Fic: Burn (Star Trek XI, R)
Title: Burn
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Christopher Pike/Jim Kirk
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of these characters, nor do I court any profits with this fanwork.
Note: Content some may find to be mirrorverse.
*
When the baffle plate surrounding the warp core ruptures Pike wonders if the Empire has finally decided to put him down, or if it's Kirk.
Over the shrill wail of the red alert his cadets scream and claw at the walls and each other, their skin splitting open in acid greens and bubbling purples, angry burns and welts blooming like strange meaty flowers under the hot press of delta radiation.
Pike thinks with a cold clarity and a distant sort of satisfaction, this hurts less than the agonizers.
*
Pike dreams of a vast sterile room, and the sour smell of rotting flesh. He dreams of Number One standing naked under the harsh white light, of the delicate rose-hued hardness of her nipples and the pale vulnerable expanse of her hairless thighs.
He's locked in a black box, from the neck down.
She says, “One beep for affirmative, two beeps for negative.”
She asks, “Would you like to touch me?”
Pike screams.
*
“Welcome back.”
Pike wakes to the itchy, needling heat of knitting flesh in the cool darkness of sick-bay. His body screams but refuses to move, the weight of his limbs heavier than the weight of Kirk pressed against him.
Kirk drags his cheek across Pike's mouth, the barest hint of stubble catching, briefly, on chapped lips. There's no kiss, just a dry, toothy nuzzle that's almost sweet, and mostly animal. Kirk hums absently against Pike's ear, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around Pike's neck.
“Missed you.” Found you.
Kirk lifts Pike's left hand carefully, peers speculatively at the violet rash of burned skin. The wet slide of Kirk's tongue across the ruined flesh of his knuckles is pure agony. Over the protesting beep of the bio bed and the furious pound of his heart Pike hears Kirk's pleased sigh.
“Never leave again.”
Pike smiles.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Christopher Pike/Jim Kirk
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of these characters, nor do I court any profits with this fanwork.
Note: Content some may find to be mirrorverse.
*
When the baffle plate surrounding the warp core ruptures Pike wonders if the Empire has finally decided to put him down, or if it's Kirk.
Over the shrill wail of the red alert his cadets scream and claw at the walls and each other, their skin splitting open in acid greens and bubbling purples, angry burns and welts blooming like strange meaty flowers under the hot press of delta radiation.
Pike thinks with a cold clarity and a distant sort of satisfaction, this hurts less than the agonizers.
*
Pike dreams of a vast sterile room, and the sour smell of rotting flesh. He dreams of Number One standing naked under the harsh white light, of the delicate rose-hued hardness of her nipples and the pale vulnerable expanse of her hairless thighs.
He's locked in a black box, from the neck down.
She says, “One beep for affirmative, two beeps for negative.”
She asks, “Would you like to touch me?”
Pike screams.
*
“Welcome back.”
Pike wakes to the itchy, needling heat of knitting flesh in the cool darkness of sick-bay. His body screams but refuses to move, the weight of his limbs heavier than the weight of Kirk pressed against him.
Kirk drags his cheek across Pike's mouth, the barest hint of stubble catching, briefly, on chapped lips. There's no kiss, just a dry, toothy nuzzle that's almost sweet, and mostly animal. Kirk hums absently against Pike's ear, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around Pike's neck.
“Missed you.” Found you.
Kirk lifts Pike's left hand carefully, peers speculatively at the violet rash of burned skin. The wet slide of Kirk's tongue across the ruined flesh of his knuckles is pure agony. Over the protesting beep of the bio bed and the furious pound of his heart Pike hears Kirk's pleased sigh.
“Never leave again.”
Pike smiles.