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[fic] Like Swimming [NC17: Danny/Martin] 1.1
Title: Like Swimming
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: NC17. Most likely merits a 'PWP,' though it's a bit long.
Disclaimer: Mindless objectification of JB's pretty FBI boys, free of charge.
Advertisements: Six months post-S3, spoilers for "Endgame." Probably some similar to the rumors re: S4, but nothing specific. and yes, I am obsessed with "Endgame" and its implications, in case you can't tell.
Notes: Make-up sex for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nekosmuse. (Very) hopeful prognostics for the coming year, though I have to admit I'm not very good at writing sex scenes. Never have been... They elude me, alas.
LIKE SWIMMING
They’ve been working on six months since the Adisa hit, and Martin’s gone swimming. Again.
Sam says Martin swims or runs to blow off steam, and that explanation seems to satisfy Jack, but Vivian’s skeptical about Sam’s dismissal and Danny flat-out doesn’t believe it. He knows why Martin treks down to the pool so often, and why his Nikes have been looking a little worn lately.
Martin freaks out silently, and in private. Animals don’t mix with the pack when they’re wounded and bleeding, and if anyone knows this, it’s Danny. He’s felt Martin withdrawing and shutting down – even now, months after being approved for full duty it’s like Martin is still absent and alone, retreating into some private Martin-space where no one else can follow.
And when Martin’s thoughts can’t go anywhere, can only sit in his head and ferment into insanity, he takes himself and them to the pool, and tonight he’s got someone else along for the ride, though Martin doesn’t know this last. Danny’s been telling himself this ever since he made the split-second decision to shadow Martin down to the gym – he needs to pull Martin out of that place, because he can’t lose Martin to his own mind. And how you can lose something you never had is something Danny’s really not going to think about.
It’s late, near closing time, and the pool complex has that echoing silence of big, tiled, and deserted places. The splashes from Martin’s arms and legs as he powers through another lap – the fifth, since Danny’s gotten here – sound small and distorted in some way Danny really can’t name. He’s more interested in the sight of Martin, all elegance and synchronized muscles, and through the waves and splashes of water Danny can catch a glimpse of wet skin shining in the fluorescence of the ceiling lights.
If he ever got a suspect to admit to doing what he’s doing right now, he’d call it suspicious behavior. Stalker-type suspicious behavior, worthy of interrogation and a restraining order. But he figures he can be above the law for once, if it means he gets to see what he’s seeing now: nearly-naked Martin slicing through the water like a knife.
He’s seen Martin wet only twice in his life: the first, dripping, fully-clothed Martin hauling Gabe Freedman’s would-be molester out of that pond, and he's held on to that memory for almost three years now. Time hasn’t dimmed the keenness of the image, though; if he closes his eyes he can still see Martin, dripping and elated, cuffing Darren Oakes and pushing him unceremoniously into the Santa Fe PD patrol car.
The second... He wants to shy away from that, but the memory is insistent: Martin drenched and shivering, blood thick and hot as it ran over Danny’s hands, diluted by rain-water when it pooled below Martin’s ribs.
He’s too caught up in thinking and watching and remembering, the rhythm of Martin’s swimming fading into hypnotic background noise, so he doesn’t really register that Martin hasn’t started on Lap Ten, but is staring at him over the edge of the pool, arms folded on the concrete, goggles pushed up on his forehead.
“What are you doing here?” Martin’s voice is indignant and scandalized, like Danny has been spying on him in the shower. Which, given the amount of skin that that navy blue spandex is covering at the moment, is not far wrong. He pulls off his goggles and stares at Danny, twisting the elastic around his wrist.
The scar high on Martin’s chest is faint, an unnatural twisting of skin, fine line remaining from when they’d stapled him shut. Danny makes himself not stare at it, because he can remember blood pouring out of it all too clearly, when it had been a gaping, ragged hole and Martin had been dying as he’d watched.
“What’s it look like?” Belligerent and more than a bit sarcastic, if only to keep Martin off-balance with him.
“You don’t even have a membership,” Martin informs him, like Danny’s too dense to be aware of this fact.
By way of answer, Danny smiles sweetly, the kind of smile that drives Martin up the wall. It earns him an exasperated huff and a narrow-eyed glare, and a moment of appraising, ominous silence.
“Look, I don’t care how the hell you got in,” Martin says as he hauls himself up and out of the pool, and congratulations Special Agent Danny Taylor, you have just had your first heart attack at the tender age of thirty-three.
Way too much to take in, hair spiked and unruly, miles of wet skin over long, sleek swimmer’s muscles, and God to be that light, clinging to the subdued, flattened curve of hip, the fine line of Martin’s shoulder running down into his arm, or that water, tracing downward across a flat abdomen. Martin’s standing there, unself-conscious in a way that Danny’s never really seen, like he’s on his own turf and knows it, not bothering with defensiveness and huffiness now, but only eyeing him consideringly, head tilted just so, in a way that suggests Martin is seeing more in Danny than Danny knows.
It’s an effort to meet those eyes, dark now, the way they get when Martin’s thinking, but Danny doesn’t look away.
“Why’re you here, Danny?” Edge of impatience in Martin’s voice, like he’s repeating himself. He probably is.
“Eh. Bored,” he says carelessly, shrugging.
“You’re so bored you’re coming down to spy on me?” Martin snorts and stalks over to his towel. “You really need a life, Taylor.”
“Mmm... That’s my line, Fitzie.” He smiles reprovingly and Martin rolls his eyes before turning to the locker room. Danny follows in Martin’s wake as he turns to leave the pool area, and they form an odd sort of parade heading into the changing room – Martin in almost nothing at all and seemingly not caring, muscles playing tantalizingly under damp skin as he walks, Danny melting in his suit jacket.
Martin’s only reply is another snort as he wraps his towel around his hips and marches, straight-backed, to his locker. Danny trails him, is close enough to pick out the beads of water glinting on pale skin, a collection of freckles scattered over Martin’s left shoulder blade. The stiffness in Martin’s posture tells him the other man is aware of his proximity, and he can feel the uncertainty and barely-suppressed excitement, sparks of electricity, swift and sharp, in the air between them.
He’s always been aware of Martin in some weird, somatic, unconscious way – he just knows, and ever since That Night that awareness has grown, why he doesn’t know, but Danny figures that two people don’t almost die together and come away from it the same. And ever since That Night he’s seen something raw and jagged under Martin’s calm, like the edges of a bullet wound, something that’s resisted healing and tonight Danny’s come to do something about it.
“For the third time, Danny, why’re you here?” Martin’s voice is unexpectedly quiet, confused almost by the awareness between them.
“You’ve been looking pretty rough lately, and I was thinking – ”
“It’s bad enough I have Harris and Jack after me,” Martin interrupts, whirling around to face him and starting back a bit when they almost collide. “I don’t need you climbing all over me either.”
“I was thinking maybe we could not talk,” Danny says, and he can see the suggestion sink into Martin as he steps closer, how his eyes widen and darken with sudden knowledge.
“Danny – ”
For one second, one second, he hopes Martin will back off and tell him he doesn’t want to do this, because being this close to Martin is like stepping off a cliff – a long, inevitable fall away from himself – or like drowning, and every breath he takes is thick with the heat and scent of Martin’s body, radiant and inescapable.
But Martin doesn’t, instead catches Danny by his collar and surges up into him, an unexpected wave snatching breath and coherency away.
Martin’s lips are cool and taste of chlorine, but his mouth is hot, slick and sweet when he opens up to Danny, echo of a sigh that tastes of relief and acquiescence. And Danny has to wonder if Martin’s been wanting this, all the time he’s hidden himself away – and whether he wants Danny or only wants whatever momentary freedom sex will bring, Danny’s willing to give that to him.
Swimming and running aren’t releases for Martin, they’re attempts at discipline, to silence his mind by forcing his body into exhaustion – like drinking was never a release for Danny, only a temporary silence. But this, this is different, and he thinks that Martin knows it – no discipline now in the fingers faltering over Danny’s buttons, pushing his coat off his shoulders, or the confused and murmured half-words that slide across Danny’s skin, a strange victory.
“God, Danny,” is the most coherence Martin can manage as he pulls them into a shower stall, directing Danny with his tie, and yanks the curtain shut. A flimsy privacy and kind of pointless, but Danny doesn’t care as he bends down again to taste Martin through the sheen of water, to lick across the scar on Martin’s chest, can feel the familiar, determined pace of Martin’s heart beneath it. Martin half-yelps and twists against him when Danny’s free hand finds a nipple, and when Danny laughs he’s surprised to find Martin laughing along with him, muttering something about too many clothes.
And that’s something he could get used to, that laughter, the warm huff of it across his ear when he reaches up to kiss Martin again. Breaks away with a grin, a teasing one that brings faint questioning to Martin’s face and then a lightning-fierce flash of realization as Danny kneels.
He slides down the length of Martin’s body, tracing his hands along ribs and the long, elegant line of Martin’s flank, slipping down his thighs to the soft skin behind his knee. Martin watches him the entire time, eyes huge and dark, and Danny finds he can’t look away, caught by the promise in them.
The spandex is doing nothing to restrain Martin’s arousal, and Martin’s head tips back when Danny mouths him through it, body arching upward, all of him tense and expectant as Danny peels the scrap of fabric down his thighs. The moisture slicking Martin’s skin now is pool water and sweat, salt and chlorine mixing oddly with the precome dripping sticky on Danny’s tongue as he takes Martin’s cock in his mouth.
A strangled moan breaks the humming silence around them, and Martin’s shaking against Danny’s hands, wanting desperately to thrust and trying not to. His own fingers are tangled through Danny’s hair, not forcing the issue but massaging in little, frantic circles as Danny licks and explores, discovering taste and texture, liking the weight of Martin against his tongue.
“Please, God, Danny.” The words are mostly sighs, vibrating up from somewhere deep in Martin’s body as his hips push insistently into Danny’s grip. And Danny can see the shreds of Martin’s control falling away, burning away into ash as his thrusts become more powerful, nearly getting past Danny’s hands now. He can feel the desperation in Martin’s body, the tension running up and down his frame like electricity, and before Martin can reach for sanity again Danny slips a hand down and around Martin’s ass, still gripping firmly, one finger playing at his entrance, the other sliding between his legs.
Martin does cry out now, not even trying to keep it back, raw like his orgasm is being torn from him, and comes, thick and hot, in Danny’s mouth.
They stay frozen a moment, Danny kneeling and dazed, holding a quivering Martin up against the wall, still caught up in the taste of Martin in his mouth. But the tile is merciless under his knees and water’s seeping through the fabric of his trousers – his grey trousers, and no way anyone’s going to miss that when he walks out of here. If he can walk, because the sight of Martin above him is paralyzing – eyes like dark blue fire, mouth open in something like astonishment, everything written on that fine face clear as day.
It’s not healing, nowhere close to it, and Danny knows (oh, how he knows) that sex doesn’t solve much in the long run. But it’s a step, and a huge one, seeing Martin unbarriered like that, blank and amazed and shaking, alive like he hasn’t been for months. Smoothly as he can, he rises to his feet, half-laughs when Martin pulls him back against his body, and he can feel Martin’s heart racing.
God, Martin’s working at his zipper, pulling it down with impatient yanks and if Danny’s voice were working properly he would ask Martin to be more careful. But then one of Martin’s hands has insinuated itself inside his pants, and the other is almost forcing Danny against him, pressing at the base of Danny’s spine, massaging again, an encouraging pressure that has Danny moving in rhythm to it, thrusting helplessly into Martin’s hand, bracketed by his legs.
Martin’s kissing him again, nipping and licking at his neck, nudging aside the obstruction of Danny’s collar, free hand playing gently and regretfully against the scar on Danny’s abdomen, nails scratching down the ridges of his stomach. Sudden flash of heat and pain soothed by Martin’s tongue and a gentle, shaky breath against his skin. And crazy, but that’s what undoes him – not Martin’s hand or the sharp pain-pleasure of the bite on his neck, but that hitching breath shushing across his skin, because it sounds like a prayer and his name offered up together, and he comes, shaking and unexpected, into Martin’s hand.
It’s his turn to cry out Martin’s name now, and Martin catches his breath up in a fierce kiss, tongue sweeping through Danny’s mouth, tasting himself and Danny, the flavor of both of them tangled together and inseparable. When Danny can breathe again, it’s only in short, frantic gulps between the fleeting kisses Martin presses against his lips, and when he does manage to breathe in all he can smell is Martin.
Exhausted, suddenly, wrapped up still in the haze of orgasm, he lazes against Martin, forearms resting against the tile wall on either side of Martin’s head, liking how Martin’s fingers trail over his back, leaving the barest hints of fire behind them.
And they could stay like this forever, Danny decides. Really, forever.
“Ow... Danny. Move... Faucet,” Martin says blurrily, shifting against him.
“Sorry.” Danny manages to straighten up, pulling Martin into a kiss as he does so. Any excuse to touch him, really, and he can’t help his grin or the random touches drifting over Martin – the bump at his shoulder, his chest, down his sides, his neck and face, not wanting to arouse, but soothe, and maybe reassure himself that Martin really is here with him.
“Come home with me?” Martin whispers the question through his own laughter, almost smothering it against Danny’s mouth.
“Sure, yeah,” he says, and Martin’s smile is honest and blinding, yeah, not better, but a long way closer than before.
-end-
In other news: I can feel myself starting to destabilize, and I really don't like it. Last year I took a vow that Personal Issues would not poison LJ life and relationships, but I've found myself in violation of that, and so will be gone for a bit, until I can recover such rationality as remains to me and can be fit company again. So, see ya later, alligator and all that.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Rating/Warnings: NC17. Most likely merits a 'PWP,' though it's a bit long.
Disclaimer: Mindless objectification of JB's pretty FBI boys, free of charge.
Advertisements: Six months post-S3, spoilers for "Endgame." Probably some similar to the rumors re: S4, but nothing specific. and yes, I am obsessed with "Endgame" and its implications, in case you can't tell.
Notes: Make-up sex for
nekosmuse. (Very) hopeful prognostics for the coming year, though I have to admit I'm not very good at writing sex scenes. Never have been... They elude me, alas.LIKE SWIMMING
They’ve been working on six months since the Adisa hit, and Martin’s gone swimming. Again.
Sam says Martin swims or runs to blow off steam, and that explanation seems to satisfy Jack, but Vivian’s skeptical about Sam’s dismissal and Danny flat-out doesn’t believe it. He knows why Martin treks down to the pool so often, and why his Nikes have been looking a little worn lately.
Martin freaks out silently, and in private. Animals don’t mix with the pack when they’re wounded and bleeding, and if anyone knows this, it’s Danny. He’s felt Martin withdrawing and shutting down – even now, months after being approved for full duty it’s like Martin is still absent and alone, retreating into some private Martin-space where no one else can follow.
And when Martin’s thoughts can’t go anywhere, can only sit in his head and ferment into insanity, he takes himself and them to the pool, and tonight he’s got someone else along for the ride, though Martin doesn’t know this last. Danny’s been telling himself this ever since he made the split-second decision to shadow Martin down to the gym – he needs to pull Martin out of that place, because he can’t lose Martin to his own mind. And how you can lose something you never had is something Danny’s really not going to think about.
It’s late, near closing time, and the pool complex has that echoing silence of big, tiled, and deserted places. The splashes from Martin’s arms and legs as he powers through another lap – the fifth, since Danny’s gotten here – sound small and distorted in some way Danny really can’t name. He’s more interested in the sight of Martin, all elegance and synchronized muscles, and through the waves and splashes of water Danny can catch a glimpse of wet skin shining in the fluorescence of the ceiling lights.
If he ever got a suspect to admit to doing what he’s doing right now, he’d call it suspicious behavior. Stalker-type suspicious behavior, worthy of interrogation and a restraining order. But he figures he can be above the law for once, if it means he gets to see what he’s seeing now: nearly-naked Martin slicing through the water like a knife.
He’s seen Martin wet only twice in his life: the first, dripping, fully-clothed Martin hauling Gabe Freedman’s would-be molester out of that pond, and he's held on to that memory for almost three years now. Time hasn’t dimmed the keenness of the image, though; if he closes his eyes he can still see Martin, dripping and elated, cuffing Darren Oakes and pushing him unceremoniously into the Santa Fe PD patrol car.
The second... He wants to shy away from that, but the memory is insistent: Martin drenched and shivering, blood thick and hot as it ran over Danny’s hands, diluted by rain-water when it pooled below Martin’s ribs.
He’s too caught up in thinking and watching and remembering, the rhythm of Martin’s swimming fading into hypnotic background noise, so he doesn’t really register that Martin hasn’t started on Lap Ten, but is staring at him over the edge of the pool, arms folded on the concrete, goggles pushed up on his forehead.
“What are you doing here?” Martin’s voice is indignant and scandalized, like Danny has been spying on him in the shower. Which, given the amount of skin that that navy blue spandex is covering at the moment, is not far wrong. He pulls off his goggles and stares at Danny, twisting the elastic around his wrist.
The scar high on Martin’s chest is faint, an unnatural twisting of skin, fine line remaining from when they’d stapled him shut. Danny makes himself not stare at it, because he can remember blood pouring out of it all too clearly, when it had been a gaping, ragged hole and Martin had been dying as he’d watched.
“What’s it look like?” Belligerent and more than a bit sarcastic, if only to keep Martin off-balance with him.
“You don’t even have a membership,” Martin informs him, like Danny’s too dense to be aware of this fact.
By way of answer, Danny smiles sweetly, the kind of smile that drives Martin up the wall. It earns him an exasperated huff and a narrow-eyed glare, and a moment of appraising, ominous silence.
“Look, I don’t care how the hell you got in,” Martin says as he hauls himself up and out of the pool, and congratulations Special Agent Danny Taylor, you have just had your first heart attack at the tender age of thirty-three.
Way too much to take in, hair spiked and unruly, miles of wet skin over long, sleek swimmer’s muscles, and God to be that light, clinging to the subdued, flattened curve of hip, the fine line of Martin’s shoulder running down into his arm, or that water, tracing downward across a flat abdomen. Martin’s standing there, unself-conscious in a way that Danny’s never really seen, like he’s on his own turf and knows it, not bothering with defensiveness and huffiness now, but only eyeing him consideringly, head tilted just so, in a way that suggests Martin is seeing more in Danny than Danny knows.
It’s an effort to meet those eyes, dark now, the way they get when Martin’s thinking, but Danny doesn’t look away.
“Why’re you here, Danny?” Edge of impatience in Martin’s voice, like he’s repeating himself. He probably is.
“Eh. Bored,” he says carelessly, shrugging.
“You’re so bored you’re coming down to spy on me?” Martin snorts and stalks over to his towel. “You really need a life, Taylor.”
“Mmm... That’s my line, Fitzie.” He smiles reprovingly and Martin rolls his eyes before turning to the locker room. Danny follows in Martin’s wake as he turns to leave the pool area, and they form an odd sort of parade heading into the changing room – Martin in almost nothing at all and seemingly not caring, muscles playing tantalizingly under damp skin as he walks, Danny melting in his suit jacket.
Martin’s only reply is another snort as he wraps his towel around his hips and marches, straight-backed, to his locker. Danny trails him, is close enough to pick out the beads of water glinting on pale skin, a collection of freckles scattered over Martin’s left shoulder blade. The stiffness in Martin’s posture tells him the other man is aware of his proximity, and he can feel the uncertainty and barely-suppressed excitement, sparks of electricity, swift and sharp, in the air between them.
He’s always been aware of Martin in some weird, somatic, unconscious way – he just knows, and ever since That Night that awareness has grown, why he doesn’t know, but Danny figures that two people don’t almost die together and come away from it the same. And ever since That Night he’s seen something raw and jagged under Martin’s calm, like the edges of a bullet wound, something that’s resisted healing and tonight Danny’s come to do something about it.
“For the third time, Danny, why’re you here?” Martin’s voice is unexpectedly quiet, confused almost by the awareness between them.
“You’ve been looking pretty rough lately, and I was thinking – ”
“It’s bad enough I have Harris and Jack after me,” Martin interrupts, whirling around to face him and starting back a bit when they almost collide. “I don’t need you climbing all over me either.”
“I was thinking maybe we could not talk,” Danny says, and he can see the suggestion sink into Martin as he steps closer, how his eyes widen and darken with sudden knowledge.
“Danny – ”
For one second, one second, he hopes Martin will back off and tell him he doesn’t want to do this, because being this close to Martin is like stepping off a cliff – a long, inevitable fall away from himself – or like drowning, and every breath he takes is thick with the heat and scent of Martin’s body, radiant and inescapable.
But Martin doesn’t, instead catches Danny by his collar and surges up into him, an unexpected wave snatching breath and coherency away.
Martin’s lips are cool and taste of chlorine, but his mouth is hot, slick and sweet when he opens up to Danny, echo of a sigh that tastes of relief and acquiescence. And Danny has to wonder if Martin’s been wanting this, all the time he’s hidden himself away – and whether he wants Danny or only wants whatever momentary freedom sex will bring, Danny’s willing to give that to him.
Swimming and running aren’t releases for Martin, they’re attempts at discipline, to silence his mind by forcing his body into exhaustion – like drinking was never a release for Danny, only a temporary silence. But this, this is different, and he thinks that Martin knows it – no discipline now in the fingers faltering over Danny’s buttons, pushing his coat off his shoulders, or the confused and murmured half-words that slide across Danny’s skin, a strange victory.
“God, Danny,” is the most coherence Martin can manage as he pulls them into a shower stall, directing Danny with his tie, and yanks the curtain shut. A flimsy privacy and kind of pointless, but Danny doesn’t care as he bends down again to taste Martin through the sheen of water, to lick across the scar on Martin’s chest, can feel the familiar, determined pace of Martin’s heart beneath it. Martin half-yelps and twists against him when Danny’s free hand finds a nipple, and when Danny laughs he’s surprised to find Martin laughing along with him, muttering something about too many clothes.
And that’s something he could get used to, that laughter, the warm huff of it across his ear when he reaches up to kiss Martin again. Breaks away with a grin, a teasing one that brings faint questioning to Martin’s face and then a lightning-fierce flash of realization as Danny kneels.
He slides down the length of Martin’s body, tracing his hands along ribs and the long, elegant line of Martin’s flank, slipping down his thighs to the soft skin behind his knee. Martin watches him the entire time, eyes huge and dark, and Danny finds he can’t look away, caught by the promise in them.
The spandex is doing nothing to restrain Martin’s arousal, and Martin’s head tips back when Danny mouths him through it, body arching upward, all of him tense and expectant as Danny peels the scrap of fabric down his thighs. The moisture slicking Martin’s skin now is pool water and sweat, salt and chlorine mixing oddly with the precome dripping sticky on Danny’s tongue as he takes Martin’s cock in his mouth.
A strangled moan breaks the humming silence around them, and Martin’s shaking against Danny’s hands, wanting desperately to thrust and trying not to. His own fingers are tangled through Danny’s hair, not forcing the issue but massaging in little, frantic circles as Danny licks and explores, discovering taste and texture, liking the weight of Martin against his tongue.
“Please, God, Danny.” The words are mostly sighs, vibrating up from somewhere deep in Martin’s body as his hips push insistently into Danny’s grip. And Danny can see the shreds of Martin’s control falling away, burning away into ash as his thrusts become more powerful, nearly getting past Danny’s hands now. He can feel the desperation in Martin’s body, the tension running up and down his frame like electricity, and before Martin can reach for sanity again Danny slips a hand down and around Martin’s ass, still gripping firmly, one finger playing at his entrance, the other sliding between his legs.
Martin does cry out now, not even trying to keep it back, raw like his orgasm is being torn from him, and comes, thick and hot, in Danny’s mouth.
They stay frozen a moment, Danny kneeling and dazed, holding a quivering Martin up against the wall, still caught up in the taste of Martin in his mouth. But the tile is merciless under his knees and water’s seeping through the fabric of his trousers – his grey trousers, and no way anyone’s going to miss that when he walks out of here. If he can walk, because the sight of Martin above him is paralyzing – eyes like dark blue fire, mouth open in something like astonishment, everything written on that fine face clear as day.
It’s not healing, nowhere close to it, and Danny knows (oh, how he knows) that sex doesn’t solve much in the long run. But it’s a step, and a huge one, seeing Martin unbarriered like that, blank and amazed and shaking, alive like he hasn’t been for months. Smoothly as he can, he rises to his feet, half-laughs when Martin pulls him back against his body, and he can feel Martin’s heart racing.
God, Martin’s working at his zipper, pulling it down with impatient yanks and if Danny’s voice were working properly he would ask Martin to be more careful. But then one of Martin’s hands has insinuated itself inside his pants, and the other is almost forcing Danny against him, pressing at the base of Danny’s spine, massaging again, an encouraging pressure that has Danny moving in rhythm to it, thrusting helplessly into Martin’s hand, bracketed by his legs.
Martin’s kissing him again, nipping and licking at his neck, nudging aside the obstruction of Danny’s collar, free hand playing gently and regretfully against the scar on Danny’s abdomen, nails scratching down the ridges of his stomach. Sudden flash of heat and pain soothed by Martin’s tongue and a gentle, shaky breath against his skin. And crazy, but that’s what undoes him – not Martin’s hand or the sharp pain-pleasure of the bite on his neck, but that hitching breath shushing across his skin, because it sounds like a prayer and his name offered up together, and he comes, shaking and unexpected, into Martin’s hand.
It’s his turn to cry out Martin’s name now, and Martin catches his breath up in a fierce kiss, tongue sweeping through Danny’s mouth, tasting himself and Danny, the flavor of both of them tangled together and inseparable. When Danny can breathe again, it’s only in short, frantic gulps between the fleeting kisses Martin presses against his lips, and when he does manage to breathe in all he can smell is Martin.
Exhausted, suddenly, wrapped up still in the haze of orgasm, he lazes against Martin, forearms resting against the tile wall on either side of Martin’s head, liking how Martin’s fingers trail over his back, leaving the barest hints of fire behind them.
And they could stay like this forever, Danny decides. Really, forever.
“Ow... Danny. Move... Faucet,” Martin says blurrily, shifting against him.
“Sorry.” Danny manages to straighten up, pulling Martin into a kiss as he does so. Any excuse to touch him, really, and he can’t help his grin or the random touches drifting over Martin – the bump at his shoulder, his chest, down his sides, his neck and face, not wanting to arouse, but soothe, and maybe reassure himself that Martin really is here with him.
“Come home with me?” Martin whispers the question through his own laughter, almost smothering it against Danny’s mouth.
“Sure, yeah,” he says, and Martin’s smile is honest and blinding, yeah, not better, but a long way closer than before.
-end-
In other news: I can feel myself starting to destabilize, and I really don't like it. Last year I took a vow that Personal Issues would not poison LJ life and relationships, but I've found myself in violation of that, and so will be gone for a bit, until I can recover such rationality as remains to me and can be fit company again. So, see ya later, alligator and all that.
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I love that bit with Martin and his "you don't even have a membership" bit. I can totally see him saying that. And then there's TEH SEX. OMG. I need a cold shower.
As for the personal issues, I find that sometimes taking a breather from everything (both real and virtual) can help. This week has been one of those weeks, too busy at work to write, too distracted at home to write. Off to watch eps of The Job, eat chocolate cake and squander my time. Hope you get a chance to do the same.
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So like Martin to focus on the small, ridiculous things *g*
Off to watch eps of The Job, eat chocolate cake and squander my time.
Have no chocolate cake, but I do have brownies. And pie. Mmm... pie.
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Glad you liked it!
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What the hell are you talking about? This was very very hot! Although I have to admit I liked reading about their emotions even more then the sex. You described every feeling so thoroughly and correct. Really great.
In other news: I can feel myself starting to destabilize, and I really don't like it. Last year I took a vow that Personal Issues would not poison LJ life and relationships, but I've found myself in violation of that, and so will be gone for a bit, until I can recover such rationality as remains to me and can be fit company again. So, see ya later, alligator and all that.
Take some time. Sometimes, that's the only thing that can keep you going. Trust me, been there. Don't worry, we'll all still be around when you get back.
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Thanks :) I've complained about my sex scenes ever since I started writing slash... eek. Five years ago now. No matter the pairing, there's something that escapes me; with most things, I can put my finger on the source of dissatisfaction (and then fix it), but there's just something that defies me when it comes to sex.
Maybe it's better that way, I don't know. Mystery, and all that. But, at any rate, I'm thrilled you liked this! :)
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I like Martin in this, because he's exactly the Martin you expect him to be, forcing himself into stillness through exhaustion, and yet never quite touching it. And Danny, because I can see him following Martin to the pool, sitting there and watching because he wants something more but wants Martin to notice it before he asks for it. So yeah, the boys really rang true for me.
Then, of course, there's the whole sex in the shower/locker room, which is one of my favourite kinks, so, you know, that helps. Lovely. Just lovely.
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In pretty much any fandom I've been in, I've sought to know the kinks of others to help me along and keep things interesting. So, y'know, if you have any others I should know about, feel free to advise :)
I like Martin in this, because he's exactly the Martin you expect him to be, forcing himself into stillness through exhaustion, and yet never quite touching it.
One of the reasons I love WaT (and one of the reasons it can frustrate me) is that Martin is exactly like me, only with worse fashion sense. (I, uh, flatter myself here, but I'd like to think I have sense enough to stay away from plaid and paisley in the same outfit.) But yeah, a lot of his reactions and behavior in LS and my handful of other fics come in part from how I would react.
And that's kind of disturbing, when I think of it.
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And sorry about the issues. It would be a loss if you went away for a while, but only you know what you need. Wish you well.
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congratulations Special Agent Danny Taylor, you have just had your first heart attack at the tender age of thirty-three.
I just had to quote that because hee!poor Danny...although he just had hothot steamy shower sex with Martin, so I'm not really sure why I'm pitying him.
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Yeah, there are a lot of people in the world who have it a lot worse than Danny does :D
Thanks so much for the kind words! *beams*