notabricklayer | (no subject)

She laughs, low and quiet, her voice a rich alto.

"You think I would geld you for daring to steal a kiss?"

Something darkens in his mood -

(I wouldn't have said anything, Captain, if...)

- but he does his best to shove it away. She is not his problem, not right at the moment. She will be again later, her and all the rest of the crew, but not right now.

"I'd hope you'd make sure your opinions are known and taken into account."

The shift would be obvious even if she couldn't sense it in other ways. Her nails graze over his skin, and her body shifts against his in an unmistakeable expression of her opinion.

"Always, Lyonya." Another kiss, slow and hungry. "If I did not want you, I would not be here."

Rand and her troubling admission are abruptly forgotten for the moment - he has a wonderful ability to focus on the right now, drilled into him from years of training... though perhaps this wasn't exactly what his old medical school professors had been thinking of.

"I will endeavor," he murmurs against her skin as his teeth graze along her jaw, "Not to disappoint, then." He finds an earlobe and traps it between his teeth gently, sucking at the captured flesh.

Her eyes flutter closed and there's a distinct hitch in her breath. Her grip on him tightens, and her chin tips up, inviting him to yes, please, yes continue that line of exploration.

"Missed you." And this, good Christ did she miss this.

He mentally files that away under the heading 'very good ideas', and proves he can be a good officer, obeying orders promptly. Down the jugular groove, and her collar bones he knows so well. But he was challenged to greet her properly, and so he goes to pay equal attention to the other side of her neck, examining and making sure she hasn't done it any harm in the time he's been gone.

"Missed you too, darlin'.

Her legs tangle with his, soft sighs telling him exactly where his kisses are most welcome. Her hands skim down, searching down over his shoulders, fretting at his shirt, wanting his skin beneath her palms.

She tries to keep her breathing steady, tries to just focus on the feel of his lips and his tongue, letting the moment unfold at its own pace.

He's wearing the body-suit under the scrub top, but the seals holding it together are easy enough to undo. He hums softly at the feel of her hands, her talented, beautiful hands on his skin, and briefly wonders again how he got this lucky.

Her shirt, he decides, is inconvenient. Thus, in the moments he takes to kiss her again, he starts working it up and off her body.

There's a low chuckle under her breath, and she lifts her arms, letting him strip the faded knit top over her head. That accomplished, she returns to the very important task of exploring the side of his neck with soft lips and the gentle graze of her teeth. Her hands caress over his ribs, revelling in the warmth and the solidity of his body.

His scent is intoxicating, and she nuzzles up to the hollow beneath his ear, her tongue trailing wet spirals over his skin.

He lets his head tip back, his groan rumbling deep in his chest. He would happily let her do that all day long, even when she edges into areas the bone-deep bruises haven't yet surfaced. Luckily his hands don't need his eyes' direction to explore the delicious softness of her breasts, his hands unconsciously matching the rhythm of her tongue.

She doesn't ask this time, just pulls the energy from the air around them and smooths it into his skin, turning time forward to speed the healing. Her hands massage away the tension, slow and steady.

Her body rocks forward into his touch, but she doesn't break contact. She has all day, and she lets him tell her exactly what he wants, letting him lead the dance this time, curious to see where he'll take them.

He recognizes the warmth, the sudden flush easing away the pain. It makes his already complicated feelings for her even more so, but he cannot find it in him to complain. Far from it - he wasn't looking forward to the days of guilty looks he was going to get from his captain.

What he wants from her... what he doesn't want would be a shorter list, but he's patient. Her body is intoxicating, doing away with regular, rational thought. He rocks back against her, eventually pushing her back against the blankets, his eyes dark.

Does she have any idea, the affect she has on him?

She yields with a soft sigh, welcoming the weight of his body, welcoming the rising urgency in his touch. Grey eyes study his face, trying to read the subtle lines, to ken the deeper pull she feels beneath the surface heat.

It's been so long since she's been with anyone other than Gesar, longer still since she's had a repeat performance.

Her hands smooth down his back, and on the return trip, he can feel the light pressure of her nails. Oh she has an idea, all right. Still, she has the patience of the hunter, watching, listening, learning everything there is to know about him. Her lips part and her chin tips back, her body aligning with his, just so.

He honestly cannot help the whine that escapes him - if he could stop to think about it, he would have no idea how she could already know him so well, how she can get his body to respond so strongly.

Of course, if he could stop to think about it, he would not be here, arching his back and dropping his head down to lap at that hollow between her breasts hungrily.

Her eyes fall closed, and her fingers rake through his hair, urging him on. Each pass of his lips draws a soft, shuddering cry from her. She shifts beneath him, restless, trying to keep still and failing utterly.

She breathes him in, drifting on a slow wave of sensation, keenly aware of every place he's touching her, pinning her to the earth and painting her skin with the heat of his mouth and his hands.

He loves those sounds. He truly does, his answering smile curling against her skin. He steadily refuses to hurry, languidly savoring the taste of her skin, her scent drowning him. He shifts his weight to one arm, reaching down the length of her body with the other, smoothing the palm of his hand against her, pushing firm against the soft, worn cloth of her trousers.

She feels that sweet pressure and bites her lower lip to stifle the groan that rises. Her grip in his hair tightens and her hips rise off the blankets, grinding against the heel of his hand.

She's trying to stay quiet, knowing that they could be heard by anyone down below. Somehow that knowledge makes this all the more arousing. She laughs, low under her breath, and whispers,

"Let me take off my boots."

His smile turns into a shameless shit-eating grin, before he rolls up and off of her.

"Let me instead?" The question is asked with that same grin, as he trails a hand slowly down the outside of her closer leg.

Her eyes narrow a bit, but that pleased little smirk still ghosts across her features. She sits up on her elbows and lets him lift her foot.

"Such a gentleman."

He eases the first boot off, after being vaguely jealous of the way her boots don't have the evil StarFleet-issue laces. The socks on that foot quickly follow, and he has evidently decided the next big important thing to do is a bit of a massage.

Call it therapy. He's certainly putting a little know-how behind it.

She's still not sure how to take this kind of attention, and it shows in the way she takes a few moments to relent to his touch.

But his hands are strong and warm, and oh that feels good. At first, only her eyes drift shut, and then her lips part with a soft exhalation. A few more moments, and she can't help but melt back into the blankets, one arm draped across her eyes.

Now that is a gorgeous sight, if he does say so himself. Once he has done about as much good he thinks he can with that foot, he repeats the process on the other, taking his own sweet time about it too.

There's something marvelous about how he knows he's not about to be interrupted by the communicator's persistent chirp. It's an almost illicit pleasure for a senior ship's officer.

"There now, that's a fair sight better."

She hums her agreement with that sentiment, watching him watch her. Such blue eyes, her unthinking fingers twitch a ward against evil in a habit ingrained hundreds of years ago. She can't help but mirror that smile back to him, unconsciously licking her lips as the sole of her foot runs up his thigh and her toes trace along that telltale curve.

His lips are suddenly, unaccountably dry, and he gulps convulsively, his calm shattered. He takes a moment to shuck off both scrub top and the underlying half of the body suit, shivering faintly as he shucks it aside. Natural air is, and always will be, just that little bit better, if sometimes more uncomfortable, than recycled ship air.

Now he leans forward, nimble fingers doing away with the catch of her trousers.

She watches him work, biting her lower lip. There's a breathless laugh on her lips when he reaches bare skin, her stomach fluttering under his hands. She's well-muscled, but there's still a swell to her lower belly, and her hips are those of a woman, not some malnourished girl. Her skin is pale and smooth, save for ruddy lines of centuries old scars.

Grey green eyes smile up at him, and he can see the flush of heat in her cheeks, the fullness of her lips. Her hands reach for him, brushing through his hair, not to pull him down or guide him, simply to touch him for the sheer joy of it.