![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Three Hungers Satisfied
Dec. 12th, 2009 04:24 pmMcCoy was, by and large, a quiet man. He didn't shout; he didn't need to - though he had a creatively foul mouth at times. It had been easy for the assholes in security to mistake him for a weak man, someone upon whom they could prey.
They had, of course, slowly discovered how wrong they were.
A few - like Spock and, to a certain extent Pike - could see it in him, could smell the slightly sour odor of cruelty that lit his hazel eyes. Even Pike, though, underestimated McCoy, thought he had him pegged as a run-of-the-mill sadist.
Sadists were a dime a dozen in Fleet Medical.
But McCoy's records were sealed - only Pike knew why he'd been in that stinking prison in the first place.
Security had caught on, though. There had never been anything too overt - McCoy rarely indulged himself in showy dramatics. But the rumors got passed around in whispers until every redshirt with any sense of self-preservation did their best to stay out of Sickbay.
And they gave the slow-drawling doctor wide berth in the rest of the ship as well. It made it simple for him to slip down to the brig and, with a kind smile that showed his teeth, dismiss the usual guards. Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy of the I.S.S. Enterprise walked down the narrow corridor past empty cells until he came to the end of the row.
James T. Kirk.
The golden boy hadn't counted on Spock to move against him. Tactical fucking failure, that.
McCoy had eyes. He could see, even if Kirk had missed it, that there was genuine feeling between the captain and his first officer. It was what restrained his hand when it came to Spock - it would be foolish to lay a finger on Pike's property. And, as Kirk had discovered, Spock didn't look kindly on it either.
McCoy would have thought it was a shame - but Kirk looked so pretty.
The blond man was curled up tight, wrapped around himself in the center of his cell's floor. He'd watched Spock "interrogate" another failed assassin in the cell across the way, the broken and desiccating corpse still there, and it hadn't broken him - but there was only so long any man could stand against slow starvation.
It wasn't too late. It might actually be a kindness to let the man starve - when Pike got back, there would be consequences.
There was very little kindness in McCoy. His medical override didn't work but he had his secrets; McCoy's fingers danced over the console screen, entered one of Pike's personal codes, and the barrier flickered and went down. McCoy tossed a food bar and a bottle of water into the cell.
Just enough to keep Kirk hanging there, on the edge.
Kirk moaned softly as he stretched a weak arm to clutch at the rations. McCoy, his back pressed to the wall, watched as the barrier shimmered back into place, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him. It was not by accident that he was in the one blind spot that the security cameras had.
"You ever read any of that old Earth literature, Jimmy-boy?" McCoy had a fondness for it, a surprising stash of actual paper books tucked away in his quarters. "There's this fucking story that you make me think of. Little bit of nasty business by Kafka - he wrote that book about that goddamn bug. You ever read that?"
The choked groveling noise as Kirk struggled to open the food bar was all the answer McCoy would get - but he was used to holding his own conversations. That's what came of being surrounded by cultural illiterates and heathens.
He didn't really mind - the sound had McCoy palming his cock through the front of his uniform trousers, heel of his palm sliding over the growing bulge of it.
"Any-goddamn way, story's called 'A Hunger Artist' - about a man who starves as performance art." It wouldn't do to rush - it wasn't often McCoy got an opportunity like this, he didn't want to waste it. "The world fucking cheating you of your reward there, Jimmy-boy?"
Kirk was sucking on the food bar, too weak to gobble it - and he'd been sick the first time he tried it anyway. He was starving but he wasn't stupid; small bits of food, eaten slowly, were Kirk's best bet for absorbing the nutrients and staying alive.
McCoy laughed, low and soft - his molasses voice was rough around the edges, touched with the same arousal that had his eyes burning green and gold.
His pants were too tight. And he'd have the footage of Kirk in his cell. McCoy undid his fly, slid his hand in the stroke skin against skin. His head tilted back against the wall and his eyes narrowed, focused on Kirk's emaciated body, uniform hanging lose and filthy.
Skin and bones, skin and bones - at the bottom of it, all you really owned was your skin and your bones.
Damn good to have this flesh on loan, though. He'd brought lube - in his pocket. He found it, slicked himself, groaned as he tightened his fist around his erection and moved his hand over the heat and hardness with a slow, incremental pace. McCoy was a man to take his time.
The blue eyes in the cell were dim but attentive - the boredom had to be as bad as the starvation for an active soul like Kirk. He had to be grateful for any distraction.
McCoy shifted himself - he wanted to see into both cells - to take in both the living Kirk and the broken dead man in sweet contrast with each other, so close to each other but separated by a crucial amount of brain activity. He held to his slow pace but the light glinted off the splintered ribs protruding from the shattered chest cavity... McCoy moved his free hand under his uniform shirt to scratch across his belly and then pinch at his own nipples.
The rasp of Kirk's breathing was matched by McCoy, rapid inhale outpacing what the starving man could manage. It didn't matter; all Kirk had to do was sit there and let McCoy look at him. McCoy liked looking, liked using his eyes to see what other people didn't want him to know. Pike didn't want him to know that the relationship between the captain and Spock was real; Spock didn't want McCoy to know that there was a spike of fearful desire there. Human or Vulcan or Klingon or Romulan - or Horta or Andorian or what-the-fuck-ever - everyone wanted to hold on to their secrets.
A high whine crept into McCoy's consciousness. It didn't stop his hand - it sped it up - but he looked to Kirk again. But Kirk was just as he had been; he was not the source of the noise.
"What is that, Jimmy-boy? You not as out of tricks as you look?" But the blue eyes had widened in what looked exactly like fear. McCoy followed the line of Kirk's gaze.
Holy fucking shit. A writhing mass, individual parts too small to pick out from a distance, swarmed out of a vent in the cell with the hulk of dead assassin, well, attempted assassin. Kirk made terrified noises and scrabbled weakly across the floor of his cell - McCoy didn't blame him. The fucking things were crawling over the corpse which appeared to be, yeah, right there shrinking.
"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Jimmy-boy - they're eating it." McCoy's grip loosened and the slick sheath of his curled fingers quickened, the deep red head of his cock thrusting urgently up, demanding more. McCoy moved his other hand to his cock, swirled the flat of his palm over the head in a gesture that had his hips jerking but he did not take his eyes off of the consumption of the only other occupant in the brig.
The... tiny things made short work of the corpse. They devoured the dried tissue, the fabric, the bones, everything that was left. The swarm dissipated as the food the food dwindled and, as the last bit of organic remains disappeared, Kirk retched up the little bit of the food bar he had managed to eat.
McCoy gave a ragged gasp and came, semen soiling his shirt and then spilling over his fingers as the force of his orgasm waned.
The last of the things crawled back through the vent, as though they had never been there. The only sign of their presence was the missing corpse, completely eaten. Kirk whimpered in the corner of his cell, food and water forgotten for the moment. McCoy looked over and smiled lazily. Coming down to the brig just got better and better.
"What the shit you figure that was, Jimmy-boy? You ever seen anything like it?" He didn't expect a response. McCoy pushed back against the wall to brace himself, slowly stood. He licked the come off of his fingers. Once his fingers were clean, McCoy refastened his pants and stepped close enough to feel the barrier to Kirk's cell buzz against his skin. He wanted Kirk to hear his whisper. "You ever see anything like this again, you let me know you miserable little cocksucker, you understand me?"
Kirk nodded, feverish eyes flicking between McCoy and the empty cell.
"Good boy." McCoy smiled, reassuring. "You eat that shitting food bar - Pike'll want you alive." His face was pleasantly flushed, his eyes all but twinkling.
McCoy whistled as he left the brig and headed back to his quarters.
They had, of course, slowly discovered how wrong they were.
A few - like Spock and, to a certain extent Pike - could see it in him, could smell the slightly sour odor of cruelty that lit his hazel eyes. Even Pike, though, underestimated McCoy, thought he had him pegged as a run-of-the-mill sadist.
Sadists were a dime a dozen in Fleet Medical.
But McCoy's records were sealed - only Pike knew why he'd been in that stinking prison in the first place.
Security had caught on, though. There had never been anything too overt - McCoy rarely indulged himself in showy dramatics. But the rumors got passed around in whispers until every redshirt with any sense of self-preservation did their best to stay out of Sickbay.
And they gave the slow-drawling doctor wide berth in the rest of the ship as well. It made it simple for him to slip down to the brig and, with a kind smile that showed his teeth, dismiss the usual guards. Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy of the I.S.S. Enterprise walked down the narrow corridor past empty cells until he came to the end of the row.
James T. Kirk.
The golden boy hadn't counted on Spock to move against him. Tactical fucking failure, that.
McCoy had eyes. He could see, even if Kirk had missed it, that there was genuine feeling between the captain and his first officer. It was what restrained his hand when it came to Spock - it would be foolish to lay a finger on Pike's property. And, as Kirk had discovered, Spock didn't look kindly on it either.
McCoy would have thought it was a shame - but Kirk looked so pretty.
The blond man was curled up tight, wrapped around himself in the center of his cell's floor. He'd watched Spock "interrogate" another failed assassin in the cell across the way, the broken and desiccating corpse still there, and it hadn't broken him - but there was only so long any man could stand against slow starvation.
It wasn't too late. It might actually be a kindness to let the man starve - when Pike got back, there would be consequences.
There was very little kindness in McCoy. His medical override didn't work but he had his secrets; McCoy's fingers danced over the console screen, entered one of Pike's personal codes, and the barrier flickered and went down. McCoy tossed a food bar and a bottle of water into the cell.
Just enough to keep Kirk hanging there, on the edge.
Kirk moaned softly as he stretched a weak arm to clutch at the rations. McCoy, his back pressed to the wall, watched as the barrier shimmered back into place, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs sprawled in front of him. It was not by accident that he was in the one blind spot that the security cameras had.
"You ever read any of that old Earth literature, Jimmy-boy?" McCoy had a fondness for it, a surprising stash of actual paper books tucked away in his quarters. "There's this fucking story that you make me think of. Little bit of nasty business by Kafka - he wrote that book about that goddamn bug. You ever read that?"
The choked groveling noise as Kirk struggled to open the food bar was all the answer McCoy would get - but he was used to holding his own conversations. That's what came of being surrounded by cultural illiterates and heathens.
He didn't really mind - the sound had McCoy palming his cock through the front of his uniform trousers, heel of his palm sliding over the growing bulge of it.
"Any-goddamn way, story's called 'A Hunger Artist' - about a man who starves as performance art." It wouldn't do to rush - it wasn't often McCoy got an opportunity like this, he didn't want to waste it. "The world fucking cheating you of your reward there, Jimmy-boy?"
Kirk was sucking on the food bar, too weak to gobble it - and he'd been sick the first time he tried it anyway. He was starving but he wasn't stupid; small bits of food, eaten slowly, were Kirk's best bet for absorbing the nutrients and staying alive.
McCoy laughed, low and soft - his molasses voice was rough around the edges, touched with the same arousal that had his eyes burning green and gold.
His pants were too tight. And he'd have the footage of Kirk in his cell. McCoy undid his fly, slid his hand in the stroke skin against skin. His head tilted back against the wall and his eyes narrowed, focused on Kirk's emaciated body, uniform hanging lose and filthy.
Skin and bones, skin and bones - at the bottom of it, all you really owned was your skin and your bones.
Damn good to have this flesh on loan, though. He'd brought lube - in his pocket. He found it, slicked himself, groaned as he tightened his fist around his erection and moved his hand over the heat and hardness with a slow, incremental pace. McCoy was a man to take his time.
The blue eyes in the cell were dim but attentive - the boredom had to be as bad as the starvation for an active soul like Kirk. He had to be grateful for any distraction.
McCoy shifted himself - he wanted to see into both cells - to take in both the living Kirk and the broken dead man in sweet contrast with each other, so close to each other but separated by a crucial amount of brain activity. He held to his slow pace but the light glinted off the splintered ribs protruding from the shattered chest cavity... McCoy moved his free hand under his uniform shirt to scratch across his belly and then pinch at his own nipples.
The rasp of Kirk's breathing was matched by McCoy, rapid inhale outpacing what the starving man could manage. It didn't matter; all Kirk had to do was sit there and let McCoy look at him. McCoy liked looking, liked using his eyes to see what other people didn't want him to know. Pike didn't want him to know that the relationship between the captain and Spock was real; Spock didn't want McCoy to know that there was a spike of fearful desire there. Human or Vulcan or Klingon or Romulan - or Horta or Andorian or what-the-fuck-ever - everyone wanted to hold on to their secrets.
A high whine crept into McCoy's consciousness. It didn't stop his hand - it sped it up - but he looked to Kirk again. But Kirk was just as he had been; he was not the source of the noise.
"What is that, Jimmy-boy? You not as out of tricks as you look?" But the blue eyes had widened in what looked exactly like fear. McCoy followed the line of Kirk's gaze.
Holy fucking shit. A writhing mass, individual parts too small to pick out from a distance, swarmed out of a vent in the cell with the hulk of dead assassin, well, attempted assassin. Kirk made terrified noises and scrabbled weakly across the floor of his cell - McCoy didn't blame him. The fucking things were crawling over the corpse which appeared to be, yeah, right there shrinking.
"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Jimmy-boy - they're eating it." McCoy's grip loosened and the slick sheath of his curled fingers quickened, the deep red head of his cock thrusting urgently up, demanding more. McCoy moved his other hand to his cock, swirled the flat of his palm over the head in a gesture that had his hips jerking but he did not take his eyes off of the consumption of the only other occupant in the brig.
The... tiny things made short work of the corpse. They devoured the dried tissue, the fabric, the bones, everything that was left. The swarm dissipated as the food the food dwindled and, as the last bit of organic remains disappeared, Kirk retched up the little bit of the food bar he had managed to eat.
McCoy gave a ragged gasp and came, semen soiling his shirt and then spilling over his fingers as the force of his orgasm waned.
The last of the things crawled back through the vent, as though they had never been there. The only sign of their presence was the missing corpse, completely eaten. Kirk whimpered in the corner of his cell, food and water forgotten for the moment. McCoy looked over and smiled lazily. Coming down to the brig just got better and better.
"What the shit you figure that was, Jimmy-boy? You ever seen anything like it?" He didn't expect a response. McCoy pushed back against the wall to brace himself, slowly stood. He licked the come off of his fingers. Once his fingers were clean, McCoy refastened his pants and stepped close enough to feel the barrier to Kirk's cell buzz against his skin. He wanted Kirk to hear his whisper. "You ever see anything like this again, you let me know you miserable little cocksucker, you understand me?"
Kirk nodded, feverish eyes flicking between McCoy and the empty cell.
"Good boy." McCoy smiled, reassuring. "You eat that shitting food bar - Pike'll want you alive." His face was pleasantly flushed, his eyes all but twinkling.
McCoy whistled as he left the brig and headed back to his quarters.
