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One of the many things McCoy hated about Kirk was that he never showed any shame about being naked: not in his quarters, not in Sickbay and not, apparently, on his knees in an alien dungeon surrounded by a dozen armed guards. McCoy couldn’t help but curl in self-consciously, feeling the alien eyes crawling over every purple and red bruise and hickey Kirk had left on him the night before. Of course Kirk would be next to him for comparison, skin preternaturally smooth from all the regen sessions McCoy had been obliged to supervise, while he wasn’t allowed so much as a band-aid for his own aches and pains.
“We wish to observe your mating ritual,” one of the Colarians announced, like a bad xenoporn. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t accompanied by a dozen Colarian phasers.
“Seriously?” Kirk asked, sounding amused. “You’ve got a Starfleet captain as a hostage and you want to watch him fuck?”
McCoy said nothing. Damn this planet, and damn Kirk for dragging him down here with his usual threats and cheer. You look tired, McCoy. Colarians are supposed to have the best hospitals in this quadrant and even better booze. Now come down to the transporter room before I feel insulted and cut that pretty nurse of yours.
The hospitals had been great. The hospitality wasn’t worth a piss into the wind.
“Your mating ritual,” the Colarian repeated, blinking its large, pale eyes at them. McCoy felt even more naked. “We have heard about Human rituals but never seen them. We always find it helpful to observe the customs of alien species, in order to be able to diagnose them more efficiently.”
“I’ve never found that necessary,” McCoy snapped, although that wasn’t exactly true, given Spock’s pon farr debacle last year. And what the hell was taking the bastard so long to retrieve them?
“You are not a Colarian health specialist,” the alien replied serenely. “If you do not perform, we will be forced to harm you.” It gestured with one long blue finger, and the guards shifted their phasers accordingly.
McCoy’s mouth went dry. Kirk had fucked him on cold floors like this one all over the Enterprise, but so far an audience had only been a filthy threat he whispered right before he came. It appealed about as much as a punch in the face, but he knew the score as much as Kirk did: Spock was coming, but god knew when. It made sense to play along for as long as possible.
“Fine.” Kirk wasn’t even trying to sound put upon, damn him. “We’ll need a few things.”
The alien trilled, presumably a pleased noise, and gestured for them to be unbound. “We will provide what is necessary.”
Kirk asked for lubricant, which didn’t surprise McCoy, and a strip of cloth, which did. Kirk bound him sometimes, but did he really need an extra kinky thrill now, when McCoy was already spread out and shivering, surrounded by a circle of armed and intrigued aliens?
Kirk beamed down at him. Of course. McCoy was sure Kirk’s ego was stinging right now, but he always played any part to the hilt. He was already sporting an erection as he knelt between McCoy’s thighs, and despite all the humiliation and fear, McCoy’s strongest feeling was still flustered annoyance.
Then the aliens stepped closer, and fear took precedence.
“Relax, McCoy,” Kirk urged, leaning down and nipping his chest. “This’ll be fun.”
“Easy for you to say,” McCoy snapped. “This is your stupid fantasy. I wouldn’t be surprised if you planned this.”
Kirk laughed. “Shut up before I ask for a gag too.”
Then he tied the strip of cloth around McCoy’s eyes.
McCoy jerked his hands up to remove it, but Kirk captured them and pinned them down, his firm grip a familiar warning.
“This is part of the ritual?” the alien asked with something like skepticism in its voice.
“It’s part of mine,” Kirk replied and McCoy could hear his smug smile.
McCoy would never admit it, but the blindfold helped. The aliens breathed quietly, and if he tried hard he could pretend that they were on the floor of Kirk’s quarters instead.
He realized, with a spike of adrenaline, that Kirk had probably anticipated this.
“That’s it.” Kirk ran warm hands along McCoy’s chest and sides, down to his hips. “Damn. We’re gonna have to get captured by kinky aliens more often.”
His hands left, and McCoy could hear him fussing with the container of lubricant.
“Stop,” the alien ordered. “You are preparing to penetrate him?”
“That’s the plan.” Kirk sounded downright gleeful.
“That is not acceptable,” the alien replied. “We wish to see the other human penetrate you.”
A stunned silence followed. McCoy tore his blindfold off, and found Kirk gaping. “No.”
“We find it preferable,” the alien said stiffly, “For our research.”
“Bullshit,” Kirk snapped.
The aliens with phasers shifted again. “You will reverse positions, or you will suffer the consequences.”
For a hard moment McCoy’s heart stuttered in his chest as he wondered if Kirk would brave the phasers and start a fight right then.
Then he smiled, and McCoy’s blood ran cold. “All right.”
McCoy moved dazedly until he found himself kneeling between Kirk’s thighs, staring down at the man who had owned him for the past two years, watching his skin prickle with goosebumps from the cold floor. Kirk’s smile was grim -- all but daring McCoy to take advantage. McCoy shook his head, wanting to say something but unable to force any words past his throat.
“Proceed.”
McCoy looked up at them. “Human anatomy doesn’t work like that. I can’t –” The words tangled in his throat.
Kirk wasn’t hard either.
“If you cannot perform we will remove several of your manual digits.” The Colarian gestured to another one.
“No.” McCoy fought down panic. “That won’t be necessary.”
The alien nodded. “Untampered specimens are preferable.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it. McCoy tried to relax, to think about something that would help him here, but it was hard to concentrate on anything arousing when all he could see was how very fucked he was. Kirk was going to kill him for this, even if there was no other way. And fuck, he hadn’t even jerked off by himself since becoming Kirk’s personal plaything, all thoughts of sex swallowed up in the pain and humiliation and hated pleasure Kirk inflicted on him.
Kirk was still smiling.
Damn it.
He moved slowly, half out of a desperate attempt to stall and half because it was hard to handle the lube when he couldn’t stop thinking about where they were, what this was, what would happen if he didn’t do it, or worse, if he did. But soon enough his fingers were sticky with lube and he was kneeling between Kirk’s thighs with nothing else to do.
He still wasn’t hard.
He should take care of that first, and god-willing, Spock would just find him naked and ridiculous, jacking himself off for an alien crowd. That wasn’t an erection-inspiring thought, but he was a doctor and this was just another anatomical phenomenon. He wrapped his lubed fingers around himself and began to conjure up the pornographic images that used to get him off before Kirk, when orgasms were simple. They flickered in his mind, like a dying holovid.
“You want something done,” he heard Kirk mutter, and then he was sitting up, batting McCoy’s hand out of the way so he could wrap his own around McCoy’s dick. He jerked McCoy off roughly, just shy of too painful, but his hand was sure and familiar.
It was just anatomy, McCoy told himself, sense memory. His dick didn’t care about whys and wherefores. But that didn’t stop his erection from feeling like betrayal. He reached for the lube again and tried not to think.
His finger stumbled around Kirk’s hole. Anatomy, he repeated, ignoring the way his dick jumped as he sunk a finger in and felt the tight pull of Kirk’s ass.
“You will proceed at a more efficient pace,” said the Colarian.
“Yeah, McCoy.” Kirk’s bared teeth gleamed in the stale light. “Or I’ll have to note it in your performance review.”
He slid his fingers in and out, twisting and scissoring slowly. The longer he took to do this the more time Spock had to interrupt them before the main event. Kirk clenched around him erratically; jerking whenever he bumped his prostate. He was getting hard, but Kirk didn’t want this and he didn’t want this and why wasn’t Spock here right now.
“Proceed,” demanded the Colarian. McCoy looked at the phasers and leaned forward, stared down into Kirk’s hard eyes and ached with humiliation and fear and deep, confusing arousal.
“Wait.” The Colarian pointed at the black strip of cloth, lying forgotten by Kirk’s hip. “You have forgotten an element of your ritual.”
“No,” said Kirk.
“Utilize it,” snapped the Colarian.
Kirk didn’t move, not to pick up the blindfold and not when McCoy did so. McCoy brought it to his face because he couldn’t see any way not to. He tied it quickly, but he couldn’t miss the way Kirk’s eyes narrowed before the cloth fell on them. With his eyes covered he looked like a different person, younger somehow.
There was nothing else to do. He pushed in.
He went slowly, because he was trembling and because it felt so good he couldn’t believe it. Pleasure with Kirk was always coupled with fierce pain, the burn of his cock and his teeth and his hands, gripping fiercely as he rode McCoy like he was attacking him. For the past two years his orgasm had left him sore and aching, sometimes bleeding.
Now the pleasure felt unreal. He pushed in and out and groaned at the hot slide of Kirk’s ass around him, meticulously slicked and stretched. He bit his lip, trying to ground himself, and saw the action mirrored on Kirk’s face. Kirk’s hands were at his side, curled like he could grip the floor. His thighs were rigid at McCoy’s side, shaking with effort.
He wanted to say something, something that would end this, that would take them away, but his mouth was dry and his throat was closed. He settled for running his hands along Kirk’s chest and arms, along the unnaturally smooth skin and the muscles that had pressed him down so many times. They twitched under his palms.
He needed to finish. He gripped Kirk’s hips and increased the pace. He closed his eyes, but that only made him focus on how Kirk was thrashing beneath and around him, his breathing loud and desperate. McCoy tried to ignore it, but Kirk had spent scrupulous hours proving that he was impossible to ignore. He made a noise, something low and mewling, alien in his mouth as he clenched erratically around McCoy’s cock. McCoy’s hips stuttered, heat thrumming up his spine as he came with shivering intensity.
McCoy opened his eyes. His limbs felt heavy, as if it had gone on for hours instead of minutes. Come was splattered against Kirk’s stomach. As he watched Kirk reached up and took the blindfold off, stared at the ceiling as he panted. McCoy felt like he was suffocating, like there wasn’t enough air in the dank, stale room for one person, much less all of them.
“That is sufficient for our research,” said the Colarian.
The door burst open, and phasers whined around them. He ducked to the side while Kirk lunged at the Colarians, seizing a phaser and joining in on the action. He shot them between their wide eyes, one after the other.
When it was over Spock turned to them. Kirk was still naked, splattered in alien blood and human semen. “Are you injured, Captain?”
McCoy froze.
Kirk smiled catlike. “Me? I’m just peachy keen.”
+ + +
They found their clothes and beamed back to the ship. Kirk snapped out his orders, and the famed Colarian hospitals were turned to dust, another notch on Kirk’s galactic bedpost. McCoy busied himself tending to the officers who had accompanied Spock down to Colaria until they were fully recuperated.
Then he waited to die.
He couldn’t see any other outcome. For two years every fuck had revolved around Kirk’s obsession with making him submit. He remembered all the nights he spent kneeling on his bed or Kirk’s, the hours he wasted bent over his desk in Sickbay, the memorable times when Kirk had arranged for the bridge to be empty so he could fuck McCoy over the captain’s chair. He thought about the countless bites and bruises he’d have to wear the next day, Kirk’s favorite way to advertise his possession. And now thirty minutes had sent that all to hell. Did Kirk have bruises from where McCoy had held him? Did he have to fight the urge to shift on the captain’s chair?
It should have been a comforting thought that if he had to die it would be with that victory under his belt, that brief revenge. But it hadn’t felt like revenge. McCoy remembered the rush as he’d realized the meaning behind the blindfold, the way Kirk’s eyes had narrowed as he’d tied it around his head minutes later, the way Kirk had thrashed under him, shivering and blind.
The worst part was that he wasn’t the only one still thinking about it. He’d seen Kirk grin after hours of torture, throw himself at monsters and soldiers and Spock’s Vulcan fury and dust himself off afterwards like it had been nothing. He swaggered and preened and threatened through the rest of the ship the same as ever, but he hadn’t talked to McCoy for three days now. He was avoiding Kirk, to be sure, but that had never stopped him from hunting McCoy down.
He couldn’t stop remembering the dungeon, how young Kirk had looked with his eyes closed, the melting pleasure from his orgasm. Guilt was as pointless and stupid an emotion as pity on this hellhole of a ship, and McCoy had always known he had too much of both. He just hadn’t expected them to apply here, when he’d held Kirk down and fucked into him.
Thinking about it didn’t make it make any more sense, and neither did alcohol, and neither did sleep. By the time Kirk found him on the third day, he had stopped trying.
Kirk had always used the override for his door, but this time he waited. McCoy found him glaring, head lowered, knife in hand. He backed away as Kirk stepped in.
“Captain,” he said cautiously.
Kirk shook his head, stared at the wall. “Shut up.”
Kirk’s shoulders were tense, his mouth flat. After a moment of unsettling confusion, he realized that it looked familiar. It was the way a man stood when he knew what was coming and hated it and knew it also couldn’t be stopped. It was the way McCoy had stood countless times in Kirk’s quarters, anticipating.
It wasn’t something he had started doing after a day, or even a week. It had taken practice, long painful nights spent rebelling and hating and hoping until he was too tired to do anything but submit.
Kirk looked at him again, and he must have seen what McCoy had figured out because his grip on the knife tightened.
McCoy waited.
“You have a big dick,” Kirk said finally.
McCoy laughed, near hysterical even to his own ears.
Kirk gestured with the knife. “Come here.”
McCoy didn’t want to die. He wasn’t sure about anything else, but he knew that. He shook his head.
Kirk moved too fast to follow, punched him hard enough to send him crashing back onto the floor. He’d just started to tongue his cheek, wondering if there were any teeth loose, when Kirk grabbed him by his shirt collar and hauled him up, half dragging him the few steps over to the couch.
McCoy wheezed, certain the knife would slip between his ribs any moment. He kept his eyes open, at least.
Kirk kept one hand twisted in his collar, and brought the other to wander down his face before settling on his throat. “I could kill you.”
He waited for the knifepoint, but Kirk just gripped him harder -- with both hands. Disconcerted, he looked over Kirk’s shoulder and saw the knife lying on the floor.
“I hate you,” Kirk said, low and close. He looked murderous, like the monster he was, the man who had tortured McCoy because he could and grinned like he knew exactly what McCoy was going through and --
“I didn’t want to, I swear, I would never --” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Shut up,” Kirk snarled, and then he grabbed McCoy and pulled him down.
On top of him.
He landed hard on Kirk’s torso, straddling him awkwardly. Kirk had made him sit on top of him from time to time, liked to fuck up into him or make him bounce ridiculously. But this felt different -- when he looked up at McCoy he didn’t look smug or angry or any of the other myriad emotions McCoy had come to associate with particular tortures. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like he might be blinded at any moment.
His cock pressed thick against his pants.
“Get out.” Kirk said the words without inflection, a dare just as much as a threat.
McCoy was tempted. A large part of him just wanted this over, wanted things to go back to the miserable norm they had been. He thought of all the times he had prayed for a reprieve, for disaster to strike that would send Kirk running to the bridge. They were in his quarters, but he could go to Sickbay, hide in his office until whatever this was disappeared.
But he remembered the blindfold, the way Kirk had gripped him -- almost the same way he was gripping him now, the noise he had made when McCoy had gone slow.
“No.”
It didn’t make things any easier. Kirk still looked like he was going to snap as soon as McCoy touched him. But McCoy was a doctor, and now that he’d made a diagnosis there was nothing to do but his job. He pulled his clothes off and shifted as Kirk did the same, watching as the smooth skin was revealed. How many scars had he erased as Kirk’s CMO, he wondered. How many had been erased before?
Getting naked didn’t seem to make much difference; there was still a barrier between them. Kirk had gone still again, waiting.
McCoy found the lube in the drawer where Kirk had shoved it after the last time they’d fucked in McCoy’s quarters, when Kirk had barely taken the time to slick up his cock before bending McCoy over the bed and riding him to screaming orgasm.
Kirk hadn’t moved when McCoy returned, but shifted so that McCoy could kneel between his thighs on the couch. He popped open the bottle of lube, but paused before spreading any on his fingers. Every muscle in Kirk’s body was rigid and taut, his mouth pursed.
He was going to do this.
He leaned down, close enough to smell Kirk’s sweat, and cradled Kirk’s face in his hands, feeling the fine scars that even the regenerator couldn’t eliminate. Then he pressed his lips to Kirk’s.
Kirk bit him almost immediately, the way he liked to when they fucked face to face, and McCoy pulled his head away. Kirk tried to follow him and scowled when McCoy held him down. His hands came up to hold McCoy’s, threatening and strangely intimate. McCoy waited, barely blinking, and then kissed him again, jerking away at the first sign of teeth.
Kirk’s eyes were narrowed when he drew away this time, and for a tense moment McCoy thought he was pissed, but then he licked his lips and nodded. McCoy dipped his head again, and now Kirk’s lips were soft under his, novel even after all the time they’d been fucking. McCoy took his time exploring them: the full lower lip, the divot above the top, the corners that turned up even when he was deadly serious.
When he drew away again Kirk’s breath was ragged but his expression didn’t seem quite so brittle. McCoy grabbed the lube again and spread it onto his fingers and then on his cock, biting his lip against the chill and watching Kirk’s eyes drawn to his mouth. Kirk had watched him jack himself before, usually with his dick up McCoy’s ass, spewing filth and grinning as McCoy flushed.
Kirk was silent now.
When he’d slicked himself up he moved to rub the taut muscles of Kirk’s hole, giving them time to relax, to adjust to the sensation.
Suddenly Kirk seemed to lose patience, slapped his hands away. “Get on with it already.”
“Let me do this,” he said, not quite ordering, feeling his heart jump to his throat.
Kirk liked to make him beg, to bask in his pleas for permission. But all did was shift his knees open wider and grip the cushions of the couch hard enough to make the veins in his forearms jump.
It was deja vu, rubbing his fingers over Kirk’s hole, feeling the heat and grip as he pushed slowly inside. He trembled in the same way, felt the same foreign thrill. Kirk watched him just as avidly, sweat slicked over his tan skin.
Except now they were alone.
He stretched Kirk out on instinct alone, adding fingers as he felt the muscles slowly loosen, watching Kirk’s cock twitch frenetically as he brushed his fingers in and out. He could lean down right now, take the familiar head inside his mouth and taste the salt of Kirk’s precum, and everything would be like it had been.
“Breathe,” he said, because he was a doctor and Kirk had gone an alarming red in the face.
“Shut the fuck up before I break your neck.” But Kirk’s grip on the couch eased, and his chest rose and fell a little more evenly.
McCoy pulled his fingers out, and then he was leaning forward. Kirk’s strong thighs -- the same ones that had powered thrust after painful thrust -- were wrapping around him as he pressed in.
He slid in slowly, everything slick and hot. He grunted, bracing himself on the couch, on either side of Kirk’s torso. For a moment that was it, their hips and thighs joined and nothing else; he was buried inside Kirk to the hilt but propped up far from his face. He pulled out, gasped against the tight pull of Kirk’s ass, and pushed back in. It was blissfully uncomplicated, no pain to twist it into something else, something he wanted to fight.
This was enough, he thought. He could do this, feel this tight hot pull against his cock and stare down at Kirk with enough space between them to breath. He thrust again, and again, but then something in Kirk seemed to break, because all of a sudden he was pulling blindly at McCoy’s arms, scrabbling at his back as he tried to pull him close. McCoy tensed -- he’d never seen Kirk lose control like this -- but that only made him pull harder until suddenly he stopped, gripping McCoy’s shoulders. He looked him in the eye and said, “Please.”
“All right,” McCoy said, breathless. He felt helpless and powerful all at once. “All right.” He leaned down, bracing his hands on Kirk’s shoulders, and kissed him again.
This time Kirk didn’t try to bite, running his lips over McCoy’s, sucking at his bottom lip and then licking at the ticklish corners of his mouth. McCoy breathed a laugh, felt Kirk open his mouth in shock and licked into it. He thrust almost lazily, a little awkwardly for being out of practice, feeling like he was rocking into every part of Kirk, every push shuddering through both of them. Eventually Kirk shivered away from the kiss and moaned, threw his head back and dug marks into McCoy’s back as he gripped him. He shifted his hips in time, pushing back into every one of McCoy’s thrusts until he stopped gripping and just held, gasping like a sob with every thrust and eyes wide open. McCoy kept going even though his thighs trembled with pleasure and exertion, every thrust sending heat tingling through him. He hated this man, he told himself, as he dropped kisses onto the sinews between Kirk’s neck and shoulder, along the stretches of muscle Kirk liked to bite on him.
Kirk’s cock was hard and dripping on his stomach. McCoy knew that cock intimately, had sucked and jerked and been fucked by it enough to know it as well as his own, but as he shifted his weight and reached for it he found himself oddly tentative.
It was different: the angle, the feel of it in his hand coupled with the knowledge that his dick was up Kirk’s ass. Fuck. With every pull Kirk tensed blissfully around him, jerking erratically as McCoy sped up. McCoy knew his rhythm was off, all those skills left to languish for the past two years, but Kirk didn’t seem to care. He started to thrash, all his familiars signs of orgasm somehow strange in this position, and then he cried out, low and wanton, heaving almost hard enough to throw McCoy off as he spilled all over McCoy’s hand. McCoy let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and buried his face in Kirk’s neck, let himself be washed away by the waves of heat rippling through him before losing it completely.
When his senses cleared Kirk was panting as hard as he was, running his hands over McCoy’s chest and shoulders like he’d never seen them before. He noticed McCoy watching and went still. McCoy didn’t move either.
Finally, Kirk said, “I hate pity.”
McCoy considered. “And I hate you.”