"He Didn't"
by Maisie (maisierita@comcast.net)
Pairing: McShep
Rating: R, I suppose
Summary: He didn't need sight ...
Warning: Completely unbetaed because hubby is calling me to bed. Blame all
mistakes on him! And this is not the story I was going to post for this
challenge, but I am not going to have time to finish that one before the
challenge ends, I fear. So here's a bit of fluff instead. :)
He didn’t need sight.
Velvet darkness, liquid, warm and blanketing, made it impossible to see anything
at all. But that was okay, because he didn’t need sight when he could hear.
Small breaths that hitched, caught in a throat that stretched and arched; soft
moans that barely made it past John’s lips but that sounded thunderous in the
darkness nonetheless; sighs and gasps alternating in an achingly erotic
progression; but never words, because John didn’t talk when they lay together in
the dark, except with his breath and his moans and sighs and gasps, and Rodney
was okay with that because it was more eloquent than speech.
He didn’t need sight when he could smell.
An ancient sense, maybe the most ancient sense, maybe the most evocative. Lust
and sweat and aftershave, a residue of soap and shampoo, sometimes exotic scents
left over from a mission gone ill or well. Sometimes they’d pass incidentally
in the hallway, not even speaking, but Rodney would catch a trace of scent as
John walked by, and without a word between them, without even a glance, he’d be
painfully, achingly hard. Just from the scent.
He didn’t need sight when he could taste.
Sweat-slicked skin that shuddered under his tongue; the tang of male arousal,
salty and spicy in his mouth; sometimes a hint of blood around a too-fresh
wound; chocolate, coffee, whiskey, occasionally toothpaste that was a burst of
mint on his questing tongue. Sometimes he’d stroke the wrong way and John would
squirm away, ticklish, and Rodney imagined he could taste the laughter.
He didn’t need sight when he could touch.
The strength of muscles, steel under skin grown rough from exposure to sun and
wind; calloused hands that were too gentle to have shed so much blood; sandpaper
cheeks covered with around-the-clock shadow; short hair much softer than it
looked; and a body that quivered and shook next to him, needing contact and
warmth and friendship and love and everything that Rodney never thought he’d
have the chance to give to anyone.
He didn’t need sight.
But in the mornings, when he’d wake up and John would be there, walking out of
the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still damp from the shower, hair freshly
towled and helplessly mussed, and wearing that grin that wasn’t a smirk, the
grin he only ever showed to Rodney … in the mornings, he didn’t need sight. But
he was awfully glad he could see.