Three ficlets (1 Vorkosigan saga, 2 ST:XI)
Responses to prompts from my f-list. There's some implied sexuality in the first 2, but none of them are particularly explicit.
DISCLAIMER: Lois McMaster Bujold and Paramount own their respective 'verses and everything they encompass. These are works of fan fiction, and thus derive no profit or material benefit therefrom.
He was not an errand boy, dammit.
Ivan strode briskly through the foyer of his mother's building and into the lift tube, his fingers stabbing the control pad as he keyed in the code that would give him access to her penthouse apartment. He replayed the scene in his mind of Countess Vorinnis ordering - ordering! as if he were some dewy-eyed ensign fresh out of the Academy - him to deliver an important message to his mother because she wasn't answering her commconsole and this oh-so-important message demanded her immediate attention.
Who did Countess Vorinnis think he was, some spotty-faced messenger boy? Someone at Ops HQ clearly had it in for Ivan by assigning him to his mother's staff as she planned Gregor's wedding, and by God, Ivan swore, he'd find out who and make sure they regretted it for the rest of their life.
Exiting the lift tube, Ivan stomped towards the door to his mother's apartment, only to have his progress arrested when the door failed to open for him. He frowned. What the deuce was going on? He quickly entered an override code - cadged from Miles, during their brief posting together on Earth - and barely gave the door time to open wide enough to let him pass through.
The entrance hall and lounge area were strangely dark, though Ivan saw two half-empty tea cups on the low table before the settee. Then he heard a voice coming from the far end of the hallway. At least, he thought it was a voice; it sounded like a moan of pain.
"Maman?" Ivan called out, suddenly afraid. Not waiting for an answer, he hurried towards the sound. He stopped at the closed door to his mother's bedroom and knocked tentatively. "Maman?"
The reply came in the form of a gasp.
Taking his stunner from its holster, Ivan forced the door open with his shoulder.
The tableau that lay before him was instantaneously etched in his memory with acid. What the hell was Simon Illyan doing in his mother's bedroom, for God's sake, leaning against the end of her bed with unbecoming familiarity? And why was she kneeling -
Oh, dear God.
"Mother!" he yelped.
Were he in a better frame of mind - were he someone else entirely, such as Aunt Cordelia - he might have appreciated how his mother didn't let his interruption prevent her from finishing what she'd started. Judging from the brief time he stood there, open-mouthed - he snapped his jaw shut - until she'd zipped up Illyan's trousers, wiped the corners of her mouth, and stood to face him, she was already past the point of no return anyway. Or Illyan was, rather. Feeling nauseous, Ivan sagged against the wall for support.
"Ivan," his mother said coldly, her face betraying not the slightest self-consciousness. Then she sighed and shook her head. "You idiot."
McCoy found her seated on the floor in Engineering, surrounded by the detritus of what appeared to have once been a computer console. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall, but her open, cheerful expression fell as soon as she saw him.
“Ensign Gaila, you’re-” he began.
She threw up her hand, palm out, as if to ward him off. “Don’t-”
“-long past overdue for your pheromone suppression treatment.” He set his medical case on a nearby table and opened it to remove the hypospray it carried. He fitted the cartridge in the housing and gave it a quick counterclockwise twist, activating the syringe.
“Doctor, please don’t make me.” She looked up at him with brimming eyes, her plump, red lower lip trembling.
“I’m sorry, I have to.” Despite his attempt to breathe shallowly, he could still smell the latent pheromones, freed of the chemical suppressant Starfleet demanded he subject the young Orion woman to, rising from her exposed skin. His groin heated in atavistic response. “Can’t have half the crew going about their duties with their cocks at half-mast.” He squatted down beside her, trying to ignore his own cock’s efforts to raise the red flag.
“It’s so unfair.” Despite her complaints, she obediently pulled her curly red hair to the side and bent her head, exposing her neck. “And it makes me sick for days afterward.”
McCoy stared thoughtfully at the inviting green curves where Gaila’s neck flowed into her shoulder. Tentatively his free hand reached out to pull the collar of her uniform aside, baring even more skin and releasing another blast of her potent pheromones into the air. They seemed to fly directly into his nose, making him dizzy with unconsummated lust.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” he said at last. “I can give you an anti-nausea additive if you want.” Before his growing desire could get the best of him, he pressed the hypospray against her neck and pushed the trigger, injecting the suppressant into her bloodstream with a faint hiss.
“I don’t want an anti-nausea shot,” she said, jerking away from his touch and adjusting her uniform. “I want to be allowed to be who I am, what I am, without some stupid doctor forcing me to suppress my hormones.” When she looked at his this time her eyes were filled with suppressed frustration and anger. “It’s you Humans who need the suppression therapy, not me.”
McCoy couldn’t hold her gaze. “I’m sorry, Ensign.” He reached out a hand in comfort, but drew back when he saw her stiffen. “I’m sorry.”
McCoy looked back and forth between Kirk and Sulu, seated on adjacent examining tables, not looking nearly ashamed enough of themselves. Sulu at least avoided making eye contact, but the fact that this was his third trip to Sickbay in as many weeks for fencing-related injuries cancelled out any embarrassment he might show. Jim, on the other hand, looked infuriatingly smug as he cradled his injured arm against his bare chest. Blood had already begun to seep through the shirt he was using as a makeshift bandage and he had numerous gashes across his upper arms and torso.
McCoy directed his wrath at Sulu first. "Again, Ensign?" he barked, reaching for the dermal regenerator. "Wasn't nearly severing your femoral artery last week enough of a deterrent, or did you go back to finish the job?"
"It's not the same with dull blades, Doctor." He hissed as McCoy ran the dermal regenerator over a deep cut in his arm. "Your reactions are different when you're sparring with fake weapons. You move slower, take more chances. I want to be sure I'm ready for the real thing."
"Are you hoping to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a Klingon wielding a bat'leth someday?" McCoy barked. He swapped the dermal regenerator for a hypospray loaded with an antibiotic. "Don't be counting on me to reassemble the pieces if you do, Ensign."
"C'mon, Bones, lay off, willya?" Jim said, his tone wheedling. Not for the first time McCoy thanked God he'd never known Jim as a toddler. Or a teenager, but Jim already was an overgrown teenager most of the time anyway.
“Don’t you start with me. As captain, you should definitely know better than to encourage this sort of nonsense.” He gently pulled Kirk’s arm away from his chest and began unwinding the now-ruined shirt from his hand. “Good God, man!” he exclaimed as he gaped in horror at the bloody mess. “Where the hell is your thumb?”
Smirking, Kirk lifted his other hand, revealing the small gelpack into which his severed digit had been stuffed. “You know,” he said, still smirking as McCoy spluttered in disbelief, “Sulu’s amazingly fast. I didn’t see that stroke coming until it was too late. I didn't even feel it, he's so fast.”
McCoy looked up sharply. Kirk's face was waxy and grey, like he was trying his damnedest not to pass out. That smirk was pure bluster. Pure Jim.
"You'll feel it when I go to reconnect these severed nerves. Serves you right for playing with fire - or sharp knives, for that matter. You're on medical leave, Jim, and that's an order. It's a tricky thing, re-attaching a thumb, and you might never regain full use of it. Dammit!"
He picked up his tricorder to make sure he hadn't missed any more superficial wounds. "I have half a mind to confine both of you--" He fixed Sulu and Kirk with the most withering glare he could muster. "--to your quarters until I'm convinced you can be a little more responsible, or that you've at least learned your lesson."
Sulu hung his head. "Sorry, Doc--"
"No you wouldn't, Bones," Jim said, cutting into Sulu's apology. "You're a doctor, not--" His grin widened. "--my grandmother."
DISCLAIMER: Lois McMaster Bujold and Paramount own their respective 'verses and everything they encompass. These are works of fan fiction, and thus derive no profit or material benefit therefrom.
He was not an errand boy, dammit.
Ivan strode briskly through the foyer of his mother's building and into the lift tube, his fingers stabbing the control pad as he keyed in the code that would give him access to her penthouse apartment. He replayed the scene in his mind of Countess Vorinnis ordering - ordering! as if he were some dewy-eyed ensign fresh out of the Academy - him to deliver an important message to his mother because she wasn't answering her commconsole and this oh-so-important message demanded her immediate attention.
Who did Countess Vorinnis think he was, some spotty-faced messenger boy? Someone at Ops HQ clearly had it in for Ivan by assigning him to his mother's staff as she planned Gregor's wedding, and by God, Ivan swore, he'd find out who and make sure they regretted it for the rest of their life.
Exiting the lift tube, Ivan stomped towards the door to his mother's apartment, only to have his progress arrested when the door failed to open for him. He frowned. What the deuce was going on? He quickly entered an override code - cadged from Miles, during their brief posting together on Earth - and barely gave the door time to open wide enough to let him pass through.
The entrance hall and lounge area were strangely dark, though Ivan saw two half-empty tea cups on the low table before the settee. Then he heard a voice coming from the far end of the hallway. At least, he thought it was a voice; it sounded like a moan of pain.
"Maman?" Ivan called out, suddenly afraid. Not waiting for an answer, he hurried towards the sound. He stopped at the closed door to his mother's bedroom and knocked tentatively. "Maman?"
The reply came in the form of a gasp.
Taking his stunner from its holster, Ivan forced the door open with his shoulder.
The tableau that lay before him was instantaneously etched in his memory with acid. What the hell was Simon Illyan doing in his mother's bedroom, for God's sake, leaning against the end of her bed with unbecoming familiarity? And why was she kneeling -
Oh, dear God.
"Mother!" he yelped.
Were he in a better frame of mind - were he someone else entirely, such as Aunt Cordelia - he might have appreciated how his mother didn't let his interruption prevent her from finishing what she'd started. Judging from the brief time he stood there, open-mouthed - he snapped his jaw shut - until she'd zipped up Illyan's trousers, wiped the corners of her mouth, and stood to face him, she was already past the point of no return anyway. Or Illyan was, rather. Feeling nauseous, Ivan sagged against the wall for support.
"Ivan," his mother said coldly, her face betraying not the slightest self-consciousness. Then she sighed and shook her head. "You idiot."
McCoy found her seated on the floor in Engineering, surrounded by the detritus of what appeared to have once been a computer console. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall, but her open, cheerful expression fell as soon as she saw him.
“Ensign Gaila, you’re-” he began.
She threw up her hand, palm out, as if to ward him off. “Don’t-”
“-long past overdue for your pheromone suppression treatment.” He set his medical case on a nearby table and opened it to remove the hypospray it carried. He fitted the cartridge in the housing and gave it a quick counterclockwise twist, activating the syringe.
“Doctor, please don’t make me.” She looked up at him with brimming eyes, her plump, red lower lip trembling.
“I’m sorry, I have to.” Despite his attempt to breathe shallowly, he could still smell the latent pheromones, freed of the chemical suppressant Starfleet demanded he subject the young Orion woman to, rising from her exposed skin. His groin heated in atavistic response. “Can’t have half the crew going about their duties with their cocks at half-mast.” He squatted down beside her, trying to ignore his own cock’s efforts to raise the red flag.
“It’s so unfair.” Despite her complaints, she obediently pulled her curly red hair to the side and bent her head, exposing her neck. “And it makes me sick for days afterward.”
McCoy stared thoughtfully at the inviting green curves where Gaila’s neck flowed into her shoulder. Tentatively his free hand reached out to pull the collar of her uniform aside, baring even more skin and releasing another blast of her potent pheromones into the air. They seemed to fly directly into his nose, making him dizzy with unconsummated lust.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” he said at last. “I can give you an anti-nausea additive if you want.” Before his growing desire could get the best of him, he pressed the hypospray against her neck and pushed the trigger, injecting the suppressant into her bloodstream with a faint hiss.
“I don’t want an anti-nausea shot,” she said, jerking away from his touch and adjusting her uniform. “I want to be allowed to be who I am, what I am, without some stupid doctor forcing me to suppress my hormones.” When she looked at his this time her eyes were filled with suppressed frustration and anger. “It’s you Humans who need the suppression therapy, not me.”
McCoy couldn’t hold her gaze. “I’m sorry, Ensign.” He reached out a hand in comfort, but drew back when he saw her stiffen. “I’m sorry.”
McCoy looked back and forth between Kirk and Sulu, seated on adjacent examining tables, not looking nearly ashamed enough of themselves. Sulu at least avoided making eye contact, but the fact that this was his third trip to Sickbay in as many weeks for fencing-related injuries cancelled out any embarrassment he might show. Jim, on the other hand, looked infuriatingly smug as he cradled his injured arm against his bare chest. Blood had already begun to seep through the shirt he was using as a makeshift bandage and he had numerous gashes across his upper arms and torso.
McCoy directed his wrath at Sulu first. "Again, Ensign?" he barked, reaching for the dermal regenerator. "Wasn't nearly severing your femoral artery last week enough of a deterrent, or did you go back to finish the job?"
"It's not the same with dull blades, Doctor." He hissed as McCoy ran the dermal regenerator over a deep cut in his arm. "Your reactions are different when you're sparring with fake weapons. You move slower, take more chances. I want to be sure I'm ready for the real thing."
"Are you hoping to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a Klingon wielding a bat'leth someday?" McCoy barked. He swapped the dermal regenerator for a hypospray loaded with an antibiotic. "Don't be counting on me to reassemble the pieces if you do, Ensign."
"C'mon, Bones, lay off, willya?" Jim said, his tone wheedling. Not for the first time McCoy thanked God he'd never known Jim as a toddler. Or a teenager, but Jim already was an overgrown teenager most of the time anyway.
“Don’t you start with me. As captain, you should definitely know better than to encourage this sort of nonsense.” He gently pulled Kirk’s arm away from his chest and began unwinding the now-ruined shirt from his hand. “Good God, man!” he exclaimed as he gaped in horror at the bloody mess. “Where the hell is your thumb?”
Smirking, Kirk lifted his other hand, revealing the small gelpack into which his severed digit had been stuffed. “You know,” he said, still smirking as McCoy spluttered in disbelief, “Sulu’s amazingly fast. I didn’t see that stroke coming until it was too late. I didn't even feel it, he's so fast.”
McCoy looked up sharply. Kirk's face was waxy and grey, like he was trying his damnedest not to pass out. That smirk was pure bluster. Pure Jim.
"You'll feel it when I go to reconnect these severed nerves. Serves you right for playing with fire - or sharp knives, for that matter. You're on medical leave, Jim, and that's an order. It's a tricky thing, re-attaching a thumb, and you might never regain full use of it. Dammit!"
He picked up his tricorder to make sure he hadn't missed any more superficial wounds. "I have half a mind to confine both of you--" He fixed Sulu and Kirk with the most withering glare he could muster. "--to your quarters until I'm convinced you can be a little more responsible, or that you've at least learned your lesson."
Sulu hung his head. "Sorry, Doc--"
"No you wouldn't, Bones," Jim said, cutting into Sulu's apology. "You're a doctor, not--" His grin widened. "--my grandmother."