a thousand petals, a thousand paths

Jack’s a man’s man. He drinks beer, watches hockey, wears a full-leather jacket. Yeah, baby, there’s no one more manly, more macho than Colonel Jonathan “Jack” O’Neill.

Which so does not explain why he’s staring at Daniel’s ass like Jack is Jason and that jeans-clad ass is the Golden Fleece. It also doesn’t explain why his hands are suddenly on said ass for no apparent reason than said ass is perfectly within reach.

Yep, there’s that moment frozen in time. Daniel’s not moving. He’s still got a plate in his hands, he’s staring blankly at the splashboard, and he’s so tense, Jack can feel the muscles in that fabulous ass flexing, and GOD, now Jack’s fingers are molding around those muscles and he’s so over the rainbow he feels his dick go from soft to hard in the time it takes to make a hyperspace jump.

Mmm. Ass. Such. A nice. ASS. Jack finds himself cozying up to Daniel’s back, and there’s heat and scent and Christ on a fucking crutch, how does Daniel smell so good? And can he get a bottle of Eau de Daniel to go, please? Family-size?

“Um. Jack?” Daniel asks, and Jack’s relieved to hear not an iota of freak-out, just simple questioning. And there is, perhaps, a slight cant to Daniel’s back that indicates that the hands-on-ass thing is not unwelcomed.

“Yeah, Daniel?” Jack replies, and his hands slip from the ass, around the slim hips, to the buttonfly in the front, the heels of his hands grinding over a sharp zipper tab to rest blunt-nailed fingers against a triple-Ph.D. erection. OH, YEAH.

“Whatcha doing, Jack?” Daniel asks, gently setting down the plate to grip the edge of the sink with white-knuckled hands.

“Not a fucking clue,” Jack replies, and would’ve been dismayed to hear his voice sounding so fucking lecherous if it weren’t for the fact that that triple-Ph.D. erection is throbbing beneath his fingertips.

He thought maybe it was time to have a gay epiphany. He is almost considering ordering his thoughts and pondering his heterosexuality, which seems to have taken the keys to his straight-laced car and gone for cheap tacos, when Daniel shimmies that golden ass and all attempts at cogency are just gone, wooosh.

“Well, as long as we’re clear on that,” Daniel says, and turns in Jack’s grip until they’re knees to knees, hips to hips, hands on hips and, most gloriously of all, cock to cock.

Jack groans, low, in the back of his throat, like the sound is trying to climb out from behind his uvula with pitons and cleats. With a mighty effort, Jack clears his throat. “I think I’m just going to … ” and he gestures with his hands, but his hands are caught between that priceless ass and the sink-edge and Daniel flushes rosily and pulls Jack closer.

“I think you’re going to shut up,” Daniel says in a voice that’s obviously making the same treacherous climb as Jack’s.

“Okay,” Jack nods, and then it’s all just lips and tongues and teeth, and holy shit, he had no idea that a guy could be hotter that a chick. There’s no breasts, no cleavage, no damp pussy, but apparently, it sure as hell doesn’t matter, since Jack’s dick is hard enough to pound trinium nails.

Then their jeans are hanging around their knees, and their boxers are being used exactly as they were meant to be, i.e., that gap in the front? Perfect for pulling out Daniel’s cock, just as Daniel is pulling out his, and they’re rubbing together, still kissing, still kissing, still kissing, their lips red and swollen and raw and it’s the hottest fucking thing Jack’s ever done in his life, and their cocks are riding and sliding together, and Daniel’s making these little moans that sound like “ah, ah, ah” and Jack’s brain just melts.

When they come, and it’s not together, thank GOD they don’t hit that cliche, Jack just leans into Daniel, panting and misting the already sweat-damp skin behind Daniel’s ear. Daniel comes, long, shuddering, the little “ah”s turned into one long “unnnggh” that makes Jack’s cock twitch in smug pleasure.

And then it’s quiet, and they’re sticky and messy and completely, blissfully sated. Daniel nips at Jack’s collarbone, and whispers, his voice joyful, yet gleeful, “Jack? Was there something you wanted to tell me about your obsession with The Wizard of Oz?”

.:.



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