your body is my body and we breathe between the lines
Title: your body is my body and we breathe between the lines
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~1600
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Summary: AU set in the same universe as Symphony for Stars and Planets, based on the prompt "Jim playing at a jazzy bar or something, being all sexy, and Spock being jealous when other people check him out."
Notes: This was SUPPOSED to be a drabble, but it got away from me, so!
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, XI or otherwise. I'm just madly in love with it.
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The room is dark, and very hot. Everyone's breath is pressing together into a swell of humid air, wrapping the place in a haze that makes it hard to think. There is an absolute crush of people, certainly more than fire laws would find acceptable. Spock doesn't know exactly how many--just that there are bodies and bodies and bodies surrounding him, everyone's skin damp and sticky with sweat against his own. His shirt is plastered to his back, and he can feel his hair is curling damply at the nape of his neck. None of the space in here is solely his; every sensory experience is shared.
No one is thinking of physical discomfort, though; they are too enthralled. Breaths are held and fists are curled, in shock or admiration or envy--everyone's attention is glued to the stage, where a single spotlight is picking Jim's body out in sinuous points of light and shadow.
He is playing exceptionally, tonight. His trumpet is a blare of bright gold against the blackness, and his music matches. The notes are fluttering and searing through the air, transcribing the feeling of nights like this into sound, and speaking right into the heart about things you can't put words to. He looks particularly striking, dressed in his black dress slacks and his black button-down--sleeves rolled up as high as they will go.
He is seriously hot.
That is what the girl two feet to Spock's right whispered into her friend's ear, in any case, voice cigarette-rough and body cigarette-slim, and gaze dark with lust and promise. This guy is seriously fucking hot. I'd like to push him down and do dirty things to him. I mean would you just look at those legs? Fuck.
She isn't the only one. Everyone around them seems to have their eyes fixed on some part of Jim--his legs, his hands, the way his shirt stretches over his torso. The electric excitement and arousal he's weaving into glowing measures fairly crackles in the air, and his audience is riveted.
Spock swallows.
Jealousy never made much sense to him. It always seemed so ridiculous and petty. Small, somehow. Obviously, if one had confidence in one's partner's affections, there would be no need to worry about whether or not he or she was admired by others, he'd reasoned. He'd wondered, too, if it couldn't even be seen as a form of compliment, that others found one's partner attractive. He himself didn't much care about things like that, but that could not necessarily be said for the majority of the human population.
In any case, he'd concluded that jealousy was an overblown and useless emotion without a basis in logic, and certainly one he'd never have.
But--now there are eyes all over Jim, and Spock's stomach is a mess of knots, his skin all heat. He feels each one of those gazes, sticking to the back of his neck and itching crazily down his spine. His breath's coming short, and the meaning of jealousy is clicking into place in a way it never has before--this sick feeling stealing through him, this need to be right beside Jim, right up against him where they're breathing the same air.
Stop looking, he wants to order Jim's admirers. Stop looking. Stop thinking about him that way, like he's just a body, like he's just something that exists for you to want--
It's a surprisingly strong urge. He can feel his tongue forming the words in his closed mouth, and his fists curling a little. He shoves the feeling fiercely down into himself, cold thoughts trickling nauseatingly down his throat. You are being petty and ridiculous, he chides himself, frowning. Jim is a performer; of course he must be seen. And of course everyone deserves a chance to hear him. His sound is amazingly beautiful, so clear and strong, and keeping music like that suppressed would be a crime. It would, he tells himself again, pinching at the skin over his elbow in an attempt to bring himself back into the realm of sense.
Jim hits a high note, then, head to the heavens and back arched, just pouring everything of his soul into it in that way you can hear and feel in your heart.
Spock stops breathing, eyes locked on Jim and stomach fluttering. Everyone else holds their breath, too. The exhalation is audible when he finally breaks the note for another melody strain, what seems like ages later. No one claps--no one wants to interrupt.
"Oh my god," whispers the cigarette girl. "He's totally perfect."
Spock looks at her again, out of the corner of his eye, and something builds and twists and roils in him until it's fit to burst out of his skin--he sucks in a silent breath and bites down on his lower lip, forcing himself to hold it in behind his ribs until he can contemplate the right course of action. Which is to get--elsewhere, obviously. Yes.
He makes his way through the crowd to the left edge of the stage with no small amount of shoving, digging his elbows into bodies of the people who are devouring Jim with their eyes. When he gets to the edge, he slips into the tiny space behind the blackout curtain, giving Sergei a small smile in reply to his wave. He has played here several times before--he and Nyota often do duets here, with his pickup and effects pedal, and he and Hikaru recently coordinated with Riley and Hannity to do a modern string quartet. He's never been more grateful for that performance history than now. He can't stay out there, not--not when he feels like he's burning up, too many people and too much . . . just too much.
It's even more of a furnace backstage. The air conditioning's out, and the curtains are trapping the heat and magnifying it. Spock's body feels transparent and too-heavy in the midst of everything, but from here he can see Jim clearly, and the audience is just a blur of black at this distance. His heartbeat slows a little, watching Jim; he closes his eyes and just listens, and makes himself breathe until he's calmed slightly.
This feeling is nothing like he assumed it would be, he thinks muzzily, through his cycle of breaths. It doesn't even come from the place he thought it would. It's about possession, yes, but--well, he'd always imagined it to be some misguided extension of outdated feelings of ownership towards one's partner, which are inappropriate in the 21st century.
But it's not that Spock feels he owns Jim, must protect him and keep him tethered to prevent him from wandering--no, it's that Jim owns some part of Spock, that Spock has become so stupidly, hopelessly entangled with Jim that these people staring at him like that feels like fingers raking through the most private and perfect thing in the world.
He breathes out slowly.
The final note is fading out, he realizes with a sudden start, and the crowd outside is going absolutely insane with cheering, whistles and claps filling up the room. He swallows again, and blinks against the glare of the stagelight, where's Jim's bowing and smiling gloriously at the crowd. It's illogical and irrational and ridiculous--yes, it's all of those things, but he can't stop it: he wants Jim off that stage, now. Back here, with Spock, where he belongs.
"Thank you very, very much," Jim says into the microphone. His voice sounds dark gold, softer and rougher than usual, and Spock feels a shiver go down his spine. "It was an absolute pleasure to play here, lemme tell ya. I think I'll let you guys get outta here, into the cool air--" he waves off calls for encore with a charming grin, shaking his head. "Nah, you guys are gonna roast if you stay in here one more minute! Tell you what, I'm playing here next Thursday, too, so you can come along then, if you wanna hear more." He waves a hand at the still-cheering group and ducks offstage, whistling softly to himself.
Spock means to say something, but feels so completely juvenile and stupid all of a sudden that he doesn't know what, and what emerges is some sort of halfway-sound, just the start of a word. Jim hears it, though--he tilts his head up, and fairly lights up when he sees Spock.
"Hey there, you," he says, all bright grin and affection in the half-darkness. He's breathing hard, flushed and sweating, and he crowds right into Spock's space and presses him up against the wall, curling a damp, hot hand over Spock's neck. He's just a long wave of heat and exhilaration against Spock's body, and just like that, Spock's skin comes alive with wanting, little electric ripples everywhere through him. His hands are at Jim's hips without his consent, holding hard enough to potentially leave bruises, and Jim's still beaming, so alive and bright and warm.
And Spock simply can't stand it. He pushes his mouth against Jim's wet, open one, licking in hot and slick until the world blurs at the edges and all he can feel is Jim's fingers gripping his hair and Jim's heart thudding against his chest. He drags Jim's hips in to press hard against his own with an arm around Jim's waist, till there's not a millimeter between them. He kisses Jim, slow and wild, until Jim is moaning into it, body melting against Spock's; steals Jim's breath, and thinks, this is us, this is ours alone--all this light and music and he chose me, and I'm not giving him up. Not ever. Not ever.
Jim's fingers in the hair at his neck are reply and reassurance enough.
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Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~1600
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Summary: AU set in the same universe as Symphony for Stars and Planets, based on the prompt "Jim playing at a jazzy bar or something, being all sexy, and Spock being jealous when other people check him out."
Notes: This was SUPPOSED to be a drabble, but it got away from me, so!
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, XI or otherwise. I'm just madly in love with it.
-
The room is dark, and very hot. Everyone's breath is pressing together into a swell of humid air, wrapping the place in a haze that makes it hard to think. There is an absolute crush of people, certainly more than fire laws would find acceptable. Spock doesn't know exactly how many--just that there are bodies and bodies and bodies surrounding him, everyone's skin damp and sticky with sweat against his own. His shirt is plastered to his back, and he can feel his hair is curling damply at the nape of his neck. None of the space in here is solely his; every sensory experience is shared.
No one is thinking of physical discomfort, though; they are too enthralled. Breaths are held and fists are curled, in shock or admiration or envy--everyone's attention is glued to the stage, where a single spotlight is picking Jim's body out in sinuous points of light and shadow.
He is playing exceptionally, tonight. His trumpet is a blare of bright gold against the blackness, and his music matches. The notes are fluttering and searing through the air, transcribing the feeling of nights like this into sound, and speaking right into the heart about things you can't put words to. He looks particularly striking, dressed in his black dress slacks and his black button-down--sleeves rolled up as high as they will go.
He is seriously hot.
That is what the girl two feet to Spock's right whispered into her friend's ear, in any case, voice cigarette-rough and body cigarette-slim, and gaze dark with lust and promise. This guy is seriously fucking hot. I'd like to push him down and do dirty things to him. I mean would you just look at those legs? Fuck.
She isn't the only one. Everyone around them seems to have their eyes fixed on some part of Jim--his legs, his hands, the way his shirt stretches over his torso. The electric excitement and arousal he's weaving into glowing measures fairly crackles in the air, and his audience is riveted.
Spock swallows.
Jealousy never made much sense to him. It always seemed so ridiculous and petty. Small, somehow. Obviously, if one had confidence in one's partner's affections, there would be no need to worry about whether or not he or she was admired by others, he'd reasoned. He'd wondered, too, if it couldn't even be seen as a form of compliment, that others found one's partner attractive. He himself didn't much care about things like that, but that could not necessarily be said for the majority of the human population.
In any case, he'd concluded that jealousy was an overblown and useless emotion without a basis in logic, and certainly one he'd never have.
But--now there are eyes all over Jim, and Spock's stomach is a mess of knots, his skin all heat. He feels each one of those gazes, sticking to the back of his neck and itching crazily down his spine. His breath's coming short, and the meaning of jealousy is clicking into place in a way it never has before--this sick feeling stealing through him, this need to be right beside Jim, right up against him where they're breathing the same air.
Stop looking, he wants to order Jim's admirers. Stop looking. Stop thinking about him that way, like he's just a body, like he's just something that exists for you to want--
It's a surprisingly strong urge. He can feel his tongue forming the words in his closed mouth, and his fists curling a little. He shoves the feeling fiercely down into himself, cold thoughts trickling nauseatingly down his throat. You are being petty and ridiculous, he chides himself, frowning. Jim is a performer; of course he must be seen. And of course everyone deserves a chance to hear him. His sound is amazingly beautiful, so clear and strong, and keeping music like that suppressed would be a crime. It would, he tells himself again, pinching at the skin over his elbow in an attempt to bring himself back into the realm of sense.
Jim hits a high note, then, head to the heavens and back arched, just pouring everything of his soul into it in that way you can hear and feel in your heart.
Spock stops breathing, eyes locked on Jim and stomach fluttering. Everyone else holds their breath, too. The exhalation is audible when he finally breaks the note for another melody strain, what seems like ages later. No one claps--no one wants to interrupt.
"Oh my god," whispers the cigarette girl. "He's totally perfect."
Spock looks at her again, out of the corner of his eye, and something builds and twists and roils in him until it's fit to burst out of his skin--he sucks in a silent breath and bites down on his lower lip, forcing himself to hold it in behind his ribs until he can contemplate the right course of action. Which is to get--elsewhere, obviously. Yes.
He makes his way through the crowd to the left edge of the stage with no small amount of shoving, digging his elbows into bodies of the people who are devouring Jim with their eyes. When he gets to the edge, he slips into the tiny space behind the blackout curtain, giving Sergei a small smile in reply to his wave. He has played here several times before--he and Nyota often do duets here, with his pickup and effects pedal, and he and Hikaru recently coordinated with Riley and Hannity to do a modern string quartet. He's never been more grateful for that performance history than now. He can't stay out there, not--not when he feels like he's burning up, too many people and too much . . . just too much.
It's even more of a furnace backstage. The air conditioning's out, and the curtains are trapping the heat and magnifying it. Spock's body feels transparent and too-heavy in the midst of everything, but from here he can see Jim clearly, and the audience is just a blur of black at this distance. His heartbeat slows a little, watching Jim; he closes his eyes and just listens, and makes himself breathe until he's calmed slightly.
This feeling is nothing like he assumed it would be, he thinks muzzily, through his cycle of breaths. It doesn't even come from the place he thought it would. It's about possession, yes, but--well, he'd always imagined it to be some misguided extension of outdated feelings of ownership towards one's partner, which are inappropriate in the 21st century.
But it's not that Spock feels he owns Jim, must protect him and keep him tethered to prevent him from wandering--no, it's that Jim owns some part of Spock, that Spock has become so stupidly, hopelessly entangled with Jim that these people staring at him like that feels like fingers raking through the most private and perfect thing in the world.
He breathes out slowly.
The final note is fading out, he realizes with a sudden start, and the crowd outside is going absolutely insane with cheering, whistles and claps filling up the room. He swallows again, and blinks against the glare of the stagelight, where's Jim's bowing and smiling gloriously at the crowd. It's illogical and irrational and ridiculous--yes, it's all of those things, but he can't stop it: he wants Jim off that stage, now. Back here, with Spock, where he belongs.
"Thank you very, very much," Jim says into the microphone. His voice sounds dark gold, softer and rougher than usual, and Spock feels a shiver go down his spine. "It was an absolute pleasure to play here, lemme tell ya. I think I'll let you guys get outta here, into the cool air--" he waves off calls for encore with a charming grin, shaking his head. "Nah, you guys are gonna roast if you stay in here one more minute! Tell you what, I'm playing here next Thursday, too, so you can come along then, if you wanna hear more." He waves a hand at the still-cheering group and ducks offstage, whistling softly to himself.
Spock means to say something, but feels so completely juvenile and stupid all of a sudden that he doesn't know what, and what emerges is some sort of halfway-sound, just the start of a word. Jim hears it, though--he tilts his head up, and fairly lights up when he sees Spock.
"Hey there, you," he says, all bright grin and affection in the half-darkness. He's breathing hard, flushed and sweating, and he crowds right into Spock's space and presses him up against the wall, curling a damp, hot hand over Spock's neck. He's just a long wave of heat and exhilaration against Spock's body, and just like that, Spock's skin comes alive with wanting, little electric ripples everywhere through him. His hands are at Jim's hips without his consent, holding hard enough to potentially leave bruises, and Jim's still beaming, so alive and bright and warm.
And Spock simply can't stand it. He pushes his mouth against Jim's wet, open one, licking in hot and slick until the world blurs at the edges and all he can feel is Jim's fingers gripping his hair and Jim's heart thudding against his chest. He drags Jim's hips in to press hard against his own with an arm around Jim's waist, till there's not a millimeter between them. He kisses Jim, slow and wild, until Jim is moaning into it, body melting against Spock's; steals Jim's breath, and thinks, this is us, this is ours alone--all this light and music and he chose me, and I'm not giving him up. Not ever. Not ever.
Jim's fingers in the hair at his neck are reply and reassurance enough.
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