igrab
in
grabi_hands
Marrow [Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Spock, NC-17]
Title: Marrow
Author: igrab
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, with implied Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 941
When you're only an inch from another person's face, the strangest things stand out to you. You'd think it would be the color of their eyes, or the shape of their lips - and certainly it's all you can think about when he's farther away, all summer-sky blue and pink plush and wickedness in every curve.
But it's the strange things you notice, here. Like how his eyelashes really are just as gold as his hair, as if each one's been dusted with the glitter of precious gems. Or how the scar under his eye hasn't really faded, it's there in the barest marring of the cell structure of his skin, because he refuses to use a dermal regenerator. He's stubborn, like that, and there's little white proofs of his stubbornness all scattered down his body. You've a sudden urge to probe every one with your tongue, and for the time being, nothing's stopping you.
He breathes heavily in your ear, ragged and wanting, and you don't hold anything back, not like his classy pointy-eared lover. You don't like him, don't like how quickly you became obsolete and unwanted, replaced by a frigid computer with a circuit board for a brain and a spark plug in place of a heart. You've seen what he can do, my god, and how can you let your best friend put himself in danger like that?
But you know that's not it, and you bite down harder to prove your point. He gasps and bucks and arches under your surgically-precise grip - this is what he likes, this is what he craves more than anything else. Rage. Pressure. The sound of breaking things.
Your hand finds his eager cock before your mouth does, so you're free to snarl your dissatisfaction into his skin. He makes a sound like a dying thing, near sobbing, and you haven't been playing with him near long enough for him to make that sound. He's just so reactive. It gets you every time, what he does, what he does because of you. He hasn't a cell of shame in his whole body, and you long for that like a drowning man. You can't remember a day without shame. It's the marrow in your bones.
He pleads with his pretty mouth like it's all he wants in the world. You can't ever tell if he's for real - if he isn't still thinking about the ship, and the crew, and his pointy-eared lover listening in on the subspace frequency. You can't tell if he really throws his whole self, body and soul, into things like this, and he's just lucky. You can't tell if this is where he wants to be, or if he's just doing this to pity you.
You won't let him touch you. That's the first rule of skin-to-skin combat, the one you refuse to break. He touches you, and you're gone. He touches you, and it'll be too easy to knuckle back under, to lose yourself in the feeling of being lusted and loved and longed for. You can't let that happen. He's not yours and he'll never be, even if he can pretend, so shiningly, that he is. You'll love him and he won't stay still, and to hold him there would be caging all that's beautiful and free in the wide, wild universe. He's a passionate anomaly lancing through the stars, and you're just a little piece of a dry earth, caught up in his inevitable wake.
Your mouth slides over him, turning pleas into loud, moaned praises. Here, doing this, you notice the minutae again - the way you can feel the muscles pulling his toes into little sharp curls, the tan line at his hips where his shirt rides up in the summer, the filthy unsafe weight of him in the back of your throat. He offends your sensibilities.
But this is your sordid pleasure, just as his is the anger and force and openness that you press him with. This is wrong, everything about this is so horribly, obscenely wrong that it makes you shudder in the marrow of your bones. It gives you a number on the Richter scale.
You come before he does, like you always do. His wanton vulgarity is enough for you, even if the silk-thin proximity to his higher nature makes you twist and claw and cry without words for a love like he can give. And he could, he could love you, he could love all of you and your dark secrets and the black mires of your soul.
But you're not enough for him. You're angry, but your anger isn't a blind rage. You hold him, but your hands don't have a strength beyond the confines of humanity. You know him, but you're not inside his head, hearing every thought before he thinks it, anticipating every need.
You love him, but your love isn't something winged and arcane, spanning over time and space and the chase of intangible concepts. You love him like a lost kitten loves the hand that feeds it - not because it knows where the hand came from, or to whom it belongs, but because the scope of its world is so small that that hand seems like the very face of God.
Author: igrab
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, with implied Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 941
When you're only an inch from another person's face, the strangest things stand out to you. You'd think it would be the color of their eyes, or the shape of their lips - and certainly it's all you can think about when he's farther away, all summer-sky blue and pink plush and wickedness in every curve.
But it's the strange things you notice, here. Like how his eyelashes really are just as gold as his hair, as if each one's been dusted with the glitter of precious gems. Or how the scar under his eye hasn't really faded, it's there in the barest marring of the cell structure of his skin, because he refuses to use a dermal regenerator. He's stubborn, like that, and there's little white proofs of his stubbornness all scattered down his body. You've a sudden urge to probe every one with your tongue, and for the time being, nothing's stopping you.
He breathes heavily in your ear, ragged and wanting, and you don't hold anything back, not like his classy pointy-eared lover. You don't like him, don't like how quickly you became obsolete and unwanted, replaced by a frigid computer with a circuit board for a brain and a spark plug in place of a heart. You've seen what he can do, my god, and how can you let your best friend put himself in danger like that?
But you know that's not it, and you bite down harder to prove your point. He gasps and bucks and arches under your surgically-precise grip - this is what he likes, this is what he craves more than anything else. Rage. Pressure. The sound of breaking things.
Your hand finds his eager cock before your mouth does, so you're free to snarl your dissatisfaction into his skin. He makes a sound like a dying thing, near sobbing, and you haven't been playing with him near long enough for him to make that sound. He's just so reactive. It gets you every time, what he does, what he does because of you. He hasn't a cell of shame in his whole body, and you long for that like a drowning man. You can't remember a day without shame. It's the marrow in your bones.
He pleads with his pretty mouth like it's all he wants in the world. You can't ever tell if he's for real - if he isn't still thinking about the ship, and the crew, and his pointy-eared lover listening in on the subspace frequency. You can't tell if he really throws his whole self, body and soul, into things like this, and he's just lucky. You can't tell if this is where he wants to be, or if he's just doing this to pity you.
You won't let him touch you. That's the first rule of skin-to-skin combat, the one you refuse to break. He touches you, and you're gone. He touches you, and it'll be too easy to knuckle back under, to lose yourself in the feeling of being lusted and loved and longed for. You can't let that happen. He's not yours and he'll never be, even if he can pretend, so shiningly, that he is. You'll love him and he won't stay still, and to hold him there would be caging all that's beautiful and free in the wide, wild universe. He's a passionate anomaly lancing through the stars, and you're just a little piece of a dry earth, caught up in his inevitable wake.
Your mouth slides over him, turning pleas into loud, moaned praises. Here, doing this, you notice the minutae again - the way you can feel the muscles pulling his toes into little sharp curls, the tan line at his hips where his shirt rides up in the summer, the filthy unsafe weight of him in the back of your throat. He offends your sensibilities.
But this is your sordid pleasure, just as his is the anger and force and openness that you press him with. This is wrong, everything about this is so horribly, obscenely wrong that it makes you shudder in the marrow of your bones. It gives you a number on the Richter scale.
You come before he does, like you always do. His wanton vulgarity is enough for you, even if the silk-thin proximity to his higher nature makes you twist and claw and cry without words for a love like he can give. And he could, he could love you, he could love all of you and your dark secrets and the black mires of your soul.
But you're not enough for him. You're angry, but your anger isn't a blind rage. You hold him, but your hands don't have a strength beyond the confines of humanity. You know him, but you're not inside his head, hearing every thought before he thinks it, anticipating every need.
You love him, but your love isn't something winged and arcane, spanning over time and space and the chase of intangible concepts. You love him like a lost kitten loves the hand that feeds it - not because it knows where the hand came from, or to whom it belongs, but because the scope of its world is so small that that hand seems like the very face of God.