“Absolutely not.” Danny shakes his head, finger in Steve’s face, in a way he hopes and prays invites no argument whatsoever. “Not on your fucking life, McGarrett.”
Steve is clad only in boxers and a shit-eating grin, standing close enough to the open drawer that Danny can practically feel the joy that would come from slamming his head in it. “You sure ‘bout that?”
“Sure I could go my whole life without playing at ‘Beach Boys’ on the clock?” Danny snorts, tugging the blankets up around his nipples, as if hoping they’ll shield him from Steve’s perversion. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Steve frowns, eyebrows knitting as he shifts the vibe and matching remote from palm to palm, toes curling thoughtfully against the floorboards of Jack McGarrett’s bedroom. “’Beach Boys’?”
“Good Vibrations.” Danny’s finger finds its way up again, to an entirely accusatory point. “You, you are a sick man.”
“Hey, one man’s ‘sick’ is another man’s ‘hot as hell’.” Steve shrugs, still grinning, as he makes his way over to the bed. His bare feet slap against the hardwood, and Danny worms his way across the mattress on his ass, trying to put as much distance between himself and that thing Steve’s carrying as humanly possible. It’s not an enormous bed; the sheets are all tangled about his waist, and he doesn’t get far.
“Don’t you come near me with that.”
Steve shrugs again, and sets the vibe down on the edge of the mattress. “Just an idea.” He lands on the bed stomach-first and crawls his way over to Danny on his elbows. Danny’s cock, despite his better judgement and the thorough, thorough workout Steve had given it less than an hour previous, stirs hopefully at the sight.
“Y’know, this isn’t how I was hoping we’d spend our day off?” Danny gesticulates, and the hand – through no fault of his own – finds its way straight into Steve’s hair. “Silicone plotting…”
“No?” Steve chuckles, low and soft and right up against one corner of Danny’s mouth. Christ… “What did you have in mind?”
Danny gives a little, lets Steve work his way in until they’re chest-to-chest and he can get their legs, and tongues, good and tangled. “Thinking we could start with breakfast.”
“Y’know where the granola is,” Steve says, the smirk thick in his voice as he sets to work on Danny’s neck, sucking small, sweet marks against the skin.
“Yeah.” Danny replies on a gasp. “Sadly, yeah. I do.” He cranes his neck back, exposing more skin for Steve to map… catches an eyeful of black silicone against the sheets, and has to pull away, feeling suddenly, inexplicably compelled to keep the damn thing in his sights at all times. “Okay, that… that needs to not be there if we’re gonna do this.”
“Danny, c’mon.” Steve sighs, propping himself up on an elbow and reaching out for the vibe. “It’s not that—“
“Oh, really?” Danny interrupts, sitting upright specifically so he can stare down. The bunched sheets fall down around his hips, and he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s gaze drifts south; the way his lips curl in one corner as Danny’s chest is exposed. “Hey.” Danny circles a finger ‘round his nose. “Face is here. And were you seriously about to tell me ‘it’s not that kinky’?”
Steve shrugs, and the smug son of a bitch actually has the nerve to smirk. “Maybe.”
Danny barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he swings both legs over the side of the bed and pads, barefoot and bare-assed, to Steve’s bathroom door. He spins in the doorway, face contorting into a crude mimic of Steve’s most Brando-esque pout. “’Hey, D, y’know what’d be fun..?’”
“Oh, is that your impression?”
“’Let’s play a game, huh? What’s black, and buzzes, and would be real fun to put up your ass in front of the governor when –‘”
“I never said that.” Now it’s Steve’s turn to point; he does it with the vibe, and Danny gawks at him til he puts it down. “I said, it could be fun. Could.” Danny will swear later the shudder must’ve been faked, because Steve just doesn’t – does not – shudder. “And nobody mentioned the Governor.”
“That’s how this stuff gets started,” says Danny from the bathroom, already turning his back on his idiot boss in favour of booting up the shower. “Whole can of worms, my friend.”
“Hey, like I said.” Steve takes up the vibe again, but mercifully enough only keeps hold of it long enough to sling both silicone horror and remote control back into the drawer from whence they came. “Just an idea. I’m not about to plant the thing on you.”
“Like to see you try,” Danny calls, and promptly turns on the water before he can think too hard about what he’s just said, and just what it says about him.
The subject drops, and Steve doesn’t mention it again. Danny comes to work on Monday morning fresh from the Commander’s bed, with said Commander in-tow, and Steve is apparently feeling especially benevolent because he not only lets Danny drive all the way there, he also doesn’t raise any hint of a fuss when Danny insists they stop for malasadas and the good coffee.
“Howzit?” Kono is already stowing her gear by the time they roll up, hefting a backpack over one shoulder and sticking her hand straight into Danny’s paper bag. He slaps her away to no avail; she escapes with a pastry clutched in a fist, and darts off before he can lay claim to his stolen property. “You look rolled flat, boss. Late night?”
Steve doesn’t smirk, but it looks like a close thing. Danny’s gotten to know that face pretty well of late; watched it, studied it as the urge to punch trickled over into an urge to kiss, and stuck with it as he clawed desperately to be back on the other side of the fence. He knows a smug McGarrett when he sees one. More often than not, it reminds him that Urge to Punch and Urge to Kiss aren’t always mutually exclusive.
“Something like that.”
Which is when Kono’s phone starts to audibly vibrate in her pocket, and Danny inhales what feels like half a malasada in one go.
“He’s fine,” Steve supplies, slapping Danny firmly between the shoulder-blades, and if Kono notices anything out of the ordinary (‘ordinary’ being the usual dynamic at Five-0, from shark cages to screwing co-workers, and everything in-between), she doesn’t let on.
“Shut up,” says Danny, soon as he’s recovered enough to speak, cutting Steve off before his boss can make speech happen. “Don’t even think words.”
“Wasn’t gonna,” Steve mutters, and Danny collects up the remaining malasadas, retreating to his office before Steve can ask if the newly-flushed cheeks are the result of pastry lodged in his throat, or something else entirely.
Danny doesn’t think about the vibrator as much as it monopolises his every waking thought that week.
It starts off with the near-revulsion he’d all but stuffed down Steve’s throat the night he’d brought the damn thing out, and replaced all-too quick with a confused sort of want when he remembers the way Steve had looked doing it. What he’d said – murmured, really, voice dipped low and rich against Danny’s ear as he backed him against the pillows: “Wanna show you something, babe. Wanna know if you’ll do it for me…”
Then he’d gone to the drawer and actually brought the damn thing out, and Danny’s resultant freakout had ended the whole kink-shaming clusterfuck before it could really get started.
To his credit, Steve hadn’t seemed too fussed. Aside from the near-constant bickering (which feels as much like foreplay now they’re actually fucking as it ever did), most of Danny’s crap tends to roll off McGarrett like water off the back of a wilfully masochistic duck. Apparently, not being immediately onboard with his vibrator plot is no exception.
Except, the more Danny thinks about it (and he is thinking about it), the less he’s thinking about the vibe itself. Instead, he’s all used up on the memory of Steve’s hands curling around it; the way they’d curled around him right after, coaxing another, hesitant orgasm without the need to engage his brain. That’s just the kind of guy Steve is, and Danny, against his better judgement and the disobedient firing of every single opposite impulse when Steve’s around, is the kind of guy who winds up wanting to please him nonetheless.
It actually feels fairly in-tune with the way they operate – Steve isn’t prone to giving more than a fleeting glance off the edge of a precipice before he takes an elegant fucking swan dive; Danny’s job is to bitch, for as long as it takes him to figure that maybe Steve might be on the right track after all.
And then there’s the rare occasion when Steve makes the suggestion before he does the thing. Suggests something Danny’s lizard brain can’t quite process without instinctively firing all ten barrels at the target marked ‘Nope’. That’s not because he doesn’t like the thing necessarily, or he’s not into it... more that the edges of the map don’t quite line up yet.
They’re still partners in the field; still screwing out of it. Still vanilla, but (don’t get him wrong) best sex Danny’s had in years. And that’s the way it goes for Danny on weekends he doesn’t have Grace. When he’s not watching Steve, he watches the bedroom drawer, and it’s not until he finds himself stirring in his pants just thinking about it that he figures there might be something in there for him after all.
On the clock, he’s damn near haunted by Kono’s vibrating cell phone. Six days in, he pops an inopportune boner when Steve turns on the blender, and grudgingly admits he’s going to have to do something about this that involves words.
Unsurprisingly, Danny eventually figures actions speak louder, and goes to the drawer himself one evening while Steve’s out picking up dinner.
The vibe feels weird in his hand… but not ‘bad-weird’, and hell if that isn’t the least eloquent things he’s said in a long damn time. He stands there for about twenty seconds with it resting in his palm, getting used to the shape and weight of the thing, and trying to imagine how this whole… scenario… is going to play out. Maybe ‘not bad-weird’ is exactly the right way to put it after all. There’s no real way to put a poetic spin on ‘this is something that’s going up my ass in the near future’.
The vibe itself is pretty non-threatening; the remote that goes with it is slightly more-so, with half a dozen unlabelled buttons. Danny’s pretty sure he’s felt less out of his depth in cuffs, or held up at gunpoint, and that suspicion only rings truer when he nudges a button at random, and the fucking thing bursts into an epileptic frenzy of pulses against his palm. Oh Jesus, Jesus fucking -- he scrambles for a good minute, with fingers that are altogether two big for the buttons, until he’s apparently cycled through the full (extensive) range of options, and it falls mercifully silent again.
The silence is near-deafening, and not entirely un-perverse, since when Danny comes out of his reverie, he’s pitching a tent big enough to house a music festival. He’s hard in his pants the way he sometimes struggles to achieve when he’s got an actual person touching him, and that’s just from having the damn vibe in his hand. Add Steve to that equation, and… yeah, Danny has to pocket this thing before he embarrasses himself; comes in his pants like a teenager, or before Steve comes back to catch him beating off.
He switches his work gear for shorts and a battered Yankees shirt, and hides the vibe inside the pile of clothes. Right on time too, because Steve arrives with the steaks a minute or so later, and the rest of Danny’s evening ends up somewhat monopolised by Steve threatening to grill naked, and even though Danny is guilty of occasionally hating his job, there are times when he sure as hell loves his life.
“You look haunted, brah,” says Kono, when Danny arrives for work on Monday. “Something on your mind?”
“Nothing life-threatening,” Danny tells her with a grin he has to fight to make seem effortless. Somehow, ‘something in my ass’ hadn’t seemed like the right way to answer her.
He’d gotten intimately acquainted with the vibe that morning in the shower, lubing the damn thing up and… well. Less said about that, the better.
He can feel it now, though, the rigid length pressing hard against a spot best left alone if he’s going to continue his day without incident. Or at least until McGarrett gets here, and they can get this damn thing started. Danny thumbs the edge of the remote control, and unpacks his breakfast onto the desk.
Steve arrives ten minutes later, and makes a predictable beeline for Danny’s office. He lurks in the doorway for a while, stretching (posing, Danny’s brain inserts) one arm over his head, until the offending bone gives an audible crack, and he sees fit to slither over the threshold.
“We shipping out?” Danny flips his folder shut, sliding off the edge of the desk, and regretting it almost immediately when the vibe shifts. Has he even put the damn thing in properly? His head says no, but his dick, unfortunately, says yes. He’s already regretting squeezing into his pre-Thanksgiving pants – there’s not an inch of give to be found – but then he’s not usually in the habit of being hard in his pants at work either. God, this was a bad idea. This was a bad, bad, fucking-Steve-McGarrett-bullshit goddamn moronic…
“Not just yet.” Steve’s brows slide straight into a knitted ‘V’ of suspicion. “Why’re you standing funny?”
Danny almost chokes. “I’m not standing funny.”
“Yeah, you are.” Steve folds those ridiculous arms of his across his ridiculous chest, and gives Danny a look that’s all ‘SEAL’. Danny’s become pretty adept at recognising that look, and long-since reconciled with the urge to push Steve down on his knees whenever it appears. Make him shut that smart mouth and put it to better use.
“I’m not standing funny,” says Danny again, perching back on one corner of his desk. The following evening, when he looks back on it all, he’ll probably pinpoint this as the exact moment shit begins to unravel. He really, truly doesn’t mean to wince, but as the corner of the desk digs in, so does the vibe against his prostate, and Steve being Steve, doesn’t miss a damn thing.
“You’re sitting funny too.” If those brows could furrow further, Danny is half convinced they’d slide right into his eyes and blind him. Only now there’s something new in the mix – if Danny didn’t know better (and he knows better), he’d probably have to call it ‘concern’. “Danny, are you hurting?”
“Nope.” That part’s not a lie at least. Not exactly, not in the way Steve’s thinking, even if there’s no real way to comfortably carry a boner in a pair of suit slacks.
“What is it, your knee?”
“Who are you, House?” Danny rolls his eyes, but pushes off the desk and crooks a finger, until Steve slinks obediently closer. He doesn’t even need to get up especially close; his heart’s pounding, and Danny’s pretty sure his cheeks have been heating steadily since he first put the vibe in, which is ironic since most of the blood in his upper body seems to be rushing south. Only when Steve is close enough to touch does Danny reach into his pocket. “Here ya go, Doc. Diagnose this.”
And then he lays the remote on the desk between the pages of his open file, and basks in the immense satisfaction of having put Steve on the back foot. It’s about the only satisfaction he is basking in, what with the tent in his pants, and the way he just tried to carry off the casual placement of a fucking sex toy on the desk, with a smirk and a one-liner he never really expected to carry off.
Steve’s eyebrows un-knit at long last, for the sole purpose of crawling slowly up towards his hairline. Danny watches his boss’s throat; sees the Adam’s apple dip and rise as McGarrett swallows around what looks like a suddenly, unprecedentedly dry mouth. And then, as Steve is wont to do, he opens it:
“Did you just hand me the remote to a vibrator inside an office with see-through walls?”
Danny rolls his eyes hard enough to loosen a retina.
“It’s just a remote, Steven. Could be for anything.”
“Yeah,” Steve concedes, and his eyes have taken on this wild quality Danny’s more accustomed to seeing on serial killers, the pupils roving slowly downwards to land on Danny’s butt. “But it’s not. It’s for the thing…” Another swallow; Danny doesn’t even need to look at Steve’s crotch to guess that his boss is stirring. “…presumably in your ass.”
“See-through but not sound-proof,” Danny tuts, chancing a glance out at the expanse of HQ on the other side of the glass. He needn’t have worried – Kono is a long way off, stacking paperwork alongside a stack of breakfast energy bars, and Danny’s pretty sure Chin hasn’t even made it in yet. There’s no way they could know what’s going on here. Hell, Danny would barely believe it himself – barely believes he could be capable of this, because he’s pretty sure there wasn’t a kinky bone in his body until Steve quarterbacked his way right through that one. Which is what’s got him here, in this office, watching as one corner of Steve’s mouth lifts gently towards his eyes, and heat pools low in Danny’s belly, insistent, just the right side of uncomfortable.
Steve takes a step into Danny’s space, fingers landing on the remote and sliding thoughtfully along the black plastic surface. When he finally comes out with words, it sounds like his throat’s been shredded, and if Danny wasn’t hard before, now he’s damn-near lightheaded with it.
And Danny winks, reaching for Steve’s hand and curling his own around his boss’s fingers, until they close over the remote. He winks, and curls, and doesn’t snark, and suddenly it’s simple as that.
“Where are we on tracking Kincade?”
“Put out an APB,” says Chin, swiping a hand across the board and scattering crime scene photos in a satisfying variety of directions. The face of their Villain of the Week stares up at them – ugly as all hell, scarred and sneering to the point of caricature from his mugshot, and since the body on Max’s slab downtown turned out to be literally riddled with his fingerprints, apparently not possessed of an abundance of brains.
He’s proven slippery enough to give HPD the run-around, though, and now the Five-0 are involved, therein lies the expectation this guy is--
Danny’s fingers curl and tighten against the table-top, just inside Chin’s peripheral vision, and it throws him off-kilter a moment. You work in the field long enough, you learn how body language works, and Danny… kinda looks like he’s in pain.
“APB, and HPD’s got a watch on Jimmy Lewis, in case Kincade tries making contact.”
Steve nods that tight nod they’ve all taken to mean he’s compartmentalising, sliding one hand into his pants pocket with a knitted frown. “We got enough to bring the sister in?”
“Would you care if we didn’t?” This one comes from Danny, and the fact he has a totally valid point doesn’t even bear acknowledging. Chin’s not in the habit of over-stressing the too-damn-obvious, which is probably why some God, demon, devil or otherwise (probably a Jets fan) saw fit to deposit Danny here with them, so he can be the one to do it instead. Chin casts a cursory glance over his fellow detective, and picks out nothing especially unusual; maybe Danny looks a touch flushed, but wearing a suit to a Honolulu summer will do that to a guy, especially one who spends the brunt of his time dragging around not only his own king-size ego, but McGarrett’s as well. Steve, meanwhile, has come back with a grin that’s positively shark-like, and he’s aiming it right at Danny, like the goddamn buddy-cops they are.
“You wanna ride shotgun?”
Danny doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans forwards with hands braced against the table, spine rippling and head dropping between his arms as what sounds like a long hiss escapes from between his teeth.
“Danny?” Kono frowns. “Hey. You alright?”
When Danny lifts his face, he looks like he might actually be sweating. “I’m good.”
“Yeah, she’s right, man,” says Steve, and hell if The Look Danny throws him couldn’t have rivalled a tube of anthrax for it’s potential to lay a man out stone dead. Steve shrugs, both hands buried in his pockets now, as he absorbs Danny’s ire like it gives him strength to function. “You don’t look so good…”
Past the point of even pretending he’s not invested, Chin watches as Danny’s hands ball into fists at his side, and a fine shudder runs through his compact frame. His lips curl around a reply that never really forms, because all that emerges is a long, pained noise that sounds something like ‘aaaighssshhh’, trailing off on another hiss, and really, what the fuck is going on in here?
“What the fuck’s going on?” says Kono, ever-tactful, but at least she’s putting what they’re all thinking into words. Chin imagines there are women in birthing suites breathing softer, and wound looser than Danny right now; at least the death-stare he’s levelling at Steve is a consistent one.
“Nothing’s going on,” says Danny at last, “except a great big goddamn ‘Mother Hen’ act.”
Kono throws up her hands. “Hey, I’m just asking.”
“So you’re totally fine?” Steve cocks an eyebrow. “You wanna just... carry on as normal?”
Danny draws in a breath, then lets it go again in a manner that almost – almost – escapes winding into a growl.
“Yes, Steven. I do.”
“You’re the boss.” Steve flattens his palms on the table-top, which is a weird move because not a damn one of them misses how Danny visibly relaxes. “So, why don’t you talk us through getting Kincade’s sister in for questioning?”
Danny takes them through the warrant; talking with his hands, as he’s wont to do, looks a whole lot easier now his fists aren’t bunched by his sides. They almost make it all the way back to normality, for all of five minutes, and then Steve leans a hip hard against the table on the opposite side, and Danny jolts, hard and from the hips, so suddenly and sharply that Chin is halfway to drawing his gun.
“Jesus, Danny, what –“
But Danny’s not hearing Kono just now, because he’s already made a bolt for the door, and Kono’s looking at Steve like he’s personally driven Danny out with a gun to his head, to which Steve’s only response is a slow shrug, hands buried in his pockets once more.
“Grab your gear. You guys go on ahead.” Steve lifts one hand, swiping it over the table to scatter the case photos before sloping off, and Chin officially decides that not only is he taking vacation time this year, but it’s going to be a long one.
The back of Danny’s head hits the bathroom stall hard enough to hurt, and it’s with a near-apoplectic surge of irrational rage that he realises even a throbbing skull isn’t going to take the edge off the hard-on that’s draining his every synapse of its ability to fire rationally.
The vibe had stopped its pulsing soon as he got out of range of Steve, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still feel it. He thinks he’s started clenching around it now, sweat collecting at his hairline, and dammit, if Steve isn’t on his way in here right fucking now…
Another round of buzzing leaps up, pressing hard against his prostate, and he doesn’t have the time or strength to bite down on the whine that escapes, thumping his fist against the stall as Steve slides into the cubicle next to him, crowding him against one wall.
“You have no idea--”
“--what you’re doing to me.” Steve’s lips have already found their way to Danny’s neck, flipping the vibe off again as he sucks a long line down the tendon. “Fuck, babe…”
“Don’t you ‘babe’ me, you son of a bitch.” Danny forces the words past a groan that takes every sharp edge off his anger. He’s not even down for pretending this is all about the physical stimulation – giving himself over to every ‘control freak’ tendency Steve can lay on the table, feeling himself strain against his zipper as a bullet vibe shudders and tweaks against his swollen prostate, and knowing it’s Steve, and Steve alone, bringing him off while all their colleagues stand around, none the wiser... Danny finds himself snatching up a handful of Steve’s t-shirt, tugging his partner’s mouth down towards his own and sliding his tongue alongside Steve’s with a groan that feels like its torn straight from his chest. “Don’t you… Jesus…”
Steve grunts and pulls Danny closer by the hips, sliding his thigh right in between both of Danny’s, and the hard press of something to grind himself against is just too tempting to resist. He pushes his dick down against the taut muscle of Steve’s thigh, arm latching around the other man’s neck to pull him closer and keep him there. There’s no sugar-coating it now – he needs to get off. He needs to get off like he hasn’t in years; not since he was fifteen, watching Ursula Andress come out the water on his Nana’s Zenith 3, and knowing he had tea with the vicar (yes, really, fucking Catholics) to come long before he could. Steve is 200llbs of everything Danny wants to rub himself up against, and he’s not about to let the time and place – hygiene, colleagues, common fucking decency – throw him off the urge to get there.
“Where’s… fuck… Chin. Chin and Kono?”
“Why? Want ‘em to join us?” Steve steals the snort right out of Danny’s mouth with his lips, biting gently downwards. “Getting their stuff. I said we’d catch up.”
So this is going to have to go fast. Good goddamn job too, since every shift of Danny’s hips is driving that fucking vibe harder against him, and yeah… yeah, this is unravelling. Steve has his hand in his goddamn pocket again, keeping the other wrapped tight against Danny’s hair, and when he pulls the remote out in the open, Danny damn near smacks it out of his hand.
“If you’re not gonna switch that thing on--“
Steve’s smirk has an edge and a half; “Who says I’m not?” He lets the rough pad of his thumb scrape Danny’s bottom lip, before it drops right to the remote and one of the labelless buttons. Danny, in spite of himself and the absolutely mind-numbing boner, can feel his mouth watering.
The first jolt is a short one; Steve works his thumb between two settings, and the vibe pulses in a light tease that has Danny’s jaw dropping into a wordless ‘O’ of pleasure. “That’s good, huh..?”
Danny doesn’t answer; ‘can’t’ is probably more accurate, if he’s being honest. Steve is right there, and the hand not holding the remote has begun fondling with the clasp of his pants, seemingly intent on drawing him out.
If the first pulse was good, the second is better, longer, and Danny’s knees almost buckle with it, would’ve, if not for Steve’s weight pressed against him, holding him steady.
“Fuck, Steve --“
The third pulse, when it comes a moment later, doesn’t stop. It doesn’t fucking stop, and Steve has both hands on Danny’s hips now as he lets the remote drop to the floor with a clatter Danny barely notices above the roaring in his head. And then Steve is dropping to his knees right beside it, ripping into Danny’s pants like there’s something in there he really, really wants, and about ten seconds later, he gets it, whipping Danny’s shorts down around his knees and taking him straight into his mouth.
If there’s ever been a record set for World’s Shortest Blow-Job, Danny’s thinking they might be about seven seconds away from breaking it. Steve’s mouth is warm, the suction just right, and with the humming weight of the vibe inside him, he’s already way closer than he ought to be.
“Steve, I’m--“ He goes for a warning, and Steve pulls right the way off with a sound that borders on obscene. Danny catches a breath and snatches at Steve’s hair, angling the SEAL’s face up towards his own. “The fuck? Did I say stop?”
Steve chuckles, low and wrecked in a way Danny can’t quite believe he’s the cause of. He gets a hand between them, wrapping his fist around Danny’s cock and stroking the full length from base to tip. Danny’s toes curl inside his shoes, and Steve scrapes the edge of his thumbnail under the head of him. “You in a hurry?”
The sound Danny makes isn’t exactly recognisable as ‘fuck off’, but Steve must understand him anyway, because he focuses all the energy of that grin into sucking Danny’s cock instead. It’s an embarrassingly short minute or thereabouts before Danny feels himself drawing close again. This time when he tries to warn Steve, his partner doesn’t even pull off; instead he’s fumbling on the tiles for the remote, and Danny doesn’t know which setting he presses, but the thing in his ass jerks suddenly to life like it never did when they were out on the HQ floor, and Danny doesn’t even have a chance to get pissed at Steve for holding out on him before he’s jerking and coming right down Steve’s throat. His hips twitch in time with a shuddering groan, burying his cock in the wet heat of Steve’s mouth as his vision whites out completely from the edges.
When he comes back to himself, Steve is on his feet again, jerking himself furiously as he bites down around grunts and delicious fucking whines against Danny’s neck. Danny finds the initiative to get a hand between them, wrapping his fingers with Steve’s and whispering, harsh and filthy, against his ear.
“C’mon, babe. C’mon, let go…”
And Steve does; spectacularly, Danny might add, the long curve of his neck craning backwards to expose a tendon Danny can’t help but bite, and the most incredible keen tearing itself from his throat.
Danny’s shaking as he pulls Steve into his arms, thighs trembling and braced hard against the wall; only now he’s got 200llbs of post-orgasmic SEAL to support too, and it’s only the knowledge of what’s likely on this bathroom floor that’s keeping him from sinking down onto it. The vibe is still pulsing, uncomfortably now, pushing against his overworked prostate, and so Danny puts out a hand for the remote himself, and switches it off all the way.
“Yeah.” Steve sounds fucking wrecked, but he finds Danny’s lips and draws him into a breathless kiss nonetheless. “We’re doing that again.”
Danny snorts. “Oh?” But his heart’s really not behind any sort of complaint whatsoever. Of all the dumb fucking ideas Steve’s had, he’s got to admit this has proven one of the best. “You’ve got spare batteries, I suppose?”
“Of course you do.” Danny rolls his eyes and tucks himself back into his pants. He bends at the knee and scoops up the remote, tapping it hard against Steve’s chest. “You won’t mind me taking this with me? If the other part’s staying on me the rest of the day, I’m gonna want to know where the buttons are.”
Steve shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
“Glad you agree.” Danny stops for a perfunctory hair-shirt-slacks check in the bathroom mirror, and then calls back over his shoulder as he makes for the exit: “Look on the bright side. Means I can learn which buttons do what for when we switch it up next time.”
The look on Steve’s face, together with the winning set of orgasms, kinda makes the whole thing worth it.