Sky (skyblue_reverie) wrote,

Trek Fic: All in a Golden Afternoon (Pike/McCoy, NC-17)

Title: All in a Golden Afternoon (Part 30a of To Talk of Many Things)
Author: skyblue_reverie. This one was too kinky for Jude. Seriously, she couldn't even read it; she had to skim it with one eye squinched closed. :p
Fandom & Pairing: Star Trek Reboot (aka AOS, ST XI, etc.), Pike/McCoy
Rating: NC-17 LIEKWOAH
Spoilers: None
Warnings: BDSM, watersports, unlikely refractory periods
Word Count: Around 5000 words of filthy, filthy smut.
Summary: You know how Chris promised he'd take Len in his childhood bed? Yeah, that.
A/N: SUPER PERVY KINKY SEX. As promised. \o/ or /o\? You be the judge.

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It starts slow, just like Chris had promised it would. Both of them fully dressed, jeans and t-shirts already somewhat damp with perspiration in the sultry heat of a Georgia summer afternoon. Chris leads Len to his old bedroom, holding his hand, smiling but with intent in his eyes. Len pauses just inside the room, resisting for a moment the tug on his hand. The afternoon sun filters through the shutter slats, leaving bars of light and shadow on the floor. He remembers, as a child, sitting on the scrubbed pine floor and using those shifting lines in solitary games of marbles or toy soldiers.

The same holoposters are still on his walls, and the furniture is exactly as he remembers it. Slightly battered oak antique dresser with ornate iron pulls, a cherrywood desk with rounded claw feet, and the white-painted bed where he'd dreamed for so many years. None of it matches, and none of it matches him, not anymore. It's like a photograph -- a still life of how he used to be, and being in here gives him the uneasy feeling of treading on things that are best left undisturbed.

But he knows, somewhere deep down, that hiding from the past, pretending it doesn't exist, isn't the answer either, and he trusts Chris in this as in all things. So he makes no objection when Chris lays him down on the dust-blue quilt and then climbs into the bed beside him, taking Len into his arms until there's no space between them, no air to breathe but each other's.

Chris looks into his eyes first, as if to check that he's all right, that he's present there with Chris and not lost to the phantoms of the past. Len focuses and gives all his attention to Chris, looking into gray-blue eyes the same color as the quilt that sheltered and warmed him as a child. Now Chris is his shelter and his warmth. They keep their eyes locked as Chris leans in, brushes slightly-chapped lips against his. Len releases a small sigh and feels the warmth and moisture of it settle there between them.

He lets go, then. Closes his eyes and lets himself drift, absorbing the scent of his old bedroom, wood polish and musty fabric and magnolia blossoms and red clay earth. It reaches into him, pulls out memories and feelings that he thought he'd left behind. He starts to panic -- he's going to get lost here, he won't be able to find his way out -- but then Chris kisses him again, gently, and he can feel Chris all around him, and he knows he's safe. Chris won't let him fade away into the shadows.

He's never lain with anyone in this bed before. He's thought about it though, plenty of times. When he was a little boy and had a nightmare, he'd wish that his mother would come down the hallway from her room, slide under the covers in her linen nightdress, and hold him close until the trembling stopped. She'd just know that he needed her -- he wouldn't have to creep down the creaky, dark hallway to his parents' bedroom, push the door open slowly, and admit his cowardice. He wouldn't have to hear his father telling him that big boys weren't scared of things that happened in dreams and that he had to go back to his bed -- a bed that felt so big and empty -- all alone.

When he was a teenager, he'd think about how it would feel to have a girl here in this bed with him. Their bodies were so mysterious. Rounded thighs, pert breasts, soft perfumed skin. He'd touch himself and think about what it would be like to have all of that feminine beauty to explore with hands and mouth and cock.

Sometimes he'd think about boys, too. Well, if he's honest with himself, he'd think about men. He was never really interested in any of the boys his age -- they were too crass, too callow. He never saw the appeal in crude jokes about anatomy or in belching the alphabet. Boys his age mostly made him want to roll his eyes. Men, though -- men were a different story.

He remembers the crush he had on his algebra teacher, Mr. Foster. It's actually amazing that he passed algebra, given that he spent most of his time in class focusing on the way Mr. Foster's slacks clung to the swell of his ass, the way his shoulders filled out his button-down shirt and how just a bit of springy dark hair showed at the open collar. That left him with some embarrassing physical reactions to deal with when class was over, but it was nothing compared to his reactions when he'd lie in this bed, alone at night, one hand on his cock and the other down lower, index finger nudging at his asshole while he pictured Mr. Foster's long, sure fingers and tried to imagine what his cock would look like. Would it be bigger than his own, longer or thicker or both? Would it be the same gleaming walnut color as the rest of his skin? What would it feel like, all the way inside of Len? It was usually at this point that his strokes would reach a fever pitch and he'd explode, hips lifting helplessly into the air as he shot over his fist and onto his stomach. He'd come down from the high reluctantly, still working his finger just barely in and out of his sphincter. He'd hang onto the sensation of orgasm as long as he could, until his over-sensitized body couldn't take any more. Then he'd wipe himself off and fall asleep picturing Mr. Foster's face, how it might look smiling at him satedly from across the pillow.

He hasn't thought about Mr. Foster in years. When he was Len's teacher he'd seemed so mature and wise, but he'd probably been right about the age that Len is now. It's a somewhat sobering realization.

Chris doesn't look anything like Mr. Foster, but now that he thinks about it, they have something in common. A certain way about them. Confidence, bordering on arrogance, and a sense of being in complete control of their surroundings. He wonders what it says about him that all these years later, he's still drawn to that.

Almost without volition, he finds himself opening his eyes, opening his lips, and telling Chris about him. About Mr. Foster. The crush, the way he felt, exploring his own virgin body and thinking about an older man taking charge, taking care of him. There's some shame, but it's also freeing, to give this part of himself to the man he loves. Chris's eyes spark with a touch of jealousy and possessiveness, and a little bit of satisfaction that Len is choosing to open himself up, make himself vulnerable this way.

Chris props himself up on an elbow. Whether consciously or not, it puts him higher than Len, looking down at him from above. He leans in and says, low and rough, "I'll take care of you, baby. Always." And that wasn't really the point, but maybe it sort of was, too, and then Chris's lips are on his and there's no more room for thought.

After several minutes, Chris pulls away long enough to lift Len's t-shirt over his head. Then he focuses on Len's chest, swirling his tongue around Len's nipples, one then the other, biting that spot on Len's obliques that makes him buck and moan, and running possessive fingers over his arms and shoulders. He murmurs all the while, and Len isn't sure whether the things Chris is saying are for his benefit or Chris's, or whether he's even supposed to hear. He doesn't catch all of it, but he hears the word "mine" several times; he hears "always" and "no one else, ever again."

He lies back and just lets it happen, lets Chris do to him whatever he wants. He's not usually this passive in bed. Even when they've played power games, he's always taken an active role, but right now it feels right just to let go. The whole point of this exercise is to satisfy Chris's desire to claim him, and it surprises him how much he craves that. He wants, in this moment, to submerge himself in Chris, to surrender to Chris's will and relinquish himself completely. He knows it won't last long -- next time Chris turns on the newsnets while Len's enjoying the quiet, or mentions his plans to gut and rebuild the barn, or tightens his mouth at the mention of Jim, Len will be irritated and they'll be back to being themselves, Christopher Pike and Leonard McCoy, admiral and doctor, two imperfect men who clash almost as fiercely as they love.

But that's for later. Right now, Chris is moving to straddle him, their groins pressing together, separated by two layers of faded denim. Chris pulls off his own shirt, and Len can't resist running his fingers through the brown and gray hair on his well-defined chest, over the muscles and sweat-damp skin. Chris growls and pushes down in response, grinding into him hard. Whether it's in approval or punishment Len isn't sure, and doesn't much care. He runs his hands all over Chris's torso, and lets his appreciation and raw hunger show on his face. His lips are parted and his breath is coming faster, his hips are thrusting upwards towards Chris's, and between the memory-fantasy he's just shared and the reality of Chris looming over him, he's already on the edge. Chris grins with feral intent and leans in, working his hips so their cocks slide together, generating friction despite the cloth between then.

It's an un-fucking-believable view, Chris straddling him wearing only jeans, his hands braced on either side of Len's head, rutting into him while Len moans in helpless arousal. Chris is dominating him effortlessly, playing his body like an instrument. Now he's sitting back upright, his hands easy at his sides, and oh god, he's fucking posting, hips moving with Len's like he's riding a goddamn stallion, so easily, in total control, and with that thought Len's orgasm hits like thunder, and he's bucking and shouting and Chris is riding him right through it and then easing him down the other side.

He's shuddering in reaction, undone by the suddenness and ferocity of his release. Chris is rock hard, he can feel it, but at the moment it's utterly beyond him to do anything about it. He's still trembling and Chris is still straddling him, running hands gently down his chest over and over and murmuring soothing endearments.

"It's all right, honey. You're all right. I've got you. You were so good, so incredible, so beautiful. So open and exposed for me. Showing me everything, every reaction. I love that, baby. I love you. Love you so much."

While Chris continues talking, he's sliding back a little, unbuttoning Len's jeans and taking Len's softening cock in his hand. Len tries to protest, both at the mess that Chris is sticking his hand into and because his dick is oversensitive to the point of pain right now, but Chris shushes him and holds him softly, cradling his flesh like it's something sacred and precious.

Len drifts for a few minutes, catching his breath, and with uncanny timing, Chris starts moving his hand on Len's cock just as discomfort gives way to renewed desire. Chris is focused and intent, working Len with total concentration on his task as Len's cock stirs and fills at Chris's bidding. His strokes are hard and fast, almost painful, and all Len can do is clench his hands into the sheets and screw his eyes shut as tears leak from the corners. It's too much, but he doesn't want it to stop and he doesn't know if Chris would even if he asked.

His own come is the only lubricant, and it somehow feels deliciously filthy as Chris fists his cock, small squelching noises audible in the late afternoon stillness. He raises his head enough to watch Chris work him, his dick rising from its nest of curls, still framed by the open fly of his jeans. Chris's fingers are strong, tanned now from exposure to the Georgia sun, and as he watches, Chris leans down and starts using his mouth too, licking and slurping at Len's cock like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. Chris runs his tongue around the crown, groaning with enjoyment. It's too much for Len's already overloaded system. He gasps and comes again, watching his dick pulse weakly against Chris's tongue, a small amount of come dribbling out of the head to be licked up and swallowed with scrupulous thoroughness.

Len blinks slowly, his world narrowed to Chris above him, Chris's mouth on him, Chris's presence all around him. Chris is saying something, his tone warm and affectionate, but the words are a meaningless hum, a calming litany that flows over him as he closes his eyes and relaxes every muscle in his body, releasing tension that he carries with him always, always, only he doesn't need it right now. He doesn't have to worry or be on guard or even think at all in this moment. He's safe, he's home, and Chris has him.

When he wakes up, it's an hour or so later. He can tell by the slant of the light through the shutters, the way the late afternoon sunlight is pouring like amber onto the bed, dust motes floating lazily in the space between him and Chris, who's prowling the room, opening drawers and poking into the corners of bookcases. He feels muzzy and groggy and a little disconnected from reality yet. His arms are stretched above his head, and he realizes without any actual surprise that they've been tied to the headboard with what looks like the black silk tie from one of Chris's suits. His jeans are gone too, and the heavy air feels like a caress against his bare skin.

Somehow Chris knows he's awake, even though he hasn't moved except to look around. In his half-awake state, the fanciful thought flits across his mind that maybe they have some kind of preternatural awareness of each other, but it fades as Chris turns to him and he sees the hunger on Chris's beautiful weathered face.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Chris says.

"It's afternoon," is Len's rather feeble reply.

Chris chuckles softly. "Not gonna deny the 'sleeping beauty' part, huh?"

"Would it do any good?"

"Nah." Then as Len tests the knots around his wrists, he adds, "Don't worry, they'll hold."

"Wasn't worried," Len says dryly.

Chris moves to stand at his feet, forcing Len to lift his head awkwardly to see him. From the slight smirk on Chris's face, the move was intentional. Chris is running his fingers lightly over the bulge in his own jeans, not enough to provide him with any kind of relief, just enough to keep himself on edge. Len groans at the sight.

"I've been like this for the better part of an hour," Chris comments casually. "I've heard of being fucked into oblivion, but I've never witnessed it before. I'm not sure if I should feel proud that I managed it or annoyed that you conked out on me before I was done."

There's no good answer to that one, so Len remains silent, knowing his face is an open book anyway. Whatever Chris sees there causes his expression to soften.

"It's all right, Len. I was flattered. And you needed the rest. I don't think I've ever seen you that deeply asleep before. You didn't even stir when I undressed you and tied you up."

Len's cock twitches embarrassingly at the reminder of his vulnerable position, and Chris raises an eyebrow. "I see you're recovering nicely. Good. I've got plans. Big plans." Chris has one foot up on the end of the bed now, making the bulge in his jeans even more prominent. Len lets out a whimper as his cock hardens further, and his head thunks back onto the mattress. He notes distantly that both pillows and blankets have gone missing.

"Bend your knees. Feet flat on the bed." Chris is using a tone of voice that compels instant obedience, but it's not the command tone that Len's heard before. It's something darker, more dangerous, and it sends a shiver up his spine and a tingle from his stomach down through his cock. His feet are in position before he even consciously decides to move.

"Good boy." Chris's voice flows over him like silk, and he shudders visibly. "Now, here are the rules. You do what I say, without question or hesitation. You speak when spoken to -- feel free to make noise if you like, but no words unless I ask for them. You address me as 'Chris' or 'Sir.' Got all that?"

Len's head is swimming, his breath already coming faster. His cock is tight against his belly now, leaking precome. He feels too open, too exposed, and he knows it's only going to get worse from here. And the scariest thing of all is how much he wants it. "Yeah, got it, Chris," he rasps because really, there's no other answer. Then he thinks of something, which is pretty unbelievable given his current mental state. "Do I - do I get a safe word?"

"Do you want one?" is Chris's reply, in a tone that's suspiciously neutral.

Jesus fuck. It's some kind of twisted test, and right now he can barely think, and he knows rationally that he should say yes and he opens his mouth to do so and what comes out is "No, sir."

There's only silence, and Len risks a peek at Chris. He has a look of intense satisfaction on his face as he watches Len watching him. "All right then," he says. "Let's begin."

It's a blur, then, a blur with moments of clarity like raindrops on a windowpane. The instant, overwhelming agony when Chris attaches the clamps to his nipples, and how he arches his chest helplessly into the achingly sweet sting. The moans that tumble from his mouth, and the babble of words too, despite Chris's instructions. He's begging, pleading, but for it to stop or continue he doesn't know.

When he speaks out of turn, Chris corrects him gently but firmly, and stops what he's doing until Len can get himself under control. Then, oh god, he makes Len use words, tell Chris exactly what he wants, all his most shameful desires. And then he fulfills them, every one. Not that Chris is entirely altruistic. He makes sure to get his own kinks satisfied too.

In fact, right at this moment there's a cock ring tight around the base of his dick, his ass is stuffed full of a heated butt plug that's set to just this side of unbearable, and Chris is tugging on the chain that connects his nipple clamps, making him howl. There are bite marks scattered all over his body, as well as bruises that have been sucked into the surface of his skin, and his ass cheeks are red and raw from the paddling that Chris gave him earlier. He stinks of sweat and piss -- the sweat his own, the piss Chris's, and the memory of Chris holding his own dick and directing the stream all over Len's chest and down his abdomen is enough to make his cock twitch uselessly against the leather restraining it. Chris's face as he'd done that had been so full of fierce possession and such absolute love that Len could hardly comprehend it. When Chris had shaken the last few drops over his face, it had been sheer instinct to open his mouth and catch them on his tongue. The sound Chris had made, a moan dragged deep from inside him, would stay with him for the rest of his days.

Len would never have taken it this far, would never have expected that Chris would've taken it this far, but there isn't a moment of it that he regrets. He's at the edge, the absolute bleeding edge of what he can take, and it's so much farther than he thought it would be. Chris is with him, and he knows Chris won't push him too far, and what's more, he knows that it's not his judgment call to make. For someone in his position, with lives depending on his daily decisions, it's an unspeakable relief to have all of the choices taken out of his hands. He knows, too, that Chris intimately understands this.

He's wrung out and blissed out, hovering somewhere in the region of the stratosphere, when he notes distantly that Chris is easing the plug out of his ass and setting it aside. He notices a good deal more consciously when Chris removes the nipple clamps, one after the other. The sudden rush of blood to his abused nipples makes him convulse and scream, and Chris makes soothing noises and kisses his forehead gently. The tenderness, as much as the pain, has him blinking back tears.

"Are you ready for my cock now?" Chris asks, and all Len can do is nod. He's beyond words at this point. Chris smiles gently in understanding. The fly of Chris's jeans is already open and the fabric is riding low on his hips, and now Chris -- finally -- takes them all the way off, moving as always with unconscious grace. His cock, hard and heavy, juts out from his body and Len's mouth waters in reaction. Somehow Chris knows, just like he always knows, and he moves up next to Len's head on the bed. "Give me your mouth, baby," he says, low and soft. Len has to raise his head at an awkward and uncomfortable angle to obey, but he does it. Of course he does. Chris rubs the head of his cock against Len's lips until Len parts them, and then Chris slips inside his mouth, only an inch or two. Just enough for Len to wrap his mouth around the crown, to taste Chris's precome, tart on his tongue.

Their eyes are locked and there are no barriers between them, no pretense. Len can see Chris, in all his flawed and wild beauty, every part of him, and he knows Chris can see the same in him. It's humbling and fiercely exhilarating, and so different than he'd thought it'd be, when he'd imagined it in this bed in his youth. It's real, in a way his fantasies never managed to capture. Chris is no idealized, perfect lover who never makes a mistake and always gives Len what he wants, right when he wants it. And Len doesn't measure up to his dream-self either. He's just a mortal man. One who bleeds, shits, cries, and hurts those around him, only mostly unintentionally. And despite that reality, or maybe because of it, this -- being here with Chris -- is so much better than his imaginings of fantasy-lovers.

Now Chris pulls away from his mouth and moves to kneel on the bed, settling between Len's open legs. He hooks an elbow under one of Len's knees, pushing it back toward his chest as he leans over Len, using the other hand to guide himself against Len's already-loosened opening and then beyond, pushing smoothly and inexorably forward until he's buried to the hilt. Len can feel the wiry hairs at the base of Chris's cock tickling against his still-hypersensitive ass cheeks.

Chris starts up a rhythm that's slow and gentle, so at odds with what's gone before that Len is taken off guard. A gasp falls from his lips and Chris pushes deep, grinding himself against Len's ass to get every millimeter of his cock inside of Len. He moves his hand between them, and Len can feel the rough pad of Chris's thumb rubbing against his stretched-wide hole where they're joined. He tightens involuntarily around Chris's cock and feels more than sees Chris's shudder.

"I can't wait any longer, honey," Chris says. "Are you ready?" At this admission that Chris's near-endless control is cracking, Len feels a thrill along his spine.

"Yeah -- yeah, Chris, please."

Chris groans. "Say that again."

"Please, Chris."

Chris sets up a rhythm, slow and deep at first, but increasing in speed until he's slamming his hips forward, pounding into Len with all of his considerable strength. "Tell me you're mine," he gasps out, faltering just slightly in his pace.

"I'm yours, Chris." Len can hardly form words, can hardly think at this point, but if there's an undeniable, fundamental truth, it's that.


"I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours," Len chants in time with Chris's strokes, each one pushing him towards a precipice he can feel but not see. His hands are clenched around the rungs of the headboard, causing him to strain against his bonds as he braces himself against each punishing thrust of Chris's hips. Chris's head is thrown back, the long line of his neck glistening with sweat, and he's gulping air in deep, desperate pants.

Len needs to come, he's got to come now; his cock's throbbing in agony and his balls are drawn up painfully high and tight, and somehow Chris knows that he's reached the absolute limit of his endurance because he's reaching for Len's dick, hips never slowing as he undoes the catch on the cock ring and one touch of his hand is enough and Len is coming, coming, screaming Chris's name as orgasm tears through him, on and on, not letting up, and Chris is snapping his hips one last time and now he's coming too, Len can feel his cock pulsing inside of him and Chris is shouting something unintelligible with his eyes screwed shut and short blunt nails digging into Len's hips hard enough to break the skin.

They're both shaking when Chris slumps over him, falling onto his chest in a barely-controlled collapse. The move causes his rapidly softening cock to slip out of Len's ass and they groan in unison at the loss. Len can feel Chris's heart beating hard and fast, not quite in time with his own. He wraps his legs around Chris's back, which is the only way he can embrace him, given that his hands are still tied to the bed. Chris burrows his face into Len's neck and mumbles something that Len doesn't quite catch, but it sounds suspiciously like "Fuck."

Len hums his agreement. He's lighter, somehow, effervescent in a way that he hasn't felt in years. He nuzzles into Chris's sweat-damp hair and says, "Darlin', wanna untie me now?"

Chris groans and heaves himself upward just long enough to untie the knots, then falls back into a sprawl across Len's body. Len lowers his arms slowly and gingerly rests them against Chris's back, feeling the pins-and-needles sensation under his skin. They lie there together for several minutes, Len's mind clearer than he can ever remember it being. Maybe it's an illusion brought on by endorphins, but he feels like he understands his past more than he ever has before, and can see his future -- not the details, he's not a fortune-teller -- but enough to know that it's going to be him and Chris, forever, and that they'll work out a way for Jim to be in their lives too. He knows, surer than he's ever known anything, that it's all going to be all right, and he laughs in sheer exhilaration.

"Wha's so funny?" Chris mumbles.

"Just happy."

Chris's only response is a satisfied "mmm."

"Come on, darlin', we reek to high heaven. Time to get cleaned up."

Chris burrows a little deeper into Len's neck, clings a little tighter to his torso. "Don' wanna," he says, and he sounds so petulant that Len laughs again.

"All right, five more minutes," he allows.

Chris kisses his neck lazily and relaxes his limbs once more. And if Chris dozes gently against his shoulder, and five minutes turns into fifteen, well, who's counting? Certainly not Len, who has eyes only for Chris as the last of the sunlight slips through the shutters and is gone, taking with it at least some of the ghosts of his past.

On to Part 31

Tags: fic: trek, pairing: pike/mccoy, series: to talk of many things
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