"Oh fuck that hurts..." Danny mutters, bent double across the table, chest tight and gasping as his arms are cuffed cold behind him, Steve pulling at the metal with one hand so they bite at his wrists, his other hand between Danny's shoulderblades, pushing him down and simultaneously using him as purchase.
"Sorry..." says Steve, not stopping, or slowing, but wondering for a moment if he should've insisted on some kind of safe word, as he'd suggested the first time this kind of fucking seemed inevitable ("Fuck off, like you could do anything I couldn't take..." - "I'm not questioning your masculinity Danny, I'm just saying, I like it hard, I wouldn't want you to..." - "Shut up and fuck me, do anything I don't like, and I'll give you hard,,,") and it didn't take any more circular baiting than that to convince Steve that any more talking would spoil the moment. This is the third time Steve's indulged his violence this way, and he thinks it's funny, more than anything else, that these are the only times that Danny's never suggested he should just be normal, do it like everyone else does.
"Oh fuck..." Danny repeats, making no attempts to get out of the hold, as if he could, and only straining at the hips, pushing back against Steve, face and chest practically flat to the table, its legs creaking beneath their motions, sweat simultaneously sticking and sliding him against it.
"Be quiet..." Steve says, keen to concentrate and take this all in; everything else around them is quiet. The last couple of times they've fucked, it's all been a blur and over so quick, stolen time-dependent screwing that it was, he can't remember much. This is a waste, he thinks, as such experiences should be captured in as many mental pictures as possible. He tries to keep his movements intense, watching flush and sheen colour Danny's skin.
He pushes hard, hard into Danny, whose body then slips beneath his hand, Danny cracking his head loudly on the wood. Steve instinctively pauses, reaches up, and Danny groans and says, full of consciousness, "No, 's fine, more of that..." so Steve obliges, with more of that, and he's so busy focusing on the look in Danny's eyes, unfocused and sparking, that it takes him a minute longer than Danny does to notice the blood.
"Fucking hell I'm fucking bleeding here!" Danny freaks out, going rigid for only a second when he twigs the wet sensation running against his cheek, sees dark suddenly smeared across the table beneath his head, incredibly red and reeking of his own insides. Steve's fingers are there in a moment, pressing against the browbone. "Flesh wound," he says, leaning around to see, still inside him, calm as anything, "looks bad, barely two millimetres wide..."
"Fuck you, looks bad, looks like a fucking massacre..ah..."
"Want me to stop and patch you up?" Steve can't resist a little condescension, the thrust of his hips still regular and commanding. "Teach you to assault the furniture, that will..."
"Don't you fucking dare stop, man, assault the furniture, fuck's sake, oh god you're persistent, it's all I can do not to...oh...no wonder your girl can only stand a couple of nights with you before she gets out of here, fuck, no fucking idea how I'm going to walk tomorrow...or ever again...do not. fucking. stop..." These words come much more slowly than a sentence, punctuated with gritted teeth and spitting breaths and Steve lets himself relish the sight and effort it's taking.
He grins, wry, watching, no break in pace (like a fucking robot, Danny asides). She's so very much not his girl, and at that, she's so very much worse than he is; taught him a few things at that. He's easily as glad of the space. Time to heal... But that's not something he's willing to share with Danny, no, because that is completely, completely different from this.
In an effort to spare his partner what Steve knows could be more than a while longer, feels that for all Danny says don't stop this position isn't going to work out much longer, he brings his hand to his mouth, licks his fingers, cloying, darkening red, and that's about all it takes, he finds, as his body snaps in convulsion and cum pulses hot between them, soothing and all-consuming but for the taste in Steve's mouth. He closes his eyes, sucking at his fingers, down to the knuckle, not wanting to miss a hint of the wet metal of it all.
Danny, aroused, confused, fucked, at the sudden end to the proceedings, twigs what Steve's doing after a moment and lights up, opportunity curing his condition momentarily.
"Oh man, you have no idea how many Twilight jokes I'm going to find for you..." says Danny, as overjoyed as his situation allows, rather than appalled or any other of the reactions Steve might've expected, if he'd stopped to think about how regular it might be to dive straight for the contents of an open wound during sex.
"Twilight?" Steve answers, absently, opening his eyes, no hint of guilt as he licks red from the corner of his mouth, "I don't get...what are you talking about?"
"Really? Really? You have no culture, seriously, you have no culture. I'm ashamed to be fucking you, Steven, how do you exist?" Danny groans, relaxing for the first time in fuck knows how long, the numbness of his hands coming into focus, only to disappear again, as his own, unattended erection presses at the table, demanding. He continues his commentary, mentally begging Steve not to leave him like this.
Steve's hand, spit-wet and practiced, reaches around Danny; he leans over, covers him, rests against him in the mess, doing his best to distract Danny from whatever he's saying. He purrs, over Danny's bleats about something about someone he's not interested in; "Oh what, it's shame that gets you off? Because I'm trained in humiliation, you know, it's a thing..."
"I don't want to know any more of your things, bloodsucker, you're...I...oh fuck..."
Steve concludes that he likes it best when Danny says that, because it means that he's not capable of finishing his wise-cracks. He also concludes from the way that Danny's shaking fucking head to toe, weak at the knees and only held in this crazy position by the pressure of Steve's body against his from shoulder to thigh, that he does want to know a lot more, and, as Steve twists them both around, table biting into his hip now, to lick again at the blood that's running from the smallest of gashes, warm down the side of Danny's face, his tongue rough as a cat's.
Danny doesn't even have words for the are you trying to eat my face why are you trying to eat my face of it because he really doesn't care, as long as this ludicrously uncomfortable, unbearably consuming act doesn't. stop. It's only a matter of moments before his body has its own say, though, Steve's hand catching, covered, in moments, the liquid heat as thick as the blood in his mouth. They're both shaking, now. Steve gives up holding them both up and lets himself slip and drop to the floor, Danny crashing down on top of him, emitting a frankly girlish sound of confusion.
Mentally collating the sensation of impact bruising with the taste of blood and the contentment of it all, Steve takes stock of things. He could go again, he reckons, but Danny's spent, curling up, obvious aftershocks, feeling, Steve can tell, overtly naked right now, there's that sense of shame coming in. He watches that as he drinks in the taste of the air around them, stale and salt and raw, and laughs, silently, part-endeared to, part impressed by his partner's acceptance of...well, him.
Danny falls asleep by the time Steve's had his moment of apparent gloating, hands still cuffed behind his back.
Steve watches him, for a while, because he's posed so entertainingly. He unlocks the cuffs, to prevent Danny waking up with dead arms, as well as, he suspects, a sore head, a dodgy back and aching insides.
He wipes the table down, regretfully, contemplating the image of Danny twisted beneath him there. He rearranges chairs knocked over in lust and haste, and, all straightened out, looks at himself in the mirror. Looks, he thinks, like someone who's had a good night in.
He contemplates joining Danny on the floor, being all kindness and warmth. He decides, actually, a better idea would be a shower, and then bed. Danny can come to him, and that way, he'll keep the upper hand.
Steve worries, occasionally, that he might care so much about Danny that this will all go horribly wrong. He comforts himself, as he watches traces of blood and cum disappear under streaming hot water, in the fact that this, such as it is, is already pretty fucking wrong. And yet it all feels so horribly right - and not just right, but obvious, as if there was nothing else there could be doing. He's no idea what Danny feels, might take him aside tomorrow and ask right out, tell me, how do you feel about me - that would be a really great idea, Steve, let's not do that - but he was watching tonight, watching for so much as a hint of not up for this and that never came, never crossed Danny's face, nor his body, come to that, for even a second. Steve leans back against the tiles and jacks off, quick and token, erring on the side of self-congratulatory.
His bed has never felt so comfortable, Steve thinks, as he crawls into it, sore from the wrestling employed to get Danny into that position in the first place.
He wakes up when Danny sneaks in behind him, although he doesn't move. Danny lies back to back against him, facing away.
"You're fucked up, McGarrett," he hears Danny whisper, either in self-justification, or knowing that he's only playing spark out, "you're so fucked up. But...works for me. Works for me."
Steve smiles, and mouths, definitely to no-one, "Me too."