It starts out as a transparent ploy, maybe, an obvious attempt at distraction, because Steve pauses for almost too long, before he finally does lean in, but he does. Leans in. Finds the side of Danny's head with his hand, and presses him back, while Danny's lips part and his eyes close and it's already stopped being about a distraction, hasn't it?
Must. Is. Forces him to be present, in a way he'd been hoping to coax out of Steve, but which hauled him along as well, because there's nothing to think about, nothing to worry over or feel guilty about, when Steve's mouth is sliding against his and Danny can breathe him in, slow and deep and relaxed. Hand sliding down Steve's back, palm warm over working muscles and velvet-soft skin. Thinking, if he thinks of anything at all, of how much he's wanted to touch Steve, exactly like this. Every time he's watched Steve slap on sunscreen. Every time he's looked over to find Steve dozing on the couch, with his shirt rucked up a few bare inches above the waistband of his pants or shorts. Every time the sun painted it, or water ran down it.
This perfect, flat expanse of tan skin and dense muscle, living and shifting beneath his touch. The texture of Steve's wiry brown hair. The slick warm slide of his mouth, and puff of his breath, and how immediately it starts working its way all the way down Danny's body, unlocking and untying and working away tension he hadn't even known was there.
Settling him back into the mattress, while Danny tries his best to wind around him, a leg slipping over one of Steve's, hands moving slow but specific, painting across wide swathes of skin, roaming over curved muscle and up the slope of his back.
He hadn't meant it to be all consuming, but maybe there was never a chance it wouldn't be. He hasn't gotten enough of being kissed by Steve, yet. Of Steve kissing him, because Danny told him to. Of Steve blanketing him, touching him, wanting him.
It's not a lie. It's the only thing he wants to fall into.
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It starts out as a transparent ploy, maybe, an obvious attempt at distraction, because Steve pauses for almost too long, before he finally does lean in, but he does. Leans in. Finds the side of Danny's head with his hand, and presses him back, while Danny's lips part and his eyes close and it's already stopped being about a distraction, hasn't it?
Must. Is. Forces him to be present, in a way he'd been hoping to coax out of Steve, but which hauled him along as well, because there's nothing to think about, nothing to worry over or feel guilty about, when Steve's mouth is sliding against his and Danny can breathe him in, slow and deep and relaxed. Hand sliding down Steve's back, palm warm over working muscles and velvet-soft skin. Thinking, if he thinks of anything at all, of how much he's wanted to touch Steve, exactly like this. Every time he's watched Steve slap on sunscreen. Every time he's looked over to find Steve dozing on the couch, with his shirt rucked up a few bare inches above the waistband of his pants or shorts. Every time the sun painted it, or water ran down it.
This perfect, flat expanse of tan skin and dense muscle, living and shifting beneath his touch. The texture of Steve's wiry brown hair. The slick warm slide of his mouth, and puff of his breath, and how immediately it starts working its way all the way down Danny's body, unlocking and untying and working away tension he hadn't even known was there.
Settling him back into the mattress, while Danny tries his best to wind around him, a leg slipping over one of Steve's, hands moving slow but specific, painting across wide swathes of skin, roaming over curved muscle and up the slope of his back.
He hadn't meant it to be all consuming, but maybe there was never a chance it wouldn't be. He hasn't gotten enough of being kissed by Steve, yet. Of Steve kissing him, because Danny told him to. Of Steve blanketing him, touching him, wanting him.
It's not a lie. It's the only thing he wants to fall into.