Fic: Bottled Up, M/K NC-17 kinky by yeomanrand and shinychimera
Title: Bottled Up
Authors: shinychimera and yeomanrand
Pairings: McCoy/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After his hardest day at the Academy, Jim Kirk needs help letting go. McCoy conducts an intense BDSM scene that elicits buried emotions, trust, and catharsis.
From the prompt "Tears kink. A submissive brought to tears by his dom."
Warnings: Kinky. (Highlight to read specific kinks: Bondage, spanking, plug, enema, shaving, men crying...)
Kirk's stubbled chin rests on the back of his hand on the bar, rubbing raw dents into the skin, and he lets his eyes blur just enough to make stars out of the beads of water on the side of the beer bottle that fills his vision. The dark club is weekday tame, and the atmosphere is dull and thick and empty of promise. He's thinking sullenly of moving on and finding a more raucous place to get drunk when someone's hands, broad and warm, settle on either side of his neck, thumbs pressing lightly against his nape. A soft voice, almost familiar, barely audible over the jukebox and the muted conversations, says, "Don't turn around."
He tenses and sits up straight, starts to turn despite the words in his ear, ready to throw a punch; he'd come here looking to get drunk and start a fight or find a good hard fuck, anyway. The grip of the hands shift, index fingers sliding up under his jaw, the remaining fingers splaying firmly along the sides of his throat. But the touch isn't threatening, exactly. More like a caress.
"I said, don't," the man says, voice still low and whispered too soft to put a name to. "And before you tell me to go away, make sure that's what you want. Because I will walk away, and you look like a man who needs something."
There is a mirror behind the bar, but the image is fractured by liquor and the bartender is standing right where the man's reflection should be, watching the two of them warily out of the corner of his eye. Jim downs the rest of his beer and sets the empty on the bar.
"And you think you have what I need?"
"Maybe. But if you put another one away like that, I'll have my answer and I'll walk away, because you won't be able to give meaningful consent."
And like that, he knows whose hands have him, whose heat he can feel along his back. It's Bones, it has to be, though this isn't a club he'd expect to be on the doctor's map. The chuckle in his ear, warm and known, confirms it; Bones' hands shift to lie flat on Jim's shoulders alongside his neck again, thumbs now pressing small circles into either side of his spine. They don't fuck often, moving mostly in their own worlds, but Bones is one of the very few people he's actually shared a bed with after.
"There's my clever boy," he says. "You didn't really think your subconscious would let a stranger get this close, did you?"
Not as tense as he is tonight, no. He looks bleakly at the rows of bottles in front of them. He doesn't want to to talk, but it doesn't sound like that's what Bones has in mind. "So what am I consenting to?"
"At this point? Coming home with me. Telling me what you want. Trusting me. In roughly that order."
He almost smiles, a little derisive lift of the lip. "You think you can give me what I want?"
Bones shifts closer, speaking directly in Jim's ear. "Bring you to tears if that's what you're looking for, Jim."
He blinks -- the wild edge of pain and oblivion is exactly what he's seeking tonight, but Bones is the last person he'd expect to perceive it. Much less be interested in obliging. Jim turns on the barstool so they're face to face, almost nose to nose, and his blue eyes are hard, challenging. "I'd like to see you try."
Bones' expression doesn't change, though there's a momentary twitch in one eyebrow and he nods, slightly, holding Jim's gaze. "Not here."
Jim nods an agreement about the tab to the bartender, and heads out the door towards his bike without checking to see if Bones is following.
~~~
Bones has a small studio apartment, tidy like you'd expect, with a chair, a narrow bed neatly made, and three bottles of Kentucky bourbon lined up like soldiers at the end of the kitchen counter. Jim's disappointed but not surprised when Bones doesn't offer him a drink; he strips his shirt off and drops it on the floor, letting his eyes renew the challenge.
There won't be any tears, of course -- there haven't been, not for Jim, not for years. But if trying to make him cry will make Bones push him harder, then he's all for it.
Bones tilts his head at him, curiously. "I don't recall telling you to strip, yet," he observes, coming over and picking up the shirt. He tosses it casually over the nearby chair, standing just outside Jim's personal space. "You have a usual safeword?"
So he does know what he's talking about. "Enterprise."
"Of course. And what is it you want, Jim? Where am I absolutely not allowed to go?"
"I want to be tied down hard and pushed as far as I can go. I want to be all nerves, no brain. Pain, pleasure, whatever it takes." He grins mirthlessly. "I don't have much in the way of limits. Especially not with a doctor in the house."
"Not a doctor tonight. And everyone has limits. Sit."
Jim sits on the edge of the bed, and bends down to untie his boots.
"I said sit, not strip."
He looks up at Bones, one eyebrow lifted in amusement, but sits up and folds his hands innocently in his lap. Waiting.
"Your clothes will come off when I decide it's time, and not a moment before," he says, looking down at Jim, hazel eyes hard and thoughtful. "You told me what you want. Now's the part where you trust me."
He nods impatiently. He does trust Bones, had even trusted him with his life once or twice when they'd first enrolled and Jim hadn't quite got the running wild out of his system yet. But he'd never expected he'd be trusting him with this. The thought of his gruff-but-gentle Bones playing rough with him is definitely heating up his blood, and he's sure Bones isn't missing the evidence.
Bones kneels down next to the bed, pulls out a smallish chest and shifts it around to the foot, where Jim can't really see what he's getting out of it.
"Lift your chin and fold your arms in front of you, hands gripping elbows."
He obeys, curious. Bones studies him for another moment, then loops a knotted rope around Jim's right wrist, using it as a starting point to build a cat's-cradle-like construction of twists and knots constraining his wrists to his elbows and back again. It's loose at first; Jim thinks he could slip away easily enough if he wanted to, but then Bones tugs and the entire construction collapses, pulling his forearms tightly together. A gasp parts his lips and he looks up at Bones with new appreciation.
Bones isn't looking at him, though; he's frowning down at the contents of the chest, running his thumb over his lower lip. A couple of things hit the bed behind Jim but he's distracted from wanting to look when Bones comes up with a thin length of what looks like black leather, with a dangling silver clip. He settles it low around Jim's throat, the shiny clip resting just where his pulse throbs between his collarbones, and adds a second set of ties between Jim's wrists and the ring, taut enough to hold Jim's arms just off his body.
Yes. Jim's attention is wound up among the tugs and pulls and pale pinches of his skin, just another fiber in the web Bones is weaving. This is the beginning of what he needs, the end of the harsh day that's behind him now. Bones makes a final adjustment to the ropes, kneels down and takes the foot in the half-unlaced boot in his hands. He deftly finishes removing first the one, then the other, rolls Jim's socks down his legs and tucks them inside the boots, which go just under the foot of the bed.
The worn carpet is coarse beneath Jim's feet when Bones uses the rope between his wrists and his neck to tug him up and a couple of steps away from the bed. He moves behind Jim, reaches around to undo Jim's belt and pants, letting them fall to the floor, shirtsleeves barely brushing Jim's flanks. Bones bends to wrap a hand around Jim's calf, pulling his foot free from the fabric, then there's a low chuckle, and a sharp bite on one of his bare asscheeks. Jim grunts, eyelids sliding half-closed as the sudden pain makes his cock jump.
Bones ignores the sound, brushing Jim's pants out of the way and pulling his other leg free. He uses the ropes again to turn Jim back toward the bed and gives him an ungentle shove. Jim half falls, half scrambles into position, his knees pressed into the cool cotton of the quilt beneath him, ass in the air, bound arms pulled up over his head and forehead pressing against the web of thick smooth ropes.
Though there's no warning, he's ready for the first hard sharp crack of the paddle landing solidly on the bitten cheek. Yes. Yes! He goes from hard to aching in an instant. Bones isn't fooling around; the blows are solid and sure, sending crackling pain across Jim's skin and deep aches into his muscles; three in quick succession, then a pause, then a more leisurely set of four. He's panting eagerly, letting the pain take over his senses, driving away the lingering taste of tactical screens and explosions.
Bones abruptly drags him to his feet again, pulling Jim behind him into the bathroom.
"In the tub," he says, fingers pinching a rising welt on Jim's ass. "Back to me. You may rest your arms on the wall."
His body feels a little looser now, reverberating with pain, but a half a dozen blows are not nearly enough to take him out of himself and he wonders what else Bones has in mind as he steps over the lip of the tub and leans his roped forearms against the smooth white wall, spreading his feet apart. He scrubs nose and cheeks over the knots, waiting for more.
Bones' hand closes on the back of his neck, holding him still while he pushes something slender, slick, and cool inside Jim. He squirms, accepting, wishing it was flesh penetrating him -- but there will be time enough for that. The hand stays, warm on his neck, but Bones' weight shifts and Jim hears the creak of the faucet being turned. Jim goes rigid, confused -- not expecting this sudden inner chill, the water rushing up inside, warm enough in the tube curled along his thigh but colder than his insides. No limits, he'd said, but he's never done this and he's trembling, breath coming short and fast with the building pressure. He can feel Bones' eyes on him, watching the way he stiffens and twists, the older man's thumb sliding easily along the column of his spine.
In the heartbeat before too much, the water shuts off, leaving Jim just on the edge of a cramp, feeling strange, stretched, thoroughly invaded. Fullness and desperation are making his head spin, and his cock throbs in time with his pulse.
Bones says, "Jim, look at me." His voice is firm, so calm, so even, no hint what he's feeling. Jim turns his face towards him, still gasping.
"That's my brave boy," Bones says, and his hand comes off Jim's neck to brush his cheek. "When I pull the nozzle out, I want you to hold it until you're on the john. Can you do that?"
He nods, wondering where all his words went.
"Good boy. Ready?"
Jim licks his lips, and nods again. Bones slides the nozzle free and it's not as difficult as he fears to control himself. He steps carefully out of the tub, cheeks burning with mingled shame and arousal, body tingling and adapting second by second to the shifting pressure-pain inside of him, and it's terrible and wonderful and overwhelming. Bones is right there, helping, steadying him, murmuring encouragement.
Jim sits, and without any effort on his part his body does what it must. He leans back against the cool ceramic of the tank, reassured by the taut triangle of rope between the collar and the bindings on his arms. His eyes close and his face contorts as if in orgasm, though the sensation is different, baser, as if every dark thing from scalp to toes is being pulled and purged from him. He's left shuddering, weak and stunned.
Bones doesn't give him much chance to recover, just draws him to his feet and towels him off, lets Jim support himself on Bones' shoulders with his head still swimming, then pulls him back out to the bed. He firmly guides Jim back onto his knees, chest on the bed, ass up high, and leaves him there long enough for Jim to miss his heat. He feels warm and relaxed, drowsy and yet exquisitely aware of the texture of the quilt beneath him, the collar and the ropes, the sweet sting lingering on his buttocks.
At first he thinks it might be Bones' thumb he feels pressing into him, but the object is too smooth even for lubricated skin. He hollows his back a bit, pushing down to ease the intrusion. The plug is thick and short, with a wide flared base; it doesn't reach nearly deep enough to satisfy, but Jim isn't given enough time to adapt to it before Bones draws ropes around just above his knees, pulling his legs closed tightly, squeezing the plug inside of him. Bones weaves the ropes around and up Jim's thighs, and with each new tug and knot Jim feels more caught, more controlled; but free of thought, and memory, and choice. He's left to float among his conflicting sensations: hard ropes softly wound, captive arms free to relax, legs tied shut but ass spread.
There's a light caress just at the base of his spine, and then the solid stinging thwack of the paddle, grounding him. This time, Bones doesn't stop after a half-dozen hits, and he settles into a rhythm instead of striking unpredictably.
Jim moans, awareness reduced to the searing flames across his backside, layers of stinging, tingling, streaking pain, and the hard knot of the plug inside him, feeling bigger every time his trapped muscles clench. He starts to rock into the blows, nudging the plug a little. His cock is achingly hard and Bones hasn't paid it any attention at all yet.
He feels a flushed-skin surge of gratitude, that Bones knows what he's doing, that he's giving Jim what he needs, taking his mind away from that other helplessness -- and he whimpers, dragging his face across the quilt to turn to the other side. Harder, his body begs, but his lips won't shape the sound.
Bones gives him another handful of firm swats, and then, as suddenly as the paddling began, it stops. Bones uses his tied arms to pull him into a sitting position. Jim stares at him with lips parted, lusting and lost; Bones has barely touched his skin at all and he is hungering for it. His rear is hot and tender against the blanket and the plug presses hard on new places inside him. Bones shortens the rope between the collar and Jim's arms just a bit more, then sets a metal bowl in the cradle they create, filling it with warm water from a teakettle Jim never heard whistle.
He's confused again. He wants more pain, wants to ask what's coming next but it's been good, more than good so far, and he knows he has to just trust Bones. Words are still far away. The water in the bowl sloshes slightly, and he sits up straighter.
Bones moves out of his line of sight, settles on the bed beside him. Something soft presses against Jim's cheek, moves in small circles, leaves wetness and soap-scented foam behind. Finally, Bones touches him again, fingers firmly pressing under Jim's jaw so he can use the brush to spread the shaving cream over Jim's throat. The sensation is strange, stiff bristles soft as a paintbrush at the end, caressing his skin like slow fingertips. Little quivers twitch across cheeks and chin, and his fingers curl against his elbows with the urge to touch or scratch or take the brush from Bones.
"It's okay, darlin'," Bones soothes, grip shifting so he can run the brush where his fingers had just held Jim's chin. "You're my strong boy, you can take this."
He doesn't know why the soft words make his throat tighten. He knows he can take anything Bones can dish out but he feels strangely paralyzed. He hears more than sees Bones set aside the brush, and then there's the cold thin line of a straight razor at his throat. He holds totally still, chin stretched high, irrational fear and irrational trust lancing with equal power through his nervous system. The first stroke is long and careful, pulling at his skin from just above the collar to his jaw; Bones reaches down and rinses the razor in the bowl. Jim's heart thumps in his chest, setting ripples moving in the basin, and he feels echoes in his groin, his throat, the roof of his mouth.
"That's my boy," Bones says, "just put it in my hands now, Jimmy. Let me carry it for a while."
He draws in a deep shaky breath before he feels the razor against his skin again. Tired muscles strain to hold him rock steady and still, so still. His vision blurs, his attention focused on the surface of his skin, on the sleek glide of the blade across the day's stubble, of course, but even more on the warm points where the older man's steady fingers brace to guide the razor. The burn across his ass is nothing more than a backdrop now, a curtain of throbbing red velvet draped in the darkness behind the real action.
The blade swishes in the water and he releases the broken breath he's been holding. Bones smooths hair back from his temple.
"Shhh..." he says softly, "still tryin' too hard, kiddo."
Bones shifts behind him, pulls Jim's head back against his shoulder, slowly twisting his bound body like a rag doll to suit his purpose, keeping the warm bowl level in the cradle of Jim's arms. He rests a long-fingered hand across Jim's forehead, as if feeling for a fever. Jim's eyes flutter closed and Bones holds him there for a moment, presses his lips lightly against Jim's temple, listening to his uneven breathing, before tenderly tightening his grip and placing the razor back at the base of Jim's throat. This time even holding still is beyond Jim's control, he's tied and purged and pierced and utterly helpless under the sharp blade and yet utterly safe.
"That's it, you can do this," Bones murmurs, stroking the blade slowly up his vulnerable throat.
A sudden sweet sense of connection swells through Jim, filling his chest, his throat, his eyes. It's a powerful tide of gentle strength, of trust, of reliability, of pride and tenderness and belief in him, and it's Bones, of course it's Bones holding him and cherishing him, but it's also the father he never met, never understood, never knew he wanted until today, until he stood on that simulated bridge under fire, until he gave orders that meant death for some and life for others, until he understood in one terror-stricken, grief-stricken instant what it really means to go down with your ship because there is no other way.
Jim feels tears falling hot across his cheeks, and the first sob is one of surprise, almost panic. The razor thumps to the carpet, his chest heaves and the bowl sloshes precariously; Bones lifts it away and gives the ropes a sharp twisting tug, and loose loops slither off his arms. Bones gathers him up and he shudders with loss, a lifetime of anger and resentment transmuted into grief for something he could have had, should have had, and never did.
He feels like he's choking at first, harsh noises fighting their way out of him, but Bones is there, his arms solid and strong, and Jim is already at the wild edge of oblivion, there's no reining this in. The sobs batter and break him, then gradually soften and stretch until the tightness in his chest has been washed away, until even his pale, exhausted moans have stopped and only silent tears slide down his face.
When he finally starts to come back to himself, loose-limbed, the last of the ropes have been swept away and the plug is gone. Bones is curled warm along his back, lips moving at the point of Jim's shoulder, continuing to murmur reassurance and encouragement, arms enfolding Jim. He's still dressed, the denim of his jeans coarse against Jim's aching ass. He splays one broad hand across Jim's chest, and shifts them so they can look each other in the eye. Before he can summon up words, Bones lays a hand on his cheek and kisses him, soft and thorough.
He closes his eyes, disturbed to find them stinging again, and gives himself over to the kiss, open-mouthed and fierce. He's far beyond the usual weightless disconnect he feels at the end of a good scene, light and fragile, as if the wrong word or touch will make him collapse like a soap bubble, but Bones' hands ground him in pleasure. He sucks on the warm lips hungrily, desperate for more sensation.
His heat kindles Bones as well, and they slide and grapple against each other. Jim's entire body is raw, oversensitive: he can still feel the ghosts of knotted rope on his arms and legs. He has visions of dolphins wrapped in bruising nets, exhausted bulls in the arena; strange, wild images. He's off kilter, shock and sadness in the place that used to hold his anger, but thought and emotion are beyond his scoured soul right this moment. All he can hold in his awareness is the purely physical: skin and heat, breath and sighs, the heavy velvet feel of Bones' tongue on his own.
Jim yanks the t-shirt up roughly and Bones pulls one arm free and then the other without letting Jim fully out of his grip. They return to kissing, lips drawn together like iron to magnets, and Jim fumbles with Bones' belt and fly until he can push the jeans down over his hips. His calloused fingers run over Bones' cheeks, dig into the rounded muscles.
They roll to the side, and Bones grabs him in return, hard grip on his rear making him whimper and moan. Hands clutch and slide until Bones pushes him over onto his belly and Jim pants with eagerness, spreading his knees wide.
He's still slick and stretched from the plug, and Bones doesn't waste time with further preparation, not with Jim begging for more with every movement. His cock pierces right through Jim, pins him to the bed, pounds into the center of his consciousness. Jim growls encouragement, quivering and taut inside, arms limp against the quilt. Pleasure ripples through him, tentative at first; battling, then sweeping up the pain from the paddling, enveloping it, transmuting it. He's not bounded by his skin anymore, his sensations are their own pressure wave, an irresistible force made up of straining muscles and trickles of sweat, blind eyes and a grunting mouth, a raw voice in his ear.
"That's my boy," Bones rasps, and the reminder of the blade against his throat sends a deep shuddering flush through him. It starts in his belly, not his balls, tingling up and down his spine in waves, curling his toes. The blade, the purge, the ropes, the fingers on his neck at the club, the arms around him solid and strong -- he bucks underneath Bones, incoherent cries spilling from his throat, tears streaming down his face. His orgasm is a torrent of white noise.
Jim floats, without sense, for what seems like a long time, eyes unfocused beneath damp lashes. He is vaguely aware of his limbs being cleaned and moved, of gentle hands brushing his cheeks dry, but he's not really there until he feels Bones pull the blanket and quilt up around them both. Little by little, his mind reconnects with his senses; memory and meaning return. Bones curls around him, taking one of Jim's hands and twining their fingers together.
"All right?" he asks, voice a low murmur in the dark. Jim nods, exquisitely drained. Bones exhales and settles closer against his back, still and sheltering, as if he knows he's just reached right past Jim's defenses and touched all the vulnerable places Jim hadn't realized he had. Jim had asked him, had goddamned challenged him, but he hadn't thought for a moment that Bones could really break him open. He draws a breath, expecting more shudders and shakes, but the air pulls in deep and clear, expanding his chest.
There aren't any words worth saying. Bones doesn't need them, Jim doesn't want them. For now, for a little while, he is at peace. He closes his eyes and lets the quiet night claim them both.
Authors: shinychimera and yeomanrand
Pairings: McCoy/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After his hardest day at the Academy, Jim Kirk needs help letting go. McCoy conducts an intense BDSM scene that elicits buried emotions, trust, and catharsis.
From the prompt "Tears kink. A submissive brought to tears by his dom."
Warnings: Kinky. (Highlight to read specific kinks: Bondage, spanking, plug, enema, shaving, men crying...)
Kirk's stubbled chin rests on the back of his hand on the bar, rubbing raw dents into the skin, and he lets his eyes blur just enough to make stars out of the beads of water on the side of the beer bottle that fills his vision. The dark club is weekday tame, and the atmosphere is dull and thick and empty of promise. He's thinking sullenly of moving on and finding a more raucous place to get drunk when someone's hands, broad and warm, settle on either side of his neck, thumbs pressing lightly against his nape. A soft voice, almost familiar, barely audible over the jukebox and the muted conversations, says, "Don't turn around."
He tenses and sits up straight, starts to turn despite the words in his ear, ready to throw a punch; he'd come here looking to get drunk and start a fight or find a good hard fuck, anyway. The grip of the hands shift, index fingers sliding up under his jaw, the remaining fingers splaying firmly along the sides of his throat. But the touch isn't threatening, exactly. More like a caress.
"I said, don't," the man says, voice still low and whispered too soft to put a name to. "And before you tell me to go away, make sure that's what you want. Because I will walk away, and you look like a man who needs something."
There is a mirror behind the bar, but the image is fractured by liquor and the bartender is standing right where the man's reflection should be, watching the two of them warily out of the corner of his eye. Jim downs the rest of his beer and sets the empty on the bar.
"And you think you have what I need?"
"Maybe. But if you put another one away like that, I'll have my answer and I'll walk away, because you won't be able to give meaningful consent."
And like that, he knows whose hands have him, whose heat he can feel along his back. It's Bones, it has to be, though this isn't a club he'd expect to be on the doctor's map. The chuckle in his ear, warm and known, confirms it; Bones' hands shift to lie flat on Jim's shoulders alongside his neck again, thumbs now pressing small circles into either side of his spine. They don't fuck often, moving mostly in their own worlds, but Bones is one of the very few people he's actually shared a bed with after.
"There's my clever boy," he says. "You didn't really think your subconscious would let a stranger get this close, did you?"
Not as tense as he is tonight, no. He looks bleakly at the rows of bottles in front of them. He doesn't want to to talk, but it doesn't sound like that's what Bones has in mind. "So what am I consenting to?"
"At this point? Coming home with me. Telling me what you want. Trusting me. In roughly that order."
He almost smiles, a little derisive lift of the lip. "You think you can give me what I want?"
Bones shifts closer, speaking directly in Jim's ear. "Bring you to tears if that's what you're looking for, Jim."
He blinks -- the wild edge of pain and oblivion is exactly what he's seeking tonight, but Bones is the last person he'd expect to perceive it. Much less be interested in obliging. Jim turns on the barstool so they're face to face, almost nose to nose, and his blue eyes are hard, challenging. "I'd like to see you try."
Bones' expression doesn't change, though there's a momentary twitch in one eyebrow and he nods, slightly, holding Jim's gaze. "Not here."
Jim nods an agreement about the tab to the bartender, and heads out the door towards his bike without checking to see if Bones is following.
~~~
Bones has a small studio apartment, tidy like you'd expect, with a chair, a narrow bed neatly made, and three bottles of Kentucky bourbon lined up like soldiers at the end of the kitchen counter. Jim's disappointed but not surprised when Bones doesn't offer him a drink; he strips his shirt off and drops it on the floor, letting his eyes renew the challenge.
There won't be any tears, of course -- there haven't been, not for Jim, not for years. But if trying to make him cry will make Bones push him harder, then he's all for it.
Bones tilts his head at him, curiously. "I don't recall telling you to strip, yet," he observes, coming over and picking up the shirt. He tosses it casually over the nearby chair, standing just outside Jim's personal space. "You have a usual safeword?"
So he does know what he's talking about. "Enterprise."
"Of course. And what is it you want, Jim? Where am I absolutely not allowed to go?"
"I want to be tied down hard and pushed as far as I can go. I want to be all nerves, no brain. Pain, pleasure, whatever it takes." He grins mirthlessly. "I don't have much in the way of limits. Especially not with a doctor in the house."
"Not a doctor tonight. And everyone has limits. Sit."
Jim sits on the edge of the bed, and bends down to untie his boots.
"I said sit, not strip."
He looks up at Bones, one eyebrow lifted in amusement, but sits up and folds his hands innocently in his lap. Waiting.
"Your clothes will come off when I decide it's time, and not a moment before," he says, looking down at Jim, hazel eyes hard and thoughtful. "You told me what you want. Now's the part where you trust me."
He nods impatiently. He does trust Bones, had even trusted him with his life once or twice when they'd first enrolled and Jim hadn't quite got the running wild out of his system yet. But he'd never expected he'd be trusting him with this. The thought of his gruff-but-gentle Bones playing rough with him is definitely heating up his blood, and he's sure Bones isn't missing the evidence.
Bones kneels down next to the bed, pulls out a smallish chest and shifts it around to the foot, where Jim can't really see what he's getting out of it.
"Lift your chin and fold your arms in front of you, hands gripping elbows."
He obeys, curious. Bones studies him for another moment, then loops a knotted rope around Jim's right wrist, using it as a starting point to build a cat's-cradle-like construction of twists and knots constraining his wrists to his elbows and back again. It's loose at first; Jim thinks he could slip away easily enough if he wanted to, but then Bones tugs and the entire construction collapses, pulling his forearms tightly together. A gasp parts his lips and he looks up at Bones with new appreciation.
Bones isn't looking at him, though; he's frowning down at the contents of the chest, running his thumb over his lower lip. A couple of things hit the bed behind Jim but he's distracted from wanting to look when Bones comes up with a thin length of what looks like black leather, with a dangling silver clip. He settles it low around Jim's throat, the shiny clip resting just where his pulse throbs between his collarbones, and adds a second set of ties between Jim's wrists and the ring, taut enough to hold Jim's arms just off his body.
Yes. Jim's attention is wound up among the tugs and pulls and pale pinches of his skin, just another fiber in the web Bones is weaving. This is the beginning of what he needs, the end of the harsh day that's behind him now. Bones makes a final adjustment to the ropes, kneels down and takes the foot in the half-unlaced boot in his hands. He deftly finishes removing first the one, then the other, rolls Jim's socks down his legs and tucks them inside the boots, which go just under the foot of the bed.
The worn carpet is coarse beneath Jim's feet when Bones uses the rope between his wrists and his neck to tug him up and a couple of steps away from the bed. He moves behind Jim, reaches around to undo Jim's belt and pants, letting them fall to the floor, shirtsleeves barely brushing Jim's flanks. Bones bends to wrap a hand around Jim's calf, pulling his foot free from the fabric, then there's a low chuckle, and a sharp bite on one of his bare asscheeks. Jim grunts, eyelids sliding half-closed as the sudden pain makes his cock jump.
Bones ignores the sound, brushing Jim's pants out of the way and pulling his other leg free. He uses the ropes again to turn Jim back toward the bed and gives him an ungentle shove. Jim half falls, half scrambles into position, his knees pressed into the cool cotton of the quilt beneath him, ass in the air, bound arms pulled up over his head and forehead pressing against the web of thick smooth ropes.
Though there's no warning, he's ready for the first hard sharp crack of the paddle landing solidly on the bitten cheek. Yes. Yes! He goes from hard to aching in an instant. Bones isn't fooling around; the blows are solid and sure, sending crackling pain across Jim's skin and deep aches into his muscles; three in quick succession, then a pause, then a more leisurely set of four. He's panting eagerly, letting the pain take over his senses, driving away the lingering taste of tactical screens and explosions.
Bones abruptly drags him to his feet again, pulling Jim behind him into the bathroom.
"In the tub," he says, fingers pinching a rising welt on Jim's ass. "Back to me. You may rest your arms on the wall."
His body feels a little looser now, reverberating with pain, but a half a dozen blows are not nearly enough to take him out of himself and he wonders what else Bones has in mind as he steps over the lip of the tub and leans his roped forearms against the smooth white wall, spreading his feet apart. He scrubs nose and cheeks over the knots, waiting for more.
Bones' hand closes on the back of his neck, holding him still while he pushes something slender, slick, and cool inside Jim. He squirms, accepting, wishing it was flesh penetrating him -- but there will be time enough for that. The hand stays, warm on his neck, but Bones' weight shifts and Jim hears the creak of the faucet being turned. Jim goes rigid, confused -- not expecting this sudden inner chill, the water rushing up inside, warm enough in the tube curled along his thigh but colder than his insides. No limits, he'd said, but he's never done this and he's trembling, breath coming short and fast with the building pressure. He can feel Bones' eyes on him, watching the way he stiffens and twists, the older man's thumb sliding easily along the column of his spine.
In the heartbeat before too much, the water shuts off, leaving Jim just on the edge of a cramp, feeling strange, stretched, thoroughly invaded. Fullness and desperation are making his head spin, and his cock throbs in time with his pulse.
Bones says, "Jim, look at me." His voice is firm, so calm, so even, no hint what he's feeling. Jim turns his face towards him, still gasping.
"That's my brave boy," Bones says, and his hand comes off Jim's neck to brush his cheek. "When I pull the nozzle out, I want you to hold it until you're on the john. Can you do that?"
He nods, wondering where all his words went.
"Good boy. Ready?"
Jim licks his lips, and nods again. Bones slides the nozzle free and it's not as difficult as he fears to control himself. He steps carefully out of the tub, cheeks burning with mingled shame and arousal, body tingling and adapting second by second to the shifting pressure-pain inside of him, and it's terrible and wonderful and overwhelming. Bones is right there, helping, steadying him, murmuring encouragement.
Jim sits, and without any effort on his part his body does what it must. He leans back against the cool ceramic of the tank, reassured by the taut triangle of rope between the collar and the bindings on his arms. His eyes close and his face contorts as if in orgasm, though the sensation is different, baser, as if every dark thing from scalp to toes is being pulled and purged from him. He's left shuddering, weak and stunned.
Bones doesn't give him much chance to recover, just draws him to his feet and towels him off, lets Jim support himself on Bones' shoulders with his head still swimming, then pulls him back out to the bed. He firmly guides Jim back onto his knees, chest on the bed, ass up high, and leaves him there long enough for Jim to miss his heat. He feels warm and relaxed, drowsy and yet exquisitely aware of the texture of the quilt beneath him, the collar and the ropes, the sweet sting lingering on his buttocks.
At first he thinks it might be Bones' thumb he feels pressing into him, but the object is too smooth even for lubricated skin. He hollows his back a bit, pushing down to ease the intrusion. The plug is thick and short, with a wide flared base; it doesn't reach nearly deep enough to satisfy, but Jim isn't given enough time to adapt to it before Bones draws ropes around just above his knees, pulling his legs closed tightly, squeezing the plug inside of him. Bones weaves the ropes around and up Jim's thighs, and with each new tug and knot Jim feels more caught, more controlled; but free of thought, and memory, and choice. He's left to float among his conflicting sensations: hard ropes softly wound, captive arms free to relax, legs tied shut but ass spread.
There's a light caress just at the base of his spine, and then the solid stinging thwack of the paddle, grounding him. This time, Bones doesn't stop after a half-dozen hits, and he settles into a rhythm instead of striking unpredictably.
Jim moans, awareness reduced to the searing flames across his backside, layers of stinging, tingling, streaking pain, and the hard knot of the plug inside him, feeling bigger every time his trapped muscles clench. He starts to rock into the blows, nudging the plug a little. His cock is achingly hard and Bones hasn't paid it any attention at all yet.
He feels a flushed-skin surge of gratitude, that Bones knows what he's doing, that he's giving Jim what he needs, taking his mind away from that other helplessness -- and he whimpers, dragging his face across the quilt to turn to the other side. Harder, his body begs, but his lips won't shape the sound.
Bones gives him another handful of firm swats, and then, as suddenly as the paddling began, it stops. Bones uses his tied arms to pull him into a sitting position. Jim stares at him with lips parted, lusting and lost; Bones has barely touched his skin at all and he is hungering for it. His rear is hot and tender against the blanket and the plug presses hard on new places inside him. Bones shortens the rope between the collar and Jim's arms just a bit more, then sets a metal bowl in the cradle they create, filling it with warm water from a teakettle Jim never heard whistle.
He's confused again. He wants more pain, wants to ask what's coming next but it's been good, more than good so far, and he knows he has to just trust Bones. Words are still far away. The water in the bowl sloshes slightly, and he sits up straighter.
Bones moves out of his line of sight, settles on the bed beside him. Something soft presses against Jim's cheek, moves in small circles, leaves wetness and soap-scented foam behind. Finally, Bones touches him again, fingers firmly pressing under Jim's jaw so he can use the brush to spread the shaving cream over Jim's throat. The sensation is strange, stiff bristles soft as a paintbrush at the end, caressing his skin like slow fingertips. Little quivers twitch across cheeks and chin, and his fingers curl against his elbows with the urge to touch or scratch or take the brush from Bones.
"It's okay, darlin'," Bones soothes, grip shifting so he can run the brush where his fingers had just held Jim's chin. "You're my strong boy, you can take this."
He doesn't know why the soft words make his throat tighten. He knows he can take anything Bones can dish out but he feels strangely paralyzed. He hears more than sees Bones set aside the brush, and then there's the cold thin line of a straight razor at his throat. He holds totally still, chin stretched high, irrational fear and irrational trust lancing with equal power through his nervous system. The first stroke is long and careful, pulling at his skin from just above the collar to his jaw; Bones reaches down and rinses the razor in the bowl. Jim's heart thumps in his chest, setting ripples moving in the basin, and he feels echoes in his groin, his throat, the roof of his mouth.
"That's my boy," Bones says, "just put it in my hands now, Jimmy. Let me carry it for a while."
He draws in a deep shaky breath before he feels the razor against his skin again. Tired muscles strain to hold him rock steady and still, so still. His vision blurs, his attention focused on the surface of his skin, on the sleek glide of the blade across the day's stubble, of course, but even more on the warm points where the older man's steady fingers brace to guide the razor. The burn across his ass is nothing more than a backdrop now, a curtain of throbbing red velvet draped in the darkness behind the real action.
The blade swishes in the water and he releases the broken breath he's been holding. Bones smooths hair back from his temple.
"Shhh..." he says softly, "still tryin' too hard, kiddo."
Bones shifts behind him, pulls Jim's head back against his shoulder, slowly twisting his bound body like a rag doll to suit his purpose, keeping the warm bowl level in the cradle of Jim's arms. He rests a long-fingered hand across Jim's forehead, as if feeling for a fever. Jim's eyes flutter closed and Bones holds him there for a moment, presses his lips lightly against Jim's temple, listening to his uneven breathing, before tenderly tightening his grip and placing the razor back at the base of Jim's throat. This time even holding still is beyond Jim's control, he's tied and purged and pierced and utterly helpless under the sharp blade and yet utterly safe.
"That's it, you can do this," Bones murmurs, stroking the blade slowly up his vulnerable throat.
A sudden sweet sense of connection swells through Jim, filling his chest, his throat, his eyes. It's a powerful tide of gentle strength, of trust, of reliability, of pride and tenderness and belief in him, and it's Bones, of course it's Bones holding him and cherishing him, but it's also the father he never met, never understood, never knew he wanted until today, until he stood on that simulated bridge under fire, until he gave orders that meant death for some and life for others, until he understood in one terror-stricken, grief-stricken instant what it really means to go down with your ship because there is no other way.
Jim feels tears falling hot across his cheeks, and the first sob is one of surprise, almost panic. The razor thumps to the carpet, his chest heaves and the bowl sloshes precariously; Bones lifts it away and gives the ropes a sharp twisting tug, and loose loops slither off his arms. Bones gathers him up and he shudders with loss, a lifetime of anger and resentment transmuted into grief for something he could have had, should have had, and never did.
He feels like he's choking at first, harsh noises fighting their way out of him, but Bones is there, his arms solid and strong, and Jim is already at the wild edge of oblivion, there's no reining this in. The sobs batter and break him, then gradually soften and stretch until the tightness in his chest has been washed away, until even his pale, exhausted moans have stopped and only silent tears slide down his face.
When he finally starts to come back to himself, loose-limbed, the last of the ropes have been swept away and the plug is gone. Bones is curled warm along his back, lips moving at the point of Jim's shoulder, continuing to murmur reassurance and encouragement, arms enfolding Jim. He's still dressed, the denim of his jeans coarse against Jim's aching ass. He splays one broad hand across Jim's chest, and shifts them so they can look each other in the eye. Before he can summon up words, Bones lays a hand on his cheek and kisses him, soft and thorough.
He closes his eyes, disturbed to find them stinging again, and gives himself over to the kiss, open-mouthed and fierce. He's far beyond the usual weightless disconnect he feels at the end of a good scene, light and fragile, as if the wrong word or touch will make him collapse like a soap bubble, but Bones' hands ground him in pleasure. He sucks on the warm lips hungrily, desperate for more sensation.
His heat kindles Bones as well, and they slide and grapple against each other. Jim's entire body is raw, oversensitive: he can still feel the ghosts of knotted rope on his arms and legs. He has visions of dolphins wrapped in bruising nets, exhausted bulls in the arena; strange, wild images. He's off kilter, shock and sadness in the place that used to hold his anger, but thought and emotion are beyond his scoured soul right this moment. All he can hold in his awareness is the purely physical: skin and heat, breath and sighs, the heavy velvet feel of Bones' tongue on his own.
Jim yanks the t-shirt up roughly and Bones pulls one arm free and then the other without letting Jim fully out of his grip. They return to kissing, lips drawn together like iron to magnets, and Jim fumbles with Bones' belt and fly until he can push the jeans down over his hips. His calloused fingers run over Bones' cheeks, dig into the rounded muscles.
They roll to the side, and Bones grabs him in return, hard grip on his rear making him whimper and moan. Hands clutch and slide until Bones pushes him over onto his belly and Jim pants with eagerness, spreading his knees wide.
He's still slick and stretched from the plug, and Bones doesn't waste time with further preparation, not with Jim begging for more with every movement. His cock pierces right through Jim, pins him to the bed, pounds into the center of his consciousness. Jim growls encouragement, quivering and taut inside, arms limp against the quilt. Pleasure ripples through him, tentative at first; battling, then sweeping up the pain from the paddling, enveloping it, transmuting it. He's not bounded by his skin anymore, his sensations are their own pressure wave, an irresistible force made up of straining muscles and trickles of sweat, blind eyes and a grunting mouth, a raw voice in his ear.
"That's my boy," Bones rasps, and the reminder of the blade against his throat sends a deep shuddering flush through him. It starts in his belly, not his balls, tingling up and down his spine in waves, curling his toes. The blade, the purge, the ropes, the fingers on his neck at the club, the arms around him solid and strong -- he bucks underneath Bones, incoherent cries spilling from his throat, tears streaming down his face. His orgasm is a torrent of white noise.
Jim floats, without sense, for what seems like a long time, eyes unfocused beneath damp lashes. He is vaguely aware of his limbs being cleaned and moved, of gentle hands brushing his cheeks dry, but he's not really there until he feels Bones pull the blanket and quilt up around them both. Little by little, his mind reconnects with his senses; memory and meaning return. Bones curls around him, taking one of Jim's hands and twining their fingers together.
"All right?" he asks, voice a low murmur in the dark. Jim nods, exquisitely drained. Bones exhales and settles closer against his back, still and sheltering, as if he knows he's just reached right past Jim's defenses and touched all the vulnerable places Jim hadn't realized he had. Jim had asked him, had goddamned challenged him, but he hadn't thought for a moment that Bones could really break him open. He draws a breath, expecting more shudders and shakes, but the air pulls in deep and clear, expanding his chest.
There aren't any words worth saying. Bones doesn't need them, Jim doesn't want them. For now, for a little while, he is at peace. He closes his eyes and lets the quiet night claim them both.