notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He shifts, slightly, but with effort manages to stay put for the most part.

With a lot of effort. His almost whimpering groan is practically involuntary at this point. There's another nod, while he tries to remember words.

"Yes. Yes please."

She pulls away, crooking a finger at him, gesturing for him to take her place on the pad. The heat of her hand remains, a phantom caress that seems to keep moving of it's own accord, down the front of his shin, along his insole, and back up the inside of his knee and thigh.

She rests on her knees, hands between her legs, smirking at him like a kitten in cream. Her expression softens a bit. "If it is too much, you will tell me, and I will stop."

He nods, appreciating the gesture as much as the teasing - it is good to know he has an out, even if he desperately hopes he won't need it. He doesn't want to let her down.

He shifts as she commands, though at least part of his attention is still captured by that ghostly caress. When he reaches the mat, he pauses, smiling back at her warmly.

"Where do you want me, Olya?" He echos her earlier question, his voice gone husky thanks to her teasing.

"In your body," she murmurs, smiling down at him. She kneels over him, weight on one hand, urging him to lie on his back, still keeping that last little bit of distance as a gift and a gentle tease.

"I want you here, with me. Completely."

"I can do that." The mat molds against his back, but his attention is focused on her, the warmth of her, on just how much he wants to close that gap.
"I can definitely do that." He assures her, fervently.

"Can you?"

She stretches out along his side, resting her head on one hand, the other still caressing the air around him.

"Can you do that? For me?"

That warmth becomes a palpable touch, but not on his skin. It is as if she is touching nerves he didn't know he had, the part of his awareness that knows without knowing how. Featherlight, she caresses the part of him that is just beneath the skin, the part that moves the bone and tendon, the part that sends his cock throbbing, and makes his spine tingle.

"Close your eyes," she murmurs.

A sudden intake of breath, a start, fear? Perhaps, but only of the unknown, and easily dismissed. Not unknown, just not experienced. Olya. He trusts her, so he lets his eyelids fall shut. That's one less sense to anchor him to the world he knows, the one he's studied for years and has learned how to predict to some degree.

She pulls back for a moment, until he settles again.

"There," she soothes. He closes his eyes and the sensation of being touched becomes deeper, more pervasive. As if she were brushing soft, open mouthed kisses over every erogenous zone in his body, all at once. A ripple here, a flicker there, tasting him, savouring him in small mouthfuls.

"How does that feel?"

His body responds without waiting for his brain's permission, a soft groan escaping him, muscles shifting to try, vainly, to encourage that contact.

"Good. Marvelo... good God." He interrupts himself as a twitch sends a brief, bright lick of fire up his spine. "Marvelous."

Coherency, evidently, has already left this party.

He feels her smile. Not against his skin, but in every place that she is touching him. It feels like warm velvet and delight. A decidedly sensuous delight.

She keeps her touch light, shifting the focus of her thoughts to certain areas, letting the pressure build. Places on his body light up with pleasure, places he'd never thought of in an erotic context. The soles of his feet, the backs of his knees, the hollows of his hips, the length of his sternum. Each part echoes, resonates, sending waves of sensation to the nerves that are built for pleasure.

Her fingertips graze down his centreline again, trailing cool shimmers of light, and she doesn't bypass his cock this time. It seems to be so eager to join in the proceedings, it would be such a shame to neglect it.

His body is at once utterly unfamiliar and completely aroused, a bizarre combination that has him wanting more. He knows, somewhere in the slowly functioning recesses of his mind that he should not be breathlessly begging for further touches along elbows, kneecaps, scalp, but knowing doesn't seem to have a thing to do with reality, at the moment, casting the entire experience in an unreal light. She seems to be everywhere and nowhere and oh.

He shouts, hoarse and wordless, his hips arching up off the mat in response.

She leans against his side, one leg draped over his thigh, holding him down and crooning softly against his jaw. Her voice is liquid heat against his ear drum, turning the very act of speaking and hearing into something incredibly intimate and erotic. Her hand continues down, a firmer touch now, but intent on awakening other nerves.

"Just breathe, go slowly and breathe."

She's so close to opening the floodgates and letting him into her completely, and she doesn't want to retreat now. She's so close it aches.

Breathing hie can do... just. Slowly, shakily, broken by gasps and tightly hissed nonsense curses when his body knows it should respond, it has to respond, but the things she is doing to him have no ingrained response. A caress along his ribs should not send pleasure flooding into his brain and pulsing through his groin, the touch of her hand should not be just as real as the joy sliding along the curves of his calves, her diction should not make him shiver helplessly. And he is helpless in this maelstrom, only (and just barely) able to control his own lungs.

The rest of his body seems to have gone into rebellion already. And it is a bit frightening, but he isn't sure which would actually cause him to lose his mind - if she continues, or if she stops. Oddest of all is how in odd moments, it almost makes sense. That of course the not-quite touch of a hand should trail other forms of energy than heat, or that the swell of rising panic at an unexpected and uncontrolled response should lap at his nerves like a dark sea tide. But then it's gone, sliding away again out of reach.

She knows she shouldn't rush this, she knows it could cause him harm. Humans are so fragile in some things, and this is one of them.

She rests her temple against his and presses a soft kiss to his cheek, withdrawing back into herself in gentle waves, lingering in the outer limits of his senses, savouring the essence of his thoughts.

She shifts to capture his mouth, stealing gentle kisses as she rises over him in a purely physical touch, straddling his lap. The body will have to be enough for now, and it is not a consolation prize, no. No it is a rich and wondrous thing to slip and slide against him, teasing and tormenting him in the usual way.

"Olya?" Utterly indefinably he feels unsettled, his equilibrium shifted and he can't easily set it right again. But now his confidence and the surety of his body's movements return, because this is a familiar fire that she sets burning in his flesh. After all of that, the ache to get closer is almost painful in its driving intensity.

"I'm here," she breathes, rocking against him. His hands settle on her hips and grip, pulling her in closer, and she gasps against him, her own body responding in kind. She rises up just enough to slip a hand between them, deft fingers catching his cock and guiding it into her body with a groan that sounds loud to her own ears.

He cries out, thrusting up and into her wantonly, his restraint long-ago eroded away. His hands stay firmly in place, and he pulls his legs up to provide the leverage needed to continue that pace.

"Olya. Olya darlin', ride me hard, please..." He grinds out, drowning in her heat.

She grins to hear him talk that way, loving it, loving the desperation in his voice. She feels it too, it's just been so long since she's felt it for someone who didn't want to use her for his own ends.

Well, other than the obvious. And that's all right.

She pushes up to a seated position, looking down into his face with that Mona Lisa smile. She catches his hands and interlaces her fingers with his. She lets her weight press him deeper still, taking him all the way to the hilt and pinning him there, grinding against him. This she can do, letting just a ribbon of her awareness spill down her spine and connect at the root of their bodies, molten heat that should feel almost natural in this position.

He thrusts up into her and she matches his pace, barely giving him any room at all to stroke. She wants him hard and deep, and right there. Her eyes close and her lips part, her chin tipping up to the ceiling. She can taste him behind her eyelids and pooling in the hollows of her collarbones, long since claimed by his mouth. She can taste him everywhere and he tastes like heaven.

His breath comes sharp and urgent, his body tightly wound to the point of breaking, his eyes devouring what he cannot touch - though he would happily do so later, if she was so inclined. She is so beautiful, so vibrant, such a rare creature. How did he get so lucky to be here?

A question for a later time. Right now he is losing himself entirely, disappearing under the flood of heat and glorious ecstacy.

She holds him there in that delicious tension, guiding his hands to her breasts and her waist, covering them with her own hands. A fine sheen of sweat covers her skin from the exertion, and her breath comes in throaty gasps and sweet, descending cries.

She rides him long and hard, using her position to great and delicious advantage. She's not one given to ecstatic states, but he's showing her how its done. The disparate threads of her awareness begin to sing and she ascends towards that point of no return, all her attention focused on him.

He urges her on, his hands coaxing and encouraging - he knows her body well enough by now that he has a good memory of where and how she likes to be touched.

His only worry, as much as he can be worried, that he won't last. Her movements are destroying him entirely.

She curls into him, melting down to rest her head on his shoulder, her breath ragged and harsh against his skin. Her hands are hot against his chest and still she rides him.

He can feel the hard clench of her body tightening around him, pulsing in time with his thrusts. She shudders above him, crying out his name against his shoulder, quaking with the force of her climax.

He slides his arms around her, tight, gasping desperately in response to her grip. It drags him under, and he spends himself in blind, erratic motion, buried deep within her, holding her safe and warm and good in his arms.

When he stills, he is very nearly boneless, exhausted and elated in the hazy aftermath.

She takes a long while to gentle against him, the sensual ripples moving through her body gently fading away over a long few minutes. She rests against him, comfortable in his embrace, making no move to shift away.

"All right?"

This is good, this is very good, because he's not particularly inclined to let her go just now. In fact, he's particularly anti letting-her-go. He wouldn't be able to tell anyone why, other than concluding with her warmth and the fire and the comfort of the mat there's very little reason to move.

And, of course, that not-quite-wrong, not-entirely-right feeling of being off balance hasn't gone away, but it's minor, a footnote in tiny text no one ever reads anyway.

"I don't think,", He muses, drawling lazily, "I want to move for a week. At least."