ST TOS Fic: Voyeuristic, NC 17
Title: Voyeuristic
Characters: K/S, voyeur!Bones
Word Count: About 900
Disclaimer: I don't own Kirk, Spock or Bones. I kinda wish I did, though.
A/N: Written for THIS PROMPT on st_tos_kink
Summary: Bones is a reluctant, unnervingly turned on voyeur.
Written quickly and unbetad! Enjoy!!
He’d gone back to apologize, to offer up a drink, a toast to friendship, a toast to, hell, he isn’t sure what. A toast to Jim and his ability to whisper at death’s door every chance he got? A toast to Spock, the loyal first officer who, despite all but claiming that logic actually does run through his green Vulcan blood, runs after Jim, blindly pulling him from harm, anywhere, every time? He’d let his quick anger get the best of him, had let his ever present fear of not being able to patch Jim up anymore, take over. He’d said things, yelled, used enough colorful old terms to send Chapel right out of the medical bay, color high on her cheeks.
He’d expected to find them both here, Jim reluctantly recouping in an uncomfortable biobed, maybe Spock meditating, or whatever it is he does, somewhere nearby, maybe pouring over documents in McCoy’s office. He’d thought he’d maybe make a self deprecating joke, grab that bottle of good stuff he had stashed in his desk drawer, thrust it upon Jim under medicinal pretense when Spock would raise that eyebrow at him.
He’d not planned on this, hadn’t imagined that, wasn’t prepared for them.
He blinked, once, twice; swallowed hard before he held his breath, frozen in his spot because he was afraid they’d see him. Maybe they would see him seeing them and by golly he was sure that they shouldn’t be seen, not like this, not there, hell, not anywhere, and, for the love of God, when exactly did they start doing things like this?
Things. Things that made Jim gasp, his eyelids flutter and his fingers dance over Spock’s bare skin; things that seemed practiced, sure and confident, reassuring and needed. Another gasp from Jim, closer to a moan, an answering stutter of breath from Spock and McCoy opened his eyes, realized he’d shut them, afraid to look at first but instead finding that a blind eye makes for an attuned ear and apparently some sort of fool because there he was still standing there, listening and then watching but more importantly wanting to, hoping not to be seen but hoping too for more of those things.
They were, God, they were beautiful, the two of them, moving against each other in a practiced dance, a private thing and Bones wondered when that had happened, ignoring the jealous lick of flame as Jim whispered Spock’s name, disregarded the bite of envy as Spock moved down that golden body. He bit his lip as Spock came to a pause only for a moment above harder, pink flesh, waiting for some sort of unspoken answer from Jim, an answer that came in the form of calloused fingers in dark hair, ghosting over green-flushed ears. He wondered what they felt like under Jim’s touch and damn it when did that happen? When did they cross that line and why hadn’t Bones noticed and my God why was he standing there like some sort of dirty old man, dick hard in his pants and heart racing faster than it had in who knows how long.
He should be leaving, or telling them to stop, to leave, to not do that or make those noises and then he thinks he should close his eyes again. He caught a glimpse of himself sprawled out on his back, mouth captured by a real hungry Jim, aching hardness relieved by the excessive heat of Spock’s mouth and opened them again real quick, afraid to see such things behind his own eyelids, assaulted instead with the real thing in front of him.
He watched then, unable to close his eyes to the sight, unwilling to accept his own want, hands gripped into tight fists at his side, watched as Spock’s mouth descended on Jim, on a part of him he’d seen many before, though never quite in this light. He was a doctor, damn it, not a voyeur, not a teenager about to come in his pants by watching some dirty movie him and his friends stumbled upon. A doctor could see this medically, understood the mechanisms of coupling, knew the dry, sterile terminology to describe what was going on in front of him, what his two friends, his captain and his first officer were up to, there in his office, there on his biobed….There, in front of him, because he hadn’t moved, had he?
He hadn’t moved, still, not when Spock sped up his movements, not when the sounds of Jim’s impending orgasm filled the room, threatening to spill out into the hall, onto the rest of the ship, not even when Jim silenced himself with Spock’s fingers, two slipping easy into his mouth and over his tongue. Bones, he watched, this time not daring to blink or to breathe, fingers spread out flat, tight, gripping against his hips as Jim sucked and stuttered through his release. He stayed until Spock crawled gracefully back up Jim’s body, heart twisting in his chest like his fingers twisted in his shirt as they kissed between intimate words, whispered endearments, as they settled in like old lovers, together.
Characters: K/S, voyeur!Bones
Word Count: About 900
Disclaimer: I don't own Kirk, Spock or Bones. I kinda wish I did, though.
A/N: Written for THIS PROMPT on st_tos_kink
Summary: Bones is a reluctant, unnervingly turned on voyeur.
Written quickly and unbetad! Enjoy!!
He’d gone back to apologize, to offer up a drink, a toast to friendship, a toast to, hell, he isn’t sure what. A toast to Jim and his ability to whisper at death’s door every chance he got? A toast to Spock, the loyal first officer who, despite all but claiming that logic actually does run through his green Vulcan blood, runs after Jim, blindly pulling him from harm, anywhere, every time? He’d let his quick anger get the best of him, had let his ever present fear of not being able to patch Jim up anymore, take over. He’d said things, yelled, used enough colorful old terms to send Chapel right out of the medical bay, color high on her cheeks.
He’d expected to find them both here, Jim reluctantly recouping in an uncomfortable biobed, maybe Spock meditating, or whatever it is he does, somewhere nearby, maybe pouring over documents in McCoy’s office. He’d thought he’d maybe make a self deprecating joke, grab that bottle of good stuff he had stashed in his desk drawer, thrust it upon Jim under medicinal pretense when Spock would raise that eyebrow at him.
He’d not planned on this, hadn’t imagined that, wasn’t prepared for them.
He blinked, once, twice; swallowed hard before he held his breath, frozen in his spot because he was afraid they’d see him. Maybe they would see him seeing them and by golly he was sure that they shouldn’t be seen, not like this, not there, hell, not anywhere, and, for the love of God, when exactly did they start doing things like this?
Things. Things that made Jim gasp, his eyelids flutter and his fingers dance over Spock’s bare skin; things that seemed practiced, sure and confident, reassuring and needed. Another gasp from Jim, closer to a moan, an answering stutter of breath from Spock and McCoy opened his eyes, realized he’d shut them, afraid to look at first but instead finding that a blind eye makes for an attuned ear and apparently some sort of fool because there he was still standing there, listening and then watching but more importantly wanting to, hoping not to be seen but hoping too for more of those things.
They were, God, they were beautiful, the two of them, moving against each other in a practiced dance, a private thing and Bones wondered when that had happened, ignoring the jealous lick of flame as Jim whispered Spock’s name, disregarded the bite of envy as Spock moved down that golden body. He bit his lip as Spock came to a pause only for a moment above harder, pink flesh, waiting for some sort of unspoken answer from Jim, an answer that came in the form of calloused fingers in dark hair, ghosting over green-flushed ears. He wondered what they felt like under Jim’s touch and damn it when did that happen? When did they cross that line and why hadn’t Bones noticed and my God why was he standing there like some sort of dirty old man, dick hard in his pants and heart racing faster than it had in who knows how long.
He should be leaving, or telling them to stop, to leave, to not do that or make those noises and then he thinks he should close his eyes again. He caught a glimpse of himself sprawled out on his back, mouth captured by a real hungry Jim, aching hardness relieved by the excessive heat of Spock’s mouth and opened them again real quick, afraid to see such things behind his own eyelids, assaulted instead with the real thing in front of him.
He watched then, unable to close his eyes to the sight, unwilling to accept his own want, hands gripped into tight fists at his side, watched as Spock’s mouth descended on Jim, on a part of him he’d seen many before, though never quite in this light. He was a doctor, damn it, not a voyeur, not a teenager about to come in his pants by watching some dirty movie him and his friends stumbled upon. A doctor could see this medically, understood the mechanisms of coupling, knew the dry, sterile terminology to describe what was going on in front of him, what his two friends, his captain and his first officer were up to, there in his office, there on his biobed….There, in front of him, because he hadn’t moved, had he?
He hadn’t moved, still, not when Spock sped up his movements, not when the sounds of Jim’s impending orgasm filled the room, threatening to spill out into the hall, onto the rest of the ship, not even when Jim silenced himself with Spock’s fingers, two slipping easy into his mouth and over his tongue. Bones, he watched, this time not daring to blink or to breathe, fingers spread out flat, tight, gripping against his hips as Jim sucked and stuttered through his release. He stayed until Spock crawled gracefully back up Jim’s body, heart twisting in his chest like his fingers twisted in his shirt as they kissed between intimate words, whispered endearments, as they settled in like old lovers, together.