haute couture

[aesc]

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.

Comments

[siria]

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.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

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.

[not-sally.livejournal.com]

Seriously, so much love.

[siria]

"So," he says. "Um." He's suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he's lying on his back on a lawn with a gorgeous, half-naked man lying on top of him and his own come growing sticky and cold inside his boxers. None of this feels as uncomfortable as it should--not with John's hand stroking warm along his side, curving to meet the still-stuttering rise and fall of his ribs; not with his thighs pressed tight against the poke of John's hips--but it's awkward in a way Rodney's never felt before. Even through his satiation, he's conscious of the desire to roll John over, press him down onto the sweet grass and to kiss him and kiss him just for the sake of the sweet heat of John's mouth against his own.

He blinks. John's still smiling down at him, but even as Rodney watches him, there's a hint of wariness creeping into that expression. He's hesitated too long. "Rodney?"

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"Um, yes," Rodney manages. "Yes, that's my name."

Amusement doesn't wash away that wariness; instead, it only sharpens the dark, hesitant mistrust in John's eyes. The sudden skip in Rodney's heart has nothing to do with extremely satisfying, athletic sex--no, recognition's put it there, the realization that he's broken his own speed record for repelling someone. When John rocks back on his heels, body brushing warm and tense inside the brackets of Rodney's thighs, his knees, Rodney wants to reach out; when John looks away, mouth thin and forbidding, Rodney, for the first time ever, has no idea what to say.

"I'm not," he mutters, licks lips that are inexplicably dry.

"Rodney?" John makes an exasperated noise.

"Used to this," Rodney finishes lamely. This earns him a you've-got-to-be-shitting-me look, something that shouldn't look so hot, disbelieving twist of lips that are still kiss-swollen and damp. "To really hot sex. In the daylight. With someone--someone..." He waves a hand and hopes John gets the idea.

"...You're supposed to be interviewing?"

[siria]

"Yeah," Rodney says, relieved, because that, that covers a whole multitude of sins--says that he's had sex with someone he was supposed to be purely professional with; says that he was supposed to be coaxing out John's secrets, when all he did was show the qualities of his own vulnerabilities, the form of his own need. "Well, no, I mean--with anyone. But with you, you're--" He reaches out to John with the fingers of one hand, almost but not quite touching all that bare, Indian summer skin. "I'm not used to feeling like the hostile interview would have been the safer option," he finishes eventually, lamely, hoping that he's saying what he means because he's swiftly finding that with John, all his words turn to cliches.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"Oooo-kay," John drawls. He stays where he is, hands resting on Rodney's knees, peering Rodney in a way that makes him wonder if this is how politicians and CEOs feel when faced with Rodney McKay and his battery of painful questions. And Rodney knows John's smart--anyone who's lasted this long in the spotlight without giving up any of his secrets has to be--but it's in what way he's smart that decides how he's going to read what Rodney can't even begin to understand himself.

It occurs to him that John might have used this--them, sex--to keep his own secrets back, on the theory that giving up something else would be better than telling Rodney anything.

[siria]

"Why don't you speak?" Rodney blurts out. "Speak up, I mean--speak out. You could, if you wanted to. I'd listen."

John cocks his head to one side. "Thought that's what you were doing, McKay. Interview?"

"Yes, well, that," Rodney says expansively, rolling his eyes. "That is entirely different, because that's me asking for the sake of my job and within the limits of what the paper's legal department will allow me to ask. This is me asking for you."

John blinks down at him, and then quickly runs the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. There's a quality to the way he's holding himself which makes Rodney think he's nervous, skittish.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

It's not like he isn't skittish himself, and when John pins him with eyes that wear somberness as well as they wear passion, something very like anxiety skips up and down his nerves. Rodney shifts, aware he's still on his back, spine riding soft curves of soil, and John's still between his legs, thumbs pressed hard to the inside of his knees.

"Whatever you don't want out there... whatever you want to just keep here, that's your choice." Rodney swallows. "You've never told anyone, have you?"

The quick shake of John's head is really only confirmation.

"I'll talk," John says at last, reluctant but firm. "To you."

[siria]

"Okay," Rodney says, pushing himself up off the ground so that he's sitting, John balanced on his lap. "Okay," he says to the soft curve of John's throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, "okay, I can listen." He swats very gently at John's shoulder when he hears the huff of laughter that earns him, because he can so listen when he wants to--Jeannie's told him as much on at least one occasion--and he's finding that he's strangely invested in this, in this man whose outline he knew before they ever met.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

And John tells him in awkwardly measured breath, the words themselves facts only, pain and anger buried so deep they might as well be on display.

"They dumped the other guy too, obviously," he says, pitching the words low, as though the flowers and long, slow day will overhear. "And the Academy kept it quiet because of my dad. He thought the best way for me to repay him would be to marry and at least pretend to be straight. It didn't work."

The question But all those women rises and dies on Rodney's lips. He's seen pictures of John with an endless procession of women, a list long as Rodney's arm... only, different women, never the same one twice.

"It's easy to keep people quiet if nothing happens," John says out of nowhere. "And that's really what I want."

"For people to shut the fuck up?" Rodney noses at the base of John's neck, a nexus of bone and firm muscle and soft skin.

"Yeah," John says, and his laughter vibrates against Rodney's mouth. "Yeah, pretty much."

[siria]

"You do realise," Rodney says between haphazard kisses, lazy strokes of John's tongue, "that no one has managed to shut me up since about 1971? There is actually a court-sworn affidavit to that effect. And I--"

"Rodney," John says, cupping Rodney's face in his hands; and all the breath catches in Rodney's throat, proves Judge Robson's words a lie. Rodney stares up at him, wide-eyed, at the five o' clock shadow that's gracing John's jaw at one in the afternoon, and exhales. "That's what I wanted. What I want. But trust me, if I ever want to make the front page..."

[aesc.livejournal.com]

"Yeah." Rodney nods to back it up, doesn't look away from the stripped-bare question in John's face. He's angry for John already, being robbed like that, and while he's used to this sort of anger, there's a new quality to it, something he can't examine and can't define. "Yeah."

[siria]

Because he has the feeling he could make headlines with this man, write a story he's never had a chance to tell before.

Rodney coaxes John off his lap, pulls them both to their feet with hands still pleasure-clumsy; tugs back on his shirt, wincing a little at fabric clinging to him in new and clammy ways, and carefully tucks John back into his pants, zips him up. "C'mon," he says carefully, not quite looking John in the eye, "in no set order, I need to go inside and shower, acquire new underwear, send Zelenka back to the office, write an article, and eat a sandwich approximately the size of my head."

John's eyebrows quirk upwards. "You sound like a man with a plan, McKay."

Rodney grins, smugness tilting the corners of his mouth just so, because he's always had the ability to calculate new positions on the fly, to factor in the new and the strange, a structure to his life that he can make and remake with the words he uses and how he uses them. "But of course," he says, and he takes John by the hand, and tugs him back up the gently sloping hill.