Didn't Know She Had A GI-Joe Kung-Fu Grip
What's this? I wrote something? My first finished fic since... August. Yikes XD
It's pretty much pure porny filth. You're welcome!
Title: The Chair
Author: nix_this
Beta: The always amazing janice_lester
Universe/Series: STR
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Established
Word count: 995
Genre: PWP
Tropes: Chairsex
Warnings: Jim has a filthy mouth. And mind. Can I just warn for Jim POV?
Summary: Written for a kink_meme prompt: Everyone assumes Kirk's biggest fantasy is sex in the captain's chair. Everyone is wrong.
Oh, the Chair. The Chair.
Kirk could tell all sorts of stories about the Chair. How it creaks when he shifts his legs just so (spreads them wider, holds himself open, "Now, Spock. Fuck me now"). The way the poly foam molds to his ass when he's stuffed full and leaking, leaving evidence for him to sink into the next Alpha shift before it fully regains its shape even though the stains have long since been wiped clean with the hem of Spock's tunic ("Fucking love getting you filthy, baby, wanna see myself all over you."). How the titanium frame can press deep red indents between his knuckles when he's shielding the back of Spock's head with his clenching fists while he grinds their dicks together. He slams up, then down, in a desperate shimmy that would loose a lesser Chair from its mounting. Sometimes it's Spock's grip on his hips leaving bruises, sometimes the smudged marks are from the arms of the Chair when caution is nothing compared to the fight for more skin, more heat, more friction. But it's his hands that are always achy and sore after, until Spock cradles them between his own, mouth still panting and cheeks flushed green. He licks them tenderly, his dark eyes almost black with want even after he's spilled his load all over Jim's stomach, and the pain will vanish like it never was.
Yeah, he loves the Chair. It's easily his favourite Captain's perk (other than, you know, the Enterprise in general. And the way Spock can still call him "Sir" with perfect dignity when he's pushing his own come back into Jim's hole and positioning him for a second round. No, wait. THAT'S his favourite Captain's perk. But the Chair is still pretty fucking awesome.). He could write odes to the fucking Chair. And to fucking in the Chair. And to the floor beside the Chair on that one memorable occasion when he and Spock hadn't quite made it that far across the bridge.
He can see how people might think the Chair was Jim Kirk's number one, bulletproof kink. The sure thing. He understands. Really.
They'd be wrong though. And blind.
Especially if they've ever been witness to the little line Spock gets between his perfectly arched brows when he's focused, really focused, on a problem at his Science station. Or, the way his tongue will peek out from between his obscenely pink lips and leave a tiny, taunting trail of wet right in the bow of his bottom lip, exactly where Jim most likes to bite, when he's lost in thought. Spock gets so damned intense when he's working, whether it's on calculating a warp field, or testing a hypothesis, or determining the exact level of power he needs to exert in his thrusts to make Jim fall apart around him. Entire shift rotations pass with him sitting in the Chair, so fucking hard it hurts, just from watching Spock bent over his console and rattling off sensor readings in that calm, measured voice. Jim swears if he crossed his legs, the scratch of fabric over his straining cock and pressure of his thighs would be enough to make him come in his pants like a horny teenager - right in the middle of the bridge.
He's been wearing his duty pants a little looser since he'd started this thing with Spock.
Yes, well. The Chair is fantastic. Nobody can deny this, least of all Jim. But featured fantasy number one - since the very first day he'd bent over and asked Spock to really serve him, right over the fucking chessboard, right now, Mister - has been him, on his knees, crouched underneath the console so tight he can feel the fucking rivets pressing into the back of his skull, with a mouthful of Spock. He'll gag on it, try to take too much too fast, because that's the way it always goes when he's finally got his lips around Spock. The tiniest taste of Spock's precome, that sweet/sour/copper tang on the tip of Jim's tongue, is enough to wipe away years of lovingly perfected technique and turn him into a slurping, suckling, eager mess. Making Spock stiffen as he tries to wrap himself up in Vulcan stoicism when Jim sucks him down and swallows is Jim's mission in life. Jim will work to earn that hitch in Spock's breath, that dizzying moment when the wonders of the Universe aren't the focus of Spock's little brow crease and it's all for him. On his knees. Unable to get a proper rhythm because the bulkhead is limiting his range of motion, but more than able to make up for it with a hum and a grin and his own spit dribbling down his chin, if the aborted twitching thrusts of Spock's hips are anything to go by.
Because when Spock finally lets loose that tiny whine and his knees lock, balls drawing in as his orgasm vibrates up and through his entire body, Jim can pull away and shift back just far enough that he can look into Spock's eyes, see them lose focus and soften as his come shoots out and streaks onto Jim's face in ribbons. Hot and thick, dripping down to the corner of his lips where he can poke his tongue out and taste it, never dropping his gaze from Spock's so he can pinpoint the exact moment that Spock's control snaps and Jim will know he's going to get fucked hard and fast and raw in tee-minus-right-fucking-now.
Maybe even over the Chair.
It's pretty much pure porny filth. You're welcome!
Title: The Chair
Author: nix_this
Beta: The always amazing janice_lester
Universe/Series: STR
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Established
Word count: 995
Genre: PWP
Tropes: Chairsex
Warnings: Jim has a filthy mouth. And mind. Can I just warn for Jim POV?
Summary: Written for a kink_meme prompt: Everyone assumes Kirk's biggest fantasy is sex in the captain's chair. Everyone is wrong.
Oh, the Chair. The Chair.
Kirk could tell all sorts of stories about the Chair. How it creaks when he shifts his legs just so (spreads them wider, holds himself open, "Now, Spock. Fuck me now"). The way the poly foam molds to his ass when he's stuffed full and leaking, leaving evidence for him to sink into the next Alpha shift before it fully regains its shape even though the stains have long since been wiped clean with the hem of Spock's tunic ("Fucking love getting you filthy, baby, wanna see myself all over you."). How the titanium frame can press deep red indents between his knuckles when he's shielding the back of Spock's head with his clenching fists while he grinds their dicks together. He slams up, then down, in a desperate shimmy that would loose a lesser Chair from its mounting. Sometimes it's Spock's grip on his hips leaving bruises, sometimes the smudged marks are from the arms of the Chair when caution is nothing compared to the fight for more skin, more heat, more friction. But it's his hands that are always achy and sore after, until Spock cradles them between his own, mouth still panting and cheeks flushed green. He licks them tenderly, his dark eyes almost black with want even after he's spilled his load all over Jim's stomach, and the pain will vanish like it never was.
Yeah, he loves the Chair. It's easily his favourite Captain's perk (other than, you know, the Enterprise in general. And the way Spock can still call him "Sir" with perfect dignity when he's pushing his own come back into Jim's hole and positioning him for a second round. No, wait. THAT'S his favourite Captain's perk. But the Chair is still pretty fucking awesome.). He could write odes to the fucking Chair. And to fucking in the Chair. And to the floor beside the Chair on that one memorable occasion when he and Spock hadn't quite made it that far across the bridge.
He can see how people might think the Chair was Jim Kirk's number one, bulletproof kink. The sure thing. He understands. Really.
They'd be wrong though. And blind.
Especially if they've ever been witness to the little line Spock gets between his perfectly arched brows when he's focused, really focused, on a problem at his Science station. Or, the way his tongue will peek out from between his obscenely pink lips and leave a tiny, taunting trail of wet right in the bow of his bottom lip, exactly where Jim most likes to bite, when he's lost in thought. Spock gets so damned intense when he's working, whether it's on calculating a warp field, or testing a hypothesis, or determining the exact level of power he needs to exert in his thrusts to make Jim fall apart around him. Entire shift rotations pass with him sitting in the Chair, so fucking hard it hurts, just from watching Spock bent over his console and rattling off sensor readings in that calm, measured voice. Jim swears if he crossed his legs, the scratch of fabric over his straining cock and pressure of his thighs would be enough to make him come in his pants like a horny teenager - right in the middle of the bridge.
He's been wearing his duty pants a little looser since he'd started this thing with Spock.
Yes, well. The Chair is fantastic. Nobody can deny this, least of all Jim. But featured fantasy number one - since the very first day he'd bent over and asked Spock to really serve him, right over the fucking chessboard, right now, Mister - has been him, on his knees, crouched underneath the console so tight he can feel the fucking rivets pressing into the back of his skull, with a mouthful of Spock. He'll gag on it, try to take too much too fast, because that's the way it always goes when he's finally got his lips around Spock. The tiniest taste of Spock's precome, that sweet/sour/copper tang on the tip of Jim's tongue, is enough to wipe away years of lovingly perfected technique and turn him into a slurping, suckling, eager mess. Making Spock stiffen as he tries to wrap himself up in Vulcan stoicism when Jim sucks him down and swallows is Jim's mission in life. Jim will work to earn that hitch in Spock's breath, that dizzying moment when the wonders of the Universe aren't the focus of Spock's little brow crease and it's all for him. On his knees. Unable to get a proper rhythm because the bulkhead is limiting his range of motion, but more than able to make up for it with a hum and a grin and his own spit dribbling down his chin, if the aborted twitching thrusts of Spock's hips are anything to go by.
Because when Spock finally lets loose that tiny whine and his knees lock, balls drawing in as his orgasm vibrates up and through his entire body, Jim can pull away and shift back just far enough that he can look into Spock's eyes, see them lose focus and soften as his come shoots out and streaks onto Jim's face in ribbons. Hot and thick, dripping down to the corner of his lips where he can poke his tongue out and taste it, never dropping his gaze from Spock's so he can pinpoint the exact moment that Spock's control snaps and Jim will know he's going to get fucked hard and fast and raw in tee-minus-right-fucking-now.
Maybe even over the Chair.