Greta Van Fleet // Oneshots

Lovers // Sam & Danny

Warnings: none except for some suggestiveness (apparently I'm rating my fics like movies now)

God bless the anon who requested some sweet, fluffy Sanny. I live for this–writing the two of them together is one of my most favorite things! Thank you so much for the request, I hope you enjoy!

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"Should we talk to them about it?" Danny asked, he and Sam swinging their legs, making the levitating wooden bench swing back and forth. The lake was shimmering obsidian, intercepted by the wavy blobs of gold from the house lights across the water, everything around them giving off this wet sheen after the summer rain.

"What's there to talk about?" Sam replied, the toe of his sneaker kicking up a chunk of dirt as it skidded across the ground. "We were drunk. I think they get that."

"I wasn't drunk, Sam," Danny replied, with a little more defiance than either of them were used to. "Neither were you, actually."

Sam considered that, tilting his head toward the sky, pursing his lips. No, he hadn't been drunk. Buzzed for sure, not drunk. And it wasn't like he needed alcohol flooding his system to want to kiss Danny, to actually kiss him–it never made any difference.

He kicked the ground again, sending a pebble flying to the shore. "You wanna tell them? Really?"

Danny looked down, turning away a bit before looking up to the sky too. "We have to want that together," he answered and stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So if you don't want to tell them, we won't tell them."

The loss of his weight sent Sam swinging abruptly back. He scrambled to stand up and move to Danny's side, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You mad at me, Daniel?" he asked, flashing a grin even though Danny wasn't looking at him. The last thing he wanted was Danny upset with him–even worse, Danny feeling hurt.

"Not mad, Sam," Danny assured him quietly, turning his cheek and regarding Sam with that gentle yet smoldering look that drove him mad.

Butterflies were swarming Sam's stomach, furiously fluttering through his gut and starting to make their flight up into his throat. He swallowed, needing to be articulate. "Should we figure out what we are first?" he proposed, exhaling haughtily as Danny started to walk. "Where are you going?"

"I'm tired of sitting," Danny explained, reaching back for Sam's hand, who took it and scampered back up to his side. "But that's a fair question–what are we?"

Sam thought for a second, the warmth of Danny's palm capturing his own slightly cold one. "Sam and Danny. We're Sam and Danny, always."

Danny laughed. "We are. But you know what I mean."

"I know," Sam replied, and he did, but it still felt strange to have to decipher their relationship in a new way when, to him anyway, it hadn't really changed. The only thing that had changed was that their physical relationship had escalated past the usual. Sam knew they'd always been a little unorthodox with their affection for one another–more touchy-feely and bound together than a lot of other male friendships seemed to be–so the addition of kisses, groping, dry-humping and the like didn't feel dramatic while it was happening.

It'd progressed beyond even that, too. Seeing each other naked for the first time had been a heart-pounding, somewhat frightening experience for Sam. They'd seen each other naked many times before but it was a fleeting thing without purpose so, when Danny had slowly stripped Sam of his clothes and Sam had done the same for him–albeit with a little more haste–the expectation had made it feel like something entirely new.

Then Danny had held him, easing Sam into his lap, and it had spiraled from there into messy, desperate kisses and eager, groping hands over bare skin.