fuck you, I'm an acrobat! (anowlinsunshine) wrote,
fuck you, I'm an acrobat!
anowlinsunshine

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Because I am SHAMELESS and UNABLE TO RESIST, have more porn

*facepalm* Someone needs to take that st_xi_kink comm away from me, or you all will likely be spammed with a ridiculous amount of fic from me for time period of unforeseeable length. Unless you really want that to happen (and you probably don't; I'd think it would get annoying), TAKE IT AWAY because I am apparently incapable of staying away from and resisting the endless supply of amazing prompts on there.

For now, though, have more porn.

Title: Medical Observation
Fandom: Star Trek (new movie 'verse)
Pairing/Rating: Kirk/Spock, NC-17 (because we're back to the version of reality where I have no standards)
Word Count: 1,541
Date Completed: 19 May 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: For staraflur, because she is a filthy, filthy enabler who is unhelpful in every way re: friends seeking aid and control over their own porn-writing tendencies (also, because I threatened to). Written in response to the prompt at st_xi_kink of (in a loose summary) Kirk and Spock caught in the act on camera by Bones, who never wanted to see any of that. Warnings for: my failtastic attempts at humor and wit; Bones!POV, which I have never written before and desperately hope I got right; a medical bay that probably makes no sense, but shut up, it's a cleverly-designed plot device, stop pointing out all my flaws; self-beta, because I'm lazy and have no excuse; pure ridiculousness.


The medical bay on the Enterprise is, like the rest of the ship, state-of-the-art. Its walls and floor and ceiling are a brilliant, oddly-cool white, and the chrome instrumentation by every bed and lining much of the wall-space gleams beautifully under the overhead fluorescents. The beds are soft and clean enough to keep any waylaid crew member at least comfortable, and the facilities are so well-equipped and up-to-date that any medical professional would likely make several killings just for a chance to touch them, let alone work with them.

Ordinarily, Leonard McCoy would be beyond proud (and rather self-satisfied, if he may say so himself) of being able to call this beauty of a clinic his.

Ordinarily, Leonard McCoy is not being forced to watch his best friend get some in the lift thanks to this beauty of a clinic's technological overload.

The thing is, the medical bay is also furnished with a wall of flat-panel video monitors, each connected into a different security camera's feed and each displaying a different corridor or lift or alcove in the ship. It's a fairly new system, this one, but it’s one that's proving rather successful in precluding unnecessary fatality or permanent injury by allowing medical to view for themselves any developing health emergencies. It's considered cutting-edge in accident prevention, so, naturally, the Enterprise has it.

And this is all well and good, all very beneficial, on most days, but "most days" aren't now. "Most days" aren't when McCoy is taking the nightly shift on clinic watch, eying the screens and generally keeping the bay ready to receive any possible patients. And "most days" certainly aren't when McCoy (who is just trying to do his job, damn it) turns to check the monitor in the far-right column, third row up, and gets an eyeful of Jim Kirk pressing himself tightly against Spock in the ship's lift.

McCoy averts his gaze quickly, eyes zooming over to Any Screen But That One, but not before he catches a highly unwanted glimpse of Jim tonguing his way down Spock's neck, one hand splayed across Spock's hip and the other shoved up his shirt as the Vulcan pulls him close.

Bastard, McCoy thinks, "I don't have an exhibitionism kink, Bones, how could you say such a thing?" my ass.

He's doing his best to avoid that screen and the Unwanted Visuals of His Best Friend Having Sex that it contains, but it's hard. The monitors in the far-left column (female staff's quarters) are all clear, as are the ones in the second column (male staff's quarters), and the third (general areas like the observation deck and canteen, which usually prove interesting, but now only show him totally non-distracting footage of Chekov working at his desk and Melvin the janitor slowly mopping the linoleum floors until they shine). And damn it, none of this is helping take his mind off of that brief image, the one that keeps playing in his mind and of which he can see flickering half-views in the corner of his peripheral vision.

And of course now, just as he resolves to find something interesting about Melvin's custodial endeavors (for a guy with tentacles and a body consisting of what appears, on good days, to be lime gelatin, he's actually quite handy with a mop), the Health Emergency Detection System decides to start alerting him that his attention is needed somewhere. The rim around That Infernal Lift Monitor (as McCoy has started affectionately calling it, in further efforts to make it die from his hatred and sheer will) begins flashing a bright, obnoxious red that's even more distracting than the half-glances he was getting before. At the same time, a cool, computerized voice filters through the sound system.

Doctor McCoy, it chimes, smooth and professional and blissfully unaware of what it's about to drag him back into, your attention is required at screen D-3. A potential medical emergency could be developing.

McCoy curses, wondering what, exactly, Jim could have done to alarm the system. He's expecting some new, bizarre injury that only Jim could acquire. It will no doubt be bloody or bruising and highly-embarrassing for McCoy to treat (even if he won't show it), but will make for some outstanding blackmail material later (at least, it would if Jim had any shame whatsoever, which McCoy's found he doesn't, so again: damn it).

What he sees instead is the light in the corner of the lift ceiling informing him that Jim has stopped the fucking lift, the little bastard. Of course he'd be the one to prolong a quickie enough to set off the high-tech medical alert system. Of fucking course.

The second thing he sees is pretty hard to miss, however unwanted it may be. It seems that Jim’s been a busy boy in the few moments of distraction McCoy was able to scrape together before that goddamned system trapped him into watching this or receiving endless irritating reminders that your attention is required, this is your job, Doctor McCoy, it would be wise if you, you know, did it.

Jim still has Spock pressed against the wall, but now, Spock is shirtless and Jim is -- Jim is sinking to his knees, good God. Jim’s kissing and licking his way down Spock’s chest as he goes, and when he finally settles on the floor, his hand reaches out to thumb open Spock’s trousers. He pulls out Spock’s dick, and McCoy should be looking away, damn it, but now he’s kind of half-wayinterested, God help him (he may be mostly on the straight and narrow, but he can still appreciate a good-looking man, and Jim is nothing if not that. Clearly, McCoy will have to kill Jim and his pretty mouth, say, tomorrow before Jim is able to coerce him into finding Unwanted Visuals even mildly appealing again).

On-screen, Jim leans in and wraps that pretty mouth around Spock’s prick, and the slightly-grainy image of Spock’s face shows that the Vulcan’s only reaction is to close his eyes. Jim bobs his head in closer to Spock’s groin, taking more and more into his mouth, and McCoy doesn’t know how Spock isn’t absolutely boneless by now.

Instead, Spock only threads his fingers into Jim’s hair, hand resting large and spread-out over the back of Jim’s head. Jim repositions his hands so that they’re holding Spock’s hips lightly, giving himself some semblance of control over this before pulling Spock’s pelvis in closer, forcing him to thrust into Jim’s apparently open and willing mouth.

McCoy’s blushing furiously at this point (although if he were totally honest here, he’d admit that it’s a mix between embarrassed blush and aroused flush, for which, again, he will have to kill Jim, and soon), but he still can’t make himself look away. So he watches as Spock starts thrusting, shallow and fast, into Jim’s mouth and throat. He watches as Jim moves his head into it, matching the rhythm of Spock’s hips perfectly. He watches as Jim does something to make Spock come, the sudden, tight flexing of his hand in Jim’s hair the only indication beyond his scrunched-closed eyes of any loss of his prided Vulcan composure.

McCoy never wanted to see that, never wanted to see any of this, but even he has to admit it’s fairly beautiful when Spock pulls Jim up and kisses him, obviously soft and sweet even over silent digital feed. Jim’s clearly hard, clearly still desperate for release (he’s rutting against Spock’s leg, for God’s sake, and McCoy’s already filing that visual under “Things to Never Contemplate Ever Again. Ever.”), but Spock just pushes him back, fingers tracing over Jim’s face in what McCoy can only imagine is a soothing gesture.

Spock redresses, buttons his trousers and tugs on his under- and uniform shirts before reaching out to tap the button on the lift wall to restart it. As the lift moves again, the red light surrounding That Infernal Monitor fades out, the potential medical emergency apparently recognized by the alert system as averted. McCoy glares at it, cursing it under his breath, and is just turning away when another flash of movement in the screen draws his attention back.

What he sees is Jim standing in the lift alone, Spock having obviously exited already through the now-open doors. Jim’s trademark Cocky Bastard Grin is spread wide over his features, and McCoy knows that whatever Jim is about to do will earn him no points in favor of Not Being Killed Tomorrow. His arm is extended in the direction of the camera, and his hand is spread wide directly in front of its line of sight.

On Jim’s hand is written, in smudged but still-legible ink, Enjoy the show, Bones?

McCoy growls softly, thinks, Little shit, and makes a mental note to check if Jim’s due for an updated vaccine against that mud flea disease. On-screen, Jim winks, smirks, and leaves (no doubt to finish what he’s started in some epicly pornographic way that McCoy has never wanted to contemplate, but will now because of the flood of Unwanted Visuals and his inability to lose focus on things easily), and McCoy decides that, Fuck it, I’m the doctor here. He’s getting it anyways. Definitely.
Tags: fic: star trek, pairing: kirk/spock, unlocked post
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