Hot Tamale | STXI | PG-13
Title: Hot Tamale
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~900
Warnings: Totally unbeta’ed - mistakes are mine.
Summary: An st_xi_kink_meme prompt fill: Spock owns a upscale restaurant, but needs help spicing things up. He hires Chef Kirk to save the day.
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
A/N: Now with a sexy sequel, Bold Flavor, by verizonhorizon!
“Wow, so this menu is fucking trash,” Chef Kirk states from his splayed out position on the chair across from Spock’s desk.
Spock recognises and discards his own illogical urge to question how a man in leather pants with a crotch zipper can be qualified to make such a broad conclusion.
Instead, he gathers his wits and interlocks his fingers atop the metal desktop. Spock regards the young Chef with chilliness that he is aware has caused members of the waiting staff to break into a cold sweat.
Chef Kirk looks as if he is about to fall asleep. He may as well be, as he is essentially lying across his chair; one leg slung over the arm rest and the other flung across the floor.
Spock sets his jaw tightly. “I have never received a complaint.”
“No accolades, either.” Chef Kirk chucks the menu towards the desk, but it misses and falls to the floor near his foot. He does not bother to retrieve it. Eyes of an unnaturally blue saturation fix on Spock like a bolt to steel.
Spock acknowledges the curious spark at the base of his spine and nods once. “If I were to hire you, what would you propose?”
Chef Kirk sits up from his slouch and rolls his shoulders, his lips pursed as he looks off into the distance. “There’s nothing wrong with serving classic food when you do it right. The recipes you create are perfect, technically.”
He perches on the edge of his chair, his fingers tapping his knees with excess energy. When his gaze slides towards Spock, Chef Kirk grins slowly. “But you’re sure as hell not doing it right. The public appreciates the classics more when there’s an added sense of fun, and spice and intrigue. Like you, Mr. Spock.”
Spock blinks once. He attempts to perceive the jest in Chef Kirk’s words, but the young man’s grin has faded and is replaced with a considering expression. Spock cocks his head minutely. “Pardon me, but your line of thought escapes me.”
Chef Kirk sweeps Spock with a stare that lingers from his folded hands to his warming ears. “My line of thought has remained on you the entire time, Mr. Spock,” he drawls lazily. “The food you serve needs to reflect you. Unique. Half Vulcan, half Human - the exotic and the dependable enveloped in an irresistible, mouth-watering package.”
Spock is unsure if the chef is speaking of the food or -
“Where the devil are my fucking quail’s eggs, Spock?” Chef McCoy crashes into the room with his customary lack of civility. His face is flushed marinara red. “I don’t know if you were aware or not, but I need food to cook with! I’m surrounded by a load of -“
It is then that he turns and notes Chef Kirk.
“Hookers,” McCoy concludes hollowly, his eyes wide. “Spock, you’ve got a hooker in your office.”
Chef Kirk’s lips quirk as he stands and holds out a hand. “That was my calling in another life. Now, I just cook. I’m Jim Kirk - who are you, Chef Boyardee?”
McCoy snatches the tall white chef’s hat off his head rather than shaking Chef Kirk’s hand. He scowls. “McCoy. Spock, what the hell is this guy doing here? Spock!”
Spock certainly has not been inspecting the outrageous curve of Chef Kirk’s posterior in snug shining leather.
He clears his throat and calmly assesses the men before him. Chef McCoy is mutely livid, and Chef Kirk is looking at him with an odd smile. Spock flicks an eyebrow. “Chef Kirk is currently being interviewed for a position on our staff. You are, as prone to do, interrupting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” McCoy snaps and fists his hands upon his hips. “Please, flog me in the streets for interrupting this meeting for the sake of your restaurant.”
“If you would be so kind as to continue your habit of roaming the premises weeping in another room, I would be much obliged.”
Chef Kirk muffles a laugh with his hand, while Spock’s sous chef sputters. “Why - you - I - fuck this job, goddammit!” McCoy flings his hands in the air and spins on his heel, retreating. “Rather be sold into fucking slavery.”
The door slams with finality, and Spock can return his full attention to Chef Kirk. He remains standing, his long thumbs hooked in the belt loops of those illogical pants. His hips jut out slightly with his relaxed stance. “He was fun. I liked him.”
Spock nearly frowns. “He called you a prostitute.”
Chef Kirk shrugs. “We’re all selling something.”
“What are you selling, Chef Kirk?” Spock asks before he realises he should not have.
A languid smile illuminates his face and puts a fire behind his eyes. “Call me Jim.”
Spock hesitates. “Jim.”
Jim crosses to Spock’s desk and presses his large palms on the cold metal. He leans forward, and Spock’s nostrils flare with the curious aroma of sugared toasted cashews on Jim’s breath. Jim’s voice is low and rusty.
“I’m selling my skills, Mr. Spock. And if you don’t hire me, you’ll never get a single taste. And believe me,” he pauses and angles further towards Spock. Jim’s lips disturb the air around Spock’s ear, and the tiny hairs on the tip practically shiver. “You really want a taste of what I have to offer.”
Very distantly, Spock can hear himself saying, “You are hired.”
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~900
Warnings: Totally unbeta’ed - mistakes are mine.
Summary: An st_xi_kink_meme prompt fill: Spock owns a upscale restaurant, but needs help spicing things up. He hires Chef Kirk to save the day.
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
A/N: Now with a sexy sequel, Bold Flavor, by verizonhorizon!
“Wow, so this menu is fucking trash,” Chef Kirk states from his splayed out position on the chair across from Spock’s desk.
Spock recognises and discards his own illogical urge to question how a man in leather pants with a crotch zipper can be qualified to make such a broad conclusion.
Instead, he gathers his wits and interlocks his fingers atop the metal desktop. Spock regards the young Chef with chilliness that he is aware has caused members of the waiting staff to break into a cold sweat.
Chef Kirk looks as if he is about to fall asleep. He may as well be, as he is essentially lying across his chair; one leg slung over the arm rest and the other flung across the floor.
Spock sets his jaw tightly. “I have never received a complaint.”
“No accolades, either.” Chef Kirk chucks the menu towards the desk, but it misses and falls to the floor near his foot. He does not bother to retrieve it. Eyes of an unnaturally blue saturation fix on Spock like a bolt to steel.
Spock acknowledges the curious spark at the base of his spine and nods once. “If I were to hire you, what would you propose?”
Chef Kirk sits up from his slouch and rolls his shoulders, his lips pursed as he looks off into the distance. “There’s nothing wrong with serving classic food when you do it right. The recipes you create are perfect, technically.”
He perches on the edge of his chair, his fingers tapping his knees with excess energy. When his gaze slides towards Spock, Chef Kirk grins slowly. “But you’re sure as hell not doing it right. The public appreciates the classics more when there’s an added sense of fun, and spice and intrigue. Like you, Mr. Spock.”
Spock blinks once. He attempts to perceive the jest in Chef Kirk’s words, but the young man’s grin has faded and is replaced with a considering expression. Spock cocks his head minutely. “Pardon me, but your line of thought escapes me.”
Chef Kirk sweeps Spock with a stare that lingers from his folded hands to his warming ears. “My line of thought has remained on you the entire time, Mr. Spock,” he drawls lazily. “The food you serve needs to reflect you. Unique. Half Vulcan, half Human - the exotic and the dependable enveloped in an irresistible, mouth-watering package.”
Spock is unsure if the chef is speaking of the food or -
“Where the devil are my fucking quail’s eggs, Spock?” Chef McCoy crashes into the room with his customary lack of civility. His face is flushed marinara red. “I don’t know if you were aware or not, but I need food to cook with! I’m surrounded by a load of -“
It is then that he turns and notes Chef Kirk.
“Hookers,” McCoy concludes hollowly, his eyes wide. “Spock, you’ve got a hooker in your office.”
Chef Kirk’s lips quirk as he stands and holds out a hand. “That was my calling in another life. Now, I just cook. I’m Jim Kirk - who are you, Chef Boyardee?”
McCoy snatches the tall white chef’s hat off his head rather than shaking Chef Kirk’s hand. He scowls. “McCoy. Spock, what the hell is this guy doing here? Spock!”
Spock certainly has not been inspecting the outrageous curve of Chef Kirk’s posterior in snug shining leather.
He clears his throat and calmly assesses the men before him. Chef McCoy is mutely livid, and Chef Kirk is looking at him with an odd smile. Spock flicks an eyebrow. “Chef Kirk is currently being interviewed for a position on our staff. You are, as prone to do, interrupting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” McCoy snaps and fists his hands upon his hips. “Please, flog me in the streets for interrupting this meeting for the sake of your restaurant.”
“If you would be so kind as to continue your habit of roaming the premises weeping in another room, I would be much obliged.”
Chef Kirk muffles a laugh with his hand, while Spock’s sous chef sputters. “Why - you - I - fuck this job, goddammit!” McCoy flings his hands in the air and spins on his heel, retreating. “Rather be sold into fucking slavery.”
The door slams with finality, and Spock can return his full attention to Chef Kirk. He remains standing, his long thumbs hooked in the belt loops of those illogical pants. His hips jut out slightly with his relaxed stance. “He was fun. I liked him.”
Spock nearly frowns. “He called you a prostitute.”
Chef Kirk shrugs. “We’re all selling something.”
“What are you selling, Chef Kirk?” Spock asks before he realises he should not have.
A languid smile illuminates his face and puts a fire behind his eyes. “Call me Jim.”
Spock hesitates. “Jim.”
Jim crosses to Spock’s desk and presses his large palms on the cold metal. He leans forward, and Spock’s nostrils flare with the curious aroma of sugared toasted cashews on Jim’s breath. Jim’s voice is low and rusty.
“I’m selling my skills, Mr. Spock. And if you don’t hire me, you’ll never get a single taste. And believe me,” he pauses and angles further towards Spock. Jim’s lips disturb the air around Spock’s ear, and the tiny hairs on the tip practically shiver. “You really want a taste of what I have to offer.”
Very distantly, Spock can hear himself saying, “You are hired.”