Mirror!Ramble!verse fic: I don't even want to tell you the wherein (1,202 words, Pike POV, NC-17)
Rubynye was dithering on writing a certain piece of " unholiness" (link goes to her super-special id filter, as she is adorably shy about these things.) Seeing as she claimed the whole thing was my fault to begin with, it was my clear responsibility to ensure that this unholiness came to fruition. So I bribed her: "If you write the unholiness, I'll write Mirrorverse Chris/Elena." In the interest of full disclosure, I also intended this plot bunny as revenge on re_white for this.
Note: Exeter is Uncle X, as mentioned here.
1,202 words, rated NC-17 fr srs, warning for violence, profanity, incest, mention of sex with a minor and cannibalism
Elena comes in while he is warming his feet at the fire and fits herself into the gaps between his body and the leather couch their mother made. She has a finger of Scotch.
"You're planning to take him with you," she says, softly, but she's been gnawing on this realization for some time; the accusation is cold and tempered like a knife.
Chris leans back against the sharp points of her--the bones of her elbow snug against his nape, her thumb laying claim to the corner of his jaw, her knees telling hard, round secrets to his thigh.
"He asked," Chris says. The boy was bold about it, presenting endless sculpted arguments and shining his blue eyes like a dog's in the dark. They have been too good to him. Even when they beat him, it is with supple strips of leather that will not split skin or fracture bone.
"He wants to leave me, then," says Elena. She bites Chris' ear as if this is his fault. That's unfair; Chris will claim some influence, but the boy is sired from a line of star-travelers. Chris knew this would happen from the day he came down from a mission and Elena was smug about the sharp-edged spook she stole from a Starfleet orphanage. Chris still doesn't know if the boy's mother was dead or just off-planet at the time. If she is alive, she's lost her claim; the boy has grown thick on milk and steak and sleek from lanolin skimmed from wool. By now, all of his constituent atoms have been supplied by their land.
"He doesn't mean to hurt you," Chris says. The boy never does; he adores her. Elena made sure of that, wielding her kindness with a precision honed by years of practicing on Chris (and whelps, and calves meant for slaughter.)
"Nevertheless," she says, and Chris knows she will whip the boy. She will let him go to space, of course; she will let them both go, but not without imprinting herself on their bodies.
Her brain is like a second skin to his--something Chris slips into when the night is too cold or the stars are too silent--so he knows the motive when she says "Finish this," and presses the tumbler of Scotch into his palm.
"Get the boy to do it," he says, not about the liquor but the fucking.
"He isn't fully trained yet," Elena says. "I don't feel like giving instructions tonight." She pinches his wrist until he yanks the tumbler up to his face and sips just to get her to stop. "Good boy," she murmurs, and lets him drink slowly.
The burn settles at the back of his throat. Chris leans his head back and her arm crooks perfectly to pillow it. He hums and she snuffles in response, laying her cheek against his like she's some sweet mirror of him.
"More?" she asks, kneading his crotch diagnostically, and no, he doesn't need more. This feels cozy already, easy and aimless like the explorations of their childhood bed. It was a game, then, trying to work out why the bulls charged fences to get at cows and why their mother was late to nurse them sometimes, keening in the other room under Exeter's rough laugh. That was before she got sick and Exeter had her put down. They murdered him for that, but loved him still and wasted nothing that he had given them--not his body (they still wet their bread with jelly made from his bones) and not his land. There is no better life than this dark, wooden house with animals that come when they call and stay away when they don't.
Elena follows his thoughts with stale bitterness. "What's so great about space?" she asks.
Chris mumbles something that isn't a lie and knocks her down into the cushions, following with as much weight as he can manage. Their belt buckles clack together. Elena laughs into his mouth when he jostles against her; he likes the percussional soundtrack to their necking.
They stay joined at the muzzle until their tongues feel like one bifurcated muscle strung between them. Elena nudges him off, but he tangles their fingers together before she can undo their belts. She bites him for that, not painlessly but as friendly as she ever does; he over-reacts anyway and the flinch sends them both tumbling off the couch.
"Why can't you ever take this seriously," Elena grouses. Her mouth and cheek are slick with saliva and a stray hair is stuck there, gleaming orangey-dark from the fire like a cut she never got, but could have.
Chris, flat-backed against the floor, shrugs. She looks too smug perched astride him so he bucks her off. She snatches his arm and yanks him along for the flip. The rug is thick, felted, but there's too much momentum: his elbow hits funny and he cries out. Elena just snaps "Shut up" and wrenches his jeans down, fuck the belt. She holds him still with one hand twisted knuckle-deep in his pubic hair while she gets her own trousers undone and shucked off. "You really think that's going to work?" she says about the belt still tight around his thighs, and smacks his flank.
Chris gets the jeans off satisfactorily but then sits back on his heels, watching Elena's scowl deepen as he dawdles with his shirt buttons. She got her sweater off long ago, and has it puddled beneath her head as she lays back. She hooks a leg around his waist and digs her heel into his kidney. Giddyup.
"I love you," he says, because he does.
"Then why the fuck are you leaving?" she snaps, and kicks him in the neck.
The tussle is serious for a minute before he gets her crammed up against the side of the couch. She's sobbing that he's a son-of-a-bitch and Chris is trying to quiet her because the boy could hear and run in to help, and this isn't something they want help with. He squashes their faces together and digs his fingers into the scar beyond her hairline, the one that only Chris knows about (Elena doesn't remember and the man who did it is dead.)
"I'm going to kill you someday," she says, and Chris wants that to be the final word--they both know it's true--so he gets to work.
Maybe she can teach this to the boy, but Chris thinks it is instinct, or a consciousness fostered only in litters: he answers her stutters with fine modulation--a different cant here, the slow dip in rhythm when her moans pitch to there--and every slip of her bones beneath skin is echoed in his own attenuated frame. Sometimes he thinks her orgasm is a tangible thing, dark and shining like a freshly-plucked liver, and he can slide each morsel into her slack-awful mouth. He likes to pull her head back to watch; her neck is lean, long, and she swallows the noise of her climax.
She's shaking when it's done. Chris soothes her; he wipes the gleam from her skin and lays her near to the fire. He should gather their clothes, or find a blanket, or see to the boy.
"Stay with me," she says, so he does. It's the least he can do.
Note: Exeter is Uncle X, as mentioned here.
1,202 words, rated NC-17 fr srs, warning for violence, profanity, incest, mention of sex with a minor and cannibalism
Elena comes in while he is warming his feet at the fire and fits herself into the gaps between his body and the leather couch their mother made. She has a finger of Scotch.
"You're planning to take him with you," she says, softly, but she's been gnawing on this realization for some time; the accusation is cold and tempered like a knife.
Chris leans back against the sharp points of her--the bones of her elbow snug against his nape, her thumb laying claim to the corner of his jaw, her knees telling hard, round secrets to his thigh.
"He asked," Chris says. The boy was bold about it, presenting endless sculpted arguments and shining his blue eyes like a dog's in the dark. They have been too good to him. Even when they beat him, it is with supple strips of leather that will not split skin or fracture bone.
"He wants to leave me, then," says Elena. She bites Chris' ear as if this is his fault. That's unfair; Chris will claim some influence, but the boy is sired from a line of star-travelers. Chris knew this would happen from the day he came down from a mission and Elena was smug about the sharp-edged spook she stole from a Starfleet orphanage. Chris still doesn't know if the boy's mother was dead or just off-planet at the time. If she is alive, she's lost her claim; the boy has grown thick on milk and steak and sleek from lanolin skimmed from wool. By now, all of his constituent atoms have been supplied by their land.
"He doesn't mean to hurt you," Chris says. The boy never does; he adores her. Elena made sure of that, wielding her kindness with a precision honed by years of practicing on Chris (and whelps, and calves meant for slaughter.)
"Nevertheless," she says, and Chris knows she will whip the boy. She will let him go to space, of course; she will let them both go, but not without imprinting herself on their bodies.
Her brain is like a second skin to his--something Chris slips into when the night is too cold or the stars are too silent--so he knows the motive when she says "Finish this," and presses the tumbler of Scotch into his palm.
"Get the boy to do it," he says, not about the liquor but the fucking.
"He isn't fully trained yet," Elena says. "I don't feel like giving instructions tonight." She pinches his wrist until he yanks the tumbler up to his face and sips just to get her to stop. "Good boy," she murmurs, and lets him drink slowly.
The burn settles at the back of his throat. Chris leans his head back and her arm crooks perfectly to pillow it. He hums and she snuffles in response, laying her cheek against his like she's some sweet mirror of him.
"More?" she asks, kneading his crotch diagnostically, and no, he doesn't need more. This feels cozy already, easy and aimless like the explorations of their childhood bed. It was a game, then, trying to work out why the bulls charged fences to get at cows and why their mother was late to nurse them sometimes, keening in the other room under Exeter's rough laugh. That was before she got sick and Exeter had her put down. They murdered him for that, but loved him still and wasted nothing that he had given them--not his body (they still wet their bread with jelly made from his bones) and not his land. There is no better life than this dark, wooden house with animals that come when they call and stay away when they don't.
Elena follows his thoughts with stale bitterness. "What's so great about space?" she asks.
Chris mumbles something that isn't a lie and knocks her down into the cushions, following with as much weight as he can manage. Their belt buckles clack together. Elena laughs into his mouth when he jostles against her; he likes the percussional soundtrack to their necking.
They stay joined at the muzzle until their tongues feel like one bifurcated muscle strung between them. Elena nudges him off, but he tangles their fingers together before she can undo their belts. She bites him for that, not painlessly but as friendly as she ever does; he over-reacts anyway and the flinch sends them both tumbling off the couch.
"Why can't you ever take this seriously," Elena grouses. Her mouth and cheek are slick with saliva and a stray hair is stuck there, gleaming orangey-dark from the fire like a cut she never got, but could have.
Chris, flat-backed against the floor, shrugs. She looks too smug perched astride him so he bucks her off. She snatches his arm and yanks him along for the flip. The rug is thick, felted, but there's too much momentum: his elbow hits funny and he cries out. Elena just snaps "Shut up" and wrenches his jeans down, fuck the belt. She holds him still with one hand twisted knuckle-deep in his pubic hair while she gets her own trousers undone and shucked off. "You really think that's going to work?" she says about the belt still tight around his thighs, and smacks his flank.
Chris gets the jeans off satisfactorily but then sits back on his heels, watching Elena's scowl deepen as he dawdles with his shirt buttons. She got her sweater off long ago, and has it puddled beneath her head as she lays back. She hooks a leg around his waist and digs her heel into his kidney. Giddyup.
"I love you," he says, because he does.
"Then why the fuck are you leaving?" she snaps, and kicks him in the neck.
The tussle is serious for a minute before he gets her crammed up against the side of the couch. She's sobbing that he's a son-of-a-bitch and Chris is trying to quiet her because the boy could hear and run in to help, and this isn't something they want help with. He squashes their faces together and digs his fingers into the scar beyond her hairline, the one that only Chris knows about (Elena doesn't remember and the man who did it is dead.)
"I'm going to kill you someday," she says, and Chris wants that to be the final word--they both know it's true--so he gets to work.
Maybe she can teach this to the boy, but Chris thinks it is instinct, or a consciousness fostered only in litters: he answers her stutters with fine modulation--a different cant here, the slow dip in rhythm when her moans pitch to there--and every slip of her bones beneath skin is echoed in his own attenuated frame. Sometimes he thinks her orgasm is a tangible thing, dark and shining like a freshly-plucked liver, and he can slide each morsel into her slack-awful mouth. He likes to pull her head back to watch; her neck is lean, long, and she swallows the noise of her climax.
She's shaking when it's done. Chris soothes her; he wipes the gleam from her skin and lays her near to the fire. He should gather their clothes, or find a blanket, or see to the boy.
"Stay with me," she says, so he does. It's the least he can do.