Steve shifts, like tectonic plates moving, slow and inevitable, until his mouth is against Danny's shoulder, and he starts following along it, up to the curve of his throat.
Making Danny's eyes drift closed, at the sensation, and a smile he can't stop press at the corners of his mouth, until he gusts out a breath of a laugh, tailing after a low sound that doesn't make it far enough out of the back of his throat to be called a groan. Hands landing back on Steve, and running up, along his back and along the back of his neck and into his hair, again, possessive and delighted, because Steve isn't making fun of him. Steve's not mocking him. Steve's not getting up, or moving away, or acting like this is going to be forgotten about in the morning and never spoken of again.
Steve's mouth is against his throat, and he's saying that. That. Not asking questions, or for clarification. But. Like he knows what Danny's trying to say. Knows exactly what he means.
And that he is here. Exactly where he wants to be. The place he's fought and argued and stubbornly pushed his way into. Here. And that he's always here. Always. Even when he's not. Even when he can't be here, when Steve's all by himself.
Steve's saying it doesn't matter, and Steve is making his slow, dedicated way along his throat, and Danny tips his head back, again, but this time, it's to give him more space, offer up more skin, the line of his jaw, the soft, sensitive spot right beneath his ear. "Yeah, you can't get rid of me, I know."
As much as he appreciated Steve not teasing him, he can't help it. It's a joke that comes from relief, not a desire to dodge, or dissemble. It doesn't even sound quite perfect, because it's not shot off in the heat of an annoyed argument, and his arms are tightening back around Steve, and Steve's lips are on his skin. Feeling like he's sinking into a hot bath, as the tension starts to unwind.
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Steve shifts, like tectonic plates moving, slow and inevitable, until his mouth is against Danny's shoulder, and he starts following along it, up to the curve of his throat.
Making Danny's eyes drift closed, at the sensation, and a smile he can't stop press at the corners of his mouth, until he gusts out a breath of a laugh, tailing after a low sound that doesn't make it far enough out of the back of his throat to be called a groan. Hands landing back on Steve, and running up, along his back and along the back of his neck and into his hair, again, possessive and delighted, because Steve isn't making fun of him. Steve's not mocking him. Steve's not getting up, or moving away, or acting like this is going to be forgotten about in the morning and never spoken of again.
Steve's mouth is against his throat, and he's saying that. That. Not asking questions, or for clarification. But. Like he knows what Danny's trying to say. Knows exactly what he means.
And that he is here. Exactly where he wants to be. The place he's fought and argued and stubbornly pushed his way into. Here. And that he's always here. Always. Even when he's not. Even when he can't be here, when Steve's all by himself.
Steve's saying it doesn't matter, and Steve is making his slow, dedicated way along his throat, and Danny tips his head back, again, but this time, it's to give him more space, offer up more skin, the line of his jaw, the soft, sensitive spot right beneath his ear. "Yeah, you can't get rid of me, I know."
As much as he appreciated Steve not teasing him, he can't help it. It's a joke that comes from relief, not a desire to dodge, or dissemble. It doesn't even sound quite perfect, because it's not shot off in the heat of an annoyed argument, and his arms are tightening back around Steve, and Steve's lips are on his skin. Feeling like he's sinking into a hot bath, as the tension starts to unwind.