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Dance, Dance -- BARFIGHT!	By : Penbrydd Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 3077 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, in any of its myriad incarnations, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Rating: R
Warnings: jealous!Spock, K/S, crossdressing, not quite dub-con
Notes: SO FUCKING SAPPY. And angsty, and fucking bizarre, and potentially dub-con... Penbrydd is now tired and has a fucking headache. No more mind-melds today, kthxbai.
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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Dance, Dance -- BARFIGHT!