Fic: Unfix My Hair, PG-13
Aug. 11th, 2009 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fringedwellerficTitle: Unfix My Hair
Author:fringedwellerfic
Pairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: PG-13? Nothing explicit, anyway.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously.
Summary: Christine needs a hand when her hair comes loose.
Author's Notes: Filling this prompt on the kink meme for McCoy running his hands through Chapel's hair.
Title from Macbeth, because there's a dearth of Shakespearean quotes mentioning hair.
She was alone in sickbay’s small lab area. The biomedical gel she was synthesising was troublesome to produce, and demanded total concentration. She had rolled back the sleeves of her uniform tunic and had plunged wrist-deep into the iridescent ooze, letting the gelatinous solution stream through her fingers. She could have used the paddle, but she enjoyed the sensation of kneading and squelching the thick gloop too much. Her hands had been thoroughly sterilised, so that wasn’t an issue and, secretly, she loved how the gel kept her hands smooth and nails strong.
It was almost ready to use now. She just had to keep the gel moving for another five minutes to allow its components to fully merge and settle. It was strangely relaxing, and a job she enjoyed doing.
An irritating tickle on her neck began to distract her, and she realised with annoyance that one of her hair grips had decided to slide out of her silky blonde hair. Where one went, the others would follow, she knew from grim experience. Why she kept her hair long she didn’t know – it would be far more practical to have a short bob than the shoulder length style that required frequent maintenance throughout the day. The other staff teased her about her out of control hair, and joked that they could always locate her by the trail of grips she left behind her.
Sure enough, as her body swayed with the motion of stirring the gel she heard a small ‘plink’ as one of her grips fell onto the deck. Another two or three followed in quick succession, and her hair began its descent from practical and hygienic bun to a free-falling, shoulder scraping style. This was the last straw, she thought, irritated beyond measure. The next free appointment the onboard stylist had, she was getting her hair chopped to the nape of her neck.
“Lily?” she called out, hoping to attract the fellow nurse’s attention. “Sara, are you there? I need a hand!”
No response, and things were getting desperate now. If one of the grips or even one of her hairs fell in the gel the whole batch would be ruined and she’d have to start again.
“Anyone?” she called out again, more desperate now. Relief flooded through her as she heard footsteps make their way from the main sickbay.
“Christine? What’s the matter?” It wasn’t Lily, or Sara. It was Len, which made things slightly more awkward. Still, he was the one who wanted the damn gel so badly, so he’d just have to man up and help.
“My hair is coming out of its grips, could you do something about it?” she asked, blowing an errant lock out of her face with an exasperated puff of air. He pulled a face, and opened his mouth to complain, but she cut him off.
“Yes, yes, I know, you’re a doctor not a hairdresser. But my grips are coming out and if anything gets in the gel I’ll have to start again. So, please, come and sort my hair out?”
She put on her best pleading face, and she saw his resolve crumble into dust. He may have the rest of the crew fooled into thinking he was abrasive and scary, but it hadn’t taken long before Christine had found his measure. Apparently blonde hair and blue eyes were all it took to wrap him around your little finger – you only had to look at the adrenaline-fuelled away missions the captain got him to go on to figure that one out.
Not that she’d managed to get him to agree to anything adrenaline-fuelled with her; he’d look, but so far he hadn’t touched. Those looks though – he thought she hadn’t noticed, but whenever she was peering into a reflective surface to pull her hair into place she’d catch him staring at her. Those looks were intense, and all the more heady for their supposed secrecy.
He never touched her though, outside of a brush of a hand when she was passing him an instrument. No matter how much she wanted him to.
She turned back to the gel to keep the motion steady, and heard him walk closer to her. She sensed him rather than saw him; smelled his spicy cologne, heard the rustle of his uniform, felt the touch of his body heat as he got close enough to pick the grips from her hair. He brought his arms up around her, enclosing her in a space that smelt of cologne and sterilising spray and something indefinably masculine and warm. She instinctively moved backwards towards him; she couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried. She met a firm, hard body and started to melt against it.
“Don’t stop moving the gel, Christine,” he warned softly, his fingers delicately seeking out each individual grip. He prised each one open, gently freed her hair from its clutch and put it down on the table next to her arm. He worked methodically, starting with the left side of her head and working his way around. He was torturously slow, feeling out the location of each grip with the pads of his fingers. It was an impromptu scalp massage, and Christine couldn’t help letting out a small moan of pleasure and relaxing back into the warm strength of his body even further. He said nothing, and continued until all the grips were out and her hair fell in cascades to her shoulders.
She expected him to stop at this point, to release her from the cage of his arms. Instead he plunged his hands into her hair and started to trail it through his fingers. His hands gripped her skull gently but firmly as he let the silky strands slip slowly over his hands. She began to feel her body respond to his touch; warm tendrils of pleasure pooled in the pit of her stomach as her nipples began to rise and poke at the thin material of her uniform tunic. She would have been embarrassed if she didn’t have proof of his pleasure directly poking into the swell of her backside.
He continued to play with her hair, but he released one hand to drift down the side of her face and her neck. He ran a finger along the neckline of her tunic, and then spanned his hand to lie firmly on her breastbone. His fingers grazed her pulse point, which caused her heart to thump erratically. She heard him make a noise that was altogether too smug, so she let her hips circle in a wide arc, deliberately rubbing firmly against his hard length. The smug noise turned into a gasp, and then both his arms were wrapped fully around her body. He leant his head forward and took a deep breath, nose buried deep in her hair. She felt the puffs of his hot breath on her neck and shivered, wondering what it was about him that made him find all her hot spots so damn easily.
She didn’t know how long they stood there; the timer for the gel had gone off unnoticed. It was the sound of murmured voices and muffled footsteps that prompted their movement. He pulled her hair into a rough pony tail and secured it efficiently if not gracefully with her hairgrips. He backed away from her, and she removed her hands from the gel. She wiped them carefully on the towel next to her, and turned to face him. She stretched up and ran her hand through his short, dark hair, ruffling its preternaturally tidy style. She smiled, and said, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He smiled back, and drew her in for a gentle kiss that held the promise of so much more.
“Not as much as I have,” he admitted, running the back of his hand along the side of her head.
“I suppose I’d better cancel that appointment for a hair cut then,” she teased. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer again, drawing her flush against him.
“Do not cut your hair, Christine,” he warned. “I haven’t waited three years to...”
She shut him up by kissing him, which she thought was a vast improvement on the old method, which was shouting back louder than him.
“I’ll keep it long for now,” she said, “but you’ll have to become a better hairdresser if you want it to stay long.”
The returning sickbay staff stopped them from carrying on any further – he retreated into his office and she decanted the batch of gel into applicant tubes for the rest of the shift. He appeared at her door later that night, and didn’t leave for two days. At the start of her next shift, she had a lot of compliments about her new hairstyle; she just smiled, and said that she had found a very enthusiastic hairdresser.
Author:
fringedwellerficPairing: McCoy/Chapel
Rating: PG-13? Nothing explicit, anyway.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously.
Summary: Christine needs a hand when her hair comes loose.
Author's Notes: Filling this prompt on the kink meme for McCoy running his hands through Chapel's hair.
Title from Macbeth, because there's a dearth of Shakespearean quotes mentioning hair.
She was alone in sickbay’s small lab area. The biomedical gel she was synthesising was troublesome to produce, and demanded total concentration. She had rolled back the sleeves of her uniform tunic and had plunged wrist-deep into the iridescent ooze, letting the gelatinous solution stream through her fingers. She could have used the paddle, but she enjoyed the sensation of kneading and squelching the thick gloop too much. Her hands had been thoroughly sterilised, so that wasn’t an issue and, secretly, she loved how the gel kept her hands smooth and nails strong.
It was almost ready to use now. She just had to keep the gel moving for another five minutes to allow its components to fully merge and settle. It was strangely relaxing, and a job she enjoyed doing.
An irritating tickle on her neck began to distract her, and she realised with annoyance that one of her hair grips had decided to slide out of her silky blonde hair. Where one went, the others would follow, she knew from grim experience. Why she kept her hair long she didn’t know – it would be far more practical to have a short bob than the shoulder length style that required frequent maintenance throughout the day. The other staff teased her about her out of control hair, and joked that they could always locate her by the trail of grips she left behind her.
Sure enough, as her body swayed with the motion of stirring the gel she heard a small ‘plink’ as one of her grips fell onto the deck. Another two or three followed in quick succession, and her hair began its descent from practical and hygienic bun to a free-falling, shoulder scraping style. This was the last straw, she thought, irritated beyond measure. The next free appointment the onboard stylist had, she was getting her hair chopped to the nape of her neck.
“Lily?” she called out, hoping to attract the fellow nurse’s attention. “Sara, are you there? I need a hand!”
No response, and things were getting desperate now. If one of the grips or even one of her hairs fell in the gel the whole batch would be ruined and she’d have to start again.
“Anyone?” she called out again, more desperate now. Relief flooded through her as she heard footsteps make their way from the main sickbay.
“Christine? What’s the matter?” It wasn’t Lily, or Sara. It was Len, which made things slightly more awkward. Still, he was the one who wanted the damn gel so badly, so he’d just have to man up and help.
“My hair is coming out of its grips, could you do something about it?” she asked, blowing an errant lock out of her face with an exasperated puff of air. He pulled a face, and opened his mouth to complain, but she cut him off.
“Yes, yes, I know, you’re a doctor not a hairdresser. But my grips are coming out and if anything gets in the gel I’ll have to start again. So, please, come and sort my hair out?”
She put on her best pleading face, and she saw his resolve crumble into dust. He may have the rest of the crew fooled into thinking he was abrasive and scary, but it hadn’t taken long before Christine had found his measure. Apparently blonde hair and blue eyes were all it took to wrap him around your little finger – you only had to look at the adrenaline-fuelled away missions the captain got him to go on to figure that one out.
Not that she’d managed to get him to agree to anything adrenaline-fuelled with her; he’d look, but so far he hadn’t touched. Those looks though – he thought she hadn’t noticed, but whenever she was peering into a reflective surface to pull her hair into place she’d catch him staring at her. Those looks were intense, and all the more heady for their supposed secrecy.
He never touched her though, outside of a brush of a hand when she was passing him an instrument. No matter how much she wanted him to.
She turned back to the gel to keep the motion steady, and heard him walk closer to her. She sensed him rather than saw him; smelled his spicy cologne, heard the rustle of his uniform, felt the touch of his body heat as he got close enough to pick the grips from her hair. He brought his arms up around her, enclosing her in a space that smelt of cologne and sterilising spray and something indefinably masculine and warm. She instinctively moved backwards towards him; she couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried. She met a firm, hard body and started to melt against it.
“Don’t stop moving the gel, Christine,” he warned softly, his fingers delicately seeking out each individual grip. He prised each one open, gently freed her hair from its clutch and put it down on the table next to her arm. He worked methodically, starting with the left side of her head and working his way around. He was torturously slow, feeling out the location of each grip with the pads of his fingers. It was an impromptu scalp massage, and Christine couldn’t help letting out a small moan of pleasure and relaxing back into the warm strength of his body even further. He said nothing, and continued until all the grips were out and her hair fell in cascades to her shoulders.
She expected him to stop at this point, to release her from the cage of his arms. Instead he plunged his hands into her hair and started to trail it through his fingers. His hands gripped her skull gently but firmly as he let the silky strands slip slowly over his hands. She began to feel her body respond to his touch; warm tendrils of pleasure pooled in the pit of her stomach as her nipples began to rise and poke at the thin material of her uniform tunic. She would have been embarrassed if she didn’t have proof of his pleasure directly poking into the swell of her backside.
He continued to play with her hair, but he released one hand to drift down the side of her face and her neck. He ran a finger along the neckline of her tunic, and then spanned his hand to lie firmly on her breastbone. His fingers grazed her pulse point, which caused her heart to thump erratically. She heard him make a noise that was altogether too smug, so she let her hips circle in a wide arc, deliberately rubbing firmly against his hard length. The smug noise turned into a gasp, and then both his arms were wrapped fully around her body. He leant his head forward and took a deep breath, nose buried deep in her hair. She felt the puffs of his hot breath on her neck and shivered, wondering what it was about him that made him find all her hot spots so damn easily.
She didn’t know how long they stood there; the timer for the gel had gone off unnoticed. It was the sound of murmured voices and muffled footsteps that prompted their movement. He pulled her hair into a rough pony tail and secured it efficiently if not gracefully with her hairgrips. He backed away from her, and she removed her hands from the gel. She wiped them carefully on the towel next to her, and turned to face him. She stretched up and ran her hand through his short, dark hair, ruffling its preternaturally tidy style. She smiled, and said, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He smiled back, and drew her in for a gentle kiss that held the promise of so much more.
“Not as much as I have,” he admitted, running the back of his hand along the side of her head.
“I suppose I’d better cancel that appointment for a hair cut then,” she teased. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer again, drawing her flush against him.
“Do not cut your hair, Christine,” he warned. “I haven’t waited three years to...”
She shut him up by kissing him, which she thought was a vast improvement on the old method, which was shouting back louder than him.
“I’ll keep it long for now,” she said, “but you’ll have to become a better hairdresser if you want it to stay long.”
The returning sickbay staff stopped them from carrying on any further – he retreated into his office and she decanted the batch of gel into applicant tubes for the rest of the shift. He appeared at her door later that night, and didn’t leave for two days. At the start of her next shift, she had a lot of compliments about her new hairstyle; she just smiled, and said that she had found a very enthusiastic hairdresser.