A/N: Well. This is officially the longest one-shot I have ever written, weighing in at a square 8,000 words. I've been working on it all day, because it just absolutely refused to leave me alone. And it's also the most fun I've had in a while. This is based off of the st_xi_kink_meme prompt: It's a dance club. Spock is that guy that dances with a really serious face. Uhura is the life of the party in her minidress. Kirk looks great with glitter eyeshadow. McCoy got dragged here and is being all grumpy and can't be pulled away from the bar. Needles to say, what began as a simple idea transformed into the monster you have below. And it was SO MUCH FUN to write! Spock is the character that I have the most trouble writing, and yet it seemed only right to tell at least part of the story from his perspective. So forgive me if the characterizations are off. I did try to keep them in character, but I took a couple of liberties, based upon the fact that this is slightly AU. Spock is still Spock, but he's also a younger version, who is not the First Officer of a starship. Nor is Jim a Captain. They're just teenagers, and I rolled with that. Any and all grammatical errors are completely me (and it's three in the morning, so there probably are some). Enjoy!!!
Warning: If the summary didn't already tell you this little fact, this does include slash pairings. Two, actually. One is Spock/Kirk. It's the main one, and thus is quite important. And no, it's not graphic--not really--but there is some detail. So if you don't like it, just back away right now. As for the other pairings...you'll just have to read and find out!
Disclaimer: Maybe Santa will bring them for Christmas. But probably not, because I am a twisted, twisted little fan fic writer who does bad things to fictional characters.
Rhythm and Sweat
The music is so loud that he thinks his head is about to explode. It's heavy and rhythmic and the bass is so loud that it makes the floor hum and vibrate beneath his feet. He'd give anything to be able to turn around and flee, but Nyota has a death grip on his arm as she leads him through the pulsating crowd. There are people everywhere, pressed against each other, bodies shifting against each other to the music. As they work their way through the crowd people press against him; it's uncomfortably hot from being in such close proximity to dozens of other people. Hands skim over him, tugging on him, but Nyota just keeps her grip on him, pulling him along. It's dark, but there are a swirl of colored lights that flash and shift and throw patterns across the floor and the crowd.
He honestly thinks he might throw up. And he's seriously wondering how Nyota managed to talk him into this madness.
They finally reach the other side of the crowd and emerge into an open space, where the press of bodies is not so stifling and the air is cooler. Barely cooler, but enough. He's used to heat, yes, but not when it comes from a sheer amount of body heat. Sweat rolls down his back and he tugs at his collar, feeling as though the stiff material is choking him. Nyota is leaning over the bar, batting her eyelashes at the bartender, but he's too busy to even notice. A moment later she presses something cool into his hand; he knocks back the drink without even thinking about what it is.
Good thing alcohol doesn't affect him the way it does humans. Of course, at the moment he seriously wishes that it did. He's not sure that he can stand this place without some form of sustenance.
And god, it's so loud that he can't even think. That's never happened to him before.
He leans in to his ex-girlfriend, who perches on the edge of barstool, leaning against the bar with a smirk on her face. "Nyota!" He shouts, raising his voice to be heard over the music. She looks at him and flashes him a smile. She knows perfectly well how uncomfortable he is, but he's fairly sure that she likes seeing him squirm. Perhaps maintaining a friendship with his ex was not such a logical choice after all.
"Having fun, Spock?" She shouts back. He shakes his head fervently. He doesn't care how much displays of emotion are frowned upon by his culture; his expression quite clearly shows just how uncomfortable he is in this place and he's not even bothering to hide it. He wants to leave and now. She shakes her head at him and he sees the flash of vindictive amusement in her expression.
Human females, apparently, are illogical creatures whose emotions cannot be determined even through careful examination. And they are also impossible to please and demand expectations that cannot possibly be met.
"Loosen up, Spock!" She says, giving him a flash of a smile. He straightens his posture and looks down at her, arms behind his back.
"I do not understand your idiom," he begins. She just rolls her eyes.
"You understand perfectly," she shoots back. "You are just being stubborn." She grabs his collar and pulls his face down closer to hers. He could very easily resist, but he decides to humor her in this instance. "Listen to me, Spock," she says, her lips right up against his ear. Her voice is determinedly pleasant, but he knows her well enough to hear that undercurrent of danger, the do-as-I-say-or-you're-in-trouble. "Enterprise is the hottest club in San Francisco. People wait in line for hours to get in this place, and we managed to get in because I batted my eyes at the bouncer—."
"Actually, Nyota," he interrupts, "I believe that you 'made-out' as you call it—."
"Spock," she hisses, and he falls silent. "We got in, and you are damn well going to enjoy yourself, do you understand me?"
"I find no appeal in this form of physical sexual stimulation—."
She rolls her eyes. "It's not sex, Spock, it's dancing."
He glances at the writhing crowd. "It appears to be a primitive form of mating ritual—."
She grabs his arm and yanks him off balance, pulling him into the depths of the crowd. Bodies press against his as they move to the beat. When they are quite firmly in the midst of everything she turns and presses her body flush against him. "It's dancing, Spock," she shouts over the music, her body moving. He remains firm and stiff even as she moves against him. "Now loosen up and go with it."
"I do not understand—."
She slaps a hand over his mouth, shutting him up. "Just move to the beat. I've seen you spar; I know you aren't all stiffness. You can be fluid; you're just a stubborn little Vulcan who doesn't want to." She tilts her head. "Think of it as an experiment in the cultural pastimes of human youth." She backs away a little, still moving to the rhythm of the music that pulsates.
Well, if she puts it that way…it could be interesting.
"You…," Leonard H. McCoy says, looking over his best friend in disbelief, "look ridiculous."
He's hoping that the words will get through to his friend, that he'll get that puppy-dog expression and then turn around and go inside and forget this whole escapade. Or, at the very least, change into something that isn't so…well, sinful pops into his mind, but so does gay as a fairy.
But Jim Kirk just gives him a come hither, seductive grin with bedroom eyes, and he knows that nothing he says is going to get him out of this. "Don't lie, Bones," Jim says, "you know you want me."
He shudders. Granted, he can't deny that Jim does, in fact, look quite attractive—as well as completely over the top and out of his freakin' mind—in the black tank top that hugs close to his torso and shows off his arms and the black pleather—seriously? Pleather?—pants that leave nothing to the imagination. And—good god is that glitter? He's fairly sure that Jim does not sparkle this much in the light under normal circumstances. Thankfully, however, Leonard McCoy is one-hundred and fifty percent straight. He's managed to last this long as the eccentric man's roommate without jumping ship, so he's fairly confident in his sexuality by now.
He shakes his head. "Well, if anyone didn't already know you were out of the closet, this would sure as hell do it."
Jim grins at him. "Bones, Bones, Bones. I was never in the closet."
He rolls his eyes. "Oh, that's right, you're not gay, just a manwhore."
For a moment Jim looks offended, drawing himself up. "I prefer connoisseur of the carnal pleasures." Then he claps him on the shoulder, that dangerous, foolhardy grin lighting up his face. "C'mon. My adoring fans await."
Reluctant to the end, he lets himself be dragged off down the street. This is going to be a long night.
When they finally arrive at the Enterprise they walk right in, courtesy of Jim's 'connections' (aka, the fact that he banged the bouncer). Jim is immediately in his element, greeting people left and right—damn kid seems to know everyone, though McCoy isn't sure how he knows them—and shaking his ass to the music. He, on the other hand, rolls his eyes, cuts straight through the crowd, and heads for the bar.
The bartender—Montgomery Scott, affectionately known as Scotty—is probably the only person that he truly, honest-to-god likes right at this moment. Scotty gives him a grin. "The usual, Bones?" He says, using Jim's nickname for him. By this point in time the nickname is everywhere, so he doesn't even bother to fight it anymore. He just nods, and the man plunks a drink down in front of him. He takes a long sip of it and hums in pleasure as it burns its way down his throat.
And then Jim appears at his side, leaning over the counter, and completely disrupting the moment of peace. "Hey Scotty!" The oh-too bubbly man exclaims, his grin broad.
Scotty grins back at him, and as the two engage in some conversation that he doesn't care to follow he swivels on the chair and faces out towards the crowd, looking to see anyone he knows. Not that he cares, much. And then he stops, his eyes wide.
"Holy shit, she got the hobgoblin to come!"
"The what?" Jim says, staring at him. Scotty, on the other hand, knows exactly what he's talking about, and scans the crowd with more excitement than is necessary. Of course, he's not looking for the hobgoblin; he's looking for the she.
He can't even manage to speak. Instead he merely raises a hand and points. In the midst of the crowd Nyota Uhura is dancing with some random guy, while another man—who looks completely uncomfortable and out of place—is attempting to dance. It's a half-assed attempt, sure, but it's an attempt all the same.
McCoy doesn't know whether to laugh his ass off or just keel over from shock at the sight of Spock trying to dance. "I can't believe she got him out of his laboratory." He says with a shake of his head, turning back. There's a slightly mournful look on Scotty's face, and he gives a wistful sigh.
"Thass her boyfriend, right?"
He smiles. "Ex-boyfriend, Scotty." He says, and the Scotsman's eyes light right back up.
He hears Jim faintly say: "That's her ex?"
He folds his arms, smug. "I knew you had a thing for her." Scotty opens his mouth in an attempt to protest, then shrugs.
"Aye," he admits.
Jim reaches across the bar and claps the man on the shoulder. "Well, Scotty, she's back on the market. And I'm pretty sure that roguish accent of yours will just make her swoon right into your arms." As he talks, Jim isn't looking at Scotty. He's looking right into the center of the crowd. He's sure as hell not looking at who he thinks he is…is he? McCoy follows his gaze.
He is. Jim's eyes are unflinchingly trained on Spock, and there's that slow grin working its way across his lips. There's that familiar gleam in his eyes—the one that always gets him into trouble. He groans low in his throat, part horror, part resignation for what he knows is coming.
"Jim…," he says, growling a warning. The man just flashes him that damned smirk and looks at Scotty.
"Whaddya say to making your first move on Uhura, eh Scotty?" The bartender looks simultaneously nauseous and excited. "I've got a plan."
Scotty nods hurriedly, and then pauses. "I cannae leave the bar…."
"Nonsense," Jim says, with a wave of his hand. "Bones can man it. He's an alcoholic as it is; he's surely capable of tending a bar."
"I am not an alcoholic, and I am not…." He trails off in his protest, caught by the pleading look in Scotty's eyes. He's used to puppy-dog eyes from Jim, but on a six foot Scottish bartender they just look ridiculous. And they work, dammit. "Oh fine. I'll cover the bar." He fixes Jim with a look. "But you had better not be even thinking about doing what I think—."
Jim just smiles and smiles and starts to slip into the crowd. McCoy grabs his arm, pulling him around. "You're crazy. You know that, right? Do you have any idea of who that is?"
Jim pulls himself free, slippery little snake that he is. "The man who I would love to have handcuffed to my bed while I do nasty, nasty things to him?" He cheekily responds. And then he's disappearing into the crowd while McCoy is trying to hold back his bile. He rolls his eyes and slides behind the bar, then sits back to watch the show.
He's never seen Jim get his ass kicked by a Vulcan before. It makes for a promising performance.
To say that he is uncomfortable is an understatement of the highest degree. Unfortunately, Nyota seems completely unaware of his plight—or, perhaps, she is purposely ignoring the looks that he keeps giving her. He wants to believe that she is not doing this on purpose, but logically speaking he knows quite well that she is perfectly aware of how off-kilter he is.
Especially as a young brunette woman presses close against him. She is wearing very flimsy, revealing clothing that leaves very little to imagination. When Nyota had walked out her front door wearing the dress that she is wearing he had raised one eyebrow but made no further comment, but now he sees that in comparison Nyota is dressed perfectly normally. The woman pressing against him insistently, however, is wearing little more than underclothing. And she makes a point to keep looking up at him, her lips pouty in what he assumes must be an attempt at seduction. And she continuously thrusts her breasts upwards at him, perhaps assuming that he likes seeing that, as his gaze keeps wandering there. The opposite is true, but his gaze keeps dropping there quite naturally.
He feels like he's choking. His clothes are hot and itchy against his skin, and the constant wandering hands of the woman are making him very uncomfortable. She runs her hands over his skin and he has to use every ounce of control to not shudder away in disgust. Her lust is quite evident, and it makes his stomach churn.
He would attempt to leave, if he were not firmly enclosed on all sides by people. And Nyota is not helping. She's been dancing with male after male, completely ignoring him. Not that he wants that kind of attention from her, not anymore, but still! All in all he's just flustered.
And he very much wants this woman to stop. Touching. HIM.
The crowd parts to let two men through. As he tries to again break out of the woman's grip he wonders how the men managed to do such a thing. The crowd is an impenetrable wall to him, and yet these men seemed to have no trouble in working their way through. Indeed, everyone seems to nod and part to allow the leader through, as though he is some kind of royalty. He's dressed in all black, and while his clothing is not nearly as provocative as this woman's attire it is still…scandalous. He's never seen a man dressed in such a fashion before.
Fascinating, he thinks. And then the woman's hands are roaming all over him again and his attention is brought back to the problem at hand. Still, he watches the man as he saunters his way through the crowd, followed by a man that he recalls seeing behind the bar at one point. The man in black makes his way to Nyota, flashing her a smile. The roll of her eyes suggests that she does not share the same sentiments of excitement at seeing him.
"Kirk," she says shortly.
"Nyota!" He says. He takes her hand and pulls her away from the man she has been dancing with. Said man looks irritated for a moment, but quickly finds a new partner. Spock shakes his head. He will never understand the fickle nature of humans regarding romantic relationships and interests. "Mind if I cut in?"
She rolls her eyes and puts a hand against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly back. "As a matter of fact, I do mind."
The man—Kirk?—just grins inanely and shrugs. "Oh well." He nods his head at the man behind him. "I guess you'll just have to dance with Scotty here, then."
Scotty grins broadly and takes Nyota's hand. "Would ye care for a dance, milady?" He says, polite and formal, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. She blushes, and licks her lip.
"I-I suppose that would be nice, Scotty." She says, pressing close to him. There is a blissful look on Scotty's face, and Kirk makes some kind of gesture at him, slowly closing one eyelid and then opening it again. The meaning behind such a gesture escapes him, but apparently the point of Kirk's interruption was to allow this other man to dance with Nyota.
Fascinating, he thinks again. And then grinds his teeth together as the woman—who still has not realized just how unwelcome her advances are—brushes one of her hands against his own. It takes all of his self-control not to send her sprawling to the ground. He knows perfectly well that assaulting a female is not acceptable, no matter the circumstances.
Still, if she doesn't get away from him and soon he just might lose all sense of rationality.
It's at that moment that the man in black—Kirk—looks over at him. Their gazes meet, and he is shocked by the intensity of those blue eyes. His mind babbles at him that the color is perfectly natural, if more vivid than he has ever encountered, but it's not the color that intrigues him. It's the determination. The man smiles at him. It's a different kind of smile than he showed before. The others were bright and flashy, where this one is more…well, to be honest, he doesn't know. He's never tried to define the complexities of human emotions before, not like this.
Kirk walks over towards him and taps the woman on the shoulder. She turns, her body pulling away from his, and he can finally take a deep breath, trying to clear his mind and push his emotions down. Full meditation is what he really needs, but he's too aware of the music and the heat and the contact of other people to even clear his mind at all. When he opens his eyes he finds Kirk grinning at the woman.
"Mind if I cut in?" He asks. His voice is a slow drawl, with some kind of faint accent on the broad vowels. The woman smiles a seductive smile and nods eagerly. For a moment—irrationally—he feels a flash of irritation.
Humans of both sexes are illogically fickle when it comes to displays of physical attraction, he notes mentally. The woman goes to press herself against Kirk—for which he is impossibly grateful for—when the man smiles, side-steps her, and steps closer to Spock. The woman's eyes flash and then she turns and disappears into the crowd, and he is left to try and regain control of himself.
"It looked like you needed some help," the man says, leaning in so that his voice can be heard over the music. "The name's Jim." The man, thankfully, doesn't attempt to touch him, though his hand twitches a little at his side, as though he stills a motion.
"I—appreciate your intervention," he says slowly. "I am Spock."
Jim smiles at him again, and he shifts on his feet. Not because he's uncomfortable—no, never because of that—but because his weight has been place on his left side for too long and for the sake of balance needs to be shifted to the right. "You're not very comfortable here, are you?"
"I do not understand the appeal of this form of physical stimulation. It is illogical."
Jim steps closer, into his personal space. "Ah, but it's fun."
"'Fun' is also illogical. It serves no purpose, just as this 'dancing' fulfils no necessary function."
The man's smile seems…inviting. "I disagree," he says, and his eyebrow arches upwards towards his hairline. "Dancing is a form of communication. Non-verbal and primitive, yes, but it communicates some of the most necessary messages."
"Fascinating." His eyes widen as he realizes that he's spoken aloud; that thought was meant for the interior of his mind only. The fact that he spoke without thinking means that he is definitely losing control over himself. He fully blames his surroundings, but realizes that is not an excuse. He should be more in control than this. Yet it is increasingly difficult as the man steps even further into his personal space. Their bodies are close now, close enough to feel the heat.
Jim smiles up at him—the blonde man is approximately three to four inches shorter—and leans closer. "Isn't it? I can teach you, to dance, if you'd like."
He swallows. "I find no reason why I should participate in such primitive actions," he says, his tone holding even.
And that smile just keeps giving. "You're half-human, aren't you?" The man says. For a moment he loses his composure, his mouth dropping over. The man seems delighted by this obscene display of emotion, and he quickly controls himself, schooling his features to blankness. Clearly he has underestimated this Jim Kirk, who seems to know exactly who he is. "And even if you weren't, you love learning." There's nothing hostile or unpleasant about the man's expression, nothing that says he is dangerous, and yet he knows these things…. "I'm offering a lesson. An insight to the human psyche, if you will."
His eyebrow lifts even further. It's interesting, that these humans seem to recognize his inability to back down from a scientific experiment, and that they manipulate this to their advantage. "I accept," he hears himself say. Fact of the matter is that Jim Kirk intrigues him.
In the next minute he regrets that decision, as Jim steps even closer and their bodies press together. He swallows and clears his throat. "What are your intentions in this?" He asks. And Jim blinks up at him, a curl to his smile.
"Oh, I have intentions," the man breathes. He blinks. What, exactly, does that mean? He has the odd feeling it is meant as a sexual innuendo, but of course that would be impossible…. "The best way to show you how to dance is to show you, Spock. And that means dancing with you."
He is uncomfortably aware of the man's close, close proximity. Jim isn't touching him the way the woman was—not yet, he thinks—and isn't touching him with his hands at all, but their chests are pressed together, their groins close together. "Is it not illogical for two men to 'dance' together?"
Jim gives him a smirk and nods towards something behind him. "They certainly don't seem to think so."
He is referring to a couple not too far from them, and Spock's eyes go wide at the sight of them. Even more so at the fact that he knows one of them. He's absolutely shocked to find Hikaru Sulu dancing—if you could really call it that at all—with a gangly, curly haired kid who looks far too young to even be allowed into the club. Their hands are all over each other, their bodies curling around each other. Sulu's lips are on the kid's neck, sucking, and the kid's head is thrown back, his eyes closed. It's obscene. It's illogical. It's…fascinating.
"This is not at all reminiscent of older forms of dance," he says, his gaze still locked on the shocking sight. Granted, he's been surrounded by that all night, but he hasn't really taken any of it in until now.
His gaze is torn away as Jim presses close again. "True," the man says. "This form of dance is called grinding most often. It's a form of dance that belongs to the young."
Grinding. The term is oddly apt for this form of writhing bodies and obscene action, much more appropriate than dancing. Jim touches him with his hands for the first time, and he nearly jumps at the shock of the touch; the man's hands grip his waist firmly but gently. He looks down into the man's blue eyes and finds that it's difficult to breathe.
It's all because of the heat and the crowd, of course.
"You see, Spock," Jim says, beginning to move his body to the music. And since his body is pressed right up against his the feeling is…well, unexpected, to say the least. He stays firm and unyielding, but he's pretty sure that just makes things worse. "There are all kinds of things that this form of nonverbal communication can convey." The blonde man sounds perfectly at ease, his tone completely unflustered. He sounds almost…Vulcan. "It can convey sexual attraction or possessiveness or—," he leans up, "pure, animal lust." Ah yes, not so Vulcan anymore. "You can be pressed right up against the person you lust for. You can feel their heart beat. You can feel the heat of their body. You can feel their hands all over you, and know that you are theirs."
It's even harder to breathe, and Jim's gaze holds him. The man's body moves against him, fluid and strong. It's nothing like the woman from before. It's nothing like even Nyota. It's something new and entirely unexpected.
Over Jim's shoulder he sees Nyota look up and then freeze, Scotty stilling behind her. There's a look of pure shock on her face, then she grabs Scotty's hand and tugs him over.
"Kirk, what the hell are you doing?" She hisses. And Jim just gives her another of those slow gestures where his eyelid closes and opens again. Nyota looks from the blonde man to him and then tugs Scotty through the crowd at a breakneck pace.
Jim leans up, so close, and his breath his hot on his neck as he says: "All you have to do is move, and you can feel everything."
By the time Scotty and Uhura come racing up to him he's completely forgotten—which really means buried in the depths of his mind—Jim's foolhardy quest to get his ass kicked. He's been working, dammit; because the minute Scotty left his post there was a rush of people begging to get drunk.
When the pair does come hurrying up to the bar he points a menacing finger at Scotty. "You," he growls out. "I damn well better get paid for this!"
Scotty opens his mouth to reply, but Uhura cuts him off, slamming her hands onto the bar and leaning in. "What the hell is he doing?" She shrieks.
He tilts his head to the side. "Who?"
She whirls and points her finger out into the crowd. He looks in the direction she's point and his mouth drops open. Then he leans back against the bar, hands scrambling for support. "What the hell is he doing?" He says. Because Jim Kirk is definitely in the middle of the crowd with his hands on Spock's hips, and the green-blooded hobgoblin is actually dancing with him.
It's at this point that Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov—their hands still all over each other—come prancing up the bar, wide grins on their faces. "What's up?" Sulu says, a little breathlessly. He looks over the bar. "Bones? You work here now?"
He shakes his head, still speechless, his gaze still locked on the sight of his best friend. "Coverin' for Scotty," he manages to say. Sulu and Chekov look at the three of them.
"Um, are you guys alright?" Sulu says. He just raises a finger and points at Jim and Spock. The couple turns to look and Sulu lets out a long whistle. "Hot damn! Didn't see that one coming."
Uhura whirls. "McCoy, what is Kirk doing?"
"Et seems fairly obwious vhat Jim ez doing," Chekov says, a smirk on his face. Uhura glares at him and he gives a little squeak, then attempts to hide behind his boyfriend.
"This would be fine and dandy, except for one little detail. Spock's not gay." She straightens up. "Jim's going to get his ass kicked."
"Technically," he finally says, clearing his throat, "Jim's not gay either."
She snorts. "Oh please. Jim Kirk is gayer than fruit bat."
He shakes his head, though he can't help but smirk at her comment. "No, he's just a manwhore. Or, a 'connoisseur of the carnal pleasures' as he put it earlier."
She shakes her head. "That's not going to fly with Spock."
He shrugs, looking out at the crowd. Unbelievably Spock has yet to send Jim flying across the room, and Jim seems to be behaving himself. Their motion is simple back and forth swaying, pressed close together, nothing fancier than that, and Jim's hands have yet to stray from their position on the Vulcan's hips. Then he narrows his eyes on Uhura. "Why are you so worked up anyway? Still got feelings for the ex?"
She scowls at him. "No. We are just friends. And I don't want to see him get hurt by Jim—I'll screw anything that walks—Kirk."
He raises an eyebrow at her. "Do you already have a new man in your life, then?"
She looks confused. "No. Why?"
He and Sulu and Chekov all grin. "You are holding hands vith Scotty," Chekov says. Uhura looks down, and sure enough her fingers are intertwined with the Scotsman's fingers. They look up at each other and immediately blush, looking quickly away from each other while they take back their hands. He cackles.
"So you and Scotty, eh?" Sulu teases, his grin wide.
"No," the two say at the same time.
Sulu and Chekov look at each other, amused, and then in perfectly identical falsetto voices say: "Denial!" For a moment Uhura looks like she's going to storm away in a huff, but she just turns her back on the couple and looks out into the crowd. Silence falls between them. And then:
"Ten creds says that Spock gives him a black eye."
"Twenty says Spock strangles him."
"Fifty says that they start a fight and get kicked out of here."
"One hundred says that they make out."
Everyone turns to look at him, and he just grins wickedly.
He knows Jim Kirk, and that gives him the advantage. He pours a round of drinks for everyone and they settle in to watch.
He's fairly sure that his friends are lurking at the bar discussing what the hell he is doing and making bets on the outcome. And that makes him smirk, because he is James Tiberius Kirk and he knows exactly what he's doing.
He's seducing a Vulcan. Who happens to be the hottest thing he's ever laid eyes on. And who has the added bonus of not just making his neither regions twitch, but of also making his heart skip a beat. It's something about the eyes, he thinks. The warm brown, not all that different from Bones' eyes, but so intense and so determined and so pointedly emotionless. He knows there's a whole realm of emotion waiting to be discovered behind that mask, and he's bound and determined that he is going to be the one to bring it out.
And he thinks that it's starting to work, just a little bit. Because Spock is still stiff as hell against him, but he is moving. Just swaying a little and his body is a little less tense. He nods. "Good," he says soothingly. He's coaxing, using every inch of his charm. This isn't just a simple game of seduction like he's used to. It's easy for him to seduce women—and even men. He can do it with his eyes closed, can do it with his hands tied behind his back. The right word in the right tone with the right look in his eyes, and they just swoon. But Spock…he's a challenge. Regular seduction tactics won't work, because casual contact is a huge taboo to him, and displays of emotion are frowned upon. He's all about formality and stiffness and control. That's the key to unraveling him, slipping that control right out from under his feet.
Jim just has to get inside first.
"Just close your eyes," he says. He's purposely pitching his voice low, so that the other man has to lean in to hear his words. "Close your eyes and listen to the music." Spock gives him a look and then obediently closes his eyes. He's actually a little surprised that he listened at all. "Listen to the rhythm. Listen to the beat." He tightens his fingers on Spock's hips and pulls him closer, grinding their pelvises against each other. Spock's eyes fly open for a moment, but after a pointed look they close again. He sways his hips, and then begins a circular motion, using his fingers to guide Spock's hips in the motion. "Listen to the music," he says, lowering his voice and smirking when Spock leans in ducks his head down. "Feel the music."
Gently, slowly, he moves one hand. The other hand stays on the man's hips, holding steady, while the other hand glides upwards. He can feel Spock tense, but he keeps the motions slow and soft. He runs his fingers up the Vulcan's torso, and can't help but shiver, his own eyes closing involuntarily. He can feel the body beneath the fabric that separates them, and his heart starts to beat faster. He slides his hand upwards, pausing where the human heart would be. Then he slides his hand down again, and around to his back, pausing midway down, right around where a human liver would be. He can feel the heart beat furiously against his palm, even though the layers of fabric and skin. "Feel the music," he whispers again.
And, just like magic, some of the tension leaves Spock's body. The man is moving now, his hips swaying, their crotches meet, and—oh dear god—Spock's hand tentatively touches Jim's hip, and then those long fingers are clutching his hips and pulling him closer.
He thinks he's died and gone to heaven. He's sure of it.
He opens his eyes and finds that the Vulcan's eyes are still closed, and that his head is thrown back a little. He grins. Phase one: complete. Moving on to phase two.
He relinquishes his grip on Spock's hip. Keeping one hand over the Vulcan's heart he lets the other hand skim upwards, higher and higher, skimming over the firm muscles that lie beneath the shirt. He hums a little in sheer pleasure, and his hand reaches the man's neck. His fingers play there for a moment, delighting in the feel of fiery hot bare flesh, and then his hand goes up even further, tracing the strong chin, and then—he can't contain his delighted smile—dancing still farther up.
At the bar Uhura—who is quite possibly drunk—is leaning forwards on her barstool, squinting out into the crowd. She leans forwards so far that both he and Scotty have to reach out and grab her to keep her from faceplanting. Yep, she's definitely drunk. No more drinks for Nyota Uhura.
There's an incredulous expression on her face, and it's not from the fact that she almost fell off a barstool.
"He's going to touch the ears!" She shrieks. "I didn't touch the ears until our second date! What the hell?"
Behind her a broadly grinning Sulu is collecting a nice little chunk of change from Scotty and Chekov. He just shakes his head and downs another shot.
With one finger he traces the contour of the pointed ear, fascinated by the shape and the point. Spock makes a low sound in his throat—a moan if he's not mistaken. And those fingers grip his hips even tighter, until he's sure there are going to be bruises there in the morning. He laughs the sound bubbling up in his throat and escaping. And then, with a wicked smile, he lets both of his hands travel down, down, down.
He's not quite sure if it's the sheer amount of alcohol she's consumed or just her sheer outrage, but damn if Uhura isn't loud.
"He's touching his ASS!"
This is completely, utterly illogical. He knows that. It's the thought that keeps drumming over and over in his head. Of course, there's another, much louder thought that is pushing logic away. And that thought is: I do not care.
He knows it's illogical. He knows that he should pull away from this blue-eyed man and make his way quickly out of this whirling, confusing place. He should go and retreat and meditate, regain control of himself. But he doesn't want to. Right now he is most certainly not Vulcan. Right now he is one hundred percent the other half of his heritage.
And he loves it.
It is illogical for him to be churning his hips in this circular motion, grinding his groin against Jim's; it is illogical for a moan to rise in his throat when the man's hands glide up his torso or trace the contour of his ears—oh his ears. Nyota had been the first to discover that his ears were such a center of pleasure, but Jim's fingers sliding over the sensitive organ is infinitely more pleasurable than it had been when it was Nyota performing the same act. He wonders at that a little, at the fact that an act of sensual pleasure can be magnified by amplified attraction to a person.
And then Jim's hands cup his rear and their bodies are thrust harder against each other. In his defense, the physical reaction that occurs from such an action is purely instinctual. His control is lost at this point, and there is no helping the physiological reactions occurring in his groin area. He feels heat rush to his face—a blush?—but he cannot help but feel pleasure at the same time, as the movements of their body forces contact between his hardness and Jim's leg.
His eyes flash open, because now all he feels is embarrassment. His face grows hotter, and he moves to pull away, but Jim grabs him and holds him tight. And now he feels a similar hardness press against him. He glances down once and his eyes widen. Jim grins, and there is a challenge in the human's eyes.
He holds Jim's gaze as the man's hands move again. One comes up, to glide against his neck, then to curl around, and those fingers touch his ear again. He closes his eyes, trying to hold back the moan. And then Jim's other hand comes to rest lightly on his wrist, and his eyes are open in an instance. He knows where this is going. And what is about to happen crosses every last line and boundary. Jim's fingers encircle his wrist, light, feather touches. He licks his lips and meets the blonde man's vivid gaze.
Jim leans in and upwards, his breath hot on his neck.
"Trust me," he whispers, and he hears every word. He holds the blue gaze and nods once.
It is illogical, yes, but he is beyond reason now.
"He's going to touch his hand!" Uhura shrieks. Her eyes are almost comically wide and she teeters in her seat, so much that Scotty reaches out and makes sure he has a firm grip on her waist, just in case she starts to fall again. "I didn't touch the hand until the fifth date!"
He rolls his eyes and looks at Scotty. "Isn't there anything you can do to shut her up?" He says peevishly. Scotty gets a wicked grin and takes Uhura's hand. She looks at him, falling silent for a moment.
"C'mere, lass," he says, and then tugs. With a shriek she tumbles forwards, right into his arms. Where he proceeds to kiss her soundly. Sulu and Chekov make catcalls, while McCoy sits back and folds his arms, grinning.
"I'm pretty sure Jim didn't mean that she would actually swoon into your arms, Scotty," he mutters. He turns to talk to the other couple only to find their lips locked as well. He sits back for a moment with a frown, arms folded. "Why the hell does everyone else get to make out and not me?"
There's a whistle that catches his attention, and he looks over to see a familiar blonde leaning across the bar. "Looking pretty fine back there, McCoy," Christine Chapel says, batting her pretty blue eyes at him. "I didn't know you were working here."
He grins slowly at her. "I'm not, darlin'. Just coverin' for a friend," he says, with a nod at Scotty and Uhura, who have yet to surface for air. Chapel looks at them and smirks.
"Good friend that you are then."
He props his elbows against the bar and leans in towards her. "What can I get the pretty lady from the bar?"
She flutters her eyelashes at him. "I don't know." She looks him up and down, letting her gaze linger. "Why don't you surprise me?" He straightens up, smirking at her.
"That I can do darlin'."
Perhaps tonight isn't as hopeless as it seemed.
He is fighting a losing battle against the moan that is climbing up in his throat. His eyes are closed in pure ecstasy, as Jim's fingers caress his palm; brush against his, stroke the back of his hand—it is as though his skin is on fire. He's burning from the inside out, his nerves humming and tingling. He feels dizzy and euphoric, acutely aware of every little motion that Jim makes, aware of every place where their bodies touch.
And he craves more.
There's a teasing, amused glimmer in those blue eyes; he's positive that the human is doing this on purpose. Jim knows exactly what he's doing to him, and he takes pleasure from that. He finally has to take his hand back, because any more and he might just pick the human up and carry him to a more private place. He's panting, just slightly, and Jim raises his eyebrows.
"I believe that any further contact of that kind might result in loss of control," he explains, although he's sure the human is already aware of this. Jim smirks at him.
"Maybe that's what I want," the human whispers.
His eyebrow arches. And then he decides that a minor form of revenge is quite necessary given the circumstances. He places one hand at the base of Jim's neck, gratified to see the shiver that courses through the man. Those blue eyes meet his, full of wanting and desire. Seeing such emotion openly displayed is still foreign to him, but it is not undesirable. At least, not now, not in this person. It is, in fact, fascinating.
Then he lowers his head. It is the only logical course of action that if the human uses Vulcan physiology against him, the action should be returned. And the bundles of nerves which result in pleasurable stimulation in humans are very much located in the oral area of the body.
Halfway through her second drink Chapel happens to glance through the crowd. And then she freezes, nearly dropping the drink in her hand.
"Is that Jim and Spock?" She asks, in scandalized tones of shock and awe. He rolls his eyes, lifting his own gaze.
"Probably. What are they up to now?" He scans the crowd, and the moment he lays eyes on the kissing couple he blanches. "Oh sweet mother of God I didn't need to see that!" He looks at Scotty pointedly. "Don't you dare let her turn around," he says, motioning at Uhura. Scotty gives him a thumbs up and quite thoroughly distracts her. With his lips, of course.
McCoy reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of an unlabeled substance. He pours it into a shot glass and the shakes the bottle at Chapel, grinning. "Want to wipe memories of seeing the hobgoblin play tonsil hockey with my manwhore friend? This is guaranteed to do the trick!"
She holds out her glass and he pours a generous amount in. Then he raises his shot glass and clinks it against her. "To forgetting," he says, and lifts the shot to his lips.
She waits until the liquid is sliding down his throat before she says, with a wide smirk: "To playing our own game of tonsil hockey."
He quite nearly chokes, as she delicately sips her drink, the epitome of innocence with a devil's smirk on her face.
By the time that the club begins winding down—people disappearing left and right, stumbling off to pass out in their beds or to perform other interesting acts in bed—Jim is dead on his feet. But he has a grin a mile-wide, and even Spock is sporting a tiny expression of happiness. He guides the man over to the bar, to where their friends are. The state he finds them in is…comical, to say the least.
Chekov is on the ground, leaning his back against the bar, giggling maniacally, while his boyfriend looks at him upside down and has a fit of giggles himself. To say that they are drunk is an understatement. Uhura is passed out cold in Scotty's arms; said Scotsman has a blissful look on his face as he looks at the sleeping woman. And Bones—whose face is bright red; probably from all the alcohol he's consumed—is supporting a giggling Chapel.
He looks at his best friend and waggles his eyebrows lewdly. "Have fun, Bones?"
The man just raises an eyebrow back at him in response.
Spock looks at Uhura with something akin to concern on his face. Scotty, noting the expression, waves a hand. "She's fine laddy. Just had a wee bit too much t' drink. She'll have a nasty headache come the mornin', but she'll be fine."
Sulu giggles. "She'll also be pissed when she finds out she's down three hundred creds," he says, and then bursts into a fit of laughter, as though he just told the funniest joke in the world. Spock raises an eyebrow, while he grins.
"And why is she down three hundred?" He asks, with a knowing smirk.
Bones looks right at Spock and nods. "She bet on you resisting the seduction of one James T. Kirk. S'probably why she drank so much too." He shakes his head.
For a moment Spock looks mildly offended. Then he draws himself up, wrapping his composure around himself, and says in a completely serious voice "She told me to 'loosen up'. I merely followed her advice."
There is silence, and then everyone—minus Spock and Uhura—bursts into laughter. Jim places a hand onto the Vulcan's shoulder. "Oh that's priceless. Make sure you tell her that in the morning when she's coming after you with a phaser set to stun." He shakes his head and looks at the group. "Ready to head out?"
Bones jabs a finger at him. "Listen up, kid. After the hell you've put me through, you're sleeping somewhere else tonight." The man gives Chapel a sidelong look and she gives him an equally desiring look. Jim grins wider and looks sideways at Spock.
"You know what Bones? I think that can be arranged."
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