So this is officially going to be longer than planned. *shock*
Title: Swashing Buckles, Righting Wrongs: From the Fabulous Adventures of Captain James Significant Pause Cook, 5/?
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.
A/N: I wonder what it says about me that Kirk's perspective is a metric fuckton easier to write than Pike's?
Warnings: Explicit dub-con. More mindfuckery.
“...and you, you're the tip of the fucking glacier,” Jim says, not really listening to himself. He's too busy admiring just how Pike's grimace crumbles, how the guilt restructures his face, though he does spare a few neurons to calculate the probability of Pike working out that half of the vitriol being muttered against his cheek is flat-out lies. Acceptably low, he decides, as he watches that brief, blank dislike collapse. And the probability of him working out which half -- well. He's not worried. He has what he wanted: it's in the ruin of Pike's clean-cut, resigned lines and his own uncoiling joy, a kind of pleasure quite distinct (well, mostly) from the afterglow. Such messy triumph. And he can wallow in it if he likes. Which he does, he discovers. Very much. He's not sure he could not wallow in it, not when digging his nails into the taut cords of muscle standing out under the skin of Pike's wrist makes Pike groans a little, not when Pike looks at him like that, bleary, irises the color of an old bruise. Just this side of devastated.
Jim brings his other hand around the curved side of Pike's waist down the line of leg to the man's crotch and finds the fabric stretched suggestively. Yes, he thinks. The way Pike glances down, startles at his own arousal, is pretty fucking amusing. But god, the shame that comes with it -- the way Pike shivers and stiffens further, if that's possible, and colors up, a rising tinge of red under the unhealthy white -- that goes straight to the base of his spine.
He ducks his head a little and nips at Pike's neck.
“See? You liked that,” he mouths against the underside of Pike's chin, where the tension threads his jaw, tangible. “So --” he plants a drier kiss on both pulse points, and starts to undo the fastening of Pike's trousers “-- there's a part of you that likes the universe this way. That likes me this way. And yet you think I'm deranged for hating you personally, for blaming you a little, huh?”
There's an art to the uncontrolled anger he breathes onto the wet skin, to the power it gives him. Pike squirms, helpless, lost for words, and if Jim's not much mistaken, that's some sort of involuntary apology in his mute stare.
Yes. This is what he wanted. Needed. He pulls away with a slight sucking noise and brings Pike's trapped hands down to the man's stomach, folded in a way that can't be comfortable, not that Jim cares, and drops to his knees. An ungraceful, heavy landing -- Pike isn't the only one who's going to come away from this with marks on him, his shins are already sore, denim rubbing exactly the wrong way - but he drags Pike's trousers down over his thighs without hesitating to steady himself, the vibrations from impact still reverberating up.
“No,” Pike says raggedly. “You don't have to do it this way -- you can't -- I don't --”
“Oh, really?” Jim says, and licks the underside of Pike's growing erection, one long streak of saliva. He tastes of sweat, bitter skin, sex, and above all heat, here and throbbing though the rest of him is clammy to the touch. And he mutters “No, no, not this, Christ, anything but this,” like it's a prayer.
Anything. Jim thinks he might be drunk. He doesn't bother to speak, he just takes Pike into his mouth and kills his gag reflex without niceties and sucks, shaping his tight throat around slick flesh. Pike writhes, wild without warning. It requires a good deal of concentration, which he can barely spare under the circumstances, to keep him still, shoving the heel of his palm into Pike's gut so that Pike exhales a pained grunt and by the sound of it is having trouble breathing deeply, let alone freeing himself. Worth it, he concludes, when he uses a trick he learned from an Orion slave girl two years ago, extending his tongue up under the base of Pike's cock to where it connects to his scrotum. Worth it for the broken, shallow curve made as Pike arches his hips a few degrees before falling back to haul in air, panting, eyes watering, and it's not pleasant, Jim's nose gets jammed up against fine curling hair, but god, the man looks like he kind of wants to cry, or punch someone, or both, and it's somewhere between being hilarious and an impossible turn-on.
“Stop,” Pike hisses through clenched teeth. “I don't know what you're trying to get, Kirk. I sure as hell don't have it. Stop. Stop.” The commanding tone self-destructs as his lips hollow around a pathetic please like an echo, but he bites it back, and Jim, in revenge, doesn't stop. He slows his pace, opens his mouth a little wider and blows what he is well aware are teasing, butterfly breaths over sensitive skin, but he doesn't actually stop. Pike doesn't deserve that.
He's always been relentless, Jim Kirk (and later Captain Cook, hunting down so many. None as good as this). Pike makes soft animal sounds like something internal and important is tearing and then tries for a word that could be the withheld please or an expletive or even his father's name, with a little imagination. Jim grins as much as he can around his mouthful and seals his lips back over the tangled, swollen veins and then Pike's gone, thrashing so much he really does rip his right hand free from Jim's loosened grip.
Through the lust and the suffocating wash of semen Jim focuses, pulls off, and barely pauses to spit, splattering Pike's boot, before rising enough to grab the hand. There's a moment where Pike wrestles with his arm and Jim wonders if putting away the phaser was such a great idea, but it passes and Pike ends up draped against the wall, a little lower, sliding down, and it's pretty obvious that that was not only his last reserve of energy but probably his unfortunate future self of tomorrow and maybe the next day's last reserve of energy.
“How could you... why would you...” Pike mutters. He may have lost it entirely.
Jim massages his sore jaw. He lies expertly. “I learned. And hey, sometimes we all want to relive our childhoods.” Because of this doesn't need to be said. Because what should have been is shattered, exactly like you're shattered, Pike, doesn't need to be said. “You probably shouldn't have tried being paternal. Mixed signals.” His lightest, gentlest grin, here, for emphasis.
Yeah, Pike's lost it.
The man's gold shirt is riding up once more, caught by Jim's hand this time on Pike's chest, and his slacks are rolled down to his knees and there's pale expanse of exposed skin from sternum to kneecaps, marred by patterns of small bruises like flowers, with the underlying frame gone boneless, undone, unmade -- between that, and the fact that his face is practically translucent, just the other side of devastated, neatly cropped hair in his crazed half-lidded eyes, lips parted and trembling, it takes Jim a good deal not to fuck him into the turbolift wall, nor to push him down and return the, haha, favor. He's such a perfect disaster.
But while it takes a lot, it's not more than Jim has, and he understands very well that the instant Pike goes back to being able to hate him whole-heartedly in sheerly physical terms, that's when this unsullied victory goes out the window. So he pulls up Pike's trousers, and he shifts one dangling arm over his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around Pike's waist so that the shirt's bunched fabric slumps down for a semblance of decency. And he un-pauses the turbolift. In the thirty seconds of rapid, smooth movement, so unfamiliar compared to the Serenity's rusting lifts, he even remembers to get his phaser out, to nudge Pike into limping with him out onto the deck when the doors slide open, and pointing out which is his quarters with half-curled fingers.
They don't pass anyone down the corridor, which is faintly disappointing. But then it's a short walk and Scotty's already reprogrammed the door, good man, so he gets in, Pike in tow, without trouble. He glances around the room with professional interest and isn't surprised to find it mostly bare, although, again, faintly disappointing -- what he could do with a few holos. He dumps Pike onto the bed, and Pike doesn't move from where his limbs sprawl out, except to turn his head a little and stare at Jim with eyes like a dog watching a stranger.
Jim shrugs, and strolls out.
The door slides shut behind him, and he takes out his communicator, punches in a number. “Scotty?”
“Yessir?”
“You can lock Pike's quarters now.”
“Yessir.” There's a pause, and then: “Done.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Took your time about it, though, didn't you, Captain?”
He hears Bones snorting in the background, and smirks a little before cutting the connection and jogging away, to the lift, to explore what other godsends this ship has inside it. It's like Christmas! he thinks. But without the universal requited familial love, haha.
First, though, in the turbolift again, which has seen more action today than it probably will in all the rest of its career (in fact as it turns out Jim is wrong about this, but that's besides the point), he jacks off, pumping desperately although it's barely two strokes before his palm is sticky and, pressure relieved, he can glory in what he's done.
Balance, he thinks, in all seriousness. Justice. Beautiful things. He does up his zipper.
“I return!” he says brightly, a minute later, and flops down into the captain's chair. It's very comfortable. There's more synthetic faux-leather involved than he would have imagined. Just as well, considering.
He is met by six stares ranging from irritated to incredulous to suppressedly homicidal (and, okay, a larger percentage of the population than he'd like does tend towards that end, including Bones, to the casual observer, although Jim, after some deliberation, concludes that it's actually just annoyed fondness. Wishful thinking is healthy, he understands). He guesses that it'd probably be eight stares, but Scotty and Cornish, the only other crewmember besides Bones who signed up to leave the Serenity are deep in discussion of something fiddly and mechanical involving impulse capacity.
There have been other changes made while he was out. The original bridge crew has clumped around the helm, where they can exchange lots of wary, meaningful looks and also huddle a bit and be held, generally rather than specifically, at phaserpoint by Bones. Chekov's been replaced by Cornish in the navigational position. The ancient Vulcan bastard is hovering on the peripheries, now, apparently indifferent to the fact that Bones' gun flicks idly towards his pointed ear every now and then. Bones is, yes, at the center, looking distinctly unimpressed. It's a good thing Bones' loyalty is what it is, or he'd be worried about another damn mutiny on top of his.
Bones does observe, in the tone of one who has been here, done this, and bought the tunic, “Twenty minutes late, too.” He glances at Jim's jeans and the drying stain doesn't really show but Bones has an uncannily good eye for that kind of thing, and he sighs. At least he refrains from saying anything in front of their captive audience.
Predictably, the captive audience doesn't take it as well.
“What were you doing?” Spock demands. The younger Spock, it occurs to him he should specify. But whatever.
“I had a few questions for Pike,” Jim says smoothly. They misinterpret him somewhat; it's clear in how Spock raises an eyebrow, pissed but not surprised, albeit in Vulcan terms, and Uhura cringes, makes a disgusted noise not to mention trying to set him on fire with her glare, and Chekov whispers something that sounds suspiciously like a worried “But he has already been tortured once today!” to Sulu, who pinches the bridge of his nose.
And it's exactly like Christmas.
He wonders how he must look to them: bright-eyed, flushed, all malicious enthusiasm. He winks, crosses his legs, adds: “Is the course set for Earth, Cornish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”