It's hard to say what that word is. That one word, just his name, just Steve grinding out Danny in a tone that's so close to helpless Danny thinks he must be hallucinating, because Steve McGarrett doesn't do helpless.
But it is. It's low and needy and threaded with desperation, even though they're both still mostly fully clothed and no one's doing anything worse than the tiny circular motions Steve's hips keep finding, as his fingers clench on Danny's side.
Which is good, but not enough, not good enough, and Danny snakes his hand out from under Steve's shirt just long enough to grab the one at his side, and drag it up to his chest, fingers fitting in a perfect curve over the slight rise of his pec, nipple nudging at Steve's palm. His own heart beating a frantic tattoo in nerves and exhilaration, hammering away against Steve's life line.
He wants to tell Steve to relax. Wants to remind him to breathe, in a way that doesn't feel like Steve is hitching air consciously into his chest only because he might pass out if he doesn't. Wants to point out that they don't have to talk about this now, that he's just putting it on the table, so Steve knows, because apparently Steve didn't know, Steve didn't assume, Steve took one kneejerk reaction as the absolute truth, and it was, that night, but maybe not anymore. And Danny's not saying they need to try anything new right now, tonight, this week, whatever -- Christ, he's not sure he's up for that, yet, no matter how hot his body burns --
He's just talking. Opening the door, or at least unlocking it. Like he feels he needs to unlock Steve, when his hand drops from Steve's wrist to find that spot at the vulnerable small of Steve's back again, licking a stripe against his throat, stroking firm fingers over bare skin, grazing teeth against the beginnings of stubble.
"I know my name. Tell me something new." Just as scraped out, and a lie, because he loves that hearing his name, two syllables that suddenly translate to Steve not being able to think, Steve laid out and wrecked, Steve desperate and shaking. A lie he tells, anyway, breathes against Steve's throat, the muscles that work there when he swallows, his back and core stringing so tight he can feel them wanting to give, to shake and roll apart.
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But it is. It's low and needy and threaded with desperation, even though they're both still mostly fully clothed and no one's doing anything worse than the tiny circular motions Steve's hips keep finding, as his fingers clench on Danny's side.
Which is good, but not enough, not good enough, and Danny snakes his hand out from under Steve's shirt just long enough to grab the one at his side, and drag it up to his chest, fingers fitting in a perfect curve over the slight rise of his pec, nipple nudging at Steve's palm. His own heart beating a frantic tattoo in nerves and exhilaration, hammering away against Steve's life line.
He wants to tell Steve to relax. Wants to remind him to breathe, in a way that doesn't feel like Steve is hitching air consciously into his chest only because he might pass out if he doesn't. Wants to point out that they don't have to talk about this now, that he's just putting it on the table, so Steve knows, because apparently Steve didn't know, Steve didn't assume, Steve took one kneejerk reaction as the absolute truth, and it was, that night, but maybe not anymore. And Danny's not saying they need to try anything new right now, tonight, this week, whatever -- Christ, he's not sure he's up for that, yet, no matter how hot his body burns --
He's just talking. Opening the door, or at least unlocking it. Like he feels he needs to unlock Steve, when his hand drops from Steve's wrist to find that spot at the vulnerable small of Steve's back again, licking a stripe against his throat, stroking firm fingers over bare skin, grazing teeth against the beginnings of stubble.
"I know my name. Tell me something new." Just as scraped out, and a lie, because he loves that hearing his name, two syllables that suddenly translate to Steve not being able to think, Steve laid out and wrecked, Steve desperate and shaking. A lie he tells, anyway, breathes against Steve's throat, the muscles that work there when he swallows, his back and core stringing so tight he can feel them wanting to give, to shake and roll apart.
Not yet.