Feel Like We're Drowning
by ALC Punk!

While Pete's mouth is around his cock, sucking and pulling and making his body clench, Jack watches in the mirror. He can see the back of Pete's head, and his own t-shirt clad chest. One of his hands is buried in Pete's brown hair. His own head is tipped back, eyes wide and dark as he stares at himself getting blown by Carter's fiance.

This wouldn't have happened, he knows, if she hadn't been injured. If she weren't lost in a coma and dead to the world.

Or maybe it would have.

Jack has never considered himself gay. The occasional blow job from random male members of the SGC notwithstanding. Don't ask, don't tell, as they say. It's a cliche, but he's all for it.

None of those have been a man he's supposed to hate. Maybe he does hate him, Jack thinks as Pete's teeth graze him, lightly, and a moan is torn from his throat. Who would have thought that a Denver City cop would be *this* good with his mouth. Or maybe this is how he's been promoted so often.

Pete pulls back slightly, and looks up at him, his eyes dark. "She'll be ok, won't she?"

"Yes."

Then Jack doesn't have anymore time for thinking, because Shanahan's mouth closes on him again, and he's working him faster and better than a prom queen on 42nd.

Jack watches himself in the mirror as the orgasm makes him grunt.

He wonders if his female lovers have seen this side of him, or if it's something special that he shares with only the men who suck him off.

"She'll be all right." Shanahan wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sinks backwards onto his ass.

"Yes." Not quite recovered, Jack carefully moves towards the door. They've been lucky no one else came into the men's room. "I've gotta get back. Work."

"Work." There's a dullness to his voice, but Shanahan nods. Once. Twice. "General O'Neill."

"Shanahan."

"I love her, too."

The words follow Jack as he walks the corridors, wondering if he can take the afternoon off. He really needs a shower.

-f-

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