Story is a response to a Challenge by a user on Lunaescence - Xandochu's '30 Day Song Challenge!' I have a Lunaescence account (Kyuun) and the story is also posted there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. I am not an experienced Trekkie, so please forgive any mistakes to do with the Star Trek World (this fic follows the storyline of the two Reboot Movies). Story will be written in second person - needless to say, don't like, don't read.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy! c:

[day 14]: a song that no one would expect you to love — "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fallout Boy.

You understood the idea of one night stands. You've had a fair few, after all. You were quite… an expert at them, if you could say so yourself.

There was supposed to be no connection — no sweet words, no electrifying caresses — only the idea of release and satisfaction: to give equally and take equally. No bonds, no actual relationship. Once it was done, it was forgotten about — no numbers exchanged, or any means of contact between either party.

Let me rephrase that: you were meant to be an expert at them.

So, why was this the fifth time?

The moment your eyes meet his, you can't breathe.

There's something choking you — suffocating you and you both love it and loathe it at the same time. Why couldn't you breathe properly? No, scratch that; why couldn't you think properly? Sure, there wasn't that much 'thinking' involved with sexing people up, but- but not like this. Not like this burning feeling scorching your mind and maybe even at your heart — and especially where he touches you.

You're a singer at the bar he frequents, and you recall your first meeting with him commenting — "You've got an amazing voice" — and although that statement was simple, and had the potential to be just a cheap compliment to score with you — it still makes you happy even now, and that moment then was the start of this messed up thing you had with him. And this, you confirm as he pushes you up against the walls of your house, was indeed the fifth time you'd consented to another night of heat and shameless relief.

"Stop doing that," you mutter, locking eyes with him for a few brief seconds and attempting to ignore his smouldering, cobalt gaze.

"Doing what?" he murmurs back, the smirk on his lips stretching wider.

"That."

"What?" he inquires with a playful undertone, hands already teasing, and mouth kissing your body appreciatively. You note that, maybe, a reason why you're keeping this 'relationship' up with him is because he's the first to actually give you more than you can take. He knows exactly what to do, what things make you thrash underneath him and in return, you know the exact locations of the sweet spots on his neck, how he likes it when you're vocal.

"Hah- h-having that look on your face. As if-"

His fingers curve inside of you and the rhythm he previously had speeds up. You can't help but lose the ability to speak, and you're lucky you did lose it.

'-as if you know what you're doing to me.'

That's what you were about to say. And what you shouldn't have even thought about saying. If you said that, well, the game you'd be playing would be over.

Speech is deemed unnecessary to both of you as he continues his motions.

He kisses you but you think it's too intense to be called just a kiss. It's a crashing of mouths, dancing of tongues. He muffles your moans and completely dominates you. The moment you reach your orgasm, you say his name in this voice he can't seem to get enough of - and for him, the giving is all worth it.

Kirk finds it kind of odd (and very, very different), how he gets turned on by the way your lips form his name as you writhe beneath him, sweating and panting and gasping at his actions (a rule he stuck by with a few exceptions of some friends — was that one night stands weren't supposed to be personal). He finds a sort of delight and pride in the way he can make you this dishevelled — a different kind of pleasure he got from other women he'd been with before. Another factor to all of this is how you don't call him 'Jim' or 'Kirk' — you call him James and he sees it as a privilege only for you (but still, he's not sure why), because not many people calls him James and he finds it weird but in a good way. It makes his blood race, his eyes narrow in lust and something like passion.

Your hand traces the zipper of his pants so you can give at least as much as you took, but he stops you and you look up at him questioningly. For some reason, he holds eye contact until finally he kisses you, effectively taking away your breath.

Then, after a few blurry moments of him taking off his clothes — he's thrusting into you, holding you against a wall. James T. Kirk fucks like an animal but after a few nights you've spent with him, you realise that there's something underlining that. Maybe it was respect, or, if you would allow yourself to be stupid — a sort of loving tint to the way he moved. No, you remind yourself immediately after the thought enters your mind; there is no loving to this. You're just being foolishly hopeful.

Still, as you cling to him and clutch at his back (littered with scars from the bar fights he gets into and maybe a few that hint at something much more, but way too personal for you to ask about) — loving the way your hands smooth out against his muscles…

…you exasperatedly accept that, yes, you had fallen for this stranger — without ever even having an actual conversation with him that didn't involve flirting and dirty words.

Something you find completely fascinating was how, after the sex and if it wasn't in a bed — instead of going home like most of the guys you've had did — he'd bring you to your own bedroom, and sleep with you until the morning where you'd wake up entangled in limbs, having to leave for your part-time job at the bar.

Today though, he's brought you to your bedroom again but you have no work scheduled tomorrow.

The morning after's you'd had with previous guys were awkward, with them leaving as quick as they could, or you slipping out of bed quietly.

The morning after you finally have with James, that doesn't include going to work as soon as you're prepared for it — isn't as awkward as you expect it to be.

You wake up earlier than him, as usual.

But this time, instead of hurrying to work, you breathe quietly and close your eyes, attempting to remember when you'd ever felt this content, with a warmth radiating against your bare back and an arm wrapped securely around our waist.

James T. Kirk is a snuggler. That's another fact you add to your list of things that made your relationship with the guy all the more eccentric.

You turn slowly to face him.

He definitely is attractive — you wonder how many girls he'd slept with but after a while of useless pondering, you remind yourself that you shouldn't really care because you weren't supposed to feel this way in the first place: jealous.

You're tempted to move the hair on his forehead to the side but you restrain yourself.

Today you'd end this.

You wanted the ability to think clearly again — besides, you were going to go in a few days, to sign up for Starfleet Academy. Maybe you didn't have a passion for space — but your mum was a nurse. You'd taken a course in nursing. You could become a nurse — and what better place to go than space? You kind of just wanted to escape from the expectations your mum had for your path in life and from the idea that you'd do what she couldn't do. Maybe she didn't say it outright, but she often implied in small words that you and your runaway father made her incapable of studying further because she had to take care of you. You were a burden to her, but honestly you were just tired of dealing with the pretty daggers she used to make you feel indebted to her more than you should.

You let out a deep sigh, and let your eyes swipe over Kirk's face.

Even in your mind you had to refer to him distantly, because if you referred to him as 'James', there was that feeling of closeness you had to pull away from in case of it becoming too severe.

Today's the day. Today has to be the day.

You gaze at the man's face one more time. His chin, his lips, his nose, his eyelashes-

Pursing your lips, you face away from him.

You hate him. God, you really hate him.

That's why you had to end it today.