Work Header

Like Death and Taxes

Work Text:

It started with a real fight, the details of which Danny subsequently lost in the blur of later events.

But he knew it had been the usual thing—Steve going in too hot, ignoring a dozen points of protocol, expecting Danny to clean up after him—and, despite the fact that things had turned out okay, like they always did, Danny had been chewing him out, sure and steady and loud, over most of the drive back.

Steve usually just rode stuff like that out, just waited 'til Danny had exhausted himself with his own ranting, and then apologized with enough sincerity that Danny, fool that he was, forgave him.

Except this time he actually got under Steve's skin, and instead of apologizing, McGarrett suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road, killed the engine, and stalked out onto the shoulder.

And did Danny let it go at that? No, of course he fucking didn't. Three seconds more and he was out of the car too, hurling invective at Steve's impassive back as cars whizzed past them on the highway.

But something he said must've finally hit home, because Steve whirled around, and, faster than Danny could push another word past his lips, grabbed the end of his tie, and body checked him hard against the side of the car.

Two twists, and the tie was wrapped tight around Steve's fist, his knuckles grazing Danny's Adam's apple.

"One of these days--" Steve snarled, and his face was close too—so close that his breath left fiery trails across Danny's skin, hotter even than the Hawaiian sun. So close they could have kissed--

And, then, just like that, everything changed. Changed so fast it was like capsizing in the open sea. One moment you were breathing air; the next you were underwater. Struggling to survive in a different element altogether.

They didn't kiss. They just hung frozen for a moment, staring at each other in startled, wide-eyed recognition. And then Steve pulled on the tie again and brought his lips against Danny's ear.

"One of these days," he growled, voice low and rough and filthy, "I'm gonna rip this thing off you and gag you with it."

And between the hard length of Steve's body pushing him backwards, and the hot metal of the car beneath, all the fight, all the anger, all the words were just squeezed away, and it was as much as Danny could do to grit out, "Yeah? What're you fucking waiting for, then?"

Steve was nothing if not up for a challenge. Fist still tangled in the tie, he had the car door open and Danny half-sprawled across the back seat in a New York minute. And before Danny could even question the wisdom of what they were clearly about to do, there was a knee shoved between his legs, and ten Navy-trained fingers busy on the knot of the tie, Steve's face as intent as if he were disarming a bomb.

"Hey," Danny said weakly, registering the mid-day light on his face and the sound of cars speeding past outside, "I don't know about you, but getting picked up on indecency charges isn't really a fantasy I'm looking to live out—"

Steve smiled, and fuck if Danny didn't know that smile, hadn't learned to fear it

"Guess we'd better be quick about it then—" Steve said, and held up the tie triumphantly.

And Danny should have known, would have known, if he'd been thinking with his upstairs brain at all, that Steve was exactly the type who would enjoy the risk of imminent public exposure. But even if Danny had been able to convince his mouth to say no, he didn't think, at this point, he'd be able to get his dick to go along with the plan.

Because that part of his anatomy had unexpectedly decided that being tied up by Steve McGarrett in the backseat of their government-issue vehicle was the hottest idea it had ever heard.

"You, uh, really gonna gag me with that?" Danny asked, little sparks of anticipation and arousal firing along his nerves.

"Nah," Steve's smile got wider, "I'm thinking we might need your mouth for other things. Let's try this instead--"

And he bent over Danny, smoothed the thick, silky fabric over his eyes, and reached around his head to deftly knot the ends in place.

Danny let out a shaky breath. It was startling to go from the bright colors of the day to the red-tinged black behind his eyelids—to feel, rather than see Steve's hands on his zipper, under his hips, lifting to pull down both pants and briefs. But he didn't protest—the weird slide into darkness, the relinquishing of control, was almost welcome, an escape from the fury of responsibility that had gripped him earlier.

And it wasn't as if the situation was entirely unfamiliar. There had been a few times with men before he married Rachel, and one gloriously misguided bar-hook-up-turned-dirty-weekend in the dark days right after the divorce. But it had never been enough to leaving him longing for more, much less wanting to build an identity on it.

But this was gonna be different, he could tell that right now. And not just because it was someone he knew--shit, someone he pretty much spent twenty hours a day, seven days a week with. No—Danny knew it was gonna be different, was gonna be trouble, because of the way his body was responding: anticipating Steve's moves, following his lead of its own accord, quite literally rising to meet him.

And it was that realization, that terrifying realization, as much as the killer thing Steve's fingers were doing to his dick, that had Danny harder than he'd been in ages.

Something nudged at his lips. Steve's fingers, Danny realized as he took them in, ran his tongue over their tensile length, their calloused ends, the rough little hollows between them. He sucked a little, experimentally, and was rewarded with an audible gasp from the other man.

Then they were gone; and those same fingers, slick with Danny's own spit, were pushing into a different opening altogether. And turned on as he was, it was hard not to feel vulnerable, exposed, knowing that Steve was looking at him, spread open like that, while he was caught in the dark.

It must've shown on his face, because Steve smoothed a hand over Danny's stomach and murmured, "easy now, Brah, relax, let me make it good for you—"

And--would wonders never cease?--it turned out Steve was as careful and precise about this as he was reckless about firefights—knew his way around, too, if Danny had to guess. Steve worked one finger past the tight ring of muscle, then two, stretched him expertly, found the exact spot that had Danny rolling his hips desperately, aching for more.

One, two, three devastating strokes against his prostrate and the fingers were gone, Danny involuntarily whimpering a bit as they withdrew. He heard the tear of a package, the unmistakable latex slide of a condom, let himself be manhandled a bit more, and felt the press of Steve's dick against his hole.

And Danny couldn't help it; he pushed back against it as best he could, canting his hips even farther up and moaning a little with the urgency of his need.

Steve was clearly a master of mechanical engineering or else had done this kind of thing once or twice before, because somehow he got them both balanced on the narrow back seat of the sedan, Danny's legs hooked over his shoulders.

And Danny knew there was no way he was young enough or flexible enough to do this kind of thing—had probably never been young enough or flexible enough, to be honest—and his bad knee was going to be screaming at him by nightfall, but fuck if any of that seemed to matter at all.

All the mattered was the overwhelming feeling of Steve filling him. The slick slide of his shoulders against the seat as Steve set a rhythm. The tang of sweat in the enclosed air. The slap of skin-on-skin as Steve got himself in balls deep. The burn of pain gradually replaced by cascade waves of pleasure.

Part of him wished he wasn't blindfolded—wished he could see Steve's cock pumping into him, Steve's face as his careful rhythm began to fall apart, as tiny involuntary grunts and gasps started to break through his control.

But it was just as well he was, because even the mental image was too much. Danny reached up to touch himself, but Steve batted him away, closed his own fingers around Danny's cock instead, jacking him tight and hard.

That was it. A few strokes and Danny was over the edge, coming so hard it was almost painful. And before he'd even surfaced from that Steve was following him, hips stuttering and jerking, a ragged groan passing his lips before he collapsed onto Danny, nearly overbalancing them both.

Danny lay panting in the aftermath, too blissed out and boneless to really care that the back seat was nowhere near big enough for two grown men, especially when one of them was a hulked out ex-Navy SEAL. He felt Steve pull out, heard the snap of the condom coming off, but didn't pay much attention.

When he finally found the strength to pull the makeshift blindfold off his eyes, Steve was watching him, a huge, open grin on his face, like a naked and fucked out Danny Williams was the best thing he'd ever seen.

"Zip up, Danno," he said, slapping him lightly on the chest, "We don't wanna push our luck with the Highway Patrol.


A few ineffectual stabs at cleaning up, and they were on their way again, Danny wincing a little as he tried to get comfortable in the passenger seat, and Steve smirking at him smugly.

Truth be told, aches and pains aside, Danny couldn't bring himself to be unhappy about what had happened. Because if he'd ever had the guts to look at the thing full on, he would have known from day one that sex with Steve McGarrett had been as certain as death and taxes. And for an inevitable thing, it had felt pretty damn good.

For the sake of appearances, though, he decided he needed to bitch about it—just a little.

"Seriously, man, the side of the road? What were you, raised by wolves? You buy a guy dinner first. At least a beer or something. You'd given me some warning I woulda gussied up some—washed my hair maybe—put on a better tie—"

Steve didn't say anything, just smiled at the road ahead. But he kept his hand on Danny's thigh until they were less than a block short of headquarters.