Title: Concord
Author: Zoë Rayne
Series: Chain of Command
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, Sheppard/Dex, Sheppard/Dex/McKay
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3000
Beta: Casspeach
Summary: "I'm just saying that I'm pretty much over being jealous, and I've decided that the two of you together would be hot. That's all." 

"You know, I was thinking—" Rodney had been waiting for the right time to bring it up, but there hadn't really seemed to be a right time, so he'd finally decided just to dive in and hope for the best. He'd figured that during sex would be the best time to bring up fantasies, but that plan was looking less and less like a good one as John tensed above him, exuding artificial calm like he did when a mission went south. Rodney slid his hands down John's back, let his fingers curve around to cup John's ass, and held him in place as he thrust up, their dicks sliding together. John hissed softly, his eyes falling closed, and so Rodney did it again. "I was thinking that you and Ronon together might be kind of hot," he said quickly, taking advantage of John's distraction.

John's eyes flew open and he stared down at Rodney, his expression for once unguarded, and if Rodney had to make a guess he'd say it was some combination of surprise and panic that briefly crossed John's face. "Are you asking—"

Rodney interrupted, "I'm just saying that I'm pretty much over being jealous, and I've decided that the two of you together would be hot. That's all."

There was a moment when Rodney wasn't sure what the reaction was going to be, and then John was kissing him, urgent and needy, and Rodney groaned and arched up again only to be met by John's own downward thrust, perfectly in sync, and at that moment he knew everything was going to be just fine.


It was hot.

Fucking sweltering in point of fact, which was why Rodney wasn't asleep yet. He hated overnight missions, especially ones where he had to share a tent with John, because they were nothing but exercises in frustration. The excessive heat and the near-daytime light levels from the three moons hanging overhead were just icing on the cake of Rodney's bad mood.

He closed his eyes against the brightness, wished that he could close his ears against the quiet murmur of conversation from outside the tent, and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. The nylon shell of the sleeping bag was hot and sticky under him, though, and the prickle of sweat on his face and across his back made him long for the air-conditioned rooms of Atlantis. The soft voices moved closer to the tent, and Rodney forced his body to relax, letting his breathing even out in the hopes that John would think he was already asleep; he wasn't in the mood for conversation, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to watch John get undressed, knowing that he couldn't touch.

Everything was made more surreal by the oppressive heat; even the sound John unzipping the tent flap was oddly muffled and distorted. 

"McKay?" Ronon's voice was soft and low and completely unexpected. 

Rodney was about to answer when John said, "Don't worry about him; he can sleep through an earthquake." There was a pause, and Rodney could imagine Ronon waiting silently until John finally broke under the weight of The Look. "Really, we're cool."

It took until he heard the rustle of both of them pushing past the tent flap and then the zipper sliding closed again before Rodney figured out the full meaning of the exchange (he blamed it on the heat; like a high-end microprocessor, his brain required cooler temperatures for optimal functioning), and even then he couldn't quite believe it. Jesus, Teyla was just outside, on watch. But the quiet noises that filled the tent—the muffled thud of boots dropping to the ground and the susurration of cloth against skin—left little room for doubt.

If the idea of John and Ronon together had been a turn-on, the reality of it was exponentially more so.

The sounds of movement shifted until they were beside him, and Rodney risked peeking out through his lashes. John was lying on his back on his own sleeping bag, propped up on his elbows, more comfortably casual in his nudity than Rodney could ever hope to manage. Ronon was just dropping from the awkward crouch required by the tent's low ceiling into a kneeling position, his gaze downturned. 

"Here." John slid a small container of lube across the floor of the tent, his aim landing it up against Ronon's knee. "Prep yourself, and then me."

Rodney could have sworn he didn't make a sound, but he must've done something because Ronon's head turned and Rodney froze under his gaze, not even daring to breathe. Slowly, a faint smile crossed Ronon's lips and he winked at Rodney then turned his attention to the tub of lube. John was twisted around so he could reach the pack at the head of his sleeping bag and it didn't seem like he had even noticed the exchange, but Rodney's heart was still pounding loud enough that he was surprised Teyla couldn't hear it all the way outside.

Rodney was cautious for another minute, watching Ronon slick himself up with the homemade lube—he was really going to have to start packaging it and selling it on the Atlantis black market, because if everyone was going to use it, he might as well be getting something tangible out of the deal. By the time Ronon tore open the condom packet, though, it was pretty obvious that John was far too engrossed in events on his own side of the tent to notice even if Rodney were openly watching.

So Rodney did: he took in the way John's head fell back when Ronon straddled him and slowly lowered himself onto John's dick; he paid careful attention to the curve of Ronon's shoulder and the sheen of sweat across his chest and the flex of his thighs; he filed away every move that drew a groan from John or made his fingers tighten on Ronon's hips or had him arching up to follow Ronon's retreating body. 

Dick aching, Rodney thrust down into the cushion of his sleeping bag, the slick nylon providing frustratingly little friction against the cotton of his boxers. God, he needed more friction, needed to get off, but watching was good, really really good, and he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. Then John wrapped his hand around Ronon's dick, stroking in counterpoint to Ronon's movements, and said, "Come for me." 

Rodney's eyes closed and he made an involuntary sound at the back of his throat. 

The last few weeks had been so odd, so full of the unexpected, that he'd completely forgotten why he'd brought the collar back from Olesia in the first place, forgotten that he'd originally planned to wear it for John. He remembered now, though, as John's order went straight to his dick, making him want things he only half understood, almost making him come on the spot. He took a deep breath then opened his eyes to a tableau that was straight out of the really good gay porn: Ronon, still slowly fucking himself on John's dick, his body tense and trembling, head tipped back and lips parted as John coaxed the last of his orgasm from him. When Rodney finally dragged his gaze upward, he found John's attention focused not on Ronon but on him, hazel eyes unsurprised, lower lip caught between his teeth in an expression Rodney instantly recognized as "John, mid-climax." Rodney licked his own lips and rolled onto his side, sliding a hand into the front of his boxers and hoping to finally be able to get a little relief. 

John shook his head slightly. "Ronon," he said, not taking his eyes off Rodney. "Think you could help McKay out?"

"Sure." Ronon shifted up and off of John, the movement more graceful than Rodney would've thought possible, and then he was kneeling at Rodney's side, his attention still focused on John. "Your orders or his?"

Rodney looked between the two of them, stunned. "Don't I get a say in this?" John propped himself up on his elbows and raised his eyebrows incredulously. Rodney had to admit that he had a point; no sane person would turn down sex with Ronon. "Oh, fine," he said, rolling the rest of the way onto his back. "Whatever."

"Mine," John told Ronon, and Rodney could feel his pulse speed up at the words. Beside him, Ronon looked like the perfect soldier, calmly poised and awaiting orders. "I want him to come," John continued, "but not too quick. Make him feel good and make it last. Other than that?" He shrugged. "It's up to you."

Ronon grinned and reached for the lube, but John shook his head and Rodney wasn't sure whether the sudden twist in the pit of his stomach was relief or disappointment. "Not that," John said, and his voice was hard. 

The ghost of a frown creased Ronon's forehead, and then cleared. "I wouldn't," he said. "He's yours; I know that." 

This time Rodney was pretty sure it was indignation he was feeling, and embarrassment that was flooding his face with heat. "Sorry to interrupt your little power games," he cut in, not at all sorry in fact, "but 'he's yours'? Do I look like June Cleaver? I—" But John had crawled across the space between their sleeping bags and was leaning down to kiss him, stopping the flow of words with his own mouth, and when one of John's hands brushed across his nipple, Rodney forgot what he'd been going to say in the first place.

"No one thinks they own you, Rodney," John said as he pulled away. "Sure as hell not me." Rodney could hear the lie, but he could also hear that John was trying to convince himself as much as anyone, and so he was willing to let it slide for the moment. "Chalk it up to cultural differences and let the nice man get you off, okay?"

Rodney relaxed, at least as much as he could under the circumstances. "Yeah, okay." He let John help him tug his tee-shirt off and then he tossed it aside.

"Trust me, McKay," Ronon said, urging Rodney's hips up to slide his boxers off—and if Rodney had realized someone other than John was going to see them, he wouldn't have worn the ones with pink and red hearts on them—before settling himself between Rodney's knees. Rodney had noticed Ronon's hands before, in an abstract kind of way, but it was entirely different to have them sliding, all long-fingered and dexterous, against his overheated skin. 

John's hands were on him, too, absently stroking his shoulder and arm even as John's gaze was locked on where Ronon was sliding his palms up Rodney's thighs, urging them apart, thumbs stroking along the cleft of his ass and making his dick twitch in response. Ronon leaned forward, licked and then sucked gently on a spot at the join of Rodney's hip and thigh, and Rodney groaned.

"Fuck. Can you order him not to be such a tease?" he asked. He could feel the quiet rumble of Ronon's laughter against his skin, but John's only answer was a smirk and light fingertips across his nipple. 

Sitting back on his heels, Ronon looked Rodney up and down like he was trying to figure out where to start, how to most effectively torment him. The jut of Ronon's dick—hard again, or maybe still—caught Rodney's attention, and he remembered with nostalgia being young enough that "recovery period" was just a phrase with no personal significance attached. 

John must have followed the direction of his gaze, because he said, "Ronon, come up here and let Rodney suck you," and Rodney found himself making another one of those surprised, needy sounds that would've been embarrassing if he weren't so incredibly turned on.

"Sixty-nine," Rodney got out as Ronon shifted to obey John's order.

John nodded, licking his lips in what Rodney was pretty sure was an unconscious gesture. When Ronon raised a questioning eyebrow, John explained the concept in a voice rough with arousal, and the monosyllabic Anglo-Saxon words—suck and fuck and mouth—fell from John's lips, harsh and abrupt like the staccato rhythm of sweat-drenched flesh on flesh, like the rough and intimate cadence of fucking. By the time Ronon moved into position, knees on either side of Rodney's head and his dick bobbing gently above Rodney's nose, Rodney was desperate for it. From this close, Ronon's dick looked huge and the drop of precome welling up at the tip made Rodney's mouth water. He reached up to touch, to bring Ronon in close enough to taste, but Ronon batted him away and leaned forward to brace himself on one hand, his breath hot on Rodney's aching dick. 

Nearly trembling with the effort, Rodney held himself still and waited.

He could see John out of the corner of his eye, watching with an intensity that looked almost like hunger, and somehow knowing that John wanted—needed—as much as he did made it easier for Rodney to restrain himself, to exercise a patience that was usually beyond him. Ronon reached down and angled his dick into Rodney's mouth, slid it down Rodney's throat with a slow thrust, and Rodney let sense-memory guide him, welcoming the familiar hot and slick and hard against his tongue.

"Jesus." John's voice was hoarse, breathy, and the sound of it made Rodney want to yield. He closed his eyes and opened his throat and swallowed, taking Ronon as deep as he could, timing his own breathing to match each brief retreat. 

It was easy enough to fall into the rhythm Ronon set but it left Rodney feeling oddly disconnected, breathe and suck and swallow becoming his mantra, and the friction between his mouth and Ronon's dick his only touchstone. Then he felt fingers brush across his own, and he let John take his hand, tangling their fingers together, and John's thumb was rubbing gently against his wrist, expanding his world again. 

Even so, Ronon's mouth on his dick was unexpected, enveloping him in wet heat and sending sparks of sensation radiating outward until his fingers and toes were tingling with it. He brought his free hand up to slide first along Ronon's side then down over the flexing muscles of his flank and thigh, each touch adding another stroke to the picture he was painting against the black of his closed eyelids. Ronon's palm flattened against the hollow of his hip, thumb pressing against the base of his dick and fingers curling over his hipbone in a light caress before shifting to trace a path along the crease of his thigh, behind his balls and down, teasing lightly across his hole.

The unfamiliar touch sent shivers through him, and all he could think was yes, please, because the idea had been lingering tantalizingly at the back of his mind from the moment Ronon had first knelt between his legs. The idea wasn't new to him, but for the first time he felt something more than ambivalence when confronted with it; something very much more, in fact, as his imagination helpfully supplied a breathtakingly graphic picture of Ronon's long, elegant fingers glistening wetly as they pushed inside him and he couldn't help but moan at the mental image. 

Ronon shuddered against him then pulled away suddenly. Rodney opened his eyes, confused, to find that Ronon was coming, striping his chest with it, and for a moment his disappointment was almost a tangible ache. Then John's fingers tightened on his and he turned his head to find John watching him, cheeks flushed and eyes dark, and Rodney wondered what exactly he was seeing, what he was thinking. 

Almost without breaking his rhythm, Ronon shifted to the side so that he was no longer straddling Rodney but lying beside him on the sleeping bag, one hand reaching across for the lube John was holding out. When it finally came, the slick tease followed by the gentle press of a fingertip was almost too much for Rodney's already over-stimulated nerves to handle, and then suddenly it wasn't nearly enough. He wanted more, harder and deeper.

"God, Ronon, just do it," he snapped—or at least tried to snap, but it came out sounding more like pleading than anything.

Ronon obeyed, though the rumble of laugher against the head of Rodney's dick was almost enough to undo him.

John leaned close. "Good?" he asked, and Rodney answered by pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss that said "yes" and "thank you" and maybe a little bit of something else that Rodney wasn't ready to put into words just yet. He felt the smile against his mouth as John said, "Cool. Then maybe I can fuck you sometime."

Rodney came, hard.


It was still sweltering, but Rodney didn't particularly care anymore.

Ronon, his usual faintly amused smile replaced by a faintly smug one, had stretched, announced that it was his turn to take watch, then pulled on his pants and slipped out of the tent. Now John was curled lightly against Rodney's back, leaving just enough space between them that the heat wasn't quite unbearable, and Rodney was more relaxed than he could remember having been in forever.

"Was it as hot as you thought it would be?" John's words were soft, spoken into Rodney's shoulder, and if Rodney had been any more asleep he wouldn't have heard them at all.

Reaching down, he tangled his fingers together with John's where they were pressed against his stomach. "Hotter," he said.

fait accompli

A/N: An eternity ago, someone wrote comment fic where Ronon fucks John in a tent off-world, with Rodney sleeping beside them; at the time I asked for (and received) permission to steal the scenario, but it's been so long that I've completely forgotten from whom. If it was you, please remind me so I can credit you!

Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were...well, let's just say they wouldn't have much time for missions.


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