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A/N: A fill for the Star Trek ID Kink Meme.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
Jim had a dog, once. When they had to take him to the vet, his mother would pretend they were going to the park. This is sort of what Jim’s doing, except, unfortunately, Spock’s a little smarter than a dog.

He’s already figured out that the way Jim is walking is definitely not the park, and he stops in his tracks one street from the place Jim wants.

“Captain, I believe it is prudent that you disclose our destination.”

Jim considers another lie, but he’s not sure how good Spock’s knowledge of the area is. Probably better than his own. The sun’s already set, and the only bright lights gleaming through the darkness belong to all-night buildings, bars and special restaurants. Street lamps are here and there, bright patches of white circles on the grey ground. Jim would quote dinner, but they already ate at home. The air is fresh and full of life in the distance, human nattering and the occasion vehicle. The street they’re on is quiet and empty, but it’s a little cold outside and Jim’s jacket is for looks, not warmth. He nods towards the corner and says, “C’mon, it’s a surprise.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. Jim’s surprises tend not to work out very favourably for him. He doesn’t move.

So Jim steps closer and slips his hand into Spock’s pocket, wrapping around Spock’s fingers and pulling them out. Spock looks down curiously but doesn’t fight. Jim tugs Spock forward by the hand.

Spock, with all his Vulcan strength, doesn’t budge a millimeter. Jim gives him an exasperated look and tries again, tugging harder. Then a bit harder. Then he turns around and clamps his other hand over Spock’s, walking backwards and trying to drag his first officer with him, as though playing tug-o-war.

But that obviously doesn’t work, so he has to give up, whining, “Spock, come on.”

“If you inform me of your plans, you may find me more agreeable,” Spock insists, voice as smooth as ever. He can clearly tell there’s a reason Jim isn’t doing that. Mainly, it’s that he knows if he tells, Spock won’t come.

It’s a miracle he’s gotten as far as he has. He’s gotten Spock into tight-fitting denim and an even tighter, long-sleeve black shirt, topped in a faux-leather jacket. He looks both out of place and delicious. Jim’s similarly done up, but apparently he’s not as tempting to Spock, because apparently Spock would rather be in the middle of the sidewalk next to a closed art gallery when they could be somewhere alone. The street lamps backlight Spock too gorgeously for this much stalling.

“I order you to follow me.”

“We are not on duty.”

“Then why are you calling me ‘captain’?”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. “Because you are still my captain.”

“And you’re my Spock and you should come where I call you.”

Spock gives him a very deadpanned look—the Vulcan equivalent of an eye roll.

Sighing, Jim marches around Spock’s back and shoves at him that way, sidling up and shouldering him to move. Spock doesn’t move. Jim pushes against Spock’s shoulder blades and braces his feet, but he’s just wasting strength. Spock doesn’t move.

Jim marches in front and grumbles, “Alright, we’re going to a nightclub. We only have a week left of shore leave before the Enterprise is patched up, and I want to enjoy it.”

Frowning slightly, Spock asks, “And we could not enjoy it at your apartment?”

“I can’t show you off at my apartment.”

Spock’s eyebrows rise, then quickly drop, as though trying to cover his reaction. Despite Spock’s very blank face, Jim smirks, leaning forward to say quietly, “What’s the point of having a scrumptious Vulcan boyfriend if I can’t show the world that he’s mine?”

There’s something in Spock’s eyes that might be confusion but could also be lust. Maybe pride. Jim doesn’t miss the way Spock’s chest puffs out when he’s being praised by his superiors, and Jim makes it very clear that he couldn’t ask for a better officer. Spock says slowly, “That... would not be an efficient use of our time.”

“You don’t like bars, I get it,” Jim chuckles. “Too much alcohol and pounding music and bodies everywhere, and I know you get jealous when people inevitably try to pick me up, don’t deny it. But I like bars, and you’re mine, and you should accommodate me like I accommodate you and attend your boring science seminars.”

“There is a great deal of knowledge to be gained from the study of—”

That’s not the point, and Jim surges forward to press his lips into Spock’s, muffling the words. Spock grunts in surprise. After a second, he tries to pull back, but Jim prods Spock’s lips with his tongue and runs his hands up to Spock’s hair, fisting in the short, black strands. Spock opens his mouth obediently, and his hands brush Jim’s sides.

Then Jim’s got his tongue in Spock’s mouth, and he’s kissing his boyfriend ravenously, enough to knock him back a few steps and make them both grind into each other. Spock’s fingers tighten around him, and Jim holds Spock in close, savouring the taste of the spaghetti they had for dinner and the cologne-less spice that is Spock’s scent. This is where Jim’s hands are meant to be.

Jim doesn’t pull back until he knows he’s made his point. When he does, Spock’s eyelashes stay down a second too long. Grinning with victory and adoration, Jim purrs, “Now, are you going to come to the club with me, or am I going to have to ravish you right here in the street?”

Spock takes a minute. Breathing a little heavier than usual, pupils a little dilated. His bow lips are parted slightly, moist from where Jim had them.

Then he marches right past Jim in the right direction.
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