Andromeda Streak--Fanish JMTorres
Poison
Closet
Weirds
Me
Out
Title: Space Pants
Author: Juliette Torres juliette_torres@yahoo.com
Series: Andromeda
Pairing: Dylan/Rhade
Spoilers: References to "Under the Night"
Thanks to: kyrre, jcalanthe, and cadetdru.
Disclaimers: Andromeda belongs to Tribune. The phrase "Space Pants" apparently belongs to the Firefly fen.
Rating: Hmm. R for a handjob?

Notes: This is a response to Andromerotica Festival Challenge Scenario #14: Sex without nudity (all clothes remain on). I feel I should say, me taking on a challenge was not a wise thing. I've never been good at staying in the lines, the box, the rules, the adage. Let me give you an example.

When I was seven years old, they were teaching us in school how to compose various different types of writing: action, character, narrative, how-to, description. For one description assigment, we were shown a picture of a mouse in front of an easel, drawing something. We had to fill two pages talking about this. Now, while most of the class was asking itself, how can I show my reader this image, I was asking myself, why is a mouse drawing something?

I drew on my extensive knowledge of mice (Tom and Jerry) and constructed a tale of a mouse diagramming a complex machine full of levers, pulleys, garage door openers and tabasco sauce, which would rid the world of cats. The mouse went on to build and utilize this machine, terrorizing hundreds of felines. It wasn't all description. But it
contained description.

The teacher wrote "F--an action story, not description" in red cursive on it. I was required to peform a remedial descriptive task.

My Andromerotica story, written to fulfill the challenge "Sex with clothes on," very quickly ceased to be about the pants, or even the smut. It turned into a story that was mostly about the dynamic between Dylan and Rhade, how they talked to each other and why they were with each other. It's not all sex with clothes on. But it contains sex with clothes on.

Some part of me expected maryavatar to come back and rate it "F--a narrative, not a PWP" and assign me a remedial smut challenge--but she says it's cool. It turns out that no matter what they tried to teach me in school, more
is better.

----------

Dylan's ass felt bisected in a way that an ass should only feel if wearing a G-string. Not that he was wearing any underwear at all. He wasn't sure anything would have fit between his skin and these pants.

It was uncomfortable, but also good--rather, interesting, Dylan mentally self-edited. And that was a problem in and of itself: if he had a physical reaction to any interesting sensations, the pants would do nothing to conceal it.

Which was another problem. Dylan felt like he was on display. He had always been proud of his body, but this was ridiculous. In particular, Rhade's appraising gazes had been very distracting in a way that directly related to the aforementioned problem with the pants.

"You," Dylan said to Rhade, who was sprawled on the couch, arms spread along the back, his bone spurs making him look like some kind of avenging angel. Dylan was envious. He couldn't sit down in the damn pants. "Were not in proper uniform at the dress rehearsal."

Rhade was, instead, in standard duty uniform--red jacket and khakis. The fact that he looked good in it did not excuse the fact that he should have been in his dress uniform.

"I'm having the seams let out," Rhade replied. "I'll wear it to the actual wedding. I promise."

Dylan raised his eyebrows and asked, with a heavy dose of sarcasm, "You mean to say you couldn't fit in the uniform Admiral Stark had specially tailored to your exact dimensions for the occasion?"

"You didn't notice she ordered them specially tailored two sizes too small?"

Ever the literalist. And of course he noticed. He suspected blood flow had been cut off to most of his extremities. "I'm going to laugh at you," Dylan warned, "if you tell me you couldn't manage to squeeze your ass into it anyway."

"No, I could," Rhade answered. "But my concealed weapons were--" He shifted one his legs slightly, and Dylan, because he knew where to look, caught sight of one edge of the knife under Rhade's left thigh holster. "Less than concealed."

"You were planning to wear concealed weapons to my wedding?" Dylan demanded, his disapproval tempered with amusement at Rhade's habitual paranoia.

"I'm a Nietzschean," Rhade reminded him. "I never go anywhere without at least ten lethal instruments secreted on my body."

"What could possibly happen at my wedding that you would need ten concealed weapons for?" Dylan snorted.

"Sarah could turn out to be a siren from New Rigel IV, and we'd have to stab her before she ate your brain," Rhade suggested. Dylan favored him with a long, incredulous stare. "What? It's a possibility. Remote, I admit, but it pays to be prepared for any contingency, however unlikely."

Dylan thought he heard a tinge of bitterness in Rhade's light tone. "Or maybe you just don't like my fiancée," he retorted.

Rhade, the picture of innocence--false, naturally--gazed up at Dylan and asked, "Why wouldn't I like your fiancée?"

"Rhade, we have to have this discussion sometime." Dylan said, using his tone to indicate that he would make it an order if necessary--but not immediately. While he was standing around in the pants from hell probably wasn't the ideal time for this conversation. He was having a hard time concentrating. Actually, standing around in the pants from hell probably wasn't the ideal time for anything, even getting married. Maybe it wasn't too late to get the seams let out on his own uniform, too. Or maybe he could just accidentally spill coffee on it on the big day and apologetically show up in his dress blacks. "That was what that crap about will you won't you be my best man was about, wasn't it?"

"Just because I'm not fond of the idea of sharing you doesn't mean I have anything against Sarah personally," Rhade replied. His voice was still light, but he was beginning to sound defensive.

Yes, thank you, Dylan thought. It was the first he'd gotten Rhade to touch the subject at all. Dylan had, at one point, developed a nagging worry that because of some inexplicable Nietzschean attitude about sex, Rhade really didn't have any feelings on Dylan's impending marriage and Dylan had been pushing for a reaction that wasn't there. But no, it was there--he was certain he'd heard it. "I can't imagine she'd be fond of the idea either--" he began.

"Which is why we're not telling her, yes, I know," Rhade snapped at him. "I swear, Dylan, if you give me the 'discretion is the better part of valor' speech one more time, I'll--"

Rhade looked away and clenched his jaw, biting back whatever threat he had almost uttered. He seemed almost as surprised at his own outburst as Dylan was. Dylan felt a little relieved, as well, as if he were finding out Rhade was human after all. Rhade, on the other hand, just looked upset.

"Honestly, Dylan, I do know," Rhade went on after he had collected himself. "Any other part of valor is best strenuously avoided by anyone with a regard for his own life, so discreet is all I ever intend to be."

"I... appreciate that," Dylan said tentatively, unsure how to continue.

Rhade stood abruptly, straightening his jacket as he did so. "Have we discussed the matter to your satisfaction?" he asked coldly, clearly intending to leave.

Dylan couldn't let him go, not yet. "I, ah, actually didn't ask you here to talk to you about that."

"No?" Rhade asked, his stiff posture relaxing marginally.

Dylan looked down. Best just spit it out, he supposed. "I can't get out of my pants."

Rhade let out a bark of laughter.

Dylan glared at him. "I'm really annoyed with you, you know," he said. "You're a traitor, abandoning my ass to be the only ass in these ridiculous things. Everybody's going to be staring at it, especially Admiral Stark, probably even after I'm legally her nephew."

"It's your wedding," Rhade retorted pleasantly. "Shouldn't they be staring at your ass, not mine?"

"They shouldn't be staring at anybody's ass," Dylan protested. "It's a wedding!"

"Yes, and? It's a very nice ass," Rhade informed him with a downward glance and an almost hungry smile. "You should be flattered at the attention."

"Why is everything always about sex with you?" Dylan demanded. "Don't answer that. I know. Nietzschean reproductive imperative."

"It's a wedding," Rhade pointed out. "Isn't it already about sex?"

"No!" Dylan said. "It's a formal event." Rhade frowned at him. "You're thinking of the honeymoon," Dylan told him.

"Or possibly the bachelor party?" Rhade suggested.

"No, there will be no sex at the bachelor party," Dylan ordered.

"Then what are the dancing girls for?"

"Fun."

"I see you have euphemisms prepared."

"I mean it, Gaheris, no sex," Dylan insisted. "I'm not going to cheat on Sarah." Guilty pause. "With anyone besides you." And here they were, back at the thorny little tangle he'd made that just hurt more every time you pulled on it. And Dylan didn't know what to do about it.

"We could always stop, you know," Rhade said, turning his head to one side, as if he didn't want to have to witness Dylan's reaction to the suggestion.

"What?" Dylan asked, pulling back. He couldn't believe he'd heard right.

"You assume I wouldn't understand why you want to be monogamous with Sarah," Rhade said gently, "because that's not the way Nietzscheans do things, because I have four wives and you besides. I don't know why you seem to have decided that that was reason enough not to end this, but I wanted to tell you that I would understand."

"Would you?" Dylan asked weakly.

"I understand jealousy," Rhade replied. "I understand possession. I understand that Sarah has both prior and better claim to you than I."

"Better?" Dylan interrupted, startled. "Prior, certainly, but better? I've hardly even seen Sarah in the last three years, except for letters and the occasional shore leave on Tarn-Vedra--but you, I'm with every day."

"Because I'm your executive officer, yes, but I hardly see how that's relevant," Rhade replied, eyebrows slightly raised. "She can give you children, and she has relatives in a position to aid--or hinder--your career. I do call that better claim, Dylan. I don't understand how I, regardless of relative proximity, am worth the risk of her anger and rejection, should she discover us."

"I--" Dylan ran a hand through his hair. "Not proximity, Gaheris. Shared experience. You know things about me that I can never tell her."

Rhade considered this, studying him. "Argosy, you mean."

"Yeah," Dylan agreed.

"You've never considered breaking regulations to confide in her?" Rhade asked.

"She wouldn't understand," Dylan said. "It's not that the work was classified. It's that--she couldn't understand, no matter what I said. But with you, I don't even have to say anything. You can accept the things I've done, because you've done them, too."

"Yes, well," Rhade said, and his mouth quirked, "I have been told my race lacks any kind of moral compass."

"You see?" Dylan asked, and followed Rhade's lead, reaching for a joke to make about the affair. "I need you around to counteract my self-righteous pomposity."

Rhade smiled an acknowledgement, but it was a small, rather forced-looking smile.

Dylan allowed himself to be sober for a moment. "I do want you, Gaheris."

Rhade nodded once, seeming oddly at a loss for words. "As you wish," he said, after a moment. His smile this time was warmer.

"I'm glad that's settled," Dylan said. He was glad--for a minute, he'd really been afraid he was going to lose Rhade. Dylan cleared his throat, almost embarrassed by how much the relationship mattered to him. He went on, "Because I really don't know how I could have asked you to get my pants off me if we'd broken up."

Rhade's smile transformed into a broad grin. "But as matters stand, it is a perfectly acceptable activity," he agreed.

Rhade moved Dylan's left side, where the zipper, blessedly, was located. The admiral must have had some idea of the problems of wearing ridiculously tight pants with no underwear. Rhade laid one hand on Dylan's hip, holding the fabric, and pulled the zipper down with the other.

Dylan felt the waistband loosen slightly, although most of the pants still clung to him, adhered by sweat. Then Rhade leaned closer and traced the sliver of flesh revealed, and he breathed on Dylan's neck, and Dylan turned his head towards that breath, shivering. Dylan's cock hardened, and the front of his pants flapped away from the left side of his body, pushed out by his erection.

"Maybe we should take off your boots," Rhade suggested teasingly, pressing his leg against Dylan's and rubbing his calf, "if we want to get your pants off..."

"Forget the boots," Dylan ordered. "Pants."

Rhade grinned and reached in. As he took hold of Dylan's cock he asked, "Get them off? Or get you off?"

"Me," Dylan said. His eyes were closed and he was leaning on Rhade, slightly.

Rhade obliged, pumping Dylan with his hand, thumbing his foreskin back. The strokes were rough and fast, and Dylan groaned. Rhade rubbed Dylan's ass with his thigh, pulling the pants down between his cheeks. Rhade's hand on him was firm, and Dylan figured that if he came in under a minute, he could argue that the pants had been a six hour exercise in unrelieved arousal.

Rhade had stood awfully close during the rehearsal ceremony.

"You're hot like this," Rhade told him. "I like the uniform... on you, anyway..."

Dylan gasped, and gripped Rhade's arm, and came.

"You've messed up your specially tailored uniform," Rhade scolded him, and kissed his forehead.

"I was trying to think of something to spill on it," Dylan replied, trying to get his bearings back. "I guess I'll just have to get married in my dress blacks now." Disappointment was not evident in his voice.

Rhade chuckled, and pressed a kiss to his ear.

Dylan turned toward Rhade, laughing as well. He put his hand to Rhade's groin. "So tell me, Mr. Nietzschean, is that a concealed weapon in your pocket," he asked. Rhade was grinning widely before Dylan even finished saying, "Or are you just happy to see me?"

"I'm always happy to see you," Rhade said, and kissed him on the mouth, slow and wet and passionate. "However..."

"However?" Dylan demanded.

"However," Rhade repeated, and a klaxon went off, accompanied by verbal orders from Andromeda herself that all crew report to battle stations.

"You didn't," Dylan said with disbelief and despair.

"We've been docked for a week while you prepare for your wedding," Rhade replied loftily. "The crew's been getting bored."

"The crew," Dylan said, "would prefer you let them have some fun instead of scheduling drills every few hours!"

"They should be prepared," Rhade said. "What if we were attacked?"

"The only attack the crew is afraid of is that you'll kick all their asses if they don't jump to."

Rhade snorted.

"And I can't oversee a drill like this!" Dylan added, looking down at his uniform. As well as his own semen splattered on the jacket, there was the unlikelihood of his getting the pants zipped up a second time.

"Here, let me help you out of your pants," Rhade said with a sigh. "If you can get dressed in under a minute, you're sure to be ready before the crew is..."

~the beginning
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