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Dance, Dance -- BARFIGHT!	By : Penbrydd Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 3076 -:- 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
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Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Rating: R
Warnings: bitchy!Spock, K/S, crossdressing
Notes: I promise it is not all going to be this angsty, but the scene has to be set before the riotous good times can begin!
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 not all of it had quite burned away.
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."
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Dance, Dance -- BARFIGHT!