Fic: Spun Silk (1/1)
Title: Spun Silk
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 2,503
Summary: He sees red, and it thrills him, trills in his pulse like the death of a star, the birth of infinity as he lies in wait, desperate for a touch. Warnings for light, consensual bondage and rimming. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For the lovely emiliglia on her birthday, because she wanted some “Kirk/McCoy, someone tied up and blindfolded with red silk,”, and, well, it’s her birthday, so I attempted to oblige. My porn-muse is a bit rusty (read: a LOT rusty), but I hope this is to your liking, nonetheless :D
Spun Silk
He sees red, and it thrills him, trills in his pulse like the death of a star, the birth of infinity; rushes through his veins like fire until he’s panting, gasping; until time stops and the world blazes around him as he lies in wait, desperate for a touch.
He can feel his heart like a metronome, speeding yet steady, trapped at his wrists beneath the binds: ruby silk twined perpendicular to the run of his veins, and he tests them out of habit -- it’d be almost amusing, how goddamn skilled his captor is at keeping him in place, if it wasn’t so fucking hot; if he could even process irony underneath the haze of sheer want.
He stiffens, the whole of him electrified as a hollowed-palm takes his hardening length in hand, holds him steady as he starts to swell at the touch. The slow, sinuous drag of a cool strip of fabric, sheer and straight-lined, so clinical and unmoved as the flesh of him begins to twitch; such a contrast to the dance of fingers, anything but subtle, anything but stoic -- honed by their trade and yet so invested, so intimate -- reverent and sure as they slide the ribbon to his base, let it drag slow along his balls. And Jim about comes apart at the seams, what with the way those knuckles brush against the stretch of his thighs, his reaching cock, thumb dragging against the underside, a tease, as he threads the silk around him, laces it with a delicacy, a sense of finality at odds with the weight of his breath -- the promise of things to come. He clenches -- hard -- as the knot digs, disciplines the sensitive flesh, constricts the already-rushing blood beneath the surface as it tightens, tempering the fever pushing through Jim’s veins with a calm, a serenity, a purpose above mere need; something deeper, something satisfying at its very core.
He aches, in that moment, to reach out as he feels, senses Bones above him, the gravity of him undeniable; aches to see the way those lips shine ruby, those cheeks flush deep as he leans in, whispers in Jim’s ear, silky as his restraints:
Are you ready, babe?
Jim sighs, pleading; Fuck yeah.
The warmth of that body -- molten and searing; pure, pulsing life looming over him like the Rapture, come from above -- radiates through Jim, and as those lungs expand, and that chest knocks against his own, the flutter of breath lingering, pushing the beads of sweat already trailing over his skin; as Bones breathes in, Jim dies a little, clenches his muscles, his eyes -- holds steady in wait.
When Bones breathes out, there is no waiting; there is no steady -- and what lies beyond death is suddenly, brilliantly, a nameless, perfect thing.
When Bones breathes out, Jim’s only recourse is absolute, unthinking surrender.
Before he can gather himself, steel himself against the sensation -- the assault -- that mouth is on him, teasing, fiendish, wanton against the jut of his collarbone, the line of sternum: hot lips, fire and brimstone and the soft brush of transcendent bliss, tracing the lines of him, the lines that cover lines, that build up and extend into realms vaster, greater than he knows, greater than he is. A shudder wracks him, catches hard, harrowing between his ribs, stops his heart with a gasp, and he knows the sweetest breath he’s ever drawn between the beating and the still.
The lilting touch of fingers matches the swirl of the tongue on him to the counterpoint, playing in the dips of his spine as Bones licks around his navel, stroking long against his perineum, massaging at his ass as Bones presses gentle, fleeting kisses to either side of his straining erection, the wetness of his lips catching at the ribbon-ends and tugging the knot just that bit tighter, that incredible, unbearable bit more taut, and he groans, deep in his throat as Bones breaths soft against the line of his saliva painted across Jim’s inner thigh, the exhalation rushing cool and lethal, almost cruel against the drop of precum already beaded at his slit. And he shivers even as he flinches, cries out raw from the dregs, because it’s the most painful kind of pleasure, an ecstasy the likes of which he’s only ever heard of, only ever dreamed. Without his eyes, everything is intensified, brand new; everything that had been steeped in sensuality between them before now transcends into a kind of lascivious cascade of everything and anything, all at one; intimacy between now a moot point, for their lines have bled beyond reckoning: nothing exists between what is not separate, what no longer knows definition; everything exists within.
He presses the heels of his palms hard into the surface below him, bites his lower lip as he lets Bones push his legs out at the knees, fights the urge to whimper when he feels the quick tease of Bones’ hair against the pulsing vein that lines his cock; knows what that means, knows what’s to come.
He knows to anticipate the wet trailing of the insides of lips, the delicious smack of flesh on flesh, moist and warm and charged with something deep, something burning; he doesn’t expect the push of fingers at his hole, sliding in to the nailbeds and stretching sweet and slow until Jim knows, can feel himself murmuring words that make no sense, unintelligible except at a plane above speech -- can feel the strain of his vocal cords even if he can’t hear the results, the consequences; even if all he can hear is the hammering of his heart and the slow draw of breath from the man who’s driving that heart to its limits, fueling it to the brink.
The dry tips of fingers are replaced by the warmer, wetter tip of a tongue, and this time he can’t stop it, can’t hold it back; Jesus, he writhes, and it’s hardly a prayer, an entreaty; it’s nothing in the face of the slow, careful lap of that tongue against his entrance, breaching him with quick, steady strokes, calm and languid like the waves and yet nothing of the sort; swift and thrilling and too fast, gone too soon.
He’s panting, can barely catch his breath; the gentle massage of plump lips and the teasing scrap of teeth just outside drives him to madness, to mania; he clamps down around Bones, swears he can almost feel the taste buds on that tongue pressed hard against him, and the pressure holds, lets Bones’ heartbeat throb wet, slight against the eased ring of muscle for a moment, then another; the strange sensation of the bridge of Bones’ nose fitting against line of his cleft and the heavy swirl of his breath there like downfalls and endings and the beginnings that are more significant, more terrifying than either one. His own pulse surges, strains in his cock, and he can feel the tension of the silk wrapped around him, snug and secure, too firm, too tight, and he groans as he relishes he pressure, the way the blood pools lower, farther, thicker below the tie, stretching him farther, merciless, pushing him toward breaking in more ways than one, watching for the cracks in him, the signs of shattering.
Bones pulls away, straightens, and a protest leaves Jim’s lips half-formed, halfhearted, just as Bones shifts against him, positions himself at Jim’s opening and waits, lets his cock tease at the hole for the most agonizing of instants before slipping into him without prelude; and of all the things Jim cannot now see with his eyes, he knows this sight like the back of his hand; the heart of him, seared against his eyelids -- that dropped jaw, slack and sloppy, the saliva on that tongue shining with the sweat trailing down that neck; the pulse in Bones’ throat heavy where Jim would reach out to stroke it slow, always reaches out -- he can feel its cadence, phantom wings against his fingertips as he digs his hands into the mattress beneath him, gains purchase in the sheets and pulls, clenches his fists and pictures the ecstasy, the empty beauty in that face so full of meaning as Bones fills Jim up to the very brim; he tries to make out shadows, silhouettes through the silk around his eyes, just a point of reference, a frame of placement: a hint of the man who matches the feeling that takes him over, eats him alive.
He knows it, that precious sight, and still he mourns the fact that this time -- this time -- he misses it.
Yet the regret evaporates before it can settle, before it can spread, because Bones knows him just as well, just as close and unfailing; hits home on the fist stroke, and Jim, he moans -- moans until it shudders, rattles in his core, reverberates with the splay and give of the universe as it spread in the beginning, took form against the dark -- moans until he can feel the sound of it squeeze around Bones’ burning, aching length, buried in him to the hilt, sac pressed firm against his ass as Bones trusts, falters. And Jim can feel it in the pit of his gut, the impossible swell of his need as he strains farther, feels the sting of frantic, requisite release begin to water behind his eyes as he blinks into the monochrome -- the strip of red that crushes against his lashes, that is everything and nothing that his world can contain: he feels the heat, the pressure in his chest, his blood, between his legs, and he can feel the knot around his erection -- he’s hot, rock-hard against his skin as Bones grinds down, and Jim knows that to see it himself would be no different than the blood-stained view he knows behind the blindfold; straining and scarlet, he’s desperate, keening; his heart caught in the aching swell of his cock, pulsing wild and overwrought: fit to burst, then and there, if pushed to the limit, if tested too far.
He can tell that his lover’s close, knows the change in his rhythm and the roughness of the pull, the press, the friction between them as they move, the set of Bones’ shoulders as he rocks into Jim and Jim arches, gives in to that fullness; the grasp at Jim’s hip as it shifts from firm to bruising without warning, crushing capillaries, tells him all he needs to know. He awaits the rush, the wash of warmth, and barely remembers that he exists outside of this, that any part of him knows something other than Bones, in him and everywhere he could ever hope to be; he almost forgets how to be, on his own, for just a brief, terrifying moment, before Bones pauses, slides a sweaty hand across Jim’s abs and reaches down. He’s careful not to touch the burning strain of his shaft, willing, at least, to grant that small mercy, that little torment; but when he tugs at the loose ends of the knot reigning him, holding him back -- as he pulls apart the tangles and sets him free -- something splits at Jim’s center; the world starts to splinter, starts to break and tear in two.
Come for me, darlin’, Bones whispers, diaphanous, the skim of satin over the open pores of his skin, sinking into him and claiming him as Bones lets the silk at the root of him flutter free, and there’s no need for a touch, no need for words or breath or conscious thought before Bones drives into him, one last time; before he spills, shooting his seed with a choked, ragged cry that comes from places unknown within himself, depths previously untapped.
He only just catches the flood of satisfying heat as Bones crests and falls; it’s the last thing he knows for sure as the world retreats around him, as everything ends, disappears, as the deafening roar of his hammering heart becomes all that is and ever was -- as that, too fades away.
He regains his self as Bones pulls out, hisses through clenched teeth as Bones falls against him, finally, his spent and cum-slick cock pressed warm and soft against Jim’s stomach, sticking to the delicate hairs leading up from his groin. A hand steadies against the outer curve of his right nipple, fingers falling, lost against his ribs as that palm, sure and strong against the aftershocks of his violent, racing heart, bruising, on the brink of infinity, holds him prisoner, keeps him safe beneath that careful, callused touch; he loses a piece of himself in the feel of that hold, the point of contact pulsating like a beacon, a touchstone echoed like an earthquake in the tension at his wrists, the pads of his fingers: the dance of the dying, his whole self thrumming exultantly without regard for after. He sighs, long and full as Bones reaches and unties the bows at his wrists, brings each one to his lips and kisses at the pulse points, heals the lingering indentations from their time in captivity before settling them flat against the rumpled sheets, massaging gentle and slow up Jim’s forearms, thumbs caressing at the insides of his elbows circling at his biceps, bracing him at the shoulders before undoing his last restraint, before granting him the gift of sight once more. He relishes the last moments of darkness as Bones’ touch lulls him, thrills him even now: even as his chest still heaves, his lungs still burn.
There is silence for a moment, enough to hear the soft slide of silk on silk as the knot gives way, and Jim’s hand snakes up without warning, laces swift and sure behind Bones’ neck and draws him down, eye to eye with him in the instant the silk drops to the sheets and everything that was once red fades slow: maroons into ambers, to the hazel he loves best, and before they can breathe he swallows that waiting mouth, wet and warm and red like the coming dawn; sucks a tongue like silk in between his lips and lets their limbs fall tangled to the fray.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 2,503
Summary: He sees red, and it thrills him, trills in his pulse like the death of a star, the birth of infinity as he lies in wait, desperate for a touch. Warnings for light, consensual bondage and rimming. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For the lovely emiliglia on her birthday, because she wanted some “Kirk/McCoy, someone tied up and blindfolded with red silk,”, and, well, it’s her birthday, so I attempted to oblige. My porn-muse is a bit rusty (read: a LOT rusty), but I hope this is to your liking, nonetheless :D
Spun Silk
He sees red, and it thrills him, trills in his pulse like the death of a star, the birth of infinity; rushes through his veins like fire until he’s panting, gasping; until time stops and the world blazes around him as he lies in wait, desperate for a touch.
He can feel his heart like a metronome, speeding yet steady, trapped at his wrists beneath the binds: ruby silk twined perpendicular to the run of his veins, and he tests them out of habit -- it’d be almost amusing, how goddamn skilled his captor is at keeping him in place, if it wasn’t so fucking hot; if he could even process irony underneath the haze of sheer want.
He stiffens, the whole of him electrified as a hollowed-palm takes his hardening length in hand, holds him steady as he starts to swell at the touch. The slow, sinuous drag of a cool strip of fabric, sheer and straight-lined, so clinical and unmoved as the flesh of him begins to twitch; such a contrast to the dance of fingers, anything but subtle, anything but stoic -- honed by their trade and yet so invested, so intimate -- reverent and sure as they slide the ribbon to his base, let it drag slow along his balls. And Jim about comes apart at the seams, what with the way those knuckles brush against the stretch of his thighs, his reaching cock, thumb dragging against the underside, a tease, as he threads the silk around him, laces it with a delicacy, a sense of finality at odds with the weight of his breath -- the promise of things to come. He clenches -- hard -- as the knot digs, disciplines the sensitive flesh, constricts the already-rushing blood beneath the surface as it tightens, tempering the fever pushing through Jim’s veins with a calm, a serenity, a purpose above mere need; something deeper, something satisfying at its very core.
He aches, in that moment, to reach out as he feels, senses Bones above him, the gravity of him undeniable; aches to see the way those lips shine ruby, those cheeks flush deep as he leans in, whispers in Jim’s ear, silky as his restraints:
Are you ready, babe?
Jim sighs, pleading; Fuck yeah.
The warmth of that body -- molten and searing; pure, pulsing life looming over him like the Rapture, come from above -- radiates through Jim, and as those lungs expand, and that chest knocks against his own, the flutter of breath lingering, pushing the beads of sweat already trailing over his skin; as Bones breathes in, Jim dies a little, clenches his muscles, his eyes -- holds steady in wait.
When Bones breathes out, there is no waiting; there is no steady -- and what lies beyond death is suddenly, brilliantly, a nameless, perfect thing.
When Bones breathes out, Jim’s only recourse is absolute, unthinking surrender.
Before he can gather himself, steel himself against the sensation -- the assault -- that mouth is on him, teasing, fiendish, wanton against the jut of his collarbone, the line of sternum: hot lips, fire and brimstone and the soft brush of transcendent bliss, tracing the lines of him, the lines that cover lines, that build up and extend into realms vaster, greater than he knows, greater than he is. A shudder wracks him, catches hard, harrowing between his ribs, stops his heart with a gasp, and he knows the sweetest breath he’s ever drawn between the beating and the still.
The lilting touch of fingers matches the swirl of the tongue on him to the counterpoint, playing in the dips of his spine as Bones licks around his navel, stroking long against his perineum, massaging at his ass as Bones presses gentle, fleeting kisses to either side of his straining erection, the wetness of his lips catching at the ribbon-ends and tugging the knot just that bit tighter, that incredible, unbearable bit more taut, and he groans, deep in his throat as Bones breaths soft against the line of his saliva painted across Jim’s inner thigh, the exhalation rushing cool and lethal, almost cruel against the drop of precum already beaded at his slit. And he shivers even as he flinches, cries out raw from the dregs, because it’s the most painful kind of pleasure, an ecstasy the likes of which he’s only ever heard of, only ever dreamed. Without his eyes, everything is intensified, brand new; everything that had been steeped in sensuality between them before now transcends into a kind of lascivious cascade of everything and anything, all at one; intimacy between now a moot point, for their lines have bled beyond reckoning: nothing exists between what is not separate, what no longer knows definition; everything exists within.
He presses the heels of his palms hard into the surface below him, bites his lower lip as he lets Bones push his legs out at the knees, fights the urge to whimper when he feels the quick tease of Bones’ hair against the pulsing vein that lines his cock; knows what that means, knows what’s to come.
He knows to anticipate the wet trailing of the insides of lips, the delicious smack of flesh on flesh, moist and warm and charged with something deep, something burning; he doesn’t expect the push of fingers at his hole, sliding in to the nailbeds and stretching sweet and slow until Jim knows, can feel himself murmuring words that make no sense, unintelligible except at a plane above speech -- can feel the strain of his vocal cords even if he can’t hear the results, the consequences; even if all he can hear is the hammering of his heart and the slow draw of breath from the man who’s driving that heart to its limits, fueling it to the brink.
The dry tips of fingers are replaced by the warmer, wetter tip of a tongue, and this time he can’t stop it, can’t hold it back; Jesus, he writhes, and it’s hardly a prayer, an entreaty; it’s nothing in the face of the slow, careful lap of that tongue against his entrance, breaching him with quick, steady strokes, calm and languid like the waves and yet nothing of the sort; swift and thrilling and too fast, gone too soon.
He’s panting, can barely catch his breath; the gentle massage of plump lips and the teasing scrap of teeth just outside drives him to madness, to mania; he clamps down around Bones, swears he can almost feel the taste buds on that tongue pressed hard against him, and the pressure holds, lets Bones’ heartbeat throb wet, slight against the eased ring of muscle for a moment, then another; the strange sensation of the bridge of Bones’ nose fitting against line of his cleft and the heavy swirl of his breath there like downfalls and endings and the beginnings that are more significant, more terrifying than either one. His own pulse surges, strains in his cock, and he can feel the tension of the silk wrapped around him, snug and secure, too firm, too tight, and he groans as he relishes he pressure, the way the blood pools lower, farther, thicker below the tie, stretching him farther, merciless, pushing him toward breaking in more ways than one, watching for the cracks in him, the signs of shattering.
Bones pulls away, straightens, and a protest leaves Jim’s lips half-formed, halfhearted, just as Bones shifts against him, positions himself at Jim’s opening and waits, lets his cock tease at the hole for the most agonizing of instants before slipping into him without prelude; and of all the things Jim cannot now see with his eyes, he knows this sight like the back of his hand; the heart of him, seared against his eyelids -- that dropped jaw, slack and sloppy, the saliva on that tongue shining with the sweat trailing down that neck; the pulse in Bones’ throat heavy where Jim would reach out to stroke it slow, always reaches out -- he can feel its cadence, phantom wings against his fingertips as he digs his hands into the mattress beneath him, gains purchase in the sheets and pulls, clenches his fists and pictures the ecstasy, the empty beauty in that face so full of meaning as Bones fills Jim up to the very brim; he tries to make out shadows, silhouettes through the silk around his eyes, just a point of reference, a frame of placement: a hint of the man who matches the feeling that takes him over, eats him alive.
He knows it, that precious sight, and still he mourns the fact that this time -- this time -- he misses it.
Yet the regret evaporates before it can settle, before it can spread, because Bones knows him just as well, just as close and unfailing; hits home on the fist stroke, and Jim, he moans -- moans until it shudders, rattles in his core, reverberates with the splay and give of the universe as it spread in the beginning, took form against the dark -- moans until he can feel the sound of it squeeze around Bones’ burning, aching length, buried in him to the hilt, sac pressed firm against his ass as Bones trusts, falters. And Jim can feel it in the pit of his gut, the impossible swell of his need as he strains farther, feels the sting of frantic, requisite release begin to water behind his eyes as he blinks into the monochrome -- the strip of red that crushes against his lashes, that is everything and nothing that his world can contain: he feels the heat, the pressure in his chest, his blood, between his legs, and he can feel the knot around his erection -- he’s hot, rock-hard against his skin as Bones grinds down, and Jim knows that to see it himself would be no different than the blood-stained view he knows behind the blindfold; straining and scarlet, he’s desperate, keening; his heart caught in the aching swell of his cock, pulsing wild and overwrought: fit to burst, then and there, if pushed to the limit, if tested too far.
He can tell that his lover’s close, knows the change in his rhythm and the roughness of the pull, the press, the friction between them as they move, the set of Bones’ shoulders as he rocks into Jim and Jim arches, gives in to that fullness; the grasp at Jim’s hip as it shifts from firm to bruising without warning, crushing capillaries, tells him all he needs to know. He awaits the rush, the wash of warmth, and barely remembers that he exists outside of this, that any part of him knows something other than Bones, in him and everywhere he could ever hope to be; he almost forgets how to be, on his own, for just a brief, terrifying moment, before Bones pauses, slides a sweaty hand across Jim’s abs and reaches down. He’s careful not to touch the burning strain of his shaft, willing, at least, to grant that small mercy, that little torment; but when he tugs at the loose ends of the knot reigning him, holding him back -- as he pulls apart the tangles and sets him free -- something splits at Jim’s center; the world starts to splinter, starts to break and tear in two.
Come for me, darlin’, Bones whispers, diaphanous, the skim of satin over the open pores of his skin, sinking into him and claiming him as Bones lets the silk at the root of him flutter free, and there’s no need for a touch, no need for words or breath or conscious thought before Bones drives into him, one last time; before he spills, shooting his seed with a choked, ragged cry that comes from places unknown within himself, depths previously untapped.
He only just catches the flood of satisfying heat as Bones crests and falls; it’s the last thing he knows for sure as the world retreats around him, as everything ends, disappears, as the deafening roar of his hammering heart becomes all that is and ever was -- as that, too fades away.
He regains his self as Bones pulls out, hisses through clenched teeth as Bones falls against him, finally, his spent and cum-slick cock pressed warm and soft against Jim’s stomach, sticking to the delicate hairs leading up from his groin. A hand steadies against the outer curve of his right nipple, fingers falling, lost against his ribs as that palm, sure and strong against the aftershocks of his violent, racing heart, bruising, on the brink of infinity, holds him prisoner, keeps him safe beneath that careful, callused touch; he loses a piece of himself in the feel of that hold, the point of contact pulsating like a beacon, a touchstone echoed like an earthquake in the tension at his wrists, the pads of his fingers: the dance of the dying, his whole self thrumming exultantly without regard for after. He sighs, long and full as Bones reaches and unties the bows at his wrists, brings each one to his lips and kisses at the pulse points, heals the lingering indentations from their time in captivity before settling them flat against the rumpled sheets, massaging gentle and slow up Jim’s forearms, thumbs caressing at the insides of his elbows circling at his biceps, bracing him at the shoulders before undoing his last restraint, before granting him the gift of sight once more. He relishes the last moments of darkness as Bones’ touch lulls him, thrills him even now: even as his chest still heaves, his lungs still burn.
There is silence for a moment, enough to hear the soft slide of silk on silk as the knot gives way, and Jim’s hand snakes up without warning, laces swift and sure behind Bones’ neck and draws him down, eye to eye with him in the instant the silk drops to the sheets and everything that was once red fades slow: maroons into ambers, to the hazel he loves best, and before they can breathe he swallows that waiting mouth, wet and warm and red like the coming dawn; sucks a tongue like silk in between his lips and lets their limbs fall tangled to the fray.