Chapter 40 #3
He shoves his free hand down his boxer briefs—holy shit, his dick is, like, in hiding—and starts jerking it as quickly and quietly as he can, hoping Sasha doesn’t notice.
“Yes,” Sasha agrees. “Okay. But no more.”
So Danny’s on the clock, multitasking like his life depends on it: fingering Sasha, fisting his dick, and praying he can pull this off.
He already knows his hand isn’t going to be enough, so he empties the spank bank, fail-safes spilling out like copper coins: Sasha sucking on his cupping bruises, Allie in that lacy red bra on Valentine’s Day, Sasha kissing his collarbone all shy about it, those blonde twins from his favorite porn video in high school, a recurring fantasy of Sasha making eye contact with him during a blowjob…
Okay, he’s getting there. Not saluting the judges yet, but definitely climbing onto the podium.
Sasha making eye contact, fuck yes, more of that.
Sasha making noise. God, that would be so hot.
Sasha swearing in Russian, Sasha shouting Danny’s name as he comes…
all right, yeah, his dick is down. Or up, actually. Very up.
“Danny?”
It’s a close call, but he manages to yank his hand out of his underwear just in time before Sasha glances back at him, green eyes bright and unwavering.
“I am ready now.”
He looks so calm. As if he’s about to do a vault he’s already done hundreds of times, a vault that doesn’t scare him at all.
Seeing that certainty in his gaze, something inside of Danny settles, like the ocean after a storm; and while he doesn’t know if it’ll be smooth sailing from here, at least he doesn’t feel so far out of his depth anymore.
“Okay,” he says. “Give me a sec.”
It’s like getting ready to compete a high bar routine, only instead of pulling on the stirrup pants, he’s pulling down his boxer briefs; instead of putting on his grips, he’s putting on a condom; and instead of standing under the bar, trying not to get blinded looking up at the lights, he’s kneeling behind Sasha and trying not to get intimidated by the sight of his hole, even though it kind of feels like he’s staring into the anal abyss.
At least the lube isn’t getting into his eyes like the chalk always does.
“All right, I’m, uh… I’m going in,” he says, and Sasha nods, bracing his palms against the mattress.
Slowly, carefully, Danny eases in, holding his breath as he watches himself disappear inside Sasha. It’s… tight, holy shit. Like his dick’s being strangled, but in a good way? No complaints from the little guy, that’s for sure.
“Sash?” he asks, hearing a sharp inhale. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Sasha says, though his voice sounds more strained than usual. “But—slow, please.”
Danny adjusts to a snail’s pace, or maybe a starfish’s, whichever one’s slower.
At first, Sasha clenches around him, his ribcage going still; but little by little, he starts breathing again, relaxing just enough to let Danny in by a fraction.
And then another. Until Danny’s a quarter of the way in, thinking, Okay, this actually feels a lot better than I thought it would; and then a third, biting back a moan and realizing, Oh, fuck, this is really good.
Halfway there, Sasha tenses up again, his knuckles white against the comforter. “Danny?”
“What’s wrong?” Danny immediately asks, getting nervous when Sasha doesn’t answer right away. “Do you want to stop? I can—”
“No. But… I need a minute.”
“Yeah, of course.” Danny really wishes he could see Sasha’s face right now, because he has no idea where I need a minute falls between I’m okay and I’m dying. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” Sasha admits. “Like stretch. After vacation.”
That doesn’t sound horrible, although it doesn’t sound very comfortable, either. “Is there anything I can do?” Danny asks, feeling helpless when Sasha shakes his head. “All right, I’ll just… let me know.”
He’d love to lean forward and kiss Sasha, but he doesn’t want to make any sudden movements with his dick, so he settles for rubbing Sasha’s lower back, trying to get him more comfortable.
As the silence stretches on, Sasha ducking his head and concentrating on some inner battle inside himself, Danny tries to think of something to talk about, since they’re probably going to be here for a while.
“You’re doing really good,” he says. “I’m like already halfway in. You got this.”
Hearing himself, he laughs, and Sasha shoots a questioning glance over his shoulder.
“Sorry, I was just thinking, it kinda sounds like we’re at a gymnastics meet. Like, ‘You got this,’ ‘Come on,’ ‘You can do it’…”
“Let’s go,” Sasha offers weakly, and Danny grins.
“Exactly. What do you guys say again? ‘Dubai’? Oh no, wait, that’s a country—”
“What? Dubai is city.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Danny decides not to admit he didn’t actually know that. “But—so, what are you saying, then? Cause it sounds like ‘Dubai.’”
“Davai?”
“Yes!” Danny snaps his fingers, or tries to, anyway; it doesn’t really work as well when they’re covered in lube. “Davai. What does that mean, like, ‘Let’s go’?”
Sasha nods, then exhales.
“Can you…”
Danny dials back in, abandoning the Russian vocabulary lesson. “What do you need?”
“What you did before, with my back—can you do it again?”
“Oh, shit, yeah! Sorry, I got distracted.”
Danny picks up the massage again, and Sasha makes a small, appreciative sound, his muscles loosening under Danny’s touch. When Danny starts working around his hips, he sighs and folds his arms, resting his head on the pillow and breathing deep.
“Okay,” he says eventually, getting himself back on all fours. “I think… I am ready now.”
This time, when Danny presses forward, he feels Sasha pushing back against him; but when he pauses to check in, Sasha motions for him to keep going.
So he does, taking it slow—both a snail and a starfish probably could have outpaced him at this point—yet steady, sinking further and further into Sasha until, finally, he’s all the way home.
“Fuck,” he hisses, at the same time as Sasha lets out a low moan. “Sorry—are you okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Does it feel, like… good?” Danny ventures after a minute, because Sasha’s breathing and that’s about it.
“Yes,” Sasha repeats, his voice unsteady. “I don’t… I don’t know how to say, but…” He trails off, then waves his hand at Danny. “You can move now.”
Danny almost asks him if he’s sure, but at the last second, he swallows the question, reminding himself that Sasha literally just said he was okay.
And earlier, he’d had no problem speaking up when he wasn’t, whether he needed to take a break or call Danny out for annoying him.
So Danny needs to trust that Sasha’s telling the truth, and that he actually is okay, even though Danny doesn’t understand how he’s not freaking out.
(But seriously, how is he not freaking out???)
The first thrust is more like a lean, Danny pulling out and then slowly pressing himself into Sasha, his thighs shaking a little from how much he’s holding back.
“Good,” Sasha says with a gasp, so Danny keeps going, finding a pace that has them both breathing heavy, each “good” more labored than the last.
And “good” is an understatement. Sliding into Sasha, feeling how hot and slick he is—all for Danny, because of Danny—it’s almost unreal.
Even though Danny’s trying not to lose himself, trying to let Sasha get to the finish line first, he’s probably going to have to start thinking about math problems or gnarly gymnastics injuries soon if he wants to stay in the race, because… yeah. This is really fucking good.
The only snag so far is his spine, which started complaining about ten thrusts in and hasn’t stopped. Every time his hips connect with Sasha, a line of pain flares across his lower back, and he knows that if he doesn’t change positions soon, he’s going to regret it.
“Sorry, hang on—”
“What are you doing?” Sasha asks, but Danny’s already leaning forward, putting his hands on either side of Sasha’s, and—wait, what the hell, this is so much better. Like, he can actually kiss Sasha now, and even see his face? Or like half of it anyway. Whatever. It still counts.
“Hi,” he says, grinning as he plants a wet one on Sasha’s cheek, and then—
“Da!” Sasha yelps at the next thrust, his arms almost giving out underneath them.
Danny freezes. He’s pretty sure he knows that word, but he’s also panicking now and can’t remember it, because Sasha’s never been this loud before. Like, ever.
“Wait, fuck, what does da mean? Does da mean ‘stop’?”
“No! Yes!”
“Uh… what?”
“Danny!” Sasha glares over his shoulder, green eyes flashing, but Danny still has no idea what he wants. Not until he smacks the comforter twice with his palm and growls, “Davai!”
Startled, Danny thrusts his hips forward—and Sasha fucking moans, his head dropping back between his forearms. So Danny does it again, and again, and Jesus, this has to be the prostate, right?
Because Danny’s never heard Sasha make these sounds before, guttural cries and groans tumbling out of his lips like he can’t control it, like he’s not even trying to.
Shit, if Danny had known this was what he needed to do to get sex noises out of Sasha, he would have tried anal a lot sooner.
He can’t believe how hot it is, how good it gets—Sasha crying out with every thrust, da and davai and a breathless babble of Russian swearwords, like he’s forgotten how to speak English, like Danny’s fucking it right out of him.
But he still shudders when Danny murmurs in his ear, telling him how sexy he sounds, how incredible he looks like this, skin flushed, lips parted, neck shining from Danny’s sloppy kisses.
Davai, he says, davai davai, until Danny’s going as hard and fast as he dares and Sasha’s still demanding more. Danny finally gets a hand around him, no finesse at all, just a frantic rhythm as he buries himself in Sasha, fuck he’s so fucking close…
“Danny,” Sasha pants. “Danny, Danny—”
He’s still saying Danny’s name when he comes all over Danny’s fist.