SG-1 Fic: Closeted, by kuonji (NC-17)
Title: Closeted
Author: kuonji
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Daniel Jackson
Pairings: Daniel/male
Category: dark, PWP
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, bondage
Spoilers: none
Words: ~3630
Summary: He strokes himself and hums as he watches him eat. He'll give him a sponge bath tonight, as always. And oil his skin with vitamins and slick beauty. It's the thrill of anticipation that he loves.
A/N: This is what happens when I read too many Absolute Power fics at a go and get to thinking...
Closeted
by kuonji
The paper's late today, he notices, as he comes back from his morning jog. It's not a huge irritation to him, but it does mean that Joel Campbell, the boy who delivers the paper out of his dad's '89 jeep, is probably going to lose both his job and use of the car very soon. He feels a twinge of sympathy -- but not too much.
It's rough to lose privileges, but one has to be responsible for one's duties.
He showers, as always starting with the water a little cooler than is comfortable. The chill pours down on him, from face to shoulders to hips and thighs. He cups the water around his groin for the shock of it, turning the temperature down in increments until his balls are numb -- before swinging up the heat for an exact five seconds of bliss. The steam rises like a blow, striking a grunt out of him.
But it's the thrill of anticipation that he loves.
He climbs out of the shower with droplets still clinging to his hair and moistness in his armpits. He pauses at the edge of the kitchen, and he considers carefully, before shaking his head and turning away.
He also loves the special kick of doing without. Today, he chooses breakfast as his sacrifice.
He likes a hearty meal. He's been forced to miss before, and that's ratcheted up his appreciation of it. It's not something he likes to give up.
But now he's got something better.
He hasn't brought a change of clothes, so he's naked under his towel when he reaches his bedroom.
"Knock knock," he says, rapping twice on his closet door. He smiles at the joke, knowing the unlikelihood of a real reply. He plays with the thought some more, though, putting petulance into his voice when he says, in a stage whisper, "You're supposed to say 'Who's there?'"
This time, there is a muffled sound, and the door thuds with what must be a kick.
He tsks out loud in reprimand, even as he fits the key into the lock and hears the click. Backing half a dozen steps away, he places the key on his nightstand in geometrical precision, right angles to his cellular phone. Satisfied, he comes back and opens the closet door to his prize.
Blue eyes are always what he sees first. They glare at him. They plead. Once, only once, he had seen them cry.
His dick swells with just the memory.
"Good morning," he says. The eyes are wide today, open. They promise cooperation, or at the least, responsiveness. It might be a trick, but he doesn't think they've worked up to that yet.
It's only been six days.
"Are you ready for breakfast?" he asks. He checks the chamber pot in the meantime. He's not afraid to divert his attention, even within range of those unbound hands. He knows he won't hurt him.
Out of the edge of his eye, he sees the fists clench and flex. They always do. It's not a sign of strength.
It's helplessness.
He picks up the chamber pot, satisfied with the bodily functions of his charge. "Give me a minute," he remarks, knowing before he looks up that the blue eyes will be staring at the objects on his nightstand.
Put the keys to freedom outside of grasp but in sight, and it's a surer sign of power than if they were never visible at all. This way, there's hope -- but just out of reach.
He empties the pot, and he grabs the usual basket of supplies on the way back.
When he returns, those eyes are impassive and blank, staring at nothing but the floor. He's smart, of course. He's learned.
"So. Breakfast?" he asks again. There's rebellion on the fine features now. He's taken away the prescription glasses, but they're close enough to each other that every bare, naked detail is clear. He keeps his own face passive, even as he's drinking in every flash of expression and every shift of light across the gorgeous figure that now belongs to him.
Finally, the flickers of defiance smooth out. There's a nod. The gaze drops and the back hunches submissively. It's all artificial, he knows. There's not a cringing bone in the body in front of him. He's used to that by now, though. He likes it.
Besides, there are rules. He hopes they'll be broken.
"You know what to do, then," he says, and waits for another, more reluctant -- more genuine -- nod. He licks his lips, too excited to control himself. He doesn't have to, anyway. Not in front of him.
He reaches out to touch, finally, his anticipation so high by now that simply stroking a nipple shoots sparks down his arm. He travels, flat-palmed, up sternum and collarbone, fingering the steel links that encircle that lean, beautiful neck.
Breath hitches above him when he bends to taste. Sweat has pooled at the join between neck and shoulder. It's the middle of June. He shifts the chain upwards for better access, feeling the intimate shiver when the padlock holding the chain closed slides an edge up the exposed throat.
The key for that lock is somewhere in the public waste disposal system.
He pushes back, drawing in a deep breath to clear his head. His towel comes off and is hurled behind him without a thought, his focus past foreplay, eager for the main event.
"Down," he orders, and he deliberately does not press his weight on those broad, pale shoulders. There's surprise, discomfort in those wide open blues. "Down," he has to say again, before the stubborn body gives in to his will and sinks to his knees, for the first time without physical encouragement.
"Good," he praises him, stroking his jaw. The chainlinks that lead up to the bolt in the wall clink softly. They're just long enough to stand and just long enough to lie down. Tailor-made for his precious captive.
He digs his fingers into the space between the linked collar and the slightly chafed flesh beneath, leaving them there for a while, savoring the strong, rapid pulse. He caresses both cheekbones and slides his fingers over the whorls of one ear. There's a sound, not quite a whimper, at the last. He feels him tense but he does not try to pull away.
He swallows his disappointment at the lack of resistance, but says again, "Good."
Finally, he rakes his fingers through the short, brown hair, stopping at the back to check the gag. The knots he'd made last night have not been tampered with. He's been a good boy.
He unties the gag, placing it with the other objects.
Unlike the first time -- unlike the first five times -- there is no attempt for words. He works his mouth, stretching out his jaw, working spit back into it. He licks his dry lips and looks up, carefully hopeful.
How could anyone not respond to that?
"Just one," he orders, handing over the squeeze bottle. There's the slightest moment of hesitance, the hint of a frown, and his blood races -- but the signs quell before he can make any issue of it. He watches avidly as he takes one obedient swallow of water before handing the bottle back. The gesture is studiously meek.
He braces one hand on the doorway, the other on top of that soft, tousled head, then spreads his legs slightly for balance.
"All right. Get to work."
This time, there's no need for prompting. Hands pull him close, and a mouth engulfs him. He's gulped in with fierce moves. Quick and efficient, no-nonsense, no fear. He risks a downward glance and shuts his eyes on the image of a forehead bisected with a deep furrow of focus, and fluttering lashes, long and thick.
Clumsy lips and tongue lave him, while tight fingers dig into his hips and ass. There's no skill here. In this regard, he's been as unwilling to learn as he had always been willing to for everything else. But it's good. It's better than good. The fumbling translates to eagerness, and the anger to passion.
"Love this. Love you, yeah..."
Blue eyes tilt up for the briefest of seconds. They're wide again and dark, and the eyebrows are tangled with confusion.
His hips snap forward and he finishes with a yell. He seizes him by the ears to hold that wet heat close, against the instinctive recoiling and struggle. Come leaks out of that gasping mouth, and it's all he can do not to grind himself down the open throat in front of him.
Too soon, he thinks.
But maybe next time.
He wipes himself off with a wet wipe. Soon, he won't need them. Soon, he will train a clever tongue to take care of it all.
He allows three more swallows of water, and he smiles at the grimace as the first two are swilled and swallowed quickly.
"Good boy," he says. He ruffles his hair, then walks nude and relaxed to the kitchen, returning with a small tray. "Breakfast time."
The head remains lowered, but the tray is taken. First is two pills, with another pass at the water bottle. Anti-histamines. They'd been a bitch to get, until he'd figured out the substitutes for the prescription ones that he had first dug up info for. No one can hear the sneezing from outside the house, but the red eyes and raspy breathing are no good.
No good at all.
He wants to keep his treasure in perfect health.
The rest of the tray is worked through, again with efficiency. The first few days, he'd refused to eat. But now he takes the food without any question.
He's still waiting for that rescue, of course. Rescues do no good if you're dead from starvation.
The foods are always ones that need utensils, but he never provides any. Oatmeal, yogurt, mashed potatoes and applesauce have to be scooped up by long fingers and licked away by that agile, pink tongue. Sucked in by those sensual, pouty lips. He doesn't look up, but he doesn't turn his back.
He knows the rules.
He strokes himself and hums as he watches him eat. It's a gorgeous sight. And it's his.
His eyes travel over the rest of his lovely possession, flawless. He'll give him a sponge bath tonight, as always. And oil his skin with vitamins and slick beauty.
The muscles ripple as he finishes his meal and pushes the tray slightly away.
"Stand." His order is followed. He removes the tray and waits for him to return his gaze, resigned but expectant. "One hundred chin-ups on the bar. One hour of jogging. One hundred squats. I'll know if you don't do them."
The eyes are not mutinous today. Too bad.
He starts to move away, and the beautiful eyes blink rapidly. The frown lines deepen, as they always do at this critical time. He lingers for a second on the threshold. Two. He wonders if he'll leave without any more happening. That has only occurred twice so far.
The eyes stare beseechingly, but there's no other movement. It looks like today will make three.
Hiding a look of disappointment, he steps back, going for the gag.
That's when he feels a hand close and yank at his wrist, and a desperate, dry voice cries out to him: "Jack!"
He spins around, and again it's the eyes that rivet him. His grip is almost bruising, and he's licking his lips in preparation for speaking again. "Wait."
Two rules broken.
He has him.
With a rush of speed, he's pressed him against the back wall, mouth gaping. "What did you say?"
His throat works in trepidation, but his eyes are no longer uncertain. He can see his decision. In for a penny, in for a pound.
"Please. You have to listen to me."
"I'm listening."
He pushes his feet apart with his own, then swoops down for a kiss. He always listens. He loves the sound of his voice, speaking only for him. That's why he won't allow it. He likes to hold back, likes it to be only the taste of the forbidden that it is now. Likes to punish him for what they both want.
Likes the certainty that he will break the rules for him, if not every time then almost.
He fights to free his delicious mouth, fights to continue speaking, but though he finally angles for a bite, he hesitates -- and he loses his chance.
He's still unwilling to really hurt him. It's sweet. And unbelievably hot.
He flips him around, wrapping the chain tether around his neck to shorten it, to keep him plastered against the wall. He cries out, but he isn't surprised.
"Jack--" he's still saying. "Let me go. I swear, I won't run."
He shakes his head, charmed endlessly by this prattle. "I like you right where you are."
"Just a phone call. Just one. We can go back together."
He can't resist the obvious joke: "I would rather come." Suiting action to words, he thrusts his groin against his hip, hissing at the pressure of muscle over bone, and fine hair over his sensitive privates. He reaches forward to caress.
It feels fantastic, but belying his joke, both of them are sadly unaroused. His captive is excused, naturally -- for now. He's still new to this, but he'll learn. Himself? His recovery time ain't what it used to be. It's good though. It makes their evening all the more long-lasting.
"Stop it." He struggles to turn around, gasping when the chains pinch his soft skin.
He clicks his tongue at him, reprimanding, and slaps one round ass cheek just because he can. He tenses all over, palms flat on the wall, head down. It's not defiance, he knows. It's mortification.
It's not the first time he's been spanked, but it is the second.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he seizes the surprisingly thin wrists, and maneuvers them down.
"No!"
They struggle until he has those hands where he wants them, spreading himself apart and trembling with the effort to fly away.
"Don't move."
"You're going to hurt me."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He won't hurt him, of course. He won't betray that trust. But he still doesn't know that, and he likes it that way.
The first time had taken over an hour. He'd waited him out until he had given in.
"Don't. Move." He says it again. He puts a threat into his voice, and waits.
The hands stay where they are.
He's a step out and back with what he needs before his captive has a chance to extricate himself. As always. He runs his tongue along his upper lip, tasting the salt there. He's sweating in anticipation.
The lube snaps open, and he cherishes that quick, short jump he makes. His head's turned around as far as possible, trying to watch with fear-blown eyes.
"Jack. Think about what you're doing."
"Oh, yeah. I am." Thinking real hard about how that tight hole glistens and jerks when he smoothes it over with lube. Thinking about how good it feels to breach him with two fingers, then three. The passage relaxes around him with a deliberate will, not desire but experience. It's been nearly a week.
"Don't. Not again. Why?"
He chuckles. "You broke the rules, Danny. Do you have to ask?"
Breaking yet another rule, he moves his hands and scrabbles at the fingers impaling him, ineffectually trying to remove them by force. Obviously panicked. "Stop." He has no leverage. He goes up on his toes, trying to get away. "Jack!"
"I'm right here, baby. So tight, feels so good." It's amazing, inside. He doesn't want to leave. But the rules have been broken, and he has to enforce them. With a sigh of regret, he pulls his fingers out and grabs what's needed.
"Hands together."
There's immediate and strong resistance. He notes with pride that there hasn't been much muscle mass lost despite the confinement. The clear disadvantages, however, makes it a short scuffle until he binds the wrists together, making sure not to pull the plastic tie too tight.
He pulls his hands up, cradling them to his chest as if injured. He leans against the wall, panting hard with the exertion. Rivulets of sweat run down his well-defined shoulders. Delectable in every way.
"Let me go," he says to the wall. It's his reasoning voice. "This isn't you. You don't want to do this."
"You're wrong about that." He nuzzles his neck. Nibbles. Then bites, just to feel the tendons shiver. He reaches down. "I've always wanted this."
"Oh god..."
No more fingers.
The dildo pushes in. Nothing fancy. Just a fake dick. But it's the right size and weight, and it stretches him wide open.
"Ahhh!"
"I want to fuck you. Just like this. I will. Tonight. You'll wait for me. I know you will. You'll always be here for me. You're mine now." He's pumping it, deep and fast, the friction not enough to hurt but making him writhe.
"Fight it, Jack. Fight, dammit! It has to be starting to wear off by now. Don't let-- ungh!"
He drives it in hard, simulating approaching orgasm. If he really tried, he could probably do it for real. But he avoids the temptation, thinking of tonight instead.
"This isn't happening. This isn't... Somebody..."
A final twist, a moan, and he withdraws.
He listens for the labored breaths. He brushes one finger lightly over the eyes squeezed shut. A fingernail along the crease of the quivering thigh draws a quick whimper, but no keening gasps.
After the fourth time, he had broken down into wet, heart-rending sobs. He'd held him and tried to rub his back, but he'd fought him away, defending with his nails and teeth as he was cornered against the wall. When he had started to whisper promises and endearments into his ears, however, he had crumpled spectacularly fast. He'd carried those scratches and tear tracks against his skin underneath his clothes for the rest of the day.
He wonders with hungry curiosity what it will take to push him that far again.
He cleans them both up, soothing the after-shudders with his firm touch. He loves calming him down, like a frightened small animal. He curls against the wall, quieting slowly.
"Jack." The voice is cautious, but it sounds aware. Resolute. "Jack, I realize how bad I've been."
He continues slowly to put away the supplies. "Yeah?"
"I want to be good for you. Will you let me do that?"
"How?" He tilts his head encouragingly, curious.
"I can-- I can cook. Do chores. Anything you want." He watches the barest bob of the adam's apple, as he turns against the collar to make eye contact as best he can. "Let me on the computer. I can research more ways to service you. I can learn. Order supplies. More toys. I'll be ready for you every night. I won't fight anymore."
They're lies, of course. But he loves to hear them. Loves how hard he tries.
He steps forward, fondling the soft penis, petting the tight stomach. His. He flinches away, still. That's fine. He will acclimate to this soon enough, just like he has to everything else.
"Let me out. I can help you."
"I've got everything I need right here." He pats his ass reassuringly.
"Jack--"
That's when the phone rings.
"Wait here," he says, indulging his own sense of humor.
Going out and closing the door behind him, he picks up the extension in the living room -- a safe enough distance. He listens to the voice on the other end, and he makes the appropriate noises. It's a four-minute call.
By the time he returns, he has untangled himself from the loops of the chain and has slid to the ground, his limbs tucked into himself despite the warmth of the room.
He goes to him, kneeling down. He notices that, this time, the supply basket has not been hurled across the room or otherwise defaced. He makes a pleased sound and strokes one ankle.
"They've found your glasses," he informs him, earning a sharp gaze but no words. "They think your body's probably been washed down the river. I'll be going in. See what I can do to help."
He draws several breaths, visibly making abortive attempts at speech. He thinks better of it, though. That window is past. He knows the consequences. He hides his head behind his knuckled hands and breathes rapidly to stymie himself.
He retrieves the gag, smiling indulgently at the flinch when he ties it back on. He uses his particular knots, ones he can recognize. Those blue eyes are pleading now, trying to say so much, and the hands, still bound at the wrists, come up, stopping just short of grabbing his arm.
He loves it when he's needy like this.
"Shhh, it's okay," he soothes, patting his hair one more time. "I'll be back tonight. We'll be together again soon." Won't be long before they can be together all the time.
He's on leave this whole week, and he'll ask for another. He'll probably be clear to retire a week after that. Distraught over his lost team member. It's reason enough.
He thinks he sees the shimmer of tears before he closes the door, but he firmly restrains himself.
He locks the closet, gets dressed, neatens up the house, and pockets his cell phone.
Responsibility. Anticipation. Doing without.
This is his life now. He loves it. He will learn to love it, too.
END.
A/N: This is a version (with a much more screwed up Jack) of a different fic (with an actual storyline) that's been knocking around in my head for a while. Apparently, in a footrace to the keyboard, smut wins out over plot. *headdesk
A/N: I wonder, honestly now, how many people were surprised towards the middle that it turned out to be Jack? Zero? :)
Re: "Him, His, and He" aka "Where did all the freakin' names go?"
Since a couple of people have mentioned this, I thought I'd note here that the complete and utter lack of proper nouns (except in dialogue) was, believe it or not, by design. :)
This story is from Jack's pov, but he is a different and disturbed Jack, so I wanted to reflect that. I liked how dropping all the proper nouns made the text ambiguous and disassociated, kind of like how I imagine it'd feel to be drugged or brainwashed or otherwise mentally compromised like Jack is. He's functioning, he's aware, but everything is just that little bit off.
Another point: Jack realizes that he is this person called 'Jack' and his captive responds to 'Danny', but in his head there are no such unique monikers. In his head, there is 1) 'me', probably 2) a recognition of 'others', and then there is 3) this extension of 'me' that he is keeping in his closet. This extension of 'me', this other he, and everything that is his -- whether 'throat' or 'eyes' or 'decisions' or 'cries' -- belongs to him. Belongs to Jack. Pure, logical, matter-of-fact possession (which I personally find creepier than if he were conscious of committing wrong and reveling in it).
Of course, halfway through writing this, I realized that it's a good way of getting the reader into Daniel's headspace as well. He's confused, never quite knows what's going on, being forced to pay attention to every detail. He's also being forced to give up his sense of self. That's why the name 'Daniel' is never used in the entire story.
I hope all this worked, even if only on a subliminal level. ;)
Something intriguing (I hope) for you all to think about. That is, if I haven't worsened all the confusion instead. :D
kuonji^^
Link to sequel: ...Waiting 00:00:00
Link to sequel: All Over But The Crying