Fic for withthepilot
Title: Carving Up the Wall
Fandom: Star Trek XI / Hawaii 5-O AU
Pairing: Kirk/Sulu
Rating: NC-17
Betas: Many, many thanks to leftarrow.
Notes: Written for withthepilot for the kirk_sulu exchange.
Declaimer: I do not own these characters and court no profits with this fanwork.
Jim Kirk lives above a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown, his shoebox apartment tucked anonymously atop the neon glare of humming “OPEN” signs and fluorescent ads that stand like watchtowers against the urban night.
Electric light glosses over the wet stairs that zig-zag precariously up the side of the restaurant’s back entrance. Sulu ambles up them two at a time, propelled by body memory and a sincere fucking need to get out of the hazy rain.
The exposed skin of his neck feels over hot, the cheeks of his face red with a flush that won’t recede. He’s on the other side of the longest seventy-two hours of his life, every muscle in his body screaming fatigue, eyes sandy for want of sleep. But there’s this wild current crackling under his skin, a white noise buzzing in the tips of his fingers, all the nerves tapping out Morse code - move, move, move.
The Vulcan Task Force is dead, along with half the Honolulu PD and Sulu is alive without really knowing why.
He left Chekov squirreled away in his lab, where he can’t be talked out of his guilt. Uhura slipped out with the Detective Sergeant (Spock, Sulu reminds himself) hours ago with none the wiser, neatly dodging all manner of security and scrutiny. McCoy’s at the hospital running roughshod over the staff while he tries to save Governor Pike’s spine.
They’re the ones left alive.
They’re the ones who are Five-0 now.
It’s ashes in his mouth. The taste of the dead sitting bitter on his tongue.
When Sulu left Iolani Royal Palace there was still blood on his teeth and grit under his nails. Bits of glass in his hair and the smell of gun powder.
He needs to know if it’s the same for Kirk.
The door’s unlocked. It always is.
Kirk’s apartment is a library. Nothing but shelves and bookcases creating their own boxy little skyline, slotting neatly along the few meager bits of furniture Kirk managed to squeeze in.
Sulu sheds his coat and slips out of his holster, picking his way through Kirk’s idiosyncrasy with the ease of long practice.
He finds Kirk with a book in his hands, not reading it. Just holding it in his scraped hands.
His jacket is gone, tie draped loosely around his shoulders, the buttons of his dirty shirt undone. Sulu can see the odd little freckle of scar tissue at his bare collarbone and is reminded of how much he knows Kirk respects distance and loves speed.
Sulu drags his tongue across the edge of his teeth and watches Kirk watch him in the blue flicker of tired street lights.
He wants to fuck, or be fucked. Be dragged down and devastated by it until he can feel his body again. The gun shot still hammers in his head. The dead are still falling, and that crazy bastard is screaming over the sirens that he’d rather die than be rescued -
Kirk’s mouth crushes Sulu’s, the force nearly knocking him off his feet. Sulu hooks an arm around his neck and kisses back, hard as he can.
McCoy saw this once, when he and Kirk were tangled up half way across Sulu’s desk, fingers pulling mean at fabric, nothing but clicking teeth and wet mouths fucking right there in the middle of lunch and McCoy had called them animals.
It’s true. Whatever it is they bring out in each other, Sulu wouldn’t call it nice or well adjusted. He and Kirk aren’t the dinner-and-movies types and never could be. Living in the silence where their secrets overlap and in the sound of squealing tires and the way Kirk says “Book’em, Sulu” like it’s both the best joke in the world and the only compliment he believes in.
He never asks Sulu about his contacts in the drug trade or why he carries a knife, and Sulu never mentions the Kelvin case or the easy way Kirk has with the prostitutes, how they don’t trust anyone but him.
Stacks of books topple like buildings, and Sulu shoves that thought out of his head by shoving against Kirk, half-hard and trembling. He licks the bitter dregs of beer from Kirk’s mouth and yanks at his belt, growls when bites at his jaw, his own fingers urgent, picking at Sulu's clothes.
For a moment it’s nothing but the pound of his heart, and the wild thrill that still cracks through the center of him every time Kirk touches him.
They collide with the coffee table, startling them enough to break apart. Kirk’s eyes are electric blue, like he’s lit up from the inside, a moment away from doing something dangerous. Sulu has a heartbeat to think about how fucking insane this, how insane they are, and then he’s on Sulu. Kirk groans against his mouth, tugging Sulu’s slacks down and off, tossing his shoes and socks before grabbing him by the hips and flipping him.
Bent across the table, Sulu bares his teeth in the dark and plants his feet, letting the dare roll down his spine.
Kirk’s breath against his hole makes him seize, and the flicker of his tongue makes Sulu grunt. There’s always the tiniest moment of disgust for this, a part of himself howling at the impropriety. But the first thrust is all it takes to propel him past it. It’s a dark shock, every time, and Sulu curses for it, a fuck, please, fuck me, for every withdraw and nothing put pure noise for every time Kirk pushes back in.
They both know Sulu can’t come like this, but Kirk fucks his hole like maybe this time he will.
It goes on until he’s grinding back into Kirk’s mouth, until he’s wet and open, trailing spit across the coffee table every time he tosses his head. And just like that Kirk stops, drawing the whine out of him, the high, wrecked pitch of it unreal to his own ears. But then there are fingers digging into the hollows of his hip bones, cock nudging that ring of muscle -
Kirk’s teeth at his neck say you are here, and his hand splayed over Sulu’s heart scratches out I have you.
Maybe Sulu sobs for it. Maybe he rocks into the fuck, hands scrambling for purchase as lust pulses through him, heat coiling low in his belly for the obscene slap of skin and the way Kirk hits that spot inside him - desperately, fiercely alive while the rest of him is sure he shouldn’t be.
“Stay with me,” Kirk’s hand slides down Sulu’s belly and squeezes his cock, hard, thumbing a wet crown around the head. His voice is gravel over glass, as wrecked sounding as Sulu feels. “Don’t fucking -,” his rhythm stutters, and the next thrust hits just *there*, and Sulu feels himself spasm around Kirk. “Don’t fucking leave, Sulu -”
Orgasm punches the breath out of him, makes his vision spotty. It shakes him apart and leaves him boneless while Kirk stills and comes, dropping his weight across Sulu’s back.
Light is just beginning to filter in through the windows when Sulu wets his lips, takes a breath and find’s Kirk’s hand.
“You jumped off a building after me.” His own voice is strange and raspy.
Chapped lips ghost the juncture of his shoulder. “Yeah, I did.”
“Thanks.”
Kirk’s fingers tighten around his, threaded neatly, like it’s where they belong.
“Any time.”