Cappucino said she wanted to see a fic with Daniel drinking.  I started with the drinking image and threw in a few other vices for good measure.  I hope this is as much fun to read as it was to write, and it was a great deal of fun to write.  And in case you start reading and wonder where the plot is -- there  isn't one.  Have fun. 

Addictions

There's a soft rain coming down outside, and I'm drinking Scotch and playing chess. Daniel and I were supposed to have a date, but he got stuck at the base doing translations, so I'm on my own. I'm still a little ticked about it, but there's something cozy about the night. La Travieta is playing on the stereo, a perfect accompaniment to the rain and I've killed most of the lights.

The knock on the door surprises me and the sound of the key in the lock surprises me even more. I turn around on the couch to see Daniel letting himself in, shrugging out of his wet coat, and holding a CD in his hand. He closes and locks the door, hangs the coat, and takes in the scene: me, the board, my glass, and the music. He smiles.

"What happened to your translation?"

"I got done early. Thought I might surprise you." His smile gets mischievous. "Playing with yourself again?"

I grin back. "Yeah, but I'd rather play with you."

"Sounds good to me." He holds up the CD. "Jazz. I burned it off earlier this week. Wanna hear?"

I nod and he puts it into the stereo while pouring himself a drink from the bottle on the cabinet.

"I thought you bought this for me," Daniel says with only the slightest hint of a pout in his voice.

"I did and I was missing you, so I poured some. It's okay, Daniel. When it's gone, I'll buy more." The Scotch is more than three times older than I am and costs a fortune, but Daniel likes it and since I'm not buying him diamond rings anytime in the near future, it's a no-brainer. Keeping him happy in the field is a life-threatening, morals-edifying, time-consuming nightmare. Keeping him happy off the field is remarkably simple.

He smiles almost shyly and pours himself a drink, then goes off to the kitchen with the ice bucket. When he comes back he's got two ice cubes in his glass and more in reserve. I expect him to join me on the couch, but apparently he's taken my comment about playing with him literally because he settles down into the chair opposite of me and looks thoughtfully at the board.

That's okay, I can do that. The rain is still hitting the windows in a soft staccato and it sounds just as good with the saxophone as it did with the orchestra. Daniel makes a move, then leans back in his chair and takes a sip of the Scotch, smiling appreciatively and briefly closing his eyes.

I've looked at this board for quite awhile. My responding move comes quickly and I go back to watching Daniel. The only lamp that's on in the room is casting a golden glow over everything, throwing his face into shadow. The sax swirls around us, smoky and hot, like sex made into music.

For just a moment there's a contemplative crease between his brows, then he picks up his bishop and moves it to block my strategy. I, however, had a back-up plan. I grin at him and when I move the rook, he frowns and leans forward. Ooh, getting serious now.

We trade moves, W.C. Handy comes on, and my mind drifts. The last time I heard this song I was in a smoky jazz club in New Orleans. There was a little mulatto girl playing the sax like nothing I'd ever heard. It wasn't just that she was good, she was gorgeous, too, her huge green eyes flashing over the brass of her instrument and her long braids swinging in time to the music. She knew what she was doing and worked the room like a stripper. She even licked the mouthpiece a time or two, subtly, and I thought it was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

Across the table from me, Daniel is stirring the ice cubes around in his drink with his finger, and when the finger comes out, he licks the alcohol off it with the tip of his tongue. To hell with the sax player; the sexiest thing I've ever seen speaks 23 languages and wakes up grumpy. Another swallow and he's finished his drink so I get up to re-fill it, and get a traffic-stopping smile as a reward.

The sax spirits me away again this time to another club, just as filled with smoke. I'm beginning to crave a cigarette. I felt so mature when I gave them up, so in control of my life. Daniel told me he used to go through a couple of packs a day, until he realized how much extra work it took him to do all his research out of the library where he couldn't smoke. Yeah, we're both so mature; we've beaten all our addictions except adrenaline and each other.

A few moves later and Daniel's again doing the thing with his finger and the drink and his tongue. I'm trying to decide if he knows he's doing it or if it's just an unconscious gesture. It's hard to tell most of the time. Daniel's amazingly oblivious to the world when he's focused on something, but he's also an incredible flirt. He determined some time ago that I have a fixation with his hands and now spends a great deal of time doing stunningly obscene things with them, usually in full view of a large audience who don't seem to see it at all.

"Jack?"

"Huh?"

"What are you thinking about? Because it certainly isn't this game. I'm not so bad a chess player you can ignore me entirely, am I?"

I'd believe he was pouting, but for the smile he's fighting to cover. He knows precisely what I'm thinking about, the smug little flirt, and to prove it he sucks the Scotch off his finger again.

"I was thinking about the weather, actually. Wondering if it was going to rain all night."

"Ah," he says, not believing me for a moment.

"Well, … I was thinking about something else, too."

"Really?" he says with no surprise and a bit of smugness in his voice.

"Yeah. The music's got to me. Jazz always brings up old … appetites. Makes me crave things." Everyone associates jazz with sex -- that's why he brought it -- so it comes as a bit of a shock to him when I add, "Wanna share a cigarette?"

He purses his lips and I can see the amusement in his eyes. I got him and he knows it. He concedes me the point with a smile, leans back in his chair, and takes a sip of Scotch. "Yeah. Sounds good."

<><><><><>

As much crap as Jack gives me about my wardrobe you'd think he'd have gotten rid of all his old plaid flannel shirts. But every time it rains he pulls out one that's as soft as fleece and faded from years of washing. It isn't tucked in so I miss the view when he leaves the room, but I do enjoy the sway of the hem.

Cigarettes. I smile into my glass and take another drink. Good one, Jack.

He's got a point, though. It seems the room's gotten hotter, but it could just be me. Watching him get glassy-eyed looking at me never fails to turn me on. The Scotch is smooth and hot, too, and the jazz is slow and burns as well as the Scotch. A cigarette would round this out nicely.

I've gotten up to get another drink when Jack comes back into the room with a pack and a lighter. He walks over to me, puts a cigarette between his lips and the flare from the lighter brightens his face for a moment before the tobacco comes to life. He takes a long, even drag with his eyes closed and stands there for a moment before releasing the smoke with a satisfied sigh.

The smoke curls up around us, joining the scent of the alcohol and the beat of the music. I reach up and take the cigarette from his mouth and put it into my own. Around the taste of the nicotine, I swear I can taste Jack's mouth. The smoke slides into my lungs with the familiarity of an old lover, and sends a subtle, forbidden thrill down my spine that I know he feels, too. Jack takes the drink out of my hand, adds another couple of ice cubes to the glass from the bucket, tops off the Scotch and takes a drink. He's swaying slightly to the music when he takes the cigarette back from my mouth and inhales his second drag.

I can feel the drugs in my system: the nicotine and the alcohol, but I'm really drunk on Jack. The weight of his gaze for the last hour has set off my endorphins in a way nothing else can. Everything about him is sexy tonight. I want to touch his hair, taste his skin, run my hands over the hard muscles under that soft flannel. I want to feel him in my blood the way I can feel the Scotch.

Lazily, he takes another draw from the cigarette, then places it in my mouth. His thumb brushes across my lower lip and his fingers trail down my cheek. I pull in another mouthful of smoke, then form my lips and tongue and breathe out a perfect smoke ring. Jack chuckles and gives me one of his best grins. Months ago, I told him if it was oral I could probably do it pretty well. He's never forgotten that joke, a fact I admit I exploit shamelessly.

Jack's abandoned whiskey glass serves as an ashtray as I knock the ashes from the cigarette and slide it back between his lips. Then I catch his free hand in mine and raise it to my mouth. I smile at him over the tips of our entwined fingers, then run my lips over his knuckles. He takes the cigarette from his mouth, gracefully holding both it and my whiskey glass in one hand.

It's not much of a secret, but I love Jack's hands as much as I know he loves mine. He smiles as I part my lips and run my open mouth up and down the smallest finger of his right hand. Delicately, I lick the underside from the base to the tip, kiss the pad, and suck the length of it into my mouth where I wrap my tongue around it. Pulling it out slowly I nibble a bit on the tip, then softly lick it once more.

Jack takes a drag from the cigarette, but his eyes never leave my mouth.

The little finger folds down, and I repeat the process on his ring finger. His breathing is getting ragged and mine is as well. Slowly, slowly, I move to the middle finger, working my mouth and tongue over it, then add his index finger to the mix and suck them both as far into my mouth as they'll go. He moans slightly, smiles hungrily, and takes another pull from the cigarette. I deep throat the two fingers for a few strokes, then pull back and spend some time exploring every callus, ridge and scar with my tongue. Finally I turn the hand palm up, gently arch the fingers back, lick the center of his palm, and graze it slightly with my teeth.

He looks a little dazed and gives me a lust-filled smile. I take the cigarette away from him, knock off the ashes again, and inhale.

Another breath of smoke is added to the room and this time when I take the cigarette out of my lips, I replace it with Jack's mouth. I can taste the whiskey and smoke, and I can taste him. The taste of him slides into my blood with the other drugs, fires off a new round of chemicals in my brain, and makes me a little crazy. Drunk with sensation, I smile at him and he grins back at me -- the grin he knows turns me inside out. I feel something inside me go feral and when I lick my lips, I know how hungry I must look. His grin deepens and changes in response, and his eyes darken.

Music and rain beat out a rhythm; the smoke and soft light pulse around us. I hold the cigarette up to his lips and he takes the last draw from it, then exhales slowly. I drop the butt into his whiskey glass with the ashes, and take the almost-forgotten drink out of his hand. I take a small drink of the well-aged Scotch, and press my mouth to his and share it with him. He drinks it in, drinks me in, and his arms go around me this time and hold me close.

Our hearts are beating fast under our shirts and I decide it's time to lose some clothing. Just a bit. I back up, take another drink, set the glass down, and begin undoing Jack's buttons. The soft flannel feels unbelievably good under my fingertips, but his skin feels even better. I move slowly, licking the skin as I go, and Jack's moaning softly and running his fingers through my hair. It's only ever at times like this that I regret keeping it short.

Finally I've got the shirt unbuttoned and his chest exposed to my eyes and fingers and mouth. I grin as an idea strikes me, and I look up at him with what I know is an evil smirk. He grins back at me and raises his eyebrows in a question. For an answer, I slide the shirt off his shoulders without undoing the cuffs first. The material tangles around his wrists and I help it along by twisting it into a knot.

Jack's eyes meet mine through the smoky air. He breathes in once slowly, then out slowly, and his eyes go closed. I can see his erection pressing solidly against the front of his jeans, so I can guess he's okay, but I take a hold of his chin and pull it up so his eyes meet mine. They open and he nods slightly, then takes a shallow, raspy breath.

Gently I push him back to lean against the chair for support, then I take off my glasses and pick the whiskey glass back up. I take a drink, and hold the glass to Jack's mouth. It's awkward, but he takes a drink, then licks his lips and waits for me.

I'm falling further and further down into a tantric haze where the only things that exist are the sound of the music, the taste of the Scotch, and the scent of Jack. I run my fingers over the lean planes of his chest, the softer lines of his stomach, and along his jaw. He watches intently and remains perfectly silent. I move in to press against him, swaying to the music as he was before, but moving in time to the beat against his body. I know he can feel my erection as well as his own; I make certain of it.

My tongue slides down the line of his jaw, and I love the feel of the stubble. I continue licking and sucking a path over his throat, with occasional detours back up to his mouth and to my whiskey glass. When I get to the arc of his collarbones, I dip a finger into the Scotch and trace a line over the bone, following it with my lips and tongue. Jack groans as he watches and feels me. I leave cool trails of the old, smooth alcohol over the curve of his shoulders, down his breastbone, over the swell of his bottom lip, and I chase each line with my mouth.

He's panting, moaning, thrusting his hips to press against me whenever he gets the chance. I give him another small drink, and seal my mouth to his before he swallows. After the Scotch has drained away, I'm still kissing him, capturing him, ravaging and drinking him in. He presses his mouth back against mine with all the strength he can.

Jack's as tactile as I am oral. Taking his hands away shuts down his primary means of expression, but it opens up other sensations in him. I can feel the hunger pulsing through him; I can see it in his eyes. He's swimming in feeling now, bereft of control, losing himself to the desire. He watches raptly as I suck one of the ice cubes out of my glass and let it melt away in my mouth. I dip my head and catch one of his nipples between my cold teeth and rub it with my cold tongue. Even knowing what was coming, he gasps in shock.

I pull a larger ice cube into my mouth, hold it there for a while, then let it go back into the drink. Before my mouth can warm back up I press it to his other nipple, and am rewarded with another gasp. Then I set the glass down and start undoing the buttons on his jeans.

<><><><><>

I'm past thinking as Daniel finally releases my dick from pants long since grown too tight. He pushes the jeans down my legs and helps me slide them over my bare feet. I shake my head to try and reclaim a little sense as he sinks down on his knees in front of me and then I'm gone again from the sight.

Daniel's the most stubborn, most intelligent, most incredible man I've ever met. As much as I've been known to cuss him, my respect for him is almost boundless. It's for that reason the sight of him on his knees at my feet with my dick in his mouth fires off landmines in my skull every time. The Goa'uld want to talk about power? I don't need a mother ship. I just need this.

My eyes are glued to the sight of him swallowing me, the music is pounding through my head, and I want to reach down to touch him, but I can't. I can't, so I just feel instead. He's oh-so-good at this, going slow and fast in turns, shallow with the tongue, then deep into his throat. I'm dizzy with need.

Suddenly the air hits my wet skin and I have to concentrate, focus my eyes. Daniel's reaching for the Scotch glass again, and when he sucks in that last ice cube he grins up at me. There's fire dancing in his eyes and a little humor, and I try and brace myself for the cold, but it doesn't work. I scream when the ice hits and almost come on the spot. Daniel's got a firm hold on the base of my dick, helping to keep me here, but the sensation tears through me and leaves me as weak as if I did come.

He stands smoothly, his hand still wrapped around me, tightly at first, then slowly stroking. I'm whimpering incoherently, I know, but I can't force words out. He waits for me as I gasp and struggle.

His face brushes lightly with mine; there's a soft kiss planted at the corner of my eye and another at the corner of my mouth. Finally I feel the ground solidify under my feet, but the need is still arcing through me like lightning. It takes nearly more effort than I can manage, but I meet his eyes. They're shining almost of their own light in the shadowy room, and it takes me some more time to focus on them. Daniel's smiling at me I can see at last, his knowing Mona Lisa smile.

"You okay?" he asks in a low, husky voice. His hand is still stroking my dick. I can't talk, so I nod. "What do you want?" he asks, and I open my mouth to speak, but I only manage a groan. He stops the slow stroking, and holds me tightly. "Do you want me to keep sucking you?"

That … that would be incredible, but no, it isn't what I want. I want to be inside of him. I want … I shake my head and he nods.

"Hold still," he tells me with a soft kiss to my throat, then lets go of me and steps away.

I cry out at the loss of contact, but he shushes me and then he's gone. I use the time to get my senses together, to try and regain my balance. I manage to regain a little composure before he returns.

He turns me around, untwists the shirt from my wrists, and undoes the cuff buttons. The shirt slips from my arms and falls to the floor. I'm completely naked now, and he's still dressed. That's going to have to change. I reach out and grab for him, but he takes my wrist and pulls me back to the couch. I follow along and offer no resistance as he pushes me down into a sitting position on the cushions. Then he steps back -- he moved the coffee table? -- and pulls his shirt off.

Finally, there's skin and I have free hands, but he's too far away. I start to rise, but he pushes my shoulder and shakes his head with a quiet laugh. I'm coherent enough to start being frustrated and I growl a little at him. He just laughs again and slides his pants off. At long last he's naked and moving to straddle my lap. I touch the skin he's giving me like a drowning man clutches a life raft and he claims my mouth in a searing kiss.

I realize Daniel's fumbling with his hands as he kisses me, and then he's pulling one of my hands off his skin. I'm about to seriously protest when I realize he's putting lube on my fingers. I quit kissing him long enough to pull together a few more ounces of blood up from my dick and into my brain. He's turned on too, but I still need to make sure I'm not forcing this.

We kiss while I finger him and he's losing himself to the pleasure now as much as I did earlier. My dick's a hard, heavy weight between my legs, but I can hold on. Finally Daniel's driving himself down onto my hand, and I remove it to spread the lube over my dick, then help position him. I get one bright-eyed look, hot, blue-rimmed pupils consuming me before his eyes close and he sinks down onto me.

The pressure of him is intense and I stifle a scream in his shoulder. He groans, holds himself steady while he pants and adjusts, then pulls himself up and slides back down. My hands are all over him -- his chest, his arms, his legs, his back. I can feel the muscles of his body moving in an incredible concert as he works himself up and down. The strokes smooth and lengthen, and he adjusts his body a few times, then he growls in frustration. I'm shaking with the effort of holding back and I turn my head to look into his eyes.

"I want you deeper. Get up." The words are clipped and hoarse. I wait until he stands, then stand up, too, though my legs are shaking. He presses his hands to the back of the sofa, braces his knee on the cushions and growls at me again.

I slide back in, and he screams as I nail the spot exactly right the first time. He picks up the pace immediately, driving back into me, and the speed and friction are so intense that I'm afraid I won't last long enough for him. I feel like he's been teasing me for my whole life, like my body can't remember anything except this night and this room. I keep a firm hold on one of his hips, and move the other around to grasp him and stroke him in rhythm. It takes everything I have not to let go; to hold back long enough to finally hear him scream.

Too much, too long. I could have done this all night for him if we'd started out here, but the teasing has taken its toll. I gasp out that I'm sorry, and to my surprise he steps up the speed and force and I hear him say, "Come for me." That takes the last of my reserve and blows it to shreds and I'm the one screaming, shattering apart. The orgasm is incredible in its intensity, magnified by the waiting.

I can't keep my legs underneath me, but that's okay. I fall to the couch, and move under him, pulling him into my mouth. He's desperate with lust and hardly misses a beat before he's fucking my mouth with the same force I was fucking him with a moment before.

Suddenly, it's his turn to scream and collapse.

I lie down on the couch, pulling him on top of me without much effort. I hold him close, whisper 'I love you' over and over into his neck, and hear it come back to me with the same repetition. He tilts his head up and kisses me deeply. He tastes like Scotch and smoke and Daniel, and I know I also taste like Scotch and smoke and Daniel.

Still panting, he leaves the warmth of my arms and crosses the room to where the whiskey glass remains on the floor where he left it. He fills it again, and comes back to the couch and offers it to me. I take a drink and give the glass back to him. He takes a drink and sets it down by the couch. Then he stretches back out on top of me.

Affection and humor carry us through long, long minutes of kissing and light stroking, then I realize he's starting to get hard again. I don't mind getting old so much, it's the constant reminder of the difference nine years can make that pisses me off.

"Damnit, Daniel."

He grins at me. "You have no idea how much I enjoy hearing you say that. You should keep in mind that it always eggs me on. Always."

"Damnit, Daniel," I say with a grin, and he rewards me with a soft thrust against my leg.

"Yes, Jack?" he says with open-mouthed kisses against my throat. I rearrange some pillows to keep from breaking my neck on the arm of the couch. Meanwhile my lover, who focuses like no one else on the damn planet, is putting serious effort into trying to eat me alive. He's a bright guy, but he's lost his mind if he thinks I'm keeping up with him in this mood he's in. Still … that feels very, very good.

I relax into the sensation while Daniel spends more time satisfying his oral fetish. Perhaps it's something he should get therapy for, but I can't take the chance he'd get cured of it. I happily arch my neck and back to give him access, which is all the therapy I think he needs. The CD's quit playing, and the only sounds now are the rain hitting the windows and Daniel's mouth on my skin.

<><><><><>

For all Jack's complaints about keeping up with a younger man, he keeps me as satisfied as any lover I've ever had. So I ignore his grumbling protests about age and beauty and the unfairness of life in general as I work my way over a physique he keeps in amazing condition. Despite his protests about being 'permanently grounded', the part of his anatomy in question is starting to take an interest in the proceedings.

I am not surprised in the least and I say so.

"You're cute when you're smug," is his answer.

That earns him a sharp bite. "I really hate being called 'cute', Jack, as I believe I've mentioned."

"I'd cut down on the 'I told you so's' then," he says with a grin.

Bastard. I should tie him back up; he's quieter that way. I try to glare at him but he's grinning, and I can't hold back a smile. I hate it that he can do that to me. Well, no, I don't. Not really. Not that I'd admit it, though.

I'm going to buy Jack a new couch for Christmas. This one's not big enough to comfortably have sex on.

After some wiggling I manage to get both of us on our sides, facing each other. He's still got an amused expression on his face, but I have plans to divest him of his amusement.

"Fine, go to sleep on me then. You don' t mind if I use your body for my entertainment while you're out, do you?"

He gives a soft snort and kisses me gently. "That seems fair."

I resume my oral exploration of his chest and, with a contented sigh, he lets me. My hands run over his arms and down his leg, which he raises, resting his bent knee on my hip so I can reach around to his ass. I take full advantage of the access, enjoying myself thoroughly. Eventually, I start wondering where the lube went to, and Jack grumbles when I pull away to look for it.

"You bitched when I started, now you're bitching because I stopped? You're hard to please, Jack."

"And getting harder. What the hell are you … oh."

"Oh, indeed," I reply with a smirk, lubing my fingers and returning to what I was doing. Jack's breath has gotten short again, and when he meets my eyes, I see the lust burning there with the love and amusement. I slide my fingers into him, reveling in the hot, tight flesh and a shiver goes through both of us.

Minutes slide by as easily as Jack's fingers slide over the skin of my shoulders and back. He opens his eyes and meets my gaze when he's ready, and we both start maneuvering into a better position. Jack decides to roll over on his stomach and I cover him, pushing in as gently as I can.

The rain pattering on the windows has slowed down, and we're moving slower, too. I can still smell the smoke in the air and maybe the alcohol's still in my system, but I'm pretty sure the only drug that remains is Jack. I can feel every quiver of his long, lean body -- better than I can feel my own, I think. He's pushing back against me with a soft insistence, murmuring words I can't make out.

It seems simultaneously true that I last forever and yet come in moments. I don't want the feeling to end, but the need can't be denied. My voice is hoarse from screaming the first time; this time I hear myself quietly say Jack's name, just once, then I'm gone.

Despite his now-insistent erection, Jack laughs at me as we shuffle around on the couch until he's looking up at me again. I wrap my fingers around him and stroke, but the humor doesn't leave his eyes until he's on the brink of orgasm. I remember saying his name as I came, as he says mine, now -- quietly, like a prayer. Then he sobs with release and pulls me to his chest.

<><><><><>

"Daniel?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"I love you."

" 'uv you, too, J'k."

"Daniel?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"You weigh a ton. Get offa me."

"V'ry romantic." But he does sit up.

We're sweaty, sticky, covered in lube and semen, and Daniel's wearing his happy grin. I'd like to go to sleep, but I'm too old to sleep on the couch with nearly two hundred pounds of archeologist on top of me. And as long as we're moving…

"Daniel?"

"I have to sit up and converse?" he says with a whine.

"Want a shower?" He considers that briefly. Very briefly.

"Uh, yeah. Actually, I do."

I send him in to start the water while I re-cap the Scotch, take the glasses to the kitchen, and pick up the discarded clothing. It takes me a bit of a hunt to find the lube, and then the room's in order. I turn off the stereo and the lamp as I leave. Behind me the rain falls softly on the windows.

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