#dangeorge

Daniel doesn’t know what to do at first, because this has never happened to him before. Doesn’t know if he should pull out right away, or if he should trust that George will tell him to stop if that’s what he needs. He pauses, at least, and touches one hand to George’s cheek.

“Hey,” Daniel whispers, brushing his thumb through the wet trail left by one teardrop beneath his temple. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” George’s breaths are shallow and fast, and his leg around Daniel’s waist quivers and his hips twitch up hungrily against Daniel’s stillness. He pulls one hand away from where he’s been clutching Daniel’s shoulders and rubs his eyes. “’m sorry—I can’t help it, I know it’s ridiculous. This… it’s just…”

“It’s… good, yeah?” Daniel asks uncertainly. “Because if it’s not, we don’t h—”

“It’s so good,” George says, swiping at one eye again. “Bloody hell, Danny, it’s so good.”

Relief is what Daniel feels first, then a kind of stupid boyish pride, then a wave of heat from his belly outwards as it sinks in how much George is enjoying this, how badly he must have wanted this that finally getting it has brought literal tears to his eyes. Daniel lowers his head to kiss George’s lips, then below his eye where a tear glistens on the apex of his cheek. The salt sting of it surprises him, drives another rush of heat through him, and he has a… a weird impulse, maybe, to take George’s hand and lick the tears that he’d wiped away, too.

He settles for kissing George’s first knuckle, where he can still see moisture clinging to the skin, and it’s so good that he shivers.

George threads his hand into Daniel’s hair, silently urging him on. He’s so tight around Daniel, trembling, his head tipping back and his eyes falling closed as Daniel starts to rock into him again, his dick burning hot against Daniel’s stomach except where drops of precum and sweat quickly cool. His swallowed whines vibrate in his ribs, and Daniel feels them in his own sternum as he nestles closer, sinking deeper, capturing another teardrop between his lips as it trickles down the side of George’s face. To think that Daniel is the one making this happen with his own body, with every breath, every thrust.

It’s a picture from Daniel. Of Daniel. At a steep angle, with dim lighting and washed-out colors, showing from Danny’s protruding larynx down—he’s pulling his shirt up with one hand, offering a glimpse of one pec and a clear view of his six-pack abs, the crests of his pelvis, the trail of dark hair leading down to just out of frame, where his other hand disappears—

George shoves his phone back into his jeans forcefully and tries to look properly attentive. His face feels like he’s just come out of a sauna.

At the sudden motion, Toto glances over, an eyebrow raised. “Everything is all right, George?”

“Yeah—good—fine,” George gulps. “Did the air conditioning just shut off? Blimey, I’m sweating like a dog all of a sudden.”

Toto regards him suspiciously, but doesn’t interrogate further. The twenty-seven minutes remaining in their weekly scheduled hour crawl by. Finally, George speeds back to his flat and gets his phone out with trembling hands. It’s a gorgeous photo, Daniel’s torso like a feast for George alone, and Daniel’s wiry wrist reaching suggestively below where the picture cuts off…

It’s accompanied by the text: Babyyyy I miss u 😘

George grins; Danny’s attention still makes him giddy. He opens the camera app and spends a second considering the lighting and décor—in his bedroom, he takes off his shirt, and goes for a photo that shows about from his sternum to a few inches below the waistband of his jeans, with the top button of the fly undone. It takes a few attempts to get a picture that doesn’t look weirdly distorted by the perspective, and he spends a minute correcting the exposure and contrast to look appropriately sultry before sending it off without comment.

A few minutes later: Gorgeous 💦

And a moment after that, another photo: this one is a close-up of Daniel’s mouth, dark and sepia-toned, his chapped lips quirked into a wicked smile, and two fingers between his teeth. George bites down tentatively on his own index finger and considers how to respond, luxuriating in the warmth starting to bleed up his spine; he unzips his jeans and inches them down far enough to show his hipbones, starkly outlined in the golden cast of his bedside lamp. He reclines on the bed—Daniel will recognize the sheets—and takes a picture of his hip, a little off-center.

He adds: Wish you’d bite me here

George closes his eyes. Listens. Not to the music, really, but to the susurration of Daniel’s breath while George kisses the corner of his mouth. To the delicate, desperate moan when Daniel’s hips arch against George’s weight—his own voice, George realizes. To the smooth metallic trill of Daniel undoing the zipper of George’s jeans.

It’s hard to pay much attention to anything, after that point, but there’s a moment while they’re entwined together, and Daniel has said something in between his rambling direction and praise that makes George laugh, and as George kisses and nuzzles the soft flesh beside Daniel’s larynx, he feels—under his lips, under his tongue—the rapid, hammer-strike beating of Daniel’s pulse. It feels for a moment like it might line up with the music, but then it diverges, the heartbeats coming sooner, then on the offbeat, then almost lining up again. The rhythm is enthralling, like George could synchronize a part of himself with it, lose himself in it.

“—babe?” Daniel murmurs, his hands going still. His pulse accelerates. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” George says, lifting his head up. “Good. Amazing.” He kisses Daniel hungrily, heavily, until he feels Daniel smile and groan and his hand on George’s cock start stroking again, and then there are other rhythms for George to get lost in.