Warnings: Inappropriate licking. Dancing not approved by high school prom chaperones.

"You're being a drag."

Spock glanced up from his drink, an unpleasant combination of fruit juice and what he strongly suspected was an industrial solvent. He flinched instinctively as yet another superfluous display of pyrotechnics lit up the dance floor below, and the subsequent cheering from the crowd made the discomfort in his head flare. "Captain?" Mildly disoriented, he squinted at the man looming over him.

"Are you really going to sit in the corner all night?"

"The Bellerophon night is over three earth days long," Spock said. "Perhaps you will attempt to engage in recreational activities 'all night,' but I have no intention of remaining here one second beyond the completion of the transporter repairs."

Jim frowned for a minute, as if he were struggling to decipher what Spock had said, then he rolled his eyes. "Sorry, all I got out of that was blah blah, I'm a boring lump who can't have fun." Before Spock could react, he snatched Spock's drink off the table and downed the whole glass. He struck Spock's arm with his fist in some sort of mock-combat move. "Well, you've got to lighten up. Boring lumps aren't allowed on my crew."

Spock hypothesized that the captain was intoxicated. When Jim grabbed his wrist and proceeded to drag him out of his chair, it was the fastest Spock had moved from hypothesis to conclusion in months.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the situation was so unexpected, he could not decide what to say. He considered using his superior strength to escape Jim's hold, but Jim had momentum on his side, and if Spock were to pull free without warning, he could destabilize the human's already precarious equilibrium. Thus he allowed himself to be led along while he constructed his case against whatever it was Jim had in mind. This task proved difficult with the constant barrage of distractions.

Jim pulled him down the stairs, jostling through anyone in their way. Spock accidentally bumped a Chiropteran where she hung upside-down from the railing, and she flashed her eyespots at him and took off over the heads of the dancers with an angry snarl. Another burst of fire, another round of elevated shouting. One female in particular had an unusually disagreeable scream, and illogically, Spock wanted to find her and inform her that her vocalizations were over one point five standard deviations higher than the mean pitch. Preferably in front of her peers.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs and Jim was forced to slow his pace by a dense group of Tellarite youths, Spock seized his chance. He freed himself from Jim's grasp and raised his voice. "Captain, what precisely–"

"Huh?"

Spock leaned in closer in order to be heard over the music, and pared down his original question to the bare essentials. "Where are we going?"

The look in Jim's eyes made Spock wary, because he usually noticed it before Jim said things like 'this might sound crazy' or 'I have an insane idea.' The multicolored lights that spun erratically around the room only enhanced his calculating, mischievous expression.

"Let's make a deal," Jim said into Spock's ear. "Prove you aren't a boring lump, just once. You try all the things people are supposed to do on a party planet, and I'll never bother you about it again."

"I do not understand the significance of–"

"What?"

Clearly, such an environment did not lend itself to precision of language. Spock sighed, purely to facilitate the flow of oxygen to his brain. "To what end?"

"You've got to know what you're missing out on before you just write everything off. Isn't science all about hands-on experience?" The tone Jim used during that last phrase sounded almost threatening, and his eyes dipped briefly from Spock's face, as though he were sizing up an adversary. "Deal?"

The prospect of Jim never again insisting on Spock's participation in these outings was attractive. He nodded to show his assent, and Jim smiled and grabbed his wrist again to guide him through the crowd.

Much to his consternation, it appeared that Jim intended to lead him straight into the dance floor. But as they passed the bar, a particularly raucous bout of cheering rose up centered at that locale, not correlated with the eruptions of decorative flame. Jim stopped so abruptly Spock almost ran into him, and Jim's gaze locked in on the direction of said activity. Spock peered through the crowd with him to see an Andorian female sprawled across the countertop, giggling as a Bajoran male licked along the length of her bared abdomen.

While Spock was not intimately familiar with the customs of either species, he was fairly certain neither of them had such a ritual in their celebratory traditions.

"Perfect," Jim said, breaking into a grin. He hauled Spock toward the bar.

They were subsumed in the intoxicated masses that surrounded their destination, but Jim navigated them quickly toward the couple they had spotted from a distance. The Bajoran was sitting on a stool now, the Andorian situated on his lap, and the human bartender was gesturing into the crowd, shouting something that became clearer as they approached.

"Anyone else? Anybody? Step right up!"

Jim waved a hand over his head and pointed down at Spock. "Got one right here, barkeep!"

The crowd shouted in approval yet again, and in spite of himself, Spock felt his face warm at the sudden attention he received. Individuals he had never seen before in his life slapped him on the back and smiled cheerfully at him for reasons he had not yet determined. He disliked being cast into unusual social situations without any prior information, and he felt as though he were stuck on a first contact mission with a broken universal translator.

"For what purpose have I been volunteered?" Spock said, whether to Jim or a sympathetic bystander, he wasn't certain.

Jim didn't appear to hear him. "Don't worry, nobody knows us." He pushed Spock toward the bar, murmuring next to Spock's ear, his chin resting briefly on Spock's shoulder. "Deal's a deal. Give it a try."

"Try what?"

"Just lie down." Jim patted the countertop, and the unsettling look in his eyes was especially pronounced. "You'll see."

Spock hesitated because of the crowds staring at them, the music that was at an uncomfortable enough volume to reduce his mental acuity approximately ten percent, the lights that seared an ache into his forehead. But he trusted his captain, and so he turned around, set his palms on the counter, and pushed himself up to sit on top as though he were exiting a pool. He pivoted awkwardly to arrange himself parallel with the wooden surface before stretching out and lowering his torso backward until he was prone.

His vague sense disquiet of was only enhanced by the new position. Everyone around him appeared tall, and there was no denying the vulnerable nature of his current stance. He estimated it would take him at least three point four seconds to right himself without injuring any bystanders with the wayward swing of his limbs. For the moment, he was more or less trapped.

Then the strangers around him backed away minutely, so that Jim and the bartender were the only ones standing immediately over him. It was only when Jim touched the hem of his black t-shirt and started to tug it upward that Spock's bewildered brain connected what they were doing to the strange encounter they had witnessed – that he realized the captain intended to do the same thing to him. Yet the theory was unsatisfying, for it made so little sense. Why would Jim wish to lick him in the first place? What role did the bartender play in the eccentric custom?

Wasn't this type of physical contact between humans considered sexual foreplay?

By the time this last query occurred to him, Jim had pushed Spock's shirt to the middle of his chest, and the bartender took a pinch of salt and began to sprinkle it in a line down his stomach. Spock knew it was impossible, but subjectively it felt like he could register the impact of each individual particle as it landed on his skin. The bartender placed a slice of lime in the hollow of Spock's solar plexus, then scooped up a bottle with a flourish of his wrist.

"Body shot!" he shouted in a sing-song whoop, and the crowd responded enthusiastically. Jim's grin widened, and he visibly braced himself on the counter, waiting for some cue.

It came to Spock in a belated rush of insight. 'Shot' referred to a common method of consuming alcoholic beverages, and 'body' appeared to describe an unusual variation in–

Spock flinched as the cool liquid poured onto his skin, flowing into his navel, cutting off his thoughts. He didn't have time to process the sensation before Jim was on him.

Jim looked up to meet Spock's eyes briefly, then he ducked his head, dipped his tongue into Spock's navel, and drew it up along Spock's stomach, slow and deliberate. His tongue was hot, his breath hot, his hands hot as he rested them on top of Spock's ribs, as if he were trying to pin him down. Something overpowering twisted inside of Spock and wrenched him into involuntary squirm, arching his back off the counter. He dug his nails into his palms and shut his eyes, searching in vain for a way to explain what was happening, and more importantly, why he was allowing it.

The coarse salt scraped faintly over his skin, adding a second level of tactile stimulation that contrasted the pliant softness of Jim's tongue. Spock concluded his nerves must be misfiring, because there were far more impulses per square centimeter than there should have been given the surface area of the stimulus. He forced his eyes open again just in time to observe what happened next.

Jim reached the top of the salt line, and he sealed his lips over the skin there in a warm, wet press reminiscent of kissing. Then he straightened up, plucked the lime from Spock's chest, and shoved it into Spock's mouth instead. Spock was practically deafened by the screams of delight that engulfed them as Jim bent over and placed their lips together. His hands cradled Spock's face as he bit into the lime, and a thin trickle of juice escaped Spock's lips, sliding down his chin.

The taste of mingled salt and lime with a faint hint of ethanol filled his mouth, and Jim pulled back, taking the lime with him in his teeth. He spat it out into his hand and leaned down again, pressing their lips together once more with no barrier between them. His tongue darted into Spock's mouth, as though he were chasing the flavor of the drink.

Unlike before, the gesture was not merely reminiscent of kissing. Heat flooded every part of Spock, an unfortunate side-effect of his human half, before pooling bizarrely close to his groin. The kiss was quick but deep, and when Jim withdrew with a quick lap at Spock's chin, Spock found that he had to suppress certain physiological reactions that were normally simple to keep in check.

"Not bad." Jim smiled down at him, one hand still caressing his cheek. "Gotta love tequila."

Spock wondered how he could have possibly mistaken the lust on Jim's face for anything else. He waited for his mind to settle back into a coherent thought process, or at the very least, experience shock or distaste. Yet a careful review of the facts resulted in nothing but surprise and a kernel of interest.

He sat up cautiously, with unnecessary assistance from Jim, and dropped down off the bar, pulling his shirt back into place. Many of their fellow patrons were watching them intensely and making lewd comments, and Jim put a palm between Spock's scapulae to urge him away from their admirers. Spock ended up standing in a daze at the threshold of the dance floor, a thin and constantly shifting line that divided the club. The music and lights no longer vexed him so much as they enhanced his sense of the surreal.

"Experience number one, check," Jim announced as he sidled up beside Spock. "Are you up for the second course?" His tone was low with confidence, but Spock had studied his captain's body language enough to recognize the apprehension in the way he carried himself. When Spock looked at him, he turned his gaze immediately to the dance floor, where a sea of bodies were pressed together, writhing to a bass beat that seemed to mimic a racing human heart.

Spock watched the charged spectacle, his curiosity piqued and demanding novelty. "Affirmative," he said. He only reminded himself about the reward of their deal as an afterthought.

Jim peered at him, brow furrowed. "What?"

"Affirmative." Spock said, louder this time.

Jim laughed in obvious relief, slipped an arm around Spock's waist, and guided him into the crowd.

Spock was instantly overwhelmed. He did not consider himself claustrophobic, but the sheer chaos that enveloped him was highly disagreeable. The smells of a hundred alien pheromones all vied for his attention. The unavoidable skin-to-skin contact as they squeezed between dancers battered his already compromised mental shields. It was all he could do to maintain them, and he almost changed his mind about the entire scenario when he lurched out of Jim's hold, tripped up by a prehensile tail. Fortunately or unfortunately, Jim caught his wrist and kept going with the same dogged resolve that had landed him a captaincy.

No doubt aware of his discomfort, Jim took him to a place beneath the stairwell to the second floor, where the dancers were not so densely packed. Spock spent a moment recovering, his hands pressed together in a meditative stance until his shields stabilized.

"You okay?" Jim asked, and implicit in his question was another; did Spock truly want to continue on whatever path Jim had in mind? Did he truly want to shift their association this far beyond the professional realm?

"I am well," Spock said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Spock raised an eyebrow, purely for reassurance.

"Good," Jim muttered, and the concern faded from his face. "That's good. Now c'mere." He slung his arms loosely around Spock's neck to pull them flush against each other, and Spock placed his hands on Jim's waist after a moment's confusion over the exact coordination of limbs. "Don't worry. You'll be great at this."

"Perhaps." That was all Spock could manage while trying to learn and mimic the gentle sway of Jim's waist. He was not familiar with any form of human dance, let alone one that involved sinuous, undulating movements. Taking cues from other dancers was not helping, and he was grateful when Jim's hands slid down his chest and clutched his hips to guide him.

"Relax. Follow my lead." Jim situated his knee between Spock's legs, and their hips fit together surprisingly well. He began to move his body in slow, smooth waves, his shoulders rolling forward and back, his pelvis kept firm against Spock's so that the natural flow of motion repeatedly drove their lower halves together. Spock focused on imitating him, but failed to keep them synchronized beyond a few seconds.

"You're thinking too much. Stop thinking," Jim implored quietly. His hands shifted a little lower to rest at the very top of Spock's buttocks and pull him even closer.

Spock knew that dancing in this manner was, in essence, simulated intercourse. He knew it intellectually, but experiencing it firsthand was rapidly reinforcing the fact. The bursts of friction between them coaxed his system to respond in much the same way it had at the bar, and this time, he didn't suppress the feeling. He allowed it to build along with the sensuous rhythm that grew easier as Jim deepened the grind of their hips.

It soon became apparent he wasn't alone in this regard.

Suddenly Jim stepped around Spock, trailing a hand across Spock's chest as he went, and he grasped Spock's hips again from behind. His fingers slipped beneath the black shirt, and he slid them higher, hiking up the fabric as he went. He resumed their previous rhythm, stronger than before, and a small noise of frustration escaped Spock's throat. Jim was hard, thrusting against him teasingly, but now there was nothing for Spock to push against. The mischief flirting with the edge of his mind through Jim's fingertips suggested this was intentional.

But without Jim in front of him to absorb his attention and command his view, Spock was free to survey their surroundings. He abruptly noticed the stares of at least a half-dozen other couples, all seemingly more interested in Jim and himself than their respective partners.

He froze, made uneasy by this new development, but Jim coaxed him into motion again, his breath ghosting over Spock's ear. "Don't mind them. They've probably never seen a Vulcan before." His hand crept farther up Spock's chest, still tucked beneath the shirt, and he hugged Spock against him. One of the nearby females bit her lip as she studied Spock brazenly, and another pair had ceased dancing altogether, and were whispering to each other as they watched.

"Jim, I…"

"Close your eyes if it bothers you."

Spock decided this was a sound course of action. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could almost imagine they were the only ones there. He could give himself over to the experience without any external factors to make him doubt.

Although still discontent with their relative positions, he resigned himself and leaned into Jim. He allowed his hips to fall back until they were rocking tightly together, and a different kind of stimulation rose within him. It was unanticipated, elusive at first, but with just the right angle of motion, particular areas Spock had never explored in a sexual capacity were roused into excitement. Pleasure, thick and concentrated, gathered there in a tight knot. The miniscule amount of friction provided by the front of his pants became both a blessing and a torment. Gasping, he reached up to cradle the nape of Jim's neck in his hand, and the sweat there slicked his fingers and made him tremble.

"There we go," Jim purred. "Feel it now?"

Spock couldn't answer, and he didn't need to; Jim's smugness was accordingly high. He dropped his shields a fraction more to let the lust percolate between them, and Jim's subsequent moan put them on a more equal footing, triggering Spock's own self-satisfaction. Jim sought revenge by mouthing along Spock's neck, and Spock had to consciously curb his body temperature to prevent overheating. Not once did the cadence of their hips falter.

"Did you like that as much as I did?" Jim murmured between the soft presses of his lips. "Back at the bar, I mean."

"It was an… interesting experience."

He felt Jim smirk against his throat. "Like my mouth on you here?" His fingers splayed over Spock's navel, almost directly above the superheated skin of his groin. Spock couldn't hold back his sharp inhale and the desperate jerk of his hips. "Or maybe you'd like it better somewhere else."

Absurdly, Spock almost lost control of his knees at that statement. "Yes," he whispered without thought, and for the first time, Jim's steady pace faltered and stopped.

"Did you just say what I thought you said?"

Spock opened his eyes, nodding to avoid further auditory misinterpretation. Jim swore softly in what sounded like Orion, and he lost all interest in dancing.

He took Spock's hand and towed him along, keeping close to the wall, heading off the dance floor. They moved so swiftly that the crowd seemed to part around them in a blur of colors, yet Spock didn't perceive a single foreign thought. He was too inundated with the psychic roar of Jim's mind, the scorching, urgent want that drowned out anything else.

There was an abandoned, dimly lit corridor a few turns off the main club floor, most likely a maintenance hallway. How exactly Jim knew it was there would have intrigued Spock not long ago, but presently, he didn't care in the slightest.

No sooner had they entered the corridor when he found himself shoved into the wall and kissed with a powerful, single-minded thoroughness. There were no excuses this time, no eccentric drinking traditions to blame, and the frankness of the act was exhilarating. Spock followed an impulse and seized Jim's head to change the angle of their mouths, savoring the caress of soft, golden hair through his fingers. Jim groaned and bucked their hips together, his hands sneaking into the back pockets of Spock's pants.

The primary instigator of their spontaneous encounter broke them apart first. Spock almost objected, but then he saw Jim's face, and any notion of protest evaporated. Jim held his gaze for a full three seconds until Spock's head instinctively tipped back against the wall, an act of surrender beneath the promise of those sharp, blue eyes.

"Experience number three," Jim said breathlessly, and dropped to his knees.

A/N: I hate to be a tease, but I wanted to leave something to the imagination with this one (it just feels more effective that way to me)! Which means what happens next is entirely up to you, dear reader, as long as it involves screwing that would make rabbits jealous. :3