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Okay, going to be more than four parts but I'm sticking to the 400 words a part because it makes it harder... and I'll have to wrap this tomorrow because it's late.
Previous parts are here
Can't Take the Heat
Part Four
He's silent as he stands behind me, his hands slipping around my waist in what would look like a hug and isn't, fingers busy. I hear his silence through the buzz and hum in my ears, a spill of sugar gritty against my hands, flat and wide on the counter.
It feels like rejection and when he pushes my head down so that he can stroke the back of my neck, sending a shiver though me, I'd swap it for my name in a whisper, no matter how good it feels.
He moves away and I hold position, just like on a freeze, tracking him by sound. He's getting a bowl and there's the crack of ice. Fuck. If he's going to get Old Testament on my ass...
A chair scrapes and he says, "Look at me."
I lift my head and he smiles, holding up an ice cube. It's sharp-edged and slippery and it's got all my attention as he licks at it slowly and then pushes it inside his mouth, rolling the ice on his tongue.
When he spits it into his palm, it's lost its shape. He stands, my shirt hanging on him loosely, and walks behind me.
I know there's something I can say to stop him but by the time I've worked out what it is there's the burn of ice, silky and hard, a rounded-off square of contradictions, and it's pushing hard against my asshole and I scream and babble and swear in one anguished rush of breath because it's fucking cold.
Daniel pats my ass and sits down. "Tell me when it's melted," he says and picks up a flyer advertising lawn care.
He doesn't even have a fucking window box but he reads it anyway.
"Look at me."
He peers at me over the flyer, smiles politely and nods.
"Daniel..."
"Has it melted?"
I can't tell. Maybe. I try a shrug and feel a piece work out of me -- God, cold, cold -- and slide down my thigh.
"Think so."
He walks over and I feel his fingertips rest lightly on my hips before he kneels and starts to lick his way from warm dry skin to cold and wet. His tongue's hot, oh God, it's hot, and it's flickering and lapping and dragging and I ate breakfast standing here, toast in my hand, staring blankly out of the window.
"Jack?"
Previous parts are here
Can't Take the Heat
Part Four
He's silent as he stands behind me, his hands slipping around my waist in what would look like a hug and isn't, fingers busy. I hear his silence through the buzz and hum in my ears, a spill of sugar gritty against my hands, flat and wide on the counter.
It feels like rejection and when he pushes my head down so that he can stroke the back of my neck, sending a shiver though me, I'd swap it for my name in a whisper, no matter how good it feels.
He moves away and I hold position, just like on a freeze, tracking him by sound. He's getting a bowl and there's the crack of ice. Fuck. If he's going to get Old Testament on my ass...
A chair scrapes and he says, "Look at me."
I lift my head and he smiles, holding up an ice cube. It's sharp-edged and slippery and it's got all my attention as he licks at it slowly and then pushes it inside his mouth, rolling the ice on his tongue.
When he spits it into his palm, it's lost its shape. He stands, my shirt hanging on him loosely, and walks behind me.
I know there's something I can say to stop him but by the time I've worked out what it is there's the burn of ice, silky and hard, a rounded-off square of contradictions, and it's pushing hard against my asshole and I scream and babble and swear in one anguished rush of breath because it's fucking cold.
Daniel pats my ass and sits down. "Tell me when it's melted," he says and picks up a flyer advertising lawn care.
He doesn't even have a fucking window box but he reads it anyway.
"Look at me."
He peers at me over the flyer, smiles politely and nods.
"Daniel..."
"Has it melted?"
I can't tell. Maybe. I try a shrug and feel a piece work out of me -- God, cold, cold -- and slide down my thigh.
"Think so."
He walks over and I feel his fingertips rest lightly on my hips before he kneels and starts to lick his way from warm dry skin to cold and wet. His tongue's hot, oh God, it's hot, and it's flickering and lapping and dragging and I ate breakfast standing here, toast in my hand, staring blankly out of the window.
"Jack?"
Tags:
- fic,
- jack/daniel,
- sg-1,
- slash