The Difference Between Sensuous and Sexy

by brooklinegirl (witchbaby)

6/2002

NC-17


Pure PWP, belongs in my general timeline not at all. Just needed Johnny and Myron to get it on.


I wake up scared. Feels like Iím always waking up scared. It never stops here, and you deal with it, though you donít ever get used to it. Donít even know what Iím scared of. Sometimes there are too damn many things for me to be scared of to ever light upon just one. Itís not the dark thatís scary; itís all the things that it hides. And youíre always alone when you wake up in the dark.

But you deal with it.

I didnít get that at first, when I got here. The old-timers, the guys whoíd been here much longer than I had (by months, maybe. A month is a long time over here): those guys seemed to be unaffected by anything at all, and I wondered what was wrong with me, that I got scared. That all of it scared me, and Iíd sleep at night only because I was too tired to let fear fight it off. Hell, thatís *still* the only reason why Iím able to sleep.

But I was wrong. They were scared too, those old-timers were. But you get so tired, so worn down by it all, that you just live with it. Live with being scared, like you live with leeches and filth. Donít ever lose that fear, but donít let it stop you either. And you get so tired that you donít even have to try to hide it. When you wake up with your heart pounding and blood racing through your veins and you feel like the stress may actually kill you, you just turn over slow and try to make yourself believe that youíre in no immediate danger of dying. Not in the next few moments, anyway.

Sometimes, those few moments are enough to let you drift back to sleep. It happens a lot, especially out in the bush, when you never *really* sleep. Back on base, it usually takes a night or two for your body to get used to not being on goddamn guard all the time. After that, if youíre lucky, you get to have an almost normal nightís sleep. My body doesnít seem to be getting used to it this time around.

I wake up with every muscle tense, every sense alert, breathing hard and sweating and looking around desperately for the threat, the danger, that I know, I *know* is there. But. . .itís not. Nothing there as I lie still, stay still, donít draw fire, donít move for fear of noise, though my heart is hammering in my ears, blood roaring. My breathing is silent, though my body pleads with me to gasp for air that is too short in coming.

And when it comes back to me and I realize that Iím here, on base, as safe as is possible, in my own bunk, the adrenaline rush is as great leaving as it was in coming. I feel like I just might break. Itís the single worst way to wake up. Waking up to danger and being able to *do* something about it. . .sure, thatís a bad thing, but itís something. This, though. This is nothing, and I feel like I'm breaking.

I give my lungs rein and let myself gasp for that air, and fuck it if McKay is listening, watching, judging. I donít fucking care right now, and I sit up to get at the air better. My gasps sound almost like sobs and I just donít fucking care. My body hurts, a lot, the tension running through every muscle. I sag where I sit on the edge of the bed, let my head fall into my hands, and just try to breathe.

Eventually I manage to sit up straight; need to, the muscles in my back are tight and hurting now. I try to stretch to loosen them up, but that just hurts worse. Things never get any fucking better here. Iím in my own little world, entirely composed of fear and pain, and when I get myself together enough to look up (need a cigarette, need a drink, need both), McKay is watching me from his bunk. Silent, just watching through the dark. Heís been here before. Iíve seen him here before.

I glare at him anyway, because Iím scared and Iím angry at being scared. Because Iím alone even when heís here, alone no matter whoís here. I hate being scared, hate being alone, hate all of this, and I hate having him here watching me. I glare at him and lean forward, reaching for my desk drawer, for my whiskey, a shot of which will help get rid of the sting of all this. Wince sharply as the leaning pulls a particularly tight muscle in my back.

McKay gets up. Slams the drawer under my fingers shut with his foot and glares back at me. "Thatís not going to help you tonight."

I scowl at him. "Fuck off, McKay."

"Right," he says, sitting down next to me. His hands arenít rough, but theyíre firm as he makes me turn away from him. I flinch away from his touch as he starts rubbing my shoulders. But he holds me still as his fingers find the sorest spots easily and now I curse as he works on the worst of the aches. He works his way down the muscles of my upper back and it feels good. I groan as the ache ebbs away and I sag under his touch without trying.

"Youíre a mess," he mutters, letting his hands fall to the small of my back. I grunt, flinch again as he hits the painful spots, the tension there fading away only a little as he works at it.

"Leave it alone, McKay, Iím fine." I try to twist away from him and have to stifle a groan as my entire body rebels at the quick movement. I hate this, his hands on me. He canít fix me, and I feel so lost, and I hate this so fucking much.

"Fine, sure, youíre fine," he growls, his hands pushing harder. "Only your back feels like steel and youíre shaking and youíre so far from fine itís not even funny. Now stop fighting me and lie the fuck down." And he gets up, makes me lie down on my stomach, though I donít fight it much, donít have the energy to fight it much. Iím tired and I hurt and even though I know itís safe here, Iím scared and fighting off the adrenaline still flowing through my system.

It must be the middle of the night, I must have woken him up with my stupid fucking cries in the night, but he doesnít say a word about it. Heís adept at finding the spots that are tied up in the tightest of knots. I know that Iím making noises as he works out the spots, and that I curse at him some, too. Till at one point he says, "Shut up, Goldman. You donít get a say in this."

He sits next to me on the bed, middle of a dark night, and his fingers are remarkably gentle as he soothes the harsh tension of my back. No light on in the hooch, but Iím used to the darkness, and he doesnít seem to mind. Iím relaxing, melting it seems like, into the bunk, and still he works at me. His touch gets lighter as my muscles loosen. I never let go here, never let myself let go. Why should I? Thereís nothing here thatís worth it. Nothing.

Iím so tired, but my body is still wound up, too wound up to truly relax, even. McKayís hands are moving over my back steadily, as he curls up there beside me on the bed, and I know, I goddamn know, that I should be putting a stop to this, should be getting up and pushing him away, should be shutting down and shutting him out. Because thatís what I do, thatís what Iím good at, and itís served me in good stead, the times I remember to do it. The times that I remember to keep it all at a distance, because thatís the way it should be, because itís better that way. Because when you let down walls, when you let yourself see, you get scared and you wake up shaking in the night and thatís not a good thing, itís just not a good thing.

Iím aware of this happening to me, too aware of it. McKay is still lazily circling those fingers across my back, nice and easy, still finding the tight spots, and seems not at all inclined to stop, not at all tired, even though itís the middle of the night. Middle of the war. Iím lying here, and I turn my head on my arms, tilt it to look at him from the corner of my eye. Heís reclined by my side, clad only in his shorts and t-shirt, and heís lazy like a cat there, close to me like he doesnít realize it. His movements are slow and easy, his eyes lidded as he watches his own hands travel over my back. The posture is intimate, more so than the action. Itís the easiness with which he gives this that sends a course of fear through me. I donít know what to do with it. I donít understand this, donít understand myself.

He keeps giving himself to me, even though Iíve never once accepted anything from him graciously. He swoops in to save the day, then gives me lip when heís got us back on safe ground. He fucking moves in with me, and seems *happy* about it, something Iíve yet to figure out. He is always, always grinning at me, and seems to be there to jostle me at the worst times, get me flustered, get me worked up. He keeps an eye on my drinking, and that alone is enough to make me realize when Iím getting a little too much comfort from the bottle. He tries, real hard, to get me to talk about. . .about the bad times and I wonít. Canít. He pushes me and I still canít give in. He gets that look in his eyes, and I know he doesnít get it. Canít understand how I could really be pushing him away.

But even that doesnít lose him. Couldnít lose him if I tried. Not sure if I want to. When the hell did his annoyance become a steadying factor? Abruptly, I twist over onto my back. He looks up, startled, his hands sliding over to my front as I turn. I glare at him. His eyes widen momentarily, then narrow. "Give it up, will you, Goldman?" His tone is cranky. He notices where his hands are, resting against my abdomen. His eyes crinkle as he grins. Leaves his hands there, warm on my stomach, lets his fingers move in that soothing motion, lighter than he used on my back. His grin grows wider as he watches me try not to flinch away. He shakes his head, and his hands almost stroke my stomach.

He thinks he knows me. Always thinks he knows what Iíll do. Heís wrong. He goes to sit back, but I grab hold of his wrists, hold him down close, his hands pinned to the bed on either side of me. He doesnít look away, though his eyes are wide and startled. Tries to tug his hands away, but my grip is tight. His grin slips a little.

"What do you want from me, McKay?" My voice is quiet in the darkness. The tension is back, the adrenaline rushing through my system again, strong as before. But itís different this time. Itís not the same sort of fear. Feels like strength. I like this feeling, almost. Itís not as unsure, not at all the same sort of scared.

Heís leaning over me in the dark, and he frees himself with a twist of his wrists. Only because I allow it. His grin returns cautiously, and I can see in his eyes. . . he knows heís traveling on unfamiliar ground here. I think he kind of likes it. I donít know exactly what Iím doing here, but I donít have to. This sort of perception, this sort of hyper-awareness, and all I have to do is trust myself. Itís like being out there in the bush. You use your senses and you trust yourself. I donít always have that sort of trust in myself. Itís hard sometimes, but when youíre there, when youíre right *there*, when you *have* to know yourself, have to trust yourself. . .it seems almost easy then. You get carried along on that sense of control and it seems almost easy.

His hands are free, and heís leaning back. He watches me as I lie there. Weighing his options, maybe. Those green eyes turn dark, and he leans closer, traces his hand down my chest. Then lower, on my abdomen. He keeps looking at my eyes and his hand moves ever slower. His grin slips a little bit again, as I donít drop my eyes, donít flinch away.

He thought he knew me. But I can see in his eyes: now heís not so sure.

His slowly circling hand reaches my waist. Hesitates. I raise an eyebrow at him. He loses the grin entirely. Takes a breath, and raises his own eyebrows at me. Itís a question. I lean up on my elbow. Reach my other hand behind his head in one easy movement, and his response is immediate. He leans in to meet me halfway as I bring his head down, kiss him, kiss him hard, pushing past his lips with my tongue. He lets me. His hand circles below my waist and itís a different sort of touch now, a different sort entirely.

Iím not scared anymore.

He meets my tongue with his own, and Iím aware, so aware, of everything. Aware of how he leans closer over me, aware of him shifting on the bed, no longer curled next to me, but spread out over me, one hand half-holding him up, the other, pressed against me, against my cock, where Iím hard, so hard. Heís pressed against me and I can feel his hardness too. More important now is his tongue in my mouth, my hands against his back pulling him closer still.

Donít want this kissing to ever stop, and I actually whimper when he pulls away, only to realize that heís now kissing my throat, biting gently at my shoulder, tasting me, seems like. Little sounds coming from the back of his throat and his hips are moving, pressing himself against me. I tell myself that this is easy, easier than being alone in the darkness. I sit up and this time itís McKay who makes the lost sound, and his eyes are looking at me, begging me not to put a stop to it. Like I would. Like I could.

Iím breathing heavily and I feel shaky, desperate, as I run my hands down his chest, feeling him gasping for breath, feel those muscles. He watches me with need in his eyes as I let my hands run up and under his shirt. My fingertips are tingling at the feel of his skin, and I lift his t-shirt up and off. Itís barely cleared his head before heís kissing me again, and I can almost feel his need, his relief that Iím not stopping, am instead furthering this give and take between us. I tell myself that itís easy, but itís not. Itís not even a little bit easy. Weíre almost fighting each other; every touch, every kiss fierce, almost belligerent.

His lips are urgent against mine, and our tongues come together desperately. Canít get close enough here. That tension, that adrenaline, is racing again, hard now through my body and Iím so very aware of his every touch on my skin. He breaks away only long enough to tear my shirt off over my head and then heís on me, pressing me down onto the bed, on top of me, fully on top now. The kissing is needy and still fierce and breathing is totally secondary. I can feel him hard against me as he slips a leg in between mine, presses himself up against my own aching cock.

I need this. But I hate it, that needing. Never supposed to need, never supposed to even want. I slip, so easily, and I hate that. I wake up scared and I end up needing and where is the soldier; where am I here? But I like the feel of him moving strong against me, feel his moans breathed out against my neck, ever careful, for even here lost in the darkness, we could still be heard by the outside world and that would be bad.

It crosses my mind that I should care more about that, but I donít. I just donít. I donít want to need this, but I do. Heís responding in kind and that should make it okay. I remember, suddenly, in the midst of all of this, the gentle, easy touch of his hands on my back, working out those tension-wrought kinks. Not asking anything more, doing it just because I needed it, because it was something more, something better than that bottle of whiskey waiting for me in my desk drawer.

And isnít this something better? If we both need, if we both want (his lips at my ear now, hands holding onto my hips and pulling me up fiercely to meet his thrusts, and, oh god, heís murmuring my name in my ear and itís so damn needing and hot that my hips jerk and the moan that escapes my lips is much too loud, quickly silenced by his lips), then give in to it.

Give in to this.

I want this.

I arch my back, press hard against him, and he hisses. Strains against me, trying to push me back down, but I donít allow that. Use my hips to push him off of me, and he falls to one side, chest heaving, trying to find air in a room that is much, much too close. His hair is a mess, his eyes wild, and I canít help but want him. I keep my eyes on his as I sit up, slide myself over him, press against him as I kiss his lips, then work my way down his body. First his neck, and I find, almost immediately, a most sensitive spot below his ear. When I let my tongue flick out, when I lick him just *there*, he gasps for breath and his thrusts up against me are much, much more insistent.

I work my way down that heaving chest, kissing, sucking, tasting. And he tastes good, he tastes so good in my mouth. Sweat and heat and need. I find myself growling by the time Iím kneeling between his legs, reaching for the top of his shorts. I feel his erection straining within, and hear him, under his breath, saying over and over again, "Oh, fuck, oh yeah, Goldman, yeah."

This is what I want. I like this taste, he tastes so good. I want more. I stand up and strip the shorts off of him, then grab his hands, pull him to his feet. Heís unsteady and his eyes are unsure, but the sound he makes in his throat when I drop to my knees in front of him is worth it. I run my tongue over him, and heís slick with pre-come. He gasps out, "Oh, christ, yes." Runs his hands, trembling, through my hair. I know he wants to pull me closer, make me take him, but he doesnít. His hands clench, shaking, in my hair and he waits.

I want this. Iím on my knees in front of him and I want this. I let my tongue travel down the length of him, and heís shaking, and I want this. He tastes (again) of heat and sweat and need (he needs this, needs me). I take him in my mouth, and Iím rewarded with that whimpering, wanting sound. He canít cry out, not here, but I can hear him swallowing his cries.

I take him easily, open my throat, donít think about it, let my tongue do the work. His hands move from my head to my shoulders, I think so that he can control the impulse to pound into me, to keep from hurting me. Heís saying my name, and heís moaning, getting close. I let him slip from my mouth, and the answering gasp is almost an accusation.

"Goldman, no, donít stop, dear christ." Breathless, needing, wanting. I push him back and his knees give way, he falls back onto the bed, and I strip off my own shorts. Iím on top of him in an instant, pressing my own aching erection against his. He hisses and arches, and heís close. Wants this. Needs this.

Iím looking down at him, and his eyes are open, so open in the darkness, and I can see the want. Heís arching against me rhythmically, and I press down hard with my hips, pin him down. Heís gasping for breath. I lean forward, kiss him hard, then pull back so I can see his eyes, open and watching and needing. I whisper against his lips, "Want to see you. Want to see you when you come."

I surge forward and he gasps, "Oh, god, yes." Over and over. His hips are moving desperately against mine and I bring one hand down, hold tight to his hip, bringing a rhythm to his needing thrusts as I hold myself up with my other hand. Itís still dark and close in here, no air, and Iím dripping sweat. I slide so easily against him, and Iím hard, so hard it aches. I want this, want this so bad, want to let go, oh yes, let go.

His eyes are lidded and these little moans are coming from him and he buries his head in the crook of my neck for just a moment, arches up hard against me, then pulls back. Lets me see. Thrusts hard, again, and I feel the wet, surging heat against my stomach as he comes. I watch his eyes, wide, open, letting me see. Letting me see everything.

Heís quiet, as he needs to be, but seeing that, seeing it all, is enough to send me falling. The noises Iím making are much too loud, and he pulls my head down against his shoulder, and I bite down, hard, as I come, shuddering, against him.

Oh yes. Oh, *god* yes.

Itís all lost around me, all I can feel are his arms grabbing hold, bring me down to rest next to him, soft. Doesnít feel like night anymore. I canít remember being scared. I feel his lips against my temple, kissing me fiercely still, and though the desperation is gone, that want is still there. I donít know this, donít understand it. Feels right. Feels like something I need, and I donít know how to stop it. His arm is around me, and our breathing slowly returns to normal.

I take a slow breath. "McKay, I. . ."

"Shut up, Goldman," he interrupts me sleepily. He stretches lazily, turns over onto his side so heís watching me. He crooks his lips into a smile, and looks into my eyes, letting his hand run down my chest. I shiver at the chills that movement sends down my spine. "You worry too much."

"I. . ." I stop myself. I know heís right. I do worry too much, and maybe I donít need to, not here. Maybe itís just something needed, some fireworks, some sort of connection that we share, and tonight. . .well, tonight was about pushing boundaries. Maybe thatís all this is. I tilt my head, look at him consideringly. He has that crooked grin as he leans in close, pauses for a moment, runs his hand over my hair. He presses his lips against mine, soft, then harder. It turns into a real kiss, his tongue pressing in and I meet it, easily. He withdraws, looks at me again with raised eyebrows. No grin. Kisses me again, gentle this time.

I lie there for a moment, letting that kiss sink in. Then I press an elbow into his ribs, nudge him hard till he rolls over, catches himself just before he falls to the floor. He sits up on the edge of the bed and glares at me, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. I yawn at him. "Quit hogging my bed, McKay. Get back to your own bunk." I roll over and pull the blanket up over my shoulder.

He laughs out loud, and I canít help but smile in the darkness. I feel the bunk shift as he gets up, hear him groan as he stretches. The bunk creaks as he leans back down over me, lips close to my ear. Whispers, "Sleep tight, Goldman. No bad dreams." Thereís that soft kiss again, against my temple, and then heís gone.

I settle down into the bed, my entire body relaxed, and I donít let myself think as sleep takes me.

~end~


back to witchbaby's Tour of Duty slash fic