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Just as the fight's getting good ("translation: bloodied face and bruises in places he won't be able to find"), it's brought to a screeching halt. Or, more specifically, a whistle stop. Shrill, cutting through the air. Cadets scurry out of the bar and James Kirk is left in a familiar position, his backside flat on a table and head hanging over the edge.
"Cmon, it was getting good," he mutters into the air, finally taking note of the face staring down at him. It's the man with the perfect whistle. Lips just made for puckering. Just put 'em together and blow. Hair with those subtle, sexy grey streaks. He's handsome, at least from an upside-down angle. Until Kirk blinks and recognizes the uniform. Oh, fuck, stop it. He's Starfleet. I hate Starfleet. Kirk grins, which hurts more than it's worth, and he licks blood from his lower lip as he pulls himself upright.
The stranger smiles when Kirk complains about the interruption, claims he had the cadets right where he wanted them. Then the stranger ("who introduces himself as Captain Christopher Pike") goes and ruins the moment, not that he knows it. Pike mentions Kirk's father. Saint George. Saved hundreds. Sacrificed himself for his crew. Blah, blah, blah. Where was he when I really needed him?
There's conversation, most of it one-sided, Pike delineating history and lamenting Starfleet's current softness while Kirk nods and wishes he'd finished that last drink before the fight started.
"If you're half the man your father was …" falls on deaf ears, Kirk trying to breath through tissue-stuffed nose.
But the dare? It slams him between the eyes, It's the dare that catches his attention. He's always been the kid who took the playground dare. He looks up, thinking to respond, but Pike's already out the bar door. The haze clears in a minute and Kirk's up, running out into the parking lot, spying Pike across the parking lot.
"Hey, don't walk out like that." There's a twinge of whine undercutting the bravado, a trait Kirk hates in himself.
"Why? You plan on enlisting tonight, Kirk?"
At least Pike doesn't walk away. It's an opening. "I was thinking, uh, wondering," Kirk says, putting his best charm into the words, "if I do enlist, and I'm not saying I will, so don't hand me the forms," he shifts his weight from left to right, "but if I do, what's in it for me?"
"Doing better than your father."
"Yeah. You said that already." Kirk steps closer, leaning into Pike's personal space. "I need more incentive, Chris."
Pike's hand is on Kirk's jacket faster than either can track and Kirk's being backed against the restaurant's corrugated metal wall. Not that he's complaining.
"It's Captain," Pike says, voice hard and low, "or maybe Sir, if you can manage it."
"Really?" Kirk pushes. "I was hoping for something less formal," he says, "but I can go with what gets you off," there's a pause, "Sir."
Pike grins, but Kirk finds little comfort in it. As seconds pass, he feels more like the canary. And when Pike spins him around, shoves his face into the metal, he's caught. "It's obvious you don't want a daddy." Pike's hand is between man and wall, pressing down hard against Kirk's jeans. Okay, so his cock is rigid in an instant, and the warmth of Pike's breath isn't relieving that one bit.
"No, Sir," Kirk whispers, his face finding a roughness in the wall, reopening the battered lip, blood oozing down his chin.
"Good, I'm not offering." Pike slides his fingers along the fabric's closure, tracing the outline of a welcoming bulge. "I will, however, give you what you want, but you have to ask. Nicely."
Nicely. Fuck that. I'm not one of your Starfleet cadets. "Just fuck me. It's what you want," Kirk says, exuding all the charm of an arrogant brat. "Sir. Pretty please?"
Pike stills his hand, the closure half undone. "That's not very nice. You can try again or you can do it yourself," the breath is warm against Kirk's neck, "which I'm sure you're familiar with."
Damn. Kirk doesn't do nice. He didn't do it when he was a kid. And since he discovered sex, he's the one seducing, making demands. But Pike's fingers are so close, so fucking damned close. "Captain Pike, Sir," he starts, taking a deep breath, trying to reacquaint his lungs with the concept of real air, "please fuck me."
There's a bit more sincerity in that one, enough to make Pike finish with Kirk's trousers, get his hand around a cock. He doesn't say a word as he slides his hand over the erection with a practiced harsh stroke. "In a minute. I want to enjoy this." He's true to his word, bringing Kirk almost to the edge before stilling his hand, switching his attention to Kirk's ass, fingers inside him and opening him.
It's obvious Pike's enjoying it, and he's doing a damned good job. Kirk wonders if all Starfleet captains are like this, mentally calculates Pike's age against his father's and rejects the notion they ever knew each other. And, Christ, the great George Kirk would never do this kind of thing.
"C'mon, Sir, I'm good, don't need all the damned foreplay," he mutters.
"You'll have to learn manners, Kirk, if you're going to succeed at the Academy." Pike does, however, pull his fingers out and replace them with his dick. He pumps in and out of Kirk's body with a fervor, rough and steady, his actions as furious as Kirk's bar brawl. There's no time for being careful, not with the metal biting into his hand, Kirk's body.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, Sir," Kirk spits out when he comes, cock jerked against the corrugated wall, "I got that. Be nice, get rewarded."
Pike laughs through his own release. A second's savoring the moment and he pulls back, straightening his clothes. "Shuttle leaves at 0800. Don't oversleep."