Chapter Text
Jim knows that this time, it’s going to be really bad. He’s the guy who saved the Earth from Nero, who exposed Khan and Marcus, and who really escaped real drama narrowly an indecent number of times. But now, he honestly can’t see what can be done. He’s out of options, and he can’t take action – any sort of action.
After the surprise attack by a particularly well-armed Orion cruiser, backed by three cloaked vessels of unknown specifications, they’re practically adrift, their warp drive compromised, their propulsion drive burned out, their communications hindered, their sensors erratic, their transporters inoperative. All their dilithium crystals are burned, and even if they managed to fix some of the systems, they wouldn’t have the power to make it work. Their life support is working on auxiliary power, but just barely. They’re saving energy to make it last longer: even the replicators are offline. For now, they still have the emergency rations, but very soon, they’ll be starving. If the life support doesn’t collapse sooner.
The reasonable thing would be to evacuate, Jim knows it. The ship is precious – especially to its captain – but it’s not life – it’s not irreplaceable. Unfortunately, the attack also destroyed the Enterprise’s shuttle bay. Only one shuttle had survived in a useable condition – the Galileo – and Jim already sent it off, with ten lucky crewmembers onboard. None of the bridge crew agreed to go, even when he was trying to make it an order.
They still have the escape pods, but the problem is, they are in uncharted space, well outside the Federation territory, far from any known planet, and counting on anyone picking up the pods would be too optimistic. For the same reason, their distress beacon, the SOS signal transmitted when they still had some power to spare, are probably bound to end up unacknowledged, or picked up by some aliens who won’t ever understand it.
Jim wonders what will be better: to die together in the mass tomb that the Enterprise will become once the life support finally fails, or die separately in escape pods, to drift forever alone across the vastness of space like Sir Lancelot’s scorned lover, the beautiful Elaine of Shalot, on display, dead, in her lonely boat. None of these solutions is to his taste, but he is past struggling. He has been defeated. Utterly, entirely defeated.
He has already tried everything. His tactical genius is the only reason the Enterprise is even still there – it had no right to escape this bizarre ambush that some Orion bastards mounted with some mysterious allies. Anyone else than Jim in the chair, and the Enterprise would probably be dead already. But what consolation is it when it is so horribly crippled, so far from any potential help?
It's not like Jim is giving up easily. On the contrary – he was the last crewmember to finally accept the inevitable. He discussed every possibility with Spock and the senior officers over and over, he tried to think of every possible option, use every resource, every non-standard way of thinking, every wild idea… But there aren’t any ideas anymore. It’s hopeless, and they’re sailing to their death.
He would know: in sheer desperation, he tried to glue a shattered dilithium crystal together despite Scotty’s attempts to dissuade him from this madness. Now, his right hand is burnt from how he tried to make the thing work and it just exploded against his palm. Scotty said he was lucky – he could have blown up the entire department.
When McCoy saw the burn – the overprotective mother hen McCoy! – he just waved a hand over it, hypoing Jim for the pain and sparing him a long and energy-consuming session with a regenerator. What difference does it make whether Jim dies with his hand burnt or healed? None. Now that the meds are wearing off, the burn aches relentlessly, but what’s a little pain for Jim? Right now, it’s actually a good thing. Anything that distracts Jim from the knowledge of being unable to save his crew is a good thing. Not that it really distracts him, though. Jim is perfectly capable of physically hurting and thinking of his dying crew at the same time. Besides, the burn is really minor and will probably take care of itself given some time. If there is time.
To make things worse – not that it really makes them so much worse, but it certainly doesn’t make them better – the Enterprise just happens to be ferrying a Starfleet VIP, Admiral Ledoux, who was busy on a diplomatic mission on some hellhole of a planet and fancied a ride home that would drag him to a little uncharted territory on his way back. The mission on the hellhole planet was so exhausting that Starfleet permitted him the detour by way of shore leave. Ship leave. Whatever…
The admiral is charming, and a really fascinating person. Jim has nothing against him, and he doesn’t even pry or nose around or pester Jim or wrestle his command from him or pull rank. He is just there like it’s really shore leave, losing at 3D chess against Spock with surprisingly good grace, socializing with officers in the mess, chatting with Jim and making himself so unobtrusive that Jim finds it almost hard to believe how this man made admiral – he knows for a fact that they’re generally the prying, nosing, pestering and utterly obtrusive kind.
During the battle, Ledoux was on the bridge, trying to help or give ideas but never once interfering with Jim’s command. Once they escaped, he congratulated Jim and said if it had been him, they’d be already floating in tiny smithereens across uncharted space. He said it in front of the crew, sincere and humble, and Jim felt proud and thought that for a superior like this, it was worth trying even harder.
But all their efforts eventually failed. At least Ledoux doesn’t whine, doesn’t blame anyone except the mysterious attackers, and doesn’t complain when the air becomes chilly and they’re down to one ration a day. He tells Jim it’s not his fault, like, a hundred times. Jim appreciates his kindness, but doesn’t believe him. It’s always the captain’s fault, whatever goes wrong. And only rarely the captain’s merit if the things go right.
Jim stretches and glances at the chronometer. It’s five in the morning, three hours to his shift, and he was told to rest. But he isn’t resting, hasn’t slept an hour despite the exhaustion. Lying in his quarters alone and visualizing their imminent end is torture – not that sitting on the bridge, as helpless in the command chair as he is lying in his bed, is any better. Still, he would welcome some distraction – from the gloomy predictions, from his throbbing hand, from the insidious emptiness in the pit of his stomach, making him think of another place that is the last thing he needs now.
“Oh fuck it, we’re not dead yet”, he tells himself. “We may yet cheat the odds. We’re brilliant. We’re the best.”
Who is he trying to cheat? Because the odds don’t seem like they’re likely to take the bait. He’s cheating himself, trying to live up to his reputation of the one who doesn’t accept no-win scenarios, even though deep down he knows that no-win scenarios don’t give a damn about his acceptance. He’s adrift in uncharted space, just now running out of auxiliary power. Three dilithium crystals would get them out of the woods, but precisely, they don’t have even one. Unless they grow one in the labs or hear one knock politely at their hull – hey there, little humans, I’m a dilithium crystal, is it me you’re looking for? – they’re totally screwed.
He drags himself up from the bed, washes his face and puts on a new uniform, because the thought of dying in an old stinking one seems particularly deficient in decorum. Not that it really matters. Death is death, and choking in a cold, oxygen-deprived, dead ship lacks decorum kind of by definition. Still, wearing a fresh uniform means making sure at least one thing doesn’t suck.
On the bridge, although it’s only five twenty when Jim finally gets there, most of the alpha shift is already there, minus Uhura who chose this fantastic moment to catch a flu and is resting in sickbay, getting hypos and concoctions like it matters to choke to death flu-free. Well, maybe it protects a fraction of the decorum, lets them keep a tiny part of their dignity, just like a fresh uniform. Her console is unmanned – no use calling for her replacement when the comms are completely dead and there’s nothing to be done about it.
Spock, of course, is already there. In a different situation, Jim would scold him for not taking care of himself, but under the current circumstances, dying with the failing life support exhausted or rested doesn’t really matter. Besides, Jim is glad to have him near. Spock is his most reliable officer, and other than Bones, his closest friend. And, unlike Bones, Spock is Jim’s biggest secret crush ever.
It’s not like Jim would ever admit it even only to himself. But he knows that, barring a miracle, they’re all about to die, so there’s really no harm in realizing that relying heavily on the smart Vulcan professional expertise never prevented Jim from noticing Spock’s absolutely gorgeous body, or imagining what he would do to which part of it if he ever got a chance.
So now he knows he won’t get a chance, but it’s also kind of okay. Unrequited love isn’t half as bad as they say when you’re friends with the object, and when the said object has broken up with his girlfriend and you’re no longer exposed to fits of jealousy (because these, yes, are just as bad as they say).
“Report”, Jim says by way of good morning, simply to maintain some semblance of normality. Also, to hear Spock’s voice and because he secretly counts that by miracle, something in the report might yet manage to spark some stray flash of genius that will save them. He notices there are no stars on the viewscreen, and frowns. Spock follows his gaze and reports:
“We have no longer enough power to maintain the viewscreen switched on, which does not amount to any substantial loss, since our sensors are off and we are now not only adrift, but also completely blind.”
“Charming”, Jim comments. So much for miracles. “How much time do we have left before life support kicks the bucket?”
“We have no buckets onboard to my knowledge”, Spock answers with a lifted eyebrow and Jim is sure he does it on purpose. He may be controlling his emotions better than an average human, but despite McCoy’s claims, he’s not a computer. He’s distressed as well and seeking for ways to distract himself.
“How much time do we have left?”, Jim reformulates, simply getting rid of the offending phrasing. Everyone knows before what.
“Mister Scott’s newest estimations indicate complete shutdown of all systems in 9.56 hours”, Spock informs him levelly. So at least they’re not going to starve.
“Any ideas what might prolong this rather unimpressive time period?”, Jim asks lightly, as if he’s not speaking of the imminent death of everyone onboard. With the exception of those who’ll take the escape pods and live several hours longer.
“We may use protective suits”, Spock observes flatly, “but personally, I would recommend foregoing this measure. I see no point in furthering a situation so devoid of dynamism and hence, offering so few possible openings.”
“Well, as long as we’re not dead there’s hope”, Jim delivers the line everyone is expecting from him. Before the conversation takes them any further, the turbolift swooshes open and admits Admiral Ledoux, smiling despite the hopelessness of the situation.
“Good morning”, he says, sitting at Uhura’s empty chair by her dead console.
“It better be good, since it’s bound to be our last”, Sulu mutters under his breath. Jim glares at him, but the admiral laughs softly, clearly unoffended by the disrespectful tone. The man really is a darling. At least they’re not stuck in their dying hour with one of these self-important, bossy admirals Starfleet Command is so full of. Small mercies.
“Have you ordered evacuation yet, Captain?”, Ledoux enquires politely. Jim slowly shakes his head. Evacuation is really a last resort. They only have a hundred pods, he’ll have to make the computer draw the names, or if the computer is no longer available, then write them down on a piece of paper and draw the traditional way. He won’t have his crew fight over who will be shot into space to die alone after longer agony… He doesn’t even know if it’s a privilege or if they’d prefer to stay and die together. But evacuation is part of the protocol in such a situation and he’ll have to order it soon.
Suddenly, something strange happens. The ship shakes, the air around them feels weird, as if there’s an electric current passing through the bridge. And not only that – Jim suddenly feels dizzy and nauseous, and judging by the others’ expressions, he’s not the only one. Even Spock looks paler that moments before.
“What the fuck is just happening?”, Jim asks in astonishment.
“Unknown”, Spock answers unruffled. “But if I were to offer a conjecture, I would say that we are being scanned.”
“We’re… what?” Jim is afraid he’s going to puke on the deck, in front of all his crew and the admiral. The turbolift opens to admit a disheveled and disturbed McCoy.
“Is it now?”, he asks enigmatically. “Are we falling apart? Jim, I wanted you to know…”
“In nine hours, Bones”, Jim interrupts him. Syrupy goodbyes are the last thing he needs right now. “Or maybe not, if Spock’s conjecture is correct.”
“The hobgoblin’s guess?”, McCoy translates. “I admit usually they’re quite reliable. After all, he’s the replacement computer of this ship… Is the air filtering down already? It stinks here.”
“The current deterioration of the ambient conditions is, quite exceptionally, not due to any malfunction of our systems”, Spock explains.
“Oh? So we have more problems than malfunctioning… everything?”, McCoy enquires sarcastically.
“Captain”, the admiral interrupts suddenly, looking at the communications board that suddenly comes to life. “We are being hailed… And our communications console seems to have received power from some external source…”
“Get Uhura”, Jim snaps, because if someone is hailing them, a communications officer is a real asset, especially one as good as Uhura. Although a flu-afflicted Uhura might be a whole different matter…
“Unnecessary”, Ledoux answers. “Communications and linguistics were my backup specialization aside from command. I’m probably not half as good as Lieutenant Uhura, but…”
“You’ll do, sir”, Jim answers with a smile, without even wondering about just how irregular it is to employ an admiral he happens to have aboard for accomplishing such menial tasks. From being hailed to being helped, the distance may be longer than one would think, but usually much shorter than the distance from not being hailed to being helped.
“I’m answering the hail. They’re transmitting visual signal as well”, Ledoux says, and the dead viewscreen switches itself on of its own accord. After a moment, it shows the face of an alien in a pleasant environment of colorful curtains and what looks like flowers or trees. The alien himself is definitely humanoid, male, if a flat chest and square jaw are enough to make the conclusion, and overall very interesting visually with his bright purple complexion, green hair, red eyes and strange horizontal wrinkles on his forehead.
“This is James Kirk, captain of the Federation Starship Enterprise…”, Jim says, hardly able to contain his joy about seeing an intelligent, humanoid face in the middle of this godforsaken void.
“Accept our cordial greetings, very attractive aliens”, the man says, pronouncing the words with visible difficulty, but directly in Federation standard, without any translating device. Jim finds it impressive. He dismisses the awkward compliment as a linguistic misunderstanding, or possibly a cultural difference. “Does James Kirk speak in the name of his people?”
Jim is about to say yes, but he suddenly remembers that Admiral Ledoux, who outranks him and has about forty years of experience over him, should probably be the one handling this first contact. Ledoux is visibly of the same opinion, because he comes down from the comms console and stands next to Jim’s chair. Jim stands as well, excited and nervous.
“Captain Kirk speaks for this vessel and its crew”, the admiral explains, “and we all speak for the Federation, but I am the leader here. Admiral Antoine Ledoux.”
“Very well”, the purple man answers with a pleasant smile. He looks mostly at Ledoux now, but his gaze wonders toward Jim all the time. “We have analyzed your vessel and your life forms to learn what you are and how you communicate. We like your language, it is precise yet surprising. But your vessel does not seem to function within its optimal parameters.”
“Indeed not”, Jim says, amused by the understatement. They must have analyzed Spock’s speech patterns as well. “We would be very grateful for your help.”
“Your technology is alien to us”, the man answered, “but we believe to understand how it works. We find you interesting and attractive and are very curious and enthusiastic to meet you and help you. But we shall only ever maintain any form of contact if you respect our conditions and customs.”
Jim’s smile fades a little. There’s no telling what these conditions and customs might be. But at this point, they have literally nothing to lose. Ledoux seems to be of the same opinion, because he answers:
“Of course. How do you propose we proceed?”
“I will transport you to my ship”, the alien replies. “Antoine Ledoux, James Kirk, do you wish to take someone else?”
Jim would rather not. There’s always danger in a contact of this type – they know nothing about these aliens, their true intentions, their mysterious customs… Better expose less of the crew. But of course there’s Spock requesting permission to come with them, and McCoy, visibly anxious, his medikit at the ready, volunteers as well.
Ledoux permits them to come and whispers to Jim that he’s in command of the landing party, and Jim only nods. To be honest, he’s relieved Ledoux will be in charge – there’s much at stake, the guy seems like he knows what he’s doing, and if the aliens choose not to help them after all, Jim doesn’t want to be responsible. Sulu’s and Chekov’s hopeful, overjoyed looks tell him just how high expectations this unexpected contact stirred in his crew, and it’s unsurprising: this is the miracle he has been covertly counting on.
The transport is immediate and smooth – they don’t even experience the momentary disorientation that usually accompanies their own beaming process. Jim is amused to remark a glimmer of approval in McCoy’s eyes: now the doctor will have another reason to hate their regular transporter, claiming that the alien ones are better. But comparing transport technologies is an endeavor for another time – right now, they have more pressing issues.
They are in a rather spacious, circular room of a rather unfamiliar aspect. No technology of any kind is visible anywhere, the walls are all decorated with beautiful tapestries, covered somewhat messily with a jungle of exuberant, fragrant, exotic plants sneaking and writhing in all directions. There is a long oval table with chairs in the middle, as well as some other pieces of furniture in the corners – a desk, several stools, a shelf, an armchair, some shapes of unknown functionality. Their style is very ornate and rather weird, and the material used for their production impossible to determine.
At one side of the table, standing in front of their chairs, there are five aliens, among whom the one whom they saw on the viewscreen. All seem to be male, if conclusions can be made based on a comparison to human built, and Jim certainly prefers not to broach the subject at this point. Their skin color varies from light pink to deep purple, but their eyes are all red and their hair, all green, albeit in different lengths and styles. Jim notices their hands have six fingers each. The alien familiar from earlier circles the table and approaches them, an expression of open curiosity and benevolence written across his face.
“Welcome aboard the Ninth Sky City”, he says pleasantly. He comes very close to every one of his guests in turn, looking them deep in the eyes and stroking their faces, caressing their cheeks. Jim feels uncomfortable, but seeing that Ledoux endures the observation stoically, he does the same, although it’s slightly more difficult for him, because the alien pauses longer at his face, gazing deep into his blue eyes like he hopes to find something inside. Spock is the only one who flinches away from the touch, and the alien doesn’t insist. Jim is relieved for Spock.
“And how shall we call you?”, the admiral asks. “Do you have a name?”
“You mean, an individual name?”, the alien wants to make sure. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, so let’s settle for John. You can address me as John One, and my friends here present as John Two, John Three, John Four and John Five. Our people call themselves the Verdani, and our planet is Verdana.”
“Very well, John One of Verdana”, Ledoux acknowledges. “Our two officers whom you don’t know are called Spock and Leonard McCoy.”
“Greetings, greetings”, John One says cheerfully. “I know that you need help, but as I said before, we shall talk about this only if you respect our customs first.”
“We will”, Ledoux confirms his earlier declaration. “What do you require of us?”
He’s so utterly unafraid, he probably thinks he’ll be expected to drink or eat something or maybe listen to some planetary anthem or pay respects to some divinity. Or maybe he’s unafraid because he knows that fear wouldn’t help anyway, Jim doesn’t know which, but he admires the admiral’s attitude nonetheless.
“We require you to mate with us”, John One explains politely. “One of you will do, since I believe to understand from our initial scan that your culture doesn’t practice such custom.”
“Indeed we don’t”, Ledoux answers once he’s past the initial shock. He’s no longer smiling, but he still seems confident. Jim doesn’t feel confident – on the contrary, he feels a rush of panic invade him as he mentally analyses the request.
“You can refuse”, John One allows like it’s no problem at all. “In this case, we will send you back to your vessel and cease contact without any harm.” Cease all contact, like it’s no problem at all. The bastard knows he’s their only chance.
“Surely, there is something else we can offer as a token of our good faith”, the admiral says, serious but still calm. “Once we’ve regained our power, we can replicate…”
“We too have matter replicators, Antoine Ledoux”, the alien interrupts him, still benevolent. “We have scanned your ship, we have downloaded your computer library for study, so we already have more data about your culture than we will be ever motivated to read. You have nothing else onboard that could be of value to us. But we find you very attractive, and would like to mate with you for pleasure – no reproduction could happen between our species anyway. No harm will come to you, and if you agree, you can count on our help.”
“We don’t even know if you have what we need”, Ledoux stalls for time. The alien considers this.
“I surmised you need some sort of hypersonic crystal to power your warp drive and your ship… It won’t be a problem. Your sensors don’t work, so you might not be aware of the proximity of our planet, but we’re orbiting it now, and I’ve caught your ship in tow so that it doesn’t drift away while we talk. Verdana has enough hypersonic crystals to power a thousand starships like yours.”
“If there are so many, is it fair to refuse them to people in need?”, Ledoux tries to appeal to the alien’s decency, but the reaction is a laugh.
“Is it fair to expect something, but refuse to share a resource that is… fully renewable?”, John One requests. “We only mean to mate with one of you once, here, and then you’re all free. We’re not asking that one of you stay permanently. If you can’t agree to a pleasurable, harmless act in the name of paying for what you claim you need, then perhaps after all, you don’t need it so badly… You decide. I you accept, James Kirk is our choice. His eyes are quite incredible, and his thoughts have an appealing energy to them.”
Jim feels his heart sink. From the beginning, he knew it would have to be him. Admirals don’t trade their bodies for anything, and he would never accept such outrage to happen to Spock or McCoy, to his friends. But the thought of being used like a cheap whore…
The admiral turns to look at him. He really tried to reason with them, Jim admits. But the aliens’ argument is unbeatable: they can demand what they want, simply because the humans have no choice. If they asked for Jim’s head on a plate, Jim would have to agree all the same, because his head, just like his ass, can’t be compared to the lives of everyone onboard, him included. Pure mathematical logic says he must agree.
“Captain, I can’t order you to do it…”, Ledoux says quietly, his cheeks burning. This must be awkward for him, too. Jim doesn’t answer. He knows he must accept, he should be happy there’s finally something he can do to save his ship and crew, but damn, this is just so hard.
“Think of it like just another assignment”, the admiral continues. “I would really prefer to refuse, but you know as well as I that we just can’t afford it… It will be over in a few moments, and all your crew will have a chance to live to see their grandchildren… You owe it to them, Captain. They count on you.”
Jim isn’t really sure if his crew is counting on him to buy their survival with his body, but then he remembers the relieved, hopeful glances Sulu and Chekov threw him just before the transport, reflecting normal human faith in the benevolence of fellow sentient creatures, but also faith in him, that he will seize any opportunity to save them from this shit. And so he should…
“It’s a little mean of you, you know”, he hears himself say with cutting sarcasm, “to use your advantage like this instead of just doing the right thing and helping out those in need… I don’t think the Federation will want you in their ranks with such a mindset.”
“We are not interested in federating our worlds to anyone”, John One explains benignly. “I realize that you are unwilling to give us pleasure, but I still believe that expecting a service, one must present the payment chosen by the person whose service is needed. You can always walk away.”
‘Like hell I can’, Jim thinks. The admiral’s glance makes itself more pressing, more urgent. What if the aliens are discouraged by Jim’s fussing and take their offer back?
“Maybe I could do?”, McCoy suddenly offers.
And then Jim immediately knows that he must agree, because he knows McCoy isn’t volunteering because he finds the aliens hot, but because he’s losing faith that Jim will do what is required to save his crew, and McCoy has saved too many of this crew too many times to just accept all his efforts be ruined by Jim’s exaggerated modesty. So Jim swallows his pride and gets over himself and stops being a baby and puts on his best smile and protests:
“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it. I agree.”
‘Suck it up, Captain Kirk’, he thinks bitterly. ‘What is it? Not prepared to live up to your reputation from the Academy? You used to like aliens, remember? Gaila was a treasure… So what if it’s more people, whom you’re not attracted to, whom you don’t want, and who don’t give a damn about what you want? You’ll pretend to want! You’re lucky what they asked for their help is something you can actually give, and not something very valuable, either…’
“Excellent”, the alien replies, reaching out to caress Jim’s face again. Then, he simply grabs Jim’s arm and leads him, tripping over his feet in distress, to the other side of the room, behind the oval table, where the four remaining Johns are licking their lips in joyous anticipation.
“Undress”, one of them says simply. Logically, of course Jim knows that his clothes will be in the way and they’ll want them removed, but he’s so panicked that he doesn’t move. His uniform is the only thing between him and the most outrageous assignment he has ever received. Instinctively, he grabs the fabric of his golden tunic, the symbol of his position and power, and clutches at it protectively.
“Come on, strip”, John Three urges him. “We want to see you.”
“Just do as they say, Captain”, the admiral says. “And try to relax, it’s usually easier this way.”
Jim knows it’s true, and he hopes the advice is meant in good faith, but somehow, he finds it outrageous. He can’t relax, and he doesn’t want it to be easier. He doesn’t want it to be easy to sacrifice his body and his dignity like it’s worth nothing, although he knows it isn’t actually worth that much. But the admiral is right: he must do as they say, or they’ll change their mind and pick McCoy, or withdraw their offer of help altogether.
He removes the golden tunic and the black undershirt, and his well-toned chest earns him gasps of approval from the aliens. Spock, McCoy and Ledoux are all gazing at him, concerned and vaguely encouraging. Before he continues, he asks the aliens:
“Could my friends not watch it? I mean, it’s embarrassing…”
“We’d rather stay”, Ledoux answers pointedly. Of course, they probably want to be able to monitor the situation in case the aliens get carried away too much. It’s probably safer this way, but if he really has to be fucked by five weird horny aliens, he’d really rather not do it in front of his superior and his subordinates. Certainly not in front of his heartthrob, his crush, his secret love.
But it has been decided, and there’s no time to lose – they only have nine hours left, and the mating will take some of the precious minutes, so he might as well stop stalling. He removes the rest of his clothes and just stands there naked, embarrassed beyond description, humiliated and distressed while his tormentors circle him, scrutinizing him with excited curiosity, prodding and poking like he’s a monkey in a circus, or a piece of meat on the market.
Their touches soon become more pressing, more daring, more intimate, and their expressions lose this look of calm benevolence to take one of greedy, hungry lust that will only seek immediate satisfaction, without regard for anything else. Jim breathes through being observed, caressed, fondled and squeezed by five sets of hands, kissed everywhere by five sets of lips, licked by five rough tongues, but he cries out when John One bites the juncture of his shoulder, really hard, breaking his skin and making blood trickle down his chest. He didn’t agree to being eaten… although he probably would have, too, if that had been their request, so maybe he shouldn’t protest.
“Careful! You promised not to harm him!”, McCoy points out.
“We will not”, one of the Johns assures negligently. “It’s just a minor injury, posing no danger to his overall health…”
As if to prove his words, he bites Jim as well, and Jim manages to stifle the reaction and suffer in silence, because why worry his friends… When a third John bites his nipple, he yelps again. But it only starts getting worse from there on, and he tenses and stiffens as they explore his body with increasing brutality, without sparing the most delicate, the most sensitive parts, and all Jim can do is not to struggle, but he sure as hell isn’t helping, either.
Not that the Johns seem to care. As a small mercy, they don’t seem to give a damn about Jim’s lack of reaction as long as they can do as they please with his body – what they seem to want is really more a pleasing piece of meat than a responsive mating partner. Jim can give them this much. Despite the constant and insistent stimulation, he’s too distressed to even get hard, and prefers it that way.
When one of the aliens roughly shoves two fingers inside him, forcing his way in despite the fierce resistance of clenched muscles, Jim gets a foretaste of the ordeal that awaits him, physically. It’s been years since he’d last been with a man, and these guys here just don’t seem to be excessively mindful of his comfort.
“You are very tight”, John One compliments him obscenely, to the great excitement of the other Johns. Jim is unceremoniously bent over one of the unnecessary pieces of furniture clattering the room – a desk of sorts, that now seems emphatically less unnecessary – and he realizes that his ass is now on display, not only for the aliens.
At least he’s facing the floor, and he can briefly permit himself to let his misery show, confident that no one will notice. As hands knead, pinch, then slap his ass none too gently, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to concentrate on the fact that they’re gonna get plenty of nice dilithium crystals and no one’s gonna choke to death of underpowered life support systems.
Then he feels something pressing against his entrance, something notably sturdier and harder than a finger, and he braces himself for the pain even as he hears McCoy shout:
“Hey, you’ll hurt him! You need to prepare him!”
But obviously, their hosts really don’t give a damn, because before McCoy even finishes the sentence, Jim feels a hard, unyielding length brutally breaching the tight entrance and immediately making its way deeper, deeper, wreaking havoc and leaving burning, stinging pain in its wake. Jim screams like he’s being split in two, but it becomes even worse when his tormentor begins to thrust, driving his organ in and out of Jim with mindless enthusiasm.
“Stop! Please! Slow down! Give me time to adjust!”, Jim pleads, his voice a tearful shriek.
His plea is simply ignored, and John One continues pounding into Jim like he’s an inanimate object, like he has no feelings, at least not feelings worth taking into account. His entire body is brutally rocked into the desk, black bruises blooming where his hips are being repeatedly driven into the sharp edge, and blood shows up. Jim tries to stabilize himself, to at least spare himself the pain of his bruised hips being constantly aggravated, but he’s too shocked, too limp to offer any resistance – he just rolls with his tormentor’s violent movements and whimpers and yelps and moans.
These could almost be taken for sounds of pleasure, he realizes. And no matter how badly it hurts, somewhere deep inside there’s pleasure mounting, too. His own cock has now caught up with the ruthless stimulation, and hardened against the unyielding surface of the desk. As soon as Jim’s ready, he allows himself to come, because they didn’t forbid that and he knows he couldn’t control it for long anyway. It’s humiliating, yes, but being publicly fucked by a stranger for others to watch is already so humiliating that he really hardly cares. He just wants it over it.
But John One has incredible stamina for his ostensible impatience. He goes on and on, his hands exploring tortuously Jim’s aching body, long nails scratching his skin until it bleeds, ruthless fingers squeezing his bitten and bloodied nipples until he literally sobs with pain. At one point, the alien grabs Jim’s hair and tucks at it and painfully twists Jim’s head to look him in the face, and Jim is frightened and disgusted to see the lustful, pleased expression in the red eyes – a pleasure that Jim is forced to share to a degree, but that he doesn’t want and the most horrible thing in this whole mess is the extent to which these beings don’t care for what he wants.
Looking Jim in the eyes, John One finally achieves his completion, and pumps what feels like tones of hot sticky semen inside Jim’s abused channel. Finally letting go of Jim’s hair, he withdraws, leaving Jim’s hole open and leaking. There’s a substantial quantity of blood mixed with the semen. Jim tries to get up, but a hand pushes him down and another excited cock enters his torn, oversensitive channel, making him scream again.
And then he learns the hard way that it can still become worse when John Three grabs his hair and pulls his face up against his swollen organ, that is immediately pushed inside Jim’s mouth and down his throat, making him gag and choke. Then they both move at a breakneck pace, using their hands in ways that never fail to make him even more miserable. He can’t take any more of this… He begins to think he won’t survive it, and he just hopes it’s true. He won’t be ever able to look his friends in the face again.
As if through dense fog, he hears John One say in the background:
“I’m satisfied, even though I have hoped for a little more response. While my friends take their turns, we can discuss what you need of us to put your ship in proper condition to take you back to your own territory.”
“At least three dilithium crystals”, Ledoux answers, his voice stumbling, but only slightly. “Raw materials to help patch up primary hull damage we sustained. Some specialized parts that you probably can replicate if our engineer helps you with the program. Any information you might have about our attackers would be appreciated as well.”
“It will all be done”, John One assures, but Jim stops paying attention to the rest of the conversation as his two tormentors decide to switch sides, and start comparing their impressions about each of his holes.
“His throat is tighter. Twitches quite pleasantly when he gags. And he has beautiful lips, I like the sight.”
“Agreed. His ass, however, is so perfectly round and firm! And you can fuck it without holding back. Feels so good!”
“He takes it all. He’s tight but flexible. His skin is so soft… Too bad we can’t keep him…”
They switch sides several times, unable to decide which of his holes is better, and Jim at least can take a normal breath while they change position. He tries to concentrate on the conversation in the background, on the exotic plants covering the walls with their fragrant exuberance, but it doesn’t help, all that he can feel is pain and utter objectification as his body is being raped carelessly, over and over. It’s not rape when it’s consented, he reminds himself, because he did consent to this. Therefore, he’s not being raped, but used like the whore that he is.
The two Johns are finally done, in precise coordination, and Jim is forced to swallow the foul sticky release of one of them, while the other’s load floods his martyrized insides, already full from before. By this point, he’s so bruised from being pounded into the harsh surface that he just prays that they allow him to change position for the next round. He wants to ask for it, but he finds himself unable of coherent speech.
He's fortunate this time: the last two Johns flip him to his back without asking for his opinion. With his legs lifted so high they press against his bruised torso he isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s better than having his mangled hips pounded into the desk again. When John Four penetrates him, he isn’t even sure if it hurts anymore, with his muscles stretched, all the blood and come for lubrication and the tears and abrasions so many that the entire area becomes kind of numb.
The bad thing is, John Five takes his mouth upside down, and he doesn’t like this angle, gagging and choking all over again, the same as the first time. When they pick up pace, his head spins, and he tries to brace himself with his hands against the desk, but he’s rocked against it anyway. The position leaves his chest and his cock on display, vulnerable to all the wicked ministrations his rapists – no, they paid to acquire his services, they aren’t rapists – want to subject him to.
And they want a lot. His cock and his balls are manipulated so expertly that he comes twice in a row, the second time painful and almost dry, but the first enough to cover him all over with the proof of his pleasure. He briefly thinks about how he looks for his friends, for his secret crush, spit roasted and debauched, a bruised and bloodied mess covered thickly with his own come as well as the Verdani’s. At least now, he knows that the end is near, and he repeats it to himself every time John Four, now bent over his chest, bites him bloody in rhythm with the thrusts.
And finally, at long last, it’s over. The last two Johns explode inside him, leaving some release to generously sprinkle his face and hair as well, and then he’s left alone, open and empty and broken on the desk sticky with his blood and come. His clothes are given back to him, and he puts them on, ruining them with all the filth that he’s covered with, and then he tries to go back to the part of the room where they first materialized, but his ass and lower abdomen hurt so bad that he stumbles and drops to his knees with a gasp.
John One approaches him and hauls him to his feet by grabbing his arm.
“You can join the talks, if you want. We enjoyed you.”
Jim feels like punching him, but only laughs stupidly instead. Of course they enjoyed him. Obviously, the bastards don’t have reciprocity or consent in their repertoire. Although, he thinks bitterly, they did make him come, multiple times, so maybe they assume he enjoyed himself as well. Maybe they’re not entirely wrong – hard to tell when a slut enjoys himself and when it’s just business.
Dragged by the Verdani, Jim is able to reach the other side of the oval table, where his three companions are still seating, analyzing some documents and figures. They all stare at him, and Jim is shocked by how the look in their eyes changed after his forced show of talents.
Admiral Ledoux sizes him up with a lopsided, mocking grin, and gives him a thumbs up congratulating him for his performance. But… the admiral was the one who encouraged him, who told him it was necessary, just like any other task… How can he mock Jim now? Well, Jim thinks he probably deserves it. It’s one thing to dispose of someone else’s ass and another one to give one’s own ass away for an orgy.
McCoy, of whom Jim expected some offer of help, some fussing, some compassion, humiliating but comforting, hardly looks at him at all. He seems nervous, which is understandable under the circumstances, but something more is amiss about him. The way he averts his eyes, pretends not to see Jim’s ruined form, Jim’s pleading eyes, has something extremely alienating about it.
So as a last resort, Jim turns to look at Spock. Spock may not return his stupid crush, and much less now that Jim is damaged goods – as if he ever was undamaged – but Spock is always loyal, always kind… And no, Spock doesn’t look away. His black eyes shine with anger, and Jim would think it’s against his tormentors, but somehow, he suddenly knows it’s against him. Deep in the Vulcan’s gaze, beyond a layer of dark fury, there’s something more: undisguised, unrepressed lust, frightening in its intensity, insatiable, burning and unforgiving.
Ledoux’s and McCoy’s behavior hurts Jim, like another blow dealt to an already defeated, broken victim. But Spock’s look makes him shudder with terror. Overwhelmed, weakened by blood loss and malnutrition, hurting all over, confused, Jim slumps to the floor unconscious.