You've been working with Daniel Jackson for over a year, and even lying in his bed, covered in sweat and semen, you still don't understand him.
You know the basics: how he opened the Stargate, how he takes his coffee, and that he can't make a three-pointer when Vala's got her hands on his ass (that you completely understand). He's always seemed like the kind of guy who's loyal, honest. He never seemed like the kind of guy who'd set you up for a threesome with Major General Jack O'Neill. (Of course, you didn't think you were the kind of guy who'd fall into bed with them as soon as Jackson looked at you that way . . . no, who do you think you're fooling, you've always been that kind of guy.)
You hesitate when O'Neill moves over you—still not sure how much he wants you to touch him—but he just reaches over to the night stand, drops his watch on the table, and grunts a short, "Daniel."
Jackson climbs up from between your legs, completely forgetting the impending blow job he was about to give you, and O'Neill claims his mouth in a kiss. Claim is the only word for it. Claim, staking his territory, showing ownership, possession. Yeah, O'Neill, you get it.
You'd wanted Daniel—built like a marine, but with soft lips and kind eyes; a good way to get court-martialed—but getting him was a surprise. The first time, you'd gone to his apartment to drop something off, and the next thing you knew you were half-naked and on your knees by his front door, his hands on your shoulders and his cock in your mouth. It wasn't the first cock you'd tasted—that wasn't what left your stomach hollow—but he was quiet: grunting, groaning guttural noises that were nothing close to the yell you wanted to hear. You didn't realize how badly you wanted to hear him scream until he was coming down your throat.
You pretty much fell into a pattern fairly quickly. After a difficult mission (which, admit it, is most of them), you'd debrief with Landry and then show up at Jackson's with a six-pack or a movie. Sometimes you got through the opening credits before starting the mind-blowing couple of hours fucking. He was always quiet, and you'd been beginning to think that was just how he was in bed, but one time he pressed his face to your shoulder (his breath hot and wet on your skin, so good on your shoulder, but better on your neck, your thigh, your cock) and stifled a word, maybe a name. Who were you to call him on it?
Of course you were sleeping with him. You'd always been there for him.
Jackson's hands move up your thighs and his mouth is on your cock almost instantly. O'Neill's behind him, bending over Jackson and licking the small of his back. You usually don't get off on gay porn (not unless it's really hot, you mean), but this is doing something for you. Watching O'Neill lick Jackson while Jackson blows your prick is really doing something for you. And they're not really even doing anything yet.
Your fingers move towards Jackson's hair, wanting to knot in the short strands, something you normally do when Jackson blows you, but O'Neill's head suddenly snaps up, his eyes locking with yours and your hands freeze for a moment. Off limits, or just another show of ownership?
He licks his lips (the heat that pools in your belly is more because of what Jackson's doing with his tongue, it is, you swear) and moves behind Jackson, his face lowering to Jackson's ass. You'd never been into rimming, but the way Jackson moans a moment later makes you want to get over yourself and give it a try.
You assuage your fingers by brushing Jackson's hair. Brushing his hair is almost worse, though, because it makes you feel like an emotional fool.
You let this go on too long, this infatuation with Jackson. The longer it went on, the more levels of completely fucked up it got. And now you were in bed with Jackson's . . . what, boyfriend? And General O'Neill had never struck you as the kind of man who shared easily. Until twenty minutes ago you hadn't even been sure there was another man (or woman, you correct yourself, because your first thought had been Vala, and not just because of the way Jackson reacted around her—or your own desires—but because it would have been easier to compete against her than against . . . him).
You close your eyes when Jackson moans and you try to forget about how much he must be enjoying the tongue in his ass, pretend it's your cock he loves to suck. Despite your wandering thoughts, your body's close to the edge, your legs heavy and hot where they touch his skin, your balls drawing tight against your body. His fingers clench on your hips—there'll be bruises, reminders of the places Jackson's been—and your body arches, the sensations and the mental diffusion just enough to bring you off.
Oddly enough, it's not all that satisfying.
Jackson swallows everything down, but he turns to O'Neill, sharing your taste with him.
While you take a moment to recover (a cop out, since you're sober as a preacher), Jackson turns O'Neill over and you realize they'd been half-way to this when you'd walked in. There's little preamble before Jackson's fucking him hard and fast and like nothing he's ever done with you. You feel a sharp stab of jealousy, you can't help yourself, but really? You're only a step above being the other man (you just hadn't fully realized it until today); you haven't got the right.
But it means something, doesn't it? It means something that while you don't understand him, he understands you. Or at least he understands you well enough to lure you into a threesome, lure you into the position of being little more than a sex aid. You like it, God help you, you'd let him use you like this all the time if it's what he wanted.
Jackson brings them both off, finishing O'Neill with his hand, and they doze for a bit, leaving you on the far end of the king-sized bed. You know you should get up and leave, stop all this before someone gets hurt (you, you mean, because it's obvious Jackson and O'Neill are comfortable with the situation, their breathing shallow and even, bare skin kissed together along one side). But you can't move and, when Jackson rolls over to press against your arm for a moment, you don't want to.
You close your eyes, inhaling his familiar smell—the semen and sweat, his bedroom smell in general, is all familiar. You've slept in his bed before, both of you passed out on the edges of the mattress, the middle a void . . . of General O'Neill, apparently, but at the time you'd thought it was just a guy thing. No cuddling after screwing, you could be down with that.
But now Jackson sprawls between you both, and when he stirs (you quiet your body, feeling his assessing gaze on you for a moment, wondering if he knows you're awake), his lips brush your shoulder, the tender touch more personal than the blow job, and then he rolls back to O'Neill.
"Daniel," O'Neill says softly. And then they're fucking again—gentle and slow, whispering and chuckling to each other like they're getting away with something.
You try to ignore them—well, as much as you can when they're screwing right next to you—and roll to face the wall, closing your eyes when you see the team pictures, none of which you're in.
You want to know more than the trivial stats everyone on SG-1 knows about Daniel Jackson. You want to know where to lick to earn that stuttered sigh. You want to be able to bring him to the edge with just your hands on his cock and then bring him back just before he breaks. You want to sink into him in one slow, smooth motion and hear that keening cry, not stifled by shoulder or pillow or hand.
And you realize, as Jackson's calling O'Neill's name as he comes, that you want that, too.
You want him to call your name.
You want to be the only other person in this bed.
You want to be able to call him Daniel.