[oom] San Francisco Victorian/Milliways Rooms

[olyabird]

[ after this ]

She still eats as if it is a privilege, a throwback to the many times when it was.  Proteins first, to sustain the body, and yes, while battered poultry is a novelty, she still manages to enjoy it.  Carbohydrates next, and fresh baked bread is fresh baked bread the world over.  And finally, because it has a strange scent, and it looks to be rather messy to eat, finally she delves into the watermelon slices.  Juice ran down her chin and she had a sense memory of eating apples fresh from the cider press, only this was more like pears, she thought.  No, not at all like pears.  Something completely new and different.

Not unlike the man seated next to her, his startlingly blue eyes glittering with mirth as she chased bite after bite with a swipe of her napkin. 

"This should be served in a glass," she murmurs, taking another bite of the almost ethereal fruit.  One could eat for days and never fill up.  "What are you laughing at, hmm?"

Comments

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He only has himself to blame - he knows better than most about the importance of not letting things fester like that, but he still refuses to do anything about it other than go on ignoring it.

He follows where she leads, instinctively stepping around floorboards that used to creak at odd moments.
"The tour, huh? But of what, I wonder?"

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

And where Olga comes from, ignoring it is the time honoured method of dealing with such things. So she'll be no help at all.

"The oddly draughty linen closet, what else?"

There might be a door to a bar in another dimension in there. Who knows?

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He raises an eyebrow at her, but there's a mischievous grin on his face that utterly ruins any sort of sternness he might be aiming for. Call it a reaction of the two extremes of then and now, call it whatever you like, but there's something daring behind his bright blue eyes.

Lest she think he has no reflexes at all, he'd remind her that he is a combat surgeon, and while he doesn't fight as a rule, he often has to contain those that do.

He ducks forward suddenly, hoisting her over his shoulder in a traditional fireman's carry.
"I think I can find somewhere more interesting than the linen closet." He informs her, cheerfully bright.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Olga squawks. There is no delicate word for the high pitched, indignant noise that erupts from her throat.

She's not a large woman, and the reflexes she relies on are not physical, but instinctual, ingrained through years of combat experience. Thankfully she trusts her senses, and instead of her fingers twitching or her body slipping sideways into the Gloom, she feels only his enthusiasm and a delicious pulse of something else, something hungry and playful and good.

Her hands fist in his uniform and when she gets her breath back, he is treated to a blistering earful of rather creative invective, and maybe a little awkward laughter. She doesn't struggle though, choosing instead to bide her time and wait for an opportunity to react accordingly.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

"Such language." He tuts as he carries his prize, snickering at some of the more anatomically impossible curses, and perhaps cataloging a few away for future use. Instead of showing her the closet, as interesting as it might be, he heads for the bedroom instead.

It too is just as he remembers it - down to the chipping crown molding around the ceiling and largish bed he'd gotten in pure retaliation against his newly single status. The flame in the fireplace doesn't look any less pitiful than it did from the other side of the double-sided hearth, and he admits to himself that she may have a point about that device.

"Now then. Isn't this much more interesting than the closet?"

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

"Put.

Me.

Down."

Indignation is winning over playfulness at the moment.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He promptly complies, carefully dropping her onto the bed before flopping onto it himself, knowingly leaving himself open to retaliation.

Not that he'd be particularly effective in fending off any serious attempts. Honestly, it's a miracle he survived enough military training to be considered in Star Fleet.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Retaliation is swift and decisive.

She doesn't let go of his shirt, following him over until she's straddled his hips, pinning him down with a force disproportionate to her size. The sound of his shirt tearing is loud in the small room.

She bends to catch his mouth in a punishing kiss, her entire body vibrating with the rush of endorphins brought on by his attack.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

Oh.

Note to self:

Do that. Often as possible. Oh hell.

He responds viscerally, his hands sliding up and under her shirt, deftly undoing the clasp of her bra and sliding under that as well, tweaking and teasing and the heat of her mouth is melting his brain in a somewhat catastrophic fashion.

Definitely do that as often as possible.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

When she breaks the kiss, she's breathing hard and grinning like a mad woman. She sits back and tosses her shirt and bra aside with a vicious motion. The rest of his shirt is dispatched with a similar ferocity, her hands skimming over his chest, blunt nails grazing over his skin.

"Do not start something you do not mean to finish, Lyonya. I have been known to carry a grudge," she murmurs, her grey eyes flashing green.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He arches into her touch, his delight in her obvious, the blue of his eyes darkening with pure lust. She is magnificent like this.

"Who said anything about not finishing?" McCoy growls throatily, his hands resettling firmly over her breasts.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She leans into his touch, her hands rising to her head. Her eyes fall close as she undoes the few pins, dragging her hands through her mouse brown hair as she shakes it loose.

"You carry me off to bed, like you're some great -- beast. And then you lay back, and let me stroke your belly?"

She looks down into his face, chewing on her lower lip. Her hips roll against his, the motion direct and unequivocal, and a tight little moan escapes her throat.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He makes a mental note of that - never let it be said that the boy can't learn. Pushing himself up, he slides his hands around her shoulders to suckle and nip urgently at her breasts. Her challenge is not going unanswered.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She smiles, her arms melting around his neck, her fingers dragging through his hair, looking down into those impossible blue eyes. She licks her lips and bares her teeth at him, urging him on, hunger radiating in every line of her body now. There's an urgency in her touch this time, and he has no one to blame for it but himself.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

Oh, he will happily take the blame for this. And possibly every other time he provokes this sort of response as well. One hand stays firmly between her shoulder blades, but the second slides down over the curve of her ass. He bucks up to unsettle her, then twists, pressing her back down against the bed. Positions reversed, he mimics her fierce and brutal kiss, taking no prisoners.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Oh yes. This is one of those fantastic moments where she discovers that he knows exactly what she wants before she knows it herself. She yields without yielding, flexing beneath him, her fingers gripping in his hair, her heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

Her moan is considerably louder this time, poorly soundproofed walls be damned. She wants him to know just how much she's enjoying this.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He's already gotten her trousers off once today, and has learned the trick of the clasps. Dexterous fingers undo all of those tricksy closings, and he pushes back just enough that he can strip the unnecessary clothing off of her.

And, of course, to study his handiwork for a moment. Simply gorgeous.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She follows him up this time, her own hands a bit frantic as they make quick work of his own trousers. She has to fall back when he tugs hers off, a chuckle melting into a groan as he looks down at her.

Her smile turns decidedly wicked as he lingers a bit too long for an eye full, and she shimmies higher on the bed, making him reach for her.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

His clothes drop to the floor, and he follows her, intent and driven and appreciating. Definitely appreciating.
"So, darlin'," He rumbles in her ear, "You like it a bit rough, do you?" One hand is still teasing those lovely breasts, but the other...

The other has ventured somewhere else entirely, sliding firmly, inexorably into her slick heat.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

Her hands are hot on his skin and she gasps as he penetrates her, turning her head to muffle a sharp, decadent cry against his shoulder. Her hips rise off the bed and one questing hand curls around his cock in an equally assertive grip.

Her breath is ragged against his jaw. "Just like you, I like it when you tell me -- what you want."

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

He truly cannot stop the thrust against her hand, his breath coming out in a fierce, fervent, gasping curse.

"Just you, darlin'." He assures her, as he sets up a firm, steady, driving rhythm, his thumb pushing against her clit. He is demanding, relentless - if she wants the beast, he will do his damnedest to comply.

He is also going to plunder her mouth again, groaning his encouragement of the tightness of her nimble, talented hands.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

It's too much, too much and not enough, all in the same breath. Her legs tangle with his as they try to find this new, savage rhythm. It's too much, and not enough, and she only knows one way to proceed. Her kiss slows, not losing any of the strength or passion, only moderating the tempo, guided by her hand and her hips.

"Be careful what you wish for," she growls, her voice thick with lust. Her power coils around her, unconscious as breathing, urging him to complete the circuit. She shifts beneath him, her hand guiding him to her cunt. Her breath shudders in a long groan as he slides along her slit, and her eyes roll back as he slides home with that same driving intensity.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

The tight heat of her, the power, it has just as much detrimental effect to his logical thinking ability as before, as it probably will every time. But beyond that, above that - touching her, burying himself within her keep, it suddenly becomes nearly imperative. The effect is electrifying, maddening... it would be frightening, perhaps, if he were not willingly given over to it.
Less speed, but more power - she names the tune, and he plays it, the fingers of one slick hand still circling her clit, and doing the same to her breasts with tongue and teeth and fingers.

[olyabird.livejournal.com]

She curls around him, her chin tipped back, gloriously discordant waves of pleasure coiling through her body. Her palms smooth over his shoulders, urging him back for another kiss, deep and demanding. Each breath brings a shimmering cry up from her throat, each surging pulse, a whipstrike of white hot bliss. Her strong legs hold him close, and her hips meet his, stroke for stroke.

[notabricklayer.livejournal.com]

There'll be damage to show for this, he'd realize, if he were thinking. He might even be amused by it. Even a little smirkily self-satisfied.

But he is beyond thinking, God help him. This is basic, elemental, the fusion of two disparate wholes into something else entirely. There is only her beneath and around him goading and pushing him on. There is only a desperate, nearly blind need to be closer, deeper, to make those exultant noises louder in his ears. There is only the sting of his muscles as he shifts, bracing with his hands under her shoulders because she isn't quite close enough, never quite close enough, and the fire in his blood, his nerves, his brain burns hotter and fiercer and still, not quite enough.