Title: Nothing So Mundane
Author: A.j.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine!  Not makin’ money!
Recipient: Written for the Sam/Jack ficathon for Meyer Lemon who requested 
angst (check), a closet (check), and alpha!jack (check.)
Notes: Major adoration to Karen who went through this with a weedwhacker and 
made it suck significantly less.  All mistakes are my own doing.

Summary: Eight years and it all comes down to this.

***

It starts with him staring straight down at her lying flat on her back in the 
middle of the gateroom.  Out of the fifteen missions she, Teal’c, and Daniel 
have run solo, this is the third bad one.  The third time they’ve had to cut 
off negotiations and drop valuable equipment and just run hell-bent to the 
gate for safety.

Staring up at him, panting with exertion, she sees something change in his 
eyes.  Feels the part of her that has always resisted this thing let go.

“Follow Daniel to the infirmary, Carter.  You look like shit.”

And that had been it.

Eight fucking years, and it comes down to this.  A shared look of 
impending... something.

“Carter!”  His bark is insistent and pitched to get her attention.  How he 
manages to state her name firmly, clearly, and with intent some two corridors 
away without yelling is a mystery she’s never been able to solve.

She’s just finished up with her medical exam.  The two vials of blood off for 
testing, urine sample, and thirty-minute dog and pony show that consist of 
her after-mission physical are rote in her mind at this point.  Eight years 
of repetition consign the time to dead-space in her brain.  Normally, it’s 
time she uses for grocery lists or going over her mental schedule of seminars 
and birthdays and future mission goals.

Today’s infirmary time had been spent listening to Brightman babble about 
losing their newest med-kit and pointedly Not Thinking About Him.

The Him who’s currently stopped her in her tracks on her way to find a box of 
pens in the supply closet on level 19.  The only supply closet on base that 
has a broken security camera.  Despite the fact that the supply closet on 
level 7 is much closer to her lab.

“Sir.” She nods at him as he draws level with her.  Her arms are crossed over 
her stomach in a vain attempt to quiet the fistful of jumping beans currently 
going to town on her insides.

“So, Daniel’s okay?”

She knows he’s just making conversation.  She knows that he’s perfectly aware 
of the extent of their friend’s injuries.  She knows this because just like 
the sun rising in the east, General Jack O’Neill will always ask for the 
complete medical diagnosis of all of his people, sometimes learning it even 
before they do.

“He’s fine.  Just a nasty cut and a concussion.”

“Ah.  Well, he’s had lots of those, so no big deal, right?”

She suppresses a smile at his quirked eyebrow and flippant tone.  “Yes, sir.”

They amble for awhile.  Seemingly in a random way.  They are being soundly 
ignored by the base inhabitants.  General O’Neill and Colonel Carter 
wandering the halls has become a familiar sight over the years, and this is 
no different than any other day.

Except that it really, really is.

“Heading for the supply closet?”  To their possible audience, his tone is 
casual.  Vaguely interested in the way that a commanding officer would be 
interested in his subordinate’s desire for clerical accouterment.

Sam has to bite her lip so as not to shiver.

“Yeah.  I need a box of pens.”  Even though she’s not looking at him, she 
knows he’s raising an eyebrow.  “They’re out of the black ones I like on 
level seven.”

There had been a time in her life when she’d blushed and stammered when 
lying.  It had been a very, very long time ago.

“Ah, the roller ball ones.”  His security card is out and sliding through the 
reader before she can let go of her crossed forearms and dig around for her 
own.  The light blinks from red to green, and there’s suddenly a dimming of 
light around the edges of her vision.  He has the door open and kind of waves 
his hand at the darkened interior.  Ever the gentlemanly fool, her brain 
says.

Sam stares General O’Neill straight in the face and nods.  “They are the 
best, sir.”

She walks into the supply closet with her head held high, even if she knows 
that her hands are shaking.

She does her best to at least pay lip service to her crappy excuse.  She’s 
scanning the second row of shelves for pen boxes when she hears the door 
click shut.  There’s a finality to that soft little ‘snick’; Abandon All Hope 
Ye Who Enter Here or some such nonsense.

Except for the part where the ‘hope’ had been willingly abandoned years ago.

“Why are you here?”

Sam doesn’t turn around.  Won’t let herself face him just yet.  It’s easier 
to say this to a shelf of cleaning supplies.  “Because you ordered me to.”

She can feel him moving.  There’s no noise.  He’s too good for any of the 
normal tells.  The damn man could sneak up on a cat if he tried.  But she’s 
had eight years of knowing where he is at all times.  She’s got Teal’c and 
Daniel on her internal radar just like she’s got General O’Neill.  Actually, 
out of the three of them, Teal’c’s the only one who can still surprise her.  
But this isn’t Teal’c.

He’s very close to her.  She can almost feel the heat of his body through her 
BDUs.  There’s tingling in all her girl parts, and suddenly there’s something 
pressing lightly against her knees and thighs and ass.

“Turn around, Carter.”

The pressure is still there, but she turns anyway... and finds a chair.  And 
him all the way across the room again. Okay, maybe he can still surprise her.

“Sit down.”  The order is sharp in the small room.  Made in the tone of voice 
that indicates no insubordination will be tolerated and her ass should have 
been in that chair ten minutes ago.

She feels it all the way to her toes.

And because it’s here and now and |him|, she scoots around and drops onto the 
metal folding chair, keeping her eyes pinned to him.  In the dim light, she 
can barely make out his features.  Shadows play hard against his jaw and 
forehead.  His eyes are completely hidden.

She has not been this turned on in weeks.

“Now.”  He draws the word out, tasting it.  “Tell me again.  Why are you 
here?”

She swallows before opening her mouth, her mouth suddenly dry.  “You ordered 
me here.”

“I never said a word, Carter.  Why are you here?”

“Sir, you did.  And that is why I’m here.”  Admittedly, he hadn’t said 
anything about here being here.  But that stare in the gateroom...  That had 
been pretty damn explicit.  Well.  In SG-1 speak anyway.  The only way it 
would have been clearer was if he’d held up a placard.  Or, y’know.  Said 
something.

But she hadn’t really been concerned with details at the time.

Right now, though, he seems to be.

“Hmm.  Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.  You’ll do anything I say, won’t you.”  
It’s not a question.

Sam’s brain pauses there.  Stalls, actually, on that statement.  Will she do 
anything he says?  Yes, her brain answers, unequivocally.  He orders, you do.  
It is the way of things.  Even here.  |Especially| here.

“Yes, sir,” she says, words and tone completely devoid of sarcasm.  And she’s 
strangely not weirded out by the sudden stratification of their power 
dynamic.  Or the fact that she’s about to apply it to their impending sex 
life.

Hell, they haven’t even kissed yet.

“Prove it.”

She straightens her spine, coming to attention in her chair.  She can do 
this.  She’s trained for this.  Well, maybe not |this,| exactly, but the 
military and orders and this man rule every other part of her life.  Why not 
this?

“Yes, sir.”

“Eyes forward, Carter.  Do not look up or down or anywhere but directly in 
front of you.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

He slinks towards her silently.  All swagger and grace and tension, he moves 
in and around her new field of vision.  He is not dodging her, just moving 
around and assessing the situation.  He’s working the angles of having a very 
horny and willing colonel at his disposal, she thinks.

“Why are you smiling, Carter?”

“I am anticipating fucking you, sir.”  It slips out before she can stop it, 
and she blinks a little while rewinding that sentence in her brain.

General O’Neill seems just as taken aback by her candor as she is.  He 
recovers quicker than she does, shocked expression clearing into a half-smile 
that has her breath and pulse picking up.

“We’ll see about that.  Now.  You will not speak until I say you can.  Is 
that clear, Carter?”

She mashes her lips together and nods, eyes carefully focused on the fourth 
button of his jacket.

Then, she’s on her feet, – whether she was pulled or stood herself up, she 
has no clue - body pressed hard against his.  She doesn’t move her hands 
though.  Eight years of following his orders have made it so when that tone 
hits her ears, nothing short of crossfire can stop her from obeying.

The little somewhere in the back of her mind not preoccupied with his teeth 
on her ear is raging about how that’s a shitty, shitty balance of power to 
start a relationship on.  The rest of her doesn’t care because |oh my god| 
his teeth are moving down the column of her neck and it’s all she can do not 
to scream for god and country into his ear.  To demand |more.|

“Gah-!”  It pops out before she can do anything to stop it.  He stops 
immediately.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he whispers into the collar of her jacket and 
she can’t help but shiver hard and just |lean| into him.  He doesn’t move.  
Just waiting for something.  Oh.  Right.

She nods and bites her tongue.  No words or this ends now.

“Good girl.  I’m going to touch you now.”

Hands.  Hands on her stomach.  Hands |under her shirt| on her stomach.

She knows he’s smirking because she can feel it – along with the slight 
stubble that seven plus hours away from a razor causes – on the side of her 
neck.  His chuckle vibrates on her skin and plays hard on her nerve endings.

“I’m going to tell you every single thing I’m going to do to you, Carter.  I 
don’t want you to be surprised.  I don’t want accidents.  Your mouth stays 
shut and mine will stay open, is that clear?”

She nods again, rubbing her cheek across hair that’s been recently cut.  
She’d noticed it when they’d stumbled back through the gate, all broken and 
bleeding.  Five days dying in a jungle and the first goddamn thing she 
notices is that her boss cut his hair.

“I’m going to move my hands up now.  Play with your bra, and when I finally 
get it up and over your breasts, I’m going to rub your nipples until they’re 
hard and the rest of your breast swells in my hand.  I want them heavy and 
weighing me down, Carter.  I want to hear you panting in my ear.  But unless 
it’s a matter of national importance, you will not utter one, single word.  
Not unless I say you can.”

Sam closes her eyes against the onslaught of feeling and lets her head fall 
back, leaving her neck more exposed.  Isn’t that what animals do to those 
more dominant?  Expose the belly and neck.  Leave everything open and 
vulnerable in a display of surrender.

His teeth are sharp on her neck and shoulder, tongue wet and arousing rather 
than soothing.  He is playing with her.  They both know it, but she’s really 
past caring right now, her world growing fuzzy and sharp all at once.

True to his word, his hands move up, running over the seams above and 
underneath her sports bra.  Lightly, they move over the fabric, rubbing here 
and there, but mostly skimming.  Nonsensical shapes and swirls take shape on 
the green cotton in her mind’s eye, and he doesn’t really have to do any 
rubbing because her nipples are tight and hard already.

She squeaks a bit as he pulls back, but goes quiet again as he spins her 
away.  She’s facing one of the many metal shelves lining the walls.   This 
one seems to be bolted directly into the concrete wall, and as the general 
nudges her flush against one of the support columns, it doesn’t rock or sway 
at all.

He is pulling at her clothing then.  Raising her shirt and bra up over her 
breasts so that both pieces of cloth are jammed up under her armpits, and the 
cold metal beam is pressed against her forehead and breastbone.  The 
temperature change is a jolt, and she shivers a bit before dropping both 
hands on the shelf just above her waist.

His hands are back, swirling over skin that feels five sizes too large and 
six sizes too small all at once.  Breast, stomach, the indent of her waist.  
Her pants are riding low on her hips without her shirt to keep them up.  The 
fingers of one hand catch on a belt loop and tug lightly, exposing just a 
little bit more skin.

His fingers are warm and rough on her body, and her nerve endings are really, 
|really| appreciating it.

“I have wanted to touch all of this for so, damn, long.  Did you know that, 
Carter?”  He moves his hands down until they’re both braced on her hips, 
rubbing over her in tight, body-melting circles.  “And now I can.  Isn’t that 
right?”

She nods, ignoring the slight scrape of metal on her forehead.

Abruptly, he releases her, backing off completely.  Her entire body shudders, 
very unpleased by this turn of events.

Sam bites her lip hard to restrain the ‘No!’ on the tip of her tongue.

“Well, in a rather strange twist of something, I’m looking for a little 
delayed gratification tonight.”  He sounds amused.  Asshole.  “Tell me what 
you’re feeling.  Now.”

“Pissed, sir.”  Her fingers clench on the pressboard of the shelf.  
Tightening and releasing.  “I want you touching me again.”

His chuckle is dark and low, and fuck if it didn’t make her flush harder.  At 
this rate, she was going to need to changer her underwear and pants after 
this.  Oh god.  There is an after |this|.  Nothing seems real right now.  She 
whimpers a bit and tried to rub her thighs together.

Her sex is throbbing, but in a good, dirty, touchmenowohmyfuckingod way.

And the rubbing is doing nothing.

Except pissing her partner off.

“Stop that now!”  All mirth is gone from his voice.  “Did I say you could do 
that?”

She shakes her head and spreads her feet a bit, removing the temptation.

“New rule for tonight, Carter.  You do nothing unless I order it.  
Understood?  Answer me.”

“Yes, sir!”  Her voice cracks, and they both ignore it.

His boots scuff a bit behind her and she can hear the rustle of fabric – his 
jacket being taken off, she thinks.

“Are you turned on, Carter?”  He draws out the syllables of her last name.  
Tasting them.  Owning them.

She nods, panting hard.

“You want to be touched, don’t you?”

Nod.

“Well, I’m not going to touch you just yet.”

Whimper.

“But I’m feeling a bit generous tonight.”

Nod.

“Touch yourself.”  Her hands are moving before she can consciously process 
the command.  There is no misunderstanding on his intent. Her fingers 
untangle the button on her pants, push the zipper and the cotton of her 
briefs out of the way and down.  Just enough for her hand.  The pad of her 
index finger is calloused and perfect on the lips of her sex, stroking.  
Circling.  Rubbing.

She wonders if her panting is loud enough for him to hear.

The soft rasping of his chuckle tells her it’s a certainty.

“Slower, Carter.”  He is closer again.  She didn’t hear him move.  Didn’t 
sense him at all.  It’s a testament to his skills and her arousal, one she’s 
not very comfortable with.  She slows her fingers down and wishes like hell 
that he were in front of her so that she could glare at him.

She jumps as his hand skims her back; she gasps as her fingers twitch across 
her clit.
 
“You hit something good, Carter?  Answer me.”

“Yes, sir.”  She really hates the breathy, needy quality her voice has taken 
on.

“And what, pray tell, did you hit?”

“My clit, sir.”

His hands have settled on her shoulders now.  Massaging just a little, but 
not as much as before.  Bastard was being honest. His breath is hot on her 
neck and smells of coffee and cigarettes.  That last bit is foreign, 
unexpected.  Her stomach clenches at it, and she shivers.  She knows this 
man.  Has known him for years.  But it’s becoming abundantly clear that she 
doesn’t actually know him.

She wants to ask him when he started smoking.  Or if he’s just started 
smoking again.  But with his hands on her shoulders and her fingers rubbing 
slowly up and down and around and around on her clit and vulva, she knows 
this is definitely not the time.

“Do you like to play with yourself, Carter?”

“It’s better than nothing, sir.”

She gasps as he jerks her hand out of her pants and twists her arm up and 
behind her.  Her breasts push out, digging into metal, as her back arches.  
Pain shoots through the shoulder that’s never been quite the same since that 
super soldier threw her across a tel’tak.

“Did I ask you for a commentary?  Answer!”

“No, sir!”

He releases her arm, then reaches for her other hand.  He settles her hands 
on the shelf slightly above her head before reaching down and pushing her 
pants and underwear off her hips and down her thighs.

“Legs further apart, Carter.”

She tries to accommodate him, but she can only get them so wide before her 
pants and underwear get in the way. Unfortunately, combat boots aren’t ones 
that can just be toed off, and the fabric catches somewhere just below her 
knees.  She grunts her displeasure, but shuts up when his hands start to roam 
up and over bared skin.

Over her stomach again, across her hips.  Up and down her thighs.  Over her 
ass.

Hands on her ass.  She gasps and can’t stop herself from grinding back at 
him.  Hard.

It’s always been something of an unspoken kink of hers.  There’s something 
slightly dangerous about trusting someone with your ass.  The cunt is one 
thing.  Sex wouldn’t exactly be sex without some manipulation of the clit and 
labia and cock going deep, deep, hot and good.

But your ass.  That’s something entirely different.

And it’s a testament to something probably very profound that she’s not 
screaming like an idiot for him to get his hands |offoffoff| and leave her 
ass alone.

Instead, she just whimpers and presses herself tighter to the supply shelf, 
clutching her shelf like it’s the only thing holding her up.  To be fair, it 
kind of is.

“You like this.”

Randomly, she realizes that he hasn’t used his mouth for anything but talking 
and some minor necking.  According to her very wet sex and thighs, this is 
not mattering at all.

“You like my hands doing this.”  He brushes her asshole lightly, dancing an 
index finger around it, rubbing a little.  Quick as can be, the finger is 
gone again, both of his hands occupied with firm but gentle strokes on the 
globes of her ass.

“Answer me, Carter.”  His voice is sharp and fills the dark little room.

Following the night’s theme, she responds immediately, “I like them there, 
sir.  They...”

“They what?”  He stops his hands again.  Damn, stupid, perfect torture.

“They feel good because I trust you, and I know you won’t do anything to 
really hurt me.”  It’s the longest thing she’s said – been allowed to say – 
in awhile.  And it’s practically screamed at the paper towels in front of her 
nose.

“You trust me?”  His hands start up, squeezing.  Measuring.  Massaging.  
“Answer me.”

“Yes, sir,” she pants, doing everything she can not to shove back at him.  To 
make him do something more than just feeling.

She can feel his smile on her ear, and then his hands are sliding away and up 
over her hip bones and down, down, down and |oh god.|

She whimpers and can’t stop her hips from slamming backwards at him as his 
fingers make contact.  The ball of one hand rubbing quickly but shallowly 
over her clit and the top of her sex, fingers of the second spreading her 
wide and playing firmly with the opening of her cunt.  She is squirming hard, 
trying to push closer and get further away at the same time.

Sam sobs her breath and lets out a loud, high whine.

“Is this good?”

Somehow she has the coherence to nod and not knock either of them out.

“Play with your breasts, Carter.  Now.”

She lets go of her shelf, finally, and slumps a bit.  Not very far though, as 
she’s wedged rather well between the solid metal shelf and the solid, very 
living general behind her.  With some rather surprising coordination on her 
part, she’s able to get her shirt up, and her hands rubbing at her breasts 
and nipples in time with his strokes.  The added stimulation is... really 
quite something.

She is so fucking close.  So.  Fucking.  Close.

He is warm and strong around her, his smell and presence doing almost as much 
as the hands on her sex and breasts.  This is |him| doing this to her.  The 
coil in her stomach winds tighter and tighter until she is sobbing out loud 
to the ceiling.

“You want to tell me, don’t you?  Want to beg me to let you come.”  His voice 
is tight and dark.  Encouraging, but taunting too.  And in that moment, she 
wants nothing more than to turn around and rip his face or scream at him or 
do |something| so he’ll just let her fall.

“Just a little longer, Carter.  Just a bit.  God, you’re so wet.  When we 
walk out of this closet in about fifteen minutes, you’re going to want to go 
back to the locker room and change.  But you’re not going to, Carter.  You’re 
going to finish the next three hours out in this same uniform.  I want to 
walk up behind you before you take that long elevator ride to the surface.  I 
want to stand behind you and have to stop and think about why you’re 
different today.  I want every fucking person on this base to know just what 
you’ve done, even if it’s not consciously.  I want them to smell you, Carter.

“I want to know that you are so stupid out of your head that anything I say 
right now will set you off.  But that you can’t.  That you |won’t| until I 
let you.  Until I say that you can.  And then, and |only then,| I want you to 
scream your head off until every damn person on this base can hear you. Do 
you understand what I’m saying?”

She’s beyond speech.  Nodding constantly, and mewling and gasping and rubbing 
against his hands and chest and mindlessly palming her breasts.  The nipples 
are too hard and sensitive to take anything but the occasional graze.  She’s 
so high and lost that if he stopped now, she’d die.  Just fall over and die.

“Answer me, Carter.”

“YES, SIR!”

“Good girl,” he whispers in her ear.  “Good girl.  Now come.”

And then she’s screaming and screaming and the world dims out.  Morphing into 
something that is no longer a row of shelves, but rather her dark blue 
comforter.

Her screams are whimpers now.  Soft little mewling noises that contrast 
against the buzzing of her vibrator.  She twists the off switch with fingers 
that are shaking.

She hates that she does this.  Needs this.

But she loves it too.  That he can do this to her without actually even being 
here.

She likes this because it is Bad and Wrong, and it’s pathetic that she comes 
so hard while imagining her commanding officer ordering her around.

But panting facedown into her comforter, the bits and pieces of her fantasy 
falling away into dust in her mind, she pulls her vibrator off and sets it 
carefully next to her bed.  Her legs are weak and she makes no attempt to get 
off of her bed or to clean herself up.

The dying evening sun is slanting across her floor, dust motes floating slow 
and peaceful.

It’s beautiful in a sad way.

Lying there, naked body cooling, Sam wonders when she stopped letting herself 
even hope for something different than this.

-fin-


Notes:  I’m sorry!  I actually started this as my participation in ‘National 
Masturbation Month’, and it snowballed...  But hey, it’s the longest thing 
I’ve written in months.  *smooches to Meyer*