Den of Chaos Fiction
Stargate SG-1

Scientific Method
by Synecdochic and Taselby

Rated Adult for m/m sex. Umm, yeah. Rated PORN is probably closer to the truth here.

…this is what happens when we sit up late and talk about Daniel.

synecdochic: Oh yeah. I think that once Daniel drops into the physicality of the physical world, he's unstoppable.
taselby: All that beauty, charm, intelligence and *drive*... GUH.
synecdochic: Focused on *one thing*.
synecdochic: I think the ... oh, third or fourth time he and Jack sleep together, Jack thinks he might not survive it. (It takes Daniel that long to a). get comfortable, b). believe Jack isn't going anywhere, and c). remember what to do with this whole body thing.)
taselby: Once Daniel realizes that he has *permission* to do what he wants, and that Jack won't flip out... yeah.
synecdochic: And he dips his head and looks up through his lashes, with that glance that *kills* Jack and would be fucking *annoying* if he thought Daniel were doing it on purpose, and says, "Jack, will you let me ...."
synecdochic: And Jack says "Let you what?"

Daniel smiles a little, and says, "Explore."

Jack smiles back, knowing Daniel, and asks, "What do you think you’re going to find?"

Daniel is already taking off his shirt apparently taking the willingness to discuss it for permission. "I don't know. That's the point of exploration, right? Discovery."

"Territory's been mapped before, Daniel, hate to tell you," Jack says.

And Daniel smiles. "Not by me."

Jack's breath catches, excited. It's been a long time since he turned over control like this. And it's Daniel. Daniel is as safe as houses, right?

But it's better to play it cool, so he just spreads himself out on the bed, props himself up by the elbows, watches. "Be my guest, then," he says, waving one hand broadly. "Wouldn't want to stand in the way of science."

Daniel is almost humming with anticipation. "Mmm, scientific method,” he says slowly. “They teach it to archaeologists, too, you know. Observation... hypothesis..."

Draws one fingertip down the line of Jack's chest. "Predictions."

Jack is starting to feel the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. Daniel's finger detours to stroke one nipple, too light. "Experimentation."

"For instance," Daniel says, watching the way Jack's trying -- oh-so-manfully -- not to squirm, "take the hypothesis: Jack likes to be touched. How would you go about testing that?" His nails are just the right length; they skim down, too faint, along Jack's belly. "If you were the scientist, I mean."

Jack might think that Daniel is looking at him like an artefact or an old rock, if there hadn't been the dark, carnal smile on his face. Daniel has never looked at anything like that, not that Jack has seen. He starts to get the first inkling that he's in way over his head.

"Well, Jack? How should we test that?"

"I," he starts, and then licks his lips. "I suppose you would apply various stimuli and see what sort of reactions your test subject experiences."

The smile blooms quickly over Daniel's face. "You do pay attention sometimes," he says.

Daniel's finger is still tracing over that nipple. Back and forth, over and over, just light enough to be maddening. He resists the need to push his chest up and demand more pressure. "Yeah, sometimes," Jack breathes.

"So let's decide on a protocol. How should we proceed? Center outward?" He dips a finger into Jack's navel and traces a fast, light spiral over his belly.

Jack inhales, sharply. He can feel the muscles in his belly fluttering, without his permission. "Ticklish," he warns.

"Mmm," Daniel hums, satisfied. "Top to bottom?" A fingertip brushes Jack's forehead, skims his eyebrows. He closes his eyes reflexively.

"Daniel," Jack warns. Daniel reads his mind, of course, and catches his hands just as Jack's starting to reach.

"Don't make me hold you down," Daniel says.

Oh, God.

"How about," Daniel continues as if Jack hadn't interrupted him, "since the most traditionally sensitive regions of the body are near the center," and here Jack anticipates a touch that never comes, already flexing his hips upward, "we start at the outside and work our way back to the... center?

"For instance," Daniel says, turning over one captured hand and stroking his fingertips along the inside of Jack's wrist, "have I mentioned recently how fascinating I find your hands?"

Jack clears his throat again. "Uh. No."

"Yes," Daniel says and keeps petting, out toward Jack's fingertips, over his palm, rubbing the fine hairs on his knuckles. "I used to think that they'd be rough, callused. But they're not."

Jack never knew his palms could be an erogenous zone before. Daniel traces his nails over the thick skin, scratching, just firm enough to really feel. "I moisturize," he manages. "Exfoliate. Spa treatments every Wednesday."

Daniel laughs, a soft chime, and strokes a long sweet line up the back of Jack's hand. "Now you're just mocking me."

"Always do," Jack points out. God, he wants to touch.

Daniel rubs Jack's hand for a minute, massaging, feeling the shape of all the little bones before he moves over the wrist to the muscles of Jack's forearm. "Now your arms," Daniel continues in some kind of pornographic lecture-mode that makes Jack think of every teacher he was ever hot for, and God, Daniel must have left a string of horny, broken-hearted undergrads behind him, "it took me a while to notice all the little scars."

Daniel's touch is doing this weird schizophrenic thing where one second it's as arousing as anything Jack's ever experienced, and the next he hits some deeply-buried knotted muscle and makes it go "ping". Jack can't decide if he wants to moan because it's Daniel touching him, or because this is the best massage he's ever gotten. "They're not scars," Jack says, "they're souvenirs."

That makes Daniel stop for a long moment, and Jack wonders if he's said something wrong, broken the mood, but he can't think about his scars like that, like anything less or more than souvenirs. Reminders. Maybe not happy ones, but things that need remembering, nonetheless. Daniel blinks hard, and not-quite-nods, and traces the long pale line that runs across Jack's elbow with gentle acknowledgment.

And Jack remembers that reading the history from artefacts is what Daniel does.

"Some cultures require their warriors to tattoo their stories under their skin," Daniel says. His fingertips round Jack's elbow, stroking, seeking out every small imperfection. "As a sign of where they've been, and what they've seen."

Jack should have known Daniel would understand. He stretches, long and slow, lulled into relaxation by Daniel's hands.

"You have no idea what your trust means to me," Daniel whispers, hands continuing their gentle, determined, relentless exploration.

"Just relax," Daniel continues after a beat, revelation given its moment, but no more than that. “Let me do the work.” And his arm is moved away from his side, his armpit traced firmly, not tickling, and Daniel moves up to his neck.

What the hell. The lights are dim, and it's late at night, and Jack doesn't have to pretend anymore. "Trust you with anything," he says. He isn't comfortable enough with actually talking about things to meet Daniel's eyes when he says it, but it's good enough.

God, the neck. Daniel knows about the neck. The way it turns him on. The way he won't let anyone near his throat, ever, period.

Daniel's fingertips stroke up from his collarbone, along the line of his neck, feathering lightly up to Jack's ear. Then back down again, inch by inch, along and around, dipping into the hollow of Jack's throat.

Jack tips his chin back and closes his eyes.

"God, Daniel," he groans.

Daniel chuckles. "Just me," he says. "No God involved."

Daniel moves back to his chest, maybe deciding that exploring one arm is as good as doing both, and cups both hands over the swells of Jack's pecs. His palms catch slightly where Jack is starting to sweat, fingers rubbing bump, bump, bump over his nipples.

Jack whimpers. Fuck it, he'll cop to it, he gives up, he actually fucking whimpered. "Killin' me here," he says, and tries to reach again.

Daniel pins his wrists to the bed this time, with one casual hand. "I will tie you down, Jack," he says. "You're going to make me think you want me to."

Jesus Christ, the thought is hot enough to make his cock jump, already hard and leaking inside his shorts. Helpless, tied, at Daniel's mercy. Daniel could do anything to him... and wasn't that the point? He'd already said as much, so asking for the restraint wasn't so much of a step, was it?

Clearly, at some point he'd stumbled down the rabbit hole. Might as well enjoy the fall. "Might not be a bad idea," he says. He tries for 'casual'. Manages to maybe hit 'desperate' instead. "If you don't want me rolling you over and ravishing you."

Daniel smiles again. "The ravishment is later on the menu," he says, and oh, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Daniel looks at him steadily, analyzing, and Jack suddenly remembers the ‘experiment’ and wonders what conclusions Daniel is drawing from the data set. Fuck it. "Ties are in the closet," he says, then swallows to moisten his mouth.

The bed dips and shifts for a second as Daniel stands up. Jack expects him to cross the room, fetch a few ties -- symbolic, really, nothing more, Daniel knows Jack could break out of something like that with, ha, one hand tied behind his back.

Instead, Daniel picks up Jack's belt from the floor, snakes it thoughtfully through his hands. When he looks back up at Jack, his eyes are unreadable. Not distant, not dangerous. Just, somehow, alien.

"You'll let me know if this is too tight," Daniel says. Not a question, a statement; perfect trust that Jack will call foul if anything goes wrong.

Jack can feel the breath rattle in his throat. He most carefully doesn't move as Daniel straddles his chest, wraps the leather around his wrists. Jesus, Daniel knows what he's doing. Double loop, and a knot, and then Daniel's buckling the belt to the headboard and turning it so there's no way Jack can reach it, not without Daniel noticing.

Jack's never been this hard in his life.

"Daniel..." Jack says without direction or weight. Acknowledgment, recognition, surrender.

"Shh," Daniel whispers, soothing, and kisses him lightly, just a moist brush of lips. No pressure. Ha. No pressure. Jack feels weightless, dizzy. "Now, where were we?"

"Experiment," Jack croaks. He's moving, now; something about having his hands restrained, his wrists pinned, means that he can't stop his hips, like all of his kinetic energy won't disappear, just change state. His chest aches where Daniel is kneeling over him, but not because he can't breathe. Or rather, not because Daniel is cutting off his air. He can't breathe for another reason entirely.

One of his legs bends up, the knee crooking. He didn't tell it to do that.

Daniel strokes his hands down Jack's arms, lingering over the biceps, feeling the way Jack's muscles are tensing against the restraint. "Tell me what you want, Jack," Daniel says.

So Daniel. So typically fucking Daniel. Wants to talk at a time like this. Wants to make sure he gets this right.

Jack works his mouth, trying to wet his tongue. It went dry about the time Daniel started in on his hands. "Anything you want, Daniel. Just don't stop."

He trusts Daniel; he wasn't lying about that before. Daniel won't hurt him, won't do anything he doesn't want. Won't leave him hanging like this.

Daniel shakes his head. "I'm not going to stop, don't worry." His hands trail up to Jack's shoulders, strong and confident, thumbs digging into that one spot that always aches like hell after hitching a fifty-pound pack three days running. Jack thinks, dimly, that he's going to turn into a pile of goo right then and there. "But I need you to tell me what you want me to do to you. How you want me to do it. Hard and fast? Slow and gentle? Somewhere in between?"

God, if there were any time he actually wished that Daniel would use that scary ability to read his mind, it's right now. Jack closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Rough and slow," he says, finally, getting the words out past the block in his throat.

He didn't know he was going to say it until the words hit his own ears.

Daniel's hands still for a second, and then the thumbs fit right in underneath Jack's collarbone, digging into Jack's pecs. God, how does he find all the fucking spots that ache like burning? "I could fuck you like this all night," Daniel says, and oh sweet saints in heaven, the filth in his voice makes Jack's toes curl. "Until you were begging for it."

It sounds like the best fucking tactical plan Jack's ever heard.

"Yes," he says, trying to sound manful and certain, but convinced by the look on Daniel's face if nothing else, that he's sounding just as overwhelmed and horny as he feels. He can't really bring himself to care about that. Right now all he really cares about is getting his knees wrapped around Daniel's hips. He pushes his hips up, thrusting in the air, needing, and Christ if he still doesn't have his fucking underwear on.

Daniel is going to be the death of him.

It's not a bad way to go, though. Death by spontaneous human combustion. He's already half a step away. Daniel's fingers skim over his throat again, and he hums -- not a moan, not a moan. His vocal chords set Daniel's fingers vibrating against his skin.

"Yes?" Daniel asks. "Yes, what, Jack? Yes, I can fuck you all night? I already knew that. Yes, you'll beg for me? You aren't begging yet. Do I need to touch you some more, first?" He strokes his fingers down Jack's throat, more firmly this time, firmly enough to leave the faintest of aches behind. Jack gets one heel planted firmly on the bed and rocks against empty air. Not enough, not enough.

"Daniel," Jack says, plea and warning all at once, and Daniel's eyes flash understanding. He drags his palms down Jack's chest, quick and rough and dirty, and then his fingernails are biting at Jack's nipples.

Jack nearly dislocates his shoulder, straining into the touch. Fuck. What Daniel does to him ...

"Tell me, Jack. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

He's never heard Daniel's voice like this, even the other times they've... fucked? had sex? made love? They've never defined their terms, and that right there is a critical error, dealing with a linguist. With Daniel. Daniel isn't quite growling, but there is something gravelly in his voice that makes Jack ache and spread his knees. The stretch in his thighs is dark and sweet. "Fuck me."

Daniel stills for a minute again, and then he leans down. For a second, Jack thinks Daniel's going to kiss him, is already preparing to give himself over to that sweet, hot mouth, but all Daniel does is breathe against his lips: "Say please."

"Daniel," Jack says instead, and maybe Daniel can read the 'please' in it, because he nips ever-so-lightly at Jack's lower lip and then spreads himself over Jack's body, fitting himself against every curve, weighing Jack down.

Jack always forgets how much bigger Daniel is now.

He grinds up against Daniel -- no purchase, no leverage, but oh, the friction is making him dizzy, the heat and the weight and the surrender. Yes, he thinks, and please, and more, and God, if Daniel doesn't fuck him right now, he's going to die.

"Shh," Daniel says again, holding Jack's hips and raising off of him. Jack can't stifle the noise of protest he makes before he sees Daniel reach for the side drawer, digging for lube, laying himself across Jack's torso while he fishes.

He stops for a second to suck fiercely at Jack's left nipple, the same one oversensitized and tormented by his fingers. Jack's hips rise up in response, thrusting at Daniel's thigh.

Daniel smirks at him, logging data. Dammit.

Going for the lube is usually Jack's job. But he's tied to the fucking headboard, and honestly, at the moment, he probably wouldn't even be able to get the top off without pouring it all over the bed. He knows Daniel's taking notes, ticking off boxes on some mental checklist buried deep in that glorious brain of his, recording observations and making lists. Fuck, he's toast.

"Up," Daniel orders, plucking at his waistband, and it takes a second for the words to penetrate Jack's haze. He raises his hips. Daniel strips him quickly, efficiently, and then kneels between his legs, watching. Analyzing.

"Can you take me just like this, Jack?" he finally asks. Low and dirty.

"We've never talked about this, Jack," Daniel continues in his best dirty scientist teacher voice, "so I can only extrapolate from empirical data." The word "empirical" is hotter than it should be, and how Daniel can still summon vocabulary like that is way the fuck beyond Jack. His cock is burning hot in the cool air, and Daniel is a welcome, solid presence between his thighs. He's already anticipating the sensation of lubricant-cool fingers penetrating -- and there is another intensely hot word, stretching him, when he realizes Daniel is still talking.

"Because I could let my fingers slide into you. Stretch you. Open you. Make you give yourself up to me, make you fuck yourself against my hand, make you show me exactly how you want it. But I think I know how you want it. You've been telling me all night." One fingertip slides over the head of Jack's cock, circles, trails down the underside of his shaft. Jack's hips snap up to follow when Daniel takes his hand away. "Even when you haven't said anything. Rough, you said. And slow. Can you take me like this? Just like this, with my hands on your hips --"

Daniel fits deed to words, and Jack nearly explodes on the spot. "--or maybe," Daniel continues, in the Patient Calm Lecturer tone he uses on new recruits, and oh, God, Jack's never going to be able to hear Daniel giving a briefing again without coming in his BDUs, "with my hands on the backs of your thighs. Pulling your legs up. Opening you for me, making you present yourself, stretched out, helpless, waiting --"

Jack turns his face and sinks his teeth into his bicep, so he can have something to focus on, something other than the soft stream of words falling from Daniel's lips. It doesn't help.

"--ready to let me fuck you, just like this, pinned down, it's what you want, isn't it, Jack? Just like this?"

"Yes, dammit," Jack says, and oh, he's drowning, and then Daniel's cock (slick and wet and oh God so perfect) is pressing against him, and he barely even recognizes his own voice saying please, please, please, until Daniel slides inside.

It hurts, he'd known it would hurt, wanted it, needed it, and Daniel is true to his word, rough and slow. So goddamned slow that Jack thinks he might die from it, from Daniel's cock stretching him, splitting him like cordwood.

He wants to look at Daniel, catch his eyes, let him know that it's okay, it's what he wants, but it's too much, too good, and sight is overwhelming, so his eyes stay closed. And it's so slow. God, he'll never underestimate Daniel's will -- his control ever again.

He can close his eyes, and clench his hands against the need to reach out, feeling the belt tug on his wrists, but he can't close his ears to the high, whining sounds of excitement, panting, begging exhalations of desperation and need.

And that's when he realizes that the noises are his.

It's too much, and it's not enough, and it's burning, fire running through his veins like he's been injected with battery acid, and please yes now fuck as he strains against the belt, against Daniel's body, pressing up and in and against and he can't think, can't breathe, against the naked clawing need, and Daniel is still moving, a centimeter at a time, precise and benevolent.

And Jesus, he can't open his eyes, can't look at Daniel's face, because if he does and there's nothing more than that same tightly-reined control that's been there all night, it'll kill him.

But it's okay, because there are sparks and supernovas going off behind the backs of his eyelids, and then Daniel slides the last millimeter and waits, holds himself there, and Jack is gasping and struggling for air and he's safe, he's warm, this is home.

"I think," Daniel says -- oh, the faintest of breathless tremors in his voice; maybe his control is harder won than Jack thought -- "that my hypothesis has been proven."

"Fuck, Daniel," Jack breathes, a harsh exhalation. Daniel isn't moving, so he has a tiny bit of space to think, to feel, to wonder about what the hell he's doing if Daniel can still talk like that.

"There's a thought," Daniel says, the edges of his control fraying audibly, and slides out and back, out and back. Not a thrust, not quite, just a relentless pressing, rocking, pleasant pressure, making himself known.

On the third stroke he changes the angle, and Jack can't breathe for the pleasure squeezing his chest. "Oh, God..."

"Told you," Daniel says, and it sounds like he's unravelling, sounds like he's finally starting to let it break over him, "no God, just me," and then it's nothing but a stream of filthy syllables, washing over Jack's skin, twining into his ears and fucking his brain like Daniel's fucking him, hard and rough and "fuck, Jack, zo goed, eyreh feek, just like that, te deseo, fuck, look at you, so beautiful."

And Jack's wrists are banging against the headboard, and the tip of his cock drags against Daniel's belly with every thrust, once, twice, over and over again, and Jack snarls something that might have been Daniel's name as Daniel leans over and bites his earlobe, quick and sharp. So much, and so much, and this is what he wanted, what he needed, what Daniel is giving to him.

He slides his heels up the backs of Daniel's thighs and digs them in, pulling, clinging, clinging with his legs because he can't move his fucking hands, but it's all right, because he doesn't need to move his hands. Daniel's got him. Daniel is fucking him, Daniel is holding him, and all Jack has to do is let go.

He looks up at Daniel's face, agonized with pleasure and so raw that his heart twists in his chest. He pushes back, fucking himself on Daniel, rubbing against him, tasting the moisture of his breath. One thrust, and another, the tension ratcheting, coiling, spiraling higher tighter deeper more oh God oh God Daniel Daniel yes--

And he's bursting, freefall, straining against the belt and pulling Daniel to him with his heels, needing to be blanketed, wrapped in Daniel, held together against this shattering.

Dimly he's aware, a minute or an hour later, that Daniel is kissing his cheekbones, his eyelids, with bare soft flutters of lips. "C'mon back," Daniel says, finally, against Jack's lips. "Shh. It's okay. Just come back a little. Jack, I need you to just come back a little."

He doesn't know what Daniel's talking about; he's right here. And then he opens his eyes and it's like he slams back into his body, like everything's bright and sharp and hyperfocused, so real it almost cuts. Daniel smiles and kisses him again, sweet and gentle, and then slides free.

Jack's arms feel like spaghetti as Daniel unties them, pressing a kiss against each wrist before setting them down against the bed, and slips from the bed. A minute later, he can hear water running in the bathroom. He couldn't move if he were on fire.

A warm cloth is stroked over his face, his belly, between his legs, and it's all a continuation, a gentle extension of Daniel's exploration, charting territory, making maps. Here there be dragons.

"Daniel," he says finally, and is rewarded with a smile so sweet that it lights the room.

"There you are," Daniel says.

"Here I am," Jack echoes, and shudders, once, like his body's trying to burn the last of the overload. "I. That was. I mean."

"It's okay," Daniel says. "Don't try to talk." It's good, because Jack's throat is raw. He must have been screaming.

Through the haze of exhaustion there is a pang of regret that Daniel must have come and he missed it. He holds that thought as long as he can, turns it over in his head, and lets go, promising himself to pay more attention next time.

Yeah, the very next time Daniel's not trying to kill him.

The bed's a mess, but he doesn't give a shit. Dimly he thinks, <i>I should get up, I should, </i> but it flutters away before he can finish it, and he feels like he's floating: deliciously used, beautifully fucked, the way he's going to keep feeling for a few days. It doesn't hurt. Not quite. Just a reminder.

A souvenir.

The bed dips as Daniel slides in next to him, runs one hand up and down Jack's flank like he can never get enough of touching. "Sleep well," Daniel says, soft as down, and Jack hears what he knows Daniel means behind it: I love you.

He sleeps, deep and dreamless for the first time in longer than he can remember.


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