Current mood:

fanwhore

this is what I do instead of sleeping
Title: Dogtags, Grannies, and Alien Priest(esses)
Author: Frostfire
Rating: NC-17
Summary: But what about JACK?
Notes: Semi-companion to Lt. Col. Cameron Mitchell etc. etc.

Frostfire1217: dude, can you blame Cameron?
Frostfire1217: my personal Cameron, anyway</>
Frostfire1217: for wanting to DO THEM ALL
lt paradigm: I can only blame him in one sense
lt paradigm: JACK WAS NOT THERE
lt paradigm: HE HAD NO PERVINESS FOR JACK
Frostfire1217: he--did! kinda
Frostfire1217: just...not really onscreen
lt paradigm: Jack deserves perviness, nay! demands it
Frostfire1217: if he'd been joining SG-1 as Member Number Five, he would have perved on Jack
Frostfire1217: look, you want Cameron perving on Jack?
lt paradigm: um ... would Daniel crush him?
lt paradigm: in a purely hypothetical sense, yes
Frostfire1217: luckily, I am willing to consider universes in which Jack and Daniel are just friends
lt paradigm: up the perviness factor
Frostfire1217: here
Frostfire1217: Merry early Christmas

Frostfire1217: Cameron spends a lot of time thinking about General O'Neill.

He wonders how the hell the guy managed all these years without burning out, or getting killed, or snapping and killing one of his team members.

Especially that last one.

Some brilliant people he's working with, here, but also some really—he'd guess the polite word is focused.

He's starting to understand his grandmother a lot better, nowadays. Cruel to be kind and all that. Especially when he's yanking Jackson away from some translation five minutes after gate time. Eight-plus years and apparently he hasn't learned that Sgt. Walter waits for no man.

So when he thinks about it, yeah. General O'Neill is his new role model. Guy had some stamina, doing this for so long.

Honestly, any guy out on the field—hell, he was out on the front lines—at forty-whatever has Cameron's respect, and General O'Neill was the best of the best right up until he was promoted.

Still looks good, too, Cameron thinks. Gray hair, yeah, but still has that lean, rangy build, still moves like he's a hell of a fighter. Sure, a little older, a little stiff, but damn. O'Neill has definitely still got it.

—and, whoops. Don't be thinking those thoughts about generals, Colonel Mitchell, you’ll go straight to hell without looking back.

He can almost hear his granny saying it.

Which is surreal, but that's life these days. Seeing the weirdest of the weird every day. His days are full of aliens and evil priests and King Arthur. His dreams are just—strange. And nobody warned him that leading an SG team doesn't leave much time for a love life.

So—understandable that his mind would wander. He gets some head trips while jerking off, these days. Last night, lying in bed, he came gasping at the sense-memory of catching Jackson when he fainted, big warm archaeologist in his arms and shit, there he went.

It's the problem with the military, he thinks. Not enough women, too many men. That plus an enforced fitness regimen can be a little much, when you're not quite ruler-straight.

So, horny, head trips. He doesn't actually want a general. Because—a general.

He wonders if thinking about Colonel O'Neill would get around that.

A few years ago. Younger, fitter, less gray. Dressed in BDUs, dog tags clinking against his shirt, eyebrow raised, what are you looking at?

Okay. That—that's doing the job. Cameron takes a breath and gives up on getting anything done tonight.

He's read some mission reports, so he knows that O'Neill has scored on a bunch of other planets.

He can picture it—alien wine, alien customs, alien priestess—and hell, why did they have to end up with the Priors? He comes in hearing every alien priestess story ever, and who does he meet? Ancient blind guys. It's not—

—this is kind of a sore point, sometimes.

But Jack. He can see it. Beautiful alien woman, Jack coming in all easy confidence and sarcastic aggression, maybe pulling his T-shirt over his head for a ritual bath—

—oh Christ.

He's got a hand down his pants now, can't help himself, doesn't want to. It's a hot night, windows open, breeze coming through, and he's sprawled back on his couch sweating and jerking off to General—

—Colonel—

O'Neill.

'S'all right, he thinks. Not like anyone can see.

Which leads him back to the Priors and reading-of-minds and okay he needs to stop thinking about them right now.

Jack.

Jack.

He can't—the alien priestess is gone, suddenly, and it's just Cameron, saying Jack's name.

Totally forbidden, no way does he know O'Neill well enough to use his first name, and he grips himself harder as he thinks about it, thinks about maybe next time O'Neill comes for a visit, passing him in the hall and saying, Hey, Jack.

The image makes him choke and gasp, just that simple little—oh, God.

He probably wouldn't even notice. He's a casual guy. He—Cameron closes his eyes and sees Jack, pulling his T-shirt over his head. Boots off, easy and casual, undoing the pants—probably still talking while he does it.

He can see it—weird mix of concern and sarcasm that's Jack O'Neill, he'd be asking Cameron what he likes, what he wants, and it'd be half-innuendo, half just a good guy who wants to make sure his partner has a good time.

You like that? Yeah? Sure, we can do that. Pants off, naked except for the dog tags, coming over to press Cameron down onto the couch—his breath is coming in quick, ragged gasps.

Jack over him, careful and thorough, he can bet Jack would be the type to watch you come screaming once or twice before he went at it himself—

—Cameron doesn't fantasize about getting fucked very often. But—

Jack would do it right. He arches off the couch, legs falling apart as he imagines it, Jack making deadpan comments about how—responsive he is, while his fingers worked lube in, maybe just watching him writhe for awhile before pushing in and—oh, God—

Cameron comes, eyes squeezed tightly shut, fingers still working over his dick and Jack's hands imagined on his body.

Frostfire1217: hm. the-end-for-now