Jul 182009

Title: Dance, Dance —BARFIGHT!
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy
Rating: E
Warnings: bitchy!Spock, crossdressing, crack, fluff, angst
Notes: Spock is captured by aliens and forced to become a pole dancer in a nightclub. Jim Kirk, master of the intergalactic barfight, performs a daring rescue! Doctor McCoy sincerely wishes he’d stayed in bed. Penbrydd is now tired and has a fucking headache. No more mind-melds today, kthxbai.

From Crackmeme prompt on LJ:
Kirk, Spock, and McCoy beam down to a planet where they tend to collect visitors and force them into being dancers for the amusement of the locals. They get ahold of Spock, and Kirk and McCoy can’t seem to find him.

When they find him, he’s in a cage, dressed all provocative (bonus if it’s panties and garters!) and grinding a pole. McCoy decides to go barter with the bar’s owner for their science officer, and Kirk’s too distracted by the fact that Spock’s feline-like flexibility makes hims a really, really sexy dancer. When McCoy is back after getting Spock back, they snap a collar on him and give McCoy the leash. Kirk takes it and says it’s a gift for him.

Once finally back on the ship, Kirk should ask for a private viewing. Spock wishes no one to mention that again. Author’s choice if Spock ends up agreeing.

Bonus if Spock has to give Kirk a lap dance at the bar.

The fact that his entire body had been shaved, from the eyebrows down, was perhaps Spock’s only comfort, at this moment. That, at least, was a relatively normal state of affairs. Growing up on a desert planet had its consequences, after all.

The rest of it was sheer madness.

He’d woken in a mirrored room, with a wooden floor and a slim pole in the centre of it. It was a confusing arrangement, certainly, but more confusing was the fact that he appeared to be dressed in nothing but women’s underclothing — a tight-laced leather girdle, with garters holding up fishnet tights, and ruffled satin bikini panties, all in a deep violet. He’d give his captors credit for their choice of colour — it set off the green tone in his skin, wonderfully. However, looking good in the colour in no way explained the cut. As Spock examined himself in one pane of the mirror, trying to determine exactly how much skin he was actually showing, another pane lit into a screen, displaying a frozen frame of a woman posed against a pole like the one at the centre of the room.

"You will learn this dance, today," a voice from the screen explained.

"And if I refuse?" It wasn’t actually a challenge. Spock was just curious about his options.

A drop of some short-lived acid fell from the ceiling onto his shoulder, eating into his skin as he registered the wet spot. The pain drove him to his knees, spitting madly at his shoulder, trying to wash the drop away without touching it with his hands. As blood began to rise into the tiny hole in his flesh, the burn ceased.

"So be it," he panted, standing.

It took the crew two weeks to determine where he was being held, and by that time, Spock had almost given up hope. As long as he followed the directions, life was relatively acceptable, with the possible exception of his clothes. In those weeks, he’d learned nine dances, and had been shown, every night, dancing in a cage, in a crowded, smoky bar. As time passed, he came to understand that he was now owned by the bar, and was expected to entertain the patrons — primarily drunken females of a variety of species, who threw candy and coins at him as he danced.

Finally, one night, he saw a sight he thought he’d never see — Jim Kirk — his Jim — walked into the bar, giggling drunkenly on the arm of that asshole doctor. It seemed they were either acting the part of a couple, to avoid drawing attention to themselves in the primarily female crowd, or Jim had given up after Spock disappeared — but then, what would the Enterprise still be doing in orbit? His joy at being found — even if he had yet to be rescued — crept into the dance, as he performed. That night, he was, as they say, on. The air around his sleek Vulcan figure nearly crackled, his body bending lithely through the figures — leg pressed up against the pole so tightly he could lick his own kneecap, body bent back to touch the ground, a quick spin down the pole — soon, he would be home. Jim would find a way — he always did, irritatingly enough.

Spock watched Jim and McCoy work their way through the crowd, Jim goggle-eyed and stumbling drunkenly, and McCoy squinting disgruntledly at the occupants of other cages. The doctor would be horrified, of course, not only at the conditions, but at the idea of finding him dressed so scantily. It actually warmed Spock’s heart a bit to know that the doctor would probably never speak of this again — because Spock sure as shit never wanted to hear of it again. It would take him a long time, he thought, to get rid of the hovering resentment that hung on his every thought — terribly un-Vulcan, perhaps, but a definite consequence after two weeks of being meat on display. His temper, when he was younger, had been nearly legendary on Vulcan, and all of it had not quite burned away, yet.

And then, he saw McCoy whisper to Jim and point. He’d been spotted. It would all be over soon, and he’d be back on board the Enterprise, where he could go down to the Recreation Room and completely destroy things until he felt better. That usually helped. Nothing like fucking up your surroundings — or your captain, sometimes — to make it all fade away. He couldn’t fucking wait.

McCoy patted Jim on the back, and Jim cut through the crowd, suddenly a good deal less drunk-looking. Spock shimmied, writhing down into a crouch, a smile cut of slow-burning, repressed rage painted on his face. The females shouting obscenities weren’t sober enough to tell it from lust, and his fans for the night surged against the barrier between them and the cage. Jim winked at him, over a few heads, dropping his arms across two girls’ shoulders. Spock missed most of the conversation, due to the sound of blood rushing past his eardrums, but the parts he caught were enough to earn a fascinated eyebrow-raise.

"…fucking fruitcake…" one of the girls yelled, shoving Jim.

"…I’m Jim motherfucking Kirk! … cock is famed throughout the alpha quadrant!" Jim shouted back.

The other girl shoved Jim more playfully. "… are not … Kirk … are pretty cute." And Spock was pretty sure Jim had just been put in his place — or someone else’s place, from the sound of it.

"… wanna play…" Jim was saying, "… wonder if … out of … lapdance?"

Spock’s ears tightened his against his head as Jim carried on a shouted conversation with a bartender, a few feet away. Jim nodded and handed some money to the barkeep, who gestured to a table behind Spock’s cage. Jim waved for the girls to follow him, as the bartender stepped up next to the cage.

"Now, I know you’re a wild one, and I tried to warn that bloke, but he wants a lapdance, and he paid damn well for it, so you’ll go out there and do your damnedest, or you know what’ll become of you," the bartender said, leaning close to the bars, before unlocking the cage, and attaching a leash to Spock’s collar.

Spock allowed himself to be led to Jim’s table — onto the table, if one wanted to be technical about it. The bartender removed the leash when Spock knelt, hands under his knees, to make it harder for him to try anything.

"Twenty minutes," the bartender said, letting himself out of the shielded area.

Jim smirked and winked at Spock, and Spock smiled like a mouthful of broken glass.

"Well, Captain? What’s your plan to get us all killed, this time?" Spock asked, through his teeth, half confirming Jim’s identity to the two girls. Oh, yes, ladies. This is the real Jim Kirk, and he’s all mine, tonight.

"I never plan to get us killed, Spock! And we’re not dead yet," Jim leaned back and spread his arms, making room for Spock in his lap.

Spock slid off the table, almost bonelessly, knees biting into the leather of the booth on either side of Jim’s legs, as his hips gyrated in time to the music. "Speak for yourself, Captain."

Jim’s fingers grazed the front of the satin panties. "You certainly don’t feel dead to me."

"You’re going to feel dead to me, if you don’t get me out of here."

The two girls just stared in amazement, inching closer to the two men humping and arguing between them. "You really are Jim Kirk!" one of them warbled.

Spock’s head swivelled, eyes hard, ears laid back."Yes. This man is James Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise, and he’s here to rescue me from you."

"Whoa, hey, Spock… Keep cool. I need these lovely ladies to get you out of here." Jim grinned irrepressibly. "Also, you should probably … ah … stop smiling. It’s terrifying."

The girls were wide-eyed and still as Spock’s vicious grin subsided into a far more standard smirk of blatant superiority. "So, what is the plan, Captain?"

"Well, it’s too crowded in here for the transporters to get a lock on you. We need to get you out — Hey! don’t look at me like that! I’m starting from the beginning!" Jim looked mildly offended at the look of pained exasperation on Spock’s face, manifested entirely in one eyebrow. "We need to get you out of the building, starting from getting you out from behind this shield. McCoy’s trying to buy you, but from what the bartender said, it doesn’t seem like you’re for sale. He says you’re both too glamorous and too dangerous for private ownership."

"A logical conclusion," Spock noted, flexing his fingers irritatedly.

"So, I’m going to use the money to pay these lovely ladies to get in the way," Jim said, with a grin, draping an arm over the shoulders of each girl, as Spock continued to grind and gyrate in his lap. "When our time is up, the bartender’s going to come back in, and we’re going to go out — probably at the same time, if we’re in the right positions. But, the shield can’t re-seal if there’s something in the opening, like these two ladies, right here."

Spock’s eyes glittered in faint amusement. "Fascinating, Captain." He looked at the girls, determinedly. "If you succeed, you may borrow my legendary captain tomorrow night. My life for one night with Jim Kirk. It sounds like a fair trade, does it not?"

The girls giggled and scooted closer, looking at each other and then at each of the men. "You have a deal," one of them finally said.

"Do we get the money, too?" the more sceptical one asked.

"You—! You just rented me out for a night! I — you— this —! Don’t I get any say in this?" Jim looked horrified, but entertained at the idea.

"I’ve been stuck in a cage in an alien night club for two weeks, Captain. I’m certain you can handle a night with these two … ‘lovely ladies’." The angle of Spock’s eyebrow suggested the offer was intended as a thank you gift, not only to the girls, but to the captain.

"Oh, I’m sure I’ll survive." Jim grinned boldly. "So, I need you —" he tugged at one girl’s ear "— to stand in the left side of the opening, and you —" he pulled at one of the other girl’s curls "— to stand in the right. Act like you’re waiting for me to stop being so slow, like you wish I’d hurry up. Then I’ll take out the bartender, and we’ll run for the back door."

"Captain, I protest. I should take the bartender. You should take the security guard standing at the door," Spock muttered, still poking holes in the Captain’s plan to avoid getting them all killed. "And how do we get Dr. McCoy out of here?"

"Okay, ladies! New plan! When we run for the back door, I want you to find the man wearing a shirt like mine, but in blue, and take him out the front. Tell him, ‘Jim said to get back to the ship’. Make sure he takes you with him." Jim nodded slowly, going over it, in his head. "We’ll meet you back at the Enterprise."

"We get to see a Federation starship!" one of the girls exclaimed, as they both grinned giddily and clutched at each other’s hands.

"We have five minutes, Captain. I hope you are right about this, because if you are not, we will all die in a very slow and painful fashion." Spock’s eyes hardened. "I know. I have already experienced it."

The light in the booth changed to a dull blue colour, and Spock returned to his position, kneeling on the table. Jim watched him, in a wonderful impression of moony-eyed bliss, as the girls got up and went to where the shield had opened to allow the bartender in. They lounged easily in the invisible doorframe.

"Come on, Jimmy! I want to go play with that Bajoran!" one of them whined, and the other giggled senselessly.

Jim cleared the shield just as the guard came to tell the girls to move. From there, it was beautiful slipstream chaos. He body-checked the guard backward over the bar, as Spock laid a hand on the bartender’s neck and folded him to the floor.

"Don’t move!" Jim called to the girls, as Spock rushed toward the opening they framed. Security was better than he’d anticipated, and a few more bouncers were converging on them, as he spoke. So, Jim, being a master of the art of drunken pub brawls, grabbed the hand of a nearby Andorian and spilled the being’s drink onto someone else’s date — onto the very large Klingon’s very angry Klingon date. And then he ran.

Spock had pulled the girls out of the shield, with him, and directed them toward the front of the club, but Jim was standing on the bar, by this point, shouting for Bones at the top of his lungs, while the bouncers struggled to get through chair-tossing mayhem around the angry Klingon couple, who had decided the drink actually belonged to the lone Tellarite, standing on the other side of them. This was going to end poorly, if he didn’t do something sensible — and quickly.

Grabbing both girls by the hands, Spock pulled them back. "Change of plans!" he shouted, pointing to the now-unguarded rear exit. They ran out, and he leapt over the bar, to strip the security guard Jim had knocked out. A change of clothes was essential. Dressed as a guard, there would be fewer questions, when he grabbed Jim and hauled him off the bar, dragging him toward the rear exit. But, where was McCoy? He cocked an amused eyebrow at the girls as he threw Jim out the door, to land at their feet.

Jim grabbed his ankle, as he turned to go back in, after the Doctor. "Bones left. Let’s go."

This was not a point he was about to argue, but Spock sincerely hoped that Jim was right, and that they weren’t going to have to come rescue the doctor, after all this.

Moments later, he stood on the transporter pad, and the phrase ’emotionally compromised’ did not begin to describe the level of relief he felt, as he reached out to touch the wall, ensuring that it was real. He looked around the room — Jim, two girls, Scotty… There. Spock walked over to McCoy and put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. That was all. Any thanks or apologies he might have wanted to convey were there.

McCoy tried to sneer at him, but it was really more of a smirk. "Goddamned pointy-eared hobgoblin."

"I require a shower. All other things can wait," Spock said calmly, heading for the door. "Including your concerns about my goddamned pointy-eared health, Doctor."

"Did he just make a joke?" McCoy pointed after Spock. "After all that, did he seriously just make a joke?"

"Vulcans, Bones. They’re inscrutable." Jim grinned. "Why don’t you show these charming ladies around, while I go screw the inscrutable."

"I hate you, Jim." McCoy covered his face with his hands. "Go away before you say something else. I’ll just go introduce these two to Chekov. I’m sure they’ll have a lovely time. Then, I’m going to go introduce myself to some gin, until I can forget that you ever opened your mouth."

Spock was wholly unsurprised when he opened his eyes and found the captain leaning in the shower door, still fully dressed and a little bloody. He froze in mid-motion, proving his balance, and halting the fluid sequence of the Vulcan rain dance, as his eyes settled on Jim’s, in a threatening and territorial expression.

"This has always been more beautiful than anything they could have taught you, down there." Jim didn’t have it in him to apologise, but that was pretty close to one. "I know how you are with your water. I just wanted to make sure you were —" He looked away. "I’m lying to you. I didn’t hit enough people, in that damn bar. I’m going to go skim regulations until I find a reason to turn it into a smoking crater, for what they did to you."

As Jim turned, to walk out of the room, Spock grabbed him with both hands, lifting him into the shower. Vulcan strength and swiftness had never served Spock so well as when he tore the clothes from his captain — his beloved two-pint whore of a captain — and rubbed his thumbs desperately against Jim’s palms. Human, his mind reminded him, and he leaned in to claim Jim’s mouth with his own.

"Jim," he sighed, gently, against the captain’s lips, as he let his hand move upward to caress the meld points. "Take this from me."

It was over in seconds — Jim cowered, white-faced, in the corner of the shower, until his own mind finished reasserting itself. Spock stared down, almost regretfully, cracking the knuckles of one hand, just by bending his fingers, over and over again, picking at a scab on his shoulder with the other hand. He was ready, however, when Jim leapt for the door of the shower, face contorted with blind rage. One hand stopped the captain, mid-lunge.

"It’s over, now," Spock offered, soothingly, eyes still down.

"It ain’t over ’til I’m good and done," Jim snarled. "What they’ve done to you — I’ll have their eyes, for this."

"Stay with me." Spock turned both his hands palms up, between them, in an offering gesture, and Jim sagged to his knees, looking like he’d been punched, before kissing each finger, in turn. At a touch of Spock’s foot, Jim backed up, lounging as gracefully as he could manage, in the corner of the shower. This, he knew. He’d been here, before.

Spock began his dance, again. This was a dance he had always known, and one he could never forget. Years in the plentiful, self-regenerating, replicator-spawned water of the Federation hadn’t washed it out of him, and he doubted anything would. In the desert, one came to respect the water and to revere it, however illogical the latter might be. Some of the old ways persisted, even in this era of logic, and he was grateful for them, and for the water that soaked into his skin. He knew the art of this dance as well as he knew his skin, and every lithe arc his body twisted through, every dexterous flicker of finger and wrist, altered the way the water flowed, just so. He knew where every drop would land. The end, however, was inappropriate to the moment, and it would need adjustment. A step. A turn. A bend. A bow. A stretch. An arch — his hands met, stretched before his face, as he bent forward, streaming water into Jim’s lap.

Jim’s face lit up in surprise as he looked up. "I believe that counts as playing dirty."

"On the contrary, Captain. You are the one of us who still requires soap." Spock reached back with one leg, kicking the soap out of the holder on the wall, bouncing it off his rolling shoulder, as he stood, popping it off the back of his wrist, and catching it in that hand, offering it to Jim, with a raised eyebrow.

There was, in that moment, not a goddamn thing that could have kept Jim Kirk from getting clean.

It was with only mild surprise that Jim registered the pop of the bottle of lube opening, and he smiled over his shoulder to where Spock stood behind him.

"You know I am about my water, and I know how you are about that." Spock allowed a faint smile to touch the corners of his mouth, as he slid two slicked fingers into Jim. "Don’t let me interrupt you."

Jim’s eyes crossed at the patent absurdity of that last statement, but somehow, he kept his grip on both the soap and his sanity, washing a splash of something distressingly blue from behind his ear, as Spock continued to pleasantly distract him. Long minutes passed, before Spock interrupted his ablutions entirely, taking the soap from his hands and pressing him against the wall of the shower.

"Forgive me this," Spock asked, setting the soap aside, and liberally applying lube to himself. "I know you prefer to see my face, but I can’t — Not now. Let me come home, to you, and you may have anything you wish, after."

"Spock, dearest, beloved, t’hy’la —" Jim painfully mangled the Vulcan word "— shut up and do me. I missed you."

Spock needed no further invitation — in fact, if Jim was going to abuse the Vulcan language in that fashion, he’d do a fair number of things far worse than this to make it stop — sheathing himself easily in Jim’s body. Too easily. The edge of irrationality gnawed at Spock’s mind, insisting that Jim had taken lovers while he was gone — multiplicitous well-endowed lovers, given how little resistance he’d met. In a blind fury, he wrapped his arms around Jim, clutching the captain’s shoulders with a bruising grip, as he pounded into that slicked, stretched ass.

"Mine," he snarled, biting at Jim’s ear. "You are mine."

Spock spoke about nine languages, and that phrase came out in combinations of all of them, as he rutted with Jim. He was horrifically, irrationally jealous, and he meant to make it unmistakeably clear that whatever the captain did on his own time, he’d do it with the smell of Spock’s lust on his body. As the sound of running water registered in his mind, Spock popped the shower control with his knee. There would be no washing this off. He was convinced he’d find a way to tattoo a scent, if he just fucked hard enough.

Jim’s fingers tore at his own, and when Spock released his grip enough to bat the hand away, he caught just enough to understand that Jim was pulling that hand toward his face — that Jim wanted another mind meld. The rational part of Spock’s mind protested that it would be a horrible idea, under the circumstances, but rationality was crammed into a tight corner under the jealous haze. He reached around Jim’s face, tapping the contact points, and was immediately pulled into a stream of images — images of Jim masturbating with an enormous dildo, and moaning Spock’s name. I wanted to be ready for you, when I got you back, Jim offered, through the link.

It was all too much, too much all at once, and Spock came hard, without releasing the link. The world was fuzzy, then. Filled with razor-clear tactile sense, love, warm acceptance, and the sharp pain of Jim’s fear of losing him. He’d made a fool of himself, and then shown his own asinine jealousies to Jim. This was one of the rare occasions he envied that man his clarity.

"‘m sorry," Spock breathed, against Jim’s shoulder, letting the essence of that sentiment be the last thing he pushed, before moving his hand and withdrawing from the mind meld.

"I have never been so loved," Jim replied, quietly, "as to have someone who wanted me to be myself and to have themselves a part of it."

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