Denial.
I mean, just look at the whole situation logically, scientifically. Here you have an organization made up predominately of men -- and not only men but chest-thumping testosterone cases for the most part. With guns. Big guns. Big guns they learn to handle with loving care -- oil them up, strip them down. Classic displacement. I don't think it's necessary to spell out penis substitute.
Don't ask, don't tell? Yeah, right.
Methinks the military doth protest too much.
Which is the only logical explanation as to why everyone on this base seems to be trying to get into my pants. I mean, I've been propositioned more times than Sam Carter, and have you looked at her lately? Those big blue-grey eyes, gamin smile, tight ass...okay, I love her like a sister and wouldn't necessarily want some overmuscled Marine suggesting he bend her over a stack of ammo cases but that's mostly because I think she could get into serious trouble for killing the guy.
Or maybe that's just not the sort of thing that gets said to air force majors.
Got said to me yesterday. And the day before, if you substitute the hood of a jeep for ammo cases.
Weirdly, it started happening more often since I got my hair cut. Maybe it's because I now look more like 'one of the boys'. Which tends to support my doth protest too much theory.
They all seem gratifyingly disappointed when I politely decline to share in the experience. Which is not to say I haven't been occasionally tempted. I mean, if you ignore the times I've been drugged or coerced, the last four years have been distinctly lacking in sexual content. And it's not like it would be my first time with a guy. Everyone experiments in college, right? I spent a lot of years in various universities. Some of them at Oxford, where a fag isn't what you think.
So. Tempted, yes. Succumbed, no.
Basically, we're all living in each other's pocket's down here and, well, word gets around. If I said yes to one of them, I'd have to say yes to all of them and even if I was on the giving end as often as receiving, I'd still be walking funny if I could walk at all.
And let's not even think about what sitting down would be like.
Besides, the only guy I'd happily bend over a pile of ammo cases for hasn't asked.
Anecdotal evidence seems to indicate that Colonel Jack O'Neill is the only guy in the American military who doesn't occasionally play for the other team. That was a sports metaphor, by the way, which should be some indication of how hard I've fallen.
And for those who may have any doubts, I'm on my way to watch a hockey game with someone who actually likes the piss-in-a-can they call beer in this country.
How fucked is that?
He can touch me, hug me, call me pet names, even make reference to wick length in the gateroom -- in front of General Hammond, no less -- but he persists in remaining straight enough to draw lines by.
Good. This time he's far enough up the driveway I don't have to leave my car on the street. He parks at the end of the driveway so he has less snow to shovel, gets into the habit in the winter and it takes him a while to shed it come spring. Since the gods dropped almost three feet of the fucking white stuff on us last April, that's probably a good thing.
I hate snow.
I like Jack's house; it's, I don't know, Jack-like. Kind of not what you'd expect. Like Jack. Career military and yet still able to think outside the box. Well, most of the time. Sometimes. And he usually thinks that what's outside the box is trying to kill us so he'd better shoot it first, but still. It's an attractive house. Like Jack.
Did he paint the porch since I was here last?
I'd start thinking about the porches of his ears but that's just weird, and so now, of course, I can't stop. Pretty sure that was a mistranslation from the Elizabethan anyway and I'd love to get my hands on the first folios.
Speaking of getting my hands on...
Jack's wearing the jeans.
Soft. Faded. Worn thin with years of wear. I could probably rip them off him with my teeth.
Oh yeah. That's smart. Think about ripping Jack's clothes off... Just hand him the pizza, make an inane comment or two, and get past him before he notices you're tenting your chinos. Pants with pleats. Gotta love the room.
With my brain suddenly in my dick, I have no idea what he just said to me, but it seemed to end in an interrogative, so I answer with that old male standby...
"Sure."
"Sure you'll tell me or sure you didn't get onions?"
Okay. I know where I am now, we're back on the same page. "Sure, I didn't get onions. We've only been through this how many times?" Too many times. I'm showing depths of masochism I never suspected. And not only *that*, I like onions on pizza. At least I used to, I haven't actually had any for about four years. No, five, because although they had something close to an onion, Sha're never did get the hang of making pizza. She kept trying, though. We ate some very strange meals together...
"What're you grinning about?"
He's back with the plates, two slices on each, the rest in the oven keeping warm. I will not eat cold pizza. Since Jack will, this is something he does for me. I only had to bitch about it for a few months. Well, almost a year.
I tell him. He's the only one I can talk to about her. The only one who knew her before she was "Poor Dr. Jackson's tragically Gou'alded wife". The only one who recognizes that eventually grief passes and you get on with your life. Sam always goes kind of doe-eyed when Sha're comes up, like she's, I don't know, kind of caught up in the whole romantic lost love thing -- which isn't and wasn't romantic. It was painful and exhausting and then really, really painful. Eventually, it was over. Teal'c? Well, Teal'c has baggage of his own.
With Jack, I can remember the fun stuff.
Hell, when I told him about the whole macarena incident he laughed so hard I though he was going to piss himself, and on every mission after that when I mentioned cross-cultural contamination, he only had to hum the damned song.
"Jack, this is Hockey Night in Canada."
"New satellite package."
"It's hockey from a different country."
"With ways and customs not much different than our own." He's quoting something, although I'm not sure what. But he's wearing that shit-eating grin that suggests he's enjoying the joke even if no one else is -- that the rest of us humour deprived morons can catch up later.
Shit-eating grin.... where *did* that phrase come from anyway?
I ask, but Jack doesn't know. No matter. I'll hunt down its etymological history when I get home.
He's right. Canadian hockey is pretty much the same as American hockey. Male bonding. Tribal customs. Ritualized warfare. Yadda yadda. God, sometimes I even bore myself. It used to make watching the game bearable but now I come only for Jack.
I can't believe I just...
Thank god for throw pillows. By the time Jack turns I've got the pillow on my lap and my beer on the pillow and am hopefully wearing my 'Offside? Icing? Who cares?' expression.
Given the way his eyes have just narrowed, I suspect I'm not.
"You're blushing."
Well, I certainly am now, thank you very much for that observation. And then I repeat myself aloud, clutching at the oft-expressed Jack O'Neill opinion that the best defense is a good offence. Doesn't work. No surprise, really. Maybe I should have just shot him. Or myself.
"Daniel?"
"Jack?"
"What're you blushing about?"
I can feel my ears getting hotter. Then I get an idea. An awful, terrible, twisted idea. God, I loved that book. After all, language is my life's work.
"If you must know, it's the not terribly subliminal homoerotism of this whole... thing."
His gaze follows my gesture toward the television, then snaps back to my face. "The what?"
"Think about it, Jack. Two groups of men wearing protection, stick handling, high sticking, going into the end zone, shooting, scoring. Being put into the box." A moment's consideration. "Okay, that's more het than homo but still. Take a look at that guy on the bench. Just look at how he's rubbing one hand continually up and down the shaft of his stick, and there! See how he cups the other hand over the knob but still keeps up the slow and constant movement? Up and down. And his eyes, see how unfocused?"
A quick glance toward the other end of the couch from under the edge of my glasses, and it seems Jack has acquired his own throw cushion.
Well, that's.... interesting. I know what's under my cushion, Jack.
Houston, we have arousal.
I only intended to embarrass him. Maybe piss him off as a diversionary tactic.
Still, Jack hasn't exactly been getting it regular these last four years either, and... wait, maybe it's not me. Maybe it's the guy on the bench. Who seems to be missing an impressive number of teeth. How does he chew his food?
So how do I find out? Find out if it's me, not how toothless hockey players attack their meat.
And let's banish that image, shall we?
The only way I'm going to find out what Jack's thinking is if Jack tells me, and the only way he's going to tell me is if he's not thinking, so let's just keeping going and see what comes up.
Else.
What else comes up.
"Watch the way he raises the water bottle, tilting his head back in a classic gesture of submission, baring his throat, and *squeezes*, letting the water explode into his mouth. And there, the guy next to him, watching every move, licking his lips. And now he's stroking -- I wonder if it's *his* water bottle..."
Did Jack just moan?
Jesus, he did. I mean, it wasn't me, so it had to have been him.
I thought I was as hard as I could get. I was wrong. My dick jerks so violently my cushion jumps.
I'm watching the television now, but Jack's watching me.
I can feel him watching me.
I shift my grip on my beer, tilt my head back, bare my throat, and take a long, messy swallow, slowly licking away the dribble of fluid that runs from the corner of my mouth.
The corner nearest Jack.
Not talking anymore. I'm way past being here for pizza and hockey.
A sound I can't quite describe, a sound that lifts all the hair on the back of my neck, pulls my gaze around to the other end of the couch.
Jack's growling.
And the way he's looking at me... If I was combustible the heat would have ignited me.
Um. Think it has.
Swear to god, I didn't see him move.
Good thing there wasn't much beer left in...
Oh god his mouth so hot and strong and *finally* on mine and good and except...
"Jack!"
Separating our mouths only moves his down to my jaw which he's chewing and teeth and Jesus since when was that an erogenous zone except...
"Jack! My back! Arm of the couch!"
Well, he must've heard me since one long arm scoops under my legs and the other hand goes to the waist of my pants, and the next thing I know I'm stretched out under him and both cushions are gone and all the long hard length of him is slamming into me and I rise up to meet it and he grunts a little in surprise because I guess he'd forgotten that I'm as strong as he is.
Or it had never occurred to him.
I can feel him hesitate.
If he's never done this with a guy before, the last thing I want is to give him time to think, so I slide my hands up under his shirt and start working the muscles of his back.
He's growling again.
Good sign.
But I want more skin and I want it now. A shirt button pings off the television, and I thank several gods -- who were probably all Gou'alds, but let's not go there -- that he hasn't done up the cuffs as I drag the soft cotton down each arm and finally fling it away.
Our cocks slam together again and when did it become a cock not a dick and fuck Daniel stop fucking thinking so goddamned much.
His hands are under the edge of my sweater. A rough callus scrapes across the edge of my navel and I groan.
Jack's eyes snap open and he looks at me. Really looks at me.
And suddenly I'm afraid that he hadn't realized it was me. That the sudden rush of blood to his crotch had destroyed higher functions like the ability to differentiate between friends and lovers and he's just now realizing...
"Danny; glasses."
Okay. I guess he knows. Hasn't called me Danny in years, though. The way he says it now makes me realize why he stopped.
He stopped because...
You bastard, O'Neill. You can't deal with wanting me so I waste the best years of my life screaming your name at my right hand? I get my glasses off and to safety just before he rips my sweater over my head.
We'll talk about this later, Jack, don't think we won't and FUCK didn't know that was an erogenous zone either.
I've lost the opportunity to rip his jeans off with my teeth, but main thing is they're off and we're both working at mine. Easier for him because he's on top, and once mine are over the curve of my ass he loses interest in getting them any lower, but I hate the feeling of being trapped inside my own clothes so I wriggle a bit -- which is accepted with gratifying enthusiasm -- and finally manage to kick them free.
OH MY GOD!
The way he's gripping me, I've got a pretty good idea that he's done this before.
Of course he has, you idiot; he has one of his own.
Given that we're both big men on a not very big couch, there's no room for another fist moving between us. And given the kind of desperate energy we're going at this with, there's no way we're going to last long enough for any kind of sequential jerking off. I drag Jack's hand away -- I suspect the element of surprise is all that allows to actually accomplish this since his snarl is as much disbelief as frustration -- yank him down hard on top of me, and start working my hips.
Let's hear it for friction.
Yay fricTION!
A little dry but so hot and not so dry now and FUCK! YES! YES!
"JACK!"
Two minutes later. Ten? Twenty? I honestly have no idea, but Jack's pillowed on my chest like he had time to get comfortable.
"Geez, Danny." Warm breath against my throat. No sound of regrets. A little sleepy snickering, though. "I never pegged you as a screamer."
Laugh it up, flyboy. You're the one who's going to be steam-cleaning his furniture. I'm on the bottom, and I know what I'm lying in.
He snuggles a little closer, like he's trying to climb into my skin with me. Feels great. Feels like I'm home. Feels like I'm going to have collapsed lungs very shortly, but what the hell.
When we finally talk about this, I have more than a strong suspicion he's going to tell me he was just waiting for me to get a clue. Or... wait. Give him a clue? Colonel Shoot First Notice They're Unarmed and Cowering Later O'Neill is shy? I guess that *could* explain why he'd rather shoot people than talk to them. Okay, for the sake of Jack's tender sensibilities, we'll skip the talking for now and go straight to fucking each other through the mattress.
It's a sacrifice, but one I'm willing to make.
We'll do that talking thing later. When he's relaxed.
On the television, some guy with a goatee and a starched collar is going on about how hockey players today aren't willing to use their sticks on each other like they used to.
Gee. Too bad, guys. Don't know what you're missing.
Something I'd like to share with Jack except he's gone to sleep.
The top of his head smells incredible.
So. How weird are things going to be when he wakes up? Weirder than our lives pre-sex? So not possible.
I've been dead, what? Five times now? Six? And how weird is it that I can't actually remember? I've been addicted to not one but two alien substances. I've been ribboned and zatted so often it's a wonder my brain doesn't glow in the dark. Jack's been aged, snaked, frozen, abandoned, time looped, and shot off into space. We've both been enslaved, imprisoned, and held down while Janet's nurses cheerfully do what they laughingly refer to as their duty -- which seems to involve wet sponges a whole lot more than it should. How dirty can a guy get in a sterile infirmary?
I've given an order I believed would get him killed. He's given a couple he knew would kill me. We've saved the world. A couple of times.
I've held him while he bled.
He's held me while I cried.
After all that, sex should be a piece of cake.
Hopefully a bigger piece than I got this time.
Hmmm, not necessarily bigger. Good thing he's asleep because his ego definitely does not need the kind of reinforcement I suspect my current expression would give him.
Slower. Definitely slower.
Can you have a slower piece of cake? Piece of the action...
And a little more interactive.
Say, Jack? There's this stack of ammo cases I'd like to introduce you to...