Wait For Me

by Jane Davitt

Daniel's stopped asking in words for what he wants. Stopped a long time ago. His mouth is open on a gasp, a groan, a panted breath, but words? No. They're not words.

His lips tremble and when they do, Daniel bites them, so that when Jack's kisses him, his mouth brushes over ragged softness, and when he licks the bitten lips, Daniel winces from the sting of Jack's spit against the raw, tender skin. Maybe he should've gagged Daniel. He got pretty noisy earlier, which doesn't matter out here at the cabin, but it would have stopped him hurting himself.

Jack doesn't want to hurt Daniel today. Sometimes he does, sure, and Daniel lets him, or Daniel tells him what he wants Jack to do to him, cool, precise, cruel instructions that arouse Jack unbearably. Daniel wrote them out once and left them on Jack's desk for him to find as he sifted through reports, a discovery that left him dizzy, sick with anger and lust and fear. They use the edge of the pain, inflicted and received, to slice away all the accumulated crap of their lives; missions gone wrong, meetings that never end, the pressure at the back of Jack's skull because they're at war here and no one knows and he's walking around in a world where people think they're safe and they're not and he wants -- wants --

Daniel whimpers, and Jack's thoughts snap back to here and now and the man he's tied to the bed with a single, drawled out command (don’t move, Daniel, or I spend the afternoon fishing), Daniel's pushed the limits of that order -- no surprise, though if Jack's fair, Daniel couldn't really help it sometimes, given what Jack's mouth and fingers were doing -- but mostly he's been quiescent. Jack's still marveling at the way Daniel changes when you get him naked and hard and tell him you're in charge. Just with Jack. Only with him. He tells himself that and Daniel lets him believe it. Maybe it's true.

It makes sense, this complete (he tells himself that, too) surrender; even Daniel's got to have a space, a place, where he trusts and stops fighting.

Jack licks a wet line along the quiver and jerk of Daniel's cock and smiles when every muscle in Daniel's body locks solid with the effort not to arch up, not to come. Release and the sweetly fleeting rush of orgasm -- that's not what this is about. Jack's not even fully hard right now, his cock a lax weight against his thigh, his balls a slack tumble of loose, hairy flesh.

Daniel doesn't know it, but Jack's not planning to let him come at all today or tonight. They've never drawn it out that long before, but Jack wants to push Daniel. It's been a long fucking week.

He slaps Daniel's thigh and beckons him up off the bed with a crooked finger, knowing that Daniel's deep enough under that he doesn't need to be naked in bed to stay there. Jack's weighed him down with his hand on Daniel's ass, a slow, steady beat of it, not hard, those slaps, just a lot of them, held him under with words he's not used to saying but for Daniel he finds them deep within, forces himself to say them. Daniel's breathing a different air now, on another fucking planet, but Jack's close by to bring him home.

He makes Daniel dress, helping him to button his shirt, rubbing the heel of his hand roughly, possessively, painfully over Daniel's erection before he eases Daniel's shorts over it.

They fish later -- well, Jack fishes and Daniel sits beside him and reads, his face placid, his hands shaking slightly when Jack touches him, or sits at Jack's feet, his head pillowed against Jack's lap if he wants to get closer. Jack touches him often, strokes the smell of bait into Daniel's hair so that he has a reason to wash Daniel later, tips Daniel's face up with a single finger hooked under his chin and stares at him until Daniel smiles, makes Daniel stand and shoves his hand inside Daniel's shorts, handling him casually, carelessly, cupping and rolling Daniel's balls; smoothing the sticky wetness leaking steadily over the rounded cap of Daniel's cock with his thumb until Daniel's face is flushed and his hands clench into fists by his side.

And he tells Daniel that he's going to keep him like this until morning, hard, aching, his, and watches Daniel's eyes close for a moment and open, empty of everything but desire, both of them suffering, because Jack won't come either and now the afternoon sun is turning the air to a honey-drip thickness, he thinks it'd be kinda nice to strip Daniel bare and spread him on cool cotton sheets and fuck him slowly, sweat gleaming on Daniel's broad shoulders.

It's tempting, but Daniel's eyes are shining now and he bites his lip hard and makes a yearning sound, throat-caught and pleading, and Jack can't say no to Daniel when he looks like that so they'll stick to the plan, he guesses.

He motions Daniel to his knees and rolls a beer bottle, beaded with condensation, across the hot, smooth skin of Daniel's nape, his hand over Daniel's chest so he can feel Daniel's nipple harden and soak up the shudder Daniel gives him.

Then he casts out again and sits, one hand stroking Daniel's hair, and plans what he'll do to Daniel later to make him cry out his name, sob out his name, call it and scream it and --

It's fine, it's okay. It's safe to scream here. He's taught Daniel that.

Daniel needed to learn.

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