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I'm Not The Kind To Tell You Lies

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Sometimes, Steve can barely resist the urge to touch his partner.

He wants to mess up Danny's hair, loosen his ridiculous ties and untuck those almost too tight shirts. He wants to stroke his hands over hard muscle under soft cotton, get close enough to smell cologne and sweat and see what effect his touch has.

He knows that he's on the edge of obsession, but he can't seem to shake the need to know his partner, to be part of his life, to be important to Danny. He's seen the attention and devotion that Danny gives to those people he loves, and Steve wants to be in that tiny circle, desperately.

But not even that excuses what he's doing now, standing in the shadows of a dirty alley, watching his partner fuck some guy who, as far as Steve can tell, Danny just met in the club that Steve had followed him to. They haven't bothered stripping, Danny's pants are opened and the other guy's are hanging just under his ass.

It's so unlike the reliable, responsible, sensible Danny that Steve's gotten to know over the last year that he doesn't know quite how to process this new information, how to make it fit into the mental picture he has of his partner.

He does know that watching the way Danny's muscles bunch and flex under his clothes, seeing the sheen of sweat on his profile, and hearing the soft grunts as he fucks hard into the guy in front of him is possibly the hottest, dirtiest thing Steve's seen in a very long time.

The sight of his normally buttoned-up partner undone and fucking like an animal has Steve giving a second's serious consideration to going over to the two men and tearing them apart, so that he can make sure that Danny never goes trawling for ass in clubs and bars again. He doesn't know if he wants to slam Danny up against the rough wall of the alley and fuck him with the same sharp thrusts that Danny's using on the nameless guy, or whether he wants to get on his knees and make Danny forget that the other man ever existed.

Steve aches, riding arousal so deep it makes his gut cramp, and anger that someone else is touching what he privately thinks of as his. His friend, his partner. His.

Even so, he doesn't give in to the temptation to open his pants and fuck into his own hand, too worried that he'll miss something; the steady jackhammer of Danny's hips, or a previously unseen expression on his face.

A sudden loud, drunken giggle from behind startles him and he moves back, closer to the wall, even as he's turning to check out a potential threat. He looks out, towards the street, and sees a group of girls walking past. Instinct makes him lean into the deeper shadows, but something else makes him want to protect Danny, to ensure that no-one else sees Danny like this. He needn't have worried, the girls stumble past the alley without ever looking down it.

Steve turns back, just in time to see the moment when Danny falls in to his orgasm. His back arches, hips jammed up tightly against the other guy's ass, the long stretch of his neck an unknowing seduction . Steve drinks in the sight, imagining himself to be the one to put that look of pained pleasure on Danny's face, the one to hear that drawn out, breathy moan that makes Danny sound like he's dying; broken and damned.

He doesn't stay to see what happens after; doesn't care if they kiss, or if Danny takes the guy's number.

Now he knows, now he's seen,he's going to make his play and sooner or later, no matter what it takes, he's going to have Danny in his bed, and in his life, full time. His partner, his everything.