---
 

It had been Daniel's idea. Daniel's fault.

Daniel's fingers, long and quick, knotting silk tight over Jack's eyes; Daniel's fingers repeating, repeating, making knots sure as a sailor's.

Daniel's idea. Daniel's voice, saying, "If they asked," and the warm weight of him belts Jack's hips, "There would be nothing for you to tell."

His lips press the damp of Jack's blindfold. "You saw nothing."

The cords that bind Jack's wrists, keep them up, away, are the kindest bonds he's ever known.

"Your hands," Daniel says, "Reached for nothing." And when Daniel's mouth is there, tracing Jack's captive fingertips, Jack shakes, and twists, and doesn't reach.

"Your mouth," Daniel says, and Jack shakes again, even before there's warm moist pressure-heat where his lips bulge, split and silenced by silk.

"You said," Daniel says, carefully, teeth and tongue over Jack's lip, "nothing."

Jack wants to say: "No. No, Daniel. Not like this."

Because Daniel had promised: promised fast and hard and impersonal, their shared co-delusion that blinds and gags and ties could keep their identities, their truths, out of this.

Daniel's mouth investigating his bonds hadn't been part of the deal.

Fast and hard and impersonal isn't this.

Even deprived of sight, speech, mobility, his hands cinched up high, in a world comprised entirely of dark silk (strong, and soft), there's still no way for Jack O'Neill to pretend that this is anything like anonymous, that every still-receptive part of his body isn't absorbed with its knowledge of Daniel Jackson. Jack's nose is full of the sharp clean smell of Daniel's aftershave, so well-known, mingling now with sweat and Jack; Jack's ears latch onto each of Daniel's slow syllables, reveling in the husky change that he -- Jack -- is the source of.

He feels the way Daniel's body shifts down over his abdomen when he bends to remove their boxers.

He doesn't think his hips can forget this, this weight of Daniel.

Daniel stretches out and down and his mouth -- Daniel's mouth, for Christ's sake -- is on Jack's nipple and the pressure is hard and right but even so Jack thinks this must be against the rules because he knows of course no other mouth but Daniel's could feel like this, move like this, speak into Jack's flesh with such cruelty and grace --

Daniel's smart little mouth --

Jack grunts, bucks up and almost comes right there, almost brings an end to the whole shebang

so when Daniel says "No," and reaches to fix a firm sure grip on the base of Jack's cock, Jack doesn't cry out

because he has the gag for a reason.

Daniel says, "Wait for me. You have to."

Daniel is following the rules again.

Fast and hard and impersonal --

-- no Jacksons and O'Neills here, just two men

relieving pressure

-- one over the other --

Daniel's god, no, Daniel's mouth on his cock and no he'd said no Daniel promise that you won't, I can't have you doing that, and Daniel had said YesJackOkay.

Daniel jerks his head away, guilty, remembering the promise. Jack can picture his saucer-eyed shame, though he thinks maybe he shouldn't.

"Sorry," Daniel says, and Jack can hear how much he wants to say "Jack," wants to have the comfort of names back between them.

Then: "I forgot. I, uh. -- I wanted to taste you. Needed to know, you know, just once, needed to--"

"No," Jack tries to say. His is a mouthful of silk. "No."

He doesn't need to see Daniel's nod.

He can hear it in the sigh of Daniel's hair, the snick of his glasses off, his lips' turn in concentration. Jack may, indeed, be developing a superpower: he can hear, impossibly, the off-tempo click of plastic, the sound of a squeeze -- dumb, Jack thinks, to have never noticed such a distinctive sound before.

And.

The wet noise of Daniel's hands rubbing warmth together.

Daniel's back in the game then, nudging Jack's knees apart, pushing, prodding, shaping the canvas of Jack's sprawled body to his specifications.

It's fast when Daniel spreads him open and pushes a slick finger in, deep, too deep, Jack can't moan -- and harder still when it's two fingers, long and sure, driven, driving. Daniel's fingers, pushing, pressing, pulling him open. Can't forget that these are Daniel's fingers; Daniel's long fine cock riding the ridge of Jack's thigh.

Can't forget, not with Daniel's scent under his teeth, rubbed into his skin, cooling on Jack's cock. Can't, not with Daniel, rule-breaker, licking kisses over Jack's collarbone, then dipping them low in across his belly.

and Jack says to his gag, Daniel, Daniel, I can't forget;

but Daniel's fingers, three of them now, stroke Jack deep, right, just right and

-- exactly correct and Daniel had always been the best of them at, well, learning to do stuff --

Good kid, Jack thinks, good

Daniel pushes just right again and Jack moves his hips, shoves up, needing contact, needing rhythm, needing

Daniel

laughs and kisses his throat and slicks his cock. Climbs up and Jack's knees are up and over his shoulders

(and Jack's knees, creaking bloody amen hallelujah, agree that this is definitely a good place for them to be)

when Daniel thrusts into him in one sure movement, pushing forward on his elbows past the protest of Jack's body.

Jack grunts and tries to tilt upwards, tries to make himself perpendicular to Daniel's motion. He eases his legs apart and breathes and lets Daniel in, all of him, and there's a lot, strange to measure the length of him from the inside --

and he doesn't have much choice, but the muscles smoothing stomach are slack, like he does.

Daniel thrusts deep, sliding into the cradle of Jack's thighs.

Jack puts his head back and gags on silk, trying for breath enough to survive this -- Daniel fucking him -- (fast, and hard) -- with no chance to see Daniel's face while he's doing it (fucking, Jack), no way to glimpse what his face will look like when he comes.

Impossible to kiss Daniel, to touch him, to stroke fingers over the long smooth cock that cleaves Jack too close.

Jack tells the gag to untie him then, untie him and let him touch and see Daniel because this -- this happening -- without being able to acknowledge that they are who they are, the men who were attracted for lord-knows-why in the first place, is.

Ri-god-damn-diculous.

Daniel just fucks Jack, like he's supposed to. Presses his hip-bones down, grinds him into the mattress and says, "You want that?" as he jars and sparks against Jack's prostate.

He makes Jack writhe up from the bed, panting and desperate, his cock so hard it'd shoot off like a grenade if someone -- if Daniel -- would touch it.

But Daniel only rocks against Jack, into Jack, working him from the inside out, deaf to Jack's body language over the rhythm he's set.

"Good," he says. "God," he says. He doesn't say "Jack." He twists Jack's nipple, rolling it steadily between his thumb and forefinger.

Daniel, Jack tries to say, but this time he's not even sure if he tries.

Daniel, you have to end this now for both of us.

Now that we know.

Daniel grips Jack's legs, shifts, anchoring them at his waist, thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, thrusts until he's mindless heated motion.

Quickens, somehow, impossibly Jack thinks, when his warm callused hand finally fists on Jack's cock.

Which to Jack feels like some sort of epiphany he thinks he should more keenly understand

and he gives up into the movement of Daniel's clever fingers, their twists and turns and teasings, and comes.

Jack doesn't know where Daniel is getting this stamina, this raw fuel of sex and fuck and rut. Daniel slows to a luxurious push while Jack comes, his fingers stroking with the surety Jack would normally assign a pro player on the ice or maybe a pack of tigers roaming the...the...

Jack moves, gasping, coming, thrashing. Wraps his legs around to hook Daniel's back, using his legs, the only part he can still control, his knees, ankles, toes, all of 'em, using them to pull Daniel deeper, to hold him there, force him to move suddenly at the whim of Jack's sneaky coiling body.

Daniel makes a sound like surprise and keeps himself in Jack, coming hard with his head down and his mouth open on Jack's neck.

And Jack doesn't need to see him, he discovers, to experience Daniel's silent scream, his gasp and spill and final push in.

Jack's legs don't want to let go

but then Daniel snakes fingers, pries his sweat-slick limbs away.

His cock leaves Jack too slowly for it to be unintentional.

Jack stays quiet, somehow, listening to Daniel making sounds in the dark. The rustle of Daniel dressing, as they'd planned and promised. Jack swears that he can make out the noise of individual buttonholes done-up.

Jack can't see Daniel pulling his boxers, his pants up, hiding the traces of them, that magnificent cock. Jack can't see Daniel tugging down his t-shirt, trapping the smell of them under cotton.

Daniel making sounds. Daniel clicking the lube closed and putting it somewhere. Daniel stooping to struggle into his shoes.

Daniel remembering his glasses after all.

Jack wonders if he's shaking as badly as Jack thinks?

Then Daniel, suddenly close, is shaking over Jack's bindings. His touch makes the knots quiver.

He only works one free, fingers slip-skipping on the intricate loops he'd tied before.

"Well," Daniel says.

"You can get yourself loose, then."

Jack doesn't nod, but. It isn't a question.

"You did nothing," Daniel says. "It wasn't about us."

He hears him take his coat, the stride of soft shoes across the floor, the close of the door that is not a slam.

Jack lies in the dark, seeing silk, tasting the gagged remains of his pleas, tethered still by Daniel's knot.

It had been Daniel's idea.
 
 
 

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end: honnaleed@yahoo.com