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two more comment!fic drabbles getting reposted
Karl/Zoe
(no idea what the original prompt was, except that it was for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
withthepilot)
The Red Dress
Her dress is as red, or even redder, than the red carpet, off one shoulder, and short. Showing off those elegant legs. Strong, lithe, perfect legs. She makes a show of nearly losing a shoe and he finds his hand hovering on her back, as if he will hold her up in the momentary loss of balance, as if she even needs someone to hold her up. It's him that's losing his balance, he realizes, because he is laughing for no reason other than the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips and the shimmer of her smile running up his spine.
Yes, losing the shoe is entirely for show, and entirely for his benefit. He reads it in her eyes, feels it in the way she leans into his space for the briefest moment.
It goes this way down the rest of the carpet, long red carpet. She is talking with her eyes - sly looks - and her laugh - smoky sunshine - and the angle of every pose for every picture.
He corners her in an obscure alcove of the sprawling building housing their premiere. "Quite the show out there."
"Hm. Did you like it?"
"Ah, you know the answer to that, love." He puts a hand on her back, lower this time.
She looks up at him, laughs without even making a sound. It's the first time they are face to face tonight, not posing side by side as co-stars (and the nothing more that they ought to be).
"Do I?" She teases, inching closer until her breath is warm on his neck.
"Am I supposed to answer that, or are we being rhetorical." He puts his hand on her hips, framing her for what's next.
"You love it," she laughs, out loud this time, and wraps her legs around him as he lifts her up.
"You gonna pull these kinds of stunts the whole goddamn world tour?"
"Of course."
"Good."
McCoy/Uhura
(NO IDEA as to original prompt or prompter)
something they do
Leonard is waiting for her when her shift is over. And while it is not that work has been particularly difficult or tasking, and it is not as though she has just emerged from some crisis, bruised and scorched and weary, it is that she is tired anyway, because some days are like that.
She releases the tight ponytail of her hair, shakes it out, as Leonard pours drinks - real stuff, not synthesized, a small snobbery of his she is happy for.
His hands are with hers as she begins removing her uniform, making a dance out of the undressing as he often does. When she is naked except for her boots, he kneels to unzip them, to linger over her feet, her ankles, cup her knees before pushing them farther apart. His mouth follows his hands - kisses, paths he traces with his tongue. He bites a little at the inside of her thigh and something shoots through her, her fingers twist in his hair.
"Don't be gentle tonight."
"No?" He looks up, his right eyebrow a wicked hook to the question. His fingers tighten on her thighs. But not tight enough yet. She suddenly wants bruises and marks, to be the scorched earth in his wake.
"No." She pulls him up with her fingers underneath his chin until he towers over her - broad shoulders, sinful mouth, and dark eyes that seem to always understand what she wants, what she needs.
He doesn't ask again. He presses a thumb to her lower lip, slides it to the corner and out, smears her lipstick before taking her mouth with his, bruising, exactly as she needs. Full open-mouthed contact - take and take, taste and bite - becomes the match, the catalyst, the incendiary device set to ticking, to inevitable explosion.
Against the wall and quick, he enters rough but smooth at the same time. His fingers dig bruises into her hips, her nails leave marks in his back. Fast, faster, hot, hotter, harder. Skins slick and hot and sticky. She screams as she comes around him and he groans her name - Nyota - against her neck as he follows.
He carries her to the bed and gives her no rest. She does not ask for rest or reprieve, she revels in the answering demons of their desire.
There will be marks her uniform won't hide, and it's exactly what she needs. Whatever that means, whatever the analysis might be, she doesn't care. This thing, them, it is what it is. And what it is is perfectly flawed and brilliant.
There are things they don't talk about, names they do not speak outside of the necessary conversations involved with their jobs. Jocelyn, Spock, Jim. Ghosts they do very well at ignoring, at relegating to irrelevancy, as all things past should be treated. And "love" is something they never say, it's something they do, it's what they are - love, lovers.
(no idea what the original prompt was, except that it was for
withthepilot)The Red Dress
Her dress is as red, or even redder, than the red carpet, off one shoulder, and short. Showing off those elegant legs. Strong, lithe, perfect legs. She makes a show of nearly losing a shoe and he finds his hand hovering on her back, as if he will hold her up in the momentary loss of balance, as if she even needs someone to hold her up. It's him that's losing his balance, he realizes, because he is laughing for no reason other than the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips and the shimmer of her smile running up his spine.
Yes, losing the shoe is entirely for show, and entirely for his benefit. He reads it in her eyes, feels it in the way she leans into his space for the briefest moment.
It goes this way down the rest of the carpet, long red carpet. She is talking with her eyes - sly looks - and her laugh - smoky sunshine - and the angle of every pose for every picture.
He corners her in an obscure alcove of the sprawling building housing their premiere. "Quite the show out there."
"Hm. Did you like it?"
"Ah, you know the answer to that, love." He puts a hand on her back, lower this time.
She looks up at him, laughs without even making a sound. It's the first time they are face to face tonight, not posing side by side as co-stars (and the nothing more that they ought to be).
"Do I?" She teases, inching closer until her breath is warm on his neck.
"Am I supposed to answer that, or are we being rhetorical." He puts his hand on her hips, framing her for what's next.
"You love it," she laughs, out loud this time, and wraps her legs around him as he lifts her up.
"You gonna pull these kinds of stunts the whole goddamn world tour?"
"Of course."
"Good."
McCoy/Uhura
(NO IDEA as to original prompt or prompter)
something they do
Leonard is waiting for her when her shift is over. And while it is not that work has been particularly difficult or tasking, and it is not as though she has just emerged from some crisis, bruised and scorched and weary, it is that she is tired anyway, because some days are like that.
She releases the tight ponytail of her hair, shakes it out, as Leonard pours drinks - real stuff, not synthesized, a small snobbery of his she is happy for.
His hands are with hers as she begins removing her uniform, making a dance out of the undressing as he often does. When she is naked except for her boots, he kneels to unzip them, to linger over her feet, her ankles, cup her knees before pushing them farther apart. His mouth follows his hands - kisses, paths he traces with his tongue. He bites a little at the inside of her thigh and something shoots through her, her fingers twist in his hair.
"Don't be gentle tonight."
"No?" He looks up, his right eyebrow a wicked hook to the question. His fingers tighten on her thighs. But not tight enough yet. She suddenly wants bruises and marks, to be the scorched earth in his wake.
"No." She pulls him up with her fingers underneath his chin until he towers over her - broad shoulders, sinful mouth, and dark eyes that seem to always understand what she wants, what she needs.
He doesn't ask again. He presses a thumb to her lower lip, slides it to the corner and out, smears her lipstick before taking her mouth with his, bruising, exactly as she needs. Full open-mouthed contact - take and take, taste and bite - becomes the match, the catalyst, the incendiary device set to ticking, to inevitable explosion.
Against the wall and quick, he enters rough but smooth at the same time. His fingers dig bruises into her hips, her nails leave marks in his back. Fast, faster, hot, hotter, harder. Skins slick and hot and sticky. She screams as she comes around him and he groans her name - Nyota - against her neck as he follows.
He carries her to the bed and gives her no rest. She does not ask for rest or reprieve, she revels in the answering demons of their desire.
There will be marks her uniform won't hide, and it's exactly what she needs. Whatever that means, whatever the analysis might be, she doesn't care. This thing, them, it is what it is. And what it is is perfectly flawed and brilliant.
There are things they don't talk about, names they do not speak outside of the necessary conversations involved with their jobs. Jocelyn, Spock, Jim. Ghosts they do very well at ignoring, at relegating to irrelevancy, as all things past should be treated. And "love" is something they never say, it's something they do, it's what they are - love, lovers.
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You always write such lovely snippets.
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And yeah, it'll come back. I'm sure it'll come back. I believe in your mojo!!