So, there's the possibility that Danny might have a thing. It's not something that fills his every waking moment, but at nights, when he's alone and maybe a little lonely, his thoughts have a habit of falling in certain patterns.
He's standing in the shower, one hand braced against the wall, head bent, while the other hand idly strokes across his soapy skin. Water spills over the back of his neck, sending clouds of steam swirling across the small bathroom. The heat helps loosen muscles made tense and painful through a day of chasing suspects and trying to reign in McGarrett.
He lets his hand drift over his chest as he thinks of his partner. The man drives Danny utterly bugfuck insane, but he's also smart and resourceful, even if he takes his damned shirt off at the drop of a hat. Danny's a professional, he's used to compartmentalising, but Jesus, it's a struggle when it feels as though he's constantly presented with the sight of muscle and tattoos and tan skin.
His fingertips slide over his left nipple and he closes his eyes as the pleasure ripples down his spine. He repeats the gesture, the touch a little firmer, then again, pressing harder, while his other hand moves up his thigh, feeling the the rough drag of hair pushed against the grain under his hand. He pinches his nipple, the jolt of pain so tangled up with the pleasure that he can barely tell the two apart, and his cock, already half hard, twitches and stiffens further.
It's easy to let his mind drift, to flip through a mental rolodex of images and memories; most, but not all, of them of Steve. There's a few of Kono and Chin there. There's even one or two of Rachel, although he tries not to dwell on them, the failure of his marriage still too bittersweet.
He doesn't construct fantasies, doesn't imagine it's Steve's hand, now caressing his stomach. As long as he keeps it to this impersonal slide show, he can get up in the morning and go to work and look his partner and colleagues in the eye without feeling like a total sleaze.
The scratch of his own nails over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh gets him spreading his legs without conscious thought. He's all the way hard, he can hear his own rapid breathing, even over the sound of running water and goose bumps crawl over his skin, cool where the water doesn't hit it.
He switches hands, starts working on the other nipple, the left one now a hot point of throbbing sensation, raw and sensual. He takes his dick in hand, and the remnants of the shower gel on his fingers is just enough to ease the drag of wet skin on skin. The press of nail against the sensitive head as he spreads the sticky slick there makes him shiver.
Sometimes he does this in bed, so that when he can't stand another touch to his chest, he can use that hand to slip further down, past his dick, his balls and further, pressing just inside, the heat and the stretch of muscle providing a counterpoint, something else to work against whilst he's fucking his own fist.
Even without the pressure at his ass, it's still so good to let the water and the pleasure chase the last of the tension from his body. He works his hand faster, feeling the sensation curling up around his spine, tugging at his gut and trembling in his thighs.
When he comes, it's with a shout and the image of Steve, shirtless and licking powered sugar from his fingers.
Danny tips his head back, letting tepid water wash him clean again and tries to pretend he doesn't feeling like he's drowning while he tells himself it's no big deal.
If he finds it hard to sleep without this nightly ritual, it's just because he's a creature of habit, that's all. It's just a thing, a little thing. It doesn't mean anything at all. And maybe one day he'll believe himself.