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Okay, this is bad, was the first thing Jack thought when he woke up muzzy and blind. The more conscious he got, the worse it got. Blind, tied down, each arm and each leg, and his midsection, Jesus, carefully and thoroughly shackled, and also ... he was naked.
Really bad.
He opened his eyes, straining his vision against the blindfold -- and he could feel that it was a blindfold, not a hood, and for some reason that gave him a spike of plaintive relief, quickly squelched -- but there was nothing. He strained to see light, to see anything at all, but all there was, was blackness.
He could hear people moving around him, though; two, no, three sets of footsteps. And muttered words.
Jack struggled. He curled his arms at the cuffs around his wrists -- wide, padded cuffs -- until his biceps burned. He kicked at the wider cuffs, two matching sets, that were tight around each leg. He tried to sit, straining at bands squeezing his torso.
He shouted. "Daniel! ... Carter! Teal'c!"
And he tensed, and listened, hard, for his name, shouted back or whispered, for sounds of shackles scraping against stone or wood, for coughing, for breathing, for sneezing, for anything at all that would tell him where his team was. But there was only the alien muttering, from two sides, close to him now, in that language he'd heard before -- before he woke up all trussed up like a turkey. It sounded like Russian spoken with an Arabic accent.
Just his captors in the room, then. No team. Daniel would know what they were saying. If he were here.
"Daniel!"
He listened again, taut and poised, but there was nothing. Well, nothing but the muttering that wasn't his team. Maybe it was Arabic that sounded like Russian. He thought he caught a word, here and there, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to translate but lost the thread immediately. Just scattered words. Nothing certain. Daniel would know. Daniel would be able to translate it all with one hand tied behind his back. He held tight to the certain knowledge that Daniel and Carter and T. were out there, maybe just on the other side of the wall of this room, out there fighting. Negotiating their way out of this. It would be over soon.
He listened.
Footsteps came closer and Jack flinched and bucked. At first it was involuntary, the panicked attempt to pull away like an animal in a trap; pure instinct to shrink into escape, but then he clenched his teeth and swallowed and rode that, used it, put everything he had into it. He strained at the wrist cuffs, pulling up, then pushing out and away from his body. He jerked his ankles in every direction, flexed his torso. None of the bonds gave. At all. Bastards. They were professionals. This wasn't a rush job. And this was intentional, too, had to be -- this arrangement of the restraints, even the fact that he was really hanging it all out there -- legs spread wide, hips raised. He could feel the padded edge of the platform against his bare buttocks.
Bastards.
And now they were coming closer. And now they were touching him.
He fought, tensely, helplessly. He jerked his head, and rotated it, but the pillow gave and his blindfold didn't. They came at him with a gag, so he shouted some more, and bit, and they had a hard time getting it into his mouth, which pleased him, but eventually, they did.
He'd rubbed some skin off his ankles and his wrists by then, and scared two of them and maybe marked a third -- the first guy who'd tried with the gag. That pleased him, too, but only for a little while.
After they got the gag into his mouth, they all moved away, footsteps receding, creating echoes. The room was big. A door closed, heavy and solid. Jack listened for a while, tense and focused, but there was nothing. For a long time.
Sometimes there would be a weak spot, a careless fastening, in handcuffs or in shackles. If you pushed, if you fought, if you jerked, you could find it. You could make something give.
He thought about that, and nothing but that, for a long time. His thought gave impetus to his will, which pushed methodically at muscles that had no room to move and nowhere to go. He worked at the bonds as long as he could, which was a long time. Maybe hours. The temperature in the room was cool, but he was sweating. He was thirsty and hoarse and a wide trickle of blood had dried around his right ankle, like a bracelet. His wrists were raw, too, but not actively bleeding now. More of an achy seep, it felt like. His abs were sore. He listened. He fought against his restraints.
Eventually the door opened -- on more sets of footsteps, this time. Many more. Too many to count. He braced, ready to fight, but no one came near him. There was a shuffling of people settling, as if coming to attention. Faint crowd noises, polite and small. A rustle of papers, and then a male voice began to drone, hurried and flat and emotionless. God, where was Daniel to translate this crap.... Jack was catching words, though, since the guy was speaking up, making a formal announcement. He swallowed as best he could around the gag and listened. He needed clues. He needed some goddamned intel.
Definitely something close to Arabic -- that was daughter, that was father, that was a form of harm or hurt ...
As Jack listened, comprehension dawned, confirming his earlier vague suspicions. They read him the charges, and left him alone again. He blinked, but there was only blackness. He tried to flex and stretch muscles made weary by resistance.
The hilarious thing, the truly hilarious thing, was that he actually had a fantasy about this. He had a fantasy very close to this in every particular, a fantasy of helplessness, of giving in, of yielding all control. He was on his face in the fantasy, not on his back, and his hands were tied together behind him, not strapped separately at his sides. And he was in his own bed, usually. Usually at home in his own bed. Well, sometimes for variety or a surreptitious thrill he made the scene a hotel room. But it definitely always happened in a bed, not on a custom-manufactured torture rack like this.
And the hilarious thing was how crazy that was, being confronted with the fantasy in this cruel and ridiculous and extremely undignified manner.
In the waiting silence, he tried not to think about Daniel, tried not to bring him into this little problem he was faced with. Understandable, that Jack, when faced with the reality of something so shitty, would momentarily flee to thinking about how he'd made a similar scenario so good for himself inside his own mind. But it was only a coincidence that so often, these last few years, the bondage-gear fantasy had involved Daniel. Well, not just that fantasy. Most of his other fantasies, too, if he were honest. In fact, all.
But that had nothing to do with this. He did not want to poison the fantasy like this. Yeah, it was probably ruined forever, but he didn't want to bring the two things together in his mind now. And it would be important to try to not let the brutal reality of something he'd innocently played with, off and on, for years now, send his willpower into a place it really didn't need to go. He didn't need to think about Daniel now, or any of the team, or worry about when or how they would get him out. Not now. He didn't need to distract or comfort himself, either one. He had to focus. So. Focus. Focus on resisting until rescue came. That was the game. He could play it indefinitely, no matter what they did to him. He knew that. He wouldn't break here. Better than these pathetic plushy aliens had tried, back on good old terra firma, and on other planets a hell of a lot scarier than this. He'd been in worse situations than this, plenty of times. He got through them on his own, or the cavalry came in time.
But it was a damn shame about the fantasy.
Daniel. Don't think about Daniel. Daniel knew the captors' language, for certain. Would have them eating out of his hand. Any year now. Then Carter would kill them with her brain and Teal'c would knock a few heads and they'd all be outta here.
The gag was rough and he was very thirsty. His hamstrings and the insides of his thighs were the sorest, from trying and trying and trying to pull his legs together. Funny how you could sweat, and be so cold, at the same time. Shoulder muscles were pretty sore now, too. He turned his head repeatedly against the pillow, but it was slick and satiny and he could get no purchase with the blindfold. He couldn't feel a knot anywhere, either.
Bastards. Ratfucking motherfucking medieval sick bastards.
After a while, the door opened. Here they came. Men. Harsh voices, quickly stifled. Footsteps, five, six sets of them. Hard to count exactly. There had been two voices. Three. Three voices in the anteroom, silent now, plus two more who were silent.
The closing of the door; then opening, then closing again. Footsteps, quiet and deliberate. All silent now. Except for the footsteps.
Fuck. There went four of them, spreading to the corners. The rattle of furniture; maybe folding chairs? And one alone, approaching so quietly that Jack had to strain his ears, one alone, who was now standing still at his feet. The bastard waited a minute, probably examining the merchandise, and moved a little to one side. The bastard touched his chest.
Mother. Fucker.
Jack bucked and struggled and turned his head, willing his mouth to snap despite the gag, willing the alien to get close enough for him to mark him like he'd marked the other one. The alien flinched and stepped away.
Fighting was good. Push, jerk, make the bonds give. The cuff on his left arm seemed the loosest. Not that any of them had much give, but it had the most.
Keep fighting.
No point in shouting. Throat too raw. Use all available energy to loosen the bonds. Keep resisting. Get the hell out. Jack kept working at the cuffs. Yes, that wrist definitely had a bit of play. He could use that. He could work with that.
Alien bastard was still there, still beside him. Touching him. Moving down. Smooth careful hands, warm and firm and insistent. Rubbing along his legs. Every muscle in Jack's body recoiled, trying to turn inside out, get away, regroup and then coil for attack.
This was much much worse than simply lying alone, trussed up like the bird on the menu. Because now he had to actually get ready for what was most fucking-certainly going to happen here next. He'd suspected it, from the circumstances of their arrest, the hasty snatches of translating Daniel had done before the four of them were ambushed by the gas. But until it became inevitable, it really wasn't something you wanted to put too much focus on, now was it?
Next came the rape. They were going to rape him like they claimed he'd raped that girl.
Motherfucking medieval stupid batshit alien politics....
He struggled and kept on struggling, a solid mass of isometrics, a frozen futile hurricane, writhing against the bonds and against those warm, careful hands, touching him, rubbing his legs. Touching him.
Bastards. Ratfucks.
He was running out of adrenaline and glycogen. His mouth was like a moldy, dried-up sponge. He tried to swallow, couldn't. Pushed his gluey tongue against the tight gag and tasted iron and sourness.
Those hands kept petting, squeezing, on his legs and ankles. The guy (he assumed it was a guy; the hands were big, and from the angle, he seemed tall) tried to squeeze and stroke his arms too, but Jack gave his snapping-turtle impression again, and so the guy backed off to stick to areas out of reach of Jack's mouth. Stroking and rubbing his legs.
Taking his sweet fucking time about it.
Motherfuck, why all the rubbing and pressing and massaging? Why didn't they just get down to business? Was this asshole getting off on the suffering of the prisoner? Enjoying it? Jesus.
If they were going to do it, at least they should get it the hell over with.
Jack paused, letting his muscles go slack, trying resolutely to blank out the urgent, careful presses of hands against his skin. The rhythmic pressure moved along his legs -- lower, then higher, never faltering, never stopping.
Rest for a minute. Let the muscles recycle, try again.
Mistake to relax that much. Damn. Dammit to hell. Big cramp there, in one arch. Jack flinched, tried to flex, but it did no good. Nothing to do but ignore it, and let it happen. Let it run its course.
Cramp! Ow....
And he was thirsty, definitely.
Jack lay there, feeling the cramp, embracing the pain, trying to make it go away by flexing and releasing the muscles of that leg and foot. It didn't work. But it gave him something to focus on besides the continuing attentions of Massage Guy. And relaxing his eyelids under the blindfold felt almost good. Good, too good, to rest.
Tired. Can't be tired. Not now. Not yet.
Those hands, so relentless. Down one leg to his foot. Working on all the muscles. Working gently and firmly. And the other leg. Jack waited. Gathered his strength. The guy was too methodical, too patient. Jesus. What the fuck was he waiting for. The hands were strong and tireless. They worked down and down and eventually found the walnut-sized knot in his arch, and probed and pressed until the cramp released.
Jack sighed. Great. Thanks for nothing.
And then, as Jack had known they inevitably would, the hands crept up his leg again, slowly, and now, it seemed to him, with a purpose. Heading for his privates, goddammit. Heading right for his ass.
He bucked and struggled again against the cuffs and bands and shackles, squeezing down, as if he could press himself right through the padded platform and out of reach. He knew he was tiring and he fought against the knowledge. He resisted, kept resisting. Now the bastard was trying to poke him, smear something, Vaseline or lube or lotion or something, up there.
No way was he gonna make this easier.
The hands pulled away from his ass eventually, and to Jack's right there was a shuffling, a faint clinking. Something there -- a table, maybe. In reach, if he could get his hands free. Things that sounded metallic -- maybe a potential weapon there. He put his energy into fighting that cuff, the loose one, and kept bucking and pushing as the warm hands returned to his thighs, petting now, a little less firmly.
Footsteps, coming closer. There'd be two of them, then, to get ready for the main event? Why the fuck did they need two, when he was tied like this, and gagged to boot?
All he could do was keep fighting.
Massage Guy choked, a stifled, voiceless sound, and at the same instant there was a burning stab to Jack's thigh.
Fuck.
Massage Guy didn't like it -- Massage Guy turned and braced his feet and shoved -- shoved away his chum? His fellow rapist? What the--
Oh, holy christ.
Tingling, burning pain spread through Jack's thigh. It had been a needle, of course, that the second guy had gotten him with, and a goddamned big one, every bit as bad as Fraiser's tetanus shot, a brutal jab into the quadricep muscle. The rush of whatever drug had been in the needle spread out too, and as it did, the pain in his leg ebbed and something else followed it, like a trailing wave -- a warm swell, like the encroachment of Caribbean surf. Fuck. Some kind of horse tranquilizer, to get the victim to relax. Had to be.
Holy fuck.
Jack tried to tense up the injected leg, but within seconds, he couldn't. His mind, his will, sent the messages, but there was absolutely no response. And the paralysis was spreading very fast, with no warning and no numbness. It was like getting shoved right into the dreamstate of nightmare, when you scream and scream and nothing comes out, no sound; when you want to run but you're frozen while the zombies come to get you.
He would fucking kill them all. With his bare hands he would snap every neck in the room.
Steps, shuffling backward and then turning to walk away. The drug wasn't affecting his hearing, at least.
And Massage Guy's hands were back.
Time was oddly slowing. Jack could feel the drug in waves, now, beating at him, making him dizzy. The last few seconds dilated, like a soap bubble blowing up, a sphere of dreamlike awareness expanding around him so that he floated in its center. His hearing was still sharp. He tried to swallow. Waves, warm and insistent, lapping at him. Definitely the good stuff. Touch and hearing, straining together, almost strong enough to create sight -- or at least compensate for the lack of it, the pictures in his mind seemed so vivid now.
The stab of the big needle, and then Massage Guy's angry, oppositional shove, Massage Guy's irate gasp, choked out of a constricted, surprised throat. His hands, his warm careful hands, touching Jack all this time, taking their sweet, sweet time. Was it Jack's sense of touch, and Jack's subliminal sense of smell, that spoke with certainty now, in the absence of other clues? Because there was no other way to explain the knowledge that broke on Jack.
Hands, touching him so carefully. Hands that could hold a brush; unerringly punch the panels of a DHD, even under fire, to take the team home; hands that could equally skillfully soothe, or pull the trigger of a 9mm.... Capable, thoughtful hands. Strong hands. Hands he'd felt on his skin after whoever owned them had come toward him on ... bare feet.
Hands that had pushed away the guy with the needle, that didn't want the guy anywhere near, didn't want him here, doing things to Jack.
Hands that belonged to Daniel.
Shock raced through Jack, new adrenaline fighting the tranquilizer, transfixing him, pushing him deeper into stillness.
Daniel. Massage Guy was Daniel.
Daniel had done the impossible. Daniel had gotten the bastards to let him step in as the punisher, let him carry out the sentence.
An eye for an eye, a rape for a rape. Daniel had put himself in this situation. It was Daniel standing there with his hands on Jack, not a cold-hearted sadistic stranger, not a fucked-up pervert who got his rocks off hurting prisoners. It was his very own Geek Boy, Space Monkey, Doctor Daniel Jackson, Ph.D., standing right there between Jack's helplessly spread legs, his firm palms resting just below Jack's aching hip joints.
Daniel.
And it would be Daniel who fucked him.
Jack inhaled through his nose, and tried to move -- tried to move anything, fingers, toes, an eyebrow. Tried to come out of the drugged paralysis. His thoughts tumbled, intense and manic, like cartoon characters jumping through his brain. Daniel must have been ordered to stay silent, must have been ordered to let Jack think he wasn't himself, but instead that he was one of the anonymous guards. And that was just... That was unspeakably brutal -- rape by a stranger, the victim blindfolded just like they used to blindfold convicts for firing squads or the gallows on Earth. You don't get to know the hangman. And the hangman doesn't have to watch your eyes, and it's all in a day's work.
Jack wanted to laugh at the surreal enormity of it all, but his mouth wouldn't work. No sound came out. Exactly like the frozen grip of nightmare.... but now it wasn't scary any more. No zombies, no one chasing him. It was all just a dream. Not a nightmare.
Invisible relief coursed along Jack's veins with the drug, spreading through all his muscles, engulfing him just as the shot had. He was floating, and high as a kite. Fucking tranquilizer.... His time-sense was shot. How long had it been since Daniel had shoved the guy with the needle? How long since Daniel had choked off that gasp, bitten off his protest, trying like hell to follow the rules, to not blow this? Not lose his chance to mitigate the punishment Jack was facing?
No idea. But it couldn't be as long as it seemed, because only now was Daniel reaching again for whatever lube he'd tried to use before, and, petting apologetically, he smeared some more of it around Jack's asshole, then paused to glug some into his hand. It wasn't any kind of lube Jack was familiar with; was it something Daniel had brought? It seemed thinner, drippier than lube ought to be. Maybe sun lotion? Daniel used the hypoallergetic kind; maybe they let him bring that in, let him argue against alien substances. That was Daniel for you. Always thinking ahead. The relief Jack felt was stunning in its intensity.
Jack was now so entirely willing to let this happen, to make this easy for Daniel, to get this over with as soon as possible... assuming, Jesus, that Daniel could get it up. Lousy fucking circumstances for sex. Jesus.
Or, wait, would Daniel really have to fuck him? The guy who'd read out his charges had used that word, as near as Jack could tell, being most familiar with gutter Arabic, not university Arabic, let alone how it might have morphed and changed among these cut-off people, but Jack was pretty sure the guy had used the word "fuck".
But maybe Daniel wasn't going to have to fuck him.
Maybe Daniel didn't have to get it up like this, to order, and in front of an audience. Maybe Daniel was about to lube him up to use a dildo on him, some kind of instrument that would be the symbolic and not the literal fulfillment of the sentence. Jack shivered; at least on the inside. The drug was very strong. It had acted so fast.
Damn, he should signal Daniel that he knew it was him. Damn. He could only imagine what was going through Daniel's head. Hell of thing for Daniel to have to do, hell of a thing to have to try to get through.
Jack stretched, writhed, the impulses dying away inside him, never making it down to his nerve endings, never making it past his skin. He could feel his raw wrists, his bloody ankles, he could feel everything. He wasn't numb. His quad muscle still ached and stung where the needle had gone in. But he was quite effectively paralyzed.
The pain from the abrasions on his wrists and ankles was still there. His muscles were all sore; his headache was thoroughly intact. All sensations were present and accounted for. It was just his ability to move that was gone -- he could even feel the grooves he'd rubbed in his abs. But he couldn't so much as twitch now.
Daniel brushed the tender inside of his thigh as he turned, apparently setting down the lube before going back to work on Jack's ass, attempting to get some inside, and Jack, all at once, remembered his fantasy again -- how he used to revel in imagining being framed by his bonds, how similar to this it had been, though now he was splayed foursquare, spread-eagled, not quite like he'd fixed it in the fantasy, not quite like that -- but so fucking close.
Because in those fantasies, for years now, it was always Daniel there to nail him, so gently, so sweetly, so relentlessly. There to nail Jack with his hard dick and make Jack take it, make Jack like it, make him beg for it. Jack's mouth was slack already under the gag because of the drug, but it would have gone slack with astonishment as the reality/fantasy boundary wavered and blurred for him. But there was no way to make his body show what he was feeling.
God. It was Daniel. Always and forever and right now, Daniel.
And when Daniel, having slopped lube generously over the entire area of Jack's asshole, drew a deep breath and pushed inside with one finger, Jack melted around him. His eyes tried to roll up in his head -- would have, if not for the drug.
Daniel was pushing a finger inside Jack. Daniel. Nobody else. Daniel.
Daniel seemed to relax as he felt how relaxed Jack was, but he was just as patient as he'd been with the leg and foot massages earlier. He lovingly and slowly worked his finger halfway inside, and then moved it around for a while. He must have felt the complete lack of resistance, because soon, he equally tenderly, and way too easily, pushed in two.
Jack was breathless. He would have been in just about the same limp and helpless state the drug had left him in, if they'd been doing this any other way -- high with it, stunned, totally open. The pleasure was intense. The feeling of penetration, the careful friction of Daniel's fingers, the gentle stretch -- it was so, so good. Stunningly, stupefyingly good.
Already hyperaware from the situation, on hyper-alert, fight tangling with flight, from being blindfolded and then on top of that, the effects of the drug -- all that was apparently making Jack more aware of sexual sensations than he'd ever been before.
Incredible, the pressure and friction of Daniel's fingers -- Daniel's fingers. And the sensation ratcheted up another notch toward absolute bliss, as Daniel slid in three.
God. The stretch was beautiful; though it was a lot, in fact something that probably would have been at least a little painful if they were doing this without the drug. At least, so Jack imagined. He'd never dared to do this to himself, to go this far -- he'd played with himself a little, but never really pursued it. It seemed so pathetic, so lonely -- using his own finger on himself, and he'd never had the nerve to go as far as buying toys. Usually he just relied on jerking off to get the release he itched for these days, Old Faithful there plus a generous application of fantasy.
He would have moaned, if he could, if he could have moved his mouth, moaned aloud at the incredible sensations of being opened, being filled like this. But he also hung on to the certainty, through the haze of pleasure Daniel was creating, that it would be just as well for him to keep quiet. If those guards in the corners of the room thought he was enjoying this, maybe it wouldn't count. Because this was supposed to be punishment.
But it wasn't. The wash of endorphins was even blunting the pain in his wrists and ankles now. God, he wanted this from Daniel. God, it was so so good. The feeling of fullness, of being penetrated, was overwhelming. Way better than anything he'd been able to imagine before.
He realized he wanted to smile, and was astonished to note that the corners of his mouth twitched a little. Maybe the drug was starting to wear off.
Daniel slowly, carefully, pushed into him and pulled out, over and over. Opening him. Jack lost track of time, all his awareness centered on Daniel's fingers, on what Daniel was doing to him.
Oh, Christ. Daniel was slowing the finger-fucking, and slowly, carefully sliding all the way out. That meant whatever was next, was about to happen. The sense of empty loss was probably at least partly because of the drug, but Jack almost whimpered. He tried to contract his ass muscles, but he couldn't figure out how to make them move.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and realized he could do that again. So he focused on lying still, not wanting to experiment at this very inopportune time with the possibility that the tranquilizer wore off as quickly as it came on. He didn't want to look too happy for the observers in the corners, and he was pretty sure he would startle the shit out of Daniel if he moved in a way that wasn't resistance or fighting.
So, next. The anticipation was as intense as his anger had been earlier.
What would Daniel have to do to him now?
Would it be an object? Would Daniel have to slide something made of plastic or metal up inside of him, up into Jack's ass, where his strong fingers had just done their careful work? Or would Daniel fuck him? He shivered, and felt himself shiver on the outside too. Maybe Daniel noticed.
God, this had to be hard for Daniel.
Jack waited, feeling Daniel touch him carefully on one leg, and for some reason shuffle his feet. If Daniel had to fuck him -- Daniel had no way of knowing, not only that Jack wouldn't mind it from him, Jack wouldn't mind it at all. God knew Daniel had probably fallen for Jack's carefully maintained straight persona; and Jack had never allowed himself to objectively gather any data about Daniel and relationships other than the fact that he'd been married. Any speculation about that was too risky. Crossed a line Jack knew he'd better never cross, except in his fantasies, carefully partitioned away from everyday life.
Even that had felt risky, at times.
Jack had been aware all this time of not wanting to assume anything about Daniel, not wanting to fall for a stereotype, not wanting to remake Daniel in the image of his own fantasy. Sure, Daniel had always welcomed Jack's affectionate touches -- welcomed them so readily that Jack had to talk himself out of doing even more of that kind of thing than his instincts urged him to in the first place. But maybe they were just friends, he'd told himself. Maybe Daniel trusted him and knew he was a touchy-feely guy, maybe Daniel really was just as touch starved as he projected he was, and Jack had known that and so when Daniel was invited to soak up Jack's affection he did. Simple. Friendly.
So what that from time to time Jack had wondered, fleetingly before he made himself shut it down, that maybe he got a welcoming vibe sometimes from the guy, got kind of a cautious flirting vibe. He always sternly warned himself it was just projection. Wishful thinking.
But whether Daniel was gay or bent or straight as an arrow -- right now? Jack knew Daniel would do whatever it took to get Jack out of this. If it killed him, he would. He would find a way. So for Daniel's sake, if Daniel was straight, Jack had to hope for the dildo. For himself, he had to admit, he was hoping, now, that Daniel would fuck him.
A spangle of new arousal spilled along his nerves. Definitely the drug was wearing off. Unfair, to wish that. For Daniel's sake, he shouldn't hope that. But really, it didn't matter. It would happen to him regardless. Daniel would do whatever he did. All Jack had to do was lie here. And it was going to happen now.
He didn't have to wait long. And the wash of bliss was entirely his own, and not drug-induced dizziness, when he felt, not blunt plastic, not cold metal, but the bare, firm head of Daniel's dick pressing gently against his asshole.
Jack had to bite back a groan. The pressure remained, not pushing inside. Not yet. Then Daniel arranged his weight carefully on the balls of his feet -- amazing, how that transmitted through the one point of contact between them -- and Jack realized he was holding his breath and he let it out just as Daniel gently, gently pushed into him.
It was so easy. So fucking easy. No harder than taking Daniel's fingers.
And Daniel, bless his heart, held there. Just barely inside. Held there, as Jack twitched around him and felt the twitch happen, felt it distinctly -- drug definitely wearing off -- and he wanted to shout, "God Daniel Yes".
Jack waited. Daniel waited. Jack realized, part of the spill of returning clarity, that his dick was starting to get hard, because the sweet intrusion of Daniel's cock, even just this careful three-quarters of an inch, felt so damn good. The drug was definitely wearing off. If it was a muscle-relaxant of some kind, it would have certainly delayed the hard-on that Jack was pretty sure he would have been having for a while now.
And then ... Daniel pushed on in.
Eased in, really -- pushing a little, then pausing. Pushing some more. Christ. It was overwhelming. Jack knew he was getting hard; his dick filling and lifting a little away from his stomach. His fingers were twitching, his fucking toes wanted to twitch.
The knowledge that it was Daniel, Daniel, whom he cared about more than anybody in the world, that it was Daniel doing this, this thing that Jack had imagined, had wanted, locked deep in his head -- it was too much.
And something about the way it played into his fantasy.... Christ. Yeah, he had total and complete evidence now that his unconscious knew more than he did and that it had provided him with that particular fantasy for a fucking good reason. Because it worked.
The wash of sensation in his ass and pelvis was immense, but it was nothing compared to the wave of emotion and relief that was also crashing on him. He'd dreamed about this, created daydreams, let his fantasies run wild when he occasionally gave in and couldn't resist them -- but it was incredible.
Daniel was all the way in now -- deeper than his fingers could reach, stretching Jack open even further than before. Jack felt no pain at all. God. And Jack was lying there, helpless, no decision required, no consent or responsibility necessary or possible. All he had to do was lie here and let Daniel fuck him.
He swallowed, and realized through the red buzz in his ears that Daniel was slowly pulling out now, as easily as he'd gone in.
Jack was panting. He wondered if Daniel could see that or not, and he was definitely staying hard.
Christ. He'd had no idea. He'd wondered, he'd dreamed, but Christ!
Daniel was waiting. He'd needed to pull out? Or he was trying to minimize the actual event? Or was there some ritual about this that Jack, with his limited ability to understand the charges they'd read to him, didn't catch? Jack waited. Daniel was touching him again, petting his thighs, massaging him. Probably trying to reassure him, Jack thought. Probably offering silent apology, trying to make Jack feel better. Daniel's hands were cold now. Jack wondered what that meant.
If you only knew, Danny. If you only knew. Jack blinked, behind his blindfold, into the comforting velvet dark.
Jack tried to collect his thoughts, and waited. God, if this sucked for Daniel. If he was straight. If he was bi or queer and yet didn't see Jack that way, or want him even a little. If Daniel didn't want to do this, if Daniel was the one actually suffering.
How could Jack make this easier? Jesus! How could he, without giving away the game? It was supposed to be punishment. Daniel was supposed to be a stranger, supposed to be one of them....
Okay. Here we go again. He chewed on the gag, then opened his mouth around it, sucking in desperate breaths through his nose as he felt the head of Daniel's cock again. Oh god -- this time Daniel curled his arms gently around Jack's thighs, pulling in, easing the muscle strain there, all the aches and pains of his fighting of earlier not gone, that would be impossible, but Daniel clearly doing what he could to take the edge off, to try to help Jack get through it.
Oh, god, all the way in, in one long push this time -- all the way in, the stretch so good now, so welcome. Daniel was so fucking hard, so big. Jesus.
That's it, that's it, Daniel -- give it to me. Do what you gotta do. That's it, baby.
Christ, it was so good.
And then Daniel was pulling out, quicker than the first time, and his dick jerked and dragged across Jack's asshole and bumped into Jack's balls on the way out. He was off balance, shuffling his feet, leaning on Jack's leg for a moment. Jack turned his head on the pillow, trying to hear. Daniel was panting, and holding it, trying to control it. Jack held his own breath, straining to listen. Definitely Daniel was panting. Jack didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.
Hang in there, Danny. Hang in there.
Daniel straightened, and stepped back, and Jack lost all contact with him. He was startled to notice that that felt upsetting, even lonely. He strained at the blindfold, but there was still nothing but black. He lay as still as he could and tried to listen. Daniel wasn't touching him. He wanted Daniel to touch him. He could hear fumbling noises, the jostling of the items on whatever that table or tray was, there next to him. He couldn't feel Daniel. He wanted -- needed -- to feel Daniel.
Then Daniel's hands were back, and Jack melted. Daniel was running his fingers up Jack's thighs, feather light, and goosebumps followed his fingertips and Jack shivered. All over. Daniel had to see that -- had to see that the drug was not keeping him totally quiet any more, if indeed Daniel had had any idea what the drug was in the first place.
God. This was so fucking weird.
The massage again -- Massage Guy -- and Jack wished he could smile, wished he could lick his lips. The burn of arousal was still with him, the real thing, in the wake of the drug, which had, he guessed, vanished as quickly as it had taken effect. His erection had gone down a little while Daniel wasn't touching him, while he was straining to hear him. He could feel it, lying against his stomach, where a few minutes ago it had been hard and up off him. Daniel rubbed the big muscles of his thighs, up to his hips. It felt so good. Jack squeezed his empty ass, and realized he could do it now, that he had that much control back, and realized his fingers were twitching.
Careful. Don't give away the game.
Oh, Christ. Daniel's cock again. Pushing in, firmly, without hesitation. All the way in. Intense pleasure washed over Jack, and he was hard as a rock now and Jesus Christ he wanted to tell Daniel somehow, tell him it was okay, he was on board, he knew. All the way in, now. Deep as Daniel could get, deeper than ever. Hard and gorgeous and if he only knew what this did to Jack....
Awkwardly, around the thick gorgeous shaft filling him to bursting, he tried as best he could to squeeze. It felt great; Jesus -- a new spangle of pleasure. Jack's chin came up and he squeezed harder, trying to find the right way to do it, putting everything he had into it.
Daniel he said with his body, a silent message. Daniel, it's okay. It's okay; give it to me. I want it. I want you.
Daniel shivered, or shuffled his feet, or something -- Jack felt it, a twinge, a shiver, from Daniel's hard dick through his gut. God. Maybe he was crazy, crazy with lust, losing his mind, but Daniel felt harder than ever. Felt like he had no trouble keeping it up for however many times he had to nail Jack in order to satisfy the audience.
And then Daniel started to pull out. That felt great, too -- all the nerve endings that felt the penetration felt the withdrawal, too -- sweet delicious friction, all the slow way out.
Jack kept squeezing. Maybe Daniel would get it -- maybe the squeezing would somehow convey to Daniel that Jack didn't mind him being in there, didn't mind getting this from Daniel -- didn't mind this so goddamned much that he would keep him tight inside, keep in there forever, if he could.
Shit. For a minute, Jack had forgotten the room, forgotten the watchers, forgotten everything but the hot, overwhelming feeling of Daniel's dick, filling him, stretching him, opening him up.
And now the feeling was going -- as Daniel kept pulling out, steadily, slowly. Jack could hear the air moving in and out of Daniel's lungs, like he was suffering somehow, about to lose it -- he was pulling intentional, very controlled breaths. His hands were warm now. And now he was out, pulling gently out of Jack's body, and once again stepping back. Losing all contact with Jack's skin. Now Daniel wasn't touching him any more.
Jack tried to swallow, couldn't.
Daniel. It's okay. It's gonna be okay.
Could he signal? Could he move? Did he dare? Yes, his fingers would move now. He could make a fist. The drug was gone from his system, pretty much. He could move, if he needed to.
The alien voice, from over his head and behind, startled him more than he thought possible. Adrenaline and surprise flooded him and he tried to stay still. He heard a quick rush of words, complicated and impossible to interpret -- but the tone was all business with just a touch of contempt.
Maybe they were giving Daniel orders. Telling him what to do. Jack couldn't catch any of it, really, except maybe the word "four," or some version of it.
Four.... Daniel had pushed into him three times now -- he was pretty sure, in spite of the drug and the brain explosion of what he'd experienced. Maybe they were reminding Daniel that this was all? That four times of nailing the prisoner was all he got?
Christ, maybe it was almost over. What was going through Daniel's head? What could he possibly be thinking? Jack could hardly imagine.
But he wanted, needed, now that he could move, to somehow let Daniel know that he was okay, that this wasn't rape, that he'd figured it out, figured out this incredible generous amazing impossible thing Daniel had done to rescue him. And if somehow, by some crazy gift of fate, Daniel had any capacity to enjoy this, even the smallest bit -- if Jack could make this good for him, take away any of the thousand worries and fears that Daniel must be having, thinking he had to do this to Jack in a way that Jack would experience as violation, as the cruelest brutality...
Well. It didn't bear thinking about.
Jack could move. He could, maybe, do something.
He felt it again, the gentle nudge of Daniel's cock, telegraphed by the gentle touches and pets on his legs.
God, Daniel, he wanted to say. It was almost over, maybe. He had to admit he didn't want it to be over. He didn't want this to end. And how fucked up was that?
Daniel was still hard. That had to be a good sign, didn't it? A sign Daniel didn't hate this too much? That Daniel wasn't suffering? What could Jack do? How could he show Daniel? ...A good sign. He could give him a sign. He could... he could tell him. He had a way to tell him.
"Come", Jack signed urgently, his hand trapped down at his side where they'd bound it, trapped but no longer mute. "Come," he signed, as Daniel pushed so sweetly, so beautifully into him, maybe for the last time, and maybe for the last time ever. And Jack pointed at him, up where he figured Daniel's chest had to be.
His response was Daniel gasping and jerking out of him.
Yup, surprise. Jack would have smiled if he could -- his lips numb and tired and raw, pulled into a grimace by the gag.
The guy in the corner barked something -- Jack caught "four" again, certain of that but of nothing else in the sentence.
Daniel didn't speak, of course, but he fumbled, braced against Jack's legs, and oh god. Here was his cock again.... oh, christ, Daniel was shaking now, trembling all over; Jack felt it through Daniel's dick and through the hand on his leg, and then through both hands as Daniel let go of his dick when he was halfway in and put both hands on Jack's legs.
"Come," he signed again, insistent and worried and lost in the amazing thing that Daniel was doing, and all he could feel was Daniel's dick inside him -- last time last time last time ever -- and he squeezed down on that hard length and signed again: "Come."
And Daniel made a choked agonized sound and put his hands on Jack.
Jack started to climax almost immediately -- started to white-out in a blur of sensation, a confusion of touch. He responded instantly to Daniel's changed tactics. Daniel gently tugged at his balls and rolled them in one hand, covered the head of his dick and squeezed him gently and pushed, really pushed with his dick -- Jack hadn't felt it all before, but he sure felt it now. So deep, so big, so good.
Gotta stay quiet, can't let them -- was all Jack thought, until his thoughts imploded with his brain and he came, hard, spattering his chest through Daniel's fingers, feeling how Daniel pushed, holding still, up inside Jack, feeling more of Daniel's weight and strength than he yet had, feeling the uncontrollable pulses start inside him.
At some point the hand on his balls went away, but Daniel still pressed into him, holding his dick so gently, so perfectly, as they came together, ending this crazy fucked up thing together, in a wash of emotion and relief.
Jack knew he was panting, and knew Daniel was leaning over him and propped against him, and then all of a sudden he heard footsteps, and Daniel was pulling free of him and it was fast and strange and disorienting and he was pretty sure someone had yanked Daniel away before Daniel was ready to go.
There was muttering around him, hands on him now that weren't Daniel, and all his instincts to fight, to reject this, came back in a rush like an avalanche. Where he found the energy to fight, Jack had no idea. But he did find it, and he did fight.
He jerked and shook, bucking, angry and intent, until he heard the distant bark of orders and the hands went away and the footsteps receded.
He lay there, panting, spent, until he heard quiet footsteps. Felt a familiar touch.
"Jack," Daniel said, strained and soft and tense, and the buckles were coming off and the blindfold was coming off and he could see again. And he could move.
Daniel helped him; Daniel cleaned him and dressed him and dressed his injuries and talked him down and got them the hell out of there.
Daniel came up with the story. Daniel covered with Teal'c and Carter.
And hours later, after fending off the general and Fraiser, giving a performance worthy of an Academy Award, Jack found himself outside Daniel's building, with a sore ass and a bunch of bandages and a pounding heart and a resolve that this wasn't the end, that they would get to the bottom of this or die trying. That he would know. He would see. He would ... ask.
Because Daniel might say "no." Daniel might not want anything more than to do what he had done -- saved Jack from a world of hurt. And Jack could live with that; Jack could button up his feelings like he'd been doing all along and get on with life. And be grateful. He could see that Daniel might be straight. Or Daniel might not be interested. Daniel might be ready to get on with his life, too -- his life that didn't involved fucking Jack.
But. Daniel might say "yes."
Jack waited until the town was quiet and still, until the dead of night when no one would bother to lie in wait or watch, and he got in his truck and drove to Daniel's place. And he went slowly, purposefully up the stairs, limping a bit, wincing a bit, and he stood by Daniel's door, and he raised his hand, and knocked.
End.