Kylie Lee | Slash fan fiction

"Colonel," you say when you open the door, and he smiles, that half-sarcastic smile, and tilts his head just a little.

"Major Davis," he says. He looks good in his dress uniform, very sharp, and he carries a battered leather portfolio under one arm. In the other hand he holds a large brown bag, which he extends to you. "I brought some wine," he said. "For dinner. Red."

It doesn't look like wine. The bag is too big. You take it, and when it scrunches, you realize that he had the wine shop or wherever put it in a large bag padded with other bags to disguise the fact that it's wine. "Thank you," you say, and you smile. You stand aside. You've been waiting all day for this moment, when he would ring the bell, and now that it's here, you're terrified. "Come in, sir."

He does, and you shut the door. "I think you can dispense with the 'sir,'" he says. He takes off his hat, looks around for a second, and sets it on the seat of an overstuffed leather chair.

"I'll try, sir," you say.

"Just try it," the colonel invites. "Call me Jack."

You unpack the wine and hold it up. "Would you like a glass of wine, Jack?" you ask. The colonel shakes his head when you start laughing. You can't help it. The pause right before "Jack," the complete inauthenticity of it, struck you as funny. "I'm sorry, sir," you say.

"Keep at it," Jack O'Neill says. "It'll come, I'm sure of it. And—no thanks. I'll skip the wine for now, but I'll have some with dinner." As he speaks, he unbuttons his jacket, takes it off, and lays it over the top of the chair with the hat. "What's for dinner?" He undoes his cuffs next and rolls his sleeves up. He's getting comfortable.

"Veal," you say.

You've surprised him. "Huh. Interesting. And tasty. Tasty and interesting. Does red go with veal?"

"I don't know," you admit. "Let's say yes."

"Yes, let's," he says. "Can I call you Paul?"

You nod. "Yes, sir." You set the bottle down on the coffee table. "Are you hungry?" He's not here for dinner. He's not here to go over the budget report. You both know that.

"Oh, yes," he says. He's just a touch taller than you. His hand touches the buttons of your shirt. When he meets your eyes, you realize he's as nervous as you are. "Very."

"Would you like to eat?" you ask.

He smiles, and you know the answer. "Not just yet, Major," he says, and you step into the circle of his arms.

***

You know right when it started but you don't really think about it these days, how it all began, when you first smiled at a major (you're a major now), heart pounding with terror because you were going to do it, you were finally going to do it after thinking about it for so long, dreaming about it. It was time to make fantasy a reality. You said "is there anything else, sir? anything at all?" and touched his hand. You watched as he considered, a long moment, eyes on eyes, because you understood each other perfectly. He undid his pants without a word. And without a word, you knelt and you took his cock in your mouth, and you immediately got hard, because it was so wrong on so many levels, so dirty, but you felt him stir in your mouth. He got hard, you kept at it, and he got hot, and when he came, he grabbed your hair and groaned, "Oh, lord." It was a rush—god, it was a rush, that kind of power. You thought about the way he had gasped to a higher being when you jacked off a half-hour later in a locked bathroom.

What stayed with you wasn't necessarily the memory of the taste of the major's come, although you remember that too. It was the knowledge that you'd reduced a superior officer to a state of desperate need. It was the knowledge that you, your mouth, could do something to this man, this important, busy man, that made him break every rule in the military's big book, that could make him gasp "oh, lord," that could make him spurt in your mouth like that. And there was the knowledge of afterward, when you served coffee at a debriefing two day later, and the major caught your eye and flushed and looked away. You didn't react. You poured coffee and stayed discreetly in the background, because that's what you do. You stay in the background, there with the coffee and the answers and the protocol and the knowledge of who to call for what, indispensable and efficient and virtually invisible because you do your job right, and your job is to make other people look good.

He flushed. You didn't react. And you, the one in control, not him, poured coffee for all the big guns, but you both know: you're the one in charge now, never mind his rank. It's just as good, just as much of a rush, as hearing him call to the lord as you make him come.

***

When you first met Colonel Jack O'Neill, he didn't like you much. But a couple of years went by and circumstances changed, as they so often do. He caught your attention because of SG-1, his team, and their exploits. They were heroes, and they quickly achieved a kind of status reserved for high flyers, for airmen who lived through horrific combat and lived to tell the tale. You admit it: you're among their admirers. It's an unusual team because half of it isn't military, and the presence of an offworlder is definitely out of the ordinary, but they've racked up an impressive number of successful missions with only one casualty, Daniel Jackson, who ended up coming back after a year anyway.

You've got high-level security clearance. You've studied the colonel's record. He's a good soldier—tends to insubordination, but fiercely honest and loyal. He's smart but pretends not to be, and more than one military man has misread him and gotten trapped.

You don't intend to be one of them.

You watch him, and you like what you see. You like the way he looks, the way he thinks, the way he does what he has to do. And you do what you have to do, until you're on the same side of the fence, working together in a crisis situation, until you're one of the good guys, until, heart pounding in fear because this is Jack O'Neill and if you called it wrong you could be busted, you finally get up the nerve to do it, to ask if there's anything else, anything at all, sir, worded, as always, to permit him to say no, to "misunderstand," even though you're kneeling and touching his leg.

He doesn't misunderstand. You watch his eyes. You know it for a certainty a split second before he does.

He doesn't say no.

***

You don't care what they look like. You care that they outrank you, and that their eyes follow you. You're careful about the touching, but you've discovered that touching is a good way to make contact. A brush, a murmured "excuse me, sir" or "sorry, sir," and you watch to see whether you've got their attention.

But what you want is what you've always wanted: a hard cock in your mouth, the man under you incoherent with pleasure, the lunge of the hips, the acrid taste of sperm in your mouth. You dip your head, you lick, you suck, you squeeze hairy balls, and through it all, your own cock throbs, and if he lasts, sometimes you come, just from the feeling, the wicked, dirty feeling, and the taste. You grab his leg to steady yourself, your tongue strokes the glans of his cock, it fills your mouth, hot flesh, taut and shiny and hard, oh yeah, hard, and you let yourself go, give into the delicious wrongness, and spurt in your pants.

You thought that was all you wanted: you on your knees, a superior officer begging for it, the taste of excitement and come and dirtiness mixed together. You thought that was all you wanted until one day, a general you were sucking off pushed you off before he came, then fumbled with your pants and lowered his head, your turn. His lips closed around your cock, and you sank into his mouth. When your orgasm hit, stunningly fast because of your surprise and because it was a rush to incite a superior office to fellatio, it pushed him over the edge. The release felt so good that tears came to your eyes, because you were grateful. He held you in his arms until you both calmed down, and you clung to each other, fully dressed except for pants around knees, lying on the floor of his office after hours. You could feel the desperation of his want, his desire, coming off him in waves. You feared that it was coming off you too: men who wanted other men, who found another man who wanted the same thing, in a situation where you couldn't do anything about it.

You didn't make your offer for a good long while after that, your "is there anything at all you need, sir?" because you knew that until you got control of yourself, it wouldn't be enough. You'd want reciprocity, you'd want to fall off that cliff, you'd want to watch your dick disappear into his mouth, you'd want to come, you'd want to let go of the self-control that allows you to reduce important military men to gasping sensation, you'd want to lie in someone's arms and pretend that you could be lovers, you'd want that connection, and you knew you that it wasn't going to happen. When you make the offer, you both know, without discussing it, without saying a word, that it was a one-way thing: your service, his pleasure. Because that's what you do. Because that's your job.

But you went back to it, as you always knew you would, because you wanted it, the cock in your mouth, the superior officer saying "shit" or "god" or "fuck" or "yes" or "please" or "harder" and coming. And very occasionally, it would happen again: someone would blow you, or jack you off, until it didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to be a desperate search for connection. It didn't have to be about men who wanted other men. All you wanted was the fire of orgasm. That's all.

***

"Mmm," he says, and he sounds so pleased with himself that you have to smile. "Like that," he whispers. "Just like that, Major."

You kiss him again. His short, graying hair feels silky against your palms. His tongue likes to touch yours, and you put your leg around him and his arms are around you, and maybe it's not porn-movie material, lying here nude in your bed in your apartment in D.C., twined together, just kissing, but it's nice. It's more than nice. The porn-movie material stuff has already happened. It's the afterward that porn movies don't like to show.

He likes to touch you. He likes you to touch him. And it's mutual, god, it's mutual, because this is Jack O'Neill, and you thought you wanted him before, when he was just a colonel, just the leader of SG-1, just the hero, but you want him more now, because the colonel was not content with receiving a blow job, with Major Davis on his knees. The first time you sucked him off, he made you come—unusual, sure, but what caught you was the look in his eyes. What hooked you was the fact that he got it, he understood, and he wasn't someone who wanted a blow job, someone who closed his eyes and dreamed that your lips belonged to an overendowed woman, all fake tits and fake hair and shaved pussy.

He wanted what you wanted. You looked at him, he looked at you, and you understood each other perfectly. You were nervous, sure, because you didn't bother hiding how you felt, or your eagerness, and that provides an opening a lot of people are uncomfortable giving. You've played a lot of games—games of power with offworld diplomats, games with the men you choose, games with the power structure you manipulate to get your job done. This wasn't a game. This was too important. The man who'd held you in his arms on the floor of his office, so many years ago, was still married with kids, but the feeling you had then is the feeling you have now: need, for connection.

Now, you say, "Here, Colonel," and indicate your nipple, and he dips his head and licks you, and you feel it to your balls. You moan and he flicks his tongue until you grab his head because it feels damn good. Those hands, those capable hands, stroke your chest as his mouth moves down, and when he closes his mouth around your dick, you open your legs and dissolve into the mattress.

"Oh, fuck," you say as his mouth tightens. You feel your balls squeeze. "Jesus. Harder, sir." All the words you say when someone is getting you off, cliched as hell—you know them all, and now, you can't not say them, because you're hot and hard and throbbing, and his mouth is doing clever, wonderful things. "That's it. Just like that." You watch your wet cock slide in and out of his mouth, and the sight—god. The sensation is pretty good too—more than good, in fact, because he knows what he's doing. You know that he's doing it to please you, that he's paying attention to your response to learn what you like—he, a colonel, a man used to calling the shots, wanting to please a major.

What I need, you think before your brain shorts out and coherent thought becomes impossible. This. This is what I need.

***

What do they think about? you wonder.

You're on your knees, you've got all their power, and they pant and groan. Their hips buck. They pull their cock out, masturbate a few strokes, and thrust it back into your mouth. They squeeze their balls. They gasp "stop," watch you remove your mouth, and then say, "okay, now" to make it last, to stretch it out. They watch you wipe your mouth after they fill it.

Some of the men you choose are clearly straight but not averse to a free blow job when they know they won't get caught. Others are walking the fine line you walk, wanting men badly but not able to do much about it, because "don't ask, don't tell" really translates into "no, just don't go there." Some, you just can't tell.

You imagine that more than a few pretend you're a woman. Sometimes they close their eyes to shut you out. Mostly they just stare into space, or grimace as they try to stay cool, stay collected.

You never close your eyes. You love it all—the strength of their cocks, the power of their position. But mostly you love that you can make a superior officer thrust blindly into your mouth, beyond words, beyond anything but need.

***

You push the button and listen to message one of three awaiting you when you came back from the grocery store with veal and lemons and beer.

"Major Davis, this is Colonel O'Neill. Your secretary, or whoever that very helpful young man was, told me you weren't in today, so sorry to call you at home. I'm going to be a little late to our dinner appointment tonight to go over that budget thing. I'm in meetings all day, so I left my cell at the hotel. I'll leave the Pentagon at, uh, at six-thirty. I'm really sorry about the delay. Thanks."

You hit 3 to delete. Your heart pounds. He's going to cancel. He got sucked into endless meetings and he's going to cancel.

Message number two. The machine informs you that this call occurred about four hours after the first one.

"Um, this call is for Major Paul Davis. This is, uh, this is Daniel Jackson, and I'm calling on behalf of Jack O'Neill. His, uh, he doesn't have his cell phone with him, so he gave me your number before he went into a meeting with—with—well, I don't know who it was with, but General Hammond is in it too, and, uh, Jack told me to tell you that, that he's leaving at five no matter what. Okay? That's the message. He, uh, Jack's really looking forward to meeting with you. Oh, this is Daniel Jackson. Did I say that? Here's my cell number if you need to leave a message for Jack."

Naturally, you have a pen and paper handy. You're that kind of guy, after all. You write it down. You're smiling. Three to delete.

The last message had been left an hour after Dr. Jackson's.

"Major Davis, you seriously need a better answering-machine message." Jack O'Neill's voice. "I told Daniel to call you, but darned if I can find him. I'm on a pay phone. We're on a break. The vice president will not shut up, no surprise there, but I'm leaving at five so forget what I said before about being late. Are you getting any of these messages? Call Daniel's cell. Bye."

You don't push 3. You listen to it again. You can't stop smiling. Then you call Daniel Jackson's cell. His voice mail responds, so you leave a professional-sounding message saying you got the messages, and that you'll expect the colonel at the originally appointed time.

You start to tidy up your apartment. You find yourself humming, because Colonel Jack O'Neill has made your dinner date—ostensibly to go over the budget report—a priority.

You like that. You like that a lot.

***

You worry that because you do what you do, because you enjoy what you enjoy, you're doing something to yourself that is making you into something you don't want to be. Are you really the kind of guy who is content to stay on his knees? Is it about that?

You've decided that yes, it's about that. What you do, you do because someplace deep inside, you want it. You need sexual contact with men. It's not really a stopgap until something better comes along, because you know that as long as you're in the military, nothing better is going to come along. You could cruise, but with your security level, it's a terrible idea.

You've never had a relationship per se with the men you choose. You pick them precisely because you don't want a relationship. You usually pick men on the bases you visit, so you're never there long. Of course, there are only so many Air Force bases, and you get a lot of different assignments, so you end up revisiting the same bases over and over, but it has never been a problem. The men you choose can't afford to be caught any more than you can. Everyone's safe, because no one is. Like civilized men, you all pretend that nothing has happened, and after a while, it becomes reality. And really, if you counted them all out, over the last ten years, there haven't been more than maybe fifteen men all told, because of the risk—a little more than one a year, with some repeats. You remember each one: checking him out, thinking about making the offer, finally making the offer, and then, if all goes to plan, getting on your knees.

But all the care you've taken, all the trouble you've gone to, came crashing down when, two weeks ago, Jack O'Neill pulled you into his lap, because now you dream. You remember the way he kissed you, or you kissed him—sloppy kisses with lots of tongue, but behind the kisses lay sheer desperation. You're afraid to think that you want him for him, not for his rank or his cock. You admire him because he is who he is, but admiration coupled with affection? It's a recipe for disaster, because it's a recipe for love. You know better than that. But hope blooms up inside you, because this time, you don't just want. You need.

And Jack O'Neill called, like he said he would. He was in town for the budget thing, and did you want to meet and go over his report?

Yes. You did. You most certainly did.

***

"You're too quiet," you inform him as you explore his arm, muscular and long and coiled with power as you gently push. He pushes back.

"I'm a quiet guy."

"I don't think so."

"Okay, I'm quiet in this one thing."

"Sir, I don't think so."

"No, really."

Skin soft against your cheek. Round two. Round one had been a sixty-nine on the living room couch, hot and fast and not nearly satisfying enough but you both had to get the anticipation out of your system before you could really pay attention to each other. His fingers curl around yours when you lick his nipple. You feel him sigh when you kiss his collarbone.

"Colonel, I'm afraid I'm going to have to make it a mission." Your tongue swirls against his neck and you feel him laugh. When he came in the living room, he'd just breathed harder—no noise. When you sucked him off, that first time, in his house in Colorado Springs, it had been the same.

"Major, you do that."

You have some ideas. You smile as you roll on top of him and arrange yourself between his legs. You like the way his body feels under your hands, but you also like the way he looks at you: relaxed, content, open. You like the way he calls you "major" even when you're in bed. You can't help but call him "colonel" and "sir," because that's who he is.

And the colonel gasps when you cup and play with his balls, breathes harder when you lick low, low, lower, inhales sharply when you push one of his knees back toward his stomach, and says "oh" when your fingers find his asshole. And when you suck in his cock, when his ass opens to your probing, when you do that, he says, "oh, god," and when you use your finger and your tongue in tandem, he says, "Jesus, Major, you'd better not stop there," and you grab a pillow and the lube, and you smile.

***

"Hello?" you say, trying to sound normal, even though the colonel, propped up on his side, is petting your stomach.

"Hi, this is Daniel Jackson," the voice on the phone says. "Major Davis? Is, um, is Jack there?"

"Yes, sir," you say. You hand the phone to Jack. "It's Dr. Jackson." You start to slide out of the bed to give him some privacy. The colonel stops you with a touch and a look, and you lie back down.

"Yeah, Daniel." You watch as he tilts his head to secure the phone between his head and shoulder. He puts his hand on you again. "Oh, you know. Numbers. Pretty boring, but Major Davis has some insights. I expect we'll be burning the midnight oil. Did you want to bring us some Mexican food, because he missed out last time?" He listens for a bit, then laughs. His hand idly strokes you the whole time. "Daniel, no, no, no, I'd hate to stand in the way of major archaeological breakthroughs. Look, don't wait up, and I won't wait up for you and Dr. O'Connor. How's that? Fine. I'll meet you for breakfast at 0800 in the hotel restaurant. Is that good? Okay. Bye."

He hands you the phone, and you hang it up. "Dr. O'Connor?" you ask.

"Some archaeologist at the Smithsonian." Jack waves away Dr. Jackson and Dr. O'Connor. "But did you hear? Breakfast at 0800, which means that if I get back to the hotel at 0700, I'll have time to shower and shave. I'm guessing you don't mind if I stay?" He says it breezily, but you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "Because I'd like to, if it works for you."

"Stay all night," you say, pulling him into your side. You hadn't dared imagine he could spend the whole night with you. "Does he—does Dr. Jackson know?"

"I have no idea," the colonel says. "He probably suspects." He hesitates, and turns his head so he can look at you. You guess he's going to say something hard for him. "When we did this before—at my place—you said thank you," he says.

You nod.

"So it's my turn. Thank you. I really missed this—the closeness."

You murmur, "Me too."

His hand rests on your chest. "I mean, just so you know. I need this. And I want it with you."

Your heart lifts with hope. "I want it too," you manage. It's not about wanting any more, though. It's about what you need, and what you need is him.

He smiles, and you feel light as a feather. "Okay, good," he says. "Very good, in fact."