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[possibly_thrice]

Sssssssoooooo.

Give me a pairing and if you like a circumstance or setting, and I will write you a kiss.

Unless I just write you angsty stares instead. It happens.

ETA: New rule: if Jim Kirk post-abrupt-transformation-into-a-golden-retriever can possibly be involved in your fill, he will be.

Non-Star Trek fandoms probably exempt

Comments

my apologies

[possibly_thrice]

There's someone- no, two someones- in Pike's bedroom, and the door has been left ajar. Jim pauses outside, ears pricked and tail raised like a magnificent golden flag, albeit the magnificent golden flag of a nation that decided to go heavily on the burr-and-mud-matted-hair symbolism when they were drawing up the designs; he's always willing to listen pityingly to Pike's old dude shenanigans, since that is totally part and parcel of having a cool father figure, although sometimes his stomach feels odd when he hears Pike make a certain set of sounds, low and indistinct and glutinous and basically unsexy by any yardstick but weirdly identifiably Pike.

But neither of the two people sitting on Pike's bed, heads bent close like conspiring children, is Pike. Jim is totally prepared to bark his head off, Lassie-style, to alert the orderlies in the hall of the intruders, except now that he squints he kind of recognizes the guy, an even older dude than Pike whose sense of humor was probably okay before someone left it out in an alien desert for half a million years, where it withered away to something glittering and small that shimmered in a memory of heat. He's like Pike's Bones. Or, actually, sometimes Jim gets the uncomfortable impression that Pike is his Bones, which doesn't make much sense because hello, doctor solidarity, but looks true anyway, since Jim is pretty sure Bones has never, ever cradled the delicate flabbyskinned jaws of gorgeous old Engineers on Jim's bed, and Jim totally did that exact throat-to-cheek cupping series of movements to Gaila on Bones' sofa, years and years ago.

He kind of wishes his vision were better, like this: there's something else, something about how the woman twists half out of reach of the doctor's stroking hand, her grin wicked, that reminds him of Gaila, but the colors are muted and strange, the shapes indistinct at the edges. He can smell her (and if Gaila were actually here he would totally be fucked, no matter how many pheromone suppressants she was on); the heavy unpleasant tang of the grease under her fingernails, the sandalwood musk of her hair.

Red, he thinks, suddenly; her hair. It must be red. He can see only the long shadowy spill of it over her back, but it's red, he can feel it, in how she wiggles her ass triumphantly back against Pike's headboard and says, "Mischief managed, I think," and raises her wrists smoothly above her head, hair sliding free of her shoulders, and all Jim can think of is Gaila's finger, of twining curls around her outstretched thumb.

Re: my apologies

[taraljc]

Oooooooh, this is GORGEOUS.

Re: my apologies

[rubynye]

This is wonderfully sensory, and I love the Cait-Gaila parallellell.