Kirk was full of the heavy, wet sound of his own heart beating in his ears. He was braced against the closed doors of his quarters, eyes closed, stomach in a tight knot. He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the destruction he knew would lie before him. He had barely been able to choke down the gritty mess the rest of the ship had turned into. The crew, except for those that had come with him, were wreckage as well. They were tainted shells of the people Kirk recognized, twisted by lust and greed and a hunger for power that would never be satisfied. They dealt in death and agony, flesh besmirched with blood, and bank accounts full to bursting with credits won through the glorification of gore.
There were tiny nuances of survival that each had learned long before they boarded the ISS Enterprise. There were systems in place that they had been taught to allow them to get along in this harsh world. They knew what it took to keep their heads attached to their bodies and their lives shielded from phaser fire in this godforsaken reality. Kirk had no such luxury. He had no idea where he was and only the faintest clue as to how he got there.
With eyes still closed, he touched the knife on his belt. It had tasted blood, that much was obvious. If one really wanted to, one could seek out the tiny splashes of DNA still on its serrated edge left from a lackluster attempt at cleanliness. There were microscopic smears of red human blood, the green of a scant few Romulan and Vulcan victims, and myriad splashes of purple Klingon bloodcells. Kirk’s counterpart, the owner of this knife and the one at home in this unforgiving place, was not one to be trifled with.
Even if this Kirk found the idea of using the blade repugnant, it was a comfort to have it nonetheless. He unsheathed it, appraising its weight, savoring the scant protection it provided, before he finally opened his eyes.
The cabin was like his own, only more sumptuous. It was larger and there were more tokens, Kirk had no doubt they’d been bought by the blood on his blade, scattered about the room. The whole place had a more lavish feel to it, speaking quite plainly to the vanity of its owner. The bed was twice the size of Kirk’s on his ship, and the sheets were worth more than half a year’s pay.
While all this was questionable, it wasn’t nearly as alarming as what he found sprawled on that bed. Dressed in a black robe inlaid with silver Vulcan glyphs, lay Spock, the robe pooling around him like liquid ebony. He watched Kirk with a dark, void expression. His goatee made his angular features look even more severe as it brought more attention to his hawkish nose.
“Hello Captain,” he said, voice fluid fire.
“Mr. Spock,” Kirk replied, trying not to stutter. He had gotten good at reading his own Spock’s expressions and deciphering the infinitesimal hints that displayed his hidden mood. But this one, this bearded version of his Vulcan best friend, was a blank slate. The fact that he had taken the liberty of letting himself into Kirk’s room (and the captain had no doubt it had been locked, so that meant this enterprise must have required a degree of hacking), and then had laid himself languidly with all the grace and fluidity of a cat, spoke to the fact that he was dealing with a man completely different than the one he was used to.
He rose up to his full height and tightened his grip on the knife. He just had to play the charade of merciless leader until Scotty figured out how to get them out of this place and back to the Enterprise they knew and loved. He hoped his Chief Engineer was having good luck in achieving his task. And, while he was at it, he hoped Uhura and Bones were faring alright. He didn’t know what he would do if any of them got hurt.
“What are you doing here?” Kirk demanded. He subtly fell into a posture more conductive for fighting. Sure, Spock was a Vulcan and as such, faster and stronger than Kirk could ever dream to be, but he was also dampened by his need for everything to make logical sense. How many times had Kirk caught him off guard in a chess game by using unorthodox moves? He would have to try the same thing here, doing something seemingly suicidal to surprise him.
“Even though you know, you enjoy me saying it, do you not?” Spock answered. He got to his feet and seemed to tower over Kirk. His hands went into his robe. When they came out, he held an old, antique weapon in them. A leather cat-o-nine-tails whip. Kirk kept his gaze fixed on it, ready for the attack. But Spock simply held it out toward him, offering the handle. Frowning, Kirk took it. Confusion whipped through him like an icestorm.
“You know I have made a mistake,” Spock went on, in that voice, that terrible voice. “The transporter mix-up. I am ultimately responsible for whatever the ensigns do. The transporter failed. I have failed. I require punishment.” He shrugged and the robe fell off his narrow shoulders. It slipped silkily off his body, leaving him standing nude before Kirk.
His body was a treasure trove of corded muscle. There was power even in his thin waist. A dark carpet of hair spread across his chest and a trail of more of it circled his navel and led enticingly down into the dark thatch of his pubic hair. His cock was dusty green and half-hard, sporting double ridges that were flared and a thick mushroom head. The legs that held him up were toned and speckled in more of his coarse, dark body hair.
He was very attractive, Kirk could not argue that. But at the moment, he was unsure and terrified.
After making sure that Kirk had gotten a good look at him, Spock turned around. His back was crisscrossed in scars and fresher, green welts. There was a distinct green handprint on one of his ass cheeks. All of this marred what had once been perfect: strong, creamy pale back, and firm globes of an ass. He bent over the bed, offering himself.
When Kirk didn’t move, he said, coolly, unemotionally, “punish me, Captain. This oversight is deserving of at least twenty lashes.” He looked over his shoulder, dark eyes framed with their long lashes, trained on Kirk.
Kirk’s mind was racing. Yes, there was a stirring in his pants, but he determinedly ignored it. He had never willingly inflicted pain on anyone, not unprovoked, and definitely not his First Officer. Spock had never behaved in this manner before. Kirk wasn’t an idiot; he knew this ritual was sexual. His Spock had never approached him in any way that could be construed as such. He supposed Spock was indeed asexual, except for during Pon Farr.
What had his counterpart, the Kirk that belonged in this mirror dimension, done to this Spock? How would he react in this situation? How maniacally sadistic was he? And did Kirk have it in him to feasibly pull this act off?
He didn’t want to hurt Spock. Not even this bearded doppelganger of him. Those scars spoke to many a time when he had no such qualms.
How the hell was he to send Spock away without arousing suspicion? The last thing he wanted was for someone as powerful as the Vulcan to figure out that something wasn’t right. Kirk didn’t want to think about the way in which he might go about making things right once more.
“Straighten up, Spock,” he growled. He shoved his knife back in his belt, but still held tight to the whip. Spock did as he was told, turning to face Kirk. If he was surprised by the way the encounter was going, he didn’t show it. “I’m not going to do anything. You seem to want it. So the proper punishment would be to not give it to you.”
For the first time, emotion contorted Spock’s features. Of course, it was only slight: a twitch of the brow, a barely perceptible downturning of the lips. But the expression was one Kirk had never seen on Spock. He was showing signs of a slow-burning, dark rage.
“Your conclusion,” Spock drawled, “is illogical.”
Another thing his Spock had never done: lie. The reason the Vulcan was mad was because Kirk’s conclusion was logical. It made more sense to withhold something he obviously found pleasurable if the task is meant as a proper punishment. Thus, Spock’s statement was nothing more than an emotionless insult. Childish really, because he was in essence calling Kirk stupid for not giving Spock what he wanted.
“I don’t believe it is,” Kirk said. This conversation, he knew, would most likely be the fight he’d been stealing himself for. This was a battle of wits and he needed to stay one step ahead of Spock. Something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do. “I think you’re trying to goad me.”
He started to twirl the whip in his hands as though it were nothing more than a toy. Spock watched him angrily, clasping his hands behind his back. He shifted the tiniest of bits and Kirk knew it was not just a means to get more comfortable. Spock had spread his legs, had tilted his pelvis ever so slightly. He was offering himself up yet again. It was a subtle seduction and he expected Kirk to react to it.
Some part of him did, thirsting for that perfect body. Only in his wildest dreams did he see Spock in any situation close to this. Yet, for quite some time he’d felt something more for Spock than mere friendship. Something heavier that tugged at his heart and whistled through his bloodstream.
However, the creature before him was not Spock. Not really. He was a potential enemy. He was a spider weaving his web to ensnare, his mouth dripping with venom.
“You are my captain,” Spock said. “I defer to your good judgment.” Again, he shifted. He thrusted his semi-hard cock forward. There was the smallest of grins on his face. He fully expected Kirk to give in. And why wouldn’t he? If the proper Kirk for this universe was as barbaric as the rest of the crew, he would be a prisoner of his own lust. He wouldn’t deny himself. Not something that he wanted and had taken so many times before.
“Alright then, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, his voice steady and condescending. He hoped that was the proper tone. “Put your clothes back on and get out. You’re dismissed.”
The grin disappeared and was replaced by a terrible, miniscule sneer. Spock didn’t move.
“That was an order,” Kirk growled. His heart was racing, crashing in his ears. He stopped twirling the whip, instead readying himself to use it to defend himself if it came to that. He knew all the nooks and crannies of the Enterprise, would know them even in this dimension, so he just had to fend Spock off long enough to slip into one of the hidden compartments and skulk there until Scotty got a hold of him.
Would a karate chop to the neck fall a Vulcan? A knee to the groin certainly would. An elbow to the eyes, a hard punch beneath the ribs. He could maybe uppercut his chin and smash the back of his skull against the wall. Without knowing what it would do to the cleanshaven Spock of home, he didn’t dare kill the one before him. Hopefully, he would be strong enough to knock him out.
“You insult me, Jim,” Spock was snarling, Kirk’s name tossed out like a poison dart. “Your orders are foolish, infantile. As they have been since you returned from the planet’s surface. If you have grown soft, I will kill you.”
Not reacting to the threat, at least not outwardly, Kirk hissed, “are you questioning me, Commander? And you are, of course, aware of what I must do to you for disobedience.”
“If I were to disregard your orders,” Spock said, “you would be forced to punish me.”
Goddamn clever bastard, Kirk thought angrily. Jim, you walked right into that one. He’s got you wrapped around his finger and you’re the one who did it. You wrapped yourself there. You flied directly into that web. Goddammit.
“And I will punish you as I see fit,” Kirk ground out from between clenched teeth. He stepped toward Spock, hoping he was putting off a menacing air. “I should send you to the,” he searched his memory quickly, “Agony Booth and have done with it.”
In a flash of rippling speed, Spock had lashed out. Kirk didn’t even have time to react before he heard a sickening crack and pain washed over him. Spock had slapped him, hard enough to crack his nose, and warm blood poured down over his lips. He balked and scrambled back as Spock paced before him, sleek and dark like a panther, and just as dangerous.
He lunged again, but Kirk was ready this time. He raised the whip and the thin leather thrashed across Spock’s chest. The Vulcan bit his bottom lip to keep from crying out and Kirk could not help but notice that he had become fully erect, his cock stiff and jade with blood.
Spock backed Kirk into a corner. He kept on advancing.
“Stop,” Kirk demanded. He knew he wasn’t very good with the whip. He was a poor aim with it and it took a lot of energy to wield it with any power. He went for his knife, but Spock, quick as a photon torpedo, snatched his arm in a tight grip, shattering his wrist.
A red veil of pain closed over Kirk’s eyes, obstructing his vision. Blood was still pouring, metallic and bitter, into his mouth from his nose and now he couldn’t move his hand without his nerves screaming in anguish.
He flung the whip out blindly and it caught across Spock’s face. Welts bloomed green and fresh on the expanse of his cheek and across the bridge of his nose. He wheeled back and moaned. His eyes were wide and black from his dilated pupils. He grunted a steady stream of Vulcan.
Taking his chance, Kirk flung himself forward, barreling toward the door. He swallowed down the pain in his nose and wrist to the best of his abilities. Something caught him around the ankle and he tumbled, crashing hard into the floor. He tried to catch himself but his wrist twinged savagely and the other hand held the whip too tightly. His face, already raw and aching, slammed against the floor. He screamed in torment, blacking out for the slightest moment.
As soon as he could, he kicked out, dislodging the grip on his ankle and he inched forward. A foot connected with his gut, rolling him over onto his back. He gazed up, panting, at Spock.
“Greetings, Captain,” the Vulcan purred. “Are you seeing the logic now? I’m very bad. I need the proper punishment. I am First Officer, I will not settle for less.”
Kirk wildly struck out with the whip. He heard its crack as if from far away and watched Spock’s face crumple. The cat-o-nine-tails had wrapped around his groin, scourging the naked cock and balls. Spock howling in vibrant pain pleasure and to Kirk’s absolute horror, he came. His dick pulsed and spurted, dripping purple-ish Vulcan seed all over the front of Kirk’s uniform.
Spock gasped, gingerly fingering the quickly bruising skin. He drew a fingertip over each of the lash marks, milking out the last of his semen and allowing it to splatter onto Kirk. It was hot as it stained his uniform.
Cringing in disgust, Kirk crab-walked backwards. Every time he put weight on his damaged wrist, pain tore through him. He had to bite his lip to keep focused and the bite caused the dried blood there to snap and crack.
He got shakily to his feet while Spock was still distracted and turned back toward the door. He had reached it, just lifting his hand to unlock it with the code of his fingerprint, when Spock’s hard body pressed into him, shoving him firmly against the wall beside the door. One of the Vulcan’s hands fisted in Kirk’s hair, yanking his head back. Spock’s lips were at his ear.
“You are aware of who truly submits now, are you not?” Spock purred. His tongue dragged across Kirk’s lobe, slimy with salvia. “I do not wish to command this ship. I wish only to command you. Your body. And when I present myself to you worthy of punishment, I expect you to give me exactly what I am worthy of. Do you understand, Captain?”
“No,” Kirk spat. He fought feebly against Spock’s grip. “You don’t make any sense. You come to me, begging to be humiliated and yet you become furious when I give you the ultimate humiliation. You seem to want to submit, yet you fight and force me. There’s no logic in you.”
Spock pulled harder on Kirk’s hair. His scalp throbbed and he hissed in pain.
“You do not even know ultimate humiliation,” Spock snarled. He was conceding though, Kirk knew; he hadn’t a leg to stand on in this argument. Spock was acting illogically. Saying one thing and trying to play the part of the submissive, but in reality, he was doing nothing of the sort. He was lying in word and deed. He was making mistake after mistake.
Spock’s hand not tearing at Kirk’s hair slipped over into the crook between Jim’s neck and shoulder. The fingers squeezed and Kirk felt blackness rising up, washing over his vision, and finally pulling him into its depths. He slumped, legs no longer able to hold him up, and delved into unconsciousness.