Fic: Sugar and Rosebuds (1/1)
Title: Sugar and Rosebuds
Rating: R
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 500
Summary: They’re not your average couple. For abigail89’s prompt “Kirk/McCoy, roses,’” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Hope it’s to your liking, love :D
Sugar and Rosebuds
They’re not the candy and flowers type of couple; not by a long shot. They don’t hold hands, or sip wine, or cuddle on the sofa with a blanket and a fire in the hearth. No; they bring each other hyposprays and bleeding wounds and hot presses of lips after too-close of calls. They grab pizza or Thai when they’re between exams and shifts and classes, and they toss back whiskey like it’s water when the days get too long, and they sit side-by-side because it’s unspoken, what’s caught between them, but the heat stirs in their veins when they’re close, when their breathing syncs in time. They’re not about sugar and rosebuds.
Not usually.
It’s impulse that has him grabbing the flower, picking in between the thorns and letting it slip through his fingers, tugging at the skin between the knuckles and ripping, tearing, drawing blood. It’s a whim that has him bringing it back to their room. It’s nothing, thoughtless; it’s something that smacks of desire, maybe relief when Bones sees the petal fall when Jim steps past the couch he’s sprawled across. It’s unspoken, what passes over them as Bones bends, plucks the fallen piece of the bud from the floor, holds it delicately, sacred between his fingertips; touches it soft and sweet, like he touches Jim.
It’s nothing short of predictable when their eyes meet, the spectrum caught between them and the scent of roses, the stream of the setting sun.
When Bones presses him into their mattress, Jim lets the sensations fall, trickle down around him like water for the drowning, the damned; when his lover’s mouth traces wet lines up his torso, sucks around his nipples, tongue flicking at the buds, he hisses, draws blood from his lips. When that mouth meets his own, it tastes like earth and life and morning dew, and the salt of sweat and desire that seeps from pores like rain; he finds the tang of his own blood between their lips exciting, arousing, more of a promise than any night spent, shoulder to shoulder, with whispered endearments stuck saccharine, gathered around them like a haze.
He arches up, grinds up against the heat, creates friction between them that draws Bones down, closer onto him. He breathes, and this is the closeness they relish, the proximity that defines what they are, above all else; on the inhale, his chest brushes slow against Bones’, and both their exhales shudder, both their hearts misstep just a bit.
He comes as soon as his lips slide against those teeth, breaking open again where they’d split before, and Jim swallows more of Bones in that moment, that instant, that he ever has in sharing his bottle, in swallowing him down; in that split second, that still point in time, Jim Kirk is Leonard McCoy, and it’s sweeter, softer, more beautiful and imperfect and whole than anything they’ve ever lacked.
The rose wilts in the heat that permeates; they don’t notice.
Rating: R
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 500
Summary: They’re not your average couple. For abigail89’s prompt “Kirk/McCoy, roses,’” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Hope it’s to your liking, love :D
Sugar and Rosebuds
They’re not the candy and flowers type of couple; not by a long shot. They don’t hold hands, or sip wine, or cuddle on the sofa with a blanket and a fire in the hearth. No; they bring each other hyposprays and bleeding wounds and hot presses of lips after too-close of calls. They grab pizza or Thai when they’re between exams and shifts and classes, and they toss back whiskey like it’s water when the days get too long, and they sit side-by-side because it’s unspoken, what’s caught between them, but the heat stirs in their veins when they’re close, when their breathing syncs in time. They’re not about sugar and rosebuds.
Not usually.
It’s impulse that has him grabbing the flower, picking in between the thorns and letting it slip through his fingers, tugging at the skin between the knuckles and ripping, tearing, drawing blood. It’s a whim that has him bringing it back to their room. It’s nothing, thoughtless; it’s something that smacks of desire, maybe relief when Bones sees the petal fall when Jim steps past the couch he’s sprawled across. It’s unspoken, what passes over them as Bones bends, plucks the fallen piece of the bud from the floor, holds it delicately, sacred between his fingertips; touches it soft and sweet, like he touches Jim.
It’s nothing short of predictable when their eyes meet, the spectrum caught between them and the scent of roses, the stream of the setting sun.
When Bones presses him into their mattress, Jim lets the sensations fall, trickle down around him like water for the drowning, the damned; when his lover’s mouth traces wet lines up his torso, sucks around his nipples, tongue flicking at the buds, he hisses, draws blood from his lips. When that mouth meets his own, it tastes like earth and life and morning dew, and the salt of sweat and desire that seeps from pores like rain; he finds the tang of his own blood between their lips exciting, arousing, more of a promise than any night spent, shoulder to shoulder, with whispered endearments stuck saccharine, gathered around them like a haze.
He arches up, grinds up against the heat, creates friction between them that draws Bones down, closer onto him. He breathes, and this is the closeness they relish, the proximity that defines what they are, above all else; on the inhale, his chest brushes slow against Bones’, and both their exhales shudder, both their hearts misstep just a bit.
He comes as soon as his lips slide against those teeth, breaking open again where they’d split before, and Jim swallows more of Bones in that moment, that instant, that he ever has in sharing his bottle, in swallowing him down; in that split second, that still point in time, Jim Kirk is Leonard McCoy, and it’s sweeter, softer, more beautiful and imperfect and whole than anything they’ve ever lacked.
The rose wilts in the heat that permeates; they don’t notice.