He Didn't: by MaisieRita

[maisierita.livejournal.com]

Title: He Didn't
Author: MaisieRita
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. :)

And another warning, the lj cut feature seems to be giving me fits.  I hope this works.  If it doesn't, I'll have to figure out how to fix it or someone will have to tell me how!

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.

 

Comments

[ship-recs.livejournal.com]

That was lovely.