Jack's fingers fit over the bruise on my left bicep. It's dark purple in the center, radiating to blue on the outer edges, roughly the shape of a boot heel. His knee bumps into an almost all black one on my leg, long and thin like a baton.
Black, purple, and blue dots my skin: badges of honor won on our mission to P4X-421. I survived my capture; Jack rescued me; the team hauled me across the universe and home. Superficial wounds, a little dehydration—this was one of the more relaxing incarcerations. After some fluids and a day in bed, Janet released me from the infirmary, warning me to take it easy, to be careful.
Jack isn't careful. He grips my flesh however he needs to, molding me to fit against him. I gasp against his pulling, part in pain and part in pleasure. I'm his clay.
"Did that hurt?" His voice is rough, like he's at the end of a cold, not quite well, but not sick either.
I shake my head, even though it had hurt.
He couldn't wait—I couldn't wait—to get out of the mountain, so he'd darted his eyes to a supply closet, and we'd met there twenty-five minutes later. Jack was already there when I walked in, sitting on the floor in the back, picking his cuticles, and biting his lip. We didn't say anything, he just grabbed me. He hasn't let go.
His fingers curl against the small of my back and he inhales sharply, breathing out shakily. On his knees, against the hard floor in the supply closet, Jack clutches my body to him—his hands say more than his mouth.
He unbuckles my belt and pulls open my BDUs. I reach to brace myself, my hand knocking over a roll of toilet paper as I clutch the metal supply shelf. The edge of the sharp shelf digs into my palm, leaving a dent that I'll press into my memory until it disappears—fading faster than the bruises will. I silence my gasp when his mouth fastens over my dick. My head hits the concrete wall inelegantly, hard enough to make me see stars, and I blink them away, concentrating on Jack's warm, wet mouth.
Jack's hands on my hips hold me like I belong to him, and right now I do.
I want to run my fingers through his short gray hair. It's soft on top, a little rough just at the nape of his neck. He cut it just a few days ago, peach fuzz behind his ears. I know how it feels only by sight—running my fingers through his hair is too domestic. I curl my fingers tighter against the supply shelf, feel the metal break skin, add a cut to the bruises that decorate my body.
His lips close around my penis like a kiss; his tongue presses against the vein. I gasp, the air stuck in my throat, burning in my lungs, desiring release by any means. I almost say his name when I come.
He leans back a moment later, licking his lips. I fall against the wall, uncurl my fingers, and slip to the ground. The palm of my left hand is red, a thin line from the metal shelves matching the path of my lifeline. Jack leans back, sitting on the floor, his hands behind him.
"You all right?" His voice is rough and quiet, just like the blow job. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. There's still a drop of come just under his lip.
I prod the cut in my hand, fresh blood pushing out of the slit. "I'm okay," I breathe. I wipe my hand on my black T-shirt and apply pressure.
His eyes shift away, looking to the underside of the supply shelves above our heads. He tilts his head, thinking. "I should probably get some staples."
I stifle my laugh. "Use yours up shooting them across your office?"
He smirks, eyes easily meeting mine, our normalcy reestablished with one well-placed joke.
I check my hand; the cut's nothing more than a tender line, a dull reminder of an orgasm in a supply closet and a need that lives deeper than skin.
"I was, you know, worried," he says seriously. He stands up and then helps me to my feet, grabbing both of my hands—gentle with the left hand—and hauling the majority of my weight. My joints protest, stiff despite the orgasm.
"About the staples?" I deflect the verbal intimacy. It's too raw for Jack: I know the limits of our relationship, just how hard to prod the porcelain shell of his masculinity. Bruises fade, cuts heal, but words can be scratched into the surface, engraving that compromises the integrity of a structure.
He grunts. "Yeah." His hands are working at my waist again, but this time he's buttoning me back together, dressing me. For some reason it doesn't seem condescending.
He steps back to assess me, his eyes quickly raking over my slouched form. He nods and then grabs a box of staples, shoves a ream of paper at me.
"Jack." As he turns back to me, I place the ream on a shelf and step close to him, too close. His intake of breath has more to do with fear than titillation. "You can't leave like that."
His eyes search my face, threat assessing, always. His free hand flexes by his side and I know he's already thinking of how to take me down without injuring me further. My dick actually twitches with the knowledge that he'd never intentionally hurt me.
I lick my lips as I slowly lean toward his face. We've never kissed; it's just not something we do. I don't know if it's too personal, or something we only do with women, but Jack and I don't kiss. Which is why I don't take it personally when he flinches. I grab his face between my hands, push him up against the door, and hear the box of staples drop. He freezes when my tongue touches his skin, licking up the drop of come that was still clinging to his lip.
His moan climbs inside my chest and lives in my blood.
His lips taste like both of us. I open my eyes and see it lying bare on Jack's face—somewhere down the road we're both going to shatter. Bruises are nothing compared to what will happen to us.
I swallow and step back, retrieve the ream of paper from the shelf, and quietly say over my shoulder, "You can leave like that."
The door opens and shuts, clanging loudly. When I turn around, the box of staples is still on the floor.