Title: Scotty's Lament
Pairing: None (Scotty, OC)
Warning: Swearing, bad attempts at writing an accent, an OC
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, anyone or anything related to Star Trek, but I do own this OC and the computer I've written this on.
A/N: written in an hour at 12/1:00 in the morning and dreadfully unbetaed. *I apologize Scotty sounds more Glaswegian here than Aberdonian, but Glaswegian is the accent I grew around so I find it easier*
His arms come around her waist as she settles on his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. He pulls her closer as she lowers her head to his shoulder and starts jerking her hip forward slightly. Her breath begins to tickle the small hairs on the back of his neck and he grunts and tugs her closer, allowing his hips to lift from the couch just a bit, rocking in time with her. She laughs and starts laying wet, biting kisses along his smooth jaw line, then up his chin before finding his mouth and biting down on his lower lip.
The sudden white-hot flash of pain makes his mouth go slack just long enough for her tongue to enter rather forcefully. He swallows as best he can as a growl begins to rumble in the base of his throat. Her fingers scratch and claw at the short hairs on his head as she forces their faces closer. He tastes the bitter tang of blood and realizes she has probably drawn blood from his lips, but cannot find it in him to care when the same blood tinged lips kiss him again.
Their rocking picks up speed and vigour, as they start breathing, hot and heavy, in unison. He tangles the fingers of one hand in her ginger hair and cradles her freckled chin in the other.
The familiar heat brewing in the pit of his stomach signals that they're on the right track and haven't got much time. Knowing this, he wraps his arms tighter around her waist and almost literally begins slamming into her. He lowers his head to her chest, squeezes his eyes shut and pants. Tendrils of sweat start trailing across his forehead and begin to make a small pool of moisture on her chest before he raises his head again and opens his eyes. She's staring at him but not with the heat or want he expects, but with contempt and hatred. It's then he notices her arms aren't around his neck anymore.
He doesn't feel the dagger sink into his chest, nor feels when it's twisted violently to the left before being yanked from his body-
Scotty wakes with a start to realize several things:
1) He was still alive
2) He was out of Scotch
3) No more playing Mac Pherson's Rant on repeat while drunk
4) The Enterprises' synthetic cotton couches did not taste good nor smell very pleasant.
5) He was only going to see girls with short hair.
6) They could not be ginger.
A stifled from the floor somewhere beyond his peripheral vision has him lifting his head off the cushion and turning to watch a decidedly auburn (not ginger!) head rise form the matte carpet. He smiles ever so slightly as he watches two bleary grey eyes peer at him from behind a mass of tangles.
He swallows a couple time before attempting "Awe rite, hen?"
His answer came in the form of a grunt and then a whimper as the head lowers to the floor again. "Ma bloody heids burstin'"
He laughs outright and lowers his head to the cushion again; he turns his face outwards and watches. "Lovely affects of the Whiskey is it no?"
His guest tries, but fails several times to force herself to her knees and finally giving up and buries her face in the carpet again. She groans and a familiar finger suddenly comes up to greet him.
His laughter nearly drowns out the muffled "Fuck off" that floats from the floor.
Scotty carefully rolls to the floor and pushes himself to his feet. He grabs the closest bottle to him and takes a swig of it to wash the cottonmouth away. A bit of the hair of the dog never hurt anyone anyway. The bottle rocks before settling when he sets it back down.
On his way to the washroom, he kicks the side of her boot with his barefoot and mutters, "Ya fuckin' lightweight," in a light tone. He decidedly does not hear her reply as he enters the washroom and closes the door behind him.
When he emerges from the washroom, he notices she's managed to crawl her way to the couch and now lays across it, left arm dangling off the side, right arm firmly over her eyes.
"Ya want in?"
She nods and then groans at the feeling. "Yes, I dae." She swallows hard. "Here I go." She doesn't move. At all.
He waits for a good five minutes and then leans against the doorway while holding his towel against his waist with the other hand. "C'mon Jeanie, I've nae the time fae yur jokes! I've gotta be workin' in less than a bloody half h'our."
"Imma big girl, Monty, away ya go an' shag yur engines an' leave me be."
He slams his open palm against the doorway and sighs, "I'm gonnae send ye back, Jeanie, I swear tae god!"
"You wouldnae dare." Her head rises from the cushion as her right hand moves to wrap around the back of the couch. Her eyes dilate slightly as she takes in Scotty's pale, wry frame and then winks. "Ye must be beatin them off wae sticks."
Scotty looks down at his exposed chest and tries to hide the blush as he looks back up, but the growing grin on Jeanie's pale freckly face tells him just how horribly he's failed. "Ach!" he exclaims, quickly turning towards the washroom again. "Fuck off, ye bugger."
The doors swoosh close again amid the sounds of Jeanie's croaky laughter.
He lets the towel drop to the floor and rests his head against the mirror above the sink. The cold glass does nothing to calm his thoughts or his stomach (hey, he wasn't superhuman, just had a really high alcohol tolerance). Why did he ever agree to let her on the Enterprise?
Friend or no, the next Star base she was gone. She was drinking all his Scotch and giving him weird dreams. She had to go.