possibly_thrice (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
possibly_thrice) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singularity2009-06-05 03:13 am
possibly_thrice) wrote in singularity2009-06-05 03:13 am
fic: a study of parallels in metal and man, pike/enterprise/kirk, nc-17
Title: A Study of Parallels in Metal and Man
Author:possibly_thrice
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Uh. Pike/Enterprise/Kirk? Ahahaha.
Summary: It's... kind of the half-built Enterprise sex I promised, once upon a time. And it's kind of not. Masturbation happens. Kirk is a weird little kid, and I suck at characterization. Etc.
A/N, Warnings: Reasonably explicit masturbation and fantasizing about masturbation. Also, lurve for inanimate objects. It's an old, old theme, amirite? *facepalm*
When Kirk wakes up, the inside of his mouth still sticky and sour with blood, irritation, who knows what, the sky outside his window is pale. He blinks and a mess of images – an aborted dream – insinuates itself in his wavering early-morning sight, echoes in the shadows. He remembers: that shape, again and again, traced in glittering lines under his eyelids.
Fucking saltshaker. Fucking Pike.
He rolls out of bed without really thinking it through too hard and he's halfway into wrestling a marginally cleaner shirt on over his tight shoulders when he gets what he's doing, gets that he's dressing at unholy o' clock a.m. for – well. For yet another choice he needs to make.
He doesn't want to think about it. So he doesn't. He thinks about how the lukewarm water from the broken sink stings his bruised, tender jaw, and about how Cupcake managed to break the zipper on his jacket, somehow or other. He steps outside and thinks about the cold that bites through his thin shirtfront where he left the jacket hanging open.
He thinks about his motorbike's keys, sharp in his hand, and a hurried set of directions from the night before.
He drives.
It turns out to be a respectable middle-of-nowhere, the field site of the Starfleet base: a watercolor wash of brown and gray in the empty light of dawn. It's flat and even pretty landscape, though it fades like a lipstick stain behind the darker, glowing station, which is so strange and sprawling and solid that it seems to distort the horizon. Like the glass marble on the trampoline from his fifth grade explorations of how gravity changed space, except this had nothing to do with mass, and everything to do with the weird heavy quality that accompanies scarred dreams intruding on consciousness' private delusions.
There's no one there, yet. He stands straddling the bike for a long moment, squinting at the station.
No. Who's he kidding? He stands squinting at the half-built ship that is the heart of it all, an unwieldy fish-like thing that is part curves that sing – curves that make his hands clench, his ragged nails dig into the thick meat of his palms – and part exposed, raw machinery, ugly and strung with yellow cords like veins or nerves or both.
He thinks about the fact that he's in love.
Then he parks his bike and hikes over the fence and lopes towards the platform, nervous and amused at his own nervousness. The place is dead, but for the lights. Even so. In any case, he assures himself, it's fine; there's no harm in looking, and the worst that can happen is that he'll get kicked out before he can... what? Prove Pike right?
Denial is an important life skill, he tells himself, and approaches, hands in his pockets, and sees that there is someone there after all. Not a construction worker, someone in Fleet uniform. It is Pike, actually; he hadn't seen him before because the man is right up under the belly of the ship, running a surprisingly cautious hand along the paneled side.
Kirk thinks about walking away, possibly on tiptoes. He's only ten feet away. All Pike has to do is turn his head and that will be that. So now would be the time to leave.
Pike doesn't turn his head. Kirk doesn't walk away. He has a lot of reasons, somewhere or other. One of them is that he hasn't finished memorizing the ship yet, as it is now, in this instant, looking like a half-hatched naked bird. Now when it's just him and the ship and Pike, who is still and unobtrusive as a stone, not counting his left hand, curled loosely against metal like a man holding a baby's head. A really big baby.
Kirk eases his way over to the nearest tower for at least a semblance of cover and he stares. From the tower he can see Pike's profile, the soft lines around the man's eyes and the ridiculous hunger that Kirk recognizes because it's knotting something just below his diaphragm right now. Small wonder he's such a fucking asshole, Kirk decides, magnanimously, wanting something like that.
Pike leans forward and presses his mouth to the flank, leaves a warm wet mark on the fogged surface. Kirk can feel his mouth purse in sympathy and oh, he envies that tactile possession. He wants Pike to go home and sleep like the non-crazy not-an-asshole he isn't so Kirk can imprint this anonymous craft's steel skin on his skin skin, indelibly, best tattoo he'll ever get (and for free)! He distracts himself by trying to figure out just when in the last half an hour he went crazy but no dice, the precise second where he toppled has been lost among a swarm of almost identical seconds.
And miraculously enough, Pike goes. In the opposite direction, without so much glancing at the tower Kirk is ever so casually propped against. Minutes later Kirk hears an engine start, and then, nothing.
In a heartbeat, he's slid over to the ship, he's pressed himself where Pike was and holding the ship like that feels like, shit, it feels a lot better than Uhura's breasts had.
It occurs to James Tiberius Kirk that he's doomed, and that he's going to be here when morning proper arrives. It occurs to him that that is just now a secondary concern, because he discovers, just then, cheek resting where Pike's mouth touched, that he is achingly aroused, his jeans unforgiving and stretched. He's been that way for several minutes now, as he figures it.
Since he saw the ship, actually. Christ, this is screwed up.
He grins, and shifts down so his forehead is resting against the ship and he starts to undo his trousers, hunched over a little, like his stepfather used to when he was protecting a cigarette from the wind. And as he is pushing his pants down so that they hang low on his hips, he pictures with terrible clarity Pike doing the same thing, here against the ship, rolling down the regulation slacks: not a graceful gesture in any sense of the word but the slight curve of revealed thigh in his head is unexpectedly compelling, made worse by the way that imaginary curve parallels his own bony hip and the arc of the hull, a hazy connection that seems very important to some deeply disturbed part of him that currently has the reins.
In other news: he is half-hard, he has his dick in his palm and this was not what Kirk had been planning on a lower level when he came to earlier. He closes his eyes and he's not wholly sure, now, whether it's him or Pike that rubs his thumb under the swollen head, slowly, then curls his fingers around the length of it and begins to pump into his hand, moving just a little, keeping himself under some kind of freakish control, his lips barely parted, a mere trace of sweat shining on the gray hair at his temple – that's his special invented Pike, yeah – and on his purple cheekbone – and that's just him – and on the ship's side, where it wiped off his forehead.
What the hell, he thinks, right before coming all over his cupped palm in a sticky splatter, which is also all him, thank you very much.
He says it aloud, for good measure. “What the hell?” reverberates around the lonely space.
There is no answer.
“I do not want to be Pike when I grow up,” he adds.
Silence like a skirt trailing across his neck. (Happens more often than you'd think).
“I don't even have projection issues! The goddamn school shrink said so!”
The station repeats itself.
He glares at it, all of it, half-heartedly and slinks off to wait for morning.
Author:
possibly_thrice Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Uh. Pike/Enterprise/Kirk? Ahahaha.
Summary: It's... kind of the half-built Enterprise sex I promised, once upon a time. And it's kind of not. Masturbation happens. Kirk is a weird little kid, and I suck at characterization. Etc.
A/N, Warnings: Reasonably explicit masturbation and fantasizing about masturbation. Also, lurve for inanimate objects. It's an old, old theme, amirite? *facepalm*
When Kirk wakes up, the inside of his mouth still sticky and sour with blood, irritation, who knows what, the sky outside his window is pale. He blinks and a mess of images – an aborted dream – insinuates itself in his wavering early-morning sight, echoes in the shadows. He remembers: that shape, again and again, traced in glittering lines under his eyelids.
Fucking saltshaker. Fucking Pike.
He rolls out of bed without really thinking it through too hard and he's halfway into wrestling a marginally cleaner shirt on over his tight shoulders when he gets what he's doing, gets that he's dressing at unholy o' clock a.m. for – well. For yet another choice he needs to make.
He doesn't want to think about it. So he doesn't. He thinks about how the lukewarm water from the broken sink stings his bruised, tender jaw, and about how Cupcake managed to break the zipper on his jacket, somehow or other. He steps outside and thinks about the cold that bites through his thin shirtfront where he left the jacket hanging open.
He thinks about his motorbike's keys, sharp in his hand, and a hurried set of directions from the night before.
He drives.
It turns out to be a respectable middle-of-nowhere, the field site of the Starfleet base: a watercolor wash of brown and gray in the empty light of dawn. It's flat and even pretty landscape, though it fades like a lipstick stain behind the darker, glowing station, which is so strange and sprawling and solid that it seems to distort the horizon. Like the glass marble on the trampoline from his fifth grade explorations of how gravity changed space, except this had nothing to do with mass, and everything to do with the weird heavy quality that accompanies scarred dreams intruding on consciousness' private delusions.
There's no one there, yet. He stands straddling the bike for a long moment, squinting at the station.
No. Who's he kidding? He stands squinting at the half-built ship that is the heart of it all, an unwieldy fish-like thing that is part curves that sing – curves that make his hands clench, his ragged nails dig into the thick meat of his palms – and part exposed, raw machinery, ugly and strung with yellow cords like veins or nerves or both.
He thinks about the fact that he's in love.
Then he parks his bike and hikes over the fence and lopes towards the platform, nervous and amused at his own nervousness. The place is dead, but for the lights. Even so. In any case, he assures himself, it's fine; there's no harm in looking, and the worst that can happen is that he'll get kicked out before he can... what? Prove Pike right?
Denial is an important life skill, he tells himself, and approaches, hands in his pockets, and sees that there is someone there after all. Not a construction worker, someone in Fleet uniform. It is Pike, actually; he hadn't seen him before because the man is right up under the belly of the ship, running a surprisingly cautious hand along the paneled side.
Kirk thinks about walking away, possibly on tiptoes. He's only ten feet away. All Pike has to do is turn his head and that will be that. So now would be the time to leave.
Pike doesn't turn his head. Kirk doesn't walk away. He has a lot of reasons, somewhere or other. One of them is that he hasn't finished memorizing the ship yet, as it is now, in this instant, looking like a half-hatched naked bird. Now when it's just him and the ship and Pike, who is still and unobtrusive as a stone, not counting his left hand, curled loosely against metal like a man holding a baby's head. A really big baby.
Kirk eases his way over to the nearest tower for at least a semblance of cover and he stares. From the tower he can see Pike's profile, the soft lines around the man's eyes and the ridiculous hunger that Kirk recognizes because it's knotting something just below his diaphragm right now. Small wonder he's such a fucking asshole, Kirk decides, magnanimously, wanting something like that.
Pike leans forward and presses his mouth to the flank, leaves a warm wet mark on the fogged surface. Kirk can feel his mouth purse in sympathy and oh, he envies that tactile possession. He wants Pike to go home and sleep like the non-crazy not-an-asshole he isn't so Kirk can imprint this anonymous craft's steel skin on his skin skin, indelibly, best tattoo he'll ever get (and for free)! He distracts himself by trying to figure out just when in the last half an hour he went crazy but no dice, the precise second where he toppled has been lost among a swarm of almost identical seconds.
And miraculously enough, Pike goes. In the opposite direction, without so much glancing at the tower Kirk is ever so casually propped against. Minutes later Kirk hears an engine start, and then, nothing.
In a heartbeat, he's slid over to the ship, he's pressed himself where Pike was and holding the ship like that feels like, shit, it feels a lot better than Uhura's breasts had.
It occurs to James Tiberius Kirk that he's doomed, and that he's going to be here when morning proper arrives. It occurs to him that that is just now a secondary concern, because he discovers, just then, cheek resting where Pike's mouth touched, that he is achingly aroused, his jeans unforgiving and stretched. He's been that way for several minutes now, as he figures it.
Since he saw the ship, actually. Christ, this is screwed up.
He grins, and shifts down so his forehead is resting against the ship and he starts to undo his trousers, hunched over a little, like his stepfather used to when he was protecting a cigarette from the wind. And as he is pushing his pants down so that they hang low on his hips, he pictures with terrible clarity Pike doing the same thing, here against the ship, rolling down the regulation slacks: not a graceful gesture in any sense of the word but the slight curve of revealed thigh in his head is unexpectedly compelling, made worse by the way that imaginary curve parallels his own bony hip and the arc of the hull, a hazy connection that seems very important to some deeply disturbed part of him that currently has the reins.
In other news: he is half-hard, he has his dick in his palm and this was not what Kirk had been planning on a lower level when he came to earlier. He closes his eyes and he's not wholly sure, now, whether it's him or Pike that rubs his thumb under the swollen head, slowly, then curls his fingers around the length of it and begins to pump into his hand, moving just a little, keeping himself under some kind of freakish control, his lips barely parted, a mere trace of sweat shining on the gray hair at his temple – that's his special invented Pike, yeah – and on his purple cheekbone – and that's just him – and on the ship's side, where it wiped off his forehead.
What the hell, he thinks, right before coming all over his cupped palm in a sticky splatter, which is also all him, thank you very much.
He says it aloud, for good measure. “What the hell?” reverberates around the lonely space.
There is no answer.
“I do not want to be Pike when I grow up,” he adds.
Silence like a skirt trailing across his neck. (Happens more often than you'd think).
“I don't even have projection issues! The goddamn school shrink said so!”
The station repeats itself.
He glares at it, all of it, half-heartedly and slinks off to wait for morning.