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The handcuffs have only been on three hours and already it feels like they’ve rubbed cicatrices into his skin. They’re a new low for Starfleet, after guards and tracking devices and painful punishments for escape, which is ironic because he’s moved up quite a bit with this assignment. They had clicked shut around his wrists with a frightening sense of finality, as if his whole life has been leading up to this point. But hell, maybe it has.
A lifetime ago a tall man with cold eyes and a low voice had turned up at McCoy’s practice and told him about Starfleet and all of its opportunities. McCoy had replied that he was aware of Starfleet, since he did not, in fact, live under a rock, and had no intention of joining it. The man had seemed regretful but unsurprised, and had moved on to make a very different offer. McCoy had declined that too, albeit with a bit more tact.
He had assumed that would be the end of it. Starfleet was hardly lacking in eager new recruits. But the man had shown up over and over – at the hospital, at conferences, at restaurants McCoy frequented, and finally at his house. He had strode in and kissed his wife’s hand and treated his little girl like a princess until McCoy had thrown him out.
Two weeks later his wife had refused to look him in the eye as officers had dragged him from their bed and shoved him into a shuttle.
And now, three years later, he’s waiting for that same man. Pike is a captain now, and McCoy is… McCoy is looking at what will be his prison for the next five years, if he lives that long. He knows his placement is a slap in the face to every other doctor in the fleet, since he doesn’t want to be here. He’s heard the whispers and seen the sly looks in the days after he received his assignment and before he was marched into the currently empty Sickbay. Did Pike request him just to watch him get shanked?
To stave off that thought he explores Sickbay. He knows his way around most of the equipment already, but there are a few things he’s read about in medical journals but never seen. The ISS Enterprise may be hell on warp thrusters, but it does have the best medical equipment in the universe.
Last in his inspection, back in the corner as if ashamed to show their faces, are the machines he’s only heard about, and wishes he never had. It’s staggering, how far they are beyond the normal conceptions of torture like agonizers and the booth. Every Sickbay McCoy has seen didn’t even pretend to do no harm, but it’s never made a statement like this.
“Only the best and brightest for this ship.”
McCoy jerks around. Pike has just appeared, the same way he did the first time he fucked up McCoy’s life. McCoy feels hot hate rush up like an old friend. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Pike’s smile is dangerous. “You’ve got to be kidding me, what?”
“I won’t have these things in my Sickbay, Captain.”
“But they fit in so well.” Pike seems completely unfazed by McCoy’s anger as he walks past, which froths him up even further. He watches with a reddening face as Pike peruses the machines, running possessive fingers over pointed ends. “Straightforward, beautiful, sharp.” He turns back to McCoy as making an aside. “And very expensive.”
McCoy’s hands clench at the obvious subtext, but he’s not about to give up on the point. “I’m not torturing anybody.”
“Yes,” says Pike, advancing on him. “You will.”
The words aren’t delivered with any particular inflection, but the innuendo in them is still so sudden and so blatant that McCoy actually backs up. Pike follows him.
With a rush of adrenaline McCoy realizes what kind of game this is. Pike isn’t the first Starfleet officer to come after him; more than one cocky cadet and officer had heard about the impressment and figured McCoy for an easy target. He’s always been able to handle it, between guards and hypos and a solid right hook. It even provided an opportunity for escape one time, back when he hadn’t been cuffed to his station. But it’s never been a captain who’s interested in him, and what’s worse he knows from bitter experience that this particular captain is harder to stop than the rising fucking sun. There’s nothing for him to do but keep backing up, trying to escape the way he has been for the past three years.
But then Pike stops, and McCoy realizes that Pike has backed him into the door. If he retreats just a few steps farther he’s going to set the handcuffs off. Fuck.
Pike has his hand on the phaser, a clear reminder of what he can do if McCoy does something rash like jump him. And fuck it’s tempting to just leap at Pike with his hint of a smile and his impenetrable gloss, and when he hits rock bottom maybe that’s how he’ll go. In the meantime there is no fucking way McCoy is just giving in and Pike can go fuck himself.
He takes two steps backwards and goes over the threshold.
The pain is immediate. He collapses in agony, bellowing and writhing like he’s got a phaser wound. The pain is rippling up his wrists and clawing into his stomach like a living fucking creature and holy shit it fucking hurts. He keeps trying to move away, running on nothing but pain driven instinct, because whatever’s inside him has to get out getoutgetout.
He doesn’t even register what Pike’s doing until the pain stops. He’s still on the floor but the other side of the threshold, and Pike is crouching by him and holding his wrist. McCoy glares up at him, panting and flushed.
Pike looks only half amused. “And here I thought only Kirk pulled that kind of crap.”
“I’m full of surprises,” McCoy rasps, his senses still reeling.
“Apparently.” He smiles. “So, have you had enough, or do you want to go again?”
Talk about a rock and a hard goddamn place.
“We could go back out in the hallway and take care of business there,” Pike offers when McCoy doesn’t respond. “But I’d prefer some privacy.”
Retorts about what exactly McCoy would prefer rise to his lips but stay shut in on his tongue.
“You’ve made your point, doctor,” Pike continues, using that low recruiter voice that McCoy remembers from the days before the kidnapping. He recognizes the threat in it much more clearly now. “Enough is enough.”
Hell.
He gets to his feet slowly, pulls his uniform straight and makes a half-hearted attempt to fix his hair. Pike watches him the whole time, a silent reminder that all this fuss is pointless. Fuck him.
He follows Pike wordlessly to his office, and then through the door at the end of it. His quarters are an unplanned modification, big enough but built around the walls and original construction. It’s dark and empty and such a far cry from his airy Georgian home that McCoy has forbidden himself to compare them anymore.
“This furniture isn’t regulation.”
He rolls his eyes. Pike and that asshole Vulcan are going to get along just fine. “Was there a specific kind of bed you wanted to fuck on?”
Pike turns to him. “That’s quite a mouth you’ve got.”
He hates how Pike can take a bland statement like that and infuse it with amusement and threat and leer all at once. He scowls.
Pike keys in the lock for the door and then clasps his hands behind his back, casually arrogant. “Strip.”
At this point it’s inevitable, so he might as well get it over with. He takes off the clothes he just straightened and folds them neatly on a chair.
Pike nods once. “Turn in a circle.”
McCoy turns, trying to keep his face blank.
“You’re paler than I remember.”
“Yeah, well, I used to spend more time in the sun.” Bitterness rises in his mouth. Starfleet has kept him locked in a tower as much as possible for the past three years, and now he’s looking at another five with nothing but fluorescent lighting and vitamin D supplements.
Pike has that damn smile back. “I imagine so. Do you want to be fucked or suck me?”
The question is delivered in the exact same tone as his dry observation. McCoy staggers. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”
Pike’s raised eyebrow is vaguely condescending. “It’s not a difficult question.”
Now McCoy is livid. “No. No. You’re not giving me a choice, you arrogant asshole. I’m not choosing. I don’t consent—”
“Get on your knees.” Pike’s voice is steely now. McCoy funnels the rest of his rage into a slow breath, unsettled and strangely relieved.
He kneels.
Pike undoes his pants quickly and has barely exposed his cock before his fingers are in McCoy’s hair. They sweep through it bizarrely before tightening.
“Open your mouth.”
Pike’s cock is big but not unmanageably so, and it tastes like skin and soap. McCoy gags a little at the first thrust, and he never quite gets the hang of it as Pike continues to fuck his throat. It’s painful and humiliating and weirdly displacing, as though he’s outside himself, watching himself gag and cough. Still, he’s with it enough to recognize that it takes Pike only a short time before he pulls on McCoy’s hair loud enough to make him yelp and splashes semen into McCoy’s mouth.
McCoy coughs and spits come, absurdly thankful that he’s not snorting it out his nose. His throat is raw and his lips feel stretched and sore.
“That,” Pike says, once McCoy is mostly done coughing, “Was the worst fucking blowjob I’ve ever had.”
Not that it seemed to fucking matter given how quick he came, McCoy thinks waspishly. “What did you expect? I’m a doctor, not a goddamn prostitute.”
“You’re whatever I say you are.”
McCoy just narrows his eyes and wipes his mouth, unable to bring himself to agree.
When no answer comes Pike’s gaze flicks to the come on the ground. “Lick it up.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He doesn’t, not at all, but McCoy isn’t laughing himself. “Or you’ll what?”
“Or I’ll put you in the hallway until you piss yourself. And then you can lick that up.”
The chance to escape is a threat now. He hates that, and he hates the frissons of fear running through him more. And he hates the hot embarrassment that rushes to his face as he lowers down and gets to it, ignoring Pike as much as possible. The come is starting to congeal on the cold floor, and he burns with resentment as he has to all but prize it up with his tongue.
When he looks up again Pike is sitting on the bed, stroking a new erection. That was fast.
Suspiciously fast. “Did you take something?”
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck.” He gets to his feet and grabs Pike’s wrist before he can move away. His pulse is racing, not quite at dangerous levels and Starfleet demands good health in its command officers in particular, but, “Do have any idea how dangerous that shit is? If your heart doesn’t explode your vision could start to –”
“McCoy.” Pike twists so that he’s gripping McCoy’s arm instead of the other way around. His voice is flat and filled with threat, and McCoy realizes that accusing him of needing drugs to keep it up might not be the best way to go about things.
Even if it’s probably true. And Pike would be a fucking moron for doing it.
“Captain.” He stares at the floor, tense and uncomfortable under Pike’s hard grip and harder stare. I can’t help it, he wants to protest, and what kind of fucked universe is it that he has to apologize for wanting to help?
Pike’s soft laugh makes him look up again. “You’re one crazy fuck, aren’t you?”
McCoy lets out a cautious breath. “How do you figure?”
“Because,” Pike says as he stands up and starts to shed his clothes, “I’m about to fuck you into next week and you’re worried about my health.”
McCoy goes hot with and loathing and embarrassment again because put like that it does seem laughable. His entire calling feels like a fucking joke, and sometimes he wonders why the hell Starfleet is so obsessed with obtaining doctors when ruthless savagery is the status quo.
But fuck Pike for laughing. Let his brain bleed out and his vision melt, if that’s what he wants.
When Pike’s naked he pulls a bottle out of his pants pocket that McCoy recognizes with a twist in his stomach as lube. He falls awkwardly onto the bed as Pike pushes him and has to force himself not to scrabble away when Pike climbs on after him, kneeling between his thighs. Pike’s body is toned and hard, not a spare inch anywhere. He pours lube onto his fingers. McCoy jumps when they’re pressed against his hole.
“Cold?” Pike tilts his head in an obnoxiously polite query. “I haven’t done this in a while.”
“What, fuck somebody?” He finds that hard to believe.
“No.” Pike slips one finger inside. “Prep them.”
“Lucky me,” McCoy grits out, trying to focus on the ceiling.
Pike’s other hand wraps around his jaw, forcing him to look at Pike. “Yeah.” Pike pushes two fingers into him. “Lucky you.”
McCoy grips the blankets when Pike moves to three fingers. It’s not painful so much as uncomfortable, especially after the agony from the handcuffs, but it’s humiliating and violating and McCoy has never wanted to punch someone so badly. Pike fucked him over three years ago and he’s fucking him over now and he’s goddamn right to laugh because all McCoy has done in return is check his goddamn heart rate.
“Credit for your thoughts,” Pike says conversationally as he removes his fingers.
“Go fuck yourself,” McCoy snarls, his stomach jumping into his throat as Pike lifts one of his legs up beyond the point where he’s comfortable stretching. He feels the head of Pike’s cock at his hole and bites his lip to strangle his groan as Pike pushes it into him. It’s hard and hot and alien and McCoy hates it.
“That’s right, McCoy,” Pike says low as he pushes in further, slow and inevitable. “Keep fighting it.”
McCoy’s breath hitches when Pike shoves the last of it in. The pain is piercing and he’s sick with the wrongness of it. He’s managed to avoid this so far in the nightmare that is Starfleet, and knowing that Pike can do this to him whenever he feels like it makes things so much worse.
Pike grabs his other thigh and pushes it up against his chest, leaving him painfully splayed as Pike starts to thrust. He already feels raw and chafed, and they’ve barely even started. Fuck.
“Never been fucked, have you,” Pike grits out between thrusts. “Not by a real man.”
“Still haven’t.” This kind of bravado is stupid, he knows that, but it’s that or lie back and think of Starfleet and McCoy just… can’t. If he shuts up the room will just be filled with the obscene sound of skin and skin, and McCoy can’t stand it.
Pike laughs and snaps his hips hard. It changes the angle and warmth climbs into McCoy’s groin. He jerks but there’s nowhere to go, so he’s helpless as Pike does it again. And again. He can feel this fuck changing, melting into something still hot and painful but with tingles of pleasure around the edges.
“No,” he snarls, because this can’t feel good. That would be it. That would be… He knows it’s just nerves doing their job but it doesn’t matter because this is his fucking life not some goddamn anatomy class and he can’t fucking take it. Everything he’s held back and choked down under the threat of phasers and humiliation comes bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “No.”
Pike doesn’t even seem to have heard him. He’s hitting that hot spot over and over and McCoy hates it because if Pike makes him a torturer and – and whatever this is, this changing, writhing thing that’s arching its back and mewling like a goddamn bitch in heat, fuck him for a fucking weakling, he’s going to die. “Dammit, Pike, ple--”
He’s cut off as Pike’s lips press against his own, as Pike leans forward and traps McCoy’s legs against his chest and shoulders so he can grab his hips and ram in hard. It hurts like a son of a bitch, and McCoy is so fucking grateful he doesn’t even bite as Pike tongue fucks him. He has no idea what Pike wants from him anymore but he knows Pike can have it as long as it hurts. Pathetic whines wend their way out of him, louder once Pike stops swallowing them and drops his head to McCoy’s shoulder, brow furrowed as he pours all of his energy into the fuck. There’s nothing for McCoy to do anymore except take it, so he scrunches his eyes closed and pretends he doesn’t hear every thwack of Pike’s flesh on his and that he’s not making all the noises he is and that he doesn’t feel like a whore even though he can’t figure out what he’s whoring.
Pike takes a long time to come.
“Ow,” McCoy cries when Pike shoves in for the last time and presses against parts rubbed sore and bleeding. It’s plaintive and pathetic and relieved even in his own ears.
Pike pulls out as soon as he’s done and gets off the bed. He’s flushed and sweaty but walks to the bathroom on steady legs. A few minutes later he returns and dresses wordlessly while McCoy barely finds the energy to close his legs.
Pike may still reek of sex but he’s somehow as polished as ever. “Learn how to use the interrogation machines. I’ll expect a report on their functionality by the end of tomorrow.”
“Yes, captain.” The words are raw and tired as the rest of him.
Pike nods and turns away. McCoy doesn’t watch him go, and the click of Pike’s boots has long faded before he moves.
Four days later security officers shove him out of his quarters and into inventory so they can crash bang around in his room. McCoy emphatically does not sulk while he listens to them work, but he does worry about what they’re doing. Did Pike decide that he didn’t deserve a bed at all, regulation or otherwise? Maybe he’s adding some sort of horrible modification so he doesn’t have to bother holding McCoy’s legs out of the way. His synthesizer could be gone, forcing him to beg food from the rest of the crew. Every new possibility winds him up tighter, until he’s staring at inventory lists that have no meaning anymore.
He forces himself to go back to the room once the officers leave. He’ll have to face it sooner or later.
The room is still awkwardly spaced and poorly planned. No amount of redecorating will change that. But almost everything else is different. The lighting is doubled. The stool has been replaced with a leather chair with broad, high arms that is definitely not regulation. The bed is also a far cry from what it was, sturdy and plush and piled high with blankets, reminiscent of his bed back home. There’s a broad desk in the retro style he prefers. A holo of human anatomy like one he used to keep in his office is on top of a bookshelf lined with real paper books, all titles he’s known and loved.
The last addition is a machine in one of the oddly angled corners. He doesn’t recognize it, but he sees there’s a manual on top of it, with a note laid on top of that. Picking it up, he reads: I’ve never liked pale skin.
He examines the manual. It babbles at him about buttons and timers and vitamin D and a healthy way to achieve a desired tone. It’s a tanning bed.
A goddamn sun machine.
McCoy sits down and laughs until he cries.