Gutter
Title: Gutter
Rating: M
Warning: Rape, depression, hope and lack there of
Disclaimer: No.
Summary: Written for prompt here. Basically, emotionally abused Kirk, with history of sexual abuse. He thought he was over it, but it comes back after something bad happens. More or less.
I once
dreamed of a world
without consequences
without reminders
of this
brutal
gutter
I am collapsed in
once I dreamed
but then
I
woke
up
-“Gutter”, OTEP
They kept coming. Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to drown in the warm, wildfire liquor contained within the tiny shot-glasses, tipped over and breathing it in… It looked like water, but it was too thick, and the taste wasn’t right; fire on his tongue and in his belly, a sour feel left behind that made his mouth heavy.
Sometimes, it wasn’t the clear not-water, but a beautiful amber color. He picked it up and stared through, looking for little bugs trapped from a million years ago or maybe fossils salvaged by tree sap too hard to drink. But he does drink it, and thinks that it might be sap, too, if it was sweeter and didn’t have that horrible burning aftertaste.
Truly, he doesn’t know why he drinks. Maybe to pass the time, maybe it’s something to do. He doesn’t know anymore, and he thinks that maybe he never knew. Maybe there had never been a reason. But then he looks at the empty glasses that are too many to count and hopes that maybe there is a reason he’s this miserable.
He takes another drink, swallows hard, and feels it burn all the way down his throat, settle in his stomach. There is pressure on his bladder; he thinks he has to piss, but that could just be the liquor, and he doesn’t want to let go of any right now, so he holds it and moves on to the next glass. This one’s more sour than the others and it makes his eyes water. He imagines that’s what he’s going to taste like in the morning and wonders what beautiful stranger is going to wake up to the glory of his hangover.
When he licks his lips he can already taste it, the dried cum and stale beer and the hard liquor he has tried so hard to drown in. It must be wonderful to die, he thinks. But then he laughs, a spiteful sound, and he expects the barmaid to look at him, but she must be used to him by now. She grins at him, a sad smile if anything, and he knows he’s been thinking aloud, whispering and laughing like a crazy man.
“It must be wonderful to live.”
And this time, he knows he speaks. Even though it’s a barely more than a whisper, he knows she hears it.
There are eager-eyed whores in front of his house. Friday, his mind tells him. Friday, so that all the boys with big cocks can fuck him till he’s numb and can’t cum anymore. He stares at them in his alcoholic haze, half hard at the thought, and they’re rubbing together now, and he can see the swellings between their thighs. There are many, maybe too many, but it doesn’t
matter anymore.
They hold him down, put him in bonds and hurt him like he’s never been hurt, and then they’re fucking him, all at once and two at a time and three at a time and he can’t cum because they won’t let him, holding him too tight. He’s red and swollen and dripping and bent in such a way that he could suck himself off if not for someone else already fucking his mouth.
There’s fire and friction and he can feel the spasms of his body meet the spasms of everything that’s fucking him as they fill him with hot liquid geysers of lava. He chokes at the feel of it filling his throat, and then it’s running out of his nose and he can’t breathe and they’re still fucking him and he hasn’t cum yet…
It hurts now, hurts worse than before, and there are tears and his throat is raw. He doesn’t know how many are inside of him, pressing and twisting and holding him so tight that he’s sure his dick must be purple, but they’re coming again and he can’t help but wonder if it’s blood or cum running down his thighs, or maybe some mix of the two.
Then they’re gone, taken his money and left him there, open and gaping and limp; he finds it hard to move or speak. After what seems like too long, he unfolds himself and lets his hips fall to the floor again, bony and sharp and uncomfortable. It hurts to move, to breathe, but, slowly, he crawls his way to the bathroom. He hasn’t made it to the toilet by the time he realizes he has to puke, and by now he’s sure he’s pissed himself. He tells himself he’ll deal with the mess in the morning.
He sleeps on the floor of the shower that night, just like every Friday, and wonders what it would really be like to die or to live, because he doesn’t know the difference anymore, or if there is a difference. Vaguely, he wonders if that matters anymore.
What would his father think of him now?
-
He has breakfast with his mom the next morning, and if she notices the changes, she doesn’t show it. More than anything, she probably just thinks he’s gotten into another brawl, as he is so prone to do.
His jaw still hurts, and despite having brushed his teeth several times, he can still taste sex on his tongue. It gives a strange aftertaste to the eggs, but he’s used to it now… he’s been used to it for far too long.
His mother tells him Frank is out drinking with his friends, as usual. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows what will happen if he sticks around after lunch.
His mom puts him to work, thatching the roof and cleaning the stalls, and before he knows it she’s calling him in for something to eat. Frank is home, and he’s brought a friend, a cop, the same one he met when he was eleven. He tries to breathe but it’s too hard when he knows who’s watching.
His mother has to run into town to get something, Frank volunteers to go with her, and the cop promises that he’ll keep an eye on the kid. Rudely, he thinks he’s not a kid, but it doesn’t matter when he’s the only one who knows it.
He remembers the words before they’re said, remembers the roughness before it begins. He’s still sore from last night, still stretched, but realizes that it might make things worse rather than better. He’s right.
This time, he knows its blood between his thighs, and it feels good in a terrible kind of way. The cop is grunting above him, thrusting, so he pushes his ass into the air to meet him, makes the noises he’s supposed to while trying to hide the tears.
To think he’d almost escaped - a month’s worth of leave to fix up the ship and he’s reduced to being a broken sex doll again.
He’d been talked into it, that first night at the bar after being gone for three years - a bunch of his old friends, in a back room. He’d said no, but they’d thought it was some kind of role play, so they made the most out of his resistance.
After all - why would Jim Kirk not want sex?
They’d fucked him like the whores did, fucked his face until his lips were chafed and bleeding, fucked his ass until he couldn’t cum anymore. They’d laughed too, at how much of whore he’d turned into, ready and willing and pliant, with his cock begging more than his mouth.
It’s a horrible feeling, makes him feel sick and disgusting when he cums from the friction of the cop’s skin slapping against him. The only thing he can think as his thighs shake beneath him, threatening to fail, is that it’s good that the carpet was taken up last year because he’s just made a mess.
The floor is wooden, a beautiful cherry oak that his mother always preferred for her furniture, but now, if he doesn’t clean it up soon, it’s going to be stained white and red. The cop doesn’t stop until he collapses, legs spread so that his cum can gush out of the boy.
He is so filled by the thickness of the cop that he’s almost surprised that there’s room enough to spread him wider, the cop’s thumbs pushing in and stretching so that he can watch himself fuck a bloody hole.
Jim moans because it feels good. He tries not to grimace because he doesn’t want it to.
“That’s right,” the cop rasps, rolling his hips so that Jim can feel that he’s still hard, that he’s not going to stop anytime soon. “Fucking whore, slut - you like that don’t you? Just like your daddy, huh boy?” He accented his words with a deep thrust that made Jim gasp - half in pain, half in pleasure. “Worthless, good-for-nothing-ugh!”
Jim shuddered, heard the smack more than felt it bruise against his thigh as he was pulled against the firm, sweaty body behind him. He was hard and weeping, and the cop laughed at it, touched and twisted until Jim thought his dick would start bleeding. He was smacked again, face pushed into the mess he’d made.
It was his fault, all his fault, always, and he didn’t need to be told twice to clean it up. It was horrible and gross, and he could tell his mom hadn’t swept yet because he could feel dirt scraping against his tongue, along with the acrid taste of his blood and the mix of cum.
He barely shifted, but it was enough to start the fluids flowing down between his thighs. It was uncomfortable and disturbing, but he was used to it, fallen back into his old ways, his conditioning.
By the time his mom and Frank got home, the floor was clean and they were sitting at the kitchen, pretending polite conversation.
No one suspected anything.
-
He really couldn’t get a break, could he?
The whip cracked across his back, ripped skin away from his bones; he barely winced. His wrists hurt, raw and bloody and probably fractured, restrained above him and holding his entire weight up from touching the floor.
Or the ground, it was hard to tell in the darkness of the cell.
He was still drowsy from the drugs his captors had administered when they caught him, but he was aware enough to know what they were doing to him. He screamed at them - or he thought he did, because he couldn’t tell if it was all in his head or
not.
It’d be wonderful if they were alien, he thought, if they were something other than human, but they weren’t, and he could feel it as they pushed their way inside him, the shapes and the textures and…
Bile rose in his throat as he felt two of them alternately shift inside him, grunting against his skin. Another was poking at his erection, biting it, he realized, and it made him cry out. It gave them an open opportunity to shove fingers into his mouth, to grab his tongue and to stroke his throat.
He coughed, tried to dislodge them, but they only pressed harder into his mouth, into his ass. There were tears in his eye as he tried to turn his head, tried to make them stop as they tore him wider with a third cock forcing it’s way in.
Blunt fingernails bit into his cheeks, pulled at his lips. Blood filled his mouth as he fought to stay conscious. It was excruciating, the pain filling him and the voices in his head that talked down to him.
Whore, they said. Slut. No-good-worthless-bitch. You just want something thick slammed up in you? Fill your hole? Make you cum? And there’s dark laughter in the back of his mind that makes him want to scream. It’s all you’re good for, all you’ll ever be good for. You deserve this, you want it.
His eyes are open and unseeing. They won’t close, and he doesn’t feel anything anymore, doesn’t even feel his own orgasm peaking and exploding into the mouth biting down on him, doesn’t feel the combined explosions of the cocks inside him, doesn’t feel the phaser fire blasting by him, doesn’t feel his lips moving as he whispers the words that he’d been told too often.
He becomes nothing when he’s cut loose, his bones as limp as the words that run garbled together. He’s so gone, in fact, that the doctor doesn’t even have to put him out when he’s being fixed.
Only… there’s no fixing this.
-
The first time it happens is when he’s eleven. He’s just driven his dad’s car over the quarry of the closed mine in his first act of rebellion against Frank. He flew, too, and it made him alive.
He decides he likes the feeling of the adrenaline pumping through his veins, but it doesn’t last long, because the cop - though seeming amused at first - is rough with wild eyes. It scares Jim into doing what he says, and as he’s fucked into pliant complacency, screams tear his throat apart and his little fists are useless against the massive body trying to smother him.
The first time, the cop uses a condom so as not to leave evidence in case Jimmy has the nerve to turn him in. He doesn’t, though, because he’s too scared. He’s told he’s worthless, that his body wanted what it got because he’s a whore.
Jim doesn’t believe him, doesn’t want to. But the more he gets in trouble, and the more the cop picks him up, the more be starts to believe it. Other words come into play, and they only degrade him further.
The cop breaks Jim down and then rebuilds him, molds him so that he gets what he wants, they both get what they want. Jim has no say in how his body is used, and the cop knows people, and they use him too.
They all call him names and tear him down until the only way he knows he’s alive is when the pain becomes too much.
So, when he’s old enough, he starts going to the bars, picks up a girl, picks up a guy, sometimes picks up a few to lose himself in the welcoming warmth for a few hours. Most of the townies know him, even though he doesn’t go too often.
The cop makes weekly visits. “To check up on him,” he tells his mother, tells Frank. Sometimes he gets a week off, can do what he wants without worry of being raped by the bastard Frank calls a friend. They’re both bastards, but at least his stepdad doesn’t try to fuck him.
He’s told so much that he wants a big cock to tear him apart, to fill him and rip him open - it’s the only thing that he searches for anymore. Occasionally, though, he gives in to a beautiful girl, if she’s willing.
The dark beauty in front of him, refusing the shot of Jack he’s trying to buy her, won’t have him, turns him down with a talented tongue that he’d like very much to get to know.
But then there’s a guy grabbing him, and for a moment he thinks it’s that bastard cop, but the red uniform tells him its not.
Jim sizes him up, like he’s so used to doing to the men that are going to be fucking him, and he’s not surprised that this guy might just be able to do it for him.
Next thing he knows he’s being slammed against a table, against the bar, against the floor, and he’s thinking it would be totally erotic if only there were dicks being thrown at him rather than fists. But the fists work for him, better than the sex, because being constantly beaten makes him feel alive, makes the adrenaline flow. And he’s not degraded.
Much.
Later that night, after the old man who used to know his father gave him that knowing look, dared him to do better, the cop stops by his place, fucks him so hard that it hurts to ride his bike the next morning to the shuttle that almost leaves without him.
-
It takes almost three years to get over the fact that he’s not something to be used. He’s not accustomed to the feeling of being liked for who he is, of being loved, but he can’t focus too much on that because an overemotional Romulan decides to take his anger out on Vulcan.
As soon as Bones sneaks him onto the Enterprise he doesn’t stop thinking, doesn’t stop moving, and the fire burning through his veins is enough to convince him that he’s alright, if a little worse for wear.
After he’s made captain, there’s a month of leave. He remembers what it’s like to be a teenager, to be a kid. By the time he’s back on his ship, he forgets he’s a captain, and every planet they come to, there’s someone there to make him feel like he doesn’t deserve to live, doesn’t deserve the accomplishments. He welcomes the feelings with his legs spread wide and his head hung low.
-
Jim’s heart is beating so rapidly that Bones can’t slow it down. The captain’s just laying there, though, lips moving in haunted whispers and eyes unblinking. He hasn’t slept in three days, neither of them have.
The bruises have healed, if still slightly tender, and he’s no longer bleeding, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. The only wounds left are the ones a doctor can’t fix, can’t see. And even if he could see them, Bones thinks, it wouldn’t matter, because Jim wouldn’t let them show. He’s good at hiding things, especially things about his past.
Bones can’t know how long this has been happening, can’t even begin to guess at how deep the trauma extends because emotional damage doesn’t show up on a tricorder. Spock won’t do anything, either, claiming it’d be an invasion of privacy, and any arguments that it could help Jim are not considered until an old Vulcan who looks a hell of a lot like Spock beams aboard.
He knows something, is Bones’ first thought, because while the doctor stands on one side of Jim, the Ambassador stands on the other with tears in his eyes.
“I don’t know that I can help him, doctor,” the old man croaks, fingers shaking. He hasn’t touched Jim yet, but he doesn’t have to.
“How long?” But Bones isn’t sure he really wants to know.
“Far too long,” is the only answer that he gets, and cryptic as it is, he thinks he can understand.
-
“I might throw up on you.”
It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, but the way this man says it, the way he explains the only place he has left, makes him smile.
This man is different, this Leonard McCoy, not like the Starfleet security officer who beat him up last night, or like Captain
Pike who can see through him and see his father in him while still seeing Jim.
Pike had rescued him, probably knew it, too. He seemed like a sly bastard, Jim thought, had explained his father’s situation, how it had happened to George too, by one of his classmates. Jim had shuddered, knew it had to be the same guy, but didn’t tell Pike that. He took the dare, the deal that if he did it in three years he’d become someone. If he got away from the cop…
This man didn’t know George Kirk though, didn’t know Jimmy. He only sees what’s in front of him, sees Jim Kirk. It’s time to start over. It’s the whole point of leaving Iowa, of leaving Earth and joining Starfleet.
He’s started anew, moving on in the same way this guy he’ll call Bones is. He’s never needed anyone before, but he figures a friend can’t hurt, so he shakes the offered hand, and wonders what his future is going to be like.