Work Text:
Jim's eyes are closed, the thump of the beat sustaining him as he moves to the music pulsing through the speaker system. He's not the best formal dancer--at diplomatic balls, he stutters through the steps and quickly claims excuses, usually handing the poor woman off to Sulu, who happens to be an excellent ballroom dancer and charming to boot--but when he closes his eyes and dances alone, for himself, it's all just heavy bass and hips and and hands and sex. Sex is something Jim excels at.
Hands brush over his body, strangers mutter dirty words in his ears, but he never opens his eyes, never chooses a partner. He has one of those, after all, around here somewhere, and Jim's always been better at dancing alone. Here he can set his own beat, do his own thing, throw in a flourish without throwing off another person. His hips and chest roll and pulse, fast pops and thrusts contrasting with slow, sensuous writhes. His dick is hard, and at some point he lost his shirt, but he doesn't care. He's on leave, and this is a time to let go.
His back is arched nearly parallel to the floor, arms in the air for balance, when a hand grabs him, yanks him to standing, and his arms clutch instinctively around a strong neck. He opens his eyes, ready to struggle, and then he sees who's staring back at him. Oh, fuck. His hips jerk once, twice, of their own accord. Spock grabs his ass and stills it, leading Jim in a slow, dirty grind that shocks the hell out of him. Who knew Spock could dirty dance?
"Mine," Spock whispers, low and hungry. The music should drown the word out, but it doesn't -- Jim reads it on his lips, feels it in the vibrations that travel from Spock's chest to his own. The hand at the small of his back splays wide, possessive. The hand on his ass is way dirtier; it's not moving but Spock's index finger is definitely, not accidentally, positioned right at the divide, and he's not moving it. In fact, that finger presses in a little as Spock's lips move over his own, as Spock guides his movements so forcefully that he can't help but follow. It's a simple little rolling, bouncing movement, nothing like Jim's own free-flowing dance moves, but for the first time in his life Jim doesn't want to be dancing alone. "Mine," Spock repeats, and the word is rough, wild, an actual growl from Spock's lips. Jim comes, right in the middle of the dance floor, and he doesn't even care who's watching. Let them watch.
"Yours," Jim murmurs with trembling lips, letting Spock lead him off the floor as the song comes to an end. He trusts Spock enough to follow.