A/N Characters are not mine. Hope you folks don't mind this; I'm a bit shy about it, really.
There was heat. Darkness. The sounds of frantic breath, warm puffs on his face. A low moan, desperate and needy. A heartbeat, not his own, hammering above him, and lips caressed his face and a deep, breathy voice, whispering, 'Jim'—
The world crashes in around him as he's ripped from his dream by the sound of a screaming alarm at the side of his bed. A noise of despair torn from his throat, obscenities in a startling variety of different languages, all blending into an endless moan. He keeps his eyes shut, slamming his hand down on the snooze and trying to drown back into the darkness, desperately trying to hang on to the edges of that memory, that sweet, sweet memory—
But his brain is alert, synapses firing, and he knows, after a moment, that he has no hope of getting back to sleep. A few more curses spill from his lips, and he opens his eyes.
It was so unfair, that his alternate counterpart had achieved the things that he, the same damn Jim Kirk, could only dream about in the darkness of night and privacy of his quarters. Those fleeting, half buried memories that had been revealed to him, in that tedious and terrible meld with Spock Prime, now haunted his dreams, leaving him aching in desperation for what he knew, in this life, he could never have. Even after all this time, Nero, and a few months spent on the Enterprise with relations improving by the day, when there was just a glimmer, a shimmer of hope—
But no. Jim could not have him.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, pupils dilated, breathing heavily, thoroughly aware of his pulsing erection. Palms rubbed against his strained eyes as he cursed beneath his breath, brain barely working past the haze of sleep and lust.
Kirk rolled onto his stomach, moaning into his pillow, hand moving down to relieve the throbbing extremity. Soft gasps, half sobs, escaped his lips as he moved, languid strokes, imagining those sensitive hands that ran a control panel on his bridge every single day wrapped around him, voice dark as night demanding that he come to him, only to him.
Something like anger rose in his belly, mixing and stirring with the lust. Of course he couldn't have him; he could never, ever have someone like Spock: so cold, so distant, someone who had hated him with a passion unmatched by anyone—
His molars ground together, and he grunted, eyes rolling to the back of his head, clearing his mind, blissfully, from any further thought.
If Jim Kirk had been a stronger man, he would've moved on by now, have left this terrible infatuation buried beneath his patent combination of professionalism and chaotic playboy behavior. But where Captain Kirk led the flagship of Starfleet with unwavering strength, Jim Kirk found himself floundering, drowning, in what could never be more than a fantasy; nothing more than a dream.