Fic: Laceration, 1/1. Kirk/Spock.
Jul. 16th, 2009 09:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katydidmischief posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
cjs_owndisclaimer. Not mine. Never have been and I'll only ever be playing in the sandbox.
title. Laceration
rating. Adult (R) for Content
pairing. Kirk/Spock
summary. All of his Starfleet training had evaporated under his lover's skilled hand.
warnings. Whipping.
notes. Written for this prompt atst_xi_kink.
When they'd first shoved the whip into his hand, Spock had been mildly confused. He was good with languages, but this particular race's was lush with accents and emphasizing the middle of words and he could think of nothing similar enough to even attempt responding to them.
Half a heartbeat later, Nyota explained what was going on to Spock's bemusement and Kirk's resignation.
"I will not," Spock stated before the last word was out of her mouth; he ignored Jim shaking his head, adding, "It is wrong to bestow punishment upon a being whom had no indication as to the laws of another world - I will not be the instrument of an illogical act."
He looked to Jim for confirmation that they should fight against what the leaders of this world wanted, yet found only sad acceptance in the other's eyes. Spock opened his mouth to reiterate that he would not be the one to whip an innocent man and was cut off with a sigh.
"Just do it," Jim said, "It's not like it'd be the first time I got a beating for something I was unaware of." He drew in a sharp breath and glanced between himself and the other members of his landing party: Chekov was chained to Uhura's wrist, who'd been chained to the wall of their dirty cell. "And anyway, it's prudent to just submit to their will then to wait for rescue from the Enterprise and chance more crew being captured."
"Captain, I must protest..."
Jim rose, crossing the tiny room to his First Officer. With his face no more than a few inches away, he declared, "Spock, consider this an order if you have to, but I will not give these lunatics opportunity to kidnap anyone else from the ship." He turned away then, banging on the door.
The guard that appeared looked sickeningly pleased at Jim's acquiescent face, at Spock's pinched mouth and Uhura's bitter eyes. Thankfully she would not be a firsthand witness to the abuse, their captors taking only Spock and Jim from the cell and dragging them forcefully to a ceremonial stage, elevated for optimal viewing, and pushing them up the stairs. Atop the surface, Spock could see multiple stains of dried blood, chains, and fingernail gouges.
He swallowed as Jim, his shirt already removed, was pushed roughly into the only void in the dark-crimson splatters, his wrists bound in heavy metal, and a bit pressed between his teeth.
Bile rose in Spock's throat, burning enough to make him wince though his outward visage didn't reflect the distaste he felt; the leader of this newly met race raised a hand, telling him to start. But Spock wavered, taking a minute to breathe and reflect.
Through their bond, he could feel Jim's agitation, his upset, his reminiscences. He knew Jim was remembering other times his back had been split open under the bite of weapon. Straps, switches, and belts had featured in his childhood in a way that had baffled Spock – offspring were to be cherished, even if they were a source of consternation, not abused for sport.
“I will begin now, Jim,” Spock finally said, voice level and deceptively calm.
It's okay, Spock, Jim shot at him as the whip fell and his skin was cut apart, blood already welling up in the open wound.
It is not, he replied with the next blow.
Jim jackknifed in his bonds the third and fourth times the whip came down on his back. The next five drew whimpers; by then there was so few strips of uncut skin left that when Spock whipped his Captain next, the bloody mark crossed the first one, causing a scream to be ripped from Kirk's chest. He'd tried to keep it in, keep silent, but he simply couldn't at the blast of pain that'd shot through his body.
By the sixteenth blow, he could no longer stop himself from begging for the end. All of his Starfleet training had evaporated under his lover's skilled hand, and he felt the pain through the bond for his plight as the next two slits were placed expertly under his shoulderblades.
The nineteenth left his arm brushing over one cut, the twentieth and final mark bestowed upon the small of his back, turning the horizontal wound there into a bulls-eye.
Having fulfilled the required twenty lashes, Spock threw himself at the chains and broke them open, pulling the weak and pained man into his lap, before telling the man in front of them, “We have done as was your will, now you will return to us our freedom and our shuttlecraft.”
;;
Spock had, Jim's hand to God, growled at Bones when the doctor had attempted to treat the wounds. Like some sort of prehistoric caveman (Bones' words, not his, thank you very much!), Spock had looped an arm around Jim's neck and yanked him close, then swung Jim up and over his shoulders.
It was entirely too early for Pon Farr, but Jim knew there was nothing remotely sexual about his lover's behavior – Jim had forced Spock into being the one to wield the whip, to do something every inch of his Vulcan heritage screamed was wrong, and he'd been thrown off-kilter because of it. Spock was itching to check over every last inch of Jim's body and heal the injuries as best he could. Yes, Jim could feel the need to give into the baser instinct to possess Kirk in a reaffirmation, though it warred with the desire to see Jim resting.
He was placed gently into their bed a few minutes after their return to the ship, his bruised and bloody back exposed to the open air as he laid on his belly. “Spock,” he murmured, wanting to give what little comfort he could.
Spock didn't respond. Instead, he moved to the emergency kit kept in their bathroom and withdrew the few supplies he knew could keep Jim from the sickbay overnight. As nonsensical as it was, Spock was not yet prepared to relinquish his mate to McCoy's care even for a scant handful of hours. His chest tightened at the thought of being apart and he could feel an answering anxiety from Jim at the edge of his mind.
Returning to their bed, he found Jim had removed his trousers, leaving him clothed in only his regulation briefs atop the dark comforter. “If you are amenable, I will apply ointment and bandages to the wounds until such time as we are both able to sustain the presence of Doctor McCoy without upset.”
Jim laughed. “I don't think that's how this is going to go, but if you need to build up the courage to face Bones, then I'm not going to argue, baby,” he said, tacking on the endearment just to see his lover squirm.
Almost-too-warm hands came down on his back then, soft and gentle as they glided over clotting wounds. The washcloth scraped over him, the ointment stung and the bandages were not comfortable in the slightest, but Jim never moved to stop his lover nor made one noise of upset. He couldn't, not when he knew how important it was to Spock to care for his mate in this way.
His wounds cleaned and covered, Jim began to roll to face Spock, only to be stopped by the weight of his lover firm at his back. “I must insist that should these circumstances arise in the future, you will first attempt to find other means of remove yourself from the situation rather than to allow such abuse,” Spock told him once they were both comfortable on the mattress.
Smiling as he translated his bedmate's words from Vulcan to Human, Jim pressed a kiss to the hand he'd wound his fingers in. “Yeah, I promise I'll try better to avoid getting my ass kicked.”
title. Laceration
rating. Adult (R) for Content
pairing. Kirk/Spock
summary. All of his Starfleet training had evaporated under his lover's skilled hand.
warnings. Whipping.
notes. Written for this prompt at
st_xi_kink.When they'd first shoved the whip into his hand, Spock had been mildly confused. He was good with languages, but this particular race's was lush with accents and emphasizing the middle of words and he could think of nothing similar enough to even attempt responding to them.
Half a heartbeat later, Nyota explained what was going on to Spock's bemusement and Kirk's resignation.
"I will not," Spock stated before the last word was out of her mouth; he ignored Jim shaking his head, adding, "It is wrong to bestow punishment upon a being whom had no indication as to the laws of another world - I will not be the instrument of an illogical act."
He looked to Jim for confirmation that they should fight against what the leaders of this world wanted, yet found only sad acceptance in the other's eyes. Spock opened his mouth to reiterate that he would not be the one to whip an innocent man and was cut off with a sigh.
"Just do it," Jim said, "It's not like it'd be the first time I got a beating for something I was unaware of." He drew in a sharp breath and glanced between himself and the other members of his landing party: Chekov was chained to Uhura's wrist, who'd been chained to the wall of their dirty cell. "And anyway, it's prudent to just submit to their will then to wait for rescue from the Enterprise and chance more crew being captured."
"Captain, I must protest..."
Jim rose, crossing the tiny room to his First Officer. With his face no more than a few inches away, he declared, "Spock, consider this an order if you have to, but I will not give these lunatics opportunity to kidnap anyone else from the ship." He turned away then, banging on the door.
The guard that appeared looked sickeningly pleased at Jim's acquiescent face, at Spock's pinched mouth and Uhura's bitter eyes. Thankfully she would not be a firsthand witness to the abuse, their captors taking only Spock and Jim from the cell and dragging them forcefully to a ceremonial stage, elevated for optimal viewing, and pushing them up the stairs. Atop the surface, Spock could see multiple stains of dried blood, chains, and fingernail gouges.
He swallowed as Jim, his shirt already removed, was pushed roughly into the only void in the dark-crimson splatters, his wrists bound in heavy metal, and a bit pressed between his teeth.
Bile rose in Spock's throat, burning enough to make him wince though his outward visage didn't reflect the distaste he felt; the leader of this newly met race raised a hand, telling him to start. But Spock wavered, taking a minute to breathe and reflect.
Through their bond, he could feel Jim's agitation, his upset, his reminiscences. He knew Jim was remembering other times his back had been split open under the bite of weapon. Straps, switches, and belts had featured in his childhood in a way that had baffled Spock – offspring were to be cherished, even if they were a source of consternation, not abused for sport.
“I will begin now, Jim,” Spock finally said, voice level and deceptively calm.
It's okay, Spock, Jim shot at him as the whip fell and his skin was cut apart, blood already welling up in the open wound.
It is not, he replied with the next blow.
Jim jackknifed in his bonds the third and fourth times the whip came down on his back. The next five drew whimpers; by then there was so few strips of uncut skin left that when Spock whipped his Captain next, the bloody mark crossed the first one, causing a scream to be ripped from Kirk's chest. He'd tried to keep it in, keep silent, but he simply couldn't at the blast of pain that'd shot through his body.
By the sixteenth blow, he could no longer stop himself from begging for the end. All of his Starfleet training had evaporated under his lover's skilled hand, and he felt the pain through the bond for his plight as the next two slits were placed expertly under his shoulderblades.
The nineteenth left his arm brushing over one cut, the twentieth and final mark bestowed upon the small of his back, turning the horizontal wound there into a bulls-eye.
Having fulfilled the required twenty lashes, Spock threw himself at the chains and broke them open, pulling the weak and pained man into his lap, before telling the man in front of them, “We have done as was your will, now you will return to us our freedom and our shuttlecraft.”
Spock had, Jim's hand to God, growled at Bones when the doctor had attempted to treat the wounds. Like some sort of prehistoric caveman (Bones' words, not his, thank you very much!), Spock had looped an arm around Jim's neck and yanked him close, then swung Jim up and over his shoulders.
It was entirely too early for Pon Farr, but Jim knew there was nothing remotely sexual about his lover's behavior – Jim had forced Spock into being the one to wield the whip, to do something every inch of his Vulcan heritage screamed was wrong, and he'd been thrown off-kilter because of it. Spock was itching to check over every last inch of Jim's body and heal the injuries as best he could. Yes, Jim could feel the need to give into the baser instinct to possess Kirk in a reaffirmation, though it warred with the desire to see Jim resting.
He was placed gently into their bed a few minutes after their return to the ship, his bruised and bloody back exposed to the open air as he laid on his belly. “Spock,” he murmured, wanting to give what little comfort he could.
Spock didn't respond. Instead, he moved to the emergency kit kept in their bathroom and withdrew the few supplies he knew could keep Jim from the sickbay overnight. As nonsensical as it was, Spock was not yet prepared to relinquish his mate to McCoy's care even for a scant handful of hours. His chest tightened at the thought of being apart and he could feel an answering anxiety from Jim at the edge of his mind.
Returning to their bed, he found Jim had removed his trousers, leaving him clothed in only his regulation briefs atop the dark comforter. “If you are amenable, I will apply ointment and bandages to the wounds until such time as we are both able to sustain the presence of Doctor McCoy without upset.”
Jim laughed. “I don't think that's how this is going to go, but if you need to build up the courage to face Bones, then I'm not going to argue, baby,” he said, tacking on the endearment just to see his lover squirm.
Almost-too-warm hands came down on his back then, soft and gentle as they glided over clotting wounds. The washcloth scraped over him, the ointment stung and the bandages were not comfortable in the slightest, but Jim never moved to stop his lover nor made one noise of upset. He couldn't, not when he knew how important it was to Spock to care for his mate in this way.
His wounds cleaned and covered, Jim began to roll to face Spock, only to be stopped by the weight of his lover firm at his back. “I must insist that should these circumstances arise in the future, you will first attempt to find other means of remove yourself from the situation rather than to allow such abuse,” Spock told him once they were both comfortable on the mattress.
Smiling as he translated his bedmate's words from Vulcan to Human, Jim pressed a kiss to the hand he'd wound his fingers in. “Yeah, I promise I'll try better to avoid getting my ass kicked.”
