INTIMATIONS

BY: sharilyn

EMAIL: sharilyn

1. Spring Storm

Spring Storm
by johanna rayl
I stood in the doorway
for the longest time
after you left
looking at the night
listening to the night
feeling the cold
against the warmth of my body
feeling your touch
ripening on my body

It would have been too easy
to welcome you inside me
succumb to the rhythm
of waves washing over me

As much as that would be
it wouldn't be enough

I would never know
who
was on the other side
of your skin

Things can never be the same now. Tonight we came to a crossroads--to THE crossroads of all frigging time, to put it bluntly--and there a singular understanding was reached between us. Nuances of need and longing were telegraphed in the silent heat of our eyes, the seeds of desire and promise sown with the ephemeral brushing of his hand along my jaw, his fingers gliding in a featherlight gesture that scorched my skin yet left behind no visible evidence of his indelible brand of possession. The evidence was and still remains internal, the slow, erotic burn of his touch igniting a fire in my blood that still sizzles even now beneath my skin.

We embraced briefly at the door when he left, our bodies close but not quite daring to connect solidly the way we wanted to, the way we both imagined pressing seamlessly against each other chest to chest, belly to belly, pelvis to pelvis. To all appearances we were just two good buddies bidding one another a jovial, slightly inebriated adieu at the tag end of a lazy night of pizza and beer and sports on tv. Never mind that his body blazed like a furnace everywhere it brushed against mine, his hug so quick but so helplessly, hungrily fervent; never mind that the startling contrast between the chill, twilit air around us and the ravening fire roaring to life in every cell of our bodies had both of us trembling with helpless frustration in the midst of that all-too-brief farewell.

Despite the unmistakable dual evidence of pheremones running rampant, of skin prickling and sheening with the sweat of arousal, of pupils dilated almost to black with the raging need flaring between us, we didn't speak of it, didn't do anything more than exchange that quick, furtive hug, one which encompassed only arms and shoulders and the barest chest-to-chest contact. But I could hear the short, excited rasp of his breathing, could see in the fading crimson glow of the sun's grand finale the frantic, throbbing rush of blood through the pulse point at his throat as I dared to lean in--just for the span of half a heartbeat--to breathe in his essence, to absorb into every deprived pore of my body the fragrance that is pure Daniel, pure, sinful perfection. And I knew he was inhaling me, as well, sucking bits of my soul, of my insatiable emptiness, down into the same dark, hungry hollows he's kept hidden deep inside himself for so long.

Knowledge, fierce and primal, burned in our joint gaze for the space of seconds, each one stretching to an odd, breathless infinity; and then he was brushing one long-fingered, graceful hand along my jaw, his obscenely beautiful lips forming the shape of my name, the single syllable a desperate koan of loss and longing that fell mutely into the uncrossable chasm yawning in the small space between our straining, dissatisfied bodies. And because I wanted too much, wanted him with a heat and a fury that was too stark and terrifying to face, much less contemplate while standing with him on the front porch of my home on this chilly, early-spring evening, I stepped back and away, dropping a mask of wry sardonicism over the expression of unappeased longing still frozen in a stunned rictus on my real face, the one hidden beneath the calculated facade I presented to the porch and the uncaring world beyond.

I didn't mean to hurt him with my show of seeming indifference, wanted nothing more in fact than to grab him with desperate, clutching hands and pull him forcibly back across the threshold of my home, away from prying eyes, away from propriety and decorum and sanity into a lush, steamy landscape of unfettered lust, of greedy fingers fumbling and unbuttoning and unzipping and wet, hot mouths fusing and searing marks of savage, triumphant possession on skin aching to be claimed and branded. But this is too new still; despite years of this slow, simmering build-up of desire between us, the actual moment of coming to the joint decision to let down our guard--to reveal truths too long sublimated and disguised--happened for the first time just tonight, only moments ago. And I think guiltily to myself now that I had hoped Daniel would be the sensible one, that he would be the one to slam down the gate on this particular wild ride and call a no-nonsense halt to the silent madness blazing from both his eyes and mine. But I knew he couldn't do it, could sense in the small but steady tremors of his body just how close to that final, irrevocable edge he himself had drawn; and because I NEED him so much, because I think/feel/know I love him with a terrible, hopeless intensity, I had to be the one to gently but firmly push him away, my lips quirked in a half-grin, half-grimace of wry irony mixed with actual physical pain at the abrupt withdrawal of his warmth, of his scent, of the whisper of touch/sensation/desire that had begun to wrap such skillfully insidious tendrils around my soul. Mine had to be the voice of reason, of salvation; I owed him that much, that small space free to maneuver and retreat once sanity returned in the first light of a new day.

"See you at work tomorrow," I murmured inanely as I took one easy step back, some part of me marveling at the calm steadiness of my voice, irked beyond measure with my casual tone because I knew I HAD hurt his feelings, HAD distanced myself too abruptly, like ripping a bandaid off a sore and catching all those tender hairs that have become trapped in the adhesive underneath. But even as a spark of helpless apology sputtered to life inside my gaze, Daniel was stepping briskly back and away from me, the brief flash of wounded rejection in his blue eyes guttering out to a polite, watchful darkness as he lifted a hand--the same hand that had stroked my jaw in exquisite seduction only instants before--and murmured in a dry, collected voice a brief, "Yes, sure, work...tomorrow. Night, Jack."

And he was gone, leaving behind an emptiness, a vacuum, so immense that it's left me stunned and stranded here, sagging weakly against my own front door in the growing darkness as night closes in around me. He got it; he understands, I try to assure myself as I force myself to push away from the door and head down the hallway to the warmth of the fire burning on the hearth in my living room. He knows what I was trying to do, knows that while we understand each other now we still have to live in the real world, with all its caveats and rules against certain behaviors and with the human soul's innate safety barrier against loving too precipitately or unwisely. But God, it eats at me, the memory of that glint of pain I put in his eyes when I seemingly pushed him away--not only bodily, but emotionally. That was one of the hardest good-byes I've ever had to say, I think morosely as I snag a half-full bottle of tepid beer from my coffee table and slug it down, grimacing at the taste. And I just pray to God that our friendship can survive it. Cause that's the important thing, that's what matters; the rest of it--that whole burgeoning, achingly intense physical attraction that's blazed to life between us--can only lead to terrible trouble further down the line. Daniel's smart; he knows that. He understands. Oh, God, let him understand. And maybe, just maybe, someone with a truly phenomenal i.q. will come along and help me understand, too, help me not to feel this horrible, hungry emptiness gnawing at my insides now.

2. Desire

Taking off
my clothes
piece by piece,
I turn to you,
unwrap my body,
feel you trace
its contours
with your fingers.
I am accustomed
to covering,
what I now bare,
watch you waken
and wash me
with your eyes.
I feel the cloth of your skin,
uncovered,
inviting me in,
feel your breath
warm in my ear.
I lean closer
into you, feel
your blood surge
as you hold me
and I echo
the beat pulling
on us as I wrap
my legs around you
and open as morning
glories do
when the sun
warms them.
---connemara wadsworth

Time slips in and then away, drawing off bits and pieces of memory, of self, leaching days, hours, moments of much of their former vivid color. Time can be cruel that way, stealing precious chunks of reminiscence and often distorting events with the passage of years until the memories we hold in our fading minds have become warped to a greater or lesser degree, veering from their true patterns into a misleadingly realistic facsimile of the original. When that happens we find ourselves inhabiting a sort of surrealistic dreamscape inside our heads, revisiting faces, voices, activities that have become a confused and confusing melding of the hodgepodge of living we've packed inside our brains over a lifetime, each memory like a brittle memento stored in a dusty attic.

If our original memories are bad ones--if the events making up who and what we have become in life are very terrible--then this gradual blurring and fading of mental recall can be a mercy, a gentle blessing allowing the remainder of our days to be borne with some semblance of peace and acceptance. But if and when we lose the good memories--when age or illness or the wearying circumstances of life's relentless march hit a bit too close to home--then that loss of clarity and the fading of all the vibrant, glorious colors memory weaves within our psyches and our souls becomes a tragedy beyond description. I know this, know it all very well from intimate firsthand experience; I have lost more memories, have forgotten more strange and fantastic events than perhaps any other human on this planet could ever be expected to endure or understand.

But there is one thing I never want to forget, one set of memories whose vibrant verisimilitude I never want to see lost or distorted or changed in any way; I hold those memories here, deep within the quiet well of my immortal soul, and daily I importune all the gods of fate and fortune to grant me the safekeeping of this one, shining gift without compare, to keep clear and strong within my fallible human mind the precious and hopefully ineradicable imprint of the sight, the taste, the touch of my lover the first time we lay together. And being the manipulative, rather greedy bastard I am where such things are concerned, I find myself furtively hiding away the images and sensations of all the other times with Jack since that first time, telling myself that surely the fates wouldn't be so cruel as to impose a limit on the number of treasured reminiscences I am allowed to store in the secret depths of my soul.

Jack and I don't talk about it out loud, about our relationship, that is; not even in private, when we're alone together. And as far as the rest of the time is concerned, we don't pass each other furtive notes at work or send silent hand signals offworld or reference the insatiable need that lives inside us through veiled hints and innuendos over the phone or in heated, hastily deleted emails. We just...know. Know when it's time to ease away from everyone and everything around us, know when our very sanity and survival depend on escaping the strains and strictures of the things we do day in and out in the course of our jobs and withdraw to that place that's only for us, that's about no one and nothing else but us. We always know; and no matter that the need within the both of us arises with quite astounding strength and regularity. We manage, always, to seek each other out without words or forethought, to sequester ourselves in the nick of time in that paradoxically timeless place where nothing exists but this heat, this melding of flesh and spirit and this slow, erotic glide of clothing whisper-shucked and discarded. And when we come together we're barely cognizant of the sound of dogtags clinking softly together where they fall, only marginally aware of the surface where we come to rest; caught up as we are in the wet, demanding suction of mouths and teeth and tongues as our bodies fall and merge--one conjoined mass of clutching limbs and moaning exhortations, of sweat-slicked skin and feverish eyes that telegraph everything we need to say--we have learned to outwit time, have stolen in tiny increments its power to reduce us to less than we are now, to steal from us the raw brilliance of this joining between us.

A small, rather grave smile lifts the corner of my mouth now as Jack stands before me and lifts gentle hands to straighten the crumpled collar of my shirt, his nimble fingers working above mine as I struggle to button the row of buttons still gaping wide below the collar. We don't speak; the lazy sparkle of satiated contentment in his brown eyes is backed by an emotion so much deeper and warmer and permanent--thank the gods, so rock-solid permanent!--that it literally takes my breath away. Thank you, I murmur silently to the fates, to God, to the unseen arbiters of universal love in all its mystical forms; thank you for this. For Jack. For us. And I know that the gratitude I feel shines now in my own eyes as they rest on Jack's perceptive gaze; and it's good, it's all so painfully good that for a long moment I can't breathe, can't move. But Jack has me, Jack draws me in and wraps his warmth, his strength, his mute understanding, around me like a blanket; and this memory will rest, sacred and inviolate, alongside all the others that I have hidden away from time's relentless grasp.

3. First Night

You came into my life
with grace, giving me time
to want all of you. That
first night I couldn't say
whether your passion or
your gentleness moved me
more, the way we took each
other or how we talked
till dawn, our brief sleep a
ceremonial act
in the strangeness of love.
---julia h. ackerman

Funny, how we talked about any and everything BUT our feelings that night, the night when Daniel had finally had enough of our carefully platonic waltzing around one another and decided--bless his horny little soul--that he'd given me more than enough time to see the light, to wake up and smell the coffee, to buy a clue. And it WAS enough time, just enough; HIS timing couldn't have been more perfect, and that first slow, intense joining between us couldn't have been more mindblowingly fantastic. Once all the awkwardness and tentative grappling and groping toward some clearer understanding of the basic physical mechanics of being together in my bed had been satisfactorily worked out (VERY satisfactorily, I might add), everything else just naturally fell into place. And it wasn't embarrassment or emotional reticence that kept us from uttering fervently whispered vows of undying love and devotion as our first night as lovers wore on to a quiet, rose-hued dawn; what existed now between us had been building for a long time before we actually got naked and horizontal. So what happened between us that night was more like a mutual declaration of truths already known, a natural progression along the sometimes rocky but always intriguing path we'd been traveling together for more than four years now. And, God willing, we'll both continue to travel that path together for whatever's left of our mortal lives. I sure as hell don't see myself ever wanting anyone or anything else in my life, and if I can trust the evidence of my own eyes and of my mute but earnest heart, I think Daniel feels the same way about me and about being with me in the future.

But as for all that lovey-dovey, hearts-and-flowers nonsense, it just aint' gonna happen. I mean, technically Daniel and I might now fall into the 'non-straight sexual partners' category, but the fact that we're basically fullblown stupid-in-love with each other hasn't ceased to make us the same old testosterone-guided, one-step-above-cavemen guys we always were. So, okay, maybe Daniel is a little LESS of the grunt-and-point-and-scratch-your-balls variety of modern manhood, but he's certainly no more effeminate now than he was before we got together in the biblical sense. And so what if I overcompensated a bit myself at first and reverted to a few knuckle-dragging behaviors just to assure myself that I was still ALL MAN; the first time Daniel got me alone and collapsed in snot-streaming paroxysms of hysterical mirth over my chest-beating, macho man strutting around the SGC, I briefly debated pounding his ass into the floor (BEFORE pounding that same sweet portion of his anatomy into my mattress), just to SHOW him who was a real man...and then the ridiculous irony of the whole situation struck me and I laughed so hard I fell off the bed and almost hurt myself. Luckily Daniel took me in hand, both figuratively and literally, and the evening progressed quite satisfactorily after that. Daniel helped me realize some very important truths about myself that night, and his no-nonsense but disarmingly gentle handling of the thinly disguised fears and prejudices I still lugged around somewhere deep inside me made it easy for me to release all that useless baggage and fully understand just how fucking blessed and lucky I am to have him in my life, in my heart, and in my bed. It rankles with me like nothing ever has before, this stupid necessity right now to keep our relationship quiet; but Daniel just reminds me that nothing the outside world thinks or does can ever change what we have or take away one iota of the feelings that surge so strong and vibrant between us with every waking breath. Someday, I hope the world catches up to the truth; I hope that someday it will cease to be a matter of shame and close-minded revulsion when two people of the same gender just happen to fall in love and realize that their souls were meant to join together...and perhaps, incidentally, their bodies, as well. But till that day comes, Daniel and I will continue just being 'regular guys' by day at the SGC, keeping for ourselves those indescribably powerful moments of privacy and intimacy that have become our greatest source of strength and happiness.

4. I Have Touched

your hair
with the palms
of my hands
I have fingered
the strands
around and around

your ears
with my words
I have tickled
with laughter

your neck
with my tongue
with my teeth
with my lips
I have kissed

your thighs
with my thighs
pressing between
ha! I have touched

your feet
your scars
you said you bleed hard
as I traced the soft flesh

your hands
with my hands
your chest
with my chest
and even your heart yes!
especially your heart

my cheek to your breast
as it rises and falls
my breath in your hair
the wind in the leaves

oh yes these
I have touched.
---patti tana

He's sleeping now, lost in the depthless realms of exhausted slumber; he hasn't so much as twitched in the last hour, and as I lift a tentative hand to ghost my fingers over the stark white outlines of the bandage plastered to his forehead, I'm confident that my featherlight touch won't disturb him in the slightest. Having one of us disturbed and distraught tonight is enough, I think ruefully, though I tried my best while he was awake to hide the fact that his little accident at work today pretty much scared the living shit out of me. Of course he wasn't fooled for an instant; no matter how casual my outward demeanor, I just can't shield the truth of my inner feelings from Jack's discerning eyes. So I was busted from the get-go; he knew all along that my external display of 'just-another-day-at-the-office' hubris was merely a shaky cover for the fear and rage and reluctant resignation simmering like an active volcano somewhere in the region of my lower gut.

"You ass; you stupid, posturing, swaggering, macho-bullshit-spewing IDIOT," I whisper softly to him now, leaning my head down close, so close to his, until our noses are practically touching. "Cretin, imbecile, MORON..." I voice the insults calmly, my eyes dry, my hands steady as they glide possessively, proprietarily, over the slack features of his face, down the strong brown column of his throat, across his bare shoulders and down the broad, muscular planes of his exposed chest with its mat of curling silver hair. "What the fuck did you think you were doing, Jack, charging willy-nilly into that mob of slavering, inbred rejects from "Deliverance," with none of the rest of us close enough to back you up? Yeah, I know; if you hadn't acted when you did, they would have done...well, something truly horrible...to that little girl. I know you did what you had to do. But dammit, I can't say I appreciate the bounty of fresh new nightmare fodder you've given me now, you impetuous, too-fucking-decent-for-your-own-good son of a bitch."

As the words leave me, soft and even and matter-of-fact against the peaceful silence of our bedroom, my hands never stop moving over Jack's lax body, my fingers unerringly mapping every centimeter of the sleeping man's flesh as he lies inert and heavy on the mattress, his lean form weighted down by the sedating pain medication in his system. He had balked earlier at taking it, insisting he had no use for such measures and would get along just fine without it; but within two hours of coming home from the infirmary and sinking exhaustedly into the depths of his favorite recliner, the ever-deepening furrow of discomfort etching itself into the lines of his face gave me all the clearance I needed to get medieval on his ass and insist that he swallow the full dosage Janet had prescribed for him.

"Don't want to sleep," he'd groused stubbornly as I helped him from the living room to the peaceful darkness of the bedroom. He'd fought the effects of the sedative as long as he could, but it had finally become obvious even to him that this was one battle he couldn't win. "Want...want to kiss you all over, wanna put my hands on you, my mouth..." he mumbled distractedly, the lust in his voice warring with the narcoticized stupor overtaking his body.

"Sounds divine, Jack," I replied wryly as he lurched drunkenly against me and half-turned his listing body so that we were staggering face-to-face across the bedroom floor, my hands grappling at his shoulders to keep him upright as his swiped clumsily toward my ass. "But I'm afraid that right now the only thing you're going to be putting anywhere is yourself...straight to bed."

"'Zactly...eggshactly what I meant," Jack slurred, leering lasciviously at me as the bandage on his forehead came loose and drooped provocatively down over one woozy brown eye. "Lesh go to bed, gonna lick you ALL over, gonna suck your fingers, your toes...I'm good, I'm fine, quit FUSSING, dammit... gonna give you the besh...best...jowblob ever, you know you wan' me, Daniel..."

"Yes, of course I do, I always want you, Jack," I replied patiently, evading Jack's sloppy attempts to stick his tongue in my ear as I wrestled him down onto the mattress and began methodically undressing him. "But I'd rather do the whole seduction routine when you're not three fries short of a happy meal due to those pain killers. Just rest, Soldier Man; you can ravish my willing body another day."

"Knew it...I KNEW IT!" Jack spat out laboriously, blinking groggily and lifting one uncoordinated hand to paw at the offending bandage still blocking the vision in his right eye. "Mad at me...you're mad, don' try deny it...sulk, just go sulk if you wan'...see if I...care..."

"I'm not mad at you, Jack," I sighed patiently as I divested him of his pants and sat him up long enough to relieve him of his shirt as well. "You are unbearably sexy and charismatic, as always; but it's been a tough day for ME, too, you know, and I just don't think I'm...well, UP to it tonight, if you know what I mean. Can I have a rain check; I swear I'll make it up to you." As I peeled the shirt down Jack's spaghetti-limp arms, he leaned bonelessly against my chest, his head pressed tiredly over my heart, and managed a wobbly nod.

"You love me...not mad at me, Daniel," he mumbled, and I couldn't stop myself from planting an exasperated, affectionate kiss to his head as I stroked slow circles on his bare, horribly bruised back.

"I love you madly, you dufus," I murmured into his ear as I carefully laid him backwards on the mattress and swung his legs up onto the bed. "I loved you yesterday, I loved you last night, I loved you this morning..."

"Wha' bout lunch? You love me...at lunch?" he slurred, laboriously cracking one eye open to glare worriedly up at me; and I didn't know whether to laugh or sob or do both as I leaned over him and pressed a slow, firm kiss to his lips.

"I adored you at lunch," I whispered as I gazed down into the slightly befuddled depths of his brown eyes. "And I practically worshipped you in the afternoon. That was BEFORE you almost got yourself killed on that useless ball of rock we gated to, of course; but now that we're home and you're basically still in one piece, I think I'm growing downright enamored of you again."

"'S my charm...all the O--O'Neills got charm by the crapload..." Jack snorted, making a drunken swipe at snaring me around the waist. "I'm irre--irritestable; oh, you know what I mean, damn those drugs!...Remind me, Dan'l, gonna kick your ass later, giving me drugs..."

"I look forward to it, mon capitain," I smiled drily as I unpeeled his arms from around my hips and settled him more comfortably in the bed. "Sleep well, Jack." Unfolding the duvet cover from the foot of the bed, I tucked it round Jack's lax form and made sure his pillow was straight underneath his head; I didn't want him developing a painful crick in his neck from lying all crooked.

"Daniel..." he sighed mournfully as I busied myself fetching a new bandage, a tube of antibiotic cream, and the clear adhesive strips I'd need for the purpose of applying the clean bandage to his forehead. "Daniel...sorry. I'm sorry...had to do it, you know that, you know me...little girl, she wash jush a kid, Daniel..."

The muted anguish in Jack's voice came through loud and clear despite the thick haze of drugs in his system, and I felt my throat tighten with sympathetic tears as I leaned over him and stroked my hand along the tense line of his jaw. "Shh...it's okay, Jack, I know...you did good, you saved that little girl, you did what needed to be done. I love you, Jack; I love you so damned much, you know that."

"God, he's...hysterical now," Jack mumbled drowsily, his mouth curving slightly upward in a sardonic smile. "Mushy, Daniel; very mushy." But before I could come up with a suitably self-deprecating response, he opened two drug-hazed but amazingly coherent brown eyes and gave me a look of such heart-stopping love that all I could do was clutch stupidly at his hand curled trustingly between both of mine, my eyes filling with disgustingly emotional tears as Jack's fingers twitched once and then went lax in the blessed release of drug-induced sleep.

And that was when I let loose with my admittedly childish but viscerally satisfying diatribe of rude excoriations and name-calling, working out the distasteful remnants of my delayed reaction to today's events the best way I know how. Words, with me it's always words that serve me best; and tonight is no exception. But along with the petty, worry-spurred name-calling comes another coping mechanism, one that helps to settle my raw nerves like nothing else can. It's simply this--this touching, this stroking and gliding of my hands over his body, my fingers searching out every bruise, every cut, so that my mouth might follow up with soothing, apologetic kisses that telegraph to Jack's abused, exhausted body all the love and longing and weak-kneed relief I feel now at knowing that he's really here with me, injured and sore as hell but blesedly alive and so wonderfully warm and solid beneath my hands. Hair, face, neck, shoulders, arms and torso, the hard muscles of his legs, the long, oddly elegant contours of his feet, the quiescent cradle of his genitals...my hungry, now-trembling fingers glide over every inch of him, loving him as he sleeps, remembering all the other times I've touched him--whether casually or intimately--and knowing that this contact of skin on skin, of my fingers moving over his flesh and bone, is such a gift, such a generous benison from a universe that can be all too cold and heartless. I have touched Jack O'Neill many times now, and always with love, with need burning raw and heated inside me; but now I touch him with a new reverence, a new appreciation for the miracle of life and love he represents for the both of us. And as he sleeps on, oblivious to the liberties I've taken with his beautiful body, I turn off all the lights and slide gingerly into the space beside him in the wide bed, my stuttering heart settling into a slow, peaceful rhythm only after I've rested my hand carefully over his chest and have picked up the reassuring vibration of Jack's heart beating steadily, safely, beneath my palm.

"Good night, Jack," I whisper, my lips brushing over his; and as his breath fans warmly against my mouth, I think that just maybe I'll be able to sleep, myself.

5. Remembering

Come here, closer, and fold
into the dent of my chest,
the crook of my shoulder.
In the open window the
candle betrays the wind's
summer breath and the
night settles down around us.

Don't move, not now,
let's be still, hold this moment
before we open our bodies,
and tell me, one more time,
how you came to find me.
---stephen j. lyons

It's a lazy summer night here on lovely PX4G3, with a soft ripple of breeze swirling now and again through the open window of the hut Iyalla's people have so generously given us for the duration of our stay here. With each faint stir of sweet, slightly humid air, the single candle burning in the middle of the clean-swept earthen floor flickers and dances alluringly; and in its faint golden glow Daniel's eyes gleam at me with a silent knowing that has every hair on my body standing on end with frustrated desire. God, he's beautiful in this light, in this place; he's beautiful EVERYWHERE, I think dazedly to myself, acknowledging silently to myself that I mean that in both a literal and a figurative sense. Or would that be both a physical and a geographical sense, I brood absent-mindedly as my team mate and lover gives me a small, enigmatic smile across the candle's flame and begins quite nonchalantly to remove his glasses and his shirt.

"Hot in here, isn't it?" he murmurs casually, easily, the demure dip of his face away from my direct gaze as he fumbles with his shirt in truth a move finely calculated to drive me to distraction. For as he turns his face down and to the side, the strong line of his neck reveals itself in the dim light, the corded ridge of his carotid artery standing out in sharp relief against the lighter gleam of skin covering it. Damn him,he knows how that drives me crazy, that provocative pulsebeat throbbing with such erotic vitality, the rush of his heated blood thrumming wildly, restlessly as it awaits the hungry, exploratory pressure of my mouth...I stifle a groan and close my eyes now as I envision myself gently scraping my teeth along the length of his neck, my tongue tasting the salt of his skin, lapping up the heated tang of his arousal as he writhes beneath me in helpless pleasure...

"Yeah...real hot," I hear myself say laconically now, my tone dry and amazingly steady; my eyes travel across the dimness of our cozy hut to fasten on the sight of Daniel removing his shirt and folding it neatly and methodically across his lap, and I'm pretty certain that I alone can hear the near-inaudible gulp of rising lust that hitches in my throat. Oh, yes, Nature Boy, you are SO gonna pay for this, I think to myself with a brand of savage glee as Daniel suddenly raises maddeningly disengenuous eyes to mine.

"So...maybe you should take your shirt off, too," he says with calm reasonableness, his lips perfectly straight and serious and not smiling at all. "I mean, since it's so--"

"Hot?" I finish wryly for him, and he nods agreement, his long, exquisitely sensual fingers sliding down to circle the button at the waist of his BDU's.

"I think I'll sleep in my boxers," he informs me, his voice still determinedly reasonable as he begins to unbutton his fly. He is sitting with his legs crossed in a classic meditative pose, but as he struggles to unfasten the very bottom button on his pants, he's forced to lean back a bit to get a good grip on it, his well-toned stomach muscles rippling with quiet power as his teeth bite down on his bottom lip in focused concentration.

"Not worried about curious natives seeing you in your skivvies?" I tease drily, cursing the concomitant dryness in my mouth at the sight of my lover performing his own sedate little striptease for me here in the middle of this mission to a world impossibly far from our own. "Or Carter...she could come barging in here any minute, you just never know...I mean, what if she suddenly discovers that our huts have been built atop a huge deposit of naquadah and comes tearing in here babbling about an equitable trade agreement with Iyalla's people?"

"Sam's seen me naked, lots of times," Daniel retorts philosophically, still infinitely reasonable as he skims the fully unbuttoned pants down his lean, tightly muscled legs and leans forward over his bare feet to work the pants completely free of his body. "And if there HAD been any sort of naquadah deposits or anything else of interest to her here, she would have already found them. Relax, Jack; both she and Teal'c are safely tucked away for the night. Probably in their skivvies, as well, since it's so--"

"Hot," I end, and Daniel nods again, his eyes gleaming the slightest ghost of humor at me behind the candle's rosy flame.

"Aren't YOU hot, Jack?" he asks casually, his eyes dropping pointedly to my body and its still-fully-clothed state. "You must be sweating half to death in that uniform."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sweating, all right," I retort acerbically, and the momentary flash of appreciative amusement in Daniel's gaze darkens almost instantly to seemingly genuine empathy and compassion.

"Then maybe you should get comfortable," he suggests matter-of-factly, and I can't help the large sigh that escapes me at his logical tone.

"Dammit, Daniel, you do like to live dangerously, don't you?" I murmur to him in a low, seductive growl, and Daniel merely lifts one eyebrow at me in response, the exaggeratedly bemused expression in his eyes belied by the slow, hungry glide of his tongue over his lower lip.

"Why, just because I prefer to be comfortable tonight?" he shoots back, and I don't bother to reply; I'm too busy struggling with the damnably small buttons on my own shirt and pants, my eyes never leaving Daniel's as I finally manage--with rather less erotic finesse than he displayed--to rid myself of every item of clothing save my boxers. I think half-suspiciously to myself that this is madness indeed, that I'll never live it down if we're suddenly set upon by our seemingly beneficent hosts and submitted to God knows what manner of indignities and torture. A man should at least die with his socks on, I think grumpily as I glare down at my bare toes; but knowing just how sexy Daniel finds my naked feet, I confess to myself that I just wasn't strong enough to resist exposing my heels, my soles, the erotic curve of my ankles, to his silent, hungry stare.

"Comfortable, my ass," I grumble now as I shift onto all fours with something vaguely approaching predatory grace and begin crawling with slow, steady deliberation across the small space separating me from Daniel. "And DO NOT kid yourself that you will be getting a piece of this fine O'Neill ass tonight, either, my friend," I warn him as I draw ever closer, silently praying to all the gods and/or goddesses of seduction that I don't fall on my face atop that damned, flickering candle and set what's left of my graying hair on fire. "We're on an official mission, after all, still on the clock, still on company time..."

"So stay over there, on your own side of the hut," Daniel grins unrepentantly, a devil's spark lighting in his eyes. "Gee, you crazed sex maniac; all I wanted was a little AIR wafting over my skin, and suddenly you're playing Tarzan of the jungle. Maybe I SHOULD call Sam and Teal'c in here, ask them to check you for a fever..."

"You are SO dead," I rasp warningly, and just as Daniel's eyes widen in a comically exaggerated display of fake apprehension, an unexpectedly strong gust of wind sweeps in through the window and gutters out the candle, leaving the two of us in a warm, intimate darkness backed by the not-unpleasant smell of candle wax and human perspiration. Knees protesting silently, I pull myself the last foot or so over to Daniel's side and reach out for him, letting go a grunt of surprise as his strong, demanding hands find me first and drag me down on top of him, his bare legs winding possessively about my hips as his mouth unerringly locates mine and moves in to plunder teeth and tongue with hungry abandon.

"Jesus, Daniel!--" I manage to gasp out weakly just before pure, liquid heat races like wildfire all over my body and I lose myself in the always mindblowing sensation of Daniel's wet, insatiable tongue sucking every working brain cell from my cranium by way of my greedily accepting mouth.

"Mission...mission protocols, you rat bastard!" I moan around his determined suction, and Daniel merely growls savagely and proceeds to show me just what he thinks of stupid, freaking mission protocols. Later, much much later, as we lie in a sated haze atop the two bamboolike sleeping mats we've pushed together, I find myself relaxing drowsily beneath the welcome weight of Daniel's head resting in the curve between my neck and shoulder, our fingers lazily entwining as I raise our joined hands and study them in the dim glow of moonlight spilling down into our impromptu trysting place. Daniel is warm and sweaty and solid as he burrows against my side, one long leg curved possessively over both of mine; a stray strand of his hair tickles my nose as he suddenly lifts his head and presses a clumsy but enthusiastic kiss to the corner of my mouth, and as I snort a half-hearted protest against the intrusion of that silky wisp of hair up my nose, Daniel sighs contentedly and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Can't sleep, Jack," he murmurs, already half-unconscious in the aftermath of our lovemaking. "Tell me...an autobiographical story. You know, like you do when I'm hurt or sick or...just had a bad dream. I want a story, Jack..."

"God, you can be such a pain," I sigh, curling my left arm up around his neck in a mock-choking gesture. "And if anybody else but me was around to hear you talk like that, they'd accuse you of being flaming gay right now, not just mildly gay. 'Tell me a story, Jack'...oh, puh-leeze, Daniel! You're not five years old, you know." As I grumble sleepily to the figure nestled so securely into the crook of my arm, any scorn or ridicule that might have sounded in my words is negated by the affectionate nibble I give to Daniel's earlobe as he strains upward to press more of his willing flesh firmly into my oral caress.

"I'm waiting, Jack," he replies with infinite patience; and as the night settles around us like soft black velvet, I draw in an accomodating breath and begin to tell him the marvelous tale of a lonely, geeky archaeology nerd and a bold, noble military man and the strange quirk of fate that first brought them together. Some small, slightly embarrassed part of me can't believe that I'm doing this; but as Daniel snuffles contentedly and begins to slide into sleep, I am forced to the silent, mildly chagrined realization that where Daniel Jackson and his happiness are concerned, I'd probably do just about any damned-fool, dumb thing, just to see that slow, stunning smile rise like the hope of all salvation on his pouty, incredibly sexy mouth.

"Good night, Daniel," I murmur softly into the pale shell of his ear, and as he mumbles once, incoherently, and drools into the side of my neck, I know that this is the happiest I've ever been.