Challenge/Prompt: alphabetasoup, K is for knot
Copyright: Keane “This Is The Last Time”
Summary: This is not how this was supposed to go.
Author’s Notes: Angsty PWP. When I get around to buying the season 3 DVDs I’ve got other ideas, but for the moment creating various kinds of angst/smut with these two is pretty fun regardless.
You fall on me for anything you like, and I, no, I don’t mind.
This is not how this was supposed to go.
When Danny pushes three fingers into her cunt, Peyton makes a helpless little whimpering sound, which borders on humiliating, and her fingers curl in the sheets so hard she wonders if they’ll rip. That’s just too stupid to happen in real life.
His cheek scrapes hers, there’s a hint of stubble and she instinctively pulls away a little, there cannot be marks, there must not be stubble-burn. Danny laughs, it sounds crushed, this close, his lips pressed somewhere just below her ear.
“I told you-” she begins, irreversibly breathless because he’s pressing his thumb against her clit just because he enjoys it when she’s incoherent. He always has loved reducing her to desperate stuttering with just the right kind of smile. Bastard.
“Calm down darlin’,” he drawls, “I know the drill by now.”
The reminder of just how regular an occurrence this is makes Peyton’s cheeks flush, something that might be guilt clawing at her stomach. Danny must realise that she’s struggling with herself, because he twists his fingers and it makes her gasp and she forgets the reason she’s not supposed to be doing this.
[Tonight, there are probably all kinds of things she should be getting on with, but she couldn’t do any of them. Peyton drank two glasses of white wine and paced the floor for a while and tried to watch the TV and turned it off and in the end broke down and called him. “I need you to come over,” she whispered, as though afraid of being overheard, and on the other end of the line, Danny laughed. “I’m already outside.”]
Something about this whole thing is a cliché. Peyton is ashamed of how predictable she’s being, on some deep level, but curls a hand around the back of Danny’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss anyway. His teeth graze her lower lip, he doesn’t take the time to be careful, and Peyton’s eyes close as Danny thrusts his fingers harder inside her. She wants. Pure and simple. She wants, fuck the consequences.
Really, the one in the wrong here is Danny. It’s all his fault. Really. He started it.
Peyton runs a hand through the back of Danny’s hair, it’s too short for a proper grip, and he runs his tongue over her teeth in some sort of response. It’s so quiet here, Peyton can hear a siren screaming somewhere a few streets away, and her hips buck almost involuntarily when Danny presses his fingers upwards. She turns her face away from him, pressing one cheek against her cool pillow, trying to retain some sort of sanity. Danny has always had the ability to make her fall apart and it’s useless trying to pretend otherwise.
[She’d only been working for the New York Crime Lab a week or two and she and Mac were tentatively trying to date, or at the very least shag on a regular basis and have a conversation afterwards. Danny asked her out for a drink and they wound up in the bathrooms of a bar, because although he was too much of a gentleman to make the first move or any kind of move at all, Peyton couldn’t take her eyes off the muscles enhanced by the cut of his dark blue t-shirt or the thighs encased in a pair of perfectly-fitting jeans. Then, of course, it didn’t matter. She and Mac were barely anything and they weren’t hurting anyone.]
Over time, Danny has learnt her body a little too well and there’s something uncomfortably intimate about it. Neither one of them intended this to get personal, but Danny is breathing with his face buried in her neck and her thighs are spread as wide as Peyton can get them with his hand sending daggers of heat slicing through her stomach, and it seems that once again they’ve failed.
“I want-” she begins. He knows. He probably wants it as much as she does, and without the glasses his eyes are so, so dark blue it hurts to look at them.
God knows where he gets the condom from, Peyton’s losing her mind because she can’t stop thinking, though the thought processes don’t know how to finish and she bites into his shoulder when he brushes his cock against her clit. She can leave whatever marks she wants on him. No one cares whether Danny Messer has fingernail marks on his ribs or not. He’s teasing her, and she doesn’t like it. Knelt over her, he’s almost laughing, teeth flashing perfect and white.
“Damn, you’re beautiful when you want me,” he whispers, mouth twisting around the words and he’s holding back deliberately. Peyton irrationally hates him for a moment or two, her hand slips over his hip, she can feel the heat of his cock pressed against her inner thigh and it makes her grit her teeth.
“I don’t-” she starts to say, it’s a lie, but they both know that so it doesn’t need to be acknowledged. She shudders when he pushes inside her, back arching, a sound escaping her lips that she wants to keep inside because she doesn’t want to give Danny too much. She’s got to keep something back. Her legs wrap around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, she has to remember this.
Neither of them have mentioned is this the last time? because it’s not like that will change anything, and they’re not sure what will happen next. They might stop doing this. They might not know how to. Peyton pushes back at Danny, they’re setting a rhythm that’s almost too fast, too frantic, and she doesn’t want it to be frantic, but it would take a stronger person than she is to try and slow this down.
“Christ,” Danny mutters, his hands splayed on either side of her head, and Peyton clenches around him just because she wants to hear him lose control. She wants him to be as crazy as she is. He makes an endless sound with lots of vowels in it, nothing articulate, his eyes shut for a moment and his eyelids flutter.
Her breasts press against his chest, the last second of friction is almost enough, and Peyton thinks she comes first, just about, because Danny is slamming into her one final time with a sound that isn’t her name, bruised mouth trembling a little and Peyton can’t stop watching him.
Eventually, he gets up, wraps the condom in a twist of tissue that she’ll have to get rid of in the morning, goes to wash off. Peyton lies back, alone, on her bed, closes her eyes, sweat drying on her skin. The sheet beneath her hips is wet and she feels unbelievably tired. In fact, she must fall asleep for a few minutes because when she opens her eyes Danny is dressed again and has opened her closet.
“This the dress?” he asks, sounding only slightly curious.
Peyton wants to reply with something sarcastic, that she always has miscellaneous white floaty dresses just lying around, but the words get stuck and all she can say is:
“It’s pretty,” Danny replies, tone detached. “It’ll look good on you.”
There’s something stupidly surreal about this, the two of them discussing her wedding dress while the room still smells like sex, but Peyton is too exhausted and too anxious to make sense of what’s not being said.
The best man and the bride. It’s such a cliché, so predictable it’s surprising that no one else has figured this out. Maybe Lindsay did. Maybe that’s why she stopped being interested in Danny, turned her attentions onto Flack instead.
“So you’re going through with it?” Danny’s tone is still flat, still unreadable.
“Yes.” Peyton can’t unstick her throat, can’t make logical sentences form. She thinks she’s starting to shiver. The night before her wedding and it’s stupidly late and she’s naked in her bed with Danny Messer looking at her like- like- oh God.
“I should go,” Danny tells her, with a brief smile that twists something irreparable inside her, and Peyton opens her mouth to tell him not to or to tell him something else, but they both know she doesn’t know what to say, so Danny doesn’t stop walking, and no one was meant to get hurt but it’s laughable that they were naïve enough to believe that.
This is not how this was supposed to go.