The Maenads Sang
Word Count: ~2400
Genre(s): Romance, Humor, Action/Adventure, PWP
Warnings/Tropes: hatesex, airships, Orions being Orions, slight dub-con (what with the Orions being Orions)
Summary: 23rd-century lawyers AU, sequel to "Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful". ksvalentine 2012. Prompt: "Seven minutes in heaven".
The prompt was nice and romantic, the holiday was nice and romantic… and somehow I end up writing a sex-pollen Mission Impossible short? Also, late again. I am going to make myself a sparkly rainbow button, and instead of forever alone it will say forever late.
The Maenads Sang
23:53 14. February. 2258
Maybe they'd spiked the drinks, Jim thought hazily as he slipped around the corner into another darkened hallway packed with bodies. Music pulsed and vibrated in the air, bass pounding as fast and loud as his own heartbeat as he pushed his way forward into the gloom. Hands caught at him, tugging at his suit and stroking over his body as he passed. Behind him, he heard the faintest suggestion of a growl and gave a breathless laugh, moving faster.
Maybe it was the tiny little hors d'oeuvres. Playing hide-and-seek should not be this arousing, his blood all but boiling in his veins and his breath coming in short hot pants as he wove his way through the dancing, writhing crowd. What little air there was left was thick with perfumes and the smell of sex.
The drinks, or the food. Maybe. A more likely scenario, though, was that his pheromone blockers were succumbing to the onslaught of a hundred horny Orions packed into a few thousand square feet, and the ocean of chemical attractants he inhaled with each quickened breath was finally hitting his pitiful human adrenal system like a scorching metric ton of bricks. He laughed again for the pure sensual pleasure of it, and when the hallway ended in a balcony open to the elements he barely paused at all before he planted a hand on the rail and launched himself into space.
Luckily enough, there was a floor not ten feet below and landing hardly hurt at all through the delicious fog clouding his mind. As he staggered to his feet he was vaguely aware of someone dropping neatly into a crouch beside him, and then the blunt pain of Spock's fingers closing around his wrist. Shedding his tuxedo jacket took care of that— it was stiflingly warm, anyway, sweat sliding down his spine, dress shirt sticking damply to his back— and he darted away down a corridor.
"James, stop," the Vulcan ordered harshly, tossing the jacket aside and lunging after him. Jim shot a wild grin over his shoulder and yelled, "Make me!"
Perhaps not the wisest choice of words, because the door he flung open to make good his escape led into a very, very small closet andbefore he could backpedal, he was slammed facefirst into the back wall with Spock's arm like a steel bar across his shoulders.
"James—" the Vulcan started as the door swung gently shut behind them and even the faint light from the moon was lost. Mmmm, there were hands on him, turning him around and the cool touch felt so, so good on his overheated skin. "James?"
"God, Spock," Jim said, voice catching as a dizzying wave of heat swamped his senses. He nuzzled into the Vulcan's collar and breathed out unsteadily against the pulse there. "I could just eat you," and punctuated this with sucking bite, and felt Spock's throat work under his teeth in a hard swallow.
10:24 11. February. 2258
"Yes. Yes, sir. No, I'm sure that won't be a problem."
Jim leaned back in his chair as the client kept talking, making appropriate noises of agreement or demurral and doodling Klingon warbirds in the margin of his briefing notes. His holoscreen was blank but for a slowly descending countdown in red. It flashed 00:04:52:22, meaning that in just under five minutes his very competent PA would oh-so-rudely buzz in with something urgent and Jim could excuse himself from this call with heartfelt apologies, promising to resume the conversation at a later time. For now, though, he said only, "I couldn't agree with you more, sir," and added phaser-fire to warbird's adornments.
With the door closed and noise-proofing engaged, the slight rasp of the pen over paper was the loudest sound in the room. A dazzling spill of sunlight slanted across the floor and gleamed on the glass of his desk, blindingly bright when he leaned further back to feel the faint heat of it on his face.
"Yes, sir, I'm sure they're aware. Absolutely."
The warbird was joined by the U.S.S. Kelvin, a model of which was collecting dust on one of the shelves behind his desk unit. His father had given it to him on his twelfth birthday, and it had followed him from farm to college to law school, and from there to Pike, Cartwright & Wesley.
He glanced up at the soft snick of the door unlatching, and Gaila slunk into his office on four-inch heels and a skirt not much longer. She carried a slim public PADD in her fingers.
"Sir, I hate to do this," he said, mouthing "I love you" at her. "But my assistant just walked in the door and it looks like this needs my immediate attention. Yes, we'll see each other Thursday. Yes. Yes, just like we talked about. Yes, sir."
Gaila propped a hip on his desk and stretched luxuriously in the sunlight, her tiny white skirt riding up her pale green thighs until the hemline bordered on obscenity.
"Mmm, yes. You as well, sir."
She set the PADD on the opaque glass at his fingertips, and digital photos bloomed out over his desktop. Minor celebrities, it looked like, and aerial shots of a pleasure craft out over the bay. Interesting.
Jim took his earpiece out and set it aside, face already angling up for the greeting kiss Gaila brushed against his lips. "You're a gem, Ms. Vro."
"The amount you paid for me would suggest so," she said with an elegant shrug.
"Best souvenir ever," he said distractedly, flicking through the photos. At the time he'd considered it a ransom, his six-figure good deed for the decade. He knew much better now.
"Is this for a client?" he asked, frowning down at the plastic smiles and gaudy costumes. He spotted a document and tapped it with a finger, bringing it to the forefront of the display. "An invitation?"
"The ambassador from Orion is holding a Valentine'sDaysoiree," Gaila said, as scornfully as if she'd announced he was holding a tea party. "An invitation was given to me."
"And yet it has my name on it," Jim said, scanning through the elaborate phrasing and flowery prose. "Why?"
Gaila arched a brow. "It's your name on the deed of sale, isn't it? In the eyes of the sisterhood I am still disguised as a slave. I can't go without you."
Jim looked up at her, eyebrow raised. "You want to go?"
"Of course," she said patiently. "The resistance has plans to liberate the ambassador's harem and any other unwilling thralls aboard the vessel, and I am the only member with munitions experience."
Ah, yes. Of course.
23:55 14. February. 2258
"You are obviously not in your right mind," Spock whispered, even as he crowded Jim back against the cold plastic of the bulkhead and bent to lick his way roughly into Jim's mouth.
"Nngh," Jim offered, one hand curled around nape of Spock's neck, the other twisted up in his shirtfront. Damn straight he wasn't in his right mind, or he wouldn't be here in the dark trying to mount the same asshole who'd been so assiduously avoiding him for the past two months. Spock's tongue stroked the length of his and Jim moaned into the kiss, arching up to force a better angle. Prissy, arrogant, patronizing asshole.
Spock pulled away with a tiny frown, and Jim belatedly thought, touch-telepath. But the brush of his fingers over Jim's lips burned sharp and hot, a violent starburst of pleasure, and Jim opened up and sucked them in with a muffled grunt at the sensation and the quick flutter of Spock's eyelids. The tux was confining and he wanted it off, he wanted Spock's hands on his bare skin, he wanted, he wanted—
The seams of his three-thousand-credit tuxedo protested the stretch, but he braced a knee against the closet door and bucked up into Spock's weight, and damn it, the position wasn't quite right but it was so fucking close.
"Wha?" he gasped as Spock yanked his fingers free and grabbed Jim's hips, hauling him up those last few crucial inches and shoving a leg in between his. "Oh, fuck, fuck, Spock."
The Vulcan husked out something unintelligible and rocked into him with purpose, swallowing Jim's shameless groan down with a rumbling moan of his own.
The ambassador's airship was docked at the tip of the Transamerica Pyramid, red carpet laid out like a serpent's tongue along the gangplank and onto a small mounting platform. From his viewpoint near the head of the long glittering line of San Francisco's rich and famous, the Bacchae was deck upon deck of shining steel and sheer glass, looming like a sullen cloud over downtown. According to the invitation, the ship would be moored here for another hour before embarking on a leisurely aerial tour of the bay and surrounding waters, to return to the Pyramid at some small and lonely hour of the morning.
Jim handed his invitation to the hulking blue national guarding the gate and laid a possessive hand over Gaila's where it rested at the crook of his arm.
"Darling?" she purred, sniffing delicately.
"Yes?" he asked, nodding politely as the man motioned them forward, up into the gleaming silver rafts of the ship.
She inhaled softly, mouth slightly open like a cat's. "Hmm. Have you made any Vulcans terribly angry?"
Shit. "Oh, one or two spring to mind," he said lightly, sliding an arm around her waist. "And where is this Vulcan?" he murmured close to her ear.
"Approximately one hundred meters behind us," Gaila said without turning around, tilting her face nearer to his with a fond, false smile. "He is alone. Should we wait?"
"God, no," Jim said, holding her hand so she could step gracefully up onto the deck. "Let's disappear while we can."
23:57 14. February. 2258
They'd yet to make it out of their clothes and it was starting to look like they wouldn't, but Spock was making the most delightful little noises into the hollow of Jim's throat and damned if Jim was going stop just to wiggle out of his fucking cummerbund. Ears, seriously, who the fuck knew?
"C'mon," Jim mumbled, catching at the shell with his teeth and thoroughly enjoying the tiny sound Spock couldn't quite mask. "You just gonna stand there and let me do all the work?"
Spock made an angry noise and shoved Jim further up the bulkhead, keeping him braced there while he worked a hand in between their bodies and tugged impatiently at the stays of Jim's slacks. Maybe they'd make it to naked after all.
20:48 14. February. 2258
Gaila led him somewhere deep within the ship, the roar and thrum of fusion engines distinctive and close. Jim was the only human in the room, and the only man. He tried a smile on one of the two slim females guarding him and got a hostile glare and hissed curse in response.
"Jim." Gaila was suddenly at his elbow, her co-conspirators dispersing into the access tunnels around them in a flurry of scandalously short dresses and improbably high heels. "Your wrist."
He held it up and she tied a length of bloodred ribbon around it. "Now, pay attention." She made sure she had his eyes before she continued, "At Terran midnight, the first of the incendiary devices will explode. They are meant to confuse and frighten, not to fell the airship. Two minutes and thirty seconds later, another round will take out navigation and three of the engines. By the end of these two minutes and thirty seconds you must have rejoined us in Room 514, Delta Deck, or we will be unable to secure your alibi. Show this ribbon."
She made to move past him, and he caught her shoulder. "And what am I supposed to do for four hours?" he asked.
She smirked and patted his cheek. "Oh, just be you, Jim. Find a willing body and a dark corner and keep yourself occupied."
23:59 15. February. 2258
"Yeah, just like that," Jim panted out, letting his eyes slide half-closed and his head fall back. He felt like his skin should be sizzling in the heat between them, Spock's mouth like a brand leaving a trail of searing bruises over his chest. He raked his nails up Spock's bared back, just this side of too hard and not really caring. " Goddamn it!"
His clothes were an utter lost cause, zipper of the slacks ripped open and shirt hanging from his elbows. The contrast between the slick cock rubbing against his and the rougher weave of wool was electric.
The fabric was dirty, getting dirtier as they thrust against each other, and it was amazing how much he just didn't give a fuck, wanted to feel the wet warmth on his stomach when Spock came and paint it over his lips and have Spock lick it off him like—
"Jim!" Spock protested as his hips stuttered out of rhythm, and Jim chuckled darkly. Telepathy, and fingers, and his ears. Jim was going to ruin him, take him apart and play with the pieces until they broke too.
"I will break you first," Spock promised on a growl, and wrapped a firm hand around both of them.
Their pace went from frantic to punishing, Spock's grip just this side of brutal and it shouldn't have been that good but the vicious molten knot that had been building layer by throbbing layer in him abruptly shattered, leaving him gasping into Spock's jaw.
With spectacular timing, Spock caught his mouth in a messy kiss and locked up against him, panting out a strangled approximation of Jim's name just as a subsonic boom reverberated up through the floor, rattling the door in its frame and bringing them to their knees.
Room 514, Jim thought muzzily, but stayed where he was, legs stinging where they'd hit the floor and arms over Spock's shoulders, their foreheads touching as they breathed each other's air.
"Jim. You will tell me what that was and why you anticipated it," Spock panted out, stroking along the line of Jim's jaw.
Jim laughed, punchdrunk and breathless, and shoved him away. "Pull up your pants, senior partner. We've got somewhere to be."
Go read about Orion-brand 'slavery'. You know you want to.