how fast we burn
title: how fast we burn
universe: AOS/TOS
pairing: Kirk Prime/Kirk
author: reogulus
rating: NC-17
wordcount: ~1400
warning: a frankly alarming amount of selfcest
disclaimer: Not mine, not real, not used for profit
summary: In which an undercover mission on the edge of space turns into some one-night-stand.
notes: I don't really have any excuse for writing this other than I want to paint a picture of The Shat and Pine making out in my head. As usual, many thanks to introductory for the hand-holding.
They meet at a dingy and anonymous bar of an old Andorian outpost, where the boundaries between universes are thinned. It doesn't take him long to recognize himself from across the room, and surprised as he is, he should have figured.
They are both here to investigated the unregulated space-and-time traveling that's been going on in the area, on duty but in plain clothes, following secret orders from Starfleet command.
The other Jim-he calls himself Kirk-buys themselves drinks. The android bartender doesn't even look at them twice.
The first words out of his mouth are "tell me about our father".
Kirk studies him for a moment. "He was a good man. A good husband and a good father."
"That's what I want to hear." He didn't mean to sound acidic, not really. It's just that verbal filters don't work as well in a conversation with oneself.
"He died on you, didn't he?"
"The day of my birth and the day of his death. I can show you the textbooks if you'd like."
"No thanks," Kirk touches his shoulder. "Finish your drink."
He does, and Kirk removes his hand when his glass is empty. He looks over his shoulder to meet the older man's eyes, still waiting for the strangeness to sink in.
It never did.
He buys the next round, and the next. They talk some more, about work, their ship, their friends, their crew. It's like thinking about stuff in the shower except he's saying them out loud. By the time words start slurring between them the bar is practically empty.
"Spock is gonna beam here in t minus 5 hours. I better get going."
"T minus 7 for me." He offers his hand. "Nice meeting you."
Kirk hops off the bar stool and reaches for his hand. It's like two identical puzzle pieces fitting together except they shouldn't, and Kirk doesn't let go even after the pretentious handshake, just as he thinks he's gonna have to make the first move.
He should have figured, really.
His other self pushes him against the door of some dark room. Judging by the faint, rhythmic chirping of equipment and the small signal lights that flicker in his peripheral vision, he knows they're in the gravity control room, but that's only one of a million thoughts roaming through his head as those familiar hands snake up his shirt. Their foreheads touch but they don't kiss, focused instead on mapping out the body pressed up against his own, groping for control with their breaths heavy and teeth bared.
He thinks about his preference for older partners and laughs, taking charge for the first time since they've met and locks their lips together. Fingers nest themselves effortlessly in his hair as his tongue finds itself at home in another mouth, tasting of the same alcohol, the same irrational obsession. The physical contact gets painful at the point when they realize the congruence of their physique has ceased to be of consequence, because of how jarringly different their lives have shaped their minds.
"I'm not you," the words slip out, almost an afterthought. They stop kissing and he presses his lips against the corner of the jawline that he knows is sensitive. He makes quick work of the foreign trousers' fastenings; as expected, his fingers meet no protest. A sharp nip at the base of his neck sends shudders down his spine as he yanks the waistband down the hips indistinguishable to his own.
"Right, because you're a little shit and a half," says his older self from another life when he wraps his fingers around his cock. Rightly so. He curl his fingers at a slightly shifted angle, the way he liked it since age twelve. The choked-off gasp is the very predictability that he's loathed all his life yet somehow delivers a satisfaction that he never imagined possible. Soon enough, a bite on his bottom lip sends him moaning into Kirk's mouth.
"Enjoying yourself?" The richer, deeper voice taunts him before he spits into his palm and starts pumping with a vengeance, aware only dimly of the heat rising in his own base. Strong, callused hands move down the small of his back and knead him through his pants.
"Likewise," he grunts, knowing it's only a matter of time before those hands fish a small packet of lube out of his back pocket. When he hears the quiet chuckle and the small sound of the package being ripped open, he says nothing, just kicks his pants off and rubs his aching erection against its carbon copy.
His other self groans into the hollow behind his earlobe, closes a slicked palm around their cocks and begins to stroke languidly. He closes his eyes; the wet, hot friction is almost enough to send him over the edge, but stamina is a competition even when it isn't. He can feel Kirk's right hand fitted against the curve of his ass, the cool, slippery fingers maneuvering leisurely down the cleft. He pushes back against the teasing hand and whimpers into the other man's shoulder, terrified but grateful for how easy this is.
He hears a hoarse whisper of profanity before feeling a fingertip probing gently around his hole. He wraps both hands around their cocks and begins pumping again, smiling when he feels them stir at the same time. Kirk doesn't need further prompting to shift his full attention to his backside, spreading his cheeks much more effectively this time around. He leans against the door and hooks a leg around the other man's waist to give him better access, his eagerness uninhibited in front of the one person who knows exactly how badly he wants-needs this.
The first finger slides into him and their eyes meet for the first time since they've torn each others' clothes off, the hazel brown to his crystal blue, the most obvious fault in the replica but almost, almost comforting in a way that he can't quite comprehend.
He grabs the man's ruined shirt to kiss him again, eyes wide open, drawing deep breaths from borrowed lungs. His body doesn't fight it like it does with his other hook-ups (you're so fucking tight a dozen different voices gasped in unison). Kirk is unexpectedly careful with this-it kind of makes him wonder if his counterpart gets laid just as much on the other side of destiny.
Then a second finger slides in without warning and he digs his nails into Kirk's shoulders, a curse hanging on the tip of his tongue when they brush against his prostate. He moans, teeth grating on Kirk's lips. He allows himself to be lost in the sensation for a half moment before running his thumbnail across the tip of Kirk's erection, teasing a shudder out of the thick, weathered body.
The knuckles bend to their task and scrap against the sweet spot inside him, slowly and surely, at an angle that he's always had trouble finding when getting off on his own. Someone's cock is leaking in his loose fist, maybe both. He doesn't care anymore, jerks them hard and fast in numbness and urgency.
In some vague corner of his head not overtaken by the biology, he wonders if he is being indulged the name of consolation for all the sufferings that are yet to come, wounds which remain uncharted to the young, scars that are carried in another galaxy.
He wonders, because he will never get the answer he wants. Then orgasm carries them over the edge in one, swift tide and he can't be bothered to piece together his thoughts anymore, when the synchronized franticness of their heartbeats have drowned out all else.
Back against the door and embraced by arms interchangeable with his own, he feels at home for the first time in a place without a warp engine. Out of nowhere, his knees buckle with a tremendous, unfathomable relief. He drags the other Kirk down with him as he collapses onto the floor. The silence swallows them whole and he doesn't fight the loneliness when it catches up to him this time.
"Are you gonna be all right?" asks Kirk as they finally get to cleaning up.
"Probably," he pauses and adds, "I mean, you seem to have turned out fine."
The older man smiles and disappears behind the unlocked pneumatic doors. He's grateful for his silence, the tacit understanding which stems from being a good liar, particularly to oneself.
The comm chirps. He answers to transmit his coordinates and confirm that he will be ready for the landing party in four hours, then lies back down on the dusty floor and drifts off to sleep.
universe: AOS/TOS
pairing: Kirk Prime/Kirk
author: reogulus
rating: NC-17
wordcount: ~1400
warning: a frankly alarming amount of selfcest
disclaimer: Not mine, not real, not used for profit
summary: In which an undercover mission on the edge of space turns into some one-night-stand.
notes: I don't really have any excuse for writing this other than I want to paint a picture of The Shat and Pine making out in my head. As usual, many thanks to introductory for the hand-holding.
They meet at a dingy and anonymous bar of an old Andorian outpost, where the boundaries between universes are thinned. It doesn't take him long to recognize himself from across the room, and surprised as he is, he should have figured.
They are both here to investigated the unregulated space-and-time traveling that's been going on in the area, on duty but in plain clothes, following secret orders from Starfleet command.
The other Jim-he calls himself Kirk-buys themselves drinks. The android bartender doesn't even look at them twice.
The first words out of his mouth are "tell me about our father".
Kirk studies him for a moment. "He was a good man. A good husband and a good father."
"That's what I want to hear." He didn't mean to sound acidic, not really. It's just that verbal filters don't work as well in a conversation with oneself.
"He died on you, didn't he?"
"The day of my birth and the day of his death. I can show you the textbooks if you'd like."
"No thanks," Kirk touches his shoulder. "Finish your drink."
He does, and Kirk removes his hand when his glass is empty. He looks over his shoulder to meet the older man's eyes, still waiting for the strangeness to sink in.
It never did.
He buys the next round, and the next. They talk some more, about work, their ship, their friends, their crew. It's like thinking about stuff in the shower except he's saying them out loud. By the time words start slurring between them the bar is practically empty.
"Spock is gonna beam here in t minus 5 hours. I better get going."
"T minus 7 for me." He offers his hand. "Nice meeting you."
Kirk hops off the bar stool and reaches for his hand. It's like two identical puzzle pieces fitting together except they shouldn't, and Kirk doesn't let go even after the pretentious handshake, just as he thinks he's gonna have to make the first move.
He should have figured, really.
His other self pushes him against the door of some dark room. Judging by the faint, rhythmic chirping of equipment and the small signal lights that flicker in his peripheral vision, he knows they're in the gravity control room, but that's only one of a million thoughts roaming through his head as those familiar hands snake up his shirt. Their foreheads touch but they don't kiss, focused instead on mapping out the body pressed up against his own, groping for control with their breaths heavy and teeth bared.
He thinks about his preference for older partners and laughs, taking charge for the first time since they've met and locks their lips together. Fingers nest themselves effortlessly in his hair as his tongue finds itself at home in another mouth, tasting of the same alcohol, the same irrational obsession. The physical contact gets painful at the point when they realize the congruence of their physique has ceased to be of consequence, because of how jarringly different their lives have shaped their minds.
"I'm not you," the words slip out, almost an afterthought. They stop kissing and he presses his lips against the corner of the jawline that he knows is sensitive. He makes quick work of the foreign trousers' fastenings; as expected, his fingers meet no protest. A sharp nip at the base of his neck sends shudders down his spine as he yanks the waistband down the hips indistinguishable to his own.
"Right, because you're a little shit and a half," says his older self from another life when he wraps his fingers around his cock. Rightly so. He curl his fingers at a slightly shifted angle, the way he liked it since age twelve. The choked-off gasp is the very predictability that he's loathed all his life yet somehow delivers a satisfaction that he never imagined possible. Soon enough, a bite on his bottom lip sends him moaning into Kirk's mouth.
"Enjoying yourself?" The richer, deeper voice taunts him before he spits into his palm and starts pumping with a vengeance, aware only dimly of the heat rising in his own base. Strong, callused hands move down the small of his back and knead him through his pants.
"Likewise," he grunts, knowing it's only a matter of time before those hands fish a small packet of lube out of his back pocket. When he hears the quiet chuckle and the small sound of the package being ripped open, he says nothing, just kicks his pants off and rubs his aching erection against its carbon copy.
His other self groans into the hollow behind his earlobe, closes a slicked palm around their cocks and begins to stroke languidly. He closes his eyes; the wet, hot friction is almost enough to send him over the edge, but stamina is a competition even when it isn't. He can feel Kirk's right hand fitted against the curve of his ass, the cool, slippery fingers maneuvering leisurely down the cleft. He pushes back against the teasing hand and whimpers into the other man's shoulder, terrified but grateful for how easy this is.
He hears a hoarse whisper of profanity before feeling a fingertip probing gently around his hole. He wraps both hands around their cocks and begins pumping again, smiling when he feels them stir at the same time. Kirk doesn't need further prompting to shift his full attention to his backside, spreading his cheeks much more effectively this time around. He leans against the door and hooks a leg around the other man's waist to give him better access, his eagerness uninhibited in front of the one person who knows exactly how badly he wants-needs this.
The first finger slides into him and their eyes meet for the first time since they've torn each others' clothes off, the hazel brown to his crystal blue, the most obvious fault in the replica but almost, almost comforting in a way that he can't quite comprehend.
He grabs the man's ruined shirt to kiss him again, eyes wide open, drawing deep breaths from borrowed lungs. His body doesn't fight it like it does with his other hook-ups (you're so fucking tight a dozen different voices gasped in unison). Kirk is unexpectedly careful with this-it kind of makes him wonder if his counterpart gets laid just as much on the other side of destiny.
Then a second finger slides in without warning and he digs his nails into Kirk's shoulders, a curse hanging on the tip of his tongue when they brush against his prostate. He moans, teeth grating on Kirk's lips. He allows himself to be lost in the sensation for a half moment before running his thumbnail across the tip of Kirk's erection, teasing a shudder out of the thick, weathered body.
The knuckles bend to their task and scrap against the sweet spot inside him, slowly and surely, at an angle that he's always had trouble finding when getting off on his own. Someone's cock is leaking in his loose fist, maybe both. He doesn't care anymore, jerks them hard and fast in numbness and urgency.
In some vague corner of his head not overtaken by the biology, he wonders if he is being indulged the name of consolation for all the sufferings that are yet to come, wounds which remain uncharted to the young, scars that are carried in another galaxy.
He wonders, because he will never get the answer he wants. Then orgasm carries them over the edge in one, swift tide and he can't be bothered to piece together his thoughts anymore, when the synchronized franticness of their heartbeats have drowned out all else.
Back against the door and embraced by arms interchangeable with his own, he feels at home for the first time in a place without a warp engine. Out of nowhere, his knees buckle with a tremendous, unfathomable relief. He drags the other Kirk down with him as he collapses onto the floor. The silence swallows them whole and he doesn't fight the loneliness when it catches up to him this time.
"Are you gonna be all right?" asks Kirk as they finally get to cleaning up.
"Probably," he pauses and adds, "I mean, you seem to have turned out fine."
The older man smiles and disappears behind the unlocked pneumatic doors. He's grateful for his silence, the tacit understanding which stems from being a good liar, particularly to oneself.
The comm chirps. He answers to transmit his coordinates and confirm that he will be ready for the landing party in four hours, then lies back down on the dusty floor and drifts off to sleep.