Steve rarely is, after all. Careful. Normally he's tossing himself at every breakable thing in a five-mile radius, busting through walls, leaving a trail of broken glass and skewed, abandoned vehicles, but he's not doing that, now. He's not burning Danny down, taking him systematically apart, like he was before, with nothing more than a kiss and hands at his shirt, pushing him into the couch. He's not saying anything, asking for anything.
He's just being careful. Exploring, as gently as possible when his hand is pinioned by slacks that were too tight before and now feel like they're about to split completely open, making Danny shift a little uncomfortably and wonder if they should just give up and get naked, right before his heart makes an anxious little stumble, and he catches himself on the meathook of this, whatever it is, fear that is anything but defined, that's a combination of the unknown and the known but misunderstood and all the things he'd made fun of as a jackass teenager and an insecure adult, nursing that tight little ball of fear behind it all. Fear. Of something different. Something faintly mysterious. Something he never understood, because it just never seemed appealing, seemed wrong even without being wrong, until he figured out there's no wrong things, just things he'd never tried and had no idea if he wanted or not.
Which is striking home in an unprotected spot deep in his chest now, aimed with breathtaking precision, and, no, that's the wrong way to think about this, Steve is not attacking him.
Steve is touching him with care. Fingers gently stroking, pressing. It's not an invasion. It's an exploration. Pads of fingers, rough calluses, moving over skin that's never been touched with deliberation, and that's new, and different, but when Danny takes a deep breath and lets it out again in a rush, forehead pressing against Steve's and his eyes closed in concentration, it doesn't feel bad.
It almost feels good, even. Once he gets past the weirdness, and, yeah, it'll probably be a little while before he gets past the weirdness, but he's glad to see he didn't inadvertently lie to Steve when he said he wanted more. While Steve is criticizing him, words sharp and fond, puffs against his lips, and all Danny can do is hang on, and shake his head against them, against the idea, because he's at a loss, right now, isn't sure he can pick up the usual banter, make this something it isn't, distract himself into believing it's not happening, that Steve isn't, that he doesn't feel more than a little curious about what it would be like to do it to Steve back.
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Steve rarely is, after all. Careful. Normally he's tossing himself at every breakable thing in a five-mile radius, busting through walls, leaving a trail of broken glass and skewed, abandoned vehicles, but he's not doing that, now. He's not burning Danny down, taking him systematically apart, like he was before, with nothing more than a kiss and hands at his shirt, pushing him into the couch. He's not saying anything, asking for anything.
He's just being careful. Exploring, as gently as possible when his hand is pinioned by slacks that were too tight before and now feel like they're about to split completely open, making Danny shift a little uncomfortably and wonder if they should just give up and get naked, right before his heart makes an anxious little stumble, and he catches himself on the meathook of this, whatever it is, fear that is anything but defined, that's a combination of the unknown and the known but misunderstood and all the things he'd made fun of as a jackass teenager and an insecure adult, nursing that tight little ball of fear behind it all. Fear. Of something different. Something faintly mysterious. Something he never understood, because it just never seemed appealing, seemed wrong even without being wrong, until he figured out there's no wrong things, just things he'd never tried and had no idea if he wanted or not.
Which is striking home in an unprotected spot deep in his chest now, aimed with breathtaking precision, and, no, that's the wrong way to think about this, Steve is not attacking him.
Steve is touching him with care. Fingers gently stroking, pressing. It's not an invasion. It's an exploration. Pads of fingers, rough calluses, moving over skin that's never been touched with deliberation, and that's new, and different, but when Danny takes a deep breath and lets it out again in a rush, forehead pressing against Steve's and his eyes closed in concentration, it doesn't feel bad.
It almost feels good, even. Once he gets past the weirdness, and, yeah, it'll probably be a little while before he gets past the weirdness, but he's glad to see he didn't inadvertently lie to Steve when he said he wanted more. While Steve is criticizing him, words sharp and fond, puffs against his lips, and all Danny can do is hang on, and shake his head against them, against the idea, because he's at a loss, right now, isn't sure he can pick up the usual banter, make this something it isn't, distract himself into believing it's not happening, that Steve isn't, that he doesn't feel more than a little curious about what it would be like to do it to Steve back.