urbancate | Fic: Jim Kirk, Ladies' Man (Kirk/OFC) (Reply)

ohownovel wanted Kirk/OFC fic and it seemed like a perfect excuse to finally write a companion piece to McCoy, Secret Sex God, but this time about the Kirk graffiti. (Also, I failed at the "REALLY HOT" part of the request. But have some fic anyway!)

Jim Kirk, Ladies' Man

Three blocks away from the dorm corner of Starfleet Academy is a bar. (Three blocks is perfect drunk stumble distance, or so one James T. Kirk was heard to pronounce very late - or very early, depends on how you look at it - one Saturday night/Sunday morning.) We'll call it Joe's. Is that its name? Not important, really. The important thing here is not that name on the sign, but the signage inside. And by signage, we mean graffiti. And by graffiti we mean a good hundred years or so of scribbled, scrawled, and scratched-in-wood epithets, names, numbers, haikus, epic love poems in disguise. In the ladies' room.

In the history of Starfleet Academy and Joe's, legends have come and gone. But one legend remains. And very prominently. On the inside of the door of the last stall you will find, in elegant black cursive as tall as your hand, this: "For a good time, let Jim Kirk buy you a drink."

Smaller, but no less enthusiastic or emphatic, block lettering below that piece of legend, refutes it thus: "Forget Jim, go for the quiet and scowling friend. SIX TIMES IN ONE NIGHT."

The tale of McCoy, Secret Sex God has been told. This is the story of Kirk, Well-Known and Well-Appreciated Ladies' Man and Inspirer of Graffiti.

It all happened something like this: (we are reasonably sure)

After what he considers to be the requisite minimum number of days spent settling into his dorm and his classes and the routine of the Academy and generally being well-behaved (and a model command-track cadet, thank you very much, and what makes you think he'll be anything other than that?), James T. Kirk - Jim to his friends - is ready to hit the town. See what the hell this sainted city has to offer. And, as luck - not that Jim believes in luck, per se, he makes his own - would have it, he has just heard of a really great cadet-friendly dive sort of place a few blocks from campus. He figures he'll hit up just about every bar in town at some point in the three years he'll be here, but it's good to start with a dive. Especially one that will be full of female cadets. Out of uniform, in uniform, he really doesn't care - those little red skirts, though, let's just say Jim's a fan.

He's flying solo tonight because this is before the days when he can cajole Bones into doing just about any fool thing Jim can think of (oh, stories for another day!) and "I'm a doctor, not a co-ed" wasn't a point Jim felt he could argue with and win.

He walks into Joe's and immediately like what he sees: classic hardwood and leather seating from a different century, the patina of age and student shenanigans, a little bit dark, but clean. He thinks he's going to like Joe's. Bars like this are always good to him. Plus, the female cadets. There is no overstating just how happy he is to be in such a target (although that's the wrong word - Jim loves the ladies, but he's not really a predator) rich environment.

"Make that two," he says at least three times as perfectly lovely and intelligent-seeming women accept his offer of a drink and flirtation and then proceed to bore him just a little with how easy to get they are. It makes no sense whatsoever and Jim starts to think maybe a good brawl is the thing for tonight, forget getting laid.

Yeah, throwing a few punches is what it's going to be, he thinks, until one of those lovely and intelligent cadets actually shoots him down.

"Make that two," he says, motioning to the bartender. "Her drink's on me."

"No thanks. I buy my own drinks," says the brunette in the tiny red top and long-legged jeans, giving him a dismissive once over.

Jim Kirk cannot resist a challenge.

"Fair enough," he concedes. "A woman who can take care of herself, I like that. How 'bout we just talk instead."

Her lips purse a little as if she is thinking it over.

"I promise I won't try to buy you a drink, cross my heart, etc.," he adds, crossing his heart with his fingers and flashing her what he knows to be his most irresistible grin.

She just raises an eyebrow at him - he likes her already, he decides.

"Deal," she says. "We'll talk."

Her name is Helen, she's command-track, third year, she's from Alaska, she prefers the darker ales from Alpine Europe - not beer, and especially not those fruity mixed drinks. She tells him about the Kobayashi Maru and he is hooked. He grills her about the test, the scenarios, the psychology of it. They talk about courses and pressure and the psychology of command, baseball and old movies and cars. They talk and drink and talk and drink and talk and it all seems very friendly-only and watch-Jim-Kirk-strike-out until she looks him straight in the eye and says "Buy me a drink."

Which eventually - but not slowly - leads them back to her apartment.

Which is the part of this story that inspired graffiti.

She's got a mini-apartment-style dorm room, because with seniority comes privileges, and she's got it all to herself. (Jim is still working on the strategies of having a sex life while having a roommate; he decides right then and there he's gonna get himself an apartment to himself, screw these rules for freshman dorm living - he's already an exception to half the Academy rules anyway.)

"Computer, lights at twenty percent," she commands, leading the way into the living area, pausing in the kitchen. "Another drink?"

"Hm," he pretends to consider, backing her against the edge of the counter next to the fridge. "Tempting, but, I've got something else in mind."

"Oh?" She lifts that elegant eyebrow at him again. As if she doesn't know. As if she hadn't said "Come home with me and let's have sex" when she said "Buy me a drink." But this is what he likes about her. She is direct and knows what she wants, and knows how to play a moment.

"Oh, yeah," he says and presses into her space a little more firmly. With one hand on the counter, he's got her half trapped while his other hand plays up the bare skin of her arm, then across the soft tops of her breasts above the tiny red top. Her breath catches when his thumb finds the hollow of her throat and that's the moment. (You know, that moment, the opportunity, the tiny strand of time when a woman first opens up to you and you kiss her for the first time and it's magic and brandy and sweet and all that other stuff because it's amazing and she tastes so good and it's only the beginning.)

Look, this is an important moment on multiple levels. First kiss, prelude to seduction, overture to mutual pleasure...beginning of the legend of Jim Kirk, Starfleet Ladies' Man At Large. See?

His hands frame her face, thumbs pressing just a little to encourage her mouth to open wider for him, for the hungry sweep of his tongue. She opens for him, willing and just as hungry.

(A perpetual problem of her fellow command-track cadets is their belief in their own charm - read: arrogance - but this guy is something else, he's got charm in spades, lethal dosage stuff, but with the eyes and the grin and the laugh it's all terribly non-arrogant, it's like being in on the joke. Even in the middle of a kiss, she's pretty sure he's smiling. And who wouldn't be smiling through a kiss like this?)

The legend, even the resultant graffiti, could probably have been sealed with just this one, endless, breathless, voracious kiss. But lucky for Helen, Jim Kirk isn't in the habit of stopping at just a kiss. (At least not since the age of 16 or so.) Lucky for Helen (and Jim, too - this is mutual pleasure, after all), talking and drinks at Joe's leads to so much more than a kiss.