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ST:XI though a fun and awesome movie on it's own right, left me severely depleted of the holy trinity of TOS. I can not begin to express the disappointment I feel.
But instead of trolling J.J. and the ST crew, since I'd like to think of myself as a decent human being, I will work to rectify this abhorrent lack of OT3 (at a snail pace, mind you because I can't write quickly to save my life), and hopefully it'll tide us over until the next movie where there better be more K/S/Mc or I will rebel, I swear.
Title:Good Morning Sunshine
Series: Star Trek: XI
Characters: K/S/Mc
Rating: PG
Warnings: uh, none?
Wordcount: 936
Summary: For the st_xi_kink prompt here. And because someone, somewhere has determined that unshaven, unclean, and bad morning breath is SEXY.
Spock is, as always - crisp lines and hard angles and all - already up and ready before either Jim or Bones have the constitution to even crack an eyelid open.
No matter how late they stay up or how much they both work him over the night before, the Vulcan apparently has this annoyingly accurate internal clock that refuses to allow him a single moment extra in bed no matter how agreeable or inviting the company. Jim makes it his unofficial mission to get Spock to sleep in at least once in his lifetime, but so far he has failed miserably. But Jim Kirk does not believe in no-win scenarios and it will only be a matter of time before he finds a suitable weakness in that hard Vulcan armor, or at least he likes to think of it that way. Bones just shakes his head and mutters about immaturity under his breath.
Jim produces a half groan-half snore as he pulls himself into consciousness, "-ones?" he looks around groggily, "Spo-?"
Bones is still halfway between deep sleep and pleasant dreams on the bed next to him, his face, peppered with stubble, buried in the crook of Jim's shoulder. Sometime between Spock laying in the middle of their three way tangle of limbs and Spock magically up and ready and primp (how does he do that?), Bones managed to migrate across the bed and latch onto a Jim size heat source while breathing foul, morning breath into his neck.
Jim feels a sharp sting on his cheek and blinks blearily in surprise. He stares at his own hand in confusion before belatedly realizing that he just slapped himself in an aborted attempt to rub at his eyes.
Spock regards both of them with a passive eyebrow, "My shift starts in four point six minutes, Captain." he offers by way of explanation, "Unfortunately, I do not have enough time to assist you in relieving your imminent needs." He smirks in a way that doesn't require facial muscles, "Perhaps Doctor McCoy would be more inclined for this task."
There is a moment in which Jim tries to figure out how the hell Spock got up without waking his light sleeping bed mates but when his brain answers in nothing but a soft, faint buzz of satisfaction, he decides that it's too early for him to be thinking about these things.
There should be rules against thinking this early in the morning.
Abandoning that train of thought, Jim then tries to focus on what Spock had said to him. It takes all of this brain power and looking down towards his feet to realize that Spock is talking about the hard-on tenting the sheets between his legs.
Oh, Jim thinks cleverly.
Bones makes a displeased sound into Jim's ears and shifts, subconsciously unhappy about the inadequate body heat Jim provides.
Jim really can't compete, and for the most part, he accepts that as fact.
Spock is a living furnace and such a comfortable heat source is damn hard to come by in the deep reaches of space, especially after the lingering effects of the overnight air setting nips at their exposed skin. Such warmth seeking tendencies pretty much guarantees that throughout the night, Bones will go through some rather interesting contortions trying to find the warmest spot on the bed, which usually happens to be Spock. It's gotten to the point where Jim cannot sleep in the middle because Bones will inadvertently suffocate him in his bid to find his Vulcan body pillow.
When he functions on full brain capacity, though, Bones absolutely refuses to acknowledge any of this (he denounces and rejects the video they have of him performing his impression of a heat seeking missile).
Spock is still looking at Jim expectantly so he figures he might as well respond with a witty come-back, or something.
It doesn't help that Bones' shifting is rubbing against him in such a pornographic way that Jim might have just thrown caution to the wind and taken the man right then and there had he been awake and coordinated enough.
"I thought I told you to call me Jim when we're off duty." is what he intends to say seductively as an attempt at some foreplay because he is Jim Kirk and he could totally go for another round, but between his morning wood taking up a good portion of his blood supply and still being half asleep, all he manages is a wet gurgle and some garbled gibberish.
His display is apparently so (un-)sexy that Spock is immediately turned off. The Vulcan knots his eyebrows together in a frown, which is as close to an expression of disgust as it gets (because really, such a display is undignified for anyone much less a Starfleet Captain) and Jim is rewarded with a nice eyeful of tight Vulcan ass when Spock turns to leave. He is only beginning to appreciate the smooth glide of fabric over taut muscle before the closing door blocks his view.
Jim pouts uselessly at the door in abject rejection.
To his left, Bones drools a bit in response.
Later, Jim will complain loudly and at great length about how his performance efficiency dips such and such percent if he doesn't get a full night's rest with all the amenities, which apparently includes having both his senior officers in various states of debauchery. Spock will call bullshit in his "no, Captain, it is physically impossible to increase your intelligence with marathon sex" way. Bones will roll his eyes and wonder why he even bothers with these two.
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Title:How many Kirks does it take?
Series: Star Trek: XI
Characters: Kirk, Spock, kitty!McCoy, mentions of others
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
Wordcount: 1,203
Summary: Animals, unlike humans, have no qualms about showing you just how little they care about your existence.
"Bones," Kirk says softly, "Bones, it's okay."
McCoy hisses at him, teeth bared in a furious snarl that says 'You see these nails? You see them? Come any closer and I'll shred your face to ribbons and then eat it.'
"You just need to come out from there and we're gonna fix you," Kirk continues, voice straining from his fraying nerves, "And after this is over, we're going out for some beer and have a good laugh about this, okay? After you're back to normal, you owe me some heavy duty TLC because I'm dirty and tired and why are you backing away again? Is there even room back there?"
Just to make things more difficult, McCoy scuffles back further.
Spock stands a few paces behind the captain, calmly watching the display in front of him. He holds a cat box in both his hands, top open and ready for use. The box itself is rather wretched looking, having been pulled from the bottom of a corner pile somewhere, and it's probably better that no one really knows its origins because it would probably make a Klingon cry. There's a very ugly puke-green color coating the outside cardboard walls and one of handle bars hangs on precariously, flapping woefully in the breeze. They have better storage containers on the ship, but unfortunately, Enterprise is still about an hour away and the box is the best they could scrape together under the circumstances.
The first officer pulls a bored look, a put out expression, even though he is still as straight face as ever. "Captain,” he means ‘Hey, you. Dumbass’, “I do not believe that the doctor comprehends your attempt at comfort in his current state. Felis catus, although a domesticated and intelligent species, have not demonstrated an appreciable understanding of human language outside a few cursory action commands.”
“Shut up, Spock,” Kirk whispers furiously, waving off his first officer without taking his eyes off the cat, “I know what I’m doing. Just be ready with the box and I’ll handle the rest.”
The plan is to coax McCoy from under the overhang (which, of course, is too low for a human to crawl under), stuff him in the box as fast as possible (those nails are sharp and deadly so minimal contact is the goal), and head on back to the ship to dump the cat in the sickbay and call it someone else's problem. So far, the plan is still stuck on the "coax the cat out" bit.
“You have attempted to persuade the creature from its chosen refuge using a total of two hundred and sixty four different methods over a period of three hundred and eighty nine point four minutes. ” And failed dismally, you subnormal simpleton he doesn’t say out loud. The cat refuses to budge from its spot, not for food, toys, or even for alcohol (Scotty's profoundly bad idea, but Kirk will try anything at that point).
Kirk ignores Spock, he instead continues to focus on the dark cat stubbornly refusing to come out from underneath the overhang, “I’m not gonna hurt you, little buddy,” he tries again, “Come on.” He inches his hand forward, trying to get closer to the agitated cat, but the feline flattens his ears against it’s skull and angrily hisses some more.
“I believe Dr. McCoy would not appreciate your use of such a diminutive term.”
“Didn’t you just say he doesn’t understand?” Kirk barked. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s still under a rock. and we need to get him out.”
“Please, Bones” Kirk begs pitifully, “I’m on my hands and knees here.” And he is. He has his ear pressed tightly to the ground, dirt sticking underneath his nails. His knees wail at him, demanding relief from the hard ground it has been on for the past who knows how long.
McCoy spits at him disdainfully and manages to wedge himself even further into the darkness.
At the end of his rope, Kirk barks, “Bones, I order you to get out of there.”
It goes over about as well as anyone would imagine. Cats in general don’t give two shits about authoritative tone. They can also smell desperation and as of this point, Kirk is pretty desperate.
The deafening silence of Kirk's failure stretches on.
Kirk wonders vaguely if it would be inappropriate for him to just curl up in a ball on the spot and start weeping.
Spock looks down at the back of his captain’s head like he always does when he thinks Kirk is being particularly stupid about something. Kirk doesn’t see it, but he feels the hair on the back of his neck bristle and knows immediately, he’s getting that look. He turns around to give his first officer a disapproving glare, “And I suppose you can do better?” He gets up from his kneeling position, trying not to show any pain as his knees scream at him in protest.
Spock gives him an eyebrow raise and sets down the box on the ground. He quickly occupies the same position Kirk had moments before and but he doesn’t try to reach for the cat, “Doctor,” he inquires into the dark overhang.
There is an angry hiss from McCoy’s end and Kirk starts to feel smug.
Undeterred, Spock continues, “Would you please desist your behavior and withdraw from your shelter so that we may return to the ship and determine a method to return you to your original form."
The cat gives the kneeling Vulcan an apathetic once over but catches wind of something and tentatively sniffs the air. It tilts its head in curiosity but begins moves forward to determine the source of its interest while keeping a sharp eye on the first officer. Spock quietly returns the gaze, unmoving.
A moment of silence hangs in the air before a small furry head pokes out from underneath the low overhang.
"What..." Kirk deadpans. James Tiberius Kirk did not just spend the last six and a half hours straining his ligaments and breaking his back to get that cat out of its self-imposed isolation just for it to come to Spock with barely any coddling. It is just not acceptable.
McCoy barely gives Kirk a second glance.
Kirk sputters in indignation as the cat not only butts its head on Spock's chin softly, it starts nuzzling, nuzzling the Vulcan affectionately.
When Spock moves to push himself up off the ground, McCoy follows the retreat. Spock curled one hand around the cat’s chin as it tilted upwards to be scratched. If the arched back is any indication, McCoy seemed to be enjoying the treatment.
“I believe you have made an error in judgment, captain.” Spock turns to Kirk with a slight twitch on his lips, “Dr. McCoy seems to be very agreeable.”
Smug pointy-eared bastard.
“Oh, shove it, Spock,” Kirk grumbles. When this is over, he and McCoy are going to have words about how one is not supposed to favor one best friend over another in an animal form, preferably over a pint or some pain killers or something because his knees are not suppose to creak like that.
McCoy, because he's a jerk like that, starts purring.
=============================
But instead of trolling J.J. and the ST crew, since I'd like to think of myself as a decent human being, I will work to rectify this abhorrent lack of OT3 (at a snail pace, mind you because I can't write quickly to save my life), and hopefully it'll tide us over until the next movie where there better be more K/S/Mc or I will rebel, I swear.
Title:Good Morning Sunshine
Series: Star Trek: XI
Characters: K/S/Mc
Rating: PG
Warnings: uh, none?
Wordcount: 936
Summary: For the st_xi_kink prompt here. And because someone, somewhere has determined that unshaven, unclean, and bad morning breath is SEXY.
Spock is, as always - crisp lines and hard angles and all - already up and ready before either Jim or Bones have the constitution to even crack an eyelid open.
No matter how late they stay up or how much they both work him over the night before, the Vulcan apparently has this annoyingly accurate internal clock that refuses to allow him a single moment extra in bed no matter how agreeable or inviting the company. Jim makes it his unofficial mission to get Spock to sleep in at least once in his lifetime, but so far he has failed miserably. But Jim Kirk does not believe in no-win scenarios and it will only be a matter of time before he finds a suitable weakness in that hard Vulcan armor, or at least he likes to think of it that way. Bones just shakes his head and mutters about immaturity under his breath.
Jim produces a half groan-half snore as he pulls himself into consciousness, "-ones?" he looks around groggily, "Spo-?"
Bones is still halfway between deep sleep and pleasant dreams on the bed next to him, his face, peppered with stubble, buried in the crook of Jim's shoulder. Sometime between Spock laying in the middle of their three way tangle of limbs and Spock magically up and ready and primp (how does he do that?), Bones managed to migrate across the bed and latch onto a Jim size heat source while breathing foul, morning breath into his neck.
Jim feels a sharp sting on his cheek and blinks blearily in surprise. He stares at his own hand in confusion before belatedly realizing that he just slapped himself in an aborted attempt to rub at his eyes.
Spock regards both of them with a passive eyebrow, "My shift starts in four point six minutes, Captain." he offers by way of explanation, "Unfortunately, I do not have enough time to assist you in relieving your imminent needs." He smirks in a way that doesn't require facial muscles, "Perhaps Doctor McCoy would be more inclined for this task."
There is a moment in which Jim tries to figure out how the hell Spock got up without waking his light sleeping bed mates but when his brain answers in nothing but a soft, faint buzz of satisfaction, he decides that it's too early for him to be thinking about these things.
There should be rules against thinking this early in the morning.
Abandoning that train of thought, Jim then tries to focus on what Spock had said to him. It takes all of this brain power and looking down towards his feet to realize that Spock is talking about the hard-on tenting the sheets between his legs.
Oh, Jim thinks cleverly.
Bones makes a displeased sound into Jim's ears and shifts, subconsciously unhappy about the inadequate body heat Jim provides.
Jim really can't compete, and for the most part, he accepts that as fact.
Spock is a living furnace and such a comfortable heat source is damn hard to come by in the deep reaches of space, especially after the lingering effects of the overnight air setting nips at their exposed skin. Such warmth seeking tendencies pretty much guarantees that throughout the night, Bones will go through some rather interesting contortions trying to find the warmest spot on the bed, which usually happens to be Spock. It's gotten to the point where Jim cannot sleep in the middle because Bones will inadvertently suffocate him in his bid to find his Vulcan body pillow.
When he functions on full brain capacity, though, Bones absolutely refuses to acknowledge any of this (he denounces and rejects the video they have of him performing his impression of a heat seeking missile).
Spock is still looking at Jim expectantly so he figures he might as well respond with a witty come-back, or something.
It doesn't help that Bones' shifting is rubbing against him in such a pornographic way that Jim might have just thrown caution to the wind and taken the man right then and there had he been awake and coordinated enough.
"I thought I told you to call me Jim when we're off duty." is what he intends to say seductively as an attempt at some foreplay because he is Jim Kirk and he could totally go for another round, but between his morning wood taking up a good portion of his blood supply and still being half asleep, all he manages is a wet gurgle and some garbled gibberish.
His display is apparently so (un-)sexy that Spock is immediately turned off. The Vulcan knots his eyebrows together in a frown, which is as close to an expression of disgust as it gets (because really, such a display is undignified for anyone much less a Starfleet Captain) and Jim is rewarded with a nice eyeful of tight Vulcan ass when Spock turns to leave. He is only beginning to appreciate the smooth glide of fabric over taut muscle before the closing door blocks his view.
Jim pouts uselessly at the door in abject rejection.
To his left, Bones drools a bit in response.
Later, Jim will complain loudly and at great length about how his performance efficiency dips such and such percent if he doesn't get a full night's rest with all the amenities, which apparently includes having both his senior officers in various states of debauchery. Spock will call bullshit in his "no, Captain, it is physically impossible to increase your intelligence with marathon sex" way. Bones will roll his eyes and wonder why he even bothers with these two.
==========================================
Title:How many Kirks does it take?
Series: Star Trek: XI
Characters: Kirk, Spock, kitty!McCoy, mentions of others
Rating: PG
Warnings: language
Wordcount: 1,203
Summary: Animals, unlike humans, have no qualms about showing you just how little they care about your existence.
"Bones," Kirk says softly, "Bones, it's okay."
McCoy hisses at him, teeth bared in a furious snarl that says 'You see these nails? You see them? Come any closer and I'll shred your face to ribbons and then eat it.'
"You just need to come out from there and we're gonna fix you," Kirk continues, voice straining from his fraying nerves, "And after this is over, we're going out for some beer and have a good laugh about this, okay? After you're back to normal, you owe me some heavy duty TLC because I'm dirty and tired and why are you backing away again? Is there even room back there?"
Just to make things more difficult, McCoy scuffles back further.
Spock stands a few paces behind the captain, calmly watching the display in front of him. He holds a cat box in both his hands, top open and ready for use. The box itself is rather wretched looking, having been pulled from the bottom of a corner pile somewhere, and it's probably better that no one really knows its origins because it would probably make a Klingon cry. There's a very ugly puke-green color coating the outside cardboard walls and one of handle bars hangs on precariously, flapping woefully in the breeze. They have better storage containers on the ship, but unfortunately, Enterprise is still about an hour away and the box is the best they could scrape together under the circumstances.
The first officer pulls a bored look, a put out expression, even though he is still as straight face as ever. "Captain,” he means ‘Hey, you. Dumbass’, “I do not believe that the doctor comprehends your attempt at comfort in his current state. Felis catus, although a domesticated and intelligent species, have not demonstrated an appreciable understanding of human language outside a few cursory action commands.”
“Shut up, Spock,” Kirk whispers furiously, waving off his first officer without taking his eyes off the cat, “I know what I’m doing. Just be ready with the box and I’ll handle the rest.”
The plan is to coax McCoy from under the overhang (which, of course, is too low for a human to crawl under), stuff him in the box as fast as possible (those nails are sharp and deadly so minimal contact is the goal), and head on back to the ship to dump the cat in the sickbay and call it someone else's problem. So far, the plan is still stuck on the "coax the cat out" bit.
“You have attempted to persuade the creature from its chosen refuge using a total of two hundred and sixty four different methods over a period of three hundred and eighty nine point four minutes. ” And failed dismally, you subnormal simpleton he doesn’t say out loud. The cat refuses to budge from its spot, not for food, toys, or even for alcohol (Scotty's profoundly bad idea, but Kirk will try anything at that point).
Kirk ignores Spock, he instead continues to focus on the dark cat stubbornly refusing to come out from underneath the overhang, “I’m not gonna hurt you, little buddy,” he tries again, “Come on.” He inches his hand forward, trying to get closer to the agitated cat, but the feline flattens his ears against it’s skull and angrily hisses some more.
“I believe Dr. McCoy would not appreciate your use of such a diminutive term.”
“Didn’t you just say he doesn’t understand?” Kirk barked. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s still under a rock. and we need to get him out.”
“Please, Bones” Kirk begs pitifully, “I’m on my hands and knees here.” And he is. He has his ear pressed tightly to the ground, dirt sticking underneath his nails. His knees wail at him, demanding relief from the hard ground it has been on for the past who knows how long.
McCoy spits at him disdainfully and manages to wedge himself even further into the darkness.
At the end of his rope, Kirk barks, “Bones, I order you to get out of there.”
It goes over about as well as anyone would imagine. Cats in general don’t give two shits about authoritative tone. They can also smell desperation and as of this point, Kirk is pretty desperate.
The deafening silence of Kirk's failure stretches on.
Kirk wonders vaguely if it would be inappropriate for him to just curl up in a ball on the spot and start weeping.
Spock looks down at the back of his captain’s head like he always does when he thinks Kirk is being particularly stupid about something. Kirk doesn’t see it, but he feels the hair on the back of his neck bristle and knows immediately, he’s getting that look. He turns around to give his first officer a disapproving glare, “And I suppose you can do better?” He gets up from his kneeling position, trying not to show any pain as his knees scream at him in protest.
Spock gives him an eyebrow raise and sets down the box on the ground. He quickly occupies the same position Kirk had moments before and but he doesn’t try to reach for the cat, “Doctor,” he inquires into the dark overhang.
There is an angry hiss from McCoy’s end and Kirk starts to feel smug.
Undeterred, Spock continues, “Would you please desist your behavior and withdraw from your shelter so that we may return to the ship and determine a method to return you to your original form."
The cat gives the kneeling Vulcan an apathetic once over but catches wind of something and tentatively sniffs the air. It tilts its head in curiosity but begins moves forward to determine the source of its interest while keeping a sharp eye on the first officer. Spock quietly returns the gaze, unmoving.
A moment of silence hangs in the air before a small furry head pokes out from underneath the low overhang.
"What..." Kirk deadpans. James Tiberius Kirk did not just spend the last six and a half hours straining his ligaments and breaking his back to get that cat out of its self-imposed isolation just for it to come to Spock with barely any coddling. It is just not acceptable.
McCoy barely gives Kirk a second glance.
Kirk sputters in indignation as the cat not only butts its head on Spock's chin softly, it starts nuzzling, nuzzling the Vulcan affectionately.
When Spock moves to push himself up off the ground, McCoy follows the retreat. Spock curled one hand around the cat’s chin as it tilted upwards to be scratched. If the arched back is any indication, McCoy seemed to be enjoying the treatment.
“I believe you have made an error in judgment, captain.” Spock turns to Kirk with a slight twitch on his lips, “Dr. McCoy seems to be very agreeable.”
Smug pointy-eared bastard.
“Oh, shove it, Spock,” Kirk grumbles. When this is over, he and McCoy are going to have words about how one is not supposed to favor one best friend over another in an animal form, preferably over a pint or some pain killers or something because his knees are not suppose to creak like that.
McCoy, because he's a jerk like that, starts purring.
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