PART EIGHT [CLOSED]

[st_anon]

PART ONE  PART TWO 
PART THREE  PART FOUR HERE
PART FIVE HERE PART SIX HERE
PART SEVEN HERE
PART NINE HERE
PART TEN HERE
PART ELEVEN HERE

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Moderation, My Ass 1/2

[anonymous]

When their shifts end at the same time and they make it all the way down the corridor and into the turbolift without exchanging so much as an acerbic monosyllable, he knows that they're not going to make it all the way up to her quarters retaining a similar distance. Still, it's another ten seconds of tense, tired stillness after the doors close, and from the tightness around her eyes he's pretty sure she would have snapped first if it weren't for the fact that after those ten seconds she lets her head fall forward with a small, silent sigh, not more than an extended exhalation, although he takes his victories where he can get him. And bowing her head is cheating, because -- well. Her goddamn hair slides inwards, parting around her thin shoulders like a veil rather than a mere mess of fine threads, clumped a little by sweat from the encounter with Klingons but not sewn together in a way that could excuse that fluid slump, and god, she's stunning. Hair so black it looks liquid cuts across her cheek like an twentieth century pen-stroke, line of ink not yet sunk into paper.

Cheating. Yeah.

He pauses the lift.

She lifts her chin, shakes her straight-cut bangs out of her eyes before angling her stance to face him with a raised eyebrow. He tries and fails to quite match the arch of it before leaning in across the tentative space between, closing the gap by thoughtless degrees.

“An interesting choice,” she says, and catches his open mouth with with her open hand, and he remembers himself before showing too much of his surprise. He kisses the hollow of her palm twice before ghosting his lips down over the heel before nibbling on the bright copper-colored vein, so close and vividly red-gold under pale skin. It makes him think of alcohol, the blood that could almost but not quite be brandy, which is maybe just as well because getting drunk would make doing what he wants to do to her a lot harder. She flexes the hand, cupping it to hold his face there, thumb on his temple, fingers on his hairline; his tongue fits the dent formed by tautened tendons in her wrist. She drags her thumb down across his cheekbone, stretching until he can suck the tip in up to the first joint, can curl his tongue around the (smooth but thankfully unpolished) nail, which leaves a crescent moon of pain on his hard palate when she scrapes upwards, curiously.

The hiccup he elicits by licking the webbing between thumb and index is worth the awkward, unfamiliar discomforts and kinks in his neck. Later tonight he'll bitch about it while she ignores him in what he likes to think of as a loving way rather than a pointed one, but if he's to be perfectly honest with himself, he doesn't miss proper kisses much at all.

“Doctor,” she tells him, levelly, “do not hesitate to repeat yourself.”

He drops his jaw as delicately as possible and pulls off. “Oh, but I like a little variety. I'm a doctor, not a window washer.” On that note he backs her and her still raised, spread hand up to the wall and, appropriately (except in case of very low windows), drops to his knees, wincing a little on impact. He's rewarded by the sight of her hunching over him, the curtain of hair lowered again, as he pushes her skirt up around her waist while she rolls her leggings and underwear down to mid-thigh, practical and quick about it. He grips her waist, buries his face between her legs, glad of the damp heat, of the clipped hair chafing his nose, of the hollow of her hip under his hand, and he nuzzles at her vulva for a moment before twisting to seal her slit with his mouth. He teases aside the swollen greenish lips with his teeth and slips his tongue up, exploring slick folds, doubled ridges in sweet flesh (the color if not the texture of ripe grapes, down even to the slight not-quite translucence, as if her muscles were juice in the sun). Up; she digs her fingertips into his scalp, carding through the tangles, as he goes deeper, molding his mouth to sensitive skin. He runs his teeth along the rim of her clitoris and she says “Yes,” quietly, in exactly the tone she used last week when she isolated a tricky hormone that induces senescence in some godforsaken carnivorous fruit, discovery boiled into triumph.