Fic: Genuflect (1/1)
Title: Genuflect
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pike/Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,140
Summary: There’s a price to pay for the game they play. For rubynye, who requested “Pike/Kirk/McCoy: Pike in charge, directing McCoy, Kirk absolutely submissive” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009); Warnings for fisting.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I had absolutely no idea what I was doing with this one; I hope it’s not to terrible *hides*
Genuflect
The lounger is wrapped in a plush velveteen, flushed plum against the skin; soft where it presses and strict where it grabs at the roughness, little hairs on his thighs, near his groin.
“Enough foreplay, Doctor,” like it burns to say, stings; like it’s honey on the tongue. “Stake your claim.”
Two faces, and so different, so similar -- dark hair, limp and sweat-weighted like lead, streaks of charcoal against features slack with lust and trembling; and then blond like a halo, the flickering of hellfire through smoke, in mirrors, and a jaw slung low, open against a panting rhythm that can’t grasp, can’t give, that doesn’t gain purchase and won’t stop, won’t slow, won’t yield.
Pike clenches around an unknown tension in his body, his veins; he sips scotch from cloudy glass until his lips forget their native shape and bow against the curve -- eyes dilated, he can feel that much, he thumbs, traces the crown of his sex, lets the slow build of pressure, of dampness spill and spread beneath the pad of his finger. He fights the breath in his lungs, a gambit -- keeps himself steady as he swallows the alcohol -- dull where it should sear.
“Stop,” and blue eyes slide closed, chest deflates and waits, bated -- the shadow hanging over him takes a moment to follow the missive, to give in to the pause, three fingers buried to the knuckle now, where they would have stayed fully trapped in muscle and heat, had he listened; obeyed. “Another.”
There’s a shaky intake of breath, hesitation, and where his eyes were hooded before, they go wide now, lock with Kirk’s bright gaze as he sucks in a tight breath of his own, braces himself; McCoy takes a moment, more than, and Pike grinds his teeth and gets to his feet, grips hard against the elbow of the arm positioned, the hand at Kirk’s opening, ready to pry him wide, break him hard.
Pike barely looks to measure the angle, the give; he thrusts forward from the shoulder and devours the slack stretch of McCoy’s muscles as he yields to the force, the sharp gasp as Kirk’s filled to the brim, as his hips roll slow against the breach.
“Quicker,” Pike breathes, husky; leans back against the bend of his knees until they creak, lets his fingers slip around the girth of his cock and tease until his ribs shudder, vibrate with the dull, gorgeous ache building tough, strong.
“Now,” he whispers, feels the slow, steady tightening of his balls as he wraps a palm, half-slick with precum around the dip of McCoy’s ankle, holds until the pause before he breathes out, a crime and a prayer; “both of you.”
And fuck, that kid Kirk can move, can bend and swerve in ways that defy gravity, defy friction and logic and wrestle ecstasy to earth; and where McCoy goes stiff, still as he eases his hand away, lets the stray thumb knead into the globe of Kirk’s ass, Kirk himself is already reaching, already grasping for McCoy’s wrist and matching the heels of their palms, his fingers a little more crooked, a good deal more sure.
Pike bends at the middle, catches the glaze in McCoy’s eyes as Kirk guides their hands, silently breaks every rule that keeps this moving, every dictate that makes it work, and fuck if the way his mouth drops, if the way Pike can see the pulse in Kirk’s neck -- heavy and fast enough, hard enough to break the skin if the kid were only just a little weaker, a little more lost; well, fuck if it doesn’t do to him the kind of things he’d never dreamed.
“Take him deeper,” Pike growls, a low rumble in his throat as he cups a hand beneath his cock and presses up, hisses through clenched teeth when the ache starts to sting, to grow and spread, but it’s worth it when he watches those hands, line to line as they’re swallowed by Kirk’s body, expertly, slow and careful the way only they -- only these men -- know how to be.
Pike swallows hard around the memory of a washed up surgeon on a three-month bender; of a kid bleeding silly from his goddamn nose, and shudders against a chill that takes hold at the base of his spine. Who’d have fucking thought?
He almost misses the noise, the name caught in the dense musk that’s gathered, stretched in the room around them and made it hard to breathe deep, full; he almost misses it against the din of half-formed thoughts and the rush of blood, but he hears it: a gasp and a plea and a reassurance that Pike will never understand, but will always find fascinating.
“Bones.”
“Don’t let him speak,” Pike bites out, rolls up on his kneecaps, hands against his thighs as he leans over them, his breath flushing the skin, moving beads of sweat on McCoy’s shoulder blades as he watches, surveys.
“Don’t,” and he reaches, “let him,” and he twines, grabs dark hand between his knuckles, “speak.” And he yanks, spins McCoy halfway around at the neck to make the point, to underscore the flow of power between them. He can see the places, the space missing in the skin of that pout, red and raw where the teeth dug in, gnashed through -- he knows what price comes attached to the game they play, knows what it costs; knows it in the way it takes the good Doctor days, sometimes weeks to stare him in the eye afterward, knows it in the way he can make out of the strain of arousal under uniform trousers, beneath a lab coat before a blush and a muttered excuse, a sir that feel ingenuine, if only because Pike knows what that voice sounds like strangled, laid bare.
He tugs one more time, locks eyes like there’s anything to say, and there’s hate there; desire, and desperation, but there’s loathing, too -- grateful, needing, lethal.
Sends fire through Pike’s blood when he relaxes his grip.
“Better.”
McCoy doesn’t move, and Kirk; he just breathes. The way it should be.
“Now,” and the carpet is flattened with the damp weight of sweat and momentum as it shifts beneath Pike, prickles at his flesh. He reaches, lets his hand fall against the straining length of Kirk’s dick, shoved up against the plane of his stomach, swollen and thick, red against his abs, and that’s enough to tempt him, enough to break the stasis, end the charade.
“My turn.”
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pike/Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 1,140
Summary: There’s a price to pay for the game they play. For rubynye, who requested “Pike/Kirk/McCoy: Pike in charge, directing McCoy, Kirk absolutely submissive” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009); Warnings for fisting.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I had absolutely no idea what I was doing with this one; I hope it’s not to terrible *hides*
Genuflect
The lounger is wrapped in a plush velveteen, flushed plum against the skin; soft where it presses and strict where it grabs at the roughness, little hairs on his thighs, near his groin.
“Enough foreplay, Doctor,” like it burns to say, stings; like it’s honey on the tongue. “Stake your claim.”
Two faces, and so different, so similar -- dark hair, limp and sweat-weighted like lead, streaks of charcoal against features slack with lust and trembling; and then blond like a halo, the flickering of hellfire through smoke, in mirrors, and a jaw slung low, open against a panting rhythm that can’t grasp, can’t give, that doesn’t gain purchase and won’t stop, won’t slow, won’t yield.
Pike clenches around an unknown tension in his body, his veins; he sips scotch from cloudy glass until his lips forget their native shape and bow against the curve -- eyes dilated, he can feel that much, he thumbs, traces the crown of his sex, lets the slow build of pressure, of dampness spill and spread beneath the pad of his finger. He fights the breath in his lungs, a gambit -- keeps himself steady as he swallows the alcohol -- dull where it should sear.
“Stop,” and blue eyes slide closed, chest deflates and waits, bated -- the shadow hanging over him takes a moment to follow the missive, to give in to the pause, three fingers buried to the knuckle now, where they would have stayed fully trapped in muscle and heat, had he listened; obeyed. “Another.”
There’s a shaky intake of breath, hesitation, and where his eyes were hooded before, they go wide now, lock with Kirk’s bright gaze as he sucks in a tight breath of his own, braces himself; McCoy takes a moment, more than, and Pike grinds his teeth and gets to his feet, grips hard against the elbow of the arm positioned, the hand at Kirk’s opening, ready to pry him wide, break him hard.
Pike barely looks to measure the angle, the give; he thrusts forward from the shoulder and devours the slack stretch of McCoy’s muscles as he yields to the force, the sharp gasp as Kirk’s filled to the brim, as his hips roll slow against the breach.
“Quicker,” Pike breathes, husky; leans back against the bend of his knees until they creak, lets his fingers slip around the girth of his cock and tease until his ribs shudder, vibrate with the dull, gorgeous ache building tough, strong.
“Now,” he whispers, feels the slow, steady tightening of his balls as he wraps a palm, half-slick with precum around the dip of McCoy’s ankle, holds until the pause before he breathes out, a crime and a prayer; “both of you.”
And fuck, that kid Kirk can move, can bend and swerve in ways that defy gravity, defy friction and logic and wrestle ecstasy to earth; and where McCoy goes stiff, still as he eases his hand away, lets the stray thumb knead into the globe of Kirk’s ass, Kirk himself is already reaching, already grasping for McCoy’s wrist and matching the heels of their palms, his fingers a little more crooked, a good deal more sure.
Pike bends at the middle, catches the glaze in McCoy’s eyes as Kirk guides their hands, silently breaks every rule that keeps this moving, every dictate that makes it work, and fuck if the way his mouth drops, if the way Pike can see the pulse in Kirk’s neck -- heavy and fast enough, hard enough to break the skin if the kid were only just a little weaker, a little more lost; well, fuck if it doesn’t do to him the kind of things he’d never dreamed.
“Take him deeper,” Pike growls, a low rumble in his throat as he cups a hand beneath his cock and presses up, hisses through clenched teeth when the ache starts to sting, to grow and spread, but it’s worth it when he watches those hands, line to line as they’re swallowed by Kirk’s body, expertly, slow and careful the way only they -- only these men -- know how to be.
Pike swallows hard around the memory of a washed up surgeon on a three-month bender; of a kid bleeding silly from his goddamn nose, and shudders against a chill that takes hold at the base of his spine. Who’d have fucking thought?
He almost misses the noise, the name caught in the dense musk that’s gathered, stretched in the room around them and made it hard to breathe deep, full; he almost misses it against the din of half-formed thoughts and the rush of blood, but he hears it: a gasp and a plea and a reassurance that Pike will never understand, but will always find fascinating.
“Bones.”
“Don’t let him speak,” Pike bites out, rolls up on his kneecaps, hands against his thighs as he leans over them, his breath flushing the skin, moving beads of sweat on McCoy’s shoulder blades as he watches, surveys.
“Don’t,” and he reaches, “let him,” and he twines, grabs dark hand between his knuckles, “speak.” And he yanks, spins McCoy halfway around at the neck to make the point, to underscore the flow of power between them. He can see the places, the space missing in the skin of that pout, red and raw where the teeth dug in, gnashed through -- he knows what price comes attached to the game they play, knows what it costs; knows it in the way it takes the good Doctor days, sometimes weeks to stare him in the eye afterward, knows it in the way he can make out of the strain of arousal under uniform trousers, beneath a lab coat before a blush and a muttered excuse, a sir that feel ingenuine, if only because Pike knows what that voice sounds like strangled, laid bare.
He tugs one more time, locks eyes like there’s anything to say, and there’s hate there; desire, and desperation, but there’s loathing, too -- grateful, needing, lethal.
Sends fire through Pike’s blood when he relaxes his grip.
“Better.”
McCoy doesn’t move, and Kirk; he just breathes. The way it should be.
“Now,” and the carpet is flattened with the damp weight of sweat and momentum as it shifts beneath Pike, prickles at his flesh. He reaches, lets his hand fall against the straining length of Kirk’s dick, shoved up against the plane of his stomach, swollen and thick, red against his abs, and that’s enough to tempt him, enough to break the stasis, end the charade.
“My turn.”