Work Text:
the sun isn’t up yet, just the palest smear of light pressed against the horizon. honolulu’s quiet, save for the early stirrings of birds and the hush of the waves coming from the ocean. inside the house, everything’s still. except the bed.
danny’s on his stomach, sprawled like he’d been thrown down by the night itself—arms out, face half-smashed into the silk of the pillowcase, bare skin warm from sleep and faintly damp from the breeze. the sheet’s tangled around one calf. his back is a map of tension, tight across the shoulders, rigid along the spine.
steve watches him for a minute. not with a smile—he’s not grinning or fond or any of that sentimental shit—but there’s something in his chest, heavy and rooted, every time he looks at danny like this. when danny’s asleep, or half-asleep, or not yelling about pineapple or crime scenes or where the towels go.
just him.
steve shifts closer, one knee braced against the mattress. he runs his hand down danny’s back once, slow and firm. danny makes a noise—not a word, just a grunt—and burrows deeper into the pillow.
“your back’s a mess,” steve murmurs.
“that’s what happens when you let your insane navy seal boyfriend use you as a human shield during a takedown,” danny mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “also, your bed is a rock. not that you care.”
steve smiles, just a little. “stay like that. let me work on it.”
“unless ‘work on it’ is code for letting me sleep—”
but he cuts off when steve presses his thumbs in, just below danny’s shoulder blades. danny jolts like he’s been shocked. air rushes out of him.
“fuck—what the hell, steve—”
“tight as hell,” steve says, quietly. “i’m not joking. this is bad. how long’s it been since you let anybody fix this?”
“never, probably. who the hell has time to get massages when we’re dealing with meth heads on jet skis?”
steve leans in. he spreads his hands across danny’s back—wide palms, slow pressure, tracing muscle and bone. the mattress dips beneath his weight. he moves with precision, methodical, like he’s disarming a bomb or reassembling a rifle.
he works from the top—fingers sliding under the line of danny’s neck, down the sides of his throat, where tension knots like wire. his thumbs dig in, drag out. danny groans.
“jesus christ. that’s not massage, that’s assault.”
“breathe through it.”
“i am breathing—barely.”
steve keeps going. he knows the way danny’s body holds stress. left shoulder worse than the right, neck like iron, lower back always tight from the way he sits in the car. he shifts his weight, kneeling beside danny now, and slides his hands lower.
the touch changes. still firm, but slower. more deliberate. his calloused hands stroke down danny’s sides, just barely brushing the ribs. his fingers hook under the edge of the sheet, then peel it down, exposing more skin.
danny’s still beneath him now. no complaints. just watching him through one sleepy, narrowed eye.
“steve,” he says, not quite a question.
“relax.”
steve’s hands settle low, just above danny’s ass, thumbs bracketing the dimples of his lower back. he starts to knead in slow circles. danny’s breath hitches.
“you’re—getting suspiciously good at this.”
“seal training.”
“they taught you how to do this in the navy?”
“close-quarters manipulation, muscle control, injury prevention.”
“uh huh. and that conveniently translates to you grabbing my ass at six a.m.”
steve smirks, just barely. his thumbs press deeper, circling in slow, relentless strokes. danny swears are muffled from the pillow.
the muscles under steve’s hands start to soften, melt. danny’s body loosens by degrees, tension bleeding out of him like color from a bruise. his arms shift beneath the pillow, spine flexing under the weight of the massage.
steve leans down, breath ghosting over the curve of danny’s back.
“tell me where you need it.”
“you’re already there,” danny mutters. “fuck.”
steve drags his hands lower. not rough, but no hesitation either. he palms the backs of danny’s thighs, works into them like he’s trying to draw something out from bone. danny spreads his legs just a little more.
the room’s gone quiet again. just breathing, the creak of the mattress, the distant sound of waves outside the open window. the smell of salt hangs thick in the air.
steve bends low, presses a kiss to the base of danny’s spine. soft, slow. not asking.
“you okay?”
danny’s voice is raw. “yeah. keep going.”
steve does.
his hands sweep upward again, smoothing over flushed skin, then back down, tracing the slope of danny’s ass. his thumbs spread him apart gently. no rush. just a careful, intimate pressure that has danny sucking in a breath.
“jesus,” danny rasps.
steve dips his head.
one lick, slow and deep, all the way up.
danny jerks up. “oh fuck—”
steve’s hands pin his hips down, steady, and he licks again. thorough, possessive. the flat of his tongue dragging over tight muscle, teasing danny’s rim, circling with patience only steve has. danny moans, harsh and sudden.
“steve.”
“just relax.”
he keeps going, unrelenting now, tongue working him open with slow insistence. his grip stays firm. danny’s thighs are shaking.
“you’re gonna kill me,” danny chokes out. “this is how i die. smothered in my own bed by—oh god—by a fucking navy seal with a tongue like—”
steve pulls back only long enough to press two slick fingers inside, slow and deep. danny tenses, then groans, long and wrecked.
“fuck. fuck, steve—”
he stretches him with practiced control, curling his fingers just right, playing with danny’s prostate, and danny lets out a sound that’s almost a cry.
steve’s voice is low. “you want more?”
“yes. yes, fuck, yes.”
steve doesn’t make him wait.
he shifts forward, lines up, and pushes in slow. maddeningly slow. inch by inch, until he’s buried deep, until danny’s back arches and his fists twist in the sheets.
“fuck,” danny gasps. “steve—”
“i got you,” steve breathes. “just feel it.”
he starts to move. deep, steady strokes, grinding in with full-body force, hips pressing flush, every thrust hitting exactly where it should. his hands never stop roaming—over danny’s back, his ribs, down to his thighs to spread him wider.
danny’s gone, completely. muttering curses, grabbing at the pillow, panting into the mattress.
“you’re—insane—jesus, that’s—fuck, yes—”
steve doesn’t talk. he doesn’t need to. he just drives in harder, gritting his teeth, fucking danny with the kind of focused precision that made him lethal in the field and devastating in bed. every grind of his hips earns a broken moan. every shift makes danny lose a little more control.
when he leans down, his chest slick against danny’s back, their bodies locked together, it’s more than heat. more than sex. it’s them—all of it, unspoken and lived and known.
he wraps a hand around danny’s cock, stroking him in rhythm. danny keens—high, desperate, already close.
“steve—fuck, i’m gonna—”
“do it,” steve growls against his ear. “cum for me.”
danny shudders. his whole body seizes, muscles clenching, a cry torn from his throat as he spills across the sheets.
steve fucks him through it, hips stuttering, then groans deep in his chest and cums hard, buried to the hilt.
silence, then. just the sound of breathing, the quiet slap of waves outside, and the warm, wrecked weight of them tangled together.
after a minute, steve pulls out, slow and careful. he drops beside danny, one arm slung around his waist, lips brushing his shoulder.
“you’re gonna complain about the bed again?”
danny makes a wrecked sound that might be laughter. “i’m not complaining about anything ever again.”
“good.”
“also,” danny mutters, voice already fading into sleep, “that’s not a massage. that’s a felony.”
steve smiles into his skin. “you didn’t say stop.”
“didn’t want to.”
and he doesn’t.
not ever.