olyabird | [oom: Sharing A Room]

Entry tags:

bones,
oom

[oom: Sharing A Room]

The bar gave her a key with a brass numbered tag. A napkin informed her a change of clothes and fresh towels would be waiting for them.

It was only a few flights up from the bar, and he insisted on holding every door between the two. It felt strange to be so close to a man, after so many years. Even through the strange chemical smells and the scent of blood, she could catch hints of his scent.

She still keeps a wary eye on the hall ways, and only seems to relax once they are inside the room with the chain thrown. (It allows her to whisper the incantation for a simple ward without making it too obvious.)

She turns back to him, draping her coat over the chair and giving him a soft smile.

"Would you like the first shower, or shall I go?"

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In the dark, it's easy to reach for him again. Her fingertips brush down his forearm, light as a feather, coming to rest on the back of his hand, an unspoken question in her touch.

"Should children grow up knowing that the monster under the bed is real?"

"They do tend to learn it eventually." McCoy replies heavily. The last few weeks have been rough on everyone on board ship, and frankly, he's tired of piecing everyone back together from something he cannot predict or protect them from. Other CMOs get outbreaks of Reglian Flu or battle injuries... he gets insane kid-gods and deadly mutated water molecules.

"You'd trust this old fool again?" He asks, acutely aware of the problems with his wording after he says them.

He can't see her smirk at him in the darkness, but he can hear the laughter in her breath.

"You ask the wrong questions," she says, taking his hand between hers. She doesn't have the skill of a surgeon's hands, but she has a certain reverence in her touch. "Either that, or your own sense of self-preservation has atrophied."

"It's the company I keep day-to-day." He quips at his shipmates' expense. "If you're sure..." He's fairly sure he remembers exactly where he was, shifting on to his side so he can pay those poor neglected collarbones a bit of delayed attention.

She lifts her chin, inviting him in, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Oh shut up," she whispers, taking a bit more direct route and placing his hand on her breast.

There was good being shoved into this day, and she's never been one to be derailed from her purpose.

"Shutting up." He agrees, his mood lifting considerably. And he can take a hint, too - it takes but a moment to shift her camisole up again, pushing himself lower to lave attention on her breasts with teeth, mouth, hands.

She's never been very vocal, but he can gauge the effect he's having by the way she arches into his touch, and by the way her nipples stand up hard against his tongue.

Her fingers comb through his hair, and her legs tangle with his. The more skin against skin contact, the better. This is simple.

And new. And good.

This time he blithely ignores the warning at the back of his mind when he notes her heartrate launch into an impossible rhythm, focusing instead on finding what she responds to best, enjoying the feel of her urging him on.

He explores again, sliding a hand down the smooth line of her stomach, smiling against her skin when the muscles tighten under his hand. But he's on an exploration mission now, mapping the curves and hollows and sensitive points of her body.

Her eyes fall closed and she lets her senses expand, feeling the blood flowing in his body, feeling the heat of his hands moving over her torso.

She shifts away just long enough to strip her camisole off over her head. When she returns, she gently tugs him back up for another kiss, this one decidedly less timid and more insistent.

It might be considered a casual encounter, but there's nothing casual about her. Her touch is deliberate and intent, as if she's reassuring herself that he's real under her palms. Her hands skim over his chest, up to his shoulders, around his neck, cataloguing every inch of his skin as she goes.

The heat of her, her scent, it's intoxicating, making him dizzy. He is more than happy to obey her commands, moaning into her mouth. Carefully he slides his hands under her shoulders, under her waist, and twists, pulling her on top of him.

Oh, damn. That is not bad, not one little bit.

She rolls with him, that same breathless laugh on her lips. Her palms come to rest on his chest, and she breaks the kiss, sitting up slowly as she straddles his hips. She watches his face as she settles back.

This position is more effective without clothes, but it's a delicious tease with them. She illustrates, just a subtle gesture to bring the point home.

His breath stutters in his throat at her movement, and there's no force on Earth that could stop him from grinding up against her, his hands settling on her hips.

"Keep that up much longer and you might be disappointed." He warns, tight and rough and dear Lord he cannot for the life of him decide if he hopes she'll stop or he hopes she never will.

She holds her breath for a moment, letting that delicious ache of expectation build, spreading up through her chest, bleeding down into her fingers and toes.

"Not as much as you would be," she teases.

But she gives him some mercy, rising on her knees, leaning forward again to brush her lips along his sternum. Her nails lightly scratch along his ribs, and her mouth strays from the course, her tongue darting out to taste his skin.

A few centuries under her belt comes with more than just great war stories. She's patient, and she knows what she wants. Now that she's here, she doesn't seem shy about taking it.

It is a struggle not to flail at the loss of contact, and that struggle is not at all helped by her further ministrations. He runs his hands up her sides, flicking his thumbs over those nipples he's already become very well acquainted with.

"D...defin...nitely." Diction is hard when his body is more focused on the rasp of her nails, the soft press of her lips, the burn of her tongue, the agonizing lack of contact in other places.

She exhales softly at the feel of his thumbs, a shuddering breath feathering against his skin. She melts again, half laying along his side, her thigh draped over his.

Her hand drifts lower, teasing along his centerline, her fingertips stealing under the waistband of his boxers, little by little. Her mouth finds his nipple, teeth and tongue, and then an open mouthed kiss, just a little suction, just for a moment. She long ago mastered the art of the oblique assault, drawing him out, one breath at a time.

His language skills degrade completely, one hand alternately tangling through her hair and patting, shakily, the back of her head, the gesture standing in for the 'please don't stop doing that' which he cannot articulate at the moment. The other continues to tease it's captured breast, though every time she pulls that last move the motion becomes decidedly erratic.

Soft and slow, teasing, nuzzling both against his skin and into that delicious hand in her hair. Her chin lifts, her eyes closed, and she looks for all the world like a cat, pressing up into that caress.

It's been so long since someone has touched her like this. So long since she's felt the heat of another's skin against her own, and it's heady, making her forget how tired she is.

She returns for another kiss, a little deeper, a little more hungry this time, her inhibitions falling away like layers of cobwebs and dust.

He returns it with interest, his hands sinking down, over her shoulders, down the curve of her back, the hollow at her tailbone, and they slide under the elastic of her boxers, and settle over her rear. He groans as he pulls her flush against him with those hands, rubbing circles against her skin.

She echoes that groan back to him, her hands curling around his head, her hips pressing, grinding against his erection.

Her temple rests against his jaw and she nibbles down the side of his neck. "Too many clothes," she breathes, shifting against him, torn between breaking the connection and needing enough space to get the offending garment off and out of the way.

His eyes roll back briefly, the sheer pleasure created by her movements nearly overwhelming.

"Agreed." It's a gasp, an almost desperate sound, and he pushes the both of them up. He drops his head against her shoulder at the thrill that motion causes.

Her arms fold around his neck, her thighs parting, spreading wide as she settles around his hips again, a harsh cry on her lips as nerve endings electrify.

"Wait." She pulls back to look into his face, one finger falling across his lips.

She's not supposed to use the magic this way, not supposed to use a flamethrower to light a cigarette, but there are times when the need is justified.

The air grows thick around them and she murmurs something in a language so old, it can't hardly be called Russian anymore. He feels the pressure wave all around them, and then there's a flash of icy breath. Just the briefest shock of cold, and then heat and wet, and the sound of her voice, quiet and wanton in his ears.

There's a brief moment of panic he can't do anything about - change of pressure plus cold, to someone who lives on board a starship, never means good things.

But then it does very much so mean good things, supremely good things and, in the shock of it, he swears fervently to whatever God cares to be listening in on them tonight.

She chuckles against his mouth, stealing another kiss as she slides along his length. Oh how she appreciates the fervent nature of his words. How could she ever forget how delicious this felt? How could she have done without this for so long?

She's still got him trapped somewhat, still teasing, but he can feel the ripples of pleasure as they propagate through her body. He can feel the way she lifts a little higher every time, working inexorably towards what they both want.

Somewhat trapped? Somewhat? He's sure as hell trapped, but at least he's trapped in a little slice of heaven. As she moves he arches his hips up to meet her, sliding his hands up into her hair again.

"Oh, don't stop, please darlin', please..." Pride is for people who both aren't here and aren't him. For this, for this he can definitely beg.

He's so close, breathing her breath, his heart pounding in her ears. His hands are so gentle, she thinks she might be losing her mind again. It's too much and not enough in the same breath.

She rises up just that last little bit, slipping a hand down between their bodies to guide him along her slit, her breath hitching as she feels him slip into her depths. Her grip around his neck tightens, and he can feel that last little bit of hesitation melt away, replaced by a long, decadent moan, the sound telegraphing that sweet ache with every shallow stroke.

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