Long Way Home Part One
Title: Long Way Home
Author: jezebel_rising
Rating: NC17
Fandom: Star Trek reboot
Pairing: Jim/OCs, pre Jim/Spock
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, don’t make any money off of them, please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Rough sex, mentions of child abuse, meld-memories playing havoc, Jim has parental issues up the ying yang, Winona Kirk bashing.
Author’s Notes: Apparently my brain can break Jim Kirk, too. The fic is mostly Jim centric, with a couple barrels of angst thrown in as Jim feels his way into being a captain and gaining friends. I wrote this drunk (yes, all of it), so I blame vodka for this mess, yes I do. Also, since I can’t find the stepdad’s last name, I gave him the last name of the guy who did his voice over from the film. Also? I loathe the character Winona Kirk’s actress plays on House. Loathe. Hence the bashing.
Much thanks to moonfairyhime for the awesome beta job!
Part One
James Tiberius Kirk pressed his fingers to the thick, industrial slab of plastic that served as a window in his quarters. Outside, the long circular curve of the space port filled his view. Windows, like tiny snapshots into the station, were filled with the assortment of Starfleet uniforms, peppered here and there with the flat black of the Fleet Marines. The Federation was phasing the small military force out, unit by unit, but some of the older captains and admirals still requested them for their ships.
The Enterprise was twelve months into her first five-year mission. They’d had two diplomatic missions, one Admiralty escort, a four-month patrol of an eerily quiet neutral zone and one unremarkable nebula study under their belt.
James T. Kirk was bored.
Twelve months of butting heads with his first officer, twelve months of Uhura’s constant critical eye, of Bones obsessing over the disease of the week, of Sulu leaving the parking brake on twice and the computer misunderstanding Chekov to the point of flooding deck twelve. Twelve months of drowning in paperwork, twelve months of clashing with Spock over mission reports, status reports, daily reports, crew evaluations and the evaluation of Kirk’s attitude. Twelve months of long nights, plagued by dreams he couldn’t - wouldn’t - remember when he woke. Twelve months of flirting, smiling, six missed chances and two lovely ladies on both diplomatic missions, all lost because every time Jim turned around either Uhura was there or Spock to drag him to heel.
James T. Kirk was horny as hell. Sure, he might flirt with whomever Bones had on staff in the medical bay, but Jim wasn’t about to dip in the company ink. He could just bet the Admiralty was just looking for a reason to take the Enterprise from him. Any rumor about Captain Kirk chasing skirts or tail on his own ship and Jim could bet he’d be busted down a rank and forced to serve under the worst stickler for rules the Admiralty could find.
If they could find one worse than his current first officer. Despite the old Spock’s claim that the two of them had been the best of friends - the younger Spock couldn’t seem to stand being anywhere near Jim. On duty, the Vulcan was professional, seamless, almost like he was on the same wavelength as Jim. Off duty, Spock would beat a fast retreat, always with Uhura and sometimes with a Vulcan frown on his face for whatever attempt Jim had made to entice the pair into a night in the crew lounge. Goddamn annoying Vulcan.
His door chimed. Jim considered ignoring it - but he was the cptain and a captain was always on duty when he was aboard his ship. And besides, what if it was Spock?
“Enter.”
Bones was framed against the dimmed light of the hall. “Jim?”
“Come on in.”
Bones had on his old bomber jacket Jim hadn’t seen since their cadet days. “Come on, old dog,” Bones jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” Jim swung his legs to the floor.
“Out, you know,” Bones rolled his eyes. “Space port, bars, lovely ladies and local rot gut. Move it.”
“Can’t, Bones,” Jim clasped his hands together, soaking up the expression on the man’s face. “I’m on duty ‘til eight hundred hours.”
The muscle above Bones’ left eye ticked. “You feeling all right, Jim?”
“Feeling fine. Hey, did you know they found six new strains of the Marian Flu in Fleet space ports?”
“Jim!”
“What?”
“Not funny.”
“I thought it was.”
The tick had turned into a twitch. “James Tiberius Kirk.”
Jim ran a hand over his hair and summoned up a grin for his friend. “Tomorrow, Bones. We’ll party until the Marines have to escort us home, all right? But I’m on call until morning right now.”
A slow smile tugged the corner of McCoy’s mouth. “Never thought I’d see the day you turned down a chance to play hooky for something responsible. I’m almost proud.”
Jim flipped him the bird.
“Tomorrow, Jimmy?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go get Chapel to comfort you,” Jim waved at the man. He got the finger in response and the man’s laugh as he trailed out the door.
When the doors closed behind McCoy, Jim let the grin drop. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shoulders curled tight, then let them drop. Enough. Enough. He opened his eyes and let his gaze land on the second drawer down on the right of his desk. Maybe it was time to try out the sleeping pills he’d gotten from the last diplomat’s daughter. Anything, if it let him sleep - a sleep without dreams.
Twenty hundred hours the next night found Jim in a bar next to McCoy, on his third drink of the night. It was packed, dim, the strobe lights of the tiny dance floor slicing over the hunched line of professional drunks that lined the stools of the bar. Merchants of all shapes and sizes - a Klingon in a far corner - and enough sticky goo on the floor convinced Jim that he was unlikely to see a Fleet face in the crowd besides his and Bones’.
There were enough lovely ladies on the dance floor to stir his interest, but it was the roving eye of the large guy in the black shirt that made Jim’s mouth go dry.
“So help me God, I know that look,” Bones said at Jim’s ear. Then the sharp hiss and shocking pain of the hypo spray hit his neck, causing Jim to jump and yelp.
“What the hell?” Jim clapped a hand to his neck and turned to his friend.
“Payback’s a bitch, asshole.”
“You fucker!”
Bones rolled his eyes at him and stuck the hypo in his pocket. “Your latest flu shots, on the house. Figured I’d get you now before you bring back god knows what onto my ship.”
“Your ship -”
Hands settled on Jim’s hips. “He bothering you?”
McCoy made a face and turned back to the neat line of shot glasses that were arranged in front of him. “Naw,” Jim said, turning in the loose hold. Definitely human, well over six foot and with enough muscle that labeled him either hired security or a Marine on leave. Either way, it didn’t matter to Jim.
“Wanna get out of here?” The man was pressed up close enough for Jim to feel his heat.
“Fuck yes,” Jim said.
In the merchant’s area, hotels were lined cheek to jowl with the bars. It was easy to find a room within stumbling distance of the bar, easy to press hard credits that would leave no trail into the hand of the bored Andorian behind the scratched plexiglas window, too interested in the program about blooming flowers on the vid to make note of their faces. It was easy to find the room, easy to let the man pull Jim inside and then press him up against the door, sharp and a little rough, just like Jim had been hoping for.
Jim liked his ladies soft, their smooth curves spilling into his hands. He liked to please them, hear them moan. He liked to be the one to bring them to orgasm, he liked being in charge, the protector, the stronger one to lift them up and hear them gasp with delight. Women were beautiful, gorgeous creatures he wanted to make happy, the ones he wanted to make smile and laugh.
Jim liked his men strong. He liked them rough, big enough to pin him down, to wrest that tight control away from him - but only sometimes. Jim liked his ladies, liked buying them dinner and presents and everything. His men were one-night stands who never knew his name. Too dangerous, too tempting, otherwise. Still, Jim liked his men when he liked his men and that night he was definitely feeling the rough hands that striped them bare, the way the man mouthed dark bruises on Jim’s neck and collarbone. Jim liked the way he was pinned to the bed, spread open and tongue fucked until he was gasping into the comforter. He liked the dark stripe of bruises that were sure to shackle his wrists as the man drove into him until they were both panting, shuddering messes.
Jim definitely liked the way the man was up for round two - and then a quickie round three, hard and rough against the shower wall as the hours of Jim’s leave ticked to a close.
All in all, Jim declared the whole night a win.
Part Two
Author: jezebel_rising
Rating: NC17
Fandom: Star Trek reboot
Pairing: Jim/OCs, pre Jim/Spock
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, don’t make any money off of them, please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Rough sex, mentions of child abuse, meld-memories playing havoc, Jim has parental issues up the ying yang, Winona Kirk bashing.
Author’s Notes: Apparently my brain can break Jim Kirk, too. The fic is mostly Jim centric, with a couple barrels of angst thrown in as Jim feels his way into being a captain and gaining friends. I wrote this drunk (yes, all of it), so I blame vodka for this mess, yes I do. Also, since I can’t find the stepdad’s last name, I gave him the last name of the guy who did his voice over from the film. Also? I loathe the character Winona Kirk’s actress plays on House. Loathe. Hence the bashing.
Much thanks to moonfairyhime for the awesome beta job!
Part One
James Tiberius Kirk pressed his fingers to the thick, industrial slab of plastic that served as a window in his quarters. Outside, the long circular curve of the space port filled his view. Windows, like tiny snapshots into the station, were filled with the assortment of Starfleet uniforms, peppered here and there with the flat black of the Fleet Marines. The Federation was phasing the small military force out, unit by unit, but some of the older captains and admirals still requested them for their ships.
The Enterprise was twelve months into her first five-year mission. They’d had two diplomatic missions, one Admiralty escort, a four-month patrol of an eerily quiet neutral zone and one unremarkable nebula study under their belt.
James T. Kirk was bored.
Twelve months of butting heads with his first officer, twelve months of Uhura’s constant critical eye, of Bones obsessing over the disease of the week, of Sulu leaving the parking brake on twice and the computer misunderstanding Chekov to the point of flooding deck twelve. Twelve months of drowning in paperwork, twelve months of clashing with Spock over mission reports, status reports, daily reports, crew evaluations and the evaluation of Kirk’s attitude. Twelve months of long nights, plagued by dreams he couldn’t - wouldn’t - remember when he woke. Twelve months of flirting, smiling, six missed chances and two lovely ladies on both diplomatic missions, all lost because every time Jim turned around either Uhura was there or Spock to drag him to heel.
James T. Kirk was horny as hell. Sure, he might flirt with whomever Bones had on staff in the medical bay, but Jim wasn’t about to dip in the company ink. He could just bet the Admiralty was just looking for a reason to take the Enterprise from him. Any rumor about Captain Kirk chasing skirts or tail on his own ship and Jim could bet he’d be busted down a rank and forced to serve under the worst stickler for rules the Admiralty could find.
If they could find one worse than his current first officer. Despite the old Spock’s claim that the two of them had been the best of friends - the younger Spock couldn’t seem to stand being anywhere near Jim. On duty, the Vulcan was professional, seamless, almost like he was on the same wavelength as Jim. Off duty, Spock would beat a fast retreat, always with Uhura and sometimes with a Vulcan frown on his face for whatever attempt Jim had made to entice the pair into a night in the crew lounge. Goddamn annoying Vulcan.
His door chimed. Jim considered ignoring it - but he was the cptain and a captain was always on duty when he was aboard his ship. And besides, what if it was Spock?
“Enter.”
Bones was framed against the dimmed light of the hall. “Jim?”
“Come on in.”
Bones had on his old bomber jacket Jim hadn’t seen since their cadet days. “Come on, old dog,” Bones jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” Jim swung his legs to the floor.
“Out, you know,” Bones rolled his eyes. “Space port, bars, lovely ladies and local rot gut. Move it.”
“Can’t, Bones,” Jim clasped his hands together, soaking up the expression on the man’s face. “I’m on duty ‘til eight hundred hours.”
The muscle above Bones’ left eye ticked. “You feeling all right, Jim?”
“Feeling fine. Hey, did you know they found six new strains of the Marian Flu in Fleet space ports?”
“Jim!”
“What?”
“Not funny.”
“I thought it was.”
The tick had turned into a twitch. “James Tiberius Kirk.”
Jim ran a hand over his hair and summoned up a grin for his friend. “Tomorrow, Bones. We’ll party until the Marines have to escort us home, all right? But I’m on call until morning right now.”
A slow smile tugged the corner of McCoy’s mouth. “Never thought I’d see the day you turned down a chance to play hooky for something responsible. I’m almost proud.”
Jim flipped him the bird.
“Tomorrow, Jimmy?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go get Chapel to comfort you,” Jim waved at the man. He got the finger in response and the man’s laugh as he trailed out the door.
When the doors closed behind McCoy, Jim let the grin drop. He closed his eyes for a long moment, shoulders curled tight, then let them drop. Enough. Enough. He opened his eyes and let his gaze land on the second drawer down on the right of his desk. Maybe it was time to try out the sleeping pills he’d gotten from the last diplomat’s daughter. Anything, if it let him sleep - a sleep without dreams.
Twenty hundred hours the next night found Jim in a bar next to McCoy, on his third drink of the night. It was packed, dim, the strobe lights of the tiny dance floor slicing over the hunched line of professional drunks that lined the stools of the bar. Merchants of all shapes and sizes - a Klingon in a far corner - and enough sticky goo on the floor convinced Jim that he was unlikely to see a Fleet face in the crowd besides his and Bones’.
There were enough lovely ladies on the dance floor to stir his interest, but it was the roving eye of the large guy in the black shirt that made Jim’s mouth go dry.
“So help me God, I know that look,” Bones said at Jim’s ear. Then the sharp hiss and shocking pain of the hypo spray hit his neck, causing Jim to jump and yelp.
“What the hell?” Jim clapped a hand to his neck and turned to his friend.
“Payback’s a bitch, asshole.”
“You fucker!”
Bones rolled his eyes at him and stuck the hypo in his pocket. “Your latest flu shots, on the house. Figured I’d get you now before you bring back god knows what onto my ship.”
“Your ship -”
Hands settled on Jim’s hips. “He bothering you?”
McCoy made a face and turned back to the neat line of shot glasses that were arranged in front of him. “Naw,” Jim said, turning in the loose hold. Definitely human, well over six foot and with enough muscle that labeled him either hired security or a Marine on leave. Either way, it didn’t matter to Jim.
“Wanna get out of here?” The man was pressed up close enough for Jim to feel his heat.
“Fuck yes,” Jim said.
In the merchant’s area, hotels were lined cheek to jowl with the bars. It was easy to find a room within stumbling distance of the bar, easy to press hard credits that would leave no trail into the hand of the bored Andorian behind the scratched plexiglas window, too interested in the program about blooming flowers on the vid to make note of their faces. It was easy to find the room, easy to let the man pull Jim inside and then press him up against the door, sharp and a little rough, just like Jim had been hoping for.
Jim liked his ladies soft, their smooth curves spilling into his hands. He liked to please them, hear them moan. He liked to be the one to bring them to orgasm, he liked being in charge, the protector, the stronger one to lift them up and hear them gasp with delight. Women were beautiful, gorgeous creatures he wanted to make happy, the ones he wanted to make smile and laugh.
Jim liked his men strong. He liked them rough, big enough to pin him down, to wrest that tight control away from him - but only sometimes. Jim liked his ladies, liked buying them dinner and presents and everything. His men were one-night stands who never knew his name. Too dangerous, too tempting, otherwise. Still, Jim liked his men when he liked his men and that night he was definitely feeling the rough hands that striped them bare, the way the man mouthed dark bruises on Jim’s neck and collarbone. Jim liked the way he was pinned to the bed, spread open and tongue fucked until he was gasping into the comforter. He liked the dark stripe of bruises that were sure to shackle his wrists as the man drove into him until they were both panting, shuddering messes.
Jim definitely liked the way the man was up for round two - and then a quickie round three, hard and rough against the shower wall as the hours of Jim’s leave ticked to a close.
All in all, Jim declared the whole night a win.
Part Two