fic: The Century Room (Star Trek XI)
The Century Room
Ayel/Pike.
Warnings for non-con.
Hours, decades, alien lights. A language made for keeping secrets. It's a nice thought, anyway.
In a red haze, Christopher Pike is aware of Romulans speaking in Romulan over his head. Which makes sense, he thinks absently. They do that sometimes. And why not? It’s such a lovely, temperamental language, like a great clawed animal creeping underfoot, soft as cinders still flush with the threat of fire; a slope of descending vowels one moment, a hail of thorny consonants sparking and crashing together in the next breath. Pike absorbs it the way he would listen to music that he can’t quite understand, because he can’t. The slug’s secretions have already mucked with his translator, or else it simply can’t handle the intricacies of this particular dialect.
Hot, interrogative lights are trained on his face, have been for hours and hours and all the years of his life as he remembers them now. He peers up and up, right through the very top of his skull it seems, and still he can only see shadows and silhouettes, along with a few blue-sky sprites that have wandered a long, long way from home.
“But we’re being rude,” Nero says suddenly. He knows Nero’s voice very well; even bent around Romulan syllables, it’s easily distinguished from most others. Moving close enough to block some of the glare, he looks down at Pike for a while, touches the corner of his mouth with a finger. “Please, forgive. You’re so quiet, I keep forgetting you’re here at all.”
Pike just looks back at him, enjoying the opportunity to focus his eyes on something that doesn’t burn a path back into his brain matter.
Nero smiles a bit. “Well. I’m leaving.”
That’s something he hasn’t done before, gone away. The thought that he might actually be left alone terrifies Pike. He isn’t sure why. He isn’t able to control the terror either, so some of it surfaces in his expression, where Nero is free to read it.
“No, no, don’t worry. You’ll have company.”
He pushes away from the block and light leaps out from behind him like a plasma bolt. Tears prickle in Pike’s sinuses. He blinks them off the slip of his eyes, strains and manages to see Nero palm the other Romulan’s cheek briefly and then ease into the unknowable vaults where little disembodied sounds spin and chuckle, where the light does not even try to go. Pike concentrates on the blisters raising against his restraints, the grinding pain in his soft tissue as it is cut and chewed and savoured like steak; he thinks of spider bait and mandibles. Regulates his breathing.
And his company comes closer, curious; squints up at the triad lights and swats at a control that finally - mercifully - shuts them off. After his vision has adjusted, Pike finds himself matching gazes with a very lean man, one he has seen several times before, waiting at Nero’s elbow, always bending toward him minutely, watching his mouth. He has a cruel, elegant face, this one; a viper’s face, scaled in elaborate tattoos.
“Ayel,” Pike says to him, precisely as he’s heard Nero pronounce it. Same cadence, a dollop of breath and voice spoken liquid. For all he knows, it could just be some common word; but - by the way it was handed out, the way it drew a consistent reaction - this seems unlikely.
The Romulan responds, almost imperceptibly, before he can stop himself. Tilts his head; answers to his name. That’s all Pike really wanted. He doesn’t smile, but probably does look smug.
“You’re very clever,” Ayel says softly. “Aren’t you.”
They spend a few more moments staring at each other. At length, Ayel’s eyes begin to track away, inching over Pike’s body, a near-tangible weight; but he remains expressionless. Even when he puts his thumb in Pike’s mouth, feels around a bit and then withdraws, rubbing the moisture thoughtfully against his fingers, his viper’s face shows nothing. He is a blank scroll of secret intentions, wholly unnerving. Pike starts to say something just to keep him talking, but at the same time Ayel suddenly puts a hand on the block and jumps up onto it, straddles his shoulders, grabs a fistful of his hair. Quick as a snake too. He splits open the shell of his clothing and stuffs his cock down Pike’s throat in a glut of burning flesh and pubic hair and the sweet, rank stench of arousal.
There is no room to recoil. No point in screaming; he’d probably like it, in fact. For an instant, Pike does consider biting him in pursuit of the vague hope that it would make him angry enough to snap his neck, kill him quickly. That would take better luck than he’d ever enjoyed, though. Get a forcibly dislocated jaw to go with his face-fuck. Just more pain. Always more, with the tendons in his jaw stretching and his head cracking back against the steel plate and Ayel just ecstatic about all of it, gripping the lip of the block with his free hand for balance while he snapped his hips down over and over again, his strength and his frenzy completely inhuman.
The first spurt of ejaculate is such a relief that it actually tastes good. Already choking violently, Pike lets himself laugh; let him have fun trying to interpret what it means. Ayel comes with a strangely vulnerable little cry, squeezing in tight, his testicles flexing heavy and hot on Pike’s chin. The rush of his orgasm is long, feels endless, burns tongue and throat and thin human skin and if Pike doesn’t vomit, it’ll be a miracle.
He doesn’t. It’s a miracle.
Ayel draws out of his mouth slowly, sighing. He takes himself in his hand and pulls a few times, coaxes another two drops of spunk out onto Pike’s face. When he finally hops back over to the side, Pike turns his head and spits as much as he can into the dark water. The disgust and the rage and the thrashing, cold humiliation, that he keeps to himself, though he banishes it from every outward aspect of his body; his voice, his eyes, his face. He doesn’t even let himself clutch his hands into fists. Bury the anger until there’s a use for it. Ayel doesn’t have to know that this kind of torture has been the most degrading of all.
He seems able to guess at it anyway. He circles Pike once, looking him over again with a warm shadow of satisfaction slanting across his eyes. Studies the fluids crusting on his face but doesn’t wipe them away.
Finally he stops and says: “What do you think the captain told me to do to you?”
The answer seems self-evident, which tells Pike that this is a trick question. He stays silent and focuses on trying not to swallow.
“Yes,” Ayel says. “He didn’t tell me to do anything. He said: do what you like. And what I just did, I liked that.” Smiling a bit, he suddenly looks away. “I don’t hate you. I know you won’t believe that, or won’t care; but I don’t. None of us do. It’s a difficult position to be in, hard to understand. I’m not asking you to forgive us. You have no idea,” and he bristles abruptly, fiercely defensive, “no idea. Hate, though; you don’t deserve that. I thought you should know.”
He glances back, perhaps a little bemused with himself, and waits for a response.
“Is that it, then?” Pike croaks; the sound of his own voice appalls him.
“I can’t safely risk releasing the restraints on your legs. Not while you still have some mobility in them. So unless you want to suck me off again, yes. That’s it.” Ayel turns and flicks the white overhead lights back on, wide as startled, staring eyes. “Nero seems to like you, so I think you’ll be around for a while. We have time.”
He is walking away as he says it, and Pike can imagine just how much time they keep locked up in the guts of their black boneyard ship. Not enough for their own sake. Far too much for his.
Ayel/Pike.
Warnings for non-con.
Hours, decades, alien lights. A language made for keeping secrets. It's a nice thought, anyway.
In a red haze, Christopher Pike is aware of Romulans speaking in Romulan over his head. Which makes sense, he thinks absently. They do that sometimes. And why not? It’s such a lovely, temperamental language, like a great clawed animal creeping underfoot, soft as cinders still flush with the threat of fire; a slope of descending vowels one moment, a hail of thorny consonants sparking and crashing together in the next breath. Pike absorbs it the way he would listen to music that he can’t quite understand, because he can’t. The slug’s secretions have already mucked with his translator, or else it simply can’t handle the intricacies of this particular dialect.
Hot, interrogative lights are trained on his face, have been for hours and hours and all the years of his life as he remembers them now. He peers up and up, right through the very top of his skull it seems, and still he can only see shadows and silhouettes, along with a few blue-sky sprites that have wandered a long, long way from home.
“But we’re being rude,” Nero says suddenly. He knows Nero’s voice very well; even bent around Romulan syllables, it’s easily distinguished from most others. Moving close enough to block some of the glare, he looks down at Pike for a while, touches the corner of his mouth with a finger. “Please, forgive. You’re so quiet, I keep forgetting you’re here at all.”
Pike just looks back at him, enjoying the opportunity to focus his eyes on something that doesn’t burn a path back into his brain matter.
Nero smiles a bit. “Well. I’m leaving.”
That’s something he hasn’t done before, gone away. The thought that he might actually be left alone terrifies Pike. He isn’t sure why. He isn’t able to control the terror either, so some of it surfaces in his expression, where Nero is free to read it.
“No, no, don’t worry. You’ll have company.”
He pushes away from the block and light leaps out from behind him like a plasma bolt. Tears prickle in Pike’s sinuses. He blinks them off the slip of his eyes, strains and manages to see Nero palm the other Romulan’s cheek briefly and then ease into the unknowable vaults where little disembodied sounds spin and chuckle, where the light does not even try to go. Pike concentrates on the blisters raising against his restraints, the grinding pain in his soft tissue as it is cut and chewed and savoured like steak; he thinks of spider bait and mandibles. Regulates his breathing.
And his company comes closer, curious; squints up at the triad lights and swats at a control that finally - mercifully - shuts them off. After his vision has adjusted, Pike finds himself matching gazes with a very lean man, one he has seen several times before, waiting at Nero’s elbow, always bending toward him minutely, watching his mouth. He has a cruel, elegant face, this one; a viper’s face, scaled in elaborate tattoos.
“Ayel,” Pike says to him, precisely as he’s heard Nero pronounce it. Same cadence, a dollop of breath and voice spoken liquid. For all he knows, it could just be some common word; but - by the way it was handed out, the way it drew a consistent reaction - this seems unlikely.
The Romulan responds, almost imperceptibly, before he can stop himself. Tilts his head; answers to his name. That’s all Pike really wanted. He doesn’t smile, but probably does look smug.
“You’re very clever,” Ayel says softly. “Aren’t you.”
They spend a few more moments staring at each other. At length, Ayel’s eyes begin to track away, inching over Pike’s body, a near-tangible weight; but he remains expressionless. Even when he puts his thumb in Pike’s mouth, feels around a bit and then withdraws, rubbing the moisture thoughtfully against his fingers, his viper’s face shows nothing. He is a blank scroll of secret intentions, wholly unnerving. Pike starts to say something just to keep him talking, but at the same time Ayel suddenly puts a hand on the block and jumps up onto it, straddles his shoulders, grabs a fistful of his hair. Quick as a snake too. He splits open the shell of his clothing and stuffs his cock down Pike’s throat in a glut of burning flesh and pubic hair and the sweet, rank stench of arousal.
There is no room to recoil. No point in screaming; he’d probably like it, in fact. For an instant, Pike does consider biting him in pursuit of the vague hope that it would make him angry enough to snap his neck, kill him quickly. That would take better luck than he’d ever enjoyed, though. Get a forcibly dislocated jaw to go with his face-fuck. Just more pain. Always more, with the tendons in his jaw stretching and his head cracking back against the steel plate and Ayel just ecstatic about all of it, gripping the lip of the block with his free hand for balance while he snapped his hips down over and over again, his strength and his frenzy completely inhuman.
The first spurt of ejaculate is such a relief that it actually tastes good. Already choking violently, Pike lets himself laugh; let him have fun trying to interpret what it means. Ayel comes with a strangely vulnerable little cry, squeezing in tight, his testicles flexing heavy and hot on Pike’s chin. The rush of his orgasm is long, feels endless, burns tongue and throat and thin human skin and if Pike doesn’t vomit, it’ll be a miracle.
He doesn’t. It’s a miracle.
Ayel draws out of his mouth slowly, sighing. He takes himself in his hand and pulls a few times, coaxes another two drops of spunk out onto Pike’s face. When he finally hops back over to the side, Pike turns his head and spits as much as he can into the dark water. The disgust and the rage and the thrashing, cold humiliation, that he keeps to himself, though he banishes it from every outward aspect of his body; his voice, his eyes, his face. He doesn’t even let himself clutch his hands into fists. Bury the anger until there’s a use for it. Ayel doesn’t have to know that this kind of torture has been the most degrading of all.
He seems able to guess at it anyway. He circles Pike once, looking him over again with a warm shadow of satisfaction slanting across his eyes. Studies the fluids crusting on his face but doesn’t wipe them away.
Finally he stops and says: “What do you think the captain told me to do to you?”
The answer seems self-evident, which tells Pike that this is a trick question. He stays silent and focuses on trying not to swallow.
“Yes,” Ayel says. “He didn’t tell me to do anything. He said: do what you like. And what I just did, I liked that.” Smiling a bit, he suddenly looks away. “I don’t hate you. I know you won’t believe that, or won’t care; but I don’t. None of us do. It’s a difficult position to be in, hard to understand. I’m not asking you to forgive us. You have no idea,” and he bristles abruptly, fiercely defensive, “no idea. Hate, though; you don’t deserve that. I thought you should know.”
He glances back, perhaps a little bemused with himself, and waits for a response.
“Is that it, then?” Pike croaks; the sound of his own voice appalls him.
“I can’t safely risk releasing the restraints on your legs. Not while you still have some mobility in them. So unless you want to suck me off again, yes. That’s it.” Ayel turns and flicks the white overhead lights back on, wide as startled, staring eyes. “Nero seems to like you, so I think you’ll be around for a while. We have time.”
He is walking away as he says it, and Pike can imagine just how much time they keep locked up in the guts of their black boneyard ship. Not enough for their own sake. Far too much for his.