lavvyan:

NC-17, bottom!Steve, plotless smut

~~~

One of the things Steve takes pride in
is that he knows and understands Danny better than anyone. Better
than his parents, certainly better than Rachel, and probably
even better than the brother whose name shall not be spoken.

So when he thought about it, when he
let himself imagine all the things he couldn’t have, he always
figured that sex with Danny would be a little exhausting. Friendly
but combative, messy but also weirdly prissy about it, with rules and
how-tos and running into hang-ups at the strangest times.

Danny would make Steve do all the
work, squirming and moving just a little off-rhythm, bitching at
Steve that he was doing it wrong even as the precum pooled in Danny’s
belly button.

“What are you doing?” he’d
pant, “this isn’t a military op, what are you… Did they teach
this in army school, did you… did you get graded on this,
what-”

“Navy,” Steve would say,
snapping his hips forward to make Danny moan, “it was the
fucking Navy, why can’t you ever-”

“Oh, the Fucking Navy, was
it?” Danny would laugh, breathless and mocking. “So
w-what’s SEAL stand for, huh? Sucking, uh, En… Endurance,
god, yes, hah, harder… Anal… Steve, Steve, Steve-”

And Steve would pound the words right
out of him, would fuck him quiet, would make him… god, for once in
his life, Danny would just shut up and fucking take it, he’d
just…

And that was usually the moment when
Steve came all over himself, maybe grinning a little, thinking that,
yeah, sex with Danny would be the best kind of argument.

God, was he wrong.

“You’re amazing,” Danny
says, one hand stroking up and down Steve’s flank while three fingers
of the other twist deep inside Steve’s ass, making him shudder. “Look
at you. So beautiful.”

His voice sounds almost reverent, and
all Steve can do is groan and rock into the sheets. He’s come once
already and his hard cock drags across the damp fabric, not quite
slick, not quite rough, almost too much. Danny fucked him through it,
filled him up, and now he’s using his fingers to massage his cum into
Steve’s inner walls, and it’s… he can’t…

Steve moans, ragged and helpless, when
Danny’s fingertips drag across his prostate. He’s jerking, writhing,
mouth hanging open as Danny does it again, and again, and again. He
feels owned, wet and full and fucking worshiped, his body a wreck and
something sacrosanct at the same time.

He whines, and Danny shushes him,
gentles him with kisses along his spine, across his shoulder blades.
Danny’s fingers squelch as they press impossibly deeper and Steve
tries to push into it, wants deeper yet, wider, more, but his
muscles are a shaking, shivering mess.

“‘noth’r,” he slurs, voice
breaking on another moan, “Danny, ‘nother, nnnnnnn…”
Danny’s little finger, rubbing over the rim, “now, now, pl-
ahh!”

“So good,” Danny mutters,
kneading Steve’s left ass cheek, spreading him wider, maybe wanting
to see Steve’s hole flutter and clench around his fingers. “So
good for me, babe, you have no idea.”

Steve barely hears him. He can barely
hear anything. He can barely move. His body is heavy, weightless,
boneless, sinking into the mattress. He’s cotton, putty, couldn’t
tell up from down if Danny asked him to.

He moans, and the sound rolls through
him like pleasure, reverberates, amplifies, hollows him out and for
Danny to fill back up.

And he is. So full. Danny’s fingers
rocking into him. Danny’s thumb pressing hard against Steve’s
perineum, sticky with lube and cum, too much; Steve shudders away
from it, twitches back into it, moans again, greedy and helpless and
oh, oh fuck!

“Ffffffffff,” he drools,
eyes rolling back as his second orgasm sweeps through him, over him,
drags him under and leaves him blind, lost, grinding mindlessly into
the mattress. He keens when Danny leans into him, finger-fucks him
through it until Steve’s wet breaths turn into incoherent pleas for
him to stop, too much, please, no more.

Danny kisses him, soft and
open-mouthed, at the knobbly place where his spine becomes his neck.

“Okay,” he says, his voice
still holding that adoring note, “Shhh, I got you.”

“Hmm,” is all Steve can
manage. He’s exhausted, his ass closing around nothing as Danny
slowly pulls out his fingers in a slick, dripping slide. His body
shifts on the mattress when Danny gets up and it’s like Steve’s at
sea, adrift, but then Danny comes back with a warm washcloth, his
hand a solid weight on Steve’s back as he cleans the worst of the
mess with quick, gentle care.

“You all right?” he asks,
and Steve just…

He can’t help it. He laughs into the
pillow, shoulders shaking, oversensitive nerves firing between his
legs. In all his inaccurate fantasies, that would’ve been his line.

“Gonna take that as a yes,”
Danny says, amused, crawling into bed beside him and tucking himself
around Steve like a too-short blanket.

In a minute, Steve’s going to turn
around and do his best to kiss Danny senseless. In a minute, he’s
going to talk them into spooning properly, maybe change the sheets,
get rid of the wet spot. In a minute.

For now, he just drifts, warm and
content, glad he was wrong.

Happy.

lavvyan:

Inspired by this post by @tissueoflies for @erienne1983.

I know I said I was sitting on my
fingers to keep myself from spilling words all over that one. Turns
out I can’t sit forever. Please try to look surprised.

~~~

The marks have always been a popular
bone of contention.

Localized sensory organ, some
biologists say, designed by evolution to find the most compatible
mate for procreation.

A gift from God, some Western
religions say, to remind us that, truly, man was made in His
image.

The path to true enlightenment,
some Eastern religions say, for to be one with another is to be
one with all.

A nuisance, some say.

The only way to find true love,
some say.

We’ll probably never know, some
say, and maybe they are closest to the truth.

~~~

Most days, Danny doesn’t think about
the mark at his temple. It’s just there in his face, like his nose or
his eyebrows.

He only touched marks twice. The first
time was with Rachel, back when they were so in love he couldn’t see
straight. Her skin cool against his own, dark hair softly brushing
his nose. She’d smelled amazing and she’d loved him so, so much. He
was her rock, her prince, her American cowboy with his gun and his
swagger and his funny way of talking. He’d basked in her infatuation
with him and she’d laughed, delighted, at the way he admired her
stubbornness, her elegance, the mystery of her. They’d never brought
their marks together again, not even during sex, and in hindsight
that probably saved their marriage for years. Still, Danny sometimes
misses the way she made him into a movie version of himself, even
though he failed to measure up.

The second time, he’d like to forget.
He’d been tied to a chair, his beautiful partner dead beside him,
half out of his mind with pain and grief and helpless anger. One of
the goons had suddenly grinned and yanked Danny’s head back by his
hair, bringing their temples together and Danny found himself mired
in the cloying satisfaction of causing pain, of seeing Danny as
nothing but trash, the disposal of which was eagerly anticipated.
Sometimes, the fear of dreaming about it keeps him up all night.

But most days, he doesn’t think about
the mark.

Then Steve laughs or looks at him with
that deep affection, and he wonders.

~~~

He never does anything about it. Not
even when Steve is bleeding out from several gunshot wounds and
touching marks might be the only way to hold on to at least part of
him after he’s…

Not even then.

~~~

He never would have done anything
about it, either. They agreed, years ago, that as long as they’re
working together, a romantic relationship is out of the question.
They’ve been more or less successful at sticking to that plan.

But then a little girl dies and the
plan to catch whoever’s responsible backfires and Steve slowly,
quietly, breaks down. Danny can deal with a lot of things – the
loss of his brother, missing his son – but he can’t take Steve
doubting himself like that.

He just can’t.  

~~~

Steve opens the door in pajama pants
and a t-shirt. He looks pale, dull-eyed, the lines around his mouth
deeper than ever.

“Not a good time, Danny.”
Even his voice lacks life.

“I know,” Danny says, and
barges in regardless.

Steve sighs and closes the door,
follows him deeper into the living room.

“What do you want?” he asks,
sounding so exhausted that Danny himself starts to feel tired.

“I want,” Danny says, taking
great care to keep his body language as open as possible, “to
show you how much of a fuck-up I think you are.”

Steve’s shoulders sag and he rubs a
hand across his face.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it,”
Danny says honestly. It’s hard to see Steve like this, no fight left
in him, but the thing about Steve is that, while he still finds it
hard to ask for help, he takes punishment like a trooper if he thinks
it’s his due. It breaks Danny’s heart.

Steve’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t
protest, doesn’t move away or tell Danny to leave. He just stands
there, silently hurting, waiting for one more person to tell him he’s
not good enough.

Danny swallows and walks over to him,
hesitating before he reaches up and slides around the back of Steve’s
neck, pulls gently. Steve closes his eyes and leans down.

Steve’s skin is warm against Danny’s
temple, the nearness of his body as familiar as his scent in Danny’s
nose. Danny closes his own eyes, moves in that little bit closer.

Their marks touch.

Danny’s fingers clench involuntarily
as he’s hit with a sense of admiration so deep, it nearly pulls him
under. In Steve’s eyes, Danny’s the best father ever to walk the
planet. In Steve’s eyes, Danny’s smart, brave, grouchy, beautiful. In
Steve’s eyes, Danny’s the sun and the moon and all the stars
combined, a force of nature that brings life and light and a sense of
direction.

Danny sniffles, tries to hold back the
tears.

No one’s ever loved him like that.

Against him, Steve is silently crying,
wetness running down his cheek and dripping into the collar of
Danny’s t-shirt.

Because in Danny’s eyes, Steve is a
lodestone, a pillar, the axis on which the world turns. In Danny’s
eyes, Steve is a goofball, necessity, beloved, a hero. In Danny’s
eyes, Steve is the eye of the storm, safe and dangerous in equal
measures, and so fucking amazing it hurts.

“Danny,” Steve chokes.

Danny has no idea who moves first, but
they both turn their heads, blindly searching and finding each
other’s mouths. The kiss is a mess of wet breaths and tears, not
quite enough air and trembling hands. It fixes nothing.

Danny keeps his hand on the back of
Steve’s neck and holds on tight.

~~~

Danny watches Steve lean back in his
office chair. Some of the dark circles under his eyes remain and he’s
still a little pale, but he looks settled, more at ease with himself.
He glances up, meets Danny’s gaze, and smiles.

Danny rubs an absent finger over the
mark at his temple and smiles back.