SHIP WARS: TEAM PIRK: PROMPT 2 ENTRY
Title: for a boy, for a body in the garden
Ship: Christopher Pike/Jim Kirk
Author: re_white, beta by leftarrow
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual content herein.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership nor do I court any profits.
*
They sleep and fuck on sheets that don't smell like Jim anymore.
*
The Mojave is shades of burnt yellow, and iron tan, hot desert sand scraping the twisted branches of bare black trees.
Pike trudges through the dust and stinging wind, feels his exposed face go prickly and raw as his eyes burn with grit. He tries, stupidly, to catch a flicker of light in the sky that he can pretend is the Enterprise. He can't decide if it's better or not that the dirty saffron of gathering clouds kills that opportunity.
When he finally gets back to the house McCoy is there, weary and worn, as dried out and tearless as he is.
They fuck in Pike's kitchen with grasping hands and rough mouths, trying to catch and keep as much of Jim as they can from each other.
*
McCoy is all sharp, lean angles, hair a floppy mess, his face darkened with ever present stubble, the skin under his eyes bruised with sleeplessness. He looks like he needs a meal and a nap, but the best Pike can get from him most of the time is a curse, a hard fuck or a shot of bourbon whenever Pike tries to take care of him.
*
Pike's not the only one leaving marks on McCoy these days, and he's not sure he cares for it.
He stinks of whatever bar he was kicked out of, bloody and crackling along the edges with pent up energy that makes Pike break out into a prickly sweat. He tosses the tricorder up on the kitchen table next to McCoy.
“This is the fourth time this week.”
McCoy licks his split lip, eyes dark and voice gravely with exhaustion and the burn of whiskey.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You need to knock it the fuck off.”
“Blow me.”
Pike crowds him, stepping between his legs and grabbing his jaw roughly. They don't ever kiss gentle, it's always the click of teeth and hard tug of greedy fingers, trying to catch a whiff of a hint of a long gone Jim on each other, the stab of desire clamoring a decibel higher than the voice that rails at how pathetic this is, how sick, to fuck out a desperate memory of Jim into McCoy who's too stupid with his own bright memories to give a shit.
Pike bites at his mouth and briefly fumbles at McCoy's belt buckle before yanking the battered blue jeans open just enough to get at what he wants. McCoy is hard and familiar on his tongue, and nothing at all like Jim. He digs his thumbs into the narrow dips of McCoy's hips and rides it when McCoy bucks under his mouth, panting broken moans into the darkness of the kitchen, hoarse cries falling somewhere between the stupidness of lust and sobs of bone-deep grief.
Pike remembers how much Jim used to laugh during sex, flush and beautiful all over with the filthiest smile he's ever seen, and if his heart lurches painfully at the thought, even as he hardens for the needy tug of McCoy's fingers through his hair, then that's his own damn business (fault).
Pike breathes through his nose and takes McCoy deep as he can, gag reflex long fucked away. He drags one hand up McCoy's flat trembling belly, scratching at whatever he can, eyes watering when McCoy's grip tightens painfully.
He comes with a muffled noise that wants to be Jim, and Pike isn't sure if it's reward or punishment when he swallows and goes for McCoy's mouth, lips wet and tingling, struggling to pull the rest of his jeans down while McCoy toes off his shoes, fingers fighting with Pike's trousers.
He fucks McCoy across the table, face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
*
“The thing is, you can love a star ship, but it can't love you back. In the end she's just metal and working parts powered by heat and light and if she seems alive it's only because she's full of people who are.” Jim flexes under him and drags the heel of his foot up the small of Christopher's back, dry skin stuttering over the splay of scar tissue at the base of his spine. “When a captain says he loves his ship what he really means is that he loves what his ship stands for.”
Christopher hums and skirts his teeth across the rosy red of Jim's nipple.
“And what does a ship stand for, Captain< Kirk?”
“Hmmm, movement.” There's a broken hitch of breath -his or Jim's he doesn't know- as he pushes in. “Adventure?” Christopher offers, fingers crawling up the taut muscle of Jim's thigh.
“Mmm,hmm.” Jim nips lightly at him, his lips swollen and wet and he doesn't taste like anything but salt and spit, but it's good. “Ah. And adventure. There, fuck - please.” Christopher rocks into him, watching the way Jim's mouth tries to form actual words around the needy yesyesyeses of his desperately working hips. They move faster now, Christopher slipping a hand between them, seeking out the hard needy flesh there.
For a long moment it's just noise, cock and the hot clench of Jim's body - Christopher dragging out all his secrets and tasting them because he can, because Jim wants him to.
“And what else?”he asks raggedly.
Jim groans and slides the damp palms of his hands down Christopher's back, the rough tips of his fingers ghosting messages across flexing, sweaty skin and the sharp jut of bone.
“A ship stands for crew.” Jim says it the way other people might say family. “S'what he loves about her.”
“And when she's gone? What does a captain love then?”
Jim's head tips back, throat bared in the soft buttery light of Christopher's bedroom.
“Whatever's left.”
Ship: Christopher Pike/Jim Kirk
Author: re_white, beta by leftarrow
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sexual content herein.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership nor do I court any profits.
*
They sleep and fuck on sheets that don't smell like Jim anymore.
*
The Mojave is shades of burnt yellow, and iron tan, hot desert sand scraping the twisted branches of bare black trees.
Pike trudges through the dust and stinging wind, feels his exposed face go prickly and raw as his eyes burn with grit. He tries, stupidly, to catch a flicker of light in the sky that he can pretend is the Enterprise. He can't decide if it's better or not that the dirty saffron of gathering clouds kills that opportunity.
When he finally gets back to the house McCoy is there, weary and worn, as dried out and tearless as he is.
They fuck in Pike's kitchen with grasping hands and rough mouths, trying to catch and keep as much of Jim as they can from each other.
*
McCoy is all sharp, lean angles, hair a floppy mess, his face darkened with ever present stubble, the skin under his eyes bruised with sleeplessness. He looks like he needs a meal and a nap, but the best Pike can get from him most of the time is a curse, a hard fuck or a shot of bourbon whenever Pike tries to take care of him.
*
Pike's not the only one leaving marks on McCoy these days, and he's not sure he cares for it.
He stinks of whatever bar he was kicked out of, bloody and crackling along the edges with pent up energy that makes Pike break out into a prickly sweat. He tosses the tricorder up on the kitchen table next to McCoy.
“This is the fourth time this week.”
McCoy licks his split lip, eyes dark and voice gravely with exhaustion and the burn of whiskey.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You need to knock it the fuck off.”
“Blow me.”
Pike crowds him, stepping between his legs and grabbing his jaw roughly. They don't ever kiss gentle, it's always the click of teeth and hard tug of greedy fingers, trying to catch a whiff of a hint of a long gone Jim on each other, the stab of desire clamoring a decibel higher than the voice that rails at how pathetic this is, how sick, to fuck out a desperate memory of Jim into McCoy who's too stupid with his own bright memories to give a shit.
Pike bites at his mouth and briefly fumbles at McCoy's belt buckle before yanking the battered blue jeans open just enough to get at what he wants. McCoy is hard and familiar on his tongue, and nothing at all like Jim. He digs his thumbs into the narrow dips of McCoy's hips and rides it when McCoy bucks under his mouth, panting broken moans into the darkness of the kitchen, hoarse cries falling somewhere between the stupidness of lust and sobs of bone-deep grief.
Pike remembers how much Jim used to laugh during sex, flush and beautiful all over with the filthiest smile he's ever seen, and if his heart lurches painfully at the thought, even as he hardens for the needy tug of McCoy's fingers through his hair, then that's his own damn business (fault).
Pike breathes through his nose and takes McCoy deep as he can, gag reflex long fucked away. He drags one hand up McCoy's flat trembling belly, scratching at whatever he can, eyes watering when McCoy's grip tightens painfully.
He comes with a muffled noise that wants to be Jim, and Pike isn't sure if it's reward or punishment when he swallows and goes for McCoy's mouth, lips wet and tingling, struggling to pull the rest of his jeans down while McCoy toes off his shoes, fingers fighting with Pike's trousers.
He fucks McCoy across the table, face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
*
“The thing is, you can love a star ship, but it can't love you back. In the end she's just metal and working parts powered by heat and light and if she seems alive it's only because she's full of people who are.” Jim flexes under him and drags the heel of his foot up the small of Christopher's back, dry skin stuttering over the splay of scar tissue at the base of his spine. “When a captain says he loves his ship what he really means is that he loves what his ship stands for.”
Christopher hums and skirts his teeth across the rosy red of Jim's nipple.
“And what does a ship stand for, Captain< Kirk?”
“Hmmm, movement.” There's a broken hitch of breath -his or Jim's he doesn't know- as he pushes in. “Adventure?” Christopher offers, fingers crawling up the taut muscle of Jim's thigh.
“Mmm,hmm.” Jim nips lightly at him, his lips swollen and wet and he doesn't taste like anything but salt and spit, but it's good. “Ah. And adventure. There, fuck - please.” Christopher rocks into him, watching the way Jim's mouth tries to form actual words around the needy yesyesyeses of his desperately working hips. They move faster now, Christopher slipping a hand between them, seeking out the hard needy flesh there.
For a long moment it's just noise, cock and the hot clench of Jim's body - Christopher dragging out all his secrets and tasting them because he can, because Jim wants him to.
“And what else?”he asks raggedly.
Jim groans and slides the damp palms of his hands down Christopher's back, the rough tips of his fingers ghosting messages across flexing, sweaty skin and the sharp jut of bone.
“A ship stands for crew.” Jim says it the way other people might say family. “S'what he loves about her.”
“And when she's gone? What does a captain love then?”
Jim's head tips back, throat bared in the soft buttery light of Christopher's bedroom.
“Whatever's left.”