prompts. give me them.
Feb. 2nd, 2011 08:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urbancateOh, how I NEED to write! I used to write, right? And I wasn't half bad, right? I need to find that again. I need some KARL or McCOY or REAPER or CHAPEL in my life. OFCs, of course, always welcome here.
HELP ME, FLIST. YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE.
HELP ME, FLIST. YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-04 11:15 pm (UTC)Who Are You?
Chrissy Chapel is, and always has been, precocious and stubborn. Qualities to serve her well in academia but get in her trouble in the rest of her life, if her Mama is to be believed. Like any good precocious and stubborn student, Chrissy will have test this theory for herself.
Baton Rouge seems as good a place as any, especially since it is where she and her group of newly-graduated friends have come for a Saturday night of celebration. Drunkenness, at the very least. Debauchery, if she is lucky. A little bit of trouble, she thinks, smiling to herself, is not always a bad thing.
A few mostly harmless hours, and quite a few more drinks than that later, Chrissy deliberately breaks away from the group and goes in search of trouble.
She finds it alright. Or it - he - finds her. She will never be sure.
Hot, noisy, delicious trouble. Her skirt up around her waist, brick hard against her back, and the quiet dark-haired man with the wicked mouth and the deadly tattoo, hard and hot inside her. Scraping trouble across the night like wildcats.
- -
Chrissy is Christine now, still precocious and stubborn, still up for a little trouble when the time is right, but mostly just another focused cadet at Starfleet Academy.
The first Friday night of any semester is a christening of sorts - cadets flood into the city's bars and clubs, acting on the unofficial motto of any such institution: "Study hard. Party harder."
At first, she thinks it's a trick of the light, or maybe the two shots of Jack, but - is that? could that be Baton Rouge sidled up to the bar over there? A rush of memory makes her knees weak, the smells of sweat and sex and alcohol around her only heightening the sensation. She turns around, blinks, and looks again. Baton Rouge is gone.
- -
Three years later, she is sure that it's him. Or half sure. The same build and features - oh, that mouth - but so different from the man who had her in an alley in Baton Rouge a million years ago. He's loud and grumpy and his voice is full of drawl and he looks entirely more respectable somehow - clean-shaven and Fleet-worthy.
In the middle of the chaos, he's pushing up his shirtsleeves and she catches a glimpse of bare forearm - no evidence of a tattoo. Not that tattoos are hard to erase, but she remembers this one seemed engraved on the man's soul as his skin.
There is no more time for fanciful memory-driven thoughts. And Doctor McCoy gives no indication of recognizing or remembering.
- -
Cousins, she decides, or maybe even brothers, when there is finally a moment to think about something other than doing her job. That must be it. And there is nothing to say, whatever the truth is. You don't just walk up to your acting CMO, your boss, and say "I think I know you. You fucked me in Baton Rouge, years ago, when I was barely legal. Don't you remember?" No, some things, some memories were better left in the past.
- -
An away mission goes awry, as they often do, and Christine is patching up McCoy after he's patched up the captain, and she sees...something...in the dermal layers on the scan. A ghost, she thinks. Just as she's dismissing the notion and the memory - again - from her mind, she catches his eye. The something is there, too.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-05 02:03 am (UTC)and this: "I think I know you. You fucked me in Baton Rouge, years ago, when I was barely legal. Don't you remember?" is like the best thing ever!
So awesome! Thanks, bb.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-05 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-05 06:24 pm (UTC)