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They’ve only been here two weeks and this is the second time Rodney McKay has pulled discipline. He stands in front of John’s desk, his face bright with embarrassment and that familiar look of defiance. John restrains a sigh because, what? Does this guy get off on getting punished – and if he does, they really need to re-examine their discipline procedures.

“So,” John says slowly. He looks down at the report in his hand, hazel eyes moving over the words before returning to McKay. “You defied a direct order from your superior officer,” he makes a face, “again.”

McKay’s chin tilts up and his blue eyes become flinty. “I was right. Kavanaugh would’ve blown up the ship if I hadn’t intervened.”

John waves his words away. He’s worked with Kavanaugh a long time and while the guy is a good engineer, John knows firsthand how stubborn he is. At the same time, John has it in his head that McKay might be the same kind as Kavanaugh, which might be the reason Rodney’s in front of his desk again.

Rodney plows right ahead with his defense, his whole face flushing as he furiously recounts the story and the fact is, yeah, John cares and, yes, he’s always been a wildcard himself so he knows what it’s like when a superior hates his guts, but if this is causing a problem he can’t have McKay undermining the Chief Scientist’s authority. And like it or not, Kavanaugh is the CSO on the Destiny.

“But we’re not gonna know that because the ship isn’t in pieces right now,” John interrupts him. Rodney’s face heats up to a stormy and hateful hue. John’s stare passes over the tight twist of his lips and he feels a tickle of something he buried in flight school.

John tightens his jaw and looks away, his jaw on his fingertips. “Look, you’re a smart kid,” he suggests and it feels a little forced because McKay’s, what, five years younger than John?

“I went to MIT,” Rodney snaps.

John drags his feet off the edge of his desk and drops them to the floor. “Okay,” he points, “there you go. Put yourself in my position.” The position of military commander on a runaway spaceship halfway across the universe. John walks around his desk and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “I can’t have people jockeying for power here. We’re only as strong as we are together.”

Just as John’s thinking McKay won’t meet his eyes, McKay does, his blue eyes bright and wrathful. John’s almost taken aback by the vehemence of McKay’s stare but he’s wrangled with far worse than MIT dropouts. John sighs and pushes off the edge of his desk, walking across the room. “Okay, if this is how you want it, this is how it’s gotta be.” He takes off his belt and he sees McKay stiffens at the sound of the buckle clinking.

John cringes because this is out of his depth and of all the crap they’ve decided on the Destiny, the fact that he’s the “discipline officer” is one of the things he dislikes most. “Assume the position.” It doesn’t help that the dialogue reminds him of Animal House and that, on the other side of the universe, he doesn’t even have a copy of one of his favorite movies to watch on the very few hours he has off.

McKay stiffly unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. He plants his hands on the desk a shoulder-width apart.

When McKay bends over, John clamps down on a feeling of excitement at the sight of his ready and waiting ass. He’s thought about this way too often. John swallows and weighs the folded belt in one hand. He takes a breath and he brings it down across McKay’s boxer-clad ass.

McKay hisses. Even though John doesn’t use his full strength, John’s not exactly taking it easy on him either. His fingers unclench and resettle on the edge of John’s desk – John notices.

Enough screwing around. John pulls back and lets another blow fall across McKay’s ass and this time McKay’s right knee bends in discomfort. John pulls back and he drops another smack on McKay’s ass. The way McKay’s breath catches is almost erotic – at least, it does things to John he’s not entirely comfortable with. Ten strokes is the typical punishment for insubordination of the kind McKay likes best and ten is what they’re doing (Kavanaugh kindly suggested fifteen for McKay’s second offense).

Sweat beads on John’s brow and it’s not the heat in the room. Sleep’s one of those prized commodities on the Destiny that no one gets enough of and John remembers too vividly the fantasy that wouldn’t abandon him in his bed the night before. It was of McKay, writhing against his desk, his pants and boxers caught around his knees, his dick hard against his stomach.

John brings the belt down and McKay swallows a yelp that sounds so much like sex, John strikes again almost immediately. He reminds himself, five, and McKay’s head bows between his shoulder blades, his forehead against the smooth metal of John’s desk.

The next two go quickly, McKay’s hips pressing forward, away from the belt, and then, for the next one, John stops as he pulls back his arm because McKay pushes his hips back for the blow, his ass up and pert and a hundred things John could think to do to a MIT dropout. John realizes that he’s breathing a little hard, not all out panting just yet, and all John can think of is grabbing hold of McKay’s hips and fitting his hard dick into the cleft of McKay’s ass. They’re on eight now and John notices the florid, splotchy color of McKay’s skin peeking out from under the edges of his blue and white boxer shorts.

John can hear McKay panting but the scientist’s face is studiously hidden. “Seven,” McKay says after a moment, his voice muffled in the crook of his elbow.

John strikes again and McKay yelps. “Eight,” John says. He’s inappropriately riveted to the sight of McKay’s hips, moving in tiny motions between strikes. “Nine,” he states and he swats McKay’s ass again. John’s hard by now, every movement painful as his dick strains against the stiff fabric of his BDUs. “Ten,” he finishes hoarsely as he delivers the last blow, this one softer, but McKay murmurs something throaty that John can’t make out.

Before McKay has a chance to turn and make out John’s hard-on, John retreats behind his desk. There’s tension around his hazel eyes and his mouth is firm. He pretends to look at the papers on his desk but out of the corner of his eye, he can see McKay carefully but quickly pulling his pants up. McKay’s not quick enough that John doesn’t catch his wince – or the wet spot on the front of his boxers.

Straightening up, it’s McKay who refuses to meet John’s eyes. “Is that everything?” he asks rather sharply – which is to be expected because they could be friends if it wasn’t for this crap.

When John nods, McKay turns sharply and goes to the door. Before he goes through, John calls out to him. “McKay,” McKay meets John’s eyes with a hard look, “try to stay out of trouble this time.” McKay jerks his chin up in reply and John figures that’s all he’s going to get. The door slides shut with that heavy, metal sound they all have when closing and John drops his head with a sigh. He has got to get somebody else to do damn discipline.