(no subject)

[notabricklayer]

The lights of their apartment come up in the way he is used to lights coming on the way he is used to lights coming on - smoothing increasing from dark to light with barely a hitch inbetween. The apartment is the same as before - a naturally quirky Victorian that's slightly stark thanks to the driven surgeon who had made this his home once upon a time.

He always meant to take time off, decorate the place a little more elaborately, set it up to be more of a home than a place to collapse after long shifts. Maybe now's time.

But right now he can do something about these damned boots. Some day he is going to both fund and write a paper outlining the evils of these boots, and he'll stuff it down the throats of every lazy ass on the Starfleet Surgeon General's board.

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[olyabird.livejournal.com]

That primal pulse is what's driving her now, her body making demands, her voice urging him on, begging him to hold nothing back from her.

She's never allowed herself to be quite so unrestrained around him, but this time is different, somehow. Maybe it's because she's more relaxed. Maybe it's the firelight and the fact that this isn't some faceless hotel room.

Maybe it's just that he's damned good at the basics, pounding her out of her senses, filling her up with white hot bliss until she can't see straight, can't do anything but hold on tight as he drives her up and over again. She goes rigid beneath him, still rocking back into him, and it takes an impossibly long few seconds for her climax to rise and spread and explode through her small frame.

If this place was still in San Francisco, it would be his neighbours filing the noise complaint.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He gasps desperately as her grip tightens around him, utterly erasing any ability to think, to do anything besides follow that blind need. Lost under her own cries, his own groan is low and breathless as he spills into her. Shaking in reaction, he bends over her, pressing kisses into the skin between neck and shoulder.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her head tips back and she reaches for him, one hand brushing against his cheek, reaching up to weave in his hair. Her breath comes ragged and shallow, and she's trembling with exertion. His mouth finds her skin sheened with sweat, and she gasps as the last few aftershocks take her by surprise.

She lets slip a low curse in her native tongue, a sound as deeply appreciative as it is vulgar.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He chuckles softly against her skin, one hand sliding around her chest, the other around her waist, holding her close for just a bit longer. There's a smell that is uniquely her, and he fills his head with it as his heart slowly decides to stop racing along like warp engines gone out of control.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her hand drops to cover his at her waist, holding him close, and she slowly goes slack beneath him, letting their legs tangle. Eventually, when she can breathe again, she turns just enough to capture his mouth in a tender kiss, almost chaste in its simplicity.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

Carefully he twists so they can both lie down, and he's still spooned tightly around her. A protective gesture, for someone who doesn't truly need protecting. He is so comfortable here, between her warmth and the fire, sated and knowing he's managed to do the same for her.

It is all very good.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She nestles down, her head pillowed against his arm, letting a deep sigh go. Content. Safe. Sated. Sleep isn't but a few breaths away.