notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

McCoy is awake, standing at the bay window, watching the sun rise over the mountains, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands.

It's been a week.

He has to go back. If he doesn't go back, there will never be a day where he'll up and decide to go back. It will be put off and put off until he's forgotten there ever was a Starship Enterprise.

Knowing he should doesn't make it any easier.

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He doesn't know, or at least fully realize yet, how much of his emotion she can read so easily. He just knows that somehow she just knows he needs her close, and is good enough to comply. One more thing to love.

He dismisses thoughts of his upcoming departure for the moment, and focuses on the now of the warmth of her mouth, her body pressed up against his, the sting of her nails making the blood rise. He shifts his hold so he can pick her up entirely, keeping her close.

He lifts her and she moans against his mouth, fingers delving into that dark, thick hair of his, nails lightly grazing his scalp. His hands curve around her hips to her ass and she shifts higher, wanting more of this amazing creature next to her skin. Under her skin, in her bloodstream. In her head and in her heart.

She breaks the kiss long enough to murmur, "Bed."

Today she doesn't need wings. She just needs him.

He shouldn't. He knows that - the longer he waits, the harder this is going to get.

But he'd hate himself if he said no. That makes the decision easier. Somewhat.

So he recaptures that amazing mouth of hers, carrying her back towards the bedroom.

A kiss can be a very intimate thing, and Olga knows this. A walking while being carried kiss tinged with a little desperation is no different, but a little more awkward. She grins, laughs a little as they make their way, navigating around the couch and down the hall.

And then she's lost again, lost to the heat of his mouth and his hands, lost to the sweetness of his hunger and his ache.

Laughter is no bad thing, at least in his book. He's trying to remember every detail, mark it down permanently to have later. To that end, when his shins bark up against the bed frame, he gently lays her down, and breaks the kiss to work his way down her neck and over her breasts. If a proper greeting is important, surely saying goodbye properly is just as important.

Edited 2010-11-29 04:50 (UTC)

"Don't," she whispers, her hands pulling his gaze back up to hers, her eyes gone grey again.

"Make love to me, not as if it were the last time, but as if it were the first all over again. And the first of a thousand more days to come."

He looks up at her, studying her face before offering a tremulous, heartfelt smile.

"I love you, darlin'." It's plain, an ungarnished admission, but it's the truth... and he's always been truthful, if nothing else.

Her expression softens by an order of magnitude, her smile mirroring his own. Her thumb caresses the line of his lower lip and she studies each of his features in turn, waiting for the heady rush of his confession to wash over and through her.

It takes a moment.

"Ah, my Lyonya. Heaven help me, but I love you too."

His smile broadens, joyful and bright. It is... beyond good to belong with, belong to someone again, especially someone as marvelous as her.

"Come in here, Olya. Let me see you." This is leap, for him - to not just allow her in, or accept it in the heat of the moment, but choose to let her into himself, into his mind.

It is a leap, and she knows it, she can taste it with senses he'll never understand.

And it astounds her, the trust he shows her. Simply and utterly astounds her.

He reminds her what it feels like to be of the Light.

And to honour that above all else, she does as he asks. She takes his hands between her palms and pulls him down again, kissing his mouth, soft and slow. The whisper begins at the outside edge of his senses, burnished gold struck through with lines of heat, a sensation of air rushing passed, and something cold and clear, bright as the dawn.

Lyonya.

She whispers his name once and the power of it thrums in his veins.

He shivers, seeing and hearing and feeling the impossible, and accepting it as true. He is clumsy on this field - he is not naturally gifted in any special mental abilities other than to withstand rigorous medical training. He knows that this is a weak spot for him.

He devotes himself to this kiss, warm and tender, all the while trying to relax, letting her in as far as she likes. He tries to answer her, but... Well. He's not terribly good at it. Maybe there is the impression of him calling her name, somewhere in there, but give the boy some credit for trying.

There's something delicious and decadent about being allowed into him, something that makes her press deeper, slowly filling his mind with her essence. He calls to her and his voice rings through her like a bell, sending a shiver of delight resonating through her.

Here. Touch me here.

In the physical plane, she draws him down to her, the increased contact making it easier for her to direct his limited senses to where she needs him the most. Tangling with him, sweet and slow, she crawls along his long bones, breathes along his nerves, drowns herself in his essence, fearless, boundless, ageless.

He is as fumbling and clumsy as a teenaged boy, uncertain, but at least willing to take direction. He cannot even begin to define what she wants, what she's doing to him, but... as he curls around her, holding her close, he can feel her surrounding him, somehow knowing she is where he can barely recognize himself.

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