Three ficlets originally posted in livejournal.

Condiments and You (A Training Film)

Maybe Not Such a Bad Thing After All

Breaktime

Condiments and You (A Training Film)

Potato salad, fruit salad, chips, corn on the cob, and a big plate full of pickles. An watermelon the size of a MALP. Steaks, chicken, even lamb kabobs, but Paul was sticking to the basics to start with--a cheeseburger and a hot dog. And all the fixings. He'd have to come back for the salads, there was only just so much he could handle at once, and still keep a hold of his beer. Unlike Teal'c, who, after loading his flimsy paper plate with a towering array of food, nodded a polite greeting before heading toward the seats, nary a single potato chip falling from his plate.

"Major."

The cook himself had appeared, unloading even more grilled meat. "Colonel, sir. Nice spread," Paul said.

"Why thank you." A flick of his eyelashes, and O'Neill had suddenly gone flirty on him. He stepped closer, and Paul could smell the smoke on him, the beer, and the sweat and all at once he didn't want the food sitting on his plate, he wanted O'Niell, and wanted him now.

"Major, I'm only going to say this once." O'Neill's voice was low and rich, with a hint of command that made Paul's knees go weak.

"Yes, sir?" he answered.

"Ketchup is for hamburgers, damn it. Not hotdogs. Mustard goes on hot dogs."

Paul looked down at his ketchup-drenched hot dog. "Oh. Well, I beg to differ." He paused deliberately before adding, "Sir."

O'Neill blinked before picking up a freshly grilled hotdog. "Let me show you. You put the dog in the bun," he said, pulling a fresh roll from the stack. "Push it in real hard, so it fits snug, like this, see? Then you take the mustard, squeeze it over the entire length, starting at the tip." Paul watched, eyes wide as O'Neill demonstrated, squeezing a line of yellow mustard over the hotdog. Nice and slow.

"Nice technique, Colonel."

"You bet. See? Mustard. Not ketchup. Now that's a proper hot dog. And it doesn't need relish, or sauerkraut, or anything else. You just got to have good, quality meat."

"I'm beginning to see your point. Meat. Very good, sir."

Jack took a huge bite of the hotdog. "Mmmm." And with a twitch of his brow he turned and left, but that was okay, because Paul knew that after everyone left, he was going to get himself some very high quality meat indeed. With or without condiments.

Maybe Not Such a Bad Thing After All

"I don't think that's going to work, sir," Paul informed him mildly.

"Yes, yes it is going to work, damn it." Jack hit the control panel with his fist again, cursing at the resulting stab of pain. "I have five reports to read before noon, a meeting with the oversight committee, and a call with the president at two. Not to mention delegates from PX-whatever who are probably due in," he checked the glowing numbers on his watch, "right now."

Paul was already on the elevator's security phone. "Yes, Sergeant," he said, brows tucked together in a frown. "What? So--okay. Okay. I'll inform the general." He hung up the phone.

"Well?"

"Sorry sir, but power's out completely in this sector. Something about a device from P3X-9904 that Colonel Carter was trying to activate?"

"Great, just great." Jack banged his forehead against the elevator door. Thanks, Carter, he thought grimly. Now he was stuck, stuck here in the elevator when he had a fuckload of work waiting for him. Inbox overstuffed with memos and reports, messages on his voicemail, not to mention the horror that was his e-mail. "How long?" he asked with a sigh.

Davis shrugged. "Half-hour, maybe less. The suggestion was to 'sit tight'."

It was the way Paul said it. "Sit tight". Spoken so properly, his mouth precise, and with that expression of mild disapproval, or annoyance. Jack was never sure which it was, but it was oddly sexy. "Tight?" Jack repeated, his overloaded work schedule forgotten. "We need to sit...tight?"

"Yes, sir. Tight." Paul pursed his lips, and Jack knew exactly what he was thinking.

"*Sitting* tight."

Paul nodded. "Tight. Quite…tight."

"Nice and tight." Jack added. He could see the beginnings of a smile on Paul's face.

"I always thought so." The smile grew into a smirk.

So Jack kissed him.

Breaktime

The tiles are blessedly cool against Paul's cheek. He gasps, open-mouthed and his hands slip and slide on the wall. The wall smells sharply of pine-scented cleaner and his shirt is getting wrinkled but Jack pushes into him, hard this time, rocking him forward and it becomes his entire world.

Paul had been surprised when Jack hustled him into his private bathroom. They were on base, what was Jack thinking? But he didn't say no. He only asked, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Because someone had to ask it.

"No," Jack had answered in a low growl. "I haven't got a god damn fucking clue." And then Paul's pants were down around his ankles, Jack's fingers were inside him and Paul stopped asking questions.

It was question Paul knew he should be asking of himself, because that was a general's cock up his ass, splitting him wide open. He has a presentation to prepare, he's going to be sweaty and rumbled for the meeting, everyone will smell Jack on him and he's not going to be able to think of anything but this--Jack O'Neill's cock penetrating him. Jack O'Neill fucking him like he was some kind of cheap piece of ass found on the street.

Jack hushes him, breath hot breath on his neck, and Paul didn't even realize he had been moaning out loud. He swallows down the moans, keeping it to a whimper but it's so difficult with that hard body behind him, thrusting steadily and it's so fucking good, it's so hot, and nasty and wrong, they're both in their uniforms for god's sake and it's everything he's ever wanted. His own cock is almost painfully hard and wanting but he won't touch it, not yet, because Jack always makes him wait. He wants Jack to makes him wait until he's ready to break.

Paul asks anyway, just a simple 'please', because he knows what Jack will do. Jack squeezes his hip and tells him no. It's an order, spoken softly, just a whisper between thrusts but pleasure curls through Paul's body at the very sound of it. Paul tries to ask again but his voice is gone, he can't speak so he braces himself with his arms back instead, ass grinding against Jack's hips, trying to shove Jack's cock in even deeper, his hands clenching into fists from the sheer joy of it.

"Now?" he whispers, pleading. Too softly for Jack to hear, or so he thinks. Until Jack reaches around to grip his cock, pumping roughly.

And Paul breaks, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.