Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Season: anywhere from 3rd to 8th
Spoilers: "Forever in a Day," 3rd season
Notes: My words were 'voiceless,' 'hot' and 'tense.' Also, I totally made up the Goa'uld phrase used here.
The slow, even breathing let him know his teammates were asleep. It was his turn to take watch, and the perfect silence in the clearing assured him there was no impending danger. No interruptions of any sort, at least for quite some time.
Button by button, he undid his pants. He resisted the urge to snatch them open, for the very same reason he wanted to rip them away: his erection had reached the point of aching. They’d stepped through the Stargate four hours ago, and he’d spent every moment of it observing Daniel Jackson hiking through the woods, bending at the waist in a greeting to the natives, squatting to examine Goa’uld artifacts. Observing Daniel Jackson’s impossibly tight buttocks, which even the baggy uniform pants couldn’t adequately downplay, flexing as he hiked, stretching as he bent, spreading as he squatted …
His hand wrapped around himself now, he began to stroke. In his mind, Daniel was waiting for him in his tent. In his mind Daniel was kneeling, naked, spread-eagled, working himself open on his own fingers, preparing for his lover’s return. Daniel’s thick eyebrows were knit in concentration, his mouth pursed shut to keep his moans low, moans tinged with frustration because it wasn’t enough, four fingers wasn’t enough, he needed more, and only his lover could deliver.
He squeezed and pumped faster as he envisioned himself entering the tent, commanding Daniel to stop with only a look. As it was his fantasy, his own clothing was removed with the speed of an eyeblink, and he was crouched on the floor of the tent, curling himself around Daniel’s supine body.
Since his fantasy Daniel did not require tenderness, foreplay or lubricant, he simply seized Daniel and drove the man’s hips into his own, impaling him with one long, rough thrust. Daniel threw his head back, his scream echoing through the clearing, his body rigid and quaking.
If anyone had entered the clearing at that point, they would have found him beginning to sway on his feet, his teeth worrying his lower lip, his fist violently wringing himself. He only needed a few seconds more …
And he heard his dream lover’s voice:
“Dull joan mo-ka.”
That did it. He’d heard Daniel Jackson speak Go’auld countless times in any number of situations, but to hear their brainy, reserved archaeologist using his linguistic skills to beg for more drove out any lingering traces of patience. Pinning Daniel in place, he began to ram him, his massive frame grinding Daniel into the tent floor, grunting with the effort. He saw Daniel writhe underneath him, smelled his sweat, and more than anything heard his voice, chanting pleas to be fucked harder, faster in fluent Goa’uld, using the crudest words of the language.
His knees buckling in the clearing, his senses occupied, he failed to recognize the tent flap opening behind him, or the booted footsteps approaching, becoming slower as they grew closer.
Teal’C’s head whipped around, very careful to keep his back to the campsite. Jack O’Neill stood there frozen in mid-step. He had the good grace to keep his jaw from hitting the ground or aim his eyes at Teal’C’s hand, but the look on his face was impossible to disguise.
“Ooooo … kay,” Jack finally managed, bobbing his head and looking everywhere except at his exposed
Still voiceless, Teal’C could only look away.
Jack nodded. After a pause, he chucked his thumb back toward the tents. “I’m just gonna go … yeah.”
Teal’C could still only stand there, his face flaming with humiliation.
Before reaching his tent, however, Jack turned. “You know, the whole ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing doesn’t really apply to you, or Daniel.”
“It …” Teal’C’s voice sounded ragged. “It is not that simple, O’Neill.”
Again Jack nodded. In the space between them, they could almost feel the presence of Daniel’s late wife.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed. With no other way to ease the tense moment, Jack disappeared into his tent without another word.
Teal’C steadied his breathing, focusing on that until his knees finally felt steady again. His body felt hot, uncomfortable and too large for his uniform. He hung his head, studied his feet, the weeds, his own member beginning a painful, frustrated shrink to its usual dimensions. Then, with a long look at a nondescript tent in the middle of the quartet, unremarkable except for the young man sleeping soundly inside, his glasses probably askew on his face, Teal’C went into his tent, and O’Neill reemerged as if on cue to take over the watch.