The air in Spock's room was such a sharp contrast to the air in the passageways, it felt like a slap in the face. Searing, dry heat rushed through his lungs as Spock locked the door behind them. Already he felt eager to leave this room, but he knew by now not to expect that any time soon. McCoy stood by the door, watching Spock walk over to the bed. Even the lighting in there was less than optimal, being slightly reddish and dark. Heavy shadows burrowed into the folds of Spock's clothing, at the hollows of his cheeks and eyes when he turned around.

"Remove your clothing," Spock said.

McCoy felt his jaw tighten, but made no other move. He knew it was dangerous to disobey, but he couldn't bring himself to just obey him blindly. Nor did he have the gall to flat out tell him no, either. He tensed and took a few steps back as Spock approached him, flinching as his wrist was grabbed tightly and yanked forward.

"I could kill you for disobeying me, slave," he growled.

McCoy was a mixture of defiance and fear, cringing from Spock's harsh looks and squeezing fingers, but staring back with a cold glare. "If you were ever going to kill me, you would have already," he snarled back.

"I am trying to give you a chance to learn your place, so such means are--"

"I don't mean me!" McCoy interrupted and yanked his hand back. Spock did not let go, but was pulled forward, closer to the human. His eyes looked even darker and more hollow as the closeness kept some of the light off his face. "I mean the other me. You loved him, but you couldn't control him, isn't that right?"

"He was nothing like you," Spock said through gritted teeth.

"Then why'd you kidnap me?" McCoy demanded, lurching forward a bit as he snapped at him. He was already beginning to sweat beneath clothes that were entirely too hot for this habitat. But he would die of heatstroke before he'd strip willingly for Spock. "Obviously you wanted him, you still do! And you think you can have it both ways with me, huh?"

"I will not discuss this with you now," Spock answered flatly. "We do not have the time."

"Fine, I'll get to the point," McCoy sneered. "You wouldn't kill me, no matter what I did. Don't waste your empty threats on me."

"Perhaps not," Spock said, eyes narrowing. "But I would if I were ordered to." This took McCoy off guard, giving Spock the chance to force off his shirt. He didn't try to stop Spock from stripping him, but he didn't make the job any easier, keeping himself still, arms crossed, leaving the work to Spock.

"Why would anyone order that?" he snapped. "I thought I'm under your protection." The derision in his voice was obvious.

Spock slid an arm to the undersides of McCoy's knees and put his other arm beneath his back and lifted the human in one sudden movement. McCoy reached for Spock's shirt as a reflex. Carrying him to the bed effortlessly, Spock answered, "You are safe from everyone but the captain." He half dropped, half lay the human down. "You are mine, and that protects you from everyone else, but anything that is mine, is also the captain's." Now that McCoy was off his feet, Spock pulled off his boots and then slipped his hand beneath the human's nape, holding his head up.

Pulling McCoy closer by the back of the neck, Spock knelt by the bed and leaned close to him. "Right now you are in danger from him," he said quietly. "You do not understand the insult you did to the captain by refusing him. Never in the past has your counterpart done such a thing, nor anyone else for that matter."

McCoy stared back for a moment, a sinking feeling in is stomach. "And I take it an apology won't be enough?"

"You have always been one of the captain's favorites, Leonard," Spock nearly whispered. The fact that Spock said "you" and not "your counterpart" jarred McCoy, but it was symbolically true. He could privately reject the past he had assumed by being here, but he could not escape from it. "He will forgive you, but only if we go about this correctly." Spock looked down for a moment, then locked eyes with McCoy, his eyes even colder than before. "I will have to punish you before you may meet with the captain again."

McCoy stiffened and felt his heart race. "I bet you'll enjoy that," he whispered, too apprehensive to add any rancor to his voice.

"I would enjoy it far more if I were doing it for my own pleasure, rather than for the captain's sake," Spock stated matter-of-factly.

There had been plenty of times in the past when McCoy had felt himself at the Vulcan's mercy. When some external force or extreme provocation drove the two at each other's throats, literally or otherwise, and even with the shock and the feeling of frailty at the Vulcan's hands, McCoy had always known, in the back of his mind, that in the end, his friend would not hurt him. And even beyond the friendship, there had been love between them, although it had never been acknowledged. McCoy did not need to be a telepath to know that. But if there were love between himself and this version of Spock, then it was not the kind he could find safety in. McCoy knew there was no safety from his supposed protector.

There was no point to begging or attempts at escape. Not only would that prove fruitless, but this Spock did not deserve that satisfaction. "Get it over with," he hissed.

"Thank you for your permission, Doctor," Spock sneered darkly, and pulled McCoy off the bed. He pushed him along to kneel at one of the bedposts, face towards the wooden post. "Do not move."

McCoy remained still as he tried to listen to what Spock was doing behind him. Suddenly his skin shivered as if cold, even though the room was still as hot and stuffy as ever. Beads of sweat on his back pricked coldly. A vicious self hatred attacked him, as senseless as it was. Simply put, he was afraid. Afraid enough to want to beg for mercy. As Spock tied his wrists together around the post and then stood behind him, that urge screamed for attention in his mind, and he feared he would give into it. He hated himself for having that doubt in himself.

Gripping the bedpost, McCoy heard Spock go back to the drawer and tried to hear his every movement. He tried to guess what each object was that the Vulcan picked up or put back down. With so much drawn out, noisy activity behind him, he soon became convinced that this was part of the torment. Still, he dared not look behind him, afraid that any of his guesses would be true.

He felt Spock lather his back with what felt to be water, so easily it spilled down his skin, cooling as it covered him. A soft, sweet smell started to fill the room now, as if from that liquid. Just as he was trying to identify the scent, his body arched in a sudden spasm with the first sudden lash of a whip. His scream of pain came out delayed, as if he needed time to realize what had happened.

"Don't move too much, Leonard," Spock ordered in a low, dark voice. "I do not wish to miss the proper target."

He was struck again before he could respond, and he could hardly catch his breath, let alone snark back. The water on his back made the lashes sting with a cutting, slicing quality. McCoy could understand if the captain needed to see his body marked up as evidence of the punishment, but what use could the liquid have but to increase the pain? Barely three lashes into it and McCoy was already in tears. He felt his skin break at every bite of the whip, and the dribbling liquid on his back could have been either that scented water or his own blood, or both.

He had not bothered to count, so had no idea how many had passed so far. Spock took his time, too, waiting as long as thirty seconds between each strike, and the wait varied. McCoy found himself waiting for the next lash in painful suspense, afraid to even breathe until it finally came. It caught him off guard and drove a moan or a cry from him every time.

That urge to beg was in the forefront of his mind now, and he began to rationalize with himself. Would it really make him a coward? Perhaps Spock was waiting for McCoy to say something before he stopped, and this could go on for hours if he remained stubbornly quiet. McCoy was no weakling, but he was not used to this kind of pain, and Spock should have known that. Perhaps this was a test, did McCoy care to try to pass it? Would it please Spock to resist begging, or would it anger him? Did he care?

He was sobbing freely now, after ten minutes of this. He had his head pressed against the bed post and clutched at it. There was a bruise on his face where he was knocked into the post with every spasm of his body. After a while he stopped yelling at and questioning himself and his mind went blank. He didn't have the energy to think of anything but the brutal cutting of the lash, and the euphoric rush he got right after it. It was like being thrust in ice water over and over, with no chance to adjust to the cold.

In all this time, though, he had made a lot of noise, but never asked anything of Spock.

Like with every other lash, McCoy waited for the next one when Spock finally stopped. By now the pain had driven him to a strange, floating sort of state, where everything he felt seemed out of his own body. The wounds on his back pulsed in unison, throbbing. He was panting hard and fell on the bed by the post when Spock untied his hands. The sounds behind him faded into a dull roar as he felt himself drifting off, with only the strength of the pain keeping him awake at all.

His body was alive, electrified, his skin shivering, his brain overloaded with so many sensations, and blood pumped fiercely through his body. He kept fading in and out, one second about to fall asleep, the next gasping for breath as his body came alive with pain in time with his heart beat. He continued to cry softly, but he was slowly growing quiet and still.

He realized in the back of his mind that he was hard, and he wasn't sure what to think about that.

He felt Spock lay hands on him, but it was as distant as a dream. Spock was gentle as he put an arm around McCoy's chest to support him. And then he splashed alcohol on his back. The human gripped Spock, clutching at anything he could get hold of, and drove his face into the other's chest, his scream lost in the fabric of Spock's shirt. He wept uncontrollably, overcome by the sudden and blinding pain. His own heartbeat deafened his ears, and Spock's heartbeat echoed in its slow, far off rhythm.

Spock held him in his lap, gentle now, and McCoy relaxed only because he was too tired not to. He did not feel safe or comforted in the Vulcan's arms, but his body was awakening with a strong new feeling. The smell of Spock's body, that familiar scent at the crook of his neck, even the smell of his clothes, clean and yet saturated with the life of the owner, was overwhelming to McCoy. It was familiar and brought back memories of his Spock, of times when he had been held or otherwise close to him.

McCoy pressed himself tighter to Spock as his mind chose this time to crush him with the grief of losing his friend. But it was more than that; he had never once dared to share his true feelings with the Spock of his world. Even if his Spock would have refused him, he could at least say that he tried. He would at least have been honest to Spock, and himself. It wasn't till that moment, which saw him crying and bleeding in the arms of the very one that had hurt him, that he realized how much he loved his own Spock.

He clung to this Spock, the only one he would be with, he thought miserably, his grief turning into tenderness. He didn't imagine this Spock as his own, but he held onto him as if he were the one he wanted, not caring what this Spock would think about this. All that mattered was that he needed his friend here more than ever, but he had to make do with what he had.

Spock gave him a few minutes of rest before moving on to the next phase. McCoy was compliant and cooperative as Spock got him back on the bed, surely thinking that Spock would let him rest further. The doctor didn't even struggle as Spock drew his hands up above his head to fasten them to the headboard.

But soon enough McCoy realized what was happening, and he burst to life. His face was pale and moist, and redness spread on the sheets beneath him as he writhed, while Spock unsheathed his side knife. A small part of him thought to plead Spock with his eyes, but still he said nothing. Spock's eyes were empty and expressionless as he sat on the bed right by him and leaned over McCoy. The tip of his knife glazed over the human's cheek, and dragged down harmlessly to his throat. It encouraged McCoy to lift his chin as it slid over the skin just beneath his jaw.

Spock gripped the knife handle with one hand and rested it by McCoy's face, so he could see the blade out of the corner of his eye. His other hand slid down his body, gripping between the human's legs. McCoy nearly choked on his sharp gasp, and stared at Spock with wide eyes. He started to moan as Spock very slowly stroked his thumb over the head, and he raised his knees up, digging his toes into the sheets. He felt the handle of the knife cold against his face as Spock pressed his fingers onto his head while still holding the knife.

//James is a vulgar beast of a man// he transmitted mentally, and McCoy lurched from the suddenness of the Vulcan's presence in his mind. All at once every separate whip wound roared to life, but the pain paled in comparison to the urgent throbbing of his cock in Spock's hand. //He is easily impressed by blood and obvious shows of submission at its most primal level. He will be most satisfied when I am finished with you//

"Spock, please!" McCoy blurted, all shame of begging and of using that name fading away. At the back of mind, he was fantasizing about his Spock rescuing him; he only knew he was thinking this because this Spock dragged those thoughts out to mock them and let them die.

//He does not understand the true nature of submission// Spock continued, slowly sliding his hand out from between the human's legs to caress its way up his body. Without much of a warning, Spock dug the tip of the knife into McCoy's chest and dragged it down, opening a slick red line. When McCoy spasmed, that perfectly straight line was knocked off course, so it became jagged and crooked by the time it reached his navel. Blood billowed to the surface and trickled down the side of the human's body, a rich dark red, almost black in the room's lighting. Spock pushed the image of it into McCoy's mind, so that he could see as well as Spock could, what it looked like.

//Stop, please!//

//You cannot truly belong to anyone until you have given yourself freely// Spock teased the skin of McCoy's thigh for a moment before plunging in, making several small but deep cuts in his inner thigh, and then traced the tip of it harmlessly along the skin stretched over his hip bone. //And you will give yourself to me, Leonard. James will think you are his because you let him fuck you, but he will never have you as I will//

"You're fucking crazy!" McCoy burst, although speaking took great effort. He couldn't bring the energy to speak further, but he knew Spock understood what he wanted to say. Just as he knew the strange trance-like feeling that was paralyzing his body and numbing his mind was because of Spock, and he could not fight it.

//You've always wanted this// Spock said through his thoughts, so loud and clear in the human's mind. McCoy stared up at Spock, his mind forcibly open to whatever the Vulcan could suggest. A part of him was resisting, but he felt the strong temptation to give in. The pain of his body and the shock of being given yet another wound became less important than Spock's presence. It still hurt just as badly, but it was merely in the background now.

//I could--// McCoy attempted to communicate back, forcing himself to concentrate enough to do it mentally. //--never--// //--want this// It was difficult to concentrate enough to send that message at that moment, but he did notice that overall, it was getting easier to speak that way. It was becoming more natural.

//I saw this part of you when I melded with you, Leonard, and this is why I took you. You have wanted this from your own Spock but could never have that with him// Spock lay the knife down on the bed and started stroking between his legs again. McCoy yelled and tried to writhe out of his grip, his heartbeat deafening.

//No! I don't want to be a slave!// he shouted through his mind.

//I saw this in you, as I see it in you even now. You can hide your thoughts from yourself, but you can't hide them from me//

McCoy's mind went silent as lust and physical need took over. If not for the hold on his mind, McCoy would have climaxed by now. Even when Spock let go and stroked the skin of his torso, that throbbing need did not fade. Every touch from the Vulcan was as powerful as if he were jacking him off.

//Your Spock was too much a coward to give you what you needed. He and I are the same man, only I am not afraid to take what I want//

McCoy tried to scream, but couldn't. He could only stare, his eyes glazed and dribbling with tears, and panted heavily. Thankfully, Spock did not try to force his ideas onto him any further, and McCoy was afraid to think further on them. He focused on his physical feelings, and Spock encouraged this by amplifying his bodily awareness.

"You will think of me when you are with him," Spock said, his voice smooth and rumbling, a strange sensation now that McCoy was used to his mental voice. That command sat heavily in McCoy's mind as Spock untied him, but Spock did not say anything more about it. Slowly the Vulcan removed himself from McCoy's mind, and the human began to experience his outside world normally again. He didn't realize until Spock's presence left how much sharper and bolder colors had been, how vivid his bodily sensations were. Now that Spock pulled away, everything looked flat and dead for a while.

Now Spock was all business again. He left McCoy on the bed as he wiped his hands on a clean part of the bed sheets and said, "A small amount of fighting is acceptable. The captain enjoys a certain amount of playful challenge." He pulled McCoy off the bed and brusquely wiped his body down with a towel. "But you must be careful not to fight him too much," he said, holding McCoy by the shoulders. McCoy gazed back lifelessly. He was barely hearing Spock. "Above everything else, you must please him. You must make him believe that you are sorry and that you are willing to submit."

McCoy was shaking, but felt his strength begin to return, though perhaps it was adrenaline waking him up. He took his clothes when Spock handed them to him and started to slowly dress.

"Above all things, the captain craves conquest. Once he believes he has conquered you he will be satisfied and forget about you. You will be safe from him as long as there are others to distract him."

While Spock washed his hands in the bathroom, McCoy got the chance to see himself in the mirror. His wounds were hidden, but his face was ashen and sweating, his hair a clumpy mess. He looked like a hollow shell of what he once was and felt a pang of terror that even if his Spock could find a way to find him, he would not recognize him.

McCoy took the knife from the bed and had it gripped hard in his hand by the time Spock returned from washing the human's blood off his hands. Spock stopped. "I understand your desire to lash out at me, but you must know I will not let you get close enough to stab me."

"You know what's interesting?" McCoy sneered, his hand shaking. "You've marked up my body, both back and front, but you haven't touched my face."

McCoy knew he was on to something with Spock tightened his lips and frowned slightly.

"That was deliberate, wasn't it? James wouldn't like that, would he?"

Spock slowly approached. "Give me the knife."

For the first time in days, McCoy felt the rush of pleasure at Spock's carefully hidden distress. The Vulcan fought to keep his emotions hidden, but he could not hide the anxiety in his eyes when McCoy lifted the blade to his own face. It was intoxicating, this swelling, dark thrill at causing those feelings in Spock. For once he had some power. He wished he could make it last, but the longer he'd leave it, the more time he'd give Spock to make a grab for it; for the moment Spock still had doubts that McCoy would do it.

"You must a sad, lonely man to have to force someone to love you," McCoy sneered, enjoying the attention for the moment. "I think you would have had a better chance with the other one; he never had the chance to experience what real love could be like."

As Spock started after him, McCoy dodged and sunk the blade edge into his cheek and dragged it down, using his own adrenaline for courage. Then he flung the knife to the floor and threw his hands to his face, hissing at the pain. But when Spock grabbed him by the hair, he sneered at him. "Think he'll like it?"

Spock's free hand shook in a fist. "You idiot," he snarled, shoving McCoy away. "What are you trying to do, get back at me? You can only hope he believes I did it. You have no idea what you're doing!"

"What difference does it make now?" McCoy snarled. "Look at me! How could it get any worse?"

Gritting his teeth, Spock took hold of him again, clawing tightly at the human's hair, and pulled him close. McCoy's knees buckled and he fell weak in Spock's grip, whimpering at the savage treatment. Defiance was easy with Spock held safely at bay, but he was once again in the Vulcan's grip.

"This was nothing," Spock snarled, yanking his head back by the hair. "I merely made it look like I punished you. This is hardly more than what the other one took on a regular basis without even flinching. If the captain wishes it, he can reduce you to a pitiful shell of a creature. Do you remember when we first brought the admiral on board?"

A forced grunt through closed lips was McCoy's answer.

"Think back to the slaves, the women that served us drinks. One in particular, the blond, the most damaged of the group. Do you remember?"

He did remember her, and finally figured out why she was so familiar. He was so used to her hair piled high atop her head, and of course her being healthy and vibrant. "J-Janice?" he whispered.

"She displeased him one time too many," Spock growled. "Now he keeps her alive as a warning to others." He released McCoy's hair and roughly fixed up his sash, tugging it tightly around the human's waist. McCoy was unable to form coherent thoughts as Spock fixed the pins on his shirt and straightened his hair with his fingers.

Spock grabbed the back of his head firmly. "All you have to do is obey me," he growled. "You may not believe it now, but everything I do is out of love for you."

"You torture me for love?" McCoy hissed, glaring coldly back.

Spock didn't hesitate. "Yes. The captain wanted you punished, for your own stupid mistake, and I have done so. You can hate me as much as you like, that is irrelevant to me, but you will follow my orders to the letter, without even thinking. I will go to any length required to break you, Leonard." He pulled McCoy closer, so that their brows touched, and paused a moment. McCoy shivered and closed his eyes. There was so much anxiety roiling inside him, most of it coming from Spock through his skin. "I have always loved you, and I will have you. No one, not even you, will take you away from me."

////

McCoy had gone straight to the captain's cabin alone, having assured Spock he would not go anywhere else. He knew it wasn't a matter of trust, but that he really had nowhere else to go. Facing this alone did grant McCoy a small but significant shred of dignity, and perhaps that was a small gift from Spock. McCoy would not chose to see it that way, of course. He was also given ample time before the cuff would go off. Supposedly the captain would be expected to meet with the admiral in approximately two hours, so Spock gave him three.

After activating the buzzer on the door, he was made to wait several minutes, the entire time wondering if he shouldn't just give into cowardly impulses and take off. The door zipped open before he could come to a decision, and he walked in as if pulled in by strings.

The captain had been at his desk by the mirror, fixing his hair as McCoy timidly walked in. His smile was dark and large as he turned, but then it dropped when he got a good look at the doctor. His glare was harsh as he approached McCoy, it took a lot for McCoy to stay still. Kirk dragged his thumb along the jagged wound on McCoy's face. "Who did this?" he asked in a low voice, and wiped the blood on McCoy's shirt.

His heart pounded and he blurted, "Spock." Instantly he burned with shame; that was cowardly and low, he thought.

Kirk narrowed his eyes and shook his head, growling softly to himself. But just as quickly his mood changed again, his face lighting up into a harsh grin, his eyes alive. This shift didn't put McCoy at ease. He plucked at McCoy's shirt and grunted, "Get rid of this."

McCoy grit his teeth and stripped as quickly as he could with shaking hands, his mind relatively empty. All he could really think about was his now distant memory of what Janice Rand had been reduced to. He kept telling himself to just try to make it through whatever the captain had planned for him, and he should be ok. Relatively.

Both men inspected each other once McCoy had finished. McCoy tried to stand straight, but ended up slouching out of tiredness and the pain all over his body, and self-consciously tried to cover himself with his hands. While the cool air in this room, so different from Spock's quarters, cooled his bare skin, McCoy took in all he could of Kirk's appearance. This Kirk was even more different from the one he was used to than the Spock of this world was to his own. This Kirk was considerably fitter than his, his arms tight and toned, his face gaunt, making his Kirk seem to be soft and out of shape in comparison.

But his physical appearance wasn't even the half of it. Even the Spock of this world retained at least a shell of what McCoy was used to; he could believe that they were essentially the same man. But this man circling him now, gazing up and down at his body as if it were a freshly hung carcass, this man could not have been more alien. Even with his smug, wolfish grin, McCoy saw a darkness in his eyes that made him wonder what had happened in his past. This man was not his warm and cheerful friend by any stretch of the imagination.

The captain grabbed McCoy from behind, holding him tightly in his arms, and took him to his bed. Being shoved against the man's uniform split the wounds on his back open, and blood spilled onto the golden vest, some of the bright red droplets bouncing off the slick surfaces of all those metallic bits sewn into the cloth.

He sat McCoy down on the bed and sat next to him, pulling him in for a cold hug. The harsh surface of his top scratched at the cuts, and Kirk's hands fully explored his back, but McCoy tried not to struggle. He felt a sick panic sitting in Kirk's arms, quite unlike what he had felt with Spock.

Kirk pulled him up onto his lap and kissed him savagely, not even giving McCoy the time to breathe. Only when Kirk lifted his mouth for a split second could McCoy greedily steal a gasp of air. He gave up trying to keep up with Kirk, but it didn't matter anyway; obviously the captain did not expect McCoy to kiss back, but to just fully accept his kiss. Soon McCoy felt tears wet the corner of his eyes as his wounds screamed with pain. Kirk was scratching his back with no regard to the lash marks, tearing through the wounds, spilling even more blood down his back.

Holding the back of McCoy's head, pressing his brow against the other's, Kirk finally stopped and panted for a moment. The two were quiet, both bodies raging with red-blooded life; McCoy couldn't help but compare the feel of a human body pressed against him after so long with a Vulcan.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Kirk hissed, his eyes blazing so fiercely from beneath his brow that McCoy had to look away. He was distinctly aware of the captain's scent, and how different it was from Spock's, how...alien it seemed to him now.

Shivering slightly, McCoy grunted, "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Is that all?" Kirk challenged, the grip of his fingers tightening enough to make the other gasp.

"It was wrong to refuse you!" McCoy blurted, his voice pitiful, miserable. "I-I'm very sorry for that, Captain, it'll never happen again." He wasn't sure what he was expected to say, and hoped that would be enough. Verbally, at least.

A cold grin spread on Kirk's face and he let out a rumbling chuckle. "So then why did you?"

McCoy stammered incoherently for a moment. He had not been expecting this. "I-I just--"

"Yes?" Kirk asked sweetly, stroking McCoy's hair.

"I must have b-been stressed," he said, shaking.

"About what?"

McCoy searched his mind for anything to grab onto that wouldn't betray him. Then he noticed the weight of the cuff on his wrist, and pointed to it. "This," he said. "It all happened so fast, I was not myself."

This didn't seem to convince Kirk. His expression didn't change, but he didn't say anything for a while. Finally he said, "And here I was thinking you didn't like me anymore." His tone was cold and sarcastic. It made McCoy shudder.

"Of course I do," he whispered half-heartedly, staring hard into Kirk's eyes.

"Hmmm. Are you happy with him?" he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Well," McCoy stalled, unsure how to answer. He imagined something bad happening either way, but he chose the answer that he hoped would appeal to Kirk's vanity. "No, I hate him," he said.

Kirk's laugh should have assured him that that was the right answer, but McCoy didn't feel secure. With that chuckle still in his voice, he pointed to the floor at his feet and said, "Why don't you show me how sorry you are."

McCoy barely hid a grimace as he slid onto the floor on his knees. He crawled between Kirk's spread legs, but didn't know what to do after that. Should he touch him? Should he wait? Thankfully, Kirk did not expect him to do anything but wait as he took his time unzipping his pants. His cock hit McCoy on the face when he let it out, and the doctor jumped, his entire body tense and on edge. He felt like gagging right that moment, but he knew he wouldn't have such a luxury. Blocking his nasal passage, he opened his mouth and took it in.

No sooner had he put his lips around it did Kirk shove himself further in, choking him. Kirk pushed all the way in and held McCoy's head still. McCoy fought to keep from retching; he fought for breath and clawed at the slick, knee high boots right in front of him.

"I suppose you've taken this transition a bit harder than I expected," Kirk hissed, finally pulling himself out enough just enough for McCoy to draw breath. He pumped hard into him; McCoy feared he would throw up with every thrust. It hit the back of his throat and blurred his vision with the force of it.

Kirk yanked McCoy off him and held him tight by the hair. "I'm more than a little disappointed," he sneered. McCoy just stared back, gasping now that he had the chance to breathe. "Well?" he shouted, further confusing the kneeling man. "Are there going to be any further problems?"

"No, Sir!" McCoy sputtered immediately. Even though he knew his next destination would most likely be Spock's quarters, he still desperately wanted this to end.

Kirk glared coldly for a moment, inspecting him. Fear gripped McCoy's heart as he sat there, helpless, with his own blood glinting in the bright light on the captain's shirt. He felt even now a few rivulets snake down his back.

"Get up here," he snapped as he got off the bed. McCoy crawled up onto the bed, every movement torturous, and sat with his knees drawn up by the pillow as Kirk undressed. Memories of the first time he had been in this situation came back to haunt him, the triumph he had felt in fighting the captain off now sitting like shame in his mouth. If he had only acquiesced then, he would not have to go through this now. Now that he had shown a trace of defiance that his counterpart obviously had never dared to show, his life depended on pleasing the captain to make up for it.

But wasn't it always like that in this world?

For a moment McCoy could only concentrate on Kirk's nude body as he slowly made his way to the bed. Not a trace of fat, every inch of his body efficient, strong. There were the shadows of old scars scattered along his torso, he noticed, as well as one on his thigh.

Eying McCoy with a predatory stare, Kirk crawled up the bed to perch himself above McCoy, who lay himself flat on the bed beneath him. He lowered himself down on the doctor, sliding his hands up the other's arms till they reached the wrists, and he pinned them down by his head. He had to hold down McCoy's hand where the bulky metal cuff got in the way of his wrist.

The captain's breath washed hot and moist against McCoy's throat, biting, rough kisses soon to follow. His skin, moist from the buildup of sweat, and salty for the same reason, slid and pressed into McCoy's bare skin, torturing the knife wounds. McCoy sighed loudly and moaned as the larger body held him down, overtaking his body completely.

The kisses on his neck turned into a bite that pressed down on his jugular. His various pains began to fade together as an echo in the back of his mind as he started to lose consciousness. He tried to fight Kirk off, but his weak attempts were easily ignored. When Kirk finally let go, McCoy's sensations and senses came flooding back, making him gasp and clutch at Kirk.

He was getting hard, but his body was not nearly as responsive as it had been with Spock. McCoy blamed that on the fact that he was too overwhelmed with pain and fear to be able to concentrate on lust as well. The sensation of Kirk's cock rubbing on his own and his groping hands was powerful and pleasurable, but he still just wanted this to end.

Lifting himself off slowly, Kirk barked for McCoy to reach into the bedside table for his bottle of lube. "Go on," he snapped when McCoy offered it to him, staring stupidly. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the little bottle as he opened it. He squeezed some in his hand and coated Kirk's cock with it in such a lifeless, awkward way, as if he had no idea what he was doing. He didn't dare look up at Kirk, but he could only imagine him glaring down at him.

Kirk slapped him and snatched the tube away, only to throw it across the room. "What's the matter?" he snarled. "Distracted?"

"No," McCoy muttered as Kirk spread the lube over himself in rigorous, rough strokes. McCoy felt himself blush, and he cast his eyes away.

"Still stressed?" he sneered.

"I-I'm fine," McCoy whined, wondering where this was going. How the fuck do you expect me to feel?! he wanted to scream. Drawing his hands across his chest, McCoy turned his face and wished Kirk would just get on with it.

Kirk grit his teeth and grabbed McCoy between the legs hard. "Then what's this?" he yelled as McCoy screamed out. He squeezed harder and very nearly lifted the doctor by it, and leaned down to snarl, "Why aren't you hard?"

"Please!" he yelled. "I don't know, I don't know! It's not you, I swear!" He looked hard into Kirk's eyes. It might have been useless to appeal to any compassion, but there wasn't anything else he could do. Spock had not prepared him for this; he knew he was expected to submit, but he couldn't believe he also had to appease the man's ego.

A long, fierce glare, and Kirk slapped McCoy's hip. "Turn over," he snapped.

McCoy scrambled over to lie on his front, fighting with the bulky blankets. It made him sick for a moment to see them stained with his blood, but he lay his head down and tried to turn his brain off. He felt Kirk lift his hips, and his thighs tensed up as he tried to balance himself. Barely a second later Kirk was forcing himself in, but with the thick coating of lube, he managed to push all the way in after just a few seconds. McCoy screamed into the blankets, tensing despite the fact that doing so would only hurt more.

With each thrust, a vague pleasure was building up until it almost overpowered everything else. It was intense, but hardly pleasant. Whether he wanted it or not, he was soon bucking himself back against Kirk, panting and clawing at the sheets.

"That's more like it!" Kirk snarled, giving him an extra hard thrust. He held McCoy's hips and fucked him with a powerful rhythm without needing to slow down. It was relentless and savage; as much as his body howled with an awakening lust, McCoy desperately wanted it to end.

As he began to get lost in this overwhelming sensations, he remembered what Spock had said. "You will think of me when you are with him." He was disturbed by that thought, and tried to push it out of his head. He hadn't thought to try to imagine Kirk as anyone else, because he didn't want to invest himself in what was happening emotionally. Imagining that this Kirk were anyone he actually cared for would have been vulgar, he thought.

But tempting...

He bit into the blankets as he fought with his own mind now. Telling himself he would not think of Spock, the one of this universe, only made him do exactly that. His smug prophecy rang through his head, as clearly as if Spock were right there, snarling it in his ear, or forcing the thoughts into his head. He began to grunt "no, no," to himself as his mind tormented him. Now he was imagining it was the Spock of this universe fucking him, digging his fingers into his hips, dragging his tongue along the oozing whip wounds, and he couldn't stop.

And he didn't want to.

Without a Vulcan mind to control his own, McCoy felt he would climax very soon, without even being touched. With his hips up, he was not in contact with the bed, and Kirk was not interested in getting him off, obviously. Yet he felt any minute now, he would come, all because he imagined so vividly that it was Spock riding him, he almost believed that were true.

As he got closer, he panted in ragged breaths, moaning loudly, eyes squeezed shut. He gripped the blankets hard as he finally came, driving his head into the mattress, howling out, "Spock!"

Kirk stopped immediately. McCoy froze and opened his eyes, the two of them quiet and still for an agonizing moment. "What?" he hissed, still inside him.

McCoy felt Kirk throb inside him and shook with fear. Anything could happen in the next second, and he was hardly in the position to defend himself easily, but he dared not move. There was no point to say anything, for explanations, he thought.

Kirk pulled out and turned McCoy over onto his back with a hand closed around his throat, shoving his head into the mattress. His teeth bared as he growled, shaking McCoy slightly with his squeezing hand. McCoy clawed at his hand, his body sluggish from exhaustion. A part of him was giving up, he realized, trying to tell him that it would better this way. Better to die now than to go on one more minute in this place, with such people.

But he wanted to fight it. Even if he had more of this to look forward to, the doctor did not want to die. He kept trying to pry Kirk's hands off his throat and even tried to throw his knees up to hit him. It felt like trying to fight from waking from a dream, but he didn't stop struggling until Kirk let go.

He wheezed and rolled over to his side as Kirk got up. The captain was still hard, his body glistening, and he tore into his drawers with a powerful, impatient rage. McCoy flinched at every slammed drawer, every random object thrown to the floor. In a few minutes Kirk was fully dressed, and came over to the bed. He seized McCoy's hair and pulled him off the bed, almost dropping him. With a growl, he slammed him hard into the bulkhead and punched him across the face. McCoy threw his hands up to protect his face as he saw Kirk start to swing again, causing the captain to punch the cuff.

Shaking his hurt hand, Kirk growled like an animal and took hold of McCoy's cuffed arm and smashed it against the part of the wall that jutted out in a sharp right angle by the door. He then let McCoy drop to the floor, cradling his arm, and went back to his dresser. He threw a thin robe down to the kneeling, moaning man. The silken robe fluttered to the floor by his knees as he felt his arm. It was broken.

"Get up!" Kirk yelled. McCoy stood up as quickly as he could, almost falling a few times, and did his best to put the robe on with one hand. With an impatient growl, Kirk tied the front for him and then slapped the wound on his face. "Get rid of that," he growled. As McCoy grunted an answer, Kirk took his own knife from his belt and sliced an identical cut down the other cheek before McCoy even knew what was happening. "Only I can mark you where it shows," he hissed, pointing at him with his knife. "You tell him that."

McCoy didn't speak or even nod, he just stared dumbly.

Kirk gathered up McCoy's uniform and with a press of a few buttons, opened the door to his cabin. Then he shoved the man out and threw his clothes out into the passageway. He took hold of McCoy's nape, shaking with rage. McCoy felt like in his hold, floating almost. Everything was happening so fast, he could hardly process it. If the captain were to stab him right now, it would come as no surprise.

"Go on back to your master," he growled through gritted teeth. "You better stay out of my sight for a while."

McCoy tried to answer, but Kirk shoved him away and disappeared back into his cabin, his door zipping shut, cutting him off.

His uniform lay heavily on his broken arm, and the robe was already stained through with blood on both sides.