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sirona_ficsAt last! *collapses in relief*
Title: Hold It (Just Like That)
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: R
Word count: ~1,800
Warnings: none
Summary: Steve McGarrett, lead singer of SuperSEALs, should come with a damned warning label.
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
delicatale, who ages ago requested "that AU where Steve is a rockstar and Danny is a photographer". Also as a belated birthday present for her, because as I think we have established, I fail at adulthood. Happy birthday, love! ♥ I should warn you that I know nothing about being a professional photographer; I hope I've got this at least a little right; and let's face it, that wasn't exactly my focus as I was writing this, if you take my meaning.
"What? What? I'm not singing 'Pop Goes My Heart', Jesus, what the hell, who even comes up with that crap?"
The voice is loud and disgruntled, and it's coming from the front of the studio, right outside the door that opens on Danny's domain. He frowns, still fiddling with the lens he's planning on using, and throws a quick look at the door, like he could divine who's on the other end through sheer force of will. The voice is slightly husky, faintly familiar. Could it be...?
Apparently yes, he realises as the door flies open and in walks Steve McGarrett, lead singer of SuperSEALs, striding into Danny’s studio like he belongs there. He’s… tall, is the first thing that Danny thinks, scrambling to not look like he’s following McGarrett’s every movement and considering the benefits of drooling. He watches McGarrett approach through the digital screen on his camera, covertly angling the lens to capture McGarrett’s long, long legs, sheathed in the tightest black jeans Danny’s seen in his life, feet stuffed into ratty converse sneakers, a chequered shirt open over a faded grey t-shirt, logo long washed into illegibility. He has a two-day scruff over his face, messed up dark hair, and the shrewdest pair of eyes Danny has ever been scrutinized through. He fights not to let a flush climb over his face at being caught out. It’s his job, for fuck’s sake; there’s nothing wrong with what he’s doing. At all. Really.
“You know perfectly well that Ms Jameson recruited Wo Fat and Victor Hesse to write that song specifically for you, Steve. You’ll have to take it up with her.”
Belatedly, Danny realizes McGarrett is not alone. He’s trailed by a tall woman in a baggy pair of blue jeans that still manage to look stylish, wearing the same t-shirt-and-open-shirt combo as her boss. Must be his assistant. She looks dogged and relentless, pinning McGarrett in place with a pair of dark eyes hidden behind black-framed glasses. McGarrett scowls.
“I don’t want fucking Wo fucking Fat and Victor fucking Hesse writing songs for me, goddamn it, we do just fine by ourselves, and you can quote me to Jameson. Just… get it sorted out, Jenna, you’re good at that.”
Jenna sighs explosively, popping her gum in frustration. “Oh, you owe me so much for this, you ass,” she grumbles. Then, she seems to realise they’re not alone any more. “Mr Williams! Sorry about this. Steve, meet Danny Williams. Mr Williams, Steve McGarrett.”
Danny straightens up and makes a face, and not just because his knee just twinged painfully. “Danny, please. Welcome to by studio.”
McGarrett hasn’t taken his eyes off him since they walked in, apart from a short sideways glance at Jenna mid-argument. He covers the ground between them in a single step, miles of muscled leg working to make Danny swallow convulsively, and takes the hand Danny offers in his. Strong, warm fingers curl around Danny’s knuckles, gripping just tight enough to make Danny think of Steve closing his hand around other things entirely. The room, which had been a touch chilly a moment ago, is now stifling.
“Steve,” McGarrett says, giving him what he probably thinks is a discreet once-over, and in reality is anything but. Danny only notices they have been, for all intents and purposes, holding hands when Jenna clears her throat, looking amused.
“I’ll just – leave the two of you to get to work, shall I?”
Danny releases Steve’s hand quickly, stepping back to put some much needed distance between them. Fuck, but the man is magnetic, all long lines and alluring angles, full, mobile lips that twitch in the hint of a smile just now, eyes a strange, liquid colour that shifts with the light.
“Danny, we ready?” Kono says, running through the door with the projector he’d had her fetch a lifetime--fifteen minutes ago.
“Yes, yes, we’re ready. Steve, meet Kono Kalakaua. Kono, Steve McGarrett.”
“Hi, wow, great to meet you, we’re both huge fans,” Kono says brightly, shaking Steve’s hand with her usual enthusiasm.
“You are, huh?” Steve says, eyes travelling back to Danny, who suddenly finds it imperative that he fix his tripod in place immediately.
“If you’ll just stand over there,” he says, taking refuge in what he does best -- bossing people around until they give him what he wants.
“Sure thing,” Steve says easily, walking to where Danny had set up. Kono darts in to check on the make-up Toast had just applied outside, smudging the eyeliner around Steve’s remarkable eyes a little further.
“Perfect,” she declares with a grin, jumping back.
Danny lifts the camera to his eye, looks through the lens. Steve is framed by the black edges, standing a little stiff, almost at parade rest. Danny remembers hearing somewhere that Steve really had been in the Navy for a while. He snaps a shot, looks at it, frowns. Too uncomfortable by far.
“All right, just, lean your shoulders back for me a little, that’s it, we’re aiming for relaxed, not military, although we might try that, too, later. Okay, now, your neck’s far too stiff, come on, ease up for me, put your hands in your pockets, that’s it, that’s better…”
He keeps talking, keeps shooting, watches Steve unwind for him until his long limbs hang looser, the tension in his shoulders fading by increments, until his posture loses the poker-straight tension and he lets himself slump just a shade. There’s still tightness in his face, though, and Danny can’t get it to shift no matter what he does.
He lowers the camera. “All right, that’s good, yeah, we’ve got some good shots there of you looking constipated. Come on, is this about that songwriter guy? Are you still pissed about that? I mean, granted, the idea of you singing ‘Pop Goes My Heart’ is amusing on any number of levels, but I don’t think it warrants killing them with your glare? Or, maybe, okay, I haven’t heard the lyrics yet, they might need it, who knows; hey, sing a bit of it for me, will you?”
Steve is glaring at him, but as Danny’s ramble goes on, Danny spies the corner of his mouth curling again into that little smile from earlier, and the homicidal look in his eyes fades bit by bit until they turn a grey-blue colour that Danny wants to take as many close-up photos of as Steve would let him.
"I’m not singing you any of that monstrosity of a song, I can tell you that much right now, but if you tell me which of my songs is your favourite, I’m sure I can hum a few bars,” Steve says easily, amusement lurking in his voice. His eyelids lower to half-mast, leaving his eyes to peek out through thick, long eyelashes. He is a fucking wet dream; Danny lifts his camera and snaps ten shots without even realising, stepping a little closer, registering the inviting tilt of Steve’s head, back to expose the long muscles of his neck and the tempting skin over his collarbone, Jesus, Danny wants to bite him right there, lick and suck at the skin until a nice hickey pinks the perfect tan.
The closer Danny gets, the more sensual Steve’s posture becomes, lips falling open a little, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans, hips slanted just so, drawing attention to exactly what’s hiding beneath those skin-tight jeans.
Danny doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the bulge in them grows a little with every step Danny takes, every time he shifts the camera to capture a new angle. He can feel sweat trickle down his temple, down the back of his neck, pooling damply at the back of his t-shirt. Steve’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and Danny almost drops the camera in his eagerness to catch it.
He doesn’t even know how long they spend at this, this game of cat and mouse, but when Jenna’s voice sounds from the door he’s so startled to be torn out of the connection that seems to crackle between them that he jumps a foot straight in the air.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jenna says, sounding much more amused than regretful,” but Steve’s on a schedule, so if you’re about done here, we have to move on to the meeting with the label.”
Danny lowers the camera, feeling like he needs to shake his head to clear the daze of lust he can’t quire see through.
“Yeah, uh, we’re—done, yes, finished. That was, uh, that was excellent, Steve, I think we have some great shots,” he says, letting his professional spiel take the place of actual thought, because he can’t quite remember how to string coherent words together that aren’t ‘go the fuck away so I can suck him off against the wall’.
“I think we got some great shots, too,” Steve says, voice so heavy with innuendo that it makes Danny flush all over. Fucking hell.
“Uh-huh,” Jenna says dryly, sharing an eloquent look with Kono that makes the back of Danny’s neck heat. “Right, then. Let’s go, Steve.”
Steve stalks away from the set-up, passing very, very close to Danny, who can smell his aftershave, something fresh yet musky, and underneath it, the hint of fresh sweat from the heat of the lights. He swallows thickly, desperately willing his cock to not embarrass him in front of the clients.
At the last moment Steve stops, just past Danny’s shoulder. “I’d like to take a look at those photos when they’re ready. Think I can come by later?”
He’s not looking at Danny—until he is, and Danny feels a shot of pure want slither all the way down his spine.
“Uh, sure,” he manages, pausing to clear his throat. “Tomorrow evening at seven all right for you?”
“Perfect,” Steve says, lashes still half-obscuring his eyes, but Danny doesn’t miss the way they darken as they follow the line of Danny’s body down and back up again. “It’s a date.”
The door closes behind them before Danny’s managed to move a single muscle. When he does think to look, Kono’s dismantling the set, not even trying to hide the smirk on her face. She looks at him, then, and lifts her eyebrows.
“Shut up,” Danny grumbles, walking away stiffly, heading straight for his small, dark, and above all private office.
Her suggestive laughter follows him all the way across the vast studio, along with the teasing “He’s cute, Danny; I approve,” that Danny chooses not to acknowledge. He doesn’t mind much; sure, he’ll be avoiding her gaze for the next few hours, but really, there isn’t anything she can insinuate that he isn’t already thinking about, in vivid technicolor.
Tomorrow evening can’t come soon enough.
-----
Now with sequel! I've got my rock moves
Title: Hold It (Just Like That)
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: R
Word count: ~1,800
Warnings: none
Summary: Steve McGarrett, lead singer of SuperSEALs, should come with a damned warning label.
Notes: For
delicatale, who ages ago requested "that AU where Steve is a rockstar and Danny is a photographer". Also as a belated birthday present for her, because as I think we have established, I fail at adulthood. Happy birthday, love! ♥ I should warn you that I know nothing about being a professional photographer; I hope I've got this at least a little right; and let's face it, that wasn't exactly my focus as I was writing this, if you take my meaning."What? What? I'm not singing 'Pop Goes My Heart', Jesus, what the hell, who even comes up with that crap?"
The voice is loud and disgruntled, and it's coming from the front of the studio, right outside the door that opens on Danny's domain. He frowns, still fiddling with the lens he's planning on using, and throws a quick look at the door, like he could divine who's on the other end through sheer force of will. The voice is slightly husky, faintly familiar. Could it be...?
Apparently yes, he realises as the door flies open and in walks Steve McGarrett, lead singer of SuperSEALs, striding into Danny’s studio like he belongs there. He’s… tall, is the first thing that Danny thinks, scrambling to not look like he’s following McGarrett’s every movement and considering the benefits of drooling. He watches McGarrett approach through the digital screen on his camera, covertly angling the lens to capture McGarrett’s long, long legs, sheathed in the tightest black jeans Danny’s seen in his life, feet stuffed into ratty converse sneakers, a chequered shirt open over a faded grey t-shirt, logo long washed into illegibility. He has a two-day scruff over his face, messed up dark hair, and the shrewdest pair of eyes Danny has ever been scrutinized through. He fights not to let a flush climb over his face at being caught out. It’s his job, for fuck’s sake; there’s nothing wrong with what he’s doing. At all. Really.
“You know perfectly well that Ms Jameson recruited Wo Fat and Victor Hesse to write that song specifically for you, Steve. You’ll have to take it up with her.”
Belatedly, Danny realizes McGarrett is not alone. He’s trailed by a tall woman in a baggy pair of blue jeans that still manage to look stylish, wearing the same t-shirt-and-open-shirt combo as her boss. Must be his assistant. She looks dogged and relentless, pinning McGarrett in place with a pair of dark eyes hidden behind black-framed glasses. McGarrett scowls.
“I don’t want fucking Wo fucking Fat and Victor fucking Hesse writing songs for me, goddamn it, we do just fine by ourselves, and you can quote me to Jameson. Just… get it sorted out, Jenna, you’re good at that.”
Jenna sighs explosively, popping her gum in frustration. “Oh, you owe me so much for this, you ass,” she grumbles. Then, she seems to realise they’re not alone any more. “Mr Williams! Sorry about this. Steve, meet Danny Williams. Mr Williams, Steve McGarrett.”
Danny straightens up and makes a face, and not just because his knee just twinged painfully. “Danny, please. Welcome to by studio.”
McGarrett hasn’t taken his eyes off him since they walked in, apart from a short sideways glance at Jenna mid-argument. He covers the ground between them in a single step, miles of muscled leg working to make Danny swallow convulsively, and takes the hand Danny offers in his. Strong, warm fingers curl around Danny’s knuckles, gripping just tight enough to make Danny think of Steve closing his hand around other things entirely. The room, which had been a touch chilly a moment ago, is now stifling.
“Steve,” McGarrett says, giving him what he probably thinks is a discreet once-over, and in reality is anything but. Danny only notices they have been, for all intents and purposes, holding hands when Jenna clears her throat, looking amused.
“I’ll just – leave the two of you to get to work, shall I?”
Danny releases Steve’s hand quickly, stepping back to put some much needed distance between them. Fuck, but the man is magnetic, all long lines and alluring angles, full, mobile lips that twitch in the hint of a smile just now, eyes a strange, liquid colour that shifts with the light.
“Danny, we ready?” Kono says, running through the door with the projector he’d had her fetch a lifetime--fifteen minutes ago.
“Yes, yes, we’re ready. Steve, meet Kono Kalakaua. Kono, Steve McGarrett.”
“Hi, wow, great to meet you, we’re both huge fans,” Kono says brightly, shaking Steve’s hand with her usual enthusiasm.
“You are, huh?” Steve says, eyes travelling back to Danny, who suddenly finds it imperative that he fix his tripod in place immediately.
“If you’ll just stand over there,” he says, taking refuge in what he does best -- bossing people around until they give him what he wants.
“Sure thing,” Steve says easily, walking to where Danny had set up. Kono darts in to check on the make-up Toast had just applied outside, smudging the eyeliner around Steve’s remarkable eyes a little further.
“Perfect,” she declares with a grin, jumping back.
Danny lifts the camera to his eye, looks through the lens. Steve is framed by the black edges, standing a little stiff, almost at parade rest. Danny remembers hearing somewhere that Steve really had been in the Navy for a while. He snaps a shot, looks at it, frowns. Too uncomfortable by far.
“All right, just, lean your shoulders back for me a little, that’s it, we’re aiming for relaxed, not military, although we might try that, too, later. Okay, now, your neck’s far too stiff, come on, ease up for me, put your hands in your pockets, that’s it, that’s better…”
He keeps talking, keeps shooting, watches Steve unwind for him until his long limbs hang looser, the tension in his shoulders fading by increments, until his posture loses the poker-straight tension and he lets himself slump just a shade. There’s still tightness in his face, though, and Danny can’t get it to shift no matter what he does.
He lowers the camera. “All right, that’s good, yeah, we’ve got some good shots there of you looking constipated. Come on, is this about that songwriter guy? Are you still pissed about that? I mean, granted, the idea of you singing ‘Pop Goes My Heart’ is amusing on any number of levels, but I don’t think it warrants killing them with your glare? Or, maybe, okay, I haven’t heard the lyrics yet, they might need it, who knows; hey, sing a bit of it for me, will you?”
Steve is glaring at him, but as Danny’s ramble goes on, Danny spies the corner of his mouth curling again into that little smile from earlier, and the homicidal look in his eyes fades bit by bit until they turn a grey-blue colour that Danny wants to take as many close-up photos of as Steve would let him.
"I’m not singing you any of that monstrosity of a song, I can tell you that much right now, but if you tell me which of my songs is your favourite, I’m sure I can hum a few bars,” Steve says easily, amusement lurking in his voice. His eyelids lower to half-mast, leaving his eyes to peek out through thick, long eyelashes. He is a fucking wet dream; Danny lifts his camera and snaps ten shots without even realising, stepping a little closer, registering the inviting tilt of Steve’s head, back to expose the long muscles of his neck and the tempting skin over his collarbone, Jesus, Danny wants to bite him right there, lick and suck at the skin until a nice hickey pinks the perfect tan.
The closer Danny gets, the more sensual Steve’s posture becomes, lips falling open a little, hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans, hips slanted just so, drawing attention to exactly what’s hiding beneath those skin-tight jeans.
Danny doesn’t think he’s imagining the way the bulge in them grows a little with every step Danny takes, every time he shifts the camera to capture a new angle. He can feel sweat trickle down his temple, down the back of his neck, pooling damply at the back of his t-shirt. Steve’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, and Danny almost drops the camera in his eagerness to catch it.
He doesn’t even know how long they spend at this, this game of cat and mouse, but when Jenna’s voice sounds from the door he’s so startled to be torn out of the connection that seems to crackle between them that he jumps a foot straight in the air.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Jenna says, sounding much more amused than regretful,” but Steve’s on a schedule, so if you’re about done here, we have to move on to the meeting with the label.”
Danny lowers the camera, feeling like he needs to shake his head to clear the daze of lust he can’t quire see through.
“Yeah, uh, we’re—done, yes, finished. That was, uh, that was excellent, Steve, I think we have some great shots,” he says, letting his professional spiel take the place of actual thought, because he can’t quite remember how to string coherent words together that aren’t ‘go the fuck away so I can suck him off against the wall’.
“I think we got some great shots, too,” Steve says, voice so heavy with innuendo that it makes Danny flush all over. Fucking hell.
“Uh-huh,” Jenna says dryly, sharing an eloquent look with Kono that makes the back of Danny’s neck heat. “Right, then. Let’s go, Steve.”
Steve stalks away from the set-up, passing very, very close to Danny, who can smell his aftershave, something fresh yet musky, and underneath it, the hint of fresh sweat from the heat of the lights. He swallows thickly, desperately willing his cock to not embarrass him in front of the clients.
At the last moment Steve stops, just past Danny’s shoulder. “I’d like to take a look at those photos when they’re ready. Think I can come by later?”
He’s not looking at Danny—until he is, and Danny feels a shot of pure want slither all the way down his spine.
“Uh, sure,” he manages, pausing to clear his throat. “Tomorrow evening at seven all right for you?”
“Perfect,” Steve says, lashes still half-obscuring his eyes, but Danny doesn’t miss the way they darken as they follow the line of Danny’s body down and back up again. “It’s a date.”
The door closes behind them before Danny’s managed to move a single muscle. When he does think to look, Kono’s dismantling the set, not even trying to hide the smirk on her face. She looks at him, then, and lifts her eyebrows.
“Shut up,” Danny grumbles, walking away stiffly, heading straight for his small, dark, and above all private office.
Her suggestive laughter follows him all the way across the vast studio, along with the teasing “He’s cute, Danny; I approve,” that Danny chooses not to acknowledge. He doesn’t mind much; sure, he’ll be avoiding her gaze for the next few hours, but really, there isn’t anything she can insinuate that he isn’t already thinking about, in vivid technicolor.
Tomorrow evening can’t come soon enough.
Now with sequel! I've got my rock moves
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Date: 2011-11-13 05:07 pm (UTC)I cannot even, seriously. It's been in my head ALL FUCKING DAY, GOD.