Jack's … well, he knows what he's doing. Knows a dozen or more ways to label it, too, but why bother voicing them, even in his head, when his hands are moving slow and sure and hard.
Any of them will do, from the profane to the crude to the fucked-up and funny.
He's not looking down at what his hands are doing, though. Hairy chest and belly, white and pink scars like melted candy canes… it's not inspiring.
Doesn't matter. He's got a job to do tonight… call it housekeeping.
He flicks through his memories and chooses a fantasy from a well-thumbed list. Some are bland, generic; some he shies away from. Has to be in the mood for them. Has to want it nasty and sick, fantasies that make him come with a shudder of shame (come hard, though, come violently, pleasure wrenched from him, his body tortured by what he's doing to it, clamped, impaled, excesses he regrets really quickly because he's left hurting).
They shame him, not because they're all that extreme -- his head, he's entitled -- but because they're not faceless people he's fucking, they're friends.
That's rude. And deeply stupid. And one day Daniel's going to learn telepathy as a fun hobby, or something, and Jack's going to find out just how hard Daniel can hit because Daniel's not going to like the one where Jack and he are kneeling -- oh, God, can he think about it cold-stone sober, can he? -- kneeling… in front of Teal'c. Fuck, fuck. Teal'c's hands in their hair, guiding them as they lick him where he's hard, fighting to be the first to suck on him, their tongues meeting, colliding, so he's kissing Daniel around the thick jut of Teal'c's erection and it's messy and hot and he usually comes as Teal'c's hand closes on the nape of his neck and --
He drags himself out of that one, panting in ragged gasps, peeling his clutching fingers away from his dick. Too close.
And that's not what he wanted to do.
He takes a look at the clock and grimaces, then lets his fingers return, cautiously, charily, circumspect. The first touch is still enough to make a ripple of pleasure wash over him, liquidly lapping. Oh, God. Feels good.
Enough. He slaps his cock hard, a stinging strike that might -- sometimes -- be enough to make it game over, but tonight it just hurts and he rubs it better with a licked-wet hand.
Now. Get on with it, Jack, will ya?
Daniel, in the locker room. He never would (even if the fantasies make him see it in a whole new light) but that's where he likes Daniel. Somewhere forbidden. Somewhere risky.
Fuck, he can't even dream it easy, can he?
Daniel stripping slowly, intent look, eyes cold --
And, no. Hadn't been that way, had it?
Daniel had undressed, talking the whole time, pausing, a sock in hand, to tell Jack about the result of an experiment Carter had done, his other hand absently scratching at his hip, drawing Jack's gaze south.
Daniel beckoning an already naked Jack over with an imperious flick of his fingers. Sometimes Jack crawls.
Daniel had walked over to where Jack had been waiting on the bed, given him a shy, friendly smile, shoved his glasses up, and then changed his mind and taken them off, blinking until he'd focused again.
Daniel directing him in a cool drawl, full lips tight in a twisted smile. Daniel predictably precise and impatient with failure, hard to please; Jack angling for -- well. That varied. Reward or punishment look really similar from some angles, especially the ones visible when you're looking up.
Jack had led Daniel through it, redirecting him in subtle ways, stopping so often to kiss him, Daniel's mouth warm and eager, that the urgency was lost and with it the nervousness.
His, not Daniel's.
Daniel fucking his mouth; lying back as Jack sweats and writhes and rides him; Daniel slamming home into Jack's ass, brutal scrapes of skin on skin (matched and mimicked, though he's never sure which comes first, the thought or the deed, by the dildo Jack's body is enduring, forced deep by an unfaltering hand as the fantasy unwinds).
Daniel opening his legs, a blush starting, a swallow signaling the start of words Jack hadn't wanted to hear, so he'd kissed Daniel again, his wet fingers moving low, easing in gently, getting Daniel to keep looking at Jack's face, attention on Jack's mouth.
Distraction. Lots of it. Until Jack realised he was groaning, humping Daniel's leg, close to coming from the hot clench around his fingers and then Daniel, brave with arousal, had bitten Jack's throat in a place that should've had an X to mark the spot but Daniel didn't need it, and the mark his teeth had left had been a chewed, sucked splodge of red, bright and hot.
Jack begging, hoarse, desperate, or silent by command.
Daniel still talking once he'd finished wiping Jack's come off him with a hand that had been shaking, just a little, stuttered, stammered words, imperfectly understood except Jack got it, he really did.
Daniel wanted to come and he wanted Jack to make it happen. And Daniel's come had been all he could taste, all he could smell, because Daniel had come fast, the first jolt when Jack had done no more than slide down the bed, smile up at him, and paint a spit-stripe from balls to tip.
After that it'd got spluttery, frantic, trying to get his mouth where it needed to be one hell of a lot faster than he was prepared for, and Daniel had laughed, a soft chuckle that'd dissolved into helpless, wheezing giggles, making Jack join in because Daniel didn't do this often and he wasn't going to make a big deal out of a mess when Daniel was happy.
And Daniel had sacrificed his T-shirt, cleaned them up enough to get by, and rolled Jack to his back and weighed him down, strong, heavy body, deep, loving kisses.
Daniel comes before Jack, comes on him, not in him. Watches Jack finish himself, eyes usually on Jack's face. No kisses, never.
Jack revises, rewrites, makes real. Takes what he knows now -- Daniel's cock's actually bigger in reality when it's hard; go figure -- and plasters it over the fantasy…
Pictures Daniel biting Jack's nipple and complaining that he can't get a grip on it, are you sure you like this, Jack? It's never done much for me…
Feels arousal drain away and his dick soften, abject and pleading: Go back. Back to what works. Back to the Daniel you can't reach, can't break with tenderness, can't hurt. Back to the Daniel who exists to give your kinks a workout, not the one you'll never tell them to.
It feels like betrayal.
Somewhere Daniel's smiling at him, serene, even a little smug, well-kissed lips and tousled long hair.
Daniel snaps his fingers, a crisp, cold click...
In fact, Daniel's going to be here soon, the sex new enough an element in their relationship that he'd be glad to find Jack in bed, naked and hard from thinking about --
... and Jack comes, grateful, resentful, hating, in love.
He's got time to shower before Daniel arrives. He can clean this mess up, be waiting with drinks, keep Daniel talking until he's had time to recover from a climax that's left his heart thundering, his body weak.
Plenty of time.
He touches his fingers to the streaks on his stomach.
Licks them clean at Daniel's nod.
Licks them clean.
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