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Title: Submit, Fight, Fail, Fall (or why you can't fight the blood that's in you)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] akainagi
Rating/Warnings/Spoilers: NC-17 / Spoilers for XI
Fandom/Pairing/Prompt: Star Trek AOS AU, Kirk/McCoy
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Star Trek.
Summary: Spawned by Word Wars over at [livejournal.com profile] jim_and_bones. Jim Kirk is an omega with a chip on his shoulder. He's convinced all alphas are assholes. Then he meets one that isn't.
Author's Note: This fic features the alpha/beta/omega trope. For a background on this trope check out the fanlore wiki HERE.



[CHAPTER 9]


Leonard could identify the exact moment, over six months into their friendship, when all his preconceived notions about Jim Kirk were unceremoniously tossed out the window. The old phrase began ’you think you know a guy …’. And that was the thing, really.

He had thought he knew Jim Kirk.

One moment they were eating in the mess, padds strewn about the table, both of them in the midst of their own personal academic purgatory, the next moment Jim was making a rather sudden and decisive bid to leave.

Jim had been uncharacteristically subdued when they met up for supper and an impromptu study and bitch session (okay, the bitching had been mostly Leonard). Leonard tried not to think about the fact that this was the most regular social life he had enjoyed since his marriage went to hell. Sad.

Leonard had been studying (read: glaring at) his notes for interspecies medical ethics when the sharp noise of silverware clattering made him look up. Jim sat in front of his barely-touched supper, his face twisted into an unreadable expression. He noticed Leonard’s regard and gave a thin smile of apology.

“I’ve had it,” Jim said simply.

“You referring to the food or Starfleet in general?" Leonard drawled. "‘Cause if it’s the former I’d have to say the whole campus agrees with you. If it’s the latter, I’ve been fed up with them since I got on that damned shuttle back in Iowa.”

Normally Jim would have made a wisecrack in return, possibly joining in on the Iowa-bashing. Apparently his hometown had a distinct lack of fond memories. Instead his face remained pleasantly neutral, plastered with what Leonard called a ‘company smile’ – the kind of expression you put on in front of people when you were trying to snow them as to what you were actually thinking.

The doctor’s eyes gave Jim the once over. Jim’s color was high, though not alarmingly so. And he definitely appeared to be disguising some form of discomfort. On impulse and compelled by years of training and practice, Leonard reached over the table, intending to lay the back of his hand over his friend’s forehead.

The result was not so much a flinch as it was an immediate and total strategic retreat. Jim pushed back his chair hastily, his eyes fixing on Leonard with that same inscrutable expression.

“Jim?” Leonard asked evenly, his voice a mix of I am a doctor and you will tell me what the fuck is going on and I am your friend and you will tell me what the fuck is going on. He was about to say something to either effect when he was jolted by a sharp tug at his nostrils and his gut. The familiar scent of omega pheromones, unmistakable in their similarity, yet unique to each individual, came to him from the only other person in the vicinity.

There was the immediate visceral reaction: a stab of want buzzed through him that was startling in its intensity. He squelched it all the more ruthlessly for his surprise. Leonard watched, wide eyed and momentarily struck dumb as Jim quickly but calmly picked up his padds and shoved them in his bag.

“Gotta go, Bones.”

Leonard quickly regained his powers of speech. “Jim-“

“Sorry, man. Things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like not studying.”

Of course Leonard knew what that meant. Jim Kirk was doing what any omega in his heat was led to do. He was heading off to get laid. The primal part of Leonard’s alpha biology snarled at the thought even as the civilized, modern part of him admonished that he had no say in what or who Jim did.

Jim gave him one last apologetic, more-or-less genuine smile and strode quickly to the exit by way of the recycler, disposing of his tray on the way out.

Leonard blinked and shook his head slightly, trying to shake off the territorial feelings that had gripped him so strongly.

So. Omega.

Leonard sighed and tossed his padd down on the table, abandoning the pretense of studying for the moment. Surely the most atypical omega ever. But then, Jim would have made for an atypical anything. In six months, Leonard had never gotten a decisive bead on where Jim fell in the gambit of human subspecies. Jim had never triggered Leonard’s alpha senses as a rival or as available. Though Leonard would have to be dead not to acknowledge that Jim was startlingly attractive in his own right. Despite that, Leonard had assumed somewhere along the line that Jim was a beta, albeit an extremely extroverted one. But he had always been aware that his assumption had been just that – an assumption.

Of course he could have found out easily enough. He had access to Jim’s personal information through Starfleet medical. But it would be a cardinal breach of medical ethics to do so. And despite what Leonard’s instructor said about his sometimes lack of cultural sensitivity, his ethics were still firmly intact, thank you.

Leonard looked down at his notes with an even deeper scowl than before, trying to regain his tilted equilibrium. The echoing scent and taste of pheromones was rapidly fading from his senses, reminding him of Jim’s hasty departure and the reason for it. Was his friend bedding down with a stranger - maybe someone he picked up in a bar? An anonymous no-strings encounter?

Was it someone Leonard knew?

Leonard didn’t bother to contain his waspish expression. The snarling feeling of jealousy was back, and this time he had no pheromones to blame it on.


[CHAPTER 10]


Jim knew his own body. It was rather difficult not to, when cycle prediction was ingrained in most omegas from their first heat. In the years since his eighteenth birthday, rarely had one caught him by surprise.

When he realized his mistake, he cursed himself for being ten kinds of idiot. Of course his heat would come early. He socialized extensively and in fairly close quarters with a fucking alpha. Not that he would curtail his friendship with Bones for pretty much anything. And hadn’t it scared the shit out of him to realize that? When had he turned into such a needy bastard?

And now Bones knew. The look on the man’s face as Jim had fled the mess was all the proof Jim needed. Fuck.

Jim cut it so close that he barely got the right mix of inhibitors down in time. He remembered politely requesting that his roommate please fuck off for the evening. The other man, a quiet second-year beta in the science track had just looked at him in this pitying fashion that made Jim want to sock him in the jaw. Then the roommate quietly took his padd and left.

Jim dry-swallowed the meds before collapsing on his bed, hand groping between his legs where he’d already begun to, almost painfully, erect. He didn’t even bother to undress in his desperation; he simply shoved clothing aside to accommodate his goal. He had taken the inhibitors far too late this time. It would be the better part of an hour before they began to deaden the feelings of lust and razor-sharp need. The sensation of nothing but Jim’s own hand on his starved flesh sent his brain into violent protest that no no no, this was not what he wanted. But he’d be fucked if he gave his body what it really wanted. Fucked in every sense of the word, actually. He’d be on his knees and the worst part was that he’d want it.

God, this was why he hated being omega. This fucking enslavement to hormones and pheromones. His traitorous body would settle for anyone’s hand on him right now. Even Gary’s abject betrayal all those years ago looked different when viewed through the temporary filter of frustrated desire. If the man was in front of him now, would Jim just get on his knees for him again like nothing had happened?

Jim snarled to himself, gripping his dick almost too tightly, punishing his body for its rebellion. His mind shoved thoughts of Gary away. Instead he brought up faceless objects of fantasy, alternating between the soft yielding flesh of a woman, and the solid planes of a man. More the latter, actually. It had been pointed out once that Jim was a slut for cock. It was probably the only thing Gary had said in two years that wasn’t bullshit.

Orgasm was elusive, as it always was when his hand was doing the honors. Jim’s body stubbornly refused to accept generic fantasy and lonely masturbation as a substitute for the real thing. Jim alternated between firm, slow strokes and decisive jerks, to little avail. An undignified whimper escaped into his pillow. Jim went through every random fantasy from the last four years hoping one of them would bring an end to this torment.

But because Jim’s Kirk’s mind was one contrary motherfucker, it lighted one subject in particular. When Jim gasped out his surprise, it was more like a wanton moan than anything else. Faceless forms and figures coalesced into one that was so very familiar. And that was it. Suddenly Jim was lying in a sweaty frustrated heap in his bed, jacking off to a fantasy of his best friend. His cock wept with approval and the pleasure centers of his brain hummed in agreement.

Jim imagined that body pressed against his back, a hard cock in the cleft of his ass, teasing him into a state of even higher arousal. He imagined that voice (fuck, dear god, that voice) telling him where to touch, how fast to stroke. Making the submission sweet. Christ, he would get on his knees for that voice, and he would do it willingly. Jim’s hand followed his fantasy’s commands to the letter, his mind ecstatically chanting finally, finally. He came suddenly and silently; the feeling was so huge that his voice failed him. He spurted hot and wet over his hand and over the pants that still rode low on his thighs.

He stroked himself through the aftershocks, even though the sensation was too much and just the other side of painful. But the urge to punish was back. The fantasy was gone with his orgasm and he was left with nothing but an empty bed and come stains on his clothes. And the profound sense of loneliness that always chased him in these moments.

The second wave was easier. The sensations were dulled, the urges dampened. But even through the blunt haze of the inhibitors, Jim’s body knew what it wanted. It wanted broad shoulders and strong arms and hard cock and that southern drawl that seemed to simultaneously grab him by the heart and the balls. And his traitorous body was trying to convince his mind to want the same.

Jim Kirk knew plenty about his own body. His body didn’t know shit about Jim Kirk.

[NEXT PART]
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