Fic: Going Up (R)
Title: Going Up
Pairing: Pinto (!)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Didn't happen.
Notes: Wrote this for smutjunkie - who on the kinkmeme requested elevator sex - largely in ironic celebration of the fact that she no longer completely hates Shatner. And thus I produced my first Trek RPF that does not feature either Nimoy or Shatner, and is not femslash.
Summary: Elevators are for sex. Short-short (911 words).
Eighteen storeys, and Chris needs the seventeenth. "Dammit," he mutters to himself, as he rereads the board for the fourth time, as if maybe on this occasion something might have changed, and he'll only have to stay put for two floors instead of another sixteen.
The board, of course, only stares back at him, implacable. Chris glowers. It's going to be a long ride.
The elevator moves slowly, and it's enclosed. Chris isn't all that fond of being shut in like this, and there's nothing at all to distract him, not even elevator music. "Shit," he hisses under his breath, struggling in vain to think of something to occupy his mind, keep it away from thoughts of getting trapped in here; of the lift-cables snapping and sending him hurtling to a fiery doom. Because that's really likely. It isn't really working.
So when the doors open on the fourth floor, and Zach steps in, Chris can't help but light up. "Zach!"
Zachary smirks. It's late, and he's obviously at least two sheets to the wind, and his five-o-clock shadow is prickling over his chin. His eyes are soft, a little glassy, the collar of his shirt open. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his chest, like he's been dancing, and the animal smell of him fills the elevator the moment he steps into it, warmsoftskin scent of Zachary under his cologne. He says, "Going up?"
And, hell, Chris is.
They've kissed before, now brief, now clinging, at parties and premieres and in the darkened backseats of limousines, but it's never looked like it was going to go anywhere. Chris doesn't know why - was Zach afraid of him, was Zach not interested in him, did Zach think Chris wasn't interested? - but what he does know is that he never expected it to go further like this, in an elevator inching upwards, with Zachary stepping towards him from nowhere to too-close, breath like sweet brandy on Chris's neck. Chris looks back at him levelly, and he's not afraid. Everything, on the contrary, is suddenly pretty clear. He likes Zach like this - uncomplicated, direct; Zach's hand creeping to Chris's waist without hesitation or request.
Chris says, "Hell, yeah," in a voice gone dark in the space of a second, and that's all Zach needs to lean forward and kiss him.
Chris surges up against him immediately, pressing himself to the long hard length of Zach's body, opening his mouth to the taste of him. Zach kisses like he talks, complicated and clever and quick, and it's sending shivers all the way down Chris's spine. He's moving too fast and he knows it, but he can't keep his hands from creeping under the hem of Zach's shirt, half pulled out of his trousers already; can't keep his fingers from the hot smooth skin of Zach's waist. Zach gasps into his mouth as Chris's fingers slide over his hipbones, and Chris swallows the sound and bucks against him, pressing hard against Zach's hips, letting Zach feel him.
For a second, Zach lets him do this, lets him lead; but it can't last, as Chris half-expected that it couldn't. The next thing he knows, he's flat against the elevator wall with both hands pinned above his head, Zach's long fingers encircling both his wrists. It's not a hard grip, and Chris could probably have pulled away from it, but he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to; not with Zach licking and nipping at his throat, unbuttoning his pants. Not with Zach kissing him one last time, hard and deep and wet, before descending to his knees in one fluid movement.
"Shit - Zach - " He scrabbles at Zach's hair, something in his mind too bright with disbelief, but Zach is doing this, licking the head of him, swallowing him deep so Chris bucks into the back of his throat. It affects him so violently he should be embarrassed, but he's not, and he can't be; because this has been too long in coming and Chris is damned if he will be, with Zach moaning already around his cock, his hand working furiously in his own pants. The thought of Zach doing that, touching himself with his mouth on Chris, turns Chris's spine to jelly, and he tightens his fingers in Zach's hair, gasping "Fuck - fuck - " as the little lit-up numbers tick to nine - ten - on the opposite wall.
Zach is good at this, hot and wet and enthusiastic and Chris doesn't even realise that the elevator might be stopped at any floor until the second before he comes. And then Zach comes, hard and gasping all over his hand, and the thought goes straight out of Chris's head. He comes in Zach's mouth and Zach swallows it, swallows it; raises his head with a trail of slickness at one corner of his mouth.
Chris looks down at him, breathless, dark-eyed, wondering what the hell to say now and hoping it doesn't really matter.
And then Zach stands up, and zips himself and Chris back into their trousers (stickily, drunkenly), and kisses him again. And he tastes like come, and anyone could still walk in, but it's Chris's come and Zach's mouth and he doesn't care.
He looks up at the little numbers again: 11. 12.
That's a whole six more floors. Chris looks at Zach, at his slick-sexy smile, and wonders what he could do in that time.
Pairing: Pinto (!)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Didn't happen.
Notes: Wrote this for smutjunkie - who on the kinkmeme requested elevator sex - largely in ironic celebration of the fact that she no longer completely hates Shatner. And thus I produced my first Trek RPF that does not feature either Nimoy or Shatner, and is not femslash.
Summary: Elevators are for sex. Short-short (911 words).
Eighteen storeys, and Chris needs the seventeenth. "Dammit," he mutters to himself, as he rereads the board for the fourth time, as if maybe on this occasion something might have changed, and he'll only have to stay put for two floors instead of another sixteen.
The board, of course, only stares back at him, implacable. Chris glowers. It's going to be a long ride.
The elevator moves slowly, and it's enclosed. Chris isn't all that fond of being shut in like this, and there's nothing at all to distract him, not even elevator music. "Shit," he hisses under his breath, struggling in vain to think of something to occupy his mind, keep it away from thoughts of getting trapped in here; of the lift-cables snapping and sending him hurtling to a fiery doom. Because that's really likely. It isn't really working.
So when the doors open on the fourth floor, and Zach steps in, Chris can't help but light up. "Zach!"
Zachary smirks. It's late, and he's obviously at least two sheets to the wind, and his five-o-clock shadow is prickling over his chin. His eyes are soft, a little glassy, the collar of his shirt open. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his chest, like he's been dancing, and the animal smell of him fills the elevator the moment he steps into it, warmsoftskin scent of Zachary under his cologne. He says, "Going up?"
And, hell, Chris is.
They've kissed before, now brief, now clinging, at parties and premieres and in the darkened backseats of limousines, but it's never looked like it was going to go anywhere. Chris doesn't know why - was Zach afraid of him, was Zach not interested in him, did Zach think Chris wasn't interested? - but what he does know is that he never expected it to go further like this, in an elevator inching upwards, with Zachary stepping towards him from nowhere to too-close, breath like sweet brandy on Chris's neck. Chris looks back at him levelly, and he's not afraid. Everything, on the contrary, is suddenly pretty clear. He likes Zach like this - uncomplicated, direct; Zach's hand creeping to Chris's waist without hesitation or request.
Chris says, "Hell, yeah," in a voice gone dark in the space of a second, and that's all Zach needs to lean forward and kiss him.
Chris surges up against him immediately, pressing himself to the long hard length of Zach's body, opening his mouth to the taste of him. Zach kisses like he talks, complicated and clever and quick, and it's sending shivers all the way down Chris's spine. He's moving too fast and he knows it, but he can't keep his hands from creeping under the hem of Zach's shirt, half pulled out of his trousers already; can't keep his fingers from the hot smooth skin of Zach's waist. Zach gasps into his mouth as Chris's fingers slide over his hipbones, and Chris swallows the sound and bucks against him, pressing hard against Zach's hips, letting Zach feel him.
For a second, Zach lets him do this, lets him lead; but it can't last, as Chris half-expected that it couldn't. The next thing he knows, he's flat against the elevator wall with both hands pinned above his head, Zach's long fingers encircling both his wrists. It's not a hard grip, and Chris could probably have pulled away from it, but he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to; not with Zach licking and nipping at his throat, unbuttoning his pants. Not with Zach kissing him one last time, hard and deep and wet, before descending to his knees in one fluid movement.
"Shit - Zach - " He scrabbles at Zach's hair, something in his mind too bright with disbelief, but Zach is doing this, licking the head of him, swallowing him deep so Chris bucks into the back of his throat. It affects him so violently he should be embarrassed, but he's not, and he can't be; because this has been too long in coming and Chris is damned if he will be, with Zach moaning already around his cock, his hand working furiously in his own pants. The thought of Zach doing that, touching himself with his mouth on Chris, turns Chris's spine to jelly, and he tightens his fingers in Zach's hair, gasping "Fuck - fuck - " as the little lit-up numbers tick to nine - ten - on the opposite wall.
Zach is good at this, hot and wet and enthusiastic and Chris doesn't even realise that the elevator might be stopped at any floor until the second before he comes. And then Zach comes, hard and gasping all over his hand, and the thought goes straight out of Chris's head. He comes in Zach's mouth and Zach swallows it, swallows it; raises his head with a trail of slickness at one corner of his mouth.
Chris looks down at him, breathless, dark-eyed, wondering what the hell to say now and hoping it doesn't really matter.
And then Zach stands up, and zips himself and Chris back into their trousers (stickily, drunkenly), and kisses him again. And he tastes like come, and anyone could still walk in, but it's Chris's come and Zach's mouth and he doesn't care.
He looks up at the little numbers again: 11. 12.
That's a whole six more floors. Chris looks at Zach, at his slick-sexy smile, and wonders what he could do in that time.