Serving False Gods

Daniel's fingers winnowed the sand on the steps, dragging through the grains. Gritty. Hot. Every time he did it, some got trapped behind his nails, the pressure building until his hand felt heavy, fingertips dropping, curling, dipping.

The sun was throwing heat over them like a net, trapping three of them on the stone steps. Daniel wondered how many hours of waiting it would take before Jack and Sam put their weapons down and Teal'c stopped prowling. Daniel had gone from standing, to sitting, to reclining, without hesitation, or thought, but it'd been a while before the others had joined him.

He caught up a handful of sand and poured it out, a dusty libation to the gods, his thoughts drifting to the man who sat above him, framed, undiminished, by the arch of the 'gate.

Maybe Jack liked having Daniel lying supine at his feet, long, lean, posed and languid. Wanted to use his foot to nudge Daniel's legs apart, tell Daniel to rub his face across the dust-dulled surface of his boots.

Maybe later, Daniel would share that thought, using words to get Jack hard, keeping a pleasant, distant smile on his face until Jack cracked and grabbed him.

Sand spilled and fell.

No. Jack wouldn't. Daniel wouldn't.

Still. Maybe.

The stone step was leaving bruises along the jut of his hip but it was too much effort to move.


(Later, Daniel would be trembling, hot with hate, hands restlessly clenching, clutching, needing a neck to squeeze and snap.)


The breeze stirred the syrup-thick air and the tossed sand spun as Teal'c called out a warning.

Daniel arched deliberately, sinuously, as he rolled to his knees, waiting until Sam's back was turned to glance up.

Jack gave him one fleeting, heated glare that Daniel interpreted -- perfectly correctly; when did he ever get a translation wrong? -- as a hint to stop fucking around, and Daniel stood, brushing dust away, his palms stinging from that final press against stone, his face from a blush.

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