably quickly, with a stifled eye-roll that Danny graciously ignores.
"And to think you're usually so good with words," Steve says, dead-pan, which has no effect on Danny whatsoever considering the way Steve's clinging to him, hands closed firmly over his ass.
"You wanna talk? Now? Fuck you, I have better uses for my mouth. And this time we'll both remember it."
Predictably enough, Steve's pretty happy with that.
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