notabricklayer | (no subject)

(no subject)

McCoy has fallen into a rhythm in the bar - waking up late (for him), coming down eventually to see if anything particularly interesting is going on, pick up something for lunch, trade in a stack of videos for a brand new stack of videos, and go back upstairs.

This morning, he is downstairs much earlier.

He is in uniform for the first time in a week.

And he doesn't detour at the Bar, striding straight to the door, no pauses, no stops, just a quick trip to the front door, which hisses open obligingly, dragging him back aboard his shipboard life.

If he were to stop, he'd never make it through that door.

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She laughs at him under her breath, guiding him over to the bed and sitting beside him, hands roaming everywhere, kissing and biting at his shoulder as he bends to remove them.

"You have no quilts on your bed. How do you sleep here?"

For a woman who has no trouble sleeping in a refrigerator box, she can be particular about some of the strangest things.

He looks up, midway through undoing the second boot.

"No quilts?" He asks, confused. "I don't remember this coming up before." Thiiiis would be because his apartment in San Francisco had quilts. The Bar made a very very good replica.

"You have quilts, at the other place. They're wonderful and warm. This? What is this?"

She pauses in her sensual assault on him and plucks at the shimmery bit of fabric that is the blanket on his bed.

"It's a blanket." It's designed to keep anyone caught asleep when the environmental controls fail warm long enough for rescue to come, or someone to fix said controls. It is not stylish, tragically.
"It does the job."

She pulls him closer, giving a mock shiver as her legs tangle with his.

"Well, I'm lucky I have you here to keep me warm then, hmm?"

"Very lucky. And so am I." He agrees, managing to get that boot free, and twists to pin her back against that blanket she dislikes so much. He'll have to see if he can change her mind through experience. Determined, he laves attention along the line of her jaw, dropping fierce kisses down her neck.

She ripples beneath him, his reward a soft exhalation of breath that morphs into a quiet moan.

Her hands encircle his neck, and she arches beneath him. There's too much air between them, and maybe those goosebumps rising under his tongue are from the chill.

Then again, maybe not.

Perhaps, but why risk it? Considerate, he lowers down to her, sharing body warmth, pressing her against the bulk of the bed.
"Tell me what you want, Olya." He murmurs against her skin as he dips lower, drawing patterns over her breasts with lips and tongue.

Again, she exhales, the touch of his mouth drawing soft sounds from her that he's only heard perhaps a few times, in the dead of night, when his hands are moving on her skin.

"More," she breathes, her fingers combing through his dark hair, her body trembling as he catalogues her weak spots with his mouth.

She asks, and he gives, shifting so he can slide one hand down her ribs, down the smooth plane of her stomach, over her belly, to tangle in her soft curls, teasing and stroking, dipping into her slick heat.

She keeps one hand on the back of that straying hand, lightly, shivering as he begins to explore.

He dips deeper and she swears softly in Russian, her head pressing back into the pillows, her other hand keeping his mouth close to her skin.

Here he can hear the Russian, without the Bar's ever-present translating field to change it into words he knows, and he finds he likes it very much indeed. The foreign invective makes him smile against her skin, and he continues to exploit every sensitive spot he knows of, mercilessly teasing and ravaging where he has been given leave to play.

Sure, they might be a bit short on time, but there is no reason to not be creative.

Her hand fists in his hair, and she gasps, dragging his mouth back to hers for a searing kiss, her hips grinding against his hand now. But only for a few more moments. She twists his hand away and shifts, rolling him under her. She straddles him, her mouth finding the side of his neck in a heart beat, growling out her desire against his jugular.

The pulse under her lips is fast and bounding, firm demanding hands pulling her down firmly against his erection, grinding up against her in an answer to her growl.

She grins against his skin, her hips angling to catch him, one hand reaching between to guide him home. Her breath hisses over her teeth as he fills her, and she begins to move, taking him inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt.

Quick and hard, she rides, taking her pleasure from him, giving it back as best she can.

Now it is his turn to arch back, moaning helplessly at the heat, the velvet tightness of her. His hands trail up her thighs, feeling the muscles shifting under her skin - he knows their names, but it's hers he's focused on. Then further up, over ass and back and ribs to settle, to fondle, over the perfect handfuls of her breasts.

Her teeth graze along his collarbone, and her hands rest on his chest, eventually slipping down to the bed so she can lift her torso to his touch. Her eyes fall closed and she undulates against him, long rolling strokes that take the full length of him, and she shows no mercy, using the strength of her thighs to anchor her. She slows her pace, wanting to watch his face as they move, grinning down at him.

His expression is a study of surrender and joy - he would not take any mercy if she offered it, wanting all she can inflict on him and loving every breath-stealing moment. At this moment she is gorgeous, her wild beauty framed by these now unfamiliar, familiar surroundings. He smiles back at her, rubbing rough circles into her sweat-slicked skin.

The heat of his skin, the hardness of him anchoring her to the flesh, the clench of his hands, all of it is sweet and delicious, but it doesn't compare to the wash of emotion pouring over her.

"What would they say if they heard a woman's voice, crying out in pleasure, coming from your quarters, hmm?"

The words are breathless, tight with need, but she can't resist the question.

He can't imagine she really wants the answer to that, but he has always ever been honest with her. Even when she is slowly melting his brain.

"It is a damned good thing all of my female staff are on duty right now." He snorts back at her, pushing up off the bed with one elbow, curling his free hand around the back of her head so he can quiet further questions with a demanding kiss.

Edited 2011-01-01 08:07 (UTC)

She meets his demands with demands of her own, moaning softly against his mouth, her hips curling into him. This angle gives a whole new range of sensations and she shudders a gasp as he moves in her, twisting to get more, her nails raking across his shoulders, marking him as her very own.

His breath hisses at the sting, a sharp sound that drops into a low rumbling groan of lust. Steadily he kisses down along her jaw, down her neck to suckle and nip at the junction of neck and shoulder and collarbone, purposefully matching her pace.

And all the while silently praying (admittedly increasingly incoherently) to whatever gods listen to poor overworked ship's doctors that no one will need him for a very long time. It might just kill him to stop now.

She clings to him, and he feels the barest hint of cold fire burning in her skin. He draws her out of herself, drowns her in pleasure, and she forgets to hold the glamour so rigidly. He can feel the essence of her power, like the crackle of ozone in the air that means a storm is coming.

He makes love to her and she to him, and in that space, that glorious moment, she can just be herself with him.

His lips pull lines of sweet aching tension through her whole body and she trembles, burying her face in his throat, stifling her cries against his skin.

He shivers, though whether it is more from the ghost of the deep-space cold or the fire she's ignited in his veins. He's still not sure how or entirely why she is here, but he is deeply thankful as he drowns in her care.

Time slows as she loses herself in him, and soon, she's covered in a fine sheen of sweat, her muscles straining for him. He does something with his hands on her hips and she gasps against his throat, her knees gripping his hips. She grinds on him, chasing that white ribbon of fire now, striving for him.