Fic: Tactile (1/1)
Title: Tactile
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 200
Summary: He’s always been a tactile man. For sangueuk’s prompt “Jim/Bones, hands,” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Hope this is to your liking, love; you know how we share a hand!kink ;)
Tactile
He’s a tactile man; always has been. He craves touch like a rush, like a high; to feel skin beneath his fingertips like silk, to know what it’s like when gentle hands fall upon his flesh like rain.
In a world bent on his destruction, from inside and out, it’s always a touch that keeps him grounded, pulls him back from the edge.
Yet of all the hands he’s ever sought silent refuge in, it’s these callused tendrils, the careful crescents of fingernails caught against his knuckles, the joints; these gentle, coaxing fingertips that command him more than any order, any missive; that calm his breath and ease the tension in his chest -- these are the hands that call him home.
And in the lines of those palms, Jim can see destiny, taste fate on his tongue; buried in the creases, he can feel their pulses, hard and fast, mingling into a hum that transcends mere sound, that envelops and consumes to the point of fracture, to the point of breaking.
His heart shudders against the ear pressed between his ribs, and no part of him is left untouched, unknown; no part of him lives that isn’t loved.
He breathes.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 200
Summary: He’s always been a tactile man. For sangueuk’s prompt “Jim/Bones, hands,” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Hope this is to your liking, love; you know how we share a hand!kink ;)
Tactile
He’s a tactile man; always has been. He craves touch like a rush, like a high; to feel skin beneath his fingertips like silk, to know what it’s like when gentle hands fall upon his flesh like rain.
In a world bent on his destruction, from inside and out, it’s always a touch that keeps him grounded, pulls him back from the edge.
Yet of all the hands he’s ever sought silent refuge in, it’s these callused tendrils, the careful crescents of fingernails caught against his knuckles, the joints; these gentle, coaxing fingertips that command him more than any order, any missive; that calm his breath and ease the tension in his chest -- these are the hands that call him home.
And in the lines of those palms, Jim can see destiny, taste fate on his tongue; buried in the creases, he can feel their pulses, hard and fast, mingling into a hum that transcends mere sound, that envelops and consumes to the point of fracture, to the point of breaking.
His heart shudders against the ear pressed between his ribs, and no part of him is left untouched, unknown; no part of him lives that isn’t loved.
He breathes.