"Know Your Place", SG-1/SGA, Jack O'Neill/John Sheppard, non-con
This fic has triggery content, please be warned!
Title: Know Your Place
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Jack O'Neill/John Sheppard
Words: 1790
Warnings: NC-17, non-con, power kink
Summary: Jack teaches John how to obey the chain of command. Missing scene for "The Intruder".
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic using
karmageddon/prehistoric_sea's prompt: SGA/SG1, Jack/John, anything to get to the top.
Know Your Place
by Scroll
John listens to Elizabeth rant about Landry pushing for Caldwell to replace Sumner as military commander of Atlantis because she's his friend and he appreciates the sentiment. He nods whenever she glances at him, makes the right noises to show his agreement, but he's not under the delusion that anything she says is going to make a difference. He's been in the Air Force long enough to know the game, even if he's never been good at playing it.
General O'Neill calls him to one of the conference rooms the SGC has reserved for alien dignitaries. This level of the base is rarely used, so there aren't many personnel around. Of course, the security cameras are omnipresent, and John keeps his head down all the way down the corridor.
"Get in here, Sheppard," O'Neill calls out when John hesitates too long outside the door. The general is waiting at the head of the table, dressed in his Class As and slouched in the black leather conference chair like he's lounging in his own den. It makes for an incongruous picture, but John suddenly feels undressed in his Atlantis uniform.
"So I hear Elizabeth wants to give you a promotion," O'Neill says briskly when John stops in front of him. "It's not her call, of course, but try explaining that to a civilian."
He seems to be waiting for a response, so John says, "Yes, sir," with as much respect as he can muster. It's more than most superior officers would get out of him, though that's not really saying a lot.
O'Neill smirks. "Caldwell has the experience and the training. I'm confident that, with time, Elizabeth will come to value his contributions as military commander."
John swallows hard and wishes he could tell if O'Neill's trying to make a joke, and if he expects John to laugh. "Yes, sir."
"Major, I don't doubt your commitment to the Atlantis expedition," O'Neill continues, more seriously. "But you have some pretty big strikes against you. It's hard to make a case for your promotion when you have such difficulties following the chain of command."
"I respect my superiors, sir," John says carefully.
"You respect them as long as you agree with their orders." O'Neill gives him a hard look. "But you don't really trust their judgement."
"No, sir, that's not--" he protests, but O'Neill cuts him off.
"I don't remember giving you permission to speak, Major." His tone is flat, his dark eyes flinty as he stares John down. After a minute of silence, he goes on. "You think you have all the answers, don't you, Major."
John opens his mouth, then closes it again, breathing hard through his nostrils.
"You think you're smarter than those who should have your obedience." O'Neill spits it out, disdainful.
He's wrong. He's wrong.
"You think you have all the answers, don't you, Major."
No. No.
"Too good for the rest of us."
"No, you're wrong!" John bursts out. He bites his tongue a second later, but the damage is already done.
O'Neill doesn't say a word, just narrows his eyes and waits. The silence stretches until John's gritting his teeth, wanting to defend himself, give an excuse, but too scared to break the tension. He's hyper-conscious of the prickle of sweat at his temples, the sound of air rushing in and out of his lungs. He tries to exhale slowly, but he's can't make himself calm down, he's breathing too hard, and the more aware he is of his own body, the harder it is to control himself. He feels his face go hot, hearing the way he's panting, noisy and ragged--it sounds obscene, like it's something it's not.
O'Neill sits and waits, silent, and John doesn't know what he wants. Doesn't know what to do to make him stop. He hates the way O'Neill strips him bare just by looking at him, like he knows all John's secrets, all the dark, dirty corners. His uniform feels too tight--or maybe it's his skin, too hot and tight. He feels his dick twitch, sees O'Neill see it, the way his dick gets thick and hard under the general's steady gaze.
He clenches his fists against his thighs, willing his body to behave. He tries to think about anything except how he's tenting the front of his pants, how the general's sharp eyes can probably see the veins on his dick outlined in the material. The room is dead silent except for the thready gasps he can't keep back, and it breaks his focus.
He could turn around and walk out. He could. Just get out with the scraps of his dignity. But if he does, if he walks out, he knows he'll never see Atlantis again, and he can't even begin to deal with that. Anything to get to where he needs to be, right? Even if that means bending over for a general.
The knowledge that O'Neill has that kind of power over him scares him shitless, but the fear only makes him more desperate, and he shudders, helplessly, his body right on the precipice of something he can't even name. The edges of his vision blur, and unbalanced, he catches himself against the conference table, one hand splayed on the surface, the other hand instinctively cupping his cock through his pants. He moans, the heel of his hand pressing hard against his erection.
O'Neill's eyebrow goes up, like he's amused, and John's face burns with humiliation. But even the shame can't stop him, it's just fuel for the fire, and he fumbles for his belt, his fly, shoves his pants and underwear down until he's naked from waist to mid-thigh. He still doesn't know what the general wants. What kind of lesson he's teaching. All he knows is he has to come, right this second, so he leans one hip against the table and goes at his leaking erection with both hands, pulling hard and fast, not bothering to make it good because it is good, the best sex he's had in years, and all he's doing is jerking off in front of his commanding officer. He cups his balls and pulls at the head of his cock, grunting and moaning like a whore. His head drops back, but he never takes his eyes off O'Neill, can't look away from that uniform and what it represents, until finally, finally he's coming with a gasp, semen shooting across the conference table.
He collapses against the table, elbows shaking under the strain, and he jumps when the general suddenly appears behind him. One big hand clamps tight to the back of his neck. "Clean up after yourself, Major," O'Neill orders, his voice quiet, so quiet in his ear. His hand guides him to the semen dotted across the surface of the table, and John swallows a sob when his nose gets pushed into the still-warm mess, like he's a bad puppy. Obedient, he licks and sucks the table clean, his dick twitching at the taste of the bitter fluid despite being completely wrung out. It takes O'Neill telling he can stop now for him to realise he's licking a spotless table. John can't stop the ragged moan that escapes.
"Shh," the general soothes him, his hand turning gentle and carding through his sweaty hair. "You did so good, John." His other hand comes up to rest against the small of his back, under his t-shirt. "You can take this off now. Here we go." He helps John pull the t-shirt up over his head before pushing him face down again. "You're a good officer, John," O'Neill says, his voice kind. "You could go far in the Air Force. You just need to remember the proper chain of command."
"Yes, sir," John whispers, lying pliant under the general's hands. He feels O'Neill's thick cock pressing against his ass through those Class As, and he spreads his legs as far as he can with his pants trapping him. O'Neill slips two fingers into John's waiting mouth and he sucks on them, gets them good and wet, doesn't try to hold back the slurping noises. The sound of the zipper is loud, but not as loud as the thundering in John's chest. He fights down a groan when the general's fingers breach him. It's been a while.
"Such a tight little hole," O'Neill murmurs, his lips brushing across John's shoulder. "Just relax, okay?" His fingers slipping out, he lines up his cock and pushes in slow and steady, relentless. John gasps, feeling split open, and he scrabbles at the table desperately. But the general leans his weight on his back and patiently waits him out until John finally adjusts to the intrusion. "Shhh, I've got you."
O'Neill starts thrusting then, slow at first, then faster and rougher. He pounds into John hard, the friction burning them both, until John feels himself tear. It hurts then, really hurts, but it's also fantastic, the way the general just will not let up, fucking John's ass like it's his to take. And it is. John gets it now. His ass belongs to the general, and his dick, and his trust and his loyalty and his obedience. It's not about Atlantis, or not just Atlantis--it's about John's position in the chain of command. Who he belongs to.
"Yes, sir," he gasps, breathless and aching, his dick hard and full against all expectations. "Fuck me, sir. Fuck me fuck me fuck me," he chants, arching back to meet O'Neill's thrusts. The general's hands clamp down on his hips and shove him up onto the table, trapping his erection under him, but the position lets the general spread him wider and shove in deeper, and John sobs when the next thrust hits his prostate. He smacks his hand down on the table, clenches his muscles, and comes, shuddering from the intensity of it all.
The general pounds into John a few more times, then comes inside him with a hoarse cry. He stays hard though, doesn't move, and John's scared he's going to start up again. Even with the semen now coating his hole, he doesn't think he can take another pounding. But if that's what the general wants, he won't say no. Can't say no.
"You doin' okay?" O'Neill asks, stroking one hand down John's back to where his ass is stretched around the general's thick cock, and John shivers at the touch. "God, you're tight. So good, John, I'm going to have to fuck you again." He pulls out and shoves in, once, hard. John whimpers. Nuzzling the back of his neck, the general adds, almost conversationally, "What do you say, Major?"
"Yes, sir," he says obediently, and bites back a moan.
the end
* * *
Seriously, this productive streak is kind of freaking me out.
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)
Title: Know Your Place
Author:
scrollgirl/scrollgirl
Fandom: Stargate SG-1/Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Jack O'Neill/John Sheppard
Words: 1790
Warnings: NC-17, non-con, power kink
Summary: Jack teaches John how to obey the chain of command. Missing scene for "The Intruder".
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic using
karmageddon/prehistoric_sea's prompt: SGA/SG1, Jack/John, anything to get to the top.
Know Your Place
by Scroll
John listens to Elizabeth rant about Landry pushing for Caldwell to replace Sumner as military commander of Atlantis because she's his friend and he appreciates the sentiment. He nods whenever she glances at him, makes the right noises to show his agreement, but he's not under the delusion that anything she says is going to make a difference. He's been in the Air Force long enough to know the game, even if he's never been good at playing it.
General O'Neill calls him to one of the conference rooms the SGC has reserved for alien dignitaries. This level of the base is rarely used, so there aren't many personnel around. Of course, the security cameras are omnipresent, and John keeps his head down all the way down the corridor.
"Get in here, Sheppard," O'Neill calls out when John hesitates too long outside the door. The general is waiting at the head of the table, dressed in his Class As and slouched in the black leather conference chair like he's lounging in his own den. It makes for an incongruous picture, but John suddenly feels undressed in his Atlantis uniform.
"So I hear Elizabeth wants to give you a promotion," O'Neill says briskly when John stops in front of him. "It's not her call, of course, but try explaining that to a civilian."
He seems to be waiting for a response, so John says, "Yes, sir," with as much respect as he can muster. It's more than most superior officers would get out of him, though that's not really saying a lot.
O'Neill smirks. "Caldwell has the experience and the training. I'm confident that, with time, Elizabeth will come to value his contributions as military commander."
John swallows hard and wishes he could tell if O'Neill's trying to make a joke, and if he expects John to laugh. "Yes, sir."
"Major, I don't doubt your commitment to the Atlantis expedition," O'Neill continues, more seriously. "But you have some pretty big strikes against you. It's hard to make a case for your promotion when you have such difficulties following the chain of command."
"I respect my superiors, sir," John says carefully.
"You respect them as long as you agree with their orders." O'Neill gives him a hard look. "But you don't really trust their judgement."
"No, sir, that's not--" he protests, but O'Neill cuts him off.
"I don't remember giving you permission to speak, Major." His tone is flat, his dark eyes flinty as he stares John down. After a minute of silence, he goes on. "You think you have all the answers, don't you, Major."
John opens his mouth, then closes it again, breathing hard through his nostrils.
"You think you're smarter than those who should have your obedience." O'Neill spits it out, disdainful.
He's wrong. He's wrong.
"You think you have all the answers, don't you, Major."
No. No.
"Too good for the rest of us."
"No, you're wrong!" John bursts out. He bites his tongue a second later, but the damage is already done.
O'Neill doesn't say a word, just narrows his eyes and waits. The silence stretches until John's gritting his teeth, wanting to defend himself, give an excuse, but too scared to break the tension. He's hyper-conscious of the prickle of sweat at his temples, the sound of air rushing in and out of his lungs. He tries to exhale slowly, but he's can't make himself calm down, he's breathing too hard, and the more aware he is of his own body, the harder it is to control himself. He feels his face go hot, hearing the way he's panting, noisy and ragged--it sounds obscene, like it's something it's not.
O'Neill sits and waits, silent, and John doesn't know what he wants. Doesn't know what to do to make him stop. He hates the way O'Neill strips him bare just by looking at him, like he knows all John's secrets, all the dark, dirty corners. His uniform feels too tight--or maybe it's his skin, too hot and tight. He feels his dick twitch, sees O'Neill see it, the way his dick gets thick and hard under the general's steady gaze.
He clenches his fists against his thighs, willing his body to behave. He tries to think about anything except how he's tenting the front of his pants, how the general's sharp eyes can probably see the veins on his dick outlined in the material. The room is dead silent except for the thready gasps he can't keep back, and it breaks his focus.
He could turn around and walk out. He could. Just get out with the scraps of his dignity. But if he does, if he walks out, he knows he'll never see Atlantis again, and he can't even begin to deal with that. Anything to get to where he needs to be, right? Even if that means bending over for a general.
The knowledge that O'Neill has that kind of power over him scares him shitless, but the fear only makes him more desperate, and he shudders, helplessly, his body right on the precipice of something he can't even name. The edges of his vision blur, and unbalanced, he catches himself against the conference table, one hand splayed on the surface, the other hand instinctively cupping his cock through his pants. He moans, the heel of his hand pressing hard against his erection.
O'Neill's eyebrow goes up, like he's amused, and John's face burns with humiliation. But even the shame can't stop him, it's just fuel for the fire, and he fumbles for his belt, his fly, shoves his pants and underwear down until he's naked from waist to mid-thigh. He still doesn't know what the general wants. What kind of lesson he's teaching. All he knows is he has to come, right this second, so he leans one hip against the table and goes at his leaking erection with both hands, pulling hard and fast, not bothering to make it good because it is good, the best sex he's had in years, and all he's doing is jerking off in front of his commanding officer. He cups his balls and pulls at the head of his cock, grunting and moaning like a whore. His head drops back, but he never takes his eyes off O'Neill, can't look away from that uniform and what it represents, until finally, finally he's coming with a gasp, semen shooting across the conference table.
He collapses against the table, elbows shaking under the strain, and he jumps when the general suddenly appears behind him. One big hand clamps tight to the back of his neck. "Clean up after yourself, Major," O'Neill orders, his voice quiet, so quiet in his ear. His hand guides him to the semen dotted across the surface of the table, and John swallows a sob when his nose gets pushed into the still-warm mess, like he's a bad puppy. Obedient, he licks and sucks the table clean, his dick twitching at the taste of the bitter fluid despite being completely wrung out. It takes O'Neill telling he can stop now for him to realise he's licking a spotless table. John can't stop the ragged moan that escapes.
"Shh," the general soothes him, his hand turning gentle and carding through his sweaty hair. "You did so good, John." His other hand comes up to rest against the small of his back, under his t-shirt. "You can take this off now. Here we go." He helps John pull the t-shirt up over his head before pushing him face down again. "You're a good officer, John," O'Neill says, his voice kind. "You could go far in the Air Force. You just need to remember the proper chain of command."
"Yes, sir," John whispers, lying pliant under the general's hands. He feels O'Neill's thick cock pressing against his ass through those Class As, and he spreads his legs as far as he can with his pants trapping him. O'Neill slips two fingers into John's waiting mouth and he sucks on them, gets them good and wet, doesn't try to hold back the slurping noises. The sound of the zipper is loud, but not as loud as the thundering in John's chest. He fights down a groan when the general's fingers breach him. It's been a while.
"Such a tight little hole," O'Neill murmurs, his lips brushing across John's shoulder. "Just relax, okay?" His fingers slipping out, he lines up his cock and pushes in slow and steady, relentless. John gasps, feeling split open, and he scrabbles at the table desperately. But the general leans his weight on his back and patiently waits him out until John finally adjusts to the intrusion. "Shhh, I've got you."
O'Neill starts thrusting then, slow at first, then faster and rougher. He pounds into John hard, the friction burning them both, until John feels himself tear. It hurts then, really hurts, but it's also fantastic, the way the general just will not let up, fucking John's ass like it's his to take. And it is. John gets it now. His ass belongs to the general, and his dick, and his trust and his loyalty and his obedience. It's not about Atlantis, or not just Atlantis--it's about John's position in the chain of command. Who he belongs to.
"Yes, sir," he gasps, breathless and aching, his dick hard and full against all expectations. "Fuck me, sir. Fuck me fuck me fuck me," he chants, arching back to meet O'Neill's thrusts. The general's hands clamp down on his hips and shove him up onto the table, trapping his erection under him, but the position lets the general spread him wider and shove in deeper, and John sobs when the next thrust hits his prostate. He smacks his hand down on the table, clenches his muscles, and comes, shuddering from the intensity of it all.
The general pounds into John a few more times, then comes inside him with a hoarse cry. He stays hard though, doesn't move, and John's scared he's going to start up again. Even with the semen now coating his hole, he doesn't think he can take another pounding. But if that's what the general wants, he won't say no. Can't say no.
"You doin' okay?" O'Neill asks, stroking one hand down John's back to where his ass is stretched around the general's thick cock, and John shivers at the touch. "God, you're tight. So good, John, I'm going to have to fuck you again." He pulls out and shoves in, once, hard. John whimpers. Nuzzling the back of his neck, the general adds, almost conversationally, "What do you say, Major?"
"Yes, sir," he says obediently, and bites back a moan.
the end
* * *
Seriously, this productive streak is kind of freaking me out.
I prefer comments on Dreamwidth |
comment(s)