Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: Inspired by a review left for one of my chapters of, "Ho oku i," in which Afrieal mentioned the word, masochist, when describing Danny. This series will explore the three definitions, found in the online Miriam Dictionary, of the word masochism.
mas·och·ism (ms-kzm) n.
1. The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused.
A/N 2: This is kind of a Plot-what-plot? kind of story, and I'm okay with that. It's mostly about Steve and Danny's relationship. My interpretations of the definitions are a little loose, and they may not be interpreted in the way that you would have interpreted them. I hope that is alright.
Having said that, sit back, have fun, though these are all a little on the...darker? side of the spectrum of Danny/Steve.
In this particular story, Danny and Steve are in an established relationship, and working undercover in a shady pornographic studio - both of them are playing the part of low-budget porn stars.
"You're a nothing but a horny slut. You'd fuck anything with a hole, wouldn't you?" Steve says, stalking around Danny, yanking hard on one of the man's balls, eliciting a sharp hiss from Danny.
Steve hates the words, the slick way that he delivers them, and the smug smirk that he's wearing, how he crouches and tugs on Danny's hair, pulls the man's head back, bearing Danny's neck, only to let it fall forward with a disgusted sneer.
"I ought to fuck you like the dog you are. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Steve almost chokes on the words, even as he makes his way around Danny, pinching and rubbing at patches of Danny's exposed skin that are already red and sore.
Steve hides what this is doing to him in a hard face that reveals nothing, donning a wicked grin that could be mistaken for pleasure. It makes him sick.
Kono would be proud of the time she'd spent working with him, preparing him for this role, getting him, and Danny, ready for their undercover assignment.
The FBI had come to them, eager for Steve and Danny - who fit the profile of the previous victims - to work alongside them in catching a serial killer, and breaking a sex ring which used a dubious pornography production studio as it's cover for what amounted to low-class, pseudo snuff videos.
According to the FBI, Danny and Steve were perfect for the roles. Danny - shorter in stature, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and a fuck-you-fuck-me mouth - was just the sort of man that the director was looking for, in more ways than one.
Steve - tall, dark-hair, hazel-eyes, and an air of danger that hung about him like a cloak - was the perfect foil, and the director could live, at least according to the FBI's anonymous sources (two men who'd made it out of the 'business,' and were in hiding), vicariously through McGarrett, who would act out his fantasies.
They're isolated in some backward part of the Big Island that's never even heard of Five-0, the FBI their only backup - Chin and Kono running Five-0 back at headquarters on Oahu (orders from the governor).
Deep in the country, surrounded by acres of treeless fields filled with sharp, volcanic rock, and walled in by mountains, it's a perfect location for illicit activity. To murder men, and get away with it.
Steve hates what the sum of all of this is doing to Danny. Hours turned to days, turned to weeks of Steve humiliating Danny in front of an intimately small crowd, while their FBI counterparts listen in, and record everything, waiting for the right moment, the information that they need, before they swoop in and bring an end to this humiliating farce.
Steve hates how the harsh words that he's forced to say make Danny drop his gaze - robbing Steve's view of Danny's expressive eyes, blue as the sky at noon. Hates the way that Danny licks his lips, and bows his head in a sign of submission. The way that Danny's arms tremble from holding this pose - on hands and knees - for hours on end.
Steve hates, even more, the way that Danny's dick flags, though the words are supposed to have the opposite effect on him. As if humiliating his partner, and calling him demeaning names is supposed to be a turn on.
Steve likes it best when Danny takes the lead - whether Danny's on top or splayed wide for Steve to take (when Danny tells him that he can, waiting to come at Danny's word). It's the only time that Steve lets someone else be in control, trusting Danny to guide him.
But, in this undercover op, they're playing the part of low budget porn stars, desperate for work, and Steve is taking the lead. It's a role that he's playing for cameras, a small crew, and the fucking FBI.
If they were home, Danny would be the one calling all the shots, not him, and sure as fuck not some impassioned director who's had a hardon for Danny the moment that he set eyes on him.
They've got a sex ring to bust, a killer to take down, and yet Steve wishes that they could tell the FBI to shove the case and find someone else to play their parts. He wants to be somewhere, anywhere, else with Danny. Get him away from all of the people who are watching, and the much too bright lights that almost blind them.
He wishes that Danny would lose that bruised, haunted look that he's been wearing for the past two weeks. It's in his eyes, even when they leave the studio after endless hours of work that give the director a few minutes of what he considers to be salvageable, 'quality,' work.
Steve wants Danny to share a shower, or a bed with him, rather than begging off, saying that he's exhausted, turning his back on Steve, and curling in on himself. They haven't had sex since they've started this assignment, haven't touched each other at all - aside from what Steve is directed to do to Danny while they're being filmed. Steve misses it. Misses Danny.
"Spank him," the director orders, not so subtly adjusting his jeans, and biting his bottom lip.
Hating himself, Steve does it. The sound reverberates in the small studio, the bare walls sending the sound back to Steve in stereo. Danny's fingers flex and curl into the carpeting, and he flinches, shifting on his knees.
Steve's money's on the director being the one who's been strangling the actors - all of them blonde-haired, blue-eyed cherubs. It's got to be him, because then Steve can legally kill the man for daring to look at Danny, daring to proposition his partner when the cameras are no longer rolling, and there aren't any witnesses.
"Again," the director orders, and he palms his jeans, hissing at the friction, face turning red.
Gritting his teeth, Steve strikes Danny's ass, not once, but three times. Each smack lands in the same exact spot on Danny's ass, and is progressively harder than the one that preceded it.
Steve's hand stings, and he inwardly curses when he realizes that he's left a palm print on Danny's left asscheek, that he let his anger toward the director get the better of him. That he took it out on Danny.
Heedless of the audience, Steve quickly kneels to assess his partner's condition, one hand automatically reaching for his partner's chin, pulling Danny's face up abruptly, and the other landing on Danny's shoulder.
Steve ignores the way that Danny trembles, and flinches, knowing and hating that he's the cause of Danny's pain, but helpless to do anything about it right now. His heart almost stops when he sees that there are tears in Danny's eyes, amplifying the blue of them, making them look like the ocean that Steve loves so much.
Danny's fingers are spread wide, as though that will help ease some of his pain, the tips of them sink deeply into the carpet - they'll leave marks, like the marks that Steve has left all over Danny's body throughout the course of filming the 'foreplay' for a porno which will never see the light of day.
Foreplay that will eventually, if they don't make a break in this case, lead to rough sex. There's nothing fake about the sex, or anything else that Steve's been doing to Danny for the past several weeks. The director's always unsatisfied with something - the way that Danny's breath hitches, or how Steve delivers a line - drawing this scene out to the point of absurdity. Surely this type of thing doesn't need that many takes.
Steve takes a moment to whisper, "I'm sorry, Danno, I'll make it up to you later," before he withdraws from his partner. Squeezing the man's shoulder, he stands, and taking a deep breath, he lightly slaps Danny's left hip, not liking the way that Danny whimpers - the first sound of pain that his partner's made since they started all of this.
Steve doesn't need to look, to know that the sound of irregular, heavy panting is coming from the director.
"Good, that was good," the director's voice is strained, and Steve knows that if this op doesn't end soon, he's going to shoot the director between the eyes. He'll gladly go to jail for it too, should it come down to that.
"I think we're ready to start filming the sex," the director says.
Steve turns away, bites the inside of his cheek, and closes his eyes. Breathing hard, through his nose, he curls his fingers into fists, the nails biting into his palm.
This has to end now. There's no way that he's going to fuck Danny in front of cameras, no way that he's going to let the FBI have front row seats to this dog and pony show.
"No," Steve says, shaking his head.
Danny's fingers clamp around his ankle, and Steve looks down at his partner. Danny, naked and trembling, is white as a sheet, and, though there are tears in his eyes, he gives Steve a look that tells him to stop being stupid, and to not blow their cover.
Sighing, Steve kneels in front of his partner, gripping Danny's face between the palms of his hands - his right so much warmer, from smacking Danny - and kisses him. He doesn't care about their dual audience, barely hears the director ordering the cameraman to get a close up of the handprint on Danny's ass, and then a closeup of the kiss.
Danny's mouth opens to him, and Steve - whether spurred on by the events of the past several weeks, or the lack of actual intimacy with Danny - is not gentle. Teeth clash, and tongues vie for dominance, and Steve moans when Danny's hand moves from his ankle to the back of his neck.
It's awkward, and the heat of the bright studio lights burn into Steve's back, but Steve doesn't care, because he's tasting Danny for the first time in too many weeks to count, and Danny isn't pushing him away, isn't turning his back, isn't telling him to fuck-off, even though, by all accounts he should be. Instead, Danny's kissing him back, just as aggressively - biting and pushing and fingers digging painfully into the back of Steve's neck.
The stinging pain grounds him, and Steve loses himself in the moment. Everything that is not Danny melts into the background - a dull, buzzing noise that's more annoying than anything else.
Dizzy, black dots invading his vision, Steve reluctantly ends the kiss, resting his forehead against Danny's for several erratic breaths. For the first time in what feels like forever, Danny's lips are turned upward in a slight smile, his eyes are no longer haunted, and Steve knows that he hasn't broken his partner as he'd half feared he had.
"This needs to end," he whispers to Danny.
Danny licks his lips, and nods, squeezing the back of Steve's neck.
The director shouts an abrupt, "Cut!" and the FBI swarms into the room, guns drawn and shouting out orders of their own.
Steve and Danny don't move, not until the FBI has finished making arrests, and they're left alone. Steve helps Danny to his feet, catching the man when he stumbles.
"Circulation's cut off," Danny mutters, his eyes downcast. He leans heavily against Steve, runs a hand through his hair, and chuckles in that self-deprecating way that Steve hates.
"Shit, Danny," Steve says, lifting Danny completely off his feet, and carrying him to their 'dressing room' (little more than a closet where they undressed and left their clothes). Steve ignores Danny's vociferous, and profane protests, not letting go of Danny until he's certain that the man won't topple over.
"Neanderthal," Danny accuses, lightly punching Steve in the arm.
Steve grins, insanely glad that Danny's insulted and hit him, because it means that maybe, when they get home, he'll be able to make things right with Danny. That, maybe, in spite of all that he's done to Danny - his palm print, a bright red mark on Danny's ass, like some kind of perverse tattoo, his hurtful, humiliating words cutting to the quick, stuck on rerun in Steve's head - Danny will be willing to forgive him.
Steve dresses quickly, and then helps Danny get into a pair of loose-fitting sweats and a shirt of his that is too big on Danny, knowing that Danny's skin is tender, and will probably be tender for weeks to come. Danny closes his eyes, and rests his head against Steve's chest.
"This feels good," Danny says, and he rubs the cuffs of the borrowed shirt between his fingers. "Smells like you."
Steve stiffens and frowns. "That a good, or a bad thing?"
Danny slaps him, and shakes his head, cracks an eye open and rolls it. "It's a good thing. God, I've missed you, Steven. I've missed us."
"Yeah?" Steve's voice is husky, and he's not sure he can trust it anymore.
"Yeah," Danny says. "I'm glad this," he waves his hand expansively, "is over, and that I get to have my Steve back."
"Your Steve?" Steve's heart is in his throat, and he finally understands what people mean when they say that they've got butterflies in their stomach.
"Yeah, my Steve," Danny says a little crossly, thumping his hand against Steve's chest, but not hard enough to hurt. He bites his bottom lip and peers up at Steve, a blush creeping up his neck.
"Look, I'm sorry about...cutting you off," he plays with the edge of a cuff, but doesn't drop his gaze. "It's just, I couldn't...you know? And then play the part of your bitch in the studio."
Steve's heart stops, and then starts, and before his brain can communicate with the rest of him, he's kissing Danny again. This time it's slow and deliberate. Steve takes his time with the kiss, communicating in the best way he knows how, with actions, not words, just how much Danny means to him, and how sorry he is for everything that he's said, and everything that he's done.
"I'll make it up to you," Steve promises, lips pressed to Danny's, breathing in the spicy scent of his lover.
"Yes, you will," Danny says in a no nonsense tone.
"And, if the FBI ever dares to darken our door again, we are going to tell them to go to Hell," Steve says, his hands reflexively forming fists.
Danny sighs and places his hands on Steve's fists. "Babe, let's just get out of here, okay?"
Steve nods, and lets Danny lead the way, thoughts of gaining revenge against the FBI, and the director who'd coveted Danny's ass, momentarily stall as he enjoys the view. Danny wiggles his hips, letting Steve know that the man is more than aware of where Steve's eyes are trained.
"Horny?" Danny asks.
"In the worst way possible," Steve says, adjusting himself.
"Good," Danny says, and there's a sense of finality in the word. Steve groans, knowing that Danny's going to make him wait, but he's okay with that, because waiting means that, eventually, he'll have Danny.
"I love you, Danno." Steve snags Danny's wrist, sidles up alongside him, and twines his fingers through Danny's.
"I love you too, you big lug," Danny says.
And for now, it's enough just to hold Danny's hand, and wait.
Reviews would be greatly appreciated.