aesc | haute couture

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haute couture

John Sheppard has this tie. You must read the ad copy, because it's awesome.

from

vintage_ads

He picked it up at a small curio/junk shop when he was stationed out in the middle of nowhere and going insane from boredom, because hey, it was cool and when he thought about it, it was pretty swank.

Unfortunately, most women didn't see it that way and anti-tieness was one of the major strikes against Nancy when they got engaged--Nancy even went so far as to tell him that under no circumstances would he wear it around her, with "under no circumstances will you wear it ever" strongly implied. But the drink dumped in his lap, the drink thrown in his face, or Nancy's inclusion of the tie in the prenup failed to shake his faith in the essential swankness of his tie.

So that brings us to now, when the tie becomes a crucial element in his seduction of Rodney McKay. You know that's what happens.

.eta: This possibly gives new meaning to "glowy sex" *muses*

In other news: New Hewlett icon! \o/

And, for those of you still around or just tuned in, model!John and reporter!Rodney improv with

siriaeve.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John's mouth quirks up into an odd, lopsided grin; Rodney doesn't get the impression he's terrifically amused by anything. "What do you mean, that?" he says, turning back to switch off the grill and throwing the now slightly charred steak into the trash. Rodney feels a slight twinge of regret because, well, steak. "Cook badly?"

"Yes, it's exactly that kind of pretend obliviousness which is going to serve you well in this interview." Rodney rolls his eyes, before hopping off the table and following John away from the kitchen towards a patch of neatly-tended lawn that's bathed in sunlight.

Rodney sits down cross-legged, but John sprawls out on his back, wriggling his shoulders against the grass like he's trying to get more comfortable. John squints up at that peculiarly flat, blue Californian sky, and this close to, Rodney can see the network of tiny, fine lines around his eyes, creasing skin that Rodney's sure would feel soft to the touch.

He's never been very good at this kind of interview, truth be told--investigative journalism, yes; digging up evidence and bludgeoning his subjects with the force of undeniable fact, yes--but finding that rich seam that lies between personal and public, the place where all the most human stories lie--he's never been much good at that. Rodney looks down at John for a long moment, considering. This is the guy who went from cotillion in Virginia to the Air Force Academy to runways in Milan; the guy whose face looked down at Rodney from no fewer than three billboards when he drove down Santa Monica on the way here; who gained more notoriety from that "College football, ferris wheels and things that go more than two hundred miles" crack than Linda Evangelista ever did with her talk of not getting out of bed for anything under ten grand.

Rodney tosses his notebook over his shoulder, and clears his throat when that makes John tilt his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Okay," he says, "We're going to start from the beginning, I'm going to ask only the questions I need to ask, you're going to answer me honestly. Or," he tilted his head, "as honestly as you can, whichever, and we'll come out of this with an article which'll make the front page and make that publicist of yours faint. What do you say?"

"I say...." John trails off in a huff of breath. "I say you're too goddamn persistent for your own good, McKay."

"I've been told that before," Rodney says, and John laughs, a terrible, unattractive braying laugh that seems startled out of him.

When John recovers, after a hiccoughing har har that grates against Rodney's eardrums, he slants a look at Rodney, eyes squinted against southern Califiornia sun.

"Front page, huh?"

Rodney nods.

John turns back to the sky, laces his fingers across his belly. Rodney firmly ignores the sudden desire to trace out the grain of the hair on John's torso, run with it down to the border of denim. "Shoot," John says, not looking at him, and Rodney's so caught up in not wanting that he needs a moment to process John's just given him permission.

(Permission to ask questions, not to... to ogle like the billions of fan's he's acquired, Rodney tells himself. But John doesn't seem to mind him looking, and the open sprawl of him on the grass seems to invite it.)

"What... after your life, your background, I guess, what made you decide to do this?"

It's a standard question and one he knows John's answered before, but he holds his breath as John's forehead furls in consideration. He knows the answer, It looked like fun, and I wanted to try something new, and thought why the hell not?

"I was angry," John says at last. He blinks, quickly closes his eyes again, as though surprised at his response. "I was pretty pissed off at everything. The world in general."

And yeah, Rodney gets that. On the good days, it's irritation; on the bad, it's something else.

"Only pretty pissed off?" Rodney says softly. "I've seen your senior yearbook, you know. You seemed pretty set on the Academy--uno ab alto as your motto and buzz-cut and all that--and everyone in your year seemed sure you'd succeed. Then four years later you turn up out of nowhere and do that photo shoot with Chaya Sar in Milan, and all of a sudden everyone's spouting hyberbole about you as the first male supermodel."

John snorts softly, shrugging his shoulders loosely in a gesture which speaks eloquently of the fact that he's heard all this before and doesn't particularly care to get into it all again.

"Which made me--" Rodney tugs at the grass with one hand, pulling up individual blades one by one, "You know, I looked at your Wikipedia article before I came over here. Some particularly, uh, devoted fan has cited about fifteen different interviews with you where you say that you took up modelling because, and I quote, you kind of like it. You are quite demonstrably not stupid, so I'm not buying an answer that facile. What are you getting out of this?"

"This, for a start." John gestures absently to the opulence of architecture and water.

"You could have had this growing up."

"If I'd stayed in the family business," John corrects. He sits up, a flow of muscle that dries Rodney's mouth, curls his legs under him, mutters something about how lying down felt like being on a fucking psychiatrist's couch. "My dad wanted my brother and I to run the family store, you know? I didn't want to be tied down. You know?" When he turns to face Rodney again, shadows run across his eyes, obscuring them, but John seems strangely open.

"I've never been good about doing what people tell me to do," Rodney offers, which is true enough.

"That's what they say." John plays with the grass, plucking at a few stems; their little bit of lawn, except for the two of them, is immaculate, the grass so evenly cut Rodney suspects the gardener must have used a laser level. "I read your Wikipedia article too."

"I have one?" Actually he knows this, and is pretty sure Radek and Laura are behind a lot of it, and probably Sam. She's almost as good as walking the libel/sedition line as he is. But, Rodney thinks with pride, she never got banned from the White House press room for the duration of a president's tenure.

"People who tell the President that exile to Elba would be a great way to finish out his term usually do." The smile riding John's lips is playful now; when he lifts his head, Rodney can see that same teasing, uncovered, in hazel. "That's one of my favorite Daily Show clips."

Rodney takes a moment to preen and imagine that John's interest in him isn't purely intellectual before reminding himself they need to get back on track, and really, John hasn't answered him.

"And traveling," John says abruptly. "It isn't really... Fuck. It's moving, you know. I hate staying still."

"Two hundred miles an hour," Rodney murmurs, and John's smile this time is relief.

There's silence for a moment, before Rodney smirks a little and says in a mock serious voice, "Is this where I ask you if it's the destination or the journey?" He stresses his words in that pseudo-empathic way he's heard Heightmeyer use when she's interviewing the latest C-Lister looking for their fifteen minutes of fame after their even briefer period of time spent in rehab.

John's smile broadens a little, and next thing Rodney knows, John's throwing a handful of plucked grass at his head. Blades of grass catch in his hair and go into his mouth and one even, improbably, flies up his nostril. Rodney spits, gracelessly, and mumbles "Oh, because that's mature."

John squints over at a red bougainvillea nearby and then says, out of nowhere, "Bit of both, actually.

"The travelling or the destination thing," he says, when he sees the raised eyebrow Rodney shoots at him. "I like moving. Love it. But with this, I get to see all kinds of places I'd never have time to see if I'd stayed. That shoot in New Zealand... but that Snake River Canyon one, that one was awesome. You know I got to ride one of Knievel's actual bikes for that one?" John looks back over at Rodney, and his expression is strangely youthful, lit-up at the edges, and for a moment it's like looking back in time at that boy with the mess of dark hair and the open-guarded expression that had caught the world's imagination.

"Awesome," Rodney replies softly, but his tone is nowhere near as sarcastic as it could be.

"Yeah." John's leaning toward him, one hand planted on the grass to support his weight. "It was pretty great," and in those words there's nothing of the polished confidence that had greeted Rodney and Radek at the door.

Rodney fights not to lean in, but John is brilliant and magnetic, the expression on his face nothing like the one that had gazed down on Rodney from thirty feet above the highway. It's something that hasn't seen a photo shoot or a runway, something new, not for you, not for you, he reminds himself, except that he wants it to be.

His hand is right there, he could reach out and touch John's hand, except there's touching and then there's touching, like looking and looking, and he really has no idea where the line is between those things, between being the guy who stares at and gropes something pretty and the guy who, unsure, can't look away, and when he does touch, doesn't know what to do.

"I..." He licks his lips, so sexy, McKay, and thinks about saying something about how it really isn't ethical for journalists to kiss/have intimate relations with the people they're interviewing, and he has a slight grass allergy, instead of, "You're... I want..."

John shifts closer, looking up at Rodney from underneath the heavy fringe of dark hair, and Rodney's allergies must be flaring up, because all of a sudden it's perilously hard to breathe.

"Off the record, McKay?" John says conversationally.

"Uh huh," Rodney replies thickly, hoping against hope that he's not staring at the curve of John's lower lip and despairingly realising that that's what he's doing anyway. "What?"

And John reaches up with one grass-stained hand to cup Rodney's cheek, and then he's pulling him closer and kissing him. His mouth is intimate and warm, and when his tongue curls around Rodney's, Rodney moans.

The breath of John's soft laughter is warm too, and the fingers stroking, pressing Rodney's cheek are silent agreement, and Rodney chases his own breath back into John's mouth, a nip to the damp curve of his lower lip. Leaning in he needs balance, and finds it in threading his fingers through John's, so they press firmly into soft dirt. The skin under his fingers is rougher than he expected, faint calluses, strength when John twines their fingers together like there's never going to be any letting go.

John licks the questions from Rodney's mouth, and the sudden assertion of muscle against his chest, the curve of John's body into his, are answers that are so, so far beyond words.

Rodney hiccups softly when John pulls back just a little, an unexpected exhalation of breath that's matched by John's soft shhh against his mouth. "Okay," Rodney whispers, and kisses him again; slower this time, and inexorable, because his eyelids feel heavy, his limbs leaden, all of him feeling as if he's being pulled by a strange new gravity into John Sheppard's bright orbit.

John slides his free hand around to curl at the nape of Rodney's neck, calluses snagging in the fine hair there, rough against soft skin, and Rodney shivers. Against him, he can feel John tremble in response, once and hard, before he's being pressed back against the manicured lawn and John's propping himself up over head him, a dark shape silhouetted by the sun and outlined by the cloudless sky.

Rodney lies there and squints up at him. "Can I ask you a question?" he says. "Off the record."

John shudders again, not precisely arousal but not precisely fear, and it's a bit late, Rodney thinks for either of them to back off now.

"Is this..." It's the question that will probably send John running back inside, or will make John punch him. It's the question no one's asked but everyone's speculated about, the one he can't write down. "Is this why you left?"

"Old history," John says, shadow of bitterness and regret in his voice, but his hand stays, stays, stays on Rodney's neck. "But yeah."

"Okay then," Rodney says, "For the record? I highly approve of your decision making abilities."

John huffs out a laugh, but doesn't look like he's about to get back to the kissing right away, which is the kind of shoddy prioritising that Rodney just doesn't hold with. "Approve of your decision making, but not your time management. C'mere." He wraps both arms around John's back, sliding his palms along warm skin that's slick with summer sun and arousal, and presses him closer.

"Okay then," John says softly, near-sarcastically, and comes, smooth smooth under Rodney's hands, a slow settling of muscle and weight between Rodney's legs and along his chest.

John kisses him, kisses like he isn't sure this is happening, something not done in so long--that kind of desperation, this complete giving-over that makes Rodney go dizzy and breathless, and his heart thump weirdly in his chest. Beautiful people aren't supposed to go without this--being able to smell the humid curve of neck, explore what lies hidden by clothing--they're supposed to have it all the time, and Rodney's had years to get used to this fact.

Only there's nothing smooth about John, not much practiced, no perfection beyond neglected stubble and a soft, needy sound to answer Rodney's palm against his chest. Rodney shifts up, shudders as John's breath drops a notch into a groan that comes up from somwhere deep.

Rodney's button-down, and the worn green shirt beneath it, come up and off, tangling briefly around his wrists before John flings them away to land somewhere in a distant patch of shrubbery. "Hotel," Rodney protests briefly, suddenly, shockingly aware that he's half-naked with the hottest human being he's ever seen; that they're rutting up against one another, John's denim-clad thigh pressed in between his own, right out where anyone can see them.

John's grin is wicked, and he presses it against Rodney's mouth, the line of his jaw, scrapes his teeth against Rodney's stubble. "The agency's paying these guys five grand a day, Rodney. The concierge could stumble across me doing coke from a Russian hooker's bare ass, and he'd just blink and ask me if I wanted a higher denomination bank note to snort with."

Rodney stares at him. "That's, uh..."

"Not what you're used to?" The question, and John's tongue, is slick and sly against Rodney's earlobe.

"That's one way of putting it." In some things, John might as well be from another galaxy. He knows about Russian hookers, he maybe knows one or two, about coke (Rodney still can't think of his one joint without shuddering, or the munchies), about how exactly, wonderfully perfect it is when he rolls his hips hard against Rodney's, trapping both their cocks in hot, overwhelming pressure, grind up sending shocks up Rodney's spine.

"Fuck," he whispers, tells himself to get over it, this isn't anything new, it's sex. Only it is, and it isn't, as he gets a hand between them, under John's jeans, the edge of denim harsh on his wrist. A moan catches, breaks in John's throat when Rodney works a palm against him, so so hot, hard, eyes shut and god.

"Is, is this a modelling thing?" Rodney says, grunting as John bites down hard on the soft skin of his shoulder, coaxes a mark to the surface with sharp teeth and sharper tongue.

"Hmm?" John says, pulling back to inspect his handiwork. He mustn't be quite happy with what he sees, because he drops his head and rubs his stubble against the reddening skin. Rodney's hips buck up helplessly, because this, this--

"The not wearing of underpants," Rodney continues when he's got enough air in his lungs to form words, though he's not so sure about higher brain function just now. "Don't get me wrong, I'm seriously not objecting here, but doesn't that--I mean, right now with the chafing?"

John sits back on his heels, his weight balanced right over Rodney's thighs, and the look he's got on his face now is close kin to the expression he wore in that ad campaign which got banned in several Middle Eastern countries. "You might have a point," John says, "I suppose there'll have to be a physical exam, make sure there's no real damage?" He flicks open the top button of his jeans, oh so slowly, revealing another stretch of flat stomach, the first crisp curls of pubic hair.

Rodney lets his head drop back against the grass once, hard, just so that he doesn't come from the promise held in that flick of the finger alone.

Distantly, Rodney supposes that in this case maybe the button-up fly is a good thing, but the thought, almost everything, seems distant, pushed far away by John straddling him, sliding a considering finger under the new opening of his jeans. Rodney's pulse pounds in the fresh mark on his shoulder, throbs hard and low in his belly, his cock.

"Seems okay," John says, "but just to be sure..." and pops another button, fine shudders running all up and down his body, soft and ardent fuck when he manages the third and fourth and pushes the jeans down sinuous hips.

One long stroke of John's palm up his cock and it has them both gasping, experimental curl of John's fingers around the head.

"Feels okay," John mutters, voice sex-thick, quicksand reaching out to pull Rodney down, "but maybe you should see."

Rodney strokes him slowly, helpless to do anything other than look down at the sight of John's cock pushing itself in and out of his fist, making his grip just loose enough that he knows that John's pleasure's got to be coming more from anticipation than anything else. He's getting off on the thoughts of what they could to together, on the anticipation of Rodney working him harder and faster; and when John's head drops back on his shoulders, when he moans, low and guttural, Rodney does too.

"You know," he says, trying to make his tone as casual as it can be for all that his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse, "If this was going to be a proper investigation--uh, in-depth, as it were--an oral examination is probably required."

And whatever he's doing to John has pushed him past anything more than a grunt and a hard thrust that takes him past the hand Rodney has on his hip to steady him. Fuck yes John manages, and Rodney's fingers slip on flesh and denim, falling into place on the curve of John's ass to pull, pull, pull like John doesn't get the idea.

Which he does, he so does, touching his cock, then Rodney's face with sticky fingertips, helps Rodney up, helps him focus, and when Rodney licks across the head it's salt-heat-over-fucking-whelming, the weight and taste and feel of him. The one drag of breath he manages smells like John, surrounds Rodney with him. John's hand cups the back of his head, his neck, absent and encouraging when he rubs circles at the base of Rodney's skull.

It's sensory overload, and dimly Rodney's aware of his body, his mind, parsing each thing individually so that it's bearable, comprehensible--the clean lines of John's hips under his palms, moving with the thrusts of him; the breeze carrying the scent of fresh sweat and grass and flowering bougainvillea; sun heating his shoulderblades and the nape of his neck as he bends to his task; the distant sound of traffic and the low, bitten-off moans that John is making; salt taste and raw-silk feel of him on Rodney's tongue; the sight of him seen this close, blurred and too-sharp, distinct, his own thing.

The one thing he can't parse is whatever's in John's eyes, way too much in them for Rodney to figure out for all they're blown black and glassy and staring straight down into him. That's John's own, maybe, for all he's given his body to Rodney's hands. But Rodney tries, tries as he grips John's ass, fingers snaking around, down, in, playing the tight heat of his entrance, the slick-sensitive skin behind his balls, press up with an index finger, enough of a promise that John shudders and snaps, surges forward with a broken cry.

"Oh, Jesus," John gasps, "Oh god," his eyes widening in something like surprise, and he pushes back against Rodney's finger. Something sparks off inside Rodney in sympathy at that--he knows the kind of raw burn that brings, how good it has to feel--and he presses in, deeper; crooks his finger; takes John's mouth in a messy kiss and drinks in all the small cries of John's pleasure as he comes.

It's almost enough, at the border of being too much, John a shaking heat around Rodney's finger and his come all over Rodney's chest. John places a hand over Rodney's racketing heart, to brace himself as his thighs give way and ease him back to earth, to Rodney, who whimpers.

"You got..." John lifts his hand and inspects it, sticky white strands tangled around his fingertips.

"You got," Rodney manages, and almost breaks when John licks his fingers, offers them to Rodney, a teasing slide in and out over Rodney's tongue.

Rodney swirls his tongue around John's fingertips once, lightly, and feels John move as if to pull away, to slither bonelessly down Rodney's body. But Rodney doesn't want him to move, wants this--the taste and feel of John in his mouth--any way he can get it, and he tugs John's hand back, sucks hard and rhythmically on John's fingers. The taste is salt-bitter harsh on his tongue and Rodney moans, wanting more of it; wants to go back down on John again and suck him mindlessly, the head of John's cock bumping gracelessly against the back of his throat while he looks up at John from beneath lashes that can't stay open.

"Rodney," John whispers, breathless, and the shocky pleasure in John's voice is enough to have Rodney's hips canting upwards as he comes and comes, wet and hot inside his jeans.

Some tight thing in his spine unwinds, curls again in the hand John has pressed against his cock, pushing, encouraging the last of his orgasm from him. He pulls his fingers from Rodney's mouth, circles them wetly around a nipple, bends his head to blow across it so pleasure stretches out thick and heavy like the air that carries high desert heat and flowers.

Rodney shudders back to himself and John's weight on top of him, John licking lazily up his chest, his neck, licking back into his mouth again so there's nothing else to breathe and taste but John, and nothing to think but John fuck, oh god, this is perfect. And when John pulls back satisfaction lids his eyes and pulls a slow smile from him, one Rodney answers hesitantly.

Seriously, so much love.

haute couture

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