Aftermath of London Station
Title: Aftermath of London Station
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek/Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/Bones, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,154
Spoilers: none
Warnings: slash, jealousy, possessiveness, touch of painplay, bit of D/s
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Star Trek aren’t mine.
A/N: Sequel to London Station. Written for brighteyed_jill’s Five Acts Meme.
Summary: After the London Station/Enterprise debacle, the two couples need to clear the air about who belongs with whom.
“I swear Jim, you are the galaxy’s biggest damn fool.”
Kirk winced very slightly as Bones ran his fingers over his newest set of bonded cuts. His hands were warm and infinitely gentle, but some pain still remained. Hopefully, once Bones calmed down, he’d be willing to erase the rest of the evidence of Kirk’s little foray onto London Station.
Now though, Bones was doing it the old-fashioned way.
“It’s that why you stick around with me?” Jim asked, letting a grin stretch the bruise on his cheek.
Bones’ scowl didn’t stop Jim from smiling, not when he was spread out on the bed, naked and open to anything Leonard wanted to do, a picture of debauchery. The expression on Bones’ face softened slightly as he ran his hands over nearly every part of Jim (he was being a bastard and leaving Jim’s cock alone, flushed and hard where it curved up towards his stomach), re-learning that he was all right. And everything was going well, right up until Bones saw some faint bruising on Jim’s arm that hadn’t come from the fight on London Station, and he hadn’t put there. The murder they’d captured had much bigger hands than the marks, which meant they were from Sherlock’s hand, from when he’d yanked on Jim’s arm for something.
Bones’ expression went dark, Jim’s pulse started to skyrocket, and he hoped Bones left enough of him to captain the Enterprise.
-----
“You are the stupidest smart man alive.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve already posted that seventeen times in your blog. Let me use your padd,” Sherlock said, holding out one hand as he scanned through messages on his terminal with the other. “Ah, the captain sent a note. How quaint.”
John fished his padd out and slapped it in Sherlock’s palm. As his fingers wrapped around it, John entangled his own and pulled Sherlock out of his chair. The momentum put Sherlock right within range of John’s mouth, too close to look away. The heated kiss John had started in Cargo Bay Seven-B resumed as if no time had passed, with John slowly maneuvering Sherlock away from the terminal and closer to the bed.
“We’re having make-up sex?” That Sherlock had to pull away to ask doesn’t even make John sigh in annoyance anymore. “This scenario’s all wrong. I should have been on my knees by the time the door closed.”
“It’s not that,” John said, his voice very nearly a growl. His hands have moved to Sherlock’s wrists, circling them like cuffs. He had more than a little suspicion that Sherlock knew damn well what this was, but he was playing ignorant because it got him off to hear John say it.
“Then if this isn’t necessary, I have an experiment-.”
John cut off Sherlock’s words by steering him back to the bed so it took out his knees from behind, making him sprawl on the covers into loose, angular folds, like free-form origami.
“When you deduce it, let me know,” John said. He loomed at the foot of the bed, knowing he was cutting off the light from the other room to leave himself in shadow. It threw Sherlock into vulnerable relief, and John let himself descend, slowly.
-----
Kirk could hear himself whimpering into the mattress as Bones’ hand gripped hard over the marks left by Sherlock’s hand. New aches blossomed over every part of him; every new scrape and cut he’d gotten from tangling with Sherlock Holmes, Bones had touched, dug his hands into, made Jim cry out. It skittered the edge of Bones’ Hippocratic Oath, his hypospray-happy tendencies or not, to cause Jim this kind of pain.
But Jim was getting the point. Each of these new marks, new bruises, he’d gotten from being with someone else. And Bones absolutely could not abide that. He’d opened Jim up, filled him with his cock, and then had hooked those gentle doctor’s hands into the first set of cuts.
“Fuck!” Jim hadn’t been able to get more creative than that. Not when every painful press into his wounded skin and bruised muscles had been punctuated by a thrust. A damnably good, perfectly positioned thrust deep inside him.
Bones jerked his hips forward again as he let go of Jim’s arm, the release of pain being as much of a rush as the thick heat inside him.
“Bones, fuck…”
“You get me, Jim?” That was in a growl, a dangerous note in Bones’ voice that had matched the smothered possessiveness in his eyes during every second Sherlock Holmes had been around.
The pain surged again as Bones pressed down on Jim’s arm sharply. It was as clear as words, This is what he gave you.
Then release, another thrust, and Bones’ hand on Jim’s dick with perfect pressure, making his nerves sing a perfect five-part aria. This is what I give you.
-----
Sherlock’s grip on the headboard finally slipped, as John’s thrust moved him even farther up the bed. His long hair was sweat-soaked, his skin slick, and his mouth going slack in an almost unheard-of lack of words. Sherlock couldn’t quite speak, not with John staring at him, pinning him in place by as much will as there was strength in his body.
What had started with a heated kiss had morphed into something stranger, darker. John not taking no for an answer. Sherlock could feel his body almost molding to John’s hands, the touch of weakness from occasional skipped meals not making him ready to resist. Protests had died on Sherlock’s tongue when John had opened him, words had failed him when John had set a punishing pace, logic was spinning sideways when he saw the angry/desperate expression on John’s face.
He’d worn the same expression in the presence of Jim Kirk. His feelings were obvious. But the depth of them- Sherlock flung his head back as John ruthlessly tormented him with his free hand, using tricks he picked up God knew where (Sherlock would have to find out for future reference)- he had not expected.
This was a fine object lesson.
And Sherlock had finally deduced what John had wanted to hear.
-----
“Yes! God, Bones…”
---
“John, please!”
---
“Yours, fucking hell, Len, you’re killing me here…”
---
“Never, John, not leaving…”
---
“Bones!” Jim could feel himself actually shaking, almost convulsing he came so hard, with Len wrapped around him to keep him safe. After a long moment, Bones pulled away and came back with his dermal regenerator to slowly erase every mark of combat survived.
Jim smiled sleepily and gave himself up to Len’s ministrations.
---
Sherlock felt himself drop like one dead, thought momentarily obliterated under the force of his orgasm. John gathered him up, limp and unresisting, and languidly kissed a purple mark into the line of his jaw, something that could not be covered up by even a muffler.
Sherlock let him, and smiled.
-------------------
On to the sequel - Texting From London Station.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek/Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/Bones, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,154
Spoilers: none
Warnings: slash, jealousy, possessiveness, touch of painplay, bit of D/s
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Star Trek aren’t mine.
A/N: Sequel to London Station. Written for brighteyed_jill’s Five Acts Meme.
Summary: After the London Station/Enterprise debacle, the two couples need to clear the air about who belongs with whom.
“I swear Jim, you are the galaxy’s biggest damn fool.”
Kirk winced very slightly as Bones ran his fingers over his newest set of bonded cuts. His hands were warm and infinitely gentle, but some pain still remained. Hopefully, once Bones calmed down, he’d be willing to erase the rest of the evidence of Kirk’s little foray onto London Station.
Now though, Bones was doing it the old-fashioned way.
“It’s that why you stick around with me?” Jim asked, letting a grin stretch the bruise on his cheek.
Bones’ scowl didn’t stop Jim from smiling, not when he was spread out on the bed, naked and open to anything Leonard wanted to do, a picture of debauchery. The expression on Bones’ face softened slightly as he ran his hands over nearly every part of Jim (he was being a bastard and leaving Jim’s cock alone, flushed and hard where it curved up towards his stomach), re-learning that he was all right. And everything was going well, right up until Bones saw some faint bruising on Jim’s arm that hadn’t come from the fight on London Station, and he hadn’t put there. The murder they’d captured had much bigger hands than the marks, which meant they were from Sherlock’s hand, from when he’d yanked on Jim’s arm for something.
Bones’ expression went dark, Jim’s pulse started to skyrocket, and he hoped Bones left enough of him to captain the Enterprise.
-----
“You are the stupidest smart man alive.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve already posted that seventeen times in your blog. Let me use your padd,” Sherlock said, holding out one hand as he scanned through messages on his terminal with the other. “Ah, the captain sent a note. How quaint.”
John fished his padd out and slapped it in Sherlock’s palm. As his fingers wrapped around it, John entangled his own and pulled Sherlock out of his chair. The momentum put Sherlock right within range of John’s mouth, too close to look away. The heated kiss John had started in Cargo Bay Seven-B resumed as if no time had passed, with John slowly maneuvering Sherlock away from the terminal and closer to the bed.
“We’re having make-up sex?” That Sherlock had to pull away to ask doesn’t even make John sigh in annoyance anymore. “This scenario’s all wrong. I should have been on my knees by the time the door closed.”
“It’s not that,” John said, his voice very nearly a growl. His hands have moved to Sherlock’s wrists, circling them like cuffs. He had more than a little suspicion that Sherlock knew damn well what this was, but he was playing ignorant because it got him off to hear John say it.
“Then if this isn’t necessary, I have an experiment-.”
John cut off Sherlock’s words by steering him back to the bed so it took out his knees from behind, making him sprawl on the covers into loose, angular folds, like free-form origami.
“When you deduce it, let me know,” John said. He loomed at the foot of the bed, knowing he was cutting off the light from the other room to leave himself in shadow. It threw Sherlock into vulnerable relief, and John let himself descend, slowly.
-----
Kirk could hear himself whimpering into the mattress as Bones’ hand gripped hard over the marks left by Sherlock’s hand. New aches blossomed over every part of him; every new scrape and cut he’d gotten from tangling with Sherlock Holmes, Bones had touched, dug his hands into, made Jim cry out. It skittered the edge of Bones’ Hippocratic Oath, his hypospray-happy tendencies or not, to cause Jim this kind of pain.
But Jim was getting the point. Each of these new marks, new bruises, he’d gotten from being with someone else. And Bones absolutely could not abide that. He’d opened Jim up, filled him with his cock, and then had hooked those gentle doctor’s hands into the first set of cuts.
“Fuck!” Jim hadn’t been able to get more creative than that. Not when every painful press into his wounded skin and bruised muscles had been punctuated by a thrust. A damnably good, perfectly positioned thrust deep inside him.
Bones jerked his hips forward again as he let go of Jim’s arm, the release of pain being as much of a rush as the thick heat inside him.
“Bones, fuck…”
“You get me, Jim?” That was in a growl, a dangerous note in Bones’ voice that had matched the smothered possessiveness in his eyes during every second Sherlock Holmes had been around.
The pain surged again as Bones pressed down on Jim’s arm sharply. It was as clear as words, This is what he gave you.
Then release, another thrust, and Bones’ hand on Jim’s dick with perfect pressure, making his nerves sing a perfect five-part aria. This is what I give you.
-----
Sherlock’s grip on the headboard finally slipped, as John’s thrust moved him even farther up the bed. His long hair was sweat-soaked, his skin slick, and his mouth going slack in an almost unheard-of lack of words. Sherlock couldn’t quite speak, not with John staring at him, pinning him in place by as much will as there was strength in his body.
What had started with a heated kiss had morphed into something stranger, darker. John not taking no for an answer. Sherlock could feel his body almost molding to John’s hands, the touch of weakness from occasional skipped meals not making him ready to resist. Protests had died on Sherlock’s tongue when John had opened him, words had failed him when John had set a punishing pace, logic was spinning sideways when he saw the angry/desperate expression on John’s face.
He’d worn the same expression in the presence of Jim Kirk. His feelings were obvious. But the depth of them- Sherlock flung his head back as John ruthlessly tormented him with his free hand, using tricks he picked up God knew where (Sherlock would have to find out for future reference)- he had not expected.
This was a fine object lesson.
And Sherlock had finally deduced what John had wanted to hear.
-----
“Yes! God, Bones…”
---
“John, please!”
---
“Yours, fucking hell, Len, you’re killing me here…”
---
“Never, John, not leaving…”
---
“Bones!” Jim could feel himself actually shaking, almost convulsing he came so hard, with Len wrapped around him to keep him safe. After a long moment, Bones pulled away and came back with his dermal regenerator to slowly erase every mark of combat survived.
Jim smiled sleepily and gave himself up to Len’s ministrations.
---
Sherlock felt himself drop like one dead, thought momentarily obliterated under the force of his orgasm. John gathered him up, limp and unresisting, and languidly kissed a purple mark into the line of his jaw, something that could not be covered up by even a muffler.
Sherlock let him, and smiled.
-------------------
On to the sequel - Texting From London Station.