The Clothes That Make (McKay/Sheppard, R - NC-17)
Title: The Clothes That Make
Warnings: PWP featuring crossdressing!John and therefore probably inspired by toft-froggy, though I swear it's unconscious.
Rating: R going on NC-17
Summary: The dress is simple: scratchy, roughly woven hemp that hasn't even been dyed.
Notes: This was started as comment!fic in scribblinlenore's journal and kind of evolved from there.
Cover by sonadorita. ♥
~~~
The dress is simple: scratchy, roughly woven hemp that hasn't even been dyed. It itches on his skin, pulls at the fine hairs on his arms, chest, ass; doesn't fit very well despite - because of - the lovely cut. John feels incredibly stupid in his boots so he kicks them off and then his socks, and then he just stands there, looking at his bare toes, the dirty floor of the hut, the wooden walls. Naked despite the cloth covering his skin. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive in the small room, and John can't take it any longer, has to look up.
Rodney is watching him. Staring at him, really, face flushed and awed, and something hard and tight in John's gut uncurls as his fists unclench.
He still feels far too open, but suddenly there's a strange thread of exhilaration tied into the wariness; like his first time taking up a fighter jet; like the first time he spread his legs and let himself be taken. He takes a breath and then another one, careful not to move as Rodney steps close and reaches out.
The first touch is barely there, fluttering across his shoulder, fingertips sliding over the fabric, leaving their mark on his skin like they were branding him. Still that silence, but now it's anticipation growing into pleasure, and when Rodney trails his fingers down and across John's chest, John leans in.
There's the slightest stutter in Rodney's touch, but then it grows firmer, more daring, palm exploring his chest through the dress, thumb scratching over a nipple that's already hardened into a tight nub; and there's a second hand slowly stroking up and down his flank, large and warm even through the rough hemp; and it's good, so good, but there's still that thread of tension, still that knot of fear, and John wants, he wants-
"Beautiful," Rodney breathes, and John surrenders with a sigh; closes his eyes, and just feels.
Rodney pulls him closer and he follows: pliant, willing, melting against Rodney's bulk, feeling the pockets of Rodney's tac vest dig into his chest and not giving a damn. Rodney has him, holds him, tethers him and sets him free. The dress scratches and slides as Rodney's hands stroke his back, up and down, bunching the fabric, sliding further on every downstroke until, god, until those hands are cupping John's ass, fingers squeezing lightly into the curve that isn't quite ass, isn't yet thigh. John can't help it: he presses closer yet, hips bumping against Rodney's, and he's surprised to find he's hard. That Rodney is.
He'd allowed himself to fantasise, every now and then. He'd never thought it'd be like this. He'd never thought that he could, he could-
"Sit," Rodney says, voice rough and fingers tightening, "John-" and John's shaking his head.
"The dress will stain," he says inanely, feeling his cheeks grow warm at Rodney's incredulous look, and, okay. Okay.
His cheeks heat even more as he sits down on the dirty floor, knees pulled slightly to his chest, intensely aware of his boxers lying on the heap of clothes on the other side of the room. Rodney kneels down in front of him and closes a hand around John's ankle, almost reverently. Breath hitching, John licks his lips, and Rodney's eyes follow the movement, gaze resting on John's mouth. His pupils are blown. Slowly, deliberately, John licks his lips again, and makes a sound that could be a whimper, could be a groan. Rodney's hand tightens on John's ankle and he swallows, looks down and lets his hand brush the hem of the dress, pushing it a little higher.
John is breathing so hard, he's close to hyperventilating.
"Hey," Rodney says, the awed look back in his eyes as he watches his hand caress John's calf, "hey," and, "it's okay," and, "let me," and John lets him, lets Rodney spread his legs and, "Oh, god," settle in between them. The dress is cut wide but not extensively so, and the position looks uncomfortable so John reaches down to pull the hem a little further up. Except Rodney stops him, murmurs, "Don't," and John's hand shakes as he pulls it back, resting it back on the dirty floor, sand digging into the heel of his palm.
And then Rodney lifts the fabric and dips underneath, seeing all of John there is to see, hard and aching, and John gasps, feels his cheeks burn and doesn't giving a shit.
How he got from staring at a dress just a little too long to Rodney's hands pushing his knees further apart, warm and weirdly gentle, he has no idea. He just knows that seeing Rodney kneeling there, shoulders disappearing under the hem of John's dress, his dress, does things to him that flying never could.
Flying never was this scary. This good.
Rodney's head is an odd round shape under the rough fabric, slowly kissing his way up the inside of John's naked thigh, and John has to look away, shaking already, just from this. From this: Rodney's hands sliding higher until they're resting halfway up John's trembling thighs, propping them up as he gently nips the soft skin just inches from John's balls, and Jesus, Jesus.
John's breath sounds rough in his own ears, wet and hitching, panting; and then Rodney presses an open-mouthed kiss against John's balls and he can't keep in his harsh sigh, but still refuses to call it a sob although that's what it is. His legs are spread as wide as they will go, the dress creaking ominously as it is stretched to endurance, Rodney's shoulders wedged between John's thighs. He's hot, sweating, his body so tense that he fears his spine might break as he waits for it, straining towards Rodney without moving a muscle, waiting for-
This time, John moans. And he swears he can feel Rodney's lips, still mouthing his erection, stretch into a grin as he nips and licks and, and... and pulls away, what the- oh, oh god!
John jerks and takes a shuddering breath, fingers scrabbling in the dirt as Rodney rubs his cheek against John's shaft, fine skin and soft stubble, pleasure on the verge of painful. Rodney's thumbs are softly stroking the undersides of his thighs and that shouldn't be so sensual, so wrecking, but it is. The dress is cut tight enough that sucking John off isn't really an option and Rodney doesn't even try, instead licking firm swipes over the base of John's dick, nibbling his way up that particularly thick vein, sucking lightly on the head and lapping up pre-come. He's driving John crazy, humming softly as he mouths his way up and down the length of John's shaft, thumbs pressing rhythmically into John's thighs, and John is hyperaware of his own desperate panting, of the shivers running through his body, of the small noises he can't keep in, of Rodney, solid and real between John's legs.
He whimpers. He can't help it.
Rodney's hands tighten on his thighs and his mouth moves down, a long stripe licked from the head of his dick down to the base, and then Rodney starts sucking at his balls and John startles himself as he comes, moaning, fingers digging into the dirt as he stains his dress, pulsing and gasping and utterly, utterly helpless.
There's a moment when he feels incredibly self-aware and more than a little stupid, when Rodney crawls back and tugs the hem of the dress down John's calves, staring at the dampness that's still spreading through the fabric at the front. Rodney's face is red and his lips are swollen, eyes all pupil. His hair is sticking up in wild, sweaty tufts. He looks as stunned as John himself, and god, what had they been thinking?
When John sits up, clearing his throat and licking his lips, desperately looking for something to say, he can't help but glance at Rodney's groin. Instead of the bulge he expects, there's a patch of darkness. Dampness.
Rodney came. Rodney, who is still staring at the dress, came when he was buried underneath its folds, trapped between John's legs.
"I can wash that," Rodney blurts suddenly, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stain. "Um, that is, if you…" His voice trails off, uncertainty creeping into his stance and making him duck his head, and that's not what John wants. He wants the confident guy who bought him a dress and made him wear it, who let him keep his clothes on and still stripped him naked, who touched him with awe and pride and unthinking acceptance.
He wants Rodney, period, and so he reaches out and pulls him in; ignores the startled yelp, pulls him close and into a kiss, fierce and grateful and himself.
Himself.
~~~
End.
Warnings: PWP featuring crossdressing!John and therefore probably inspired by toft-froggy, though I swear it's unconscious.
Rating: R going on NC-17
Summary: The dress is simple: scratchy, roughly woven hemp that hasn't even been dyed.
Notes: This was started as comment!fic in scribblinlenore's journal and kind of evolved from there.
Cover by sonadorita. ♥
~~~
The dress is simple: scratchy, roughly woven hemp that hasn't even been dyed. It itches on his skin, pulls at the fine hairs on his arms, chest, ass; doesn't fit very well despite - because of - the lovely cut. John feels incredibly stupid in his boots so he kicks them off and then his socks, and then he just stands there, looking at his bare toes, the dirty floor of the hut, the wooden walls. Naked despite the cloth covering his skin. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive in the small room, and John can't take it any longer, has to look up.
Rodney is watching him. Staring at him, really, face flushed and awed, and something hard and tight in John's gut uncurls as his fists unclench.
He still feels far too open, but suddenly there's a strange thread of exhilaration tied into the wariness; like his first time taking up a fighter jet; like the first time he spread his legs and let himself be taken. He takes a breath and then another one, careful not to move as Rodney steps close and reaches out.
The first touch is barely there, fluttering across his shoulder, fingertips sliding over the fabric, leaving their mark on his skin like they were branding him. Still that silence, but now it's anticipation growing into pleasure, and when Rodney trails his fingers down and across John's chest, John leans in.
There's the slightest stutter in Rodney's touch, but then it grows firmer, more daring, palm exploring his chest through the dress, thumb scratching over a nipple that's already hardened into a tight nub; and there's a second hand slowly stroking up and down his flank, large and warm even through the rough hemp; and it's good, so good, but there's still that thread of tension, still that knot of fear, and John wants, he wants-
"Beautiful," Rodney breathes, and John surrenders with a sigh; closes his eyes, and just feels.
Rodney pulls him closer and he follows: pliant, willing, melting against Rodney's bulk, feeling the pockets of Rodney's tac vest dig into his chest and not giving a damn. Rodney has him, holds him, tethers him and sets him free. The dress scratches and slides as Rodney's hands stroke his back, up and down, bunching the fabric, sliding further on every downstroke until, god, until those hands are cupping John's ass, fingers squeezing lightly into the curve that isn't quite ass, isn't yet thigh. John can't help it: he presses closer yet, hips bumping against Rodney's, and he's surprised to find he's hard. That Rodney is.
He'd allowed himself to fantasise, every now and then. He'd never thought it'd be like this. He'd never thought that he could, he could-
"Sit," Rodney says, voice rough and fingers tightening, "John-" and John's shaking his head.
"The dress will stain," he says inanely, feeling his cheeks grow warm at Rodney's incredulous look, and, okay. Okay.
His cheeks heat even more as he sits down on the dirty floor, knees pulled slightly to his chest, intensely aware of his boxers lying on the heap of clothes on the other side of the room. Rodney kneels down in front of him and closes a hand around John's ankle, almost reverently. Breath hitching, John licks his lips, and Rodney's eyes follow the movement, gaze resting on John's mouth. His pupils are blown. Slowly, deliberately, John licks his lips again, and makes a sound that could be a whimper, could be a groan. Rodney's hand tightens on John's ankle and he swallows, looks down and lets his hand brush the hem of the dress, pushing it a little higher.
John is breathing so hard, he's close to hyperventilating.
"Hey," Rodney says, the awed look back in his eyes as he watches his hand caress John's calf, "hey," and, "it's okay," and, "let me," and John lets him, lets Rodney spread his legs and, "Oh, god," settle in between them. The dress is cut wide but not extensively so, and the position looks uncomfortable so John reaches down to pull the hem a little further up. Except Rodney stops him, murmurs, "Don't," and John's hand shakes as he pulls it back, resting it back on the dirty floor, sand digging into the heel of his palm.
And then Rodney lifts the fabric and dips underneath, seeing all of John there is to see, hard and aching, and John gasps, feels his cheeks burn and doesn't giving a shit.
How he got from staring at a dress just a little too long to Rodney's hands pushing his knees further apart, warm and weirdly gentle, he has no idea. He just knows that seeing Rodney kneeling there, shoulders disappearing under the hem of John's dress, his dress, does things to him that flying never could.
Flying never was this scary. This good.
Rodney's head is an odd round shape under the rough fabric, slowly kissing his way up the inside of John's naked thigh, and John has to look away, shaking already, just from this. From this: Rodney's hands sliding higher until they're resting halfway up John's trembling thighs, propping them up as he gently nips the soft skin just inches from John's balls, and Jesus, Jesus.
John's breath sounds rough in his own ears, wet and hitching, panting; and then Rodney presses an open-mouthed kiss against John's balls and he can't keep in his harsh sigh, but still refuses to call it a sob although that's what it is. His legs are spread as wide as they will go, the dress creaking ominously as it is stretched to endurance, Rodney's shoulders wedged between John's thighs. He's hot, sweating, his body so tense that he fears his spine might break as he waits for it, straining towards Rodney without moving a muscle, waiting for-
This time, John moans. And he swears he can feel Rodney's lips, still mouthing his erection, stretch into a grin as he nips and licks and, and... and pulls away, what the- oh, oh god!
John jerks and takes a shuddering breath, fingers scrabbling in the dirt as Rodney rubs his cheek against John's shaft, fine skin and soft stubble, pleasure on the verge of painful. Rodney's thumbs are softly stroking the undersides of his thighs and that shouldn't be so sensual, so wrecking, but it is. The dress is cut tight enough that sucking John off isn't really an option and Rodney doesn't even try, instead licking firm swipes over the base of John's dick, nibbling his way up that particularly thick vein, sucking lightly on the head and lapping up pre-come. He's driving John crazy, humming softly as he mouths his way up and down the length of John's shaft, thumbs pressing rhythmically into John's thighs, and John is hyperaware of his own desperate panting, of the shivers running through his body, of the small noises he can't keep in, of Rodney, solid and real between John's legs.
He whimpers. He can't help it.
Rodney's hands tighten on his thighs and his mouth moves down, a long stripe licked from the head of his dick down to the base, and then Rodney starts sucking at his balls and John startles himself as he comes, moaning, fingers digging into the dirt as he stains his dress, pulsing and gasping and utterly, utterly helpless.
There's a moment when he feels incredibly self-aware and more than a little stupid, when Rodney crawls back and tugs the hem of the dress down John's calves, staring at the dampness that's still spreading through the fabric at the front. Rodney's face is red and his lips are swollen, eyes all pupil. His hair is sticking up in wild, sweaty tufts. He looks as stunned as John himself, and god, what had they been thinking?
When John sits up, clearing his throat and licking his lips, desperately looking for something to say, he can't help but glance at Rodney's groin. Instead of the bulge he expects, there's a patch of darkness. Dampness.
Rodney came. Rodney, who is still staring at the dress, came when he was buried underneath its folds, trapped between John's legs.
"I can wash that," Rodney blurts suddenly, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stain. "Um, that is, if you…" His voice trails off, uncertainty creeping into his stance and making him duck his head, and that's not what John wants. He wants the confident guy who bought him a dress and made him wear it, who let him keep his clothes on and still stripped him naked, who touched him with awe and pride and unthinking acceptance.
He wants Rodney, period, and so he reaches out and pulls him in; ignores the startled yelp, pulls him close and into a kiss, fierce and grateful and himself.
Himself.
~~~
End.