Kylie Lee | Slash fan fiction

"No," he gasped, and "no," but it wasn't no, it wasn't no at all, it was yes, the way he said it, the way he reached down and touched Rodney's head, it was assent, but he couldn't want this, couldn't want this, because don't ask don't tell. Rodney's warm mouth, his hands, his eyes when he looked up—and he couldn't do this, but he couldn't not.

"John," Rodney said, voice low and thick, because John's hand had tangled in his hair, because John dragged his head up and off his cock, because if he didn't, he would come, he would come in Rodney's mouth, and then everything would stop, everything would end.

"Fuck," John whispered. Yes. Fuck. "Rodney. You have got to stop." Breathing had gotten difficult.

"I can't stop," Rodney said. His mouth was wet. "We can't stay. We have to get home."

"No," John said, but he meant "yes." He commanded it, and wasn't he in charge? He led the expedition team. What he said went.

Teyla was watching. Ford was watching. Everyone was watching. He'd had to pick, and he'd picked Rodney, because he didn't know why. He'd picked Rodney because Rodney could handle it. Rodney wasn't military, and John didn't want to rape Teyla, because that's what it would have been, rape, which was somehow unlike forcing a scientist to lie between his legs and blow him. This was better, much better, wasn't it?

He heard the murmuring, because they'd stopped, and they weren't supposed to do that. They had to continue through to the end, the bitter end, the end when John came, bitter, in Rodney's mouth.

"Please, John, let me finish," Rodney said. Please.

In answer, John pulled, forcing Rodney up, pulling his body so it lay alongside his own, side by side. How about two for the price of one? he thought as he yanked at Rodney's pants, and oh yes, he'd known Rodney would be hard, and he was, gloriously hard, gloriously alive as the hardness jerked in his hand. Was it something in the food? Something in the smoke? Something in the wine? All that and more. They weren't responsible. Certainly Rodney wasn't. Circumstances, that was it. It was John, all John, in charge, the ranking military officer, John who'd given the order. He took full responsibility. He absolutely took full responsibility.

"I want to make it good," he said, and he kissed Rodney, because who did he want to make it good for? Himself? Certainly yes. Rodney? Oh, yes, he could do that, because Rodney opened his mouth and let John's tongue in, and oh dear lord, he was hot inside, and John licked the inside of his mouth and Rodney made a noise that must have been yes, because he couldn't say no, because John wasn't asking. He was telling. Oh, and good for the Betarians, let's not forget the Betarians, because they wanted a show, and fuck all if John wasn't going to give them what they paid for, because they stood between him and the Gate, they held the jumper under armed guard, they had taken their guns, and all that was simply unacceptable.

"Good," Rodney said, but John had forgotten what they'd been talking about. Had they been talking? He didn't think so. He didn't talk, after all. Indeed not. He commanded. There was no dialogue. There were orders. "Rodney, you" had been his latest order.

He hooked his arm around Rodney's neck as they kissed, and kissing Rodney was actually far, far better than Rodney sucking on his cock, because now the pleasure wasn't focused just on his dick but had spread out, warming his body as Rodney took him in his arms, and he hadn't expected that, that Rodney would open his mouth and shut his eyes and hold him close and kiss and kiss and kiss and lick and suck, and when John took their cocks together in his hand, he heard the murmur of the observers as two men really got into it, as they humped each other in the middle of a circle under a late afternoon sun in a galaxy far, far away from home.

Yes, how interesting they must be, real curiosities. What did they look like? Pants around their knees, shirts rucked up, hands stroking, cocks hard, cocks incredibly hard, cocks hot and throbbing, and when John began to stroke, Rodney's cock jumped in his hand. Sweet, it was sweet, the way Rodney moaned when John kissed his way down his jaw and licked him wetly behind the ear. "John," Rodney moaned, and John could pretend it was for his ears alone. He could pretend they were alone, just the two of them, in a field on some planet somewhere. He could pretend they were safe, instead of desperately, and he did mean desperately, kissing and touching, weapons locked away, Teyla and Ford bound hand and foot, kneeling there, right there, right at the fifty-yard line, the best seats in the house. "You can't—please don't stop—"

John pushed him back and went for a nipple. When Rodney tried to move, he shoved him back hard, and the nipple in his mouth perked up, hard and tight under his tongue. He wanted Rodney under him. He realized he'd said it out loud. "I want you under me," he repeated. "I want you to come so fucking hard you scream. Is that a problem, Dr. McKay?"

"God, no," Rodney said. No problem. None at all. What a trooper. Anything for the team. "Choose," the Betarians had said, and he hadn't hesitated. One had to submit to authority to make the sacrifice, and John was the authority, large and in charge, but the irony was, they'd taken the guns and tied their hands behind them. Who was the least likely to submit? Why, Rodney of course. Making Rodney submit, putting him in a situation where he had to submit, where he had to say yes—it had had that certain something. Yes, he'd chosen Rodney and the Betarians had murmured, in surprise, he thought, but maybe it was approval. Yes, how interesting, don't ask don't tell, yes.

"Yes," Rodney said as John's mouth lifted from his nipple. The cloth of Rodney's shirt wouldn't rip. He had to work around it. The way he tasted—Rodney wasn't bitter. He was sweet, juicy, his flesh gave when John licked, when he bit, when he tongued Rodney's collarbone, when he licked Rodney's wrist. Tasty, Rodney was tasty, salty, he tasted like he smelled, masculine and clean and hot and hard and panting and wanting, that's how he tasted, an explosion on John's busy tongue. If he licked lower, all the way down, if he took Rodney's penis in his mouth, he might taste bitter, the slick of come at the tip that presaged the explosion that had to come, the explosion that would buy their freedom, but he didn't want bitter. Sweet, ripe, soft, giving, and don't forget sarcastic and brilliant and difficult. "Oh, god."

"Rodney, you," John gasped, which is what he'd said to pick out Rodney, "Rodney, you," he'd said, and he hadn't wanted to think about why he'd said it, because there had been no hesitation, no hesitation at all. "You," he repeated, panting, because that's why he'd said it, that's why there had been no hesitation, because don't ask don't tell, but he'd wanted Rodney, he'd always wanted Rodney, ever since the beginning, wanted to feel Rodney under him, like this, oh Christ, like this, moaning, and when Rodney rolled onto his side, John didn't push him back, because John's hand had gathered up their cocks again, and he began to stroke, hard, hard, because he needed hard, the hardness of Rodney's dick against his, a jolt of pleasure so pointed he couldn't breathe for a second, and Rodney began to moan, his hand grabbed John's ass, and he was close, pulling John close, Rodney was so so so so close, he was going to come, and then he did, his penis jerking hard, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm, and the gush of heat, bitter heat, against his stomach made the trembling power inside John rush outward, consuming him, and as he came, he said "no" into Rodney's mouth, Rodney's mouth there to take his words from him, because he didn't mean no at all, he meant yes, assent, always, always yes.

The assent moved from them, the two men in the center of the circle, and spread outward, a murmur of appreciation, a job well done, great job, guys, way to come through for the team, but it hadn't been for the team, not at all, John's little selfish secret, and when John collapsed back, when Rodney took him in his arms, as their bellies rubbed together, slick and hot and spent, someone stood up and bent over first one, then the other of the kneeling figures front and center. A knife flashed in the late afternoon sun, and Teyla and Ford were sent sprawling, bonds cut, free at last, thank the lord, free at last, he'd done it, he'd gotten them out with their lives intact, if not their honor or their guns, and John was still in Rodney's arms where he belonged, John didn't want to move ever ever again, and the Betarians started standing up. That's it. Show's over, folks.

"John," Rodney whispered, and John tore his eyes from the crowd, from Teyla helping Ford up, so he could look in to Rodney's clear, steady eyes. "Just so you know. Yes."

"Rodney, you," John said.