WHATEVERRR. *sulks*
Title: Swashing Buckles, Righting Wrongs: From the Fabulous Adventures of Captain James Significant Pause Cook, 4/?
Author: possibly_thrice
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Pike/Kirk.
Summary: Prompted by st_xi_kink . Kirk never meets Pike or Uhura, and runs off with a broken-heart-crazed McCoy to be a pirate. For a moment, it seems as if there will be an actual plot. Then I reveal that I'm actually just doing this to set up angsty Captain Pike/Pirate Captain Jimmy dub-con. Part three is here.
A/N: Um. Yeah. This was unreasonably difficult. Also, unreasonably bad. Also, I think I might have to actually work out the plot, now that at least, er, half the porn is done with. Ah well.
Warnings: semi-explicit dub-con, and a little (of my personal failed attempt at) mindfuckery.
“Shh. You’ve had your chance to try and change my mind,” Kirk says, digging the phaser in. “It’s my turn to have my way.”
“The hell is your way?” Pike says, flattening against the wall in a futile attempt at, if not escape, at least a little breathing room, thanks; but there is really no distance left to gain, not least because Kirk echoes him when he tries, sliding in. He's beginning, for what may be the first time in his life, to regret not following Starfleet regulation, which states in no uncertain terms that officers are not to interact with mentally unstable criminals any more than necessary. But then today has been a day for firsts. And it probably shows on his face, because Kirk grins, smugness blinding.
Pike decides he really hates mood swings. At least Nero was simple: homicidal anger, and, later, pet slugs. This, though -
“Dunno,” Kirk says. “This, maybe,” and when Pike opens his mouth to say something brilliant, like 'what?', for instance, Kirk covers it. With his mouth.
It takes Pike a full ten seconds to understand that this counts as a (hard, unpleasant, unreasonably terrifying) kiss, one that drags him down to level with the slightly shorter man. He freezes, hunched between a hard place and another damn hard place, and Kirk takes the opportunity to explore him; he doesn't move his hands, he just keeps shifting, until somehow every inch of Pike's front is chilled through his worn uniform by the memory of Kirk's lean edges, his prominent bones.
Pike claws at the back of the hand on his wrists, fingers straining to reach important tendons, and Kirk retaliates by forcing Pike's numb lips the rest of the way apart and slipping in and biting down on his tongue. He doesn't let go when he's drawn blood, either, just sits there, gnawing at him like a fucking antique beartrap, even his breathing slow and deliberate. The only thing uncertain about him is his heartbeat under the ancient ludicrous coat, and that is eager rather than frantic, thudding to a haphazard tune.
He struggles for a moment longer in the weird silence, caught in Kirk's gaze, the eyes abstracted into liquid, meaningless shapes by nearness. (That familiar vivid blue could be anything. Right?) Then he forces himself to relax. No point wasting energy, and if Kirk's intent on unnerving him, well, fine. Fine and dandy. He can deal with that, as long as he ignores the voice suggesting Kirk's motives are nothing like that commonplace, that easy to label. It's easier, in any case, to go limp. Besides, it makes Kirk free his tongue like a society lady spitting out a crystallized jellyfish-equivalent at an Andorian buffet - and wow, okay, sleep-deprived similes getting a little out of hand there, Pikey - and tilt his head just so, deepening the kiss, licking the dry cracked corners of Pike's mouth.
Pike can conjure up the necessary indifference, resignation, stoicism. Barely. He does his best to iron the shudders out of his frame and take it all and close his eyes, because Kirk clearly isn't interested in mere surrender, so surrender is what Pike will give. It's enough to make Kirk withdraw a millimeter or three, anyway, if not a workable long-term strategy, and through his sweat-clumped eyelashes he sees Kirk smile, or rather bare his teeth, which are spotted with dark blood like ink, as if he's been chewing on a red pen.
Pike resists the temptation to spit. He fixes his gaze on the floor. “Get off me,” he says.
Kirk removes the phaser from where it's nestled between them, sheathes it with an audible snick of old metal on an old belt, and Pike has time to exhale, to wonder how much opportunity that affords, before Kirk withdraws a little further for the purpose of running his thumb down the swell of Pike's throat, and pressing down beneath the apple, right on the cusp of discomfort, in a way that subtly suggests that Pike's windpipe could very well have a brief and painful future.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. It sounds like an order. “How am I doing? ”
Pike looks at him. “You've broken... let's see... six interplanetary laws governing the treatment of hostages and military prisoners so far.”
“Oh?” Kirk says. He sounds mildly disappointed. “I'm about to break more. And you are going to watch me -” he digs in the ragged rim of his thumbnail here for emphasis, rests the heel of his hand on Pike's gaping collar, palm fit to neck “ - because you're the one judging me, and that means you have to accept all the evidence of my crimes I choose to give you. No more closing your eyes. Does that seem fair to you? Because it seems damn fair to me.”
He holds Kirk's gaze without blinking, though his eyes are already watering, and is startled to find that it does, though he has no intention of admitting that aloud.
Because, well. He drew the comparison, he mapped out the disparities, didn't he?
And having done so he wants - needs - to understand their source, to have more than half-baked conceptions of what could have gone so wrong between father and son. He should watch. (He doesn't want to think about what he's going to be watching.)
How, hah, logical this revelation of what he's doing - or rather what he isn't doing - seems when he lays it out that way for his own benefit is a strong indicator that his higher cognitive functions are officially shot to hell, but then what isn't? Nothing, that's what. So.
“Good,” Kirk says, voice pitched lower, slower than before (and yes, it's closer to George's voice than ever in register, and no, there's nothing Pike can do about it, although there's a significant part of him that wants to tear Kirk's larynx out). Quite possibly reading his mind, Kirk trails clustered fingertips down, tugs at yellow fabric, and adds in a tone that's a decent approximation of friendly banter: “Was my father this persuasive?”
Pike laughs violently and silently. It feels rather like dying must, his insides rupturing, wildfire veiled by flimsy layers of muscle and fat. “No, he wasn't,” he manages. “He had a thing about not threatening people with bodily injury, you see, except in rare and unfortunate cases, which put him at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“I can imagine,” Kirk says.
He kisses the soft junction where Pike's jaw curves into his ear, ghosts his mouth across Pike's sore cheek back to his swollen lips, and ghosts his hand to Pike's waistline, shoves his shirt up to bunch under his armpits. The air in the turbolift is cool and the metal wall behind him is cooler, a shock to the now-exposed small of his back, and he recoils, curves unthinkingly toward Kirk, who is almost feverish, before the ache in his arms focuses him and he remembers about indifference. Not to mention that good old standby, dislike.
He's is perhaps less surprised than he should be when Kirk prods his chest, surfaces from the indiscriminate, one-sided kisses to stick the fingers of his free hand in Pike's mouth, ignoring the fact that Pike snaps at the long digits, a reflex more than a thought; and then - Christ - he sketches damp circles around Pike's nipple, pinches the pebbled nub, and twists.
The pain is exquisite; he ignores it, and concentrates on Kirk's expression, which is blank, intent, the irony dissolving as he tests sensitivity of skin, finds the soft places, the bruised ribs. Pike sucks in his stomach and Kirk nods, satisfied, and seals Pike back to the wall. At which point he becomes aware that Kirk is genuinely aroused, along with, or, no, as a result of, being a twisted madman, etc.: his erection presses hard and hot into Pike's thigh.
“If you want to ask your useless questions,” Kirk says, lightly, “now's the time.”
And he's not the only madman present, because Pike says, steadily as he can, “Three years ago, you disappeared,” while Kirk locks his knees around Pike's and rocks against him. “How? Where did you go?”
“Met a man in a bar with more fake papers than he knew what to do with and no real ones, after the divorce settlement. My doctor, you know.”
He slides his hand down over Pike's hip, the back of his thigh, settling on his ass, which is less infuriating, at least, than the lazy - the lazy, inescapable rutting, since humiliation is fairly low on his long, long list of concerns just now - or would be, only Kirk uses the leverage to start pulling Pike with him as he leans in, leans out. This is a) seriously threatening the continued non-dislocation of his shoulders and b) sensory overload. Kirk is very pointedly not kissing him now, staring at him, and Pike's losing track of who is sacrificing what to analyze whom.
“And then you went where?” Pike says, speaking too quickly as he fumbled for a distraction, anything to resist the urge to stop thinking and collapse into a mess of instincts and exhaustion, to hold himself together when he's beginning to think he might well be shaken to pieces.
Kirk shifts his weight, tightening the curve of his fingers, and Pike's breath hitches treacherously. “No,” he says, impatient, merciless. “I know you're enjoying this so much you don't want it to end, but that's not the question that matters.”
“You're right, it's not. There was only ever one. Why are you doing this?”
“What, this?” Kirk says, broad sweat-streaked face lascivious and mocking. He hits his rhythm, rolling his hips faster and surer. Pike briefly wonders whether the feeling in his gut is nausea or - no. No, it's nausea. He does not intend to let anger and confusion and proximity turn into reactions he can't afford to show.
“This,” he mutters. “Yes. Christ.”
“Well, because I felt like it.”
“Kirk -“
“Don't call me that. You're kind of repetitive,” Kirk says, or more accurately gasps. “Fine. One last reason. Why I'm doing this to you, you asshole. Someone -” he punctuates now with slower, harder thrusts, stuttering but articulate “- I mean, Nero, showed me a vision of the universe as it was without him. The one where my father lived. He lived. He outlived you, his old school chum, his underclassmen friend. His existence did more for Starfleet's standards than you ever did. And he raised me to be the good honorable idiotic captain of the Enterprise. The man you think I'm supposed to be.”
“Oh, hell,” Pike says, comprehending.
And the wall he's been carefully building around inconvenient grief, laced with its subtle guilt, its slippery rage, crumples like tissue paper devoured by the burning blue Kirk eyes, and: “Yes,” Kirk moans. He stops moving and holds Pike there and comes. He stays still enough for long enough, enveloping Pike with his unforgiving touch, that semen seeps through his jeans and dampens Pike's trousers, and boy, who knew it would come in so handy that black was the regulation color?
Kirk lays rough, careless kisses all across his face, now. “I saw it all,” he drawls, heavy and luxuriant and satiated, “everything I didn't have, should have had, would have had. You know my stepfather was a child molester? You know my mother didn't notice because she was busy with the stars? You know if it hadn't been for Nero you wouldn't have gotten the Enterprise until someone else had captained her for years? It's all wrong, and you, you're the tip of the fucking glacier...”
Pike suffocates as the words unhinge, the irrational, scrambled, blown out of shape accusations setting off something deep inside him, and he drowns in private demons while Kirk goes on and on and on, a quiet vicious accounting of fragile logic built on insanity. When he looks at Kirk, for an instant he sees George, hopeless and buried in the fine lines of someone who is, fundamentally, broken.
And who has a marked interest in breaking him.
(God, he misses George right now.)
Fuck, Pike thinks, accurately, and doesn't close his eyes.
Author: possibly_thrice
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Pike/Kirk.
Summary: Prompted by st_xi_kink . Kirk never meets Pike or Uhura, and runs off with a broken-heart-crazed McCoy to be a pirate. For a moment, it seems as if there will be an actual plot. Then I reveal that I'm actually just doing this to set up angsty Captain Pike/Pirate Captain Jimmy dub-con. Part three is here.
A/N: Um. Yeah. This was unreasonably difficult. Also, unreasonably bad. Also, I think I might have to actually work out the plot, now that at least, er, half the porn is done with. Ah well.
Warnings: semi-explicit dub-con, and a little (of my personal failed attempt at) mindfuckery.
“Shh. You’ve had your chance to try and change my mind,” Kirk says, digging the phaser in. “It’s my turn to have my way.”
“The hell is your way?” Pike says, flattening against the wall in a futile attempt at, if not escape, at least a little breathing room, thanks; but there is really no distance left to gain, not least because Kirk echoes him when he tries, sliding in. He's beginning, for what may be the first time in his life, to regret not following Starfleet regulation, which states in no uncertain terms that officers are not to interact with mentally unstable criminals any more than necessary. But then today has been a day for firsts. And it probably shows on his face, because Kirk grins, smugness blinding.
Pike decides he really hates mood swings. At least Nero was simple: homicidal anger, and, later, pet slugs. This, though -
“Dunno,” Kirk says. “This, maybe,” and when Pike opens his mouth to say something brilliant, like 'what?', for instance, Kirk covers it. With his mouth.
It takes Pike a full ten seconds to understand that this counts as a (hard, unpleasant, unreasonably terrifying) kiss, one that drags him down to level with the slightly shorter man. He freezes, hunched between a hard place and another damn hard place, and Kirk takes the opportunity to explore him; he doesn't move his hands, he just keeps shifting, until somehow every inch of Pike's front is chilled through his worn uniform by the memory of Kirk's lean edges, his prominent bones.
Pike claws at the back of the hand on his wrists, fingers straining to reach important tendons, and Kirk retaliates by forcing Pike's numb lips the rest of the way apart and slipping in and biting down on his tongue. He doesn't let go when he's drawn blood, either, just sits there, gnawing at him like a fucking antique beartrap, even his breathing slow and deliberate. The only thing uncertain about him is his heartbeat under the ancient ludicrous coat, and that is eager rather than frantic, thudding to a haphazard tune.
He struggles for a moment longer in the weird silence, caught in Kirk's gaze, the eyes abstracted into liquid, meaningless shapes by nearness. (That familiar vivid blue could be anything. Right?) Then he forces himself to relax. No point wasting energy, and if Kirk's intent on unnerving him, well, fine. Fine and dandy. He can deal with that, as long as he ignores the voice suggesting Kirk's motives are nothing like that commonplace, that easy to label. It's easier, in any case, to go limp. Besides, it makes Kirk free his tongue like a society lady spitting out a crystallized jellyfish-equivalent at an Andorian buffet - and wow, okay, sleep-deprived similes getting a little out of hand there, Pikey - and tilt his head just so, deepening the kiss, licking the dry cracked corners of Pike's mouth.
Pike can conjure up the necessary indifference, resignation, stoicism. Barely. He does his best to iron the shudders out of his frame and take it all and close his eyes, because Kirk clearly isn't interested in mere surrender, so surrender is what Pike will give. It's enough to make Kirk withdraw a millimeter or three, anyway, if not a workable long-term strategy, and through his sweat-clumped eyelashes he sees Kirk smile, or rather bare his teeth, which are spotted with dark blood like ink, as if he's been chewing on a red pen.
Pike resists the temptation to spit. He fixes his gaze on the floor. “Get off me,” he says.
Kirk removes the phaser from where it's nestled between them, sheathes it with an audible snick of old metal on an old belt, and Pike has time to exhale, to wonder how much opportunity that affords, before Kirk withdraws a little further for the purpose of running his thumb down the swell of Pike's throat, and pressing down beneath the apple, right on the cusp of discomfort, in a way that subtly suggests that Pike's windpipe could very well have a brief and painful future.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. It sounds like an order. “How am I doing? ”
Pike looks at him. “You've broken... let's see... six interplanetary laws governing the treatment of hostages and military prisoners so far.”
“Oh?” Kirk says. He sounds mildly disappointed. “I'm about to break more. And you are going to watch me -” he digs in the ragged rim of his thumbnail here for emphasis, rests the heel of his hand on Pike's gaping collar, palm fit to neck “ - because you're the one judging me, and that means you have to accept all the evidence of my crimes I choose to give you. No more closing your eyes. Does that seem fair to you? Because it seems damn fair to me.”
He holds Kirk's gaze without blinking, though his eyes are already watering, and is startled to find that it does, though he has no intention of admitting that aloud.
Because, well. He drew the comparison, he mapped out the disparities, didn't he?
And having done so he wants - needs - to understand their source, to have more than half-baked conceptions of what could have gone so wrong between father and son. He should watch. (He doesn't want to think about what he's going to be watching.)
How, hah, logical this revelation of what he's doing - or rather what he isn't doing - seems when he lays it out that way for his own benefit is a strong indicator that his higher cognitive functions are officially shot to hell, but then what isn't? Nothing, that's what. So.
“Good,” Kirk says, voice pitched lower, slower than before (and yes, it's closer to George's voice than ever in register, and no, there's nothing Pike can do about it, although there's a significant part of him that wants to tear Kirk's larynx out). Quite possibly reading his mind, Kirk trails clustered fingertips down, tugs at yellow fabric, and adds in a tone that's a decent approximation of friendly banter: “Was my father this persuasive?”
Pike laughs violently and silently. It feels rather like dying must, his insides rupturing, wildfire veiled by flimsy layers of muscle and fat. “No, he wasn't,” he manages. “He had a thing about not threatening people with bodily injury, you see, except in rare and unfortunate cases, which put him at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“I can imagine,” Kirk says.
He kisses the soft junction where Pike's jaw curves into his ear, ghosts his mouth across Pike's sore cheek back to his swollen lips, and ghosts his hand to Pike's waistline, shoves his shirt up to bunch under his armpits. The air in the turbolift is cool and the metal wall behind him is cooler, a shock to the now-exposed small of his back, and he recoils, curves unthinkingly toward Kirk, who is almost feverish, before the ache in his arms focuses him and he remembers about indifference. Not to mention that good old standby, dislike.
He's is perhaps less surprised than he should be when Kirk prods his chest, surfaces from the indiscriminate, one-sided kisses to stick the fingers of his free hand in Pike's mouth, ignoring the fact that Pike snaps at the long digits, a reflex more than a thought; and then - Christ - he sketches damp circles around Pike's nipple, pinches the pebbled nub, and twists.
The pain is exquisite; he ignores it, and concentrates on Kirk's expression, which is blank, intent, the irony dissolving as he tests sensitivity of skin, finds the soft places, the bruised ribs. Pike sucks in his stomach and Kirk nods, satisfied, and seals Pike back to the wall. At which point he becomes aware that Kirk is genuinely aroused, along with, or, no, as a result of, being a twisted madman, etc.: his erection presses hard and hot into Pike's thigh.
“If you want to ask your useless questions,” Kirk says, lightly, “now's the time.”
And he's not the only madman present, because Pike says, steadily as he can, “Three years ago, you disappeared,” while Kirk locks his knees around Pike's and rocks against him. “How? Where did you go?”
“Met a man in a bar with more fake papers than he knew what to do with and no real ones, after the divorce settlement. My doctor, you know.”
He slides his hand down over Pike's hip, the back of his thigh, settling on his ass, which is less infuriating, at least, than the lazy - the lazy, inescapable rutting, since humiliation is fairly low on his long, long list of concerns just now - or would be, only Kirk uses the leverage to start pulling Pike with him as he leans in, leans out. This is a) seriously threatening the continued non-dislocation of his shoulders and b) sensory overload. Kirk is very pointedly not kissing him now, staring at him, and Pike's losing track of who is sacrificing what to analyze whom.
“And then you went where?” Pike says, speaking too quickly as he fumbled for a distraction, anything to resist the urge to stop thinking and collapse into a mess of instincts and exhaustion, to hold himself together when he's beginning to think he might well be shaken to pieces.
Kirk shifts his weight, tightening the curve of his fingers, and Pike's breath hitches treacherously. “No,” he says, impatient, merciless. “I know you're enjoying this so much you don't want it to end, but that's not the question that matters.”
“You're right, it's not. There was only ever one. Why are you doing this?”
“What, this?” Kirk says, broad sweat-streaked face lascivious and mocking. He hits his rhythm, rolling his hips faster and surer. Pike briefly wonders whether the feeling in his gut is nausea or - no. No, it's nausea. He does not intend to let anger and confusion and proximity turn into reactions he can't afford to show.
“This,” he mutters. “Yes. Christ.”
“Well, because I felt like it.”
“Kirk -“
“Don't call me that. You're kind of repetitive,” Kirk says, or more accurately gasps. “Fine. One last reason. Why I'm doing this to you, you asshole. Someone -” he punctuates now with slower, harder thrusts, stuttering but articulate “- I mean, Nero, showed me a vision of the universe as it was without him. The one where my father lived. He lived. He outlived you, his old school chum, his underclassmen friend. His existence did more for Starfleet's standards than you ever did. And he raised me to be the good honorable idiotic captain of the Enterprise. The man you think I'm supposed to be.”
“Oh, hell,” Pike says, comprehending.
And the wall he's been carefully building around inconvenient grief, laced with its subtle guilt, its slippery rage, crumples like tissue paper devoured by the burning blue Kirk eyes, and: “Yes,” Kirk moans. He stops moving and holds Pike there and comes. He stays still enough for long enough, enveloping Pike with his unforgiving touch, that semen seeps through his jeans and dampens Pike's trousers, and boy, who knew it would come in so handy that black was the regulation color?
Kirk lays rough, careless kisses all across his face, now. “I saw it all,” he drawls, heavy and luxuriant and satiated, “everything I didn't have, should have had, would have had. You know my stepfather was a child molester? You know my mother didn't notice because she was busy with the stars? You know if it hadn't been for Nero you wouldn't have gotten the Enterprise until someone else had captained her for years? It's all wrong, and you, you're the tip of the fucking glacier...”
Pike suffocates as the words unhinge, the irrational, scrambled, blown out of shape accusations setting off something deep inside him, and he drowns in private demons while Kirk goes on and on and on, a quiet vicious accounting of fragile logic built on insanity. When he looks at Kirk, for an instant he sees George, hopeless and buried in the fine lines of someone who is, fundamentally, broken.
And who has a marked interest in breaking him.
(God, he misses George right now.)
Fuck, Pike thinks, accurately, and doesn't close his eyes.