fic: Anemoi 1/3
Title: Anemoi (part 1/3)
Author: writteninhaste previously feathergirl89
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: dub-con/non-con. Violence. Explicit sexual situations. Mirror!Verse
Summary: The McCoy’s are old Georgia money. They breed their men sharp, and smart and vicious; their women cunning, enticing and full of sin. They stand three steps away from the throne of the Empire - bound by blood and marriage; the twisting heat of the strong south wind.
Notes: Memory Alpha lists the age difference between Kirk and McCoy as being 6 years .
Written for this prompt over at issenterprise kink meme 2.0
x-posted to issenterprise and kirk_mccoy
Anemoi
The ballroom was a glittering swirl of power, lust and sin. McCoy arched an eyebrow in mild appreciation as one of the Orion slave girls slunk past him - gold sash doing its best to cover the very barest of essentials below her hips. The woman gazed at him appreciatively through her lashes and McCoy turned away disinterested; it was no fun when they were willing to spread their legs so quickly. Besides, Orion blood was a bitch to get out of the sheets.
The music ended and McCoy stepped up towards the dance floor. Guests parted in a silent wave, leaving the way clear for Clayton Treadway and his dance partner. Jocelyn Darnell spun towards McCoy in a flurry of aqua silk and Caribbean-blue eyes. McCoy caught her with a hand possessively against her hips as Clay smirked knowingly at him. The laughter bleed rapidly from McCoy’s eyes, his face slipping into a blank passivity that had made the lesser minions of the Empire piss themselves. Jocelyn’s smile cracked slightly as it sat upon her cheeks; mouth too stiff and too taut for the gesture to look natural. Clayton raised his hands in mocking surrender and sauntered away to where the youngest daughter of the Walker family was hovering by her father’s arm. The man paled dramatically as Clay held out his hand for a dance, but there was little he could do but hand the girl over like a common mare. The child would be ruined by the end of the night - but that was hardly McCoy’s concern. The Treadways stood below the McCoy’s on the rungs of the Empire; what did Leonard care where Clay stuck his prick at the end of the night as long as it was not in one of McCoy’s toys?
Curving Jocelyn’s hand into the crook of his arm, McCoy led her to where his father dangled his mother like bait before a ‘Fleet Admiral, Leonard did not recognise. Jocelyn’s nails bit into the tender skin of his elbow and McCoy suppressed a smile. In public she might pretend that the pissing contests between himself and Treadway frightened her, but all concerned knew Miss Jocelyn Darnell could easily slit either of them balls to chin. McCoy liked that in a woman. Jocelyn had sparred with him every step of the way. She knew her worth; knew her family’s standing in the Empire in relation to the McCoys; knew how much she could deny him for all she would never concede without a fight. She kept things interesting. Leonard was sure they would last a good ten - maybe twenty - years before he killed her. Hell, maybe he would do what his father had done with his mother, and keep the woman around simply because she kept trying to poison him at regular intervals.
They reached the group just as the Admiral finished telling some anecdote that had lit a hellish fire in his companion’s eyes. David McCoy’s lips twitched in what most would think to be a hint of mild disdain but which Leonard knew to be a sign of bloodlust and anticipation. His mother looked as though she was contemplating how easy it would be to gut a man without getting blood upon her dress. Their gaze shifted to welcome Leonard, and McCoy ducked his head slightly in response. Honour thy father and mother was a lesson quickly learnt in the McCoy household; those who forgot rarely lived past their sixth birthday. As she caught sight of Jocelyn, Elizabeth McCoy’s lip curled ever so slightly; Leonard felt his escort bristle in response. Good thing neither woman was stupid enough to try and kill the other. The Admiral turned, and McCoy performed the introductions, positioning Jocelyn between himself and his father. He knew the message would not be lost: look at the power base we have assembled - the eldest daughter of the Chambliss family married to the McCoy patriarch; the most promising of all the Darnell sisters, the chosen of the McCoy heir; look at the families we can reach through them - the Sampsons, the MaConarchys, the Vangards, the Mills. We are the pillars of your Empire, we have the ear of your Emperor; don’t forget it.
The music from the orchestra swelled again, and McCoy led Jocelyn onto the dance floor. He had made his point to the Admiral; time to make it to everyone else.
Jim smothered a yawn as yet another prisoner was brought before the Court. None of the punishments were particularly inventive today - he was beginning to wonder why the Empress had demanded his presence. It wasn’t as though he could fuck her with the whole court watching and he sure as hell wasn’t wanted by the Emperor; the old man hadn’t been able to get it up in years - for all that he enjoyed watching nubile young men bang his wife.
The prisoner died with a bloody torrent and a scream, having somehow managed to bite off his own tongue despite the gag. Pity. Jim shifted his position in the shadows as one of the royal children ran past him in order to play in the congealing blood pool. The blood was candy-red and very striking against the pure cream of the child’s gown. The girl slapped artlessly at the liquid; chortling with fiendish glee as it spattered thick and tepid against her face. A row of sharp little teeth were visible behind her thin, pink lips when she smiled.
Cooing, the Empress beckoned the child back towards her feet where the other youngsters sat, whilst the Emperor motioned one of the slaves to begin clearing up the blood. The girl flounced and pouted, but did as she was told, sitting on the dais steps and licking the blood from her fingers in sullen acquiescence. Jim smiled. He’d lay good money against which child would be standing next in line for the throne. Hell, after that little display the Empress might just kill off her myriad of elder children to make way for her. Or not - after all, the child would be stronger for living through a series of assassination attempts.
The main doors to the audience chamber opened and Jim shifted his attention back to the Court. The blood had been cleared away and rows of Imperial men and women were turning to get a better look at the new entrant. Most who came before the Court used the lesser doors - the ones of rich, inlaid, Farrengi wood; polished to a liquid shine. Only one of the four Great Families would be allowed to use the vaulted, beaten-gold doors that served as the main entryway. This was going to be interesting.
The man cleared the shadows that crowded the door; parted the waves of spectators like Poseidon controlling the sea. He stepped beneath the crystal dome of the arching ceiling, light spilling golden and white and broken across his face and Jim realised at once why his presence was demanded here today. The man was tall, broad across the shoulders and lean at the waist. His skin was tan, hair dark and eyes clear. His face was smooth, ruthless and snarling - and that, more than the insignia he wore upon his breast, marked him as one of the McCoy’s. The man raised a hand, pressing it against forehead, lips and heart in a gesture of respect. Jim’s breath hitched in his throat when he got a glimpse of those strong, elegant fingers. If this was who he thought it was, those hands were born to hold a multitude of blades.
“Leonard.” The Emperor intoned, and Jim mentally crowed at having his guess proven correct. “You asked for this audience on very short notice. I trust you have something valuable to say.”
McCoy bowed - a foreshortened, jerky movement that looked as thought it cost him. “Excellency, I seek permission to wed.” Jim grinned as McCoy’s voice grated from his throat. It looked as though it physically pained him to use the honorific; though from the way his gaze swept appreciatively over the Empress he wouldn’t have objected so much saying it to her.
Jim watched as the Emperor sat back against his throne. It was clear he was weighing his options. On the one hand he could deny McCoy the right, thrust a puppet bride at him and hope to control the McCoy powerbase that way. Of course, McCoy might just kill the woman and marry whoever it was he wanted to marry anyway and then the Emperor would be left having to discipline the heir to one of the most powerful families in the Empire. It might work. The McCoy’s might offer their only child to the mercy of the Court, but Jim doubted it. More likely they would buy his penance and corrode the Emperor’s support as they did so.
On the other hand, the Emperor could give McCoy permission and let the family add yet another wealthy and strategic connection to their network. Jim smirked; lose-lose really. The Empress lifted her youngest son onto her lap and began explaining the use of one of her stilettos to him in hushed tones.
The silence stretched across the court, until at last the Emperor waved a magnanimous hand. “Very well, you may marry the Darnell woman, with Our blessing.”
Jim seethed. Darnell. There was only one available Darnell woman of marriageable age - unless McCoy had proclivities no-one knew about - and Jim would be damned if she was good enough to be the McCoy heir’s wife. He’d met Jocelyn during her time at Court - backstabbing, soul-sucking vacuous bitch. She was vicious, malevolent - no doubt appeared on the surface to be ruthless enough for the McCoy clan - but her’s was a single minded wickedness. It lacked wit, or art, or subtlety. McCoy would tire of her within the year. And she would most likely kill him when his boredom began to show. Jocelyn hated to be slighted.
Jim snarled and sunk against the marble wall, nursing his resentment. He did not know McCoy well. Hell, he did not know the man at all. But Jim could taste his savagery upon his tongue. McCoy was an artist - a painter. Jim had heard tales of the modest surgery in the South; the humble torture chamber run by the McCoy clan that doubled as an infirmary when there was actual need. Jim had seen the hide of the man who had tried to touch McCoy’s young cousin against her will. It was poetry penned in blood upon the skin. There was a delicacy to the incisions; an elegant caress, that read more like a lover’s touch than anything else. Watching now, as McCoy ran his thumb across his nails, Jim ached to watch the man at work. It would be like watching Caravaggio or Bernini; what he would not give to learn at DiVinci’s knee.
McCoy’s eyes slid sideways, as though he felt Jim’s gaze, and Jim licked his lips in greed. The Emperor was talking again - some great, prolific speech about rewarding loyalty in the Empire. But Jim paid little attention. McCoy was already aware of him, in some peripheral way - it would not be hard to impose upon him more forcefully.
The Emperor seemed to be wrapping up his speech. “We will send a gift once We are informed of the specific date.”
Even from this distance, Jim could see McCoy grit his teeth as he offered another bow. The gift would no doubt be a promotion or manoeuvring of some sort that raised McCoy family standing whilst inviting them to pour money into the Imperial coffers. From the look on McCoy’s face he knew it, too. “You are too kind, Excellency. Your generosity will be remembered by my family; a debt which will not go unpaid.”
The Emperor smiled with thin superiority, but Jim noticed that the Empress, like himself, had looked up sharply at the peculiar phrasing of the response. Most people would have grovelled or promised specific and luxurious displays of gratitude. But though the words had seemed heavy and foreign - unnatural on McCoy’s southern-honey tongue - they had sounded more like a threat than thanks.
Staring after the man as he marched from the audience hall, Jim wondered - not for the first time - if the McCoy’s were getting ready to shrug off the position of Third Family, and claim for themselves a more prominent seat amidst the Empire.
Jocelyn shrieked as McCoy yanked back the curtain of the old fashioned water shower they kept in the guest suits. He laughed. “Problem darlin’?”
Jocelyn scowled, slamming the knife she’d grabbed off the ledge back down onto the tiles. “Dammit Leonard, you scared me half to death.”
“Only half?” McCoy muttered. “I must be losing my touch.”
Jocelyn huffed, picking up the soap and working it into a lather across her neck and chest. She could hear the soft thump of McCoy’s clothing as it hit the floor; was prepared for the sudden change in air pressure as he climbed in behind her.
Her breath hitched involuntarily as McCoy’s hands skimmed from her ribs to her waist. His fingers ran teasingly across her skin, gliding through the water and leaving fire in their wake. McCoy might be an under-achieving inbred, who wouldn’t know political ambition if it bit him on the arse but at least the surgeon’s training was good for something - he had damn talented hands. The soap fell to the shower floor with a thud as McCoy snaked those long talented fingers between her legs. His tongue flicked teasing strips behind her ear, teeth snagging occasionally at the cartilage even as he worked his fingers deeper. She gasped and bucked as he flicked a nail viciously against her clit, cursing him as his deep laughter rumbled from his chest. The one thing she hated most about Leonard H. McCoy was his ability to sound so very self-satisfied during sex. She could not help but twitch and moan as he brought her off, entering her in one smooth thrust even before the aftershocks of her orgasm had subsided. He kept her pinned against the wall, breasts pressed uncomfortably hard against tiles which were surprisingly cool. The moisture danced across her flesh, even as McCoy’s balls slapped hot against her thighs. His fingers worked another orgasm from her, for all that she fought to deny him. He came with a shout, and four quick, staccato jerks of his hips, before slipping from her sated and spent; the water washing all evidence of their recreation down the drain.
Jocelyn stumbled from the shower not long after, not stupid enough to demand her knife accompany her. Wetting a flannel at the sink, she swiped the damp cloth between her legs before snagging a dressing gown from the back of the door. She could hear McCoy humming some soft, old tune beneath his breath and sneered. Wrapping the belt around her waist, Jocelyn stalked into the guest room she had been given, determined to be gone by the time McCoy was done with his shower.
It was not difficult for Jim to obtain an ‘invitation’ to join one of the Court families at their country home for the summer. He was James T. Kirk - beloved son of the Empire. Once he made his interest known, there was no shortage of households eager to be seen hosting the current favourite of the Emperor.
The Abbott house was one of the old plantation homes nestled in acres of farm and woodland. It made security a bitch but the aesthetic was quite pleasing. There were no women in the Abbott house worth speaking of - a few maids, the toys of Abbott’s middle son - but his wife was years gone in her grave and there were no daughter’s to cause concern. A lesser man may have feared also for his sons, but Jim had seen Bill Abbott train his children - they could hold their own. Besides, Jim rarely fucked the same person twice.
Jim learnt his way around Atlanta quick enough. He made note of a few bars where his fights might go unnoticed and unpunished, but focused most of his attention of tracking Jocelyn Darnell. The woman seemed primarily concerned with forging her connections through the social events and political machinations of the city. McCoy occasionally was with her, but for the most part they stayed separated unless it was an evening gathering. The eldest of the Abbott sons had some interesting speculation as to Miss Darnell’s involvement with young Mr Treadway, but in the same breath doubted that either one of them was stupid enough to piss off McCoy. Yet, both seemed to regard the man with condescension - as though he were the lesser threat, not them. Jocelyn in particular seemed to miss the subtle sadism that Jim could feel ooze from McCoy’s very veins. Treadway was just stupid.
The rendezvous, when Jim discovered them, were almost insulting in their blatancy. Nights when McCoy played doctor or inquisitor; afternoons when both Darnell and Treadway were supposed to be socialising at the club; mornings when Jocelyn pretended she was planning for the wedding. Still, perhaps Jim gave them too little credit. They had fooled the McCoy’s after all and that was no mean feat.
The note was bland, and seemingly innocuous. McCoy ran a tricorder over the damn thing to check for poisons anyway. Snatching the envelope from where it was pinned to the door, McCoy broke the seal with a flick of his thumb. The handwriting was smooth and elegant - a thick black script rendered in ink. There were a grand total of five words and a picture: Thought this might interest you. McCoy ran his finger over the letters, tracing the paper down towards the embossed emblem pressed into the bottom of the page. Holding it up to the stars, McCoy could just about make out the image in the moonlight: Bernini’s Tiber, wrapped in a snake, holding what appeared to be a Christian cross. A signature - clearly - but one McCoy did not recognise.
The picture was a holo snapshot. Plain, unobtrusive, save for the fact that it show Jocelyn in all her naked glory - spread out across cool, green sheets; clearly expecting company. McCoy’s hand convulsed in to a fist. Flipping the holo over, McCoy read the address printed their in the same neat hand and felt his blood begin to boil. Traitorous bitch.
McCoy’s rage was a beautiful thing to behold. Jim watched from his perch across the street, as McCoy laid the Treadway family to waste. One of the maids, in a show of loyalty, tried to hamstring the doctor as he jabbed a hypospray into her master’s neck. Jim thought McCoy might just spare her for her audacity but was not surprised when the maid’s blood flew in a crimson arc from her carotid artery.
Watching one man reap such damage was incredible. Jim felt a want so violent it was almost alien; the kind of childish gluttony that demanded more,want,now,mine. Jim licked his lips and tried not to come in his pants as McCoy tore into the bedroom cloistering Darnell and Treadway. The woman had the nerve to beg, to try and plead - Jim was almost sorry McCoy killed her so quickly. Treadway tried to leap out the window after that. McCoy hauled him back and stuck a hypo in his neck. Jim watched until the other McCoy men turned up and loaded all the bodies into a truck.
Another glittering ballroom, another society display - but this one had the undercurrent of morbid fear that McCoy enjoyed. His parents were holding court at the far side of the room, waiting patiently as each of their guests came to pay their respects. As if anyone would dare do otherwise.
“You know,” a voice said at his elbow, “when I watched you at the house I thought you’d killed them all then and there. But they’re actually still alive up there, aren’t they?”
McCoy turned to look at the young man, boy really, standing beside him. Blonde, fair, blue eyed - not in the least bit interesting; wearing the Imperial colours - which was. The substance of what the his companion had said sank in. “You were there?”
“Oh yes, I was watching from a tree on the opposite side of the road.” The blonde tipped his head back to get a better look at the night’s entertainment. “Nearly came right then and there. But this is even better.”
McCoy barked a laugh, and followed the kid’s gaze up to where his handiwork hung from the ceiling like bloody chandeliers. The Treadway family (plus one Jocelyn Darnell) swung like broken marionettes - naked and oozing blood from an artful dance of wounds that gaped right down to the bone; a clear warning to those who might be tempted to cheat the McCoy family. The blonde sighed in appreciation and lowered his gaze.
“I don’t suppose you’d be up to fucking me whilst one of them watches?”
McCoy snorted, forcing himself not to laugh too loud, as he turned his attention to the boy. “What are you fifteen?”
The boy pouted, sullen. “Yeah, so?”
“So, I have no interest in children. It’s like fucking a doll - breaks too damn easy.”
The kid bristled, hackles rising. “I’m not a child.”
McCoy smirked, resisting the urge to add insult to injury by patting the boy on the head. He was wearing Imperial colours - McCoy didn’t want to lose a hand to a carefully hidden knife. “Call me when you know how to use what you keep in your pants.”
A slender, calloused hand closed around his wrist. The boy looked up at him with fierce and angry eyes. “My name is James. T. Kirk.” He said, slowly - as though McCoy might need help in understanding the significance.
“James Kirk.” McCoy agreed. “I’ll remember that. Now run along kid, it’s past your bedtime.” Not bothering to wait for a response, McCoy headed off into the crowd. He could feel Kirk’s gaze pressing down on him, until the crush of people hid the kid from view.
James T. Kirk was the current Court favourite - a name to watch in the Empire, if rumour held true.
McCoy saw no reason to watch a spoilt and sullen child.
Part 2
Part 3
Author: writteninhaste previously feathergirl89
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: dub-con/non-con. Violence. Explicit sexual situations. Mirror!Verse
Summary: The McCoy’s are old Georgia money. They breed their men sharp, and smart and vicious; their women cunning, enticing and full of sin. They stand three steps away from the throne of the Empire - bound by blood and marriage; the twisting heat of the strong south wind.
Notes: Memory Alpha lists the age difference between Kirk and McCoy as being 6 years .
Written for this prompt over at issenterprise kink meme 2.0
x-posted to issenterprise and kirk_mccoy
Anemoi
The ballroom was a glittering swirl of power, lust and sin. McCoy arched an eyebrow in mild appreciation as one of the Orion slave girls slunk past him - gold sash doing its best to cover the very barest of essentials below her hips. The woman gazed at him appreciatively through her lashes and McCoy turned away disinterested; it was no fun when they were willing to spread their legs so quickly. Besides, Orion blood was a bitch to get out of the sheets.
The music ended and McCoy stepped up towards the dance floor. Guests parted in a silent wave, leaving the way clear for Clayton Treadway and his dance partner. Jocelyn Darnell spun towards McCoy in a flurry of aqua silk and Caribbean-blue eyes. McCoy caught her with a hand possessively against her hips as Clay smirked knowingly at him. The laughter bleed rapidly from McCoy’s eyes, his face slipping into a blank passivity that had made the lesser minions of the Empire piss themselves. Jocelyn’s smile cracked slightly as it sat upon her cheeks; mouth too stiff and too taut for the gesture to look natural. Clayton raised his hands in mocking surrender and sauntered away to where the youngest daughter of the Walker family was hovering by her father’s arm. The man paled dramatically as Clay held out his hand for a dance, but there was little he could do but hand the girl over like a common mare. The child would be ruined by the end of the night - but that was hardly McCoy’s concern. The Treadways stood below the McCoy’s on the rungs of the Empire; what did Leonard care where Clay stuck his prick at the end of the night as long as it was not in one of McCoy’s toys?
Curving Jocelyn’s hand into the crook of his arm, McCoy led her to where his father dangled his mother like bait before a ‘Fleet Admiral, Leonard did not recognise. Jocelyn’s nails bit into the tender skin of his elbow and McCoy suppressed a smile. In public she might pretend that the pissing contests between himself and Treadway frightened her, but all concerned knew Miss Jocelyn Darnell could easily slit either of them balls to chin. McCoy liked that in a woman. Jocelyn had sparred with him every step of the way. She knew her worth; knew her family’s standing in the Empire in relation to the McCoys; knew how much she could deny him for all she would never concede without a fight. She kept things interesting. Leonard was sure they would last a good ten - maybe twenty - years before he killed her. Hell, maybe he would do what his father had done with his mother, and keep the woman around simply because she kept trying to poison him at regular intervals.
They reached the group just as the Admiral finished telling some anecdote that had lit a hellish fire in his companion’s eyes. David McCoy’s lips twitched in what most would think to be a hint of mild disdain but which Leonard knew to be a sign of bloodlust and anticipation. His mother looked as though she was contemplating how easy it would be to gut a man without getting blood upon her dress. Their gaze shifted to welcome Leonard, and McCoy ducked his head slightly in response. Honour thy father and mother was a lesson quickly learnt in the McCoy household; those who forgot rarely lived past their sixth birthday. As she caught sight of Jocelyn, Elizabeth McCoy’s lip curled ever so slightly; Leonard felt his escort bristle in response. Good thing neither woman was stupid enough to try and kill the other. The Admiral turned, and McCoy performed the introductions, positioning Jocelyn between himself and his father. He knew the message would not be lost: look at the power base we have assembled - the eldest daughter of the Chambliss family married to the McCoy patriarch; the most promising of all the Darnell sisters, the chosen of the McCoy heir; look at the families we can reach through them - the Sampsons, the MaConarchys, the Vangards, the Mills. We are the pillars of your Empire, we have the ear of your Emperor; don’t forget it.
The music from the orchestra swelled again, and McCoy led Jocelyn onto the dance floor. He had made his point to the Admiral; time to make it to everyone else.
Jim smothered a yawn as yet another prisoner was brought before the Court. None of the punishments were particularly inventive today - he was beginning to wonder why the Empress had demanded his presence. It wasn’t as though he could fuck her with the whole court watching and he sure as hell wasn’t wanted by the Emperor; the old man hadn’t been able to get it up in years - for all that he enjoyed watching nubile young men bang his wife.
The prisoner died with a bloody torrent and a scream, having somehow managed to bite off his own tongue despite the gag. Pity. Jim shifted his position in the shadows as one of the royal children ran past him in order to play in the congealing blood pool. The blood was candy-red and very striking against the pure cream of the child’s gown. The girl slapped artlessly at the liquid; chortling with fiendish glee as it spattered thick and tepid against her face. A row of sharp little teeth were visible behind her thin, pink lips when she smiled.
Cooing, the Empress beckoned the child back towards her feet where the other youngsters sat, whilst the Emperor motioned one of the slaves to begin clearing up the blood. The girl flounced and pouted, but did as she was told, sitting on the dais steps and licking the blood from her fingers in sullen acquiescence. Jim smiled. He’d lay good money against which child would be standing next in line for the throne. Hell, after that little display the Empress might just kill off her myriad of elder children to make way for her. Or not - after all, the child would be stronger for living through a series of assassination attempts.
The main doors to the audience chamber opened and Jim shifted his attention back to the Court. The blood had been cleared away and rows of Imperial men and women were turning to get a better look at the new entrant. Most who came before the Court used the lesser doors - the ones of rich, inlaid, Farrengi wood; polished to a liquid shine. Only one of the four Great Families would be allowed to use the vaulted, beaten-gold doors that served as the main entryway. This was going to be interesting.
The man cleared the shadows that crowded the door; parted the waves of spectators like Poseidon controlling the sea. He stepped beneath the crystal dome of the arching ceiling, light spilling golden and white and broken across his face and Jim realised at once why his presence was demanded here today. The man was tall, broad across the shoulders and lean at the waist. His skin was tan, hair dark and eyes clear. His face was smooth, ruthless and snarling - and that, more than the insignia he wore upon his breast, marked him as one of the McCoy’s. The man raised a hand, pressing it against forehead, lips and heart in a gesture of respect. Jim’s breath hitched in his throat when he got a glimpse of those strong, elegant fingers. If this was who he thought it was, those hands were born to hold a multitude of blades.
“Leonard.” The Emperor intoned, and Jim mentally crowed at having his guess proven correct. “You asked for this audience on very short notice. I trust you have something valuable to say.”
McCoy bowed - a foreshortened, jerky movement that looked as thought it cost him. “Excellency, I seek permission to wed.” Jim grinned as McCoy’s voice grated from his throat. It looked as though it physically pained him to use the honorific; though from the way his gaze swept appreciatively over the Empress he wouldn’t have objected so much saying it to her.
Jim watched as the Emperor sat back against his throne. It was clear he was weighing his options. On the one hand he could deny McCoy the right, thrust a puppet bride at him and hope to control the McCoy powerbase that way. Of course, McCoy might just kill the woman and marry whoever it was he wanted to marry anyway and then the Emperor would be left having to discipline the heir to one of the most powerful families in the Empire. It might work. The McCoy’s might offer their only child to the mercy of the Court, but Jim doubted it. More likely they would buy his penance and corrode the Emperor’s support as they did so.
On the other hand, the Emperor could give McCoy permission and let the family add yet another wealthy and strategic connection to their network. Jim smirked; lose-lose really. The Empress lifted her youngest son onto her lap and began explaining the use of one of her stilettos to him in hushed tones.
The silence stretched across the court, until at last the Emperor waved a magnanimous hand. “Very well, you may marry the Darnell woman, with Our blessing.”
Jim seethed. Darnell. There was only one available Darnell woman of marriageable age - unless McCoy had proclivities no-one knew about - and Jim would be damned if she was good enough to be the McCoy heir’s wife. He’d met Jocelyn during her time at Court - backstabbing, soul-sucking vacuous bitch. She was vicious, malevolent - no doubt appeared on the surface to be ruthless enough for the McCoy clan - but her’s was a single minded wickedness. It lacked wit, or art, or subtlety. McCoy would tire of her within the year. And she would most likely kill him when his boredom began to show. Jocelyn hated to be slighted.
Jim snarled and sunk against the marble wall, nursing his resentment. He did not know McCoy well. Hell, he did not know the man at all. But Jim could taste his savagery upon his tongue. McCoy was an artist - a painter. Jim had heard tales of the modest surgery in the South; the humble torture chamber run by the McCoy clan that doubled as an infirmary when there was actual need. Jim had seen the hide of the man who had tried to touch McCoy’s young cousin against her will. It was poetry penned in blood upon the skin. There was a delicacy to the incisions; an elegant caress, that read more like a lover’s touch than anything else. Watching now, as McCoy ran his thumb across his nails, Jim ached to watch the man at work. It would be like watching Caravaggio or Bernini; what he would not give to learn at DiVinci’s knee.
McCoy’s eyes slid sideways, as though he felt Jim’s gaze, and Jim licked his lips in greed. The Emperor was talking again - some great, prolific speech about rewarding loyalty in the Empire. But Jim paid little attention. McCoy was already aware of him, in some peripheral way - it would not be hard to impose upon him more forcefully.
The Emperor seemed to be wrapping up his speech. “We will send a gift once We are informed of the specific date.”
Even from this distance, Jim could see McCoy grit his teeth as he offered another bow. The gift would no doubt be a promotion or manoeuvring of some sort that raised McCoy family standing whilst inviting them to pour money into the Imperial coffers. From the look on McCoy’s face he knew it, too. “You are too kind, Excellency. Your generosity will be remembered by my family; a debt which will not go unpaid.”
The Emperor smiled with thin superiority, but Jim noticed that the Empress, like himself, had looked up sharply at the peculiar phrasing of the response. Most people would have grovelled or promised specific and luxurious displays of gratitude. But though the words had seemed heavy and foreign - unnatural on McCoy’s southern-honey tongue - they had sounded more like a threat than thanks.
Staring after the man as he marched from the audience hall, Jim wondered - not for the first time - if the McCoy’s were getting ready to shrug off the position of Third Family, and claim for themselves a more prominent seat amidst the Empire.
Jocelyn shrieked as McCoy yanked back the curtain of the old fashioned water shower they kept in the guest suits. He laughed. “Problem darlin’?”
Jocelyn scowled, slamming the knife she’d grabbed off the ledge back down onto the tiles. “Dammit Leonard, you scared me half to death.”
“Only half?” McCoy muttered. “I must be losing my touch.”
Jocelyn huffed, picking up the soap and working it into a lather across her neck and chest. She could hear the soft thump of McCoy’s clothing as it hit the floor; was prepared for the sudden change in air pressure as he climbed in behind her.
Her breath hitched involuntarily as McCoy’s hands skimmed from her ribs to her waist. His fingers ran teasingly across her skin, gliding through the water and leaving fire in their wake. McCoy might be an under-achieving inbred, who wouldn’t know political ambition if it bit him on the arse but at least the surgeon’s training was good for something - he had damn talented hands. The soap fell to the shower floor with a thud as McCoy snaked those long talented fingers between her legs. His tongue flicked teasing strips behind her ear, teeth snagging occasionally at the cartilage even as he worked his fingers deeper. She gasped and bucked as he flicked a nail viciously against her clit, cursing him as his deep laughter rumbled from his chest. The one thing she hated most about Leonard H. McCoy was his ability to sound so very self-satisfied during sex. She could not help but twitch and moan as he brought her off, entering her in one smooth thrust even before the aftershocks of her orgasm had subsided. He kept her pinned against the wall, breasts pressed uncomfortably hard against tiles which were surprisingly cool. The moisture danced across her flesh, even as McCoy’s balls slapped hot against her thighs. His fingers worked another orgasm from her, for all that she fought to deny him. He came with a shout, and four quick, staccato jerks of his hips, before slipping from her sated and spent; the water washing all evidence of their recreation down the drain.
Jocelyn stumbled from the shower not long after, not stupid enough to demand her knife accompany her. Wetting a flannel at the sink, she swiped the damp cloth between her legs before snagging a dressing gown from the back of the door. She could hear McCoy humming some soft, old tune beneath his breath and sneered. Wrapping the belt around her waist, Jocelyn stalked into the guest room she had been given, determined to be gone by the time McCoy was done with his shower.
It was not difficult for Jim to obtain an ‘invitation’ to join one of the Court families at their country home for the summer. He was James T. Kirk - beloved son of the Empire. Once he made his interest known, there was no shortage of households eager to be seen hosting the current favourite of the Emperor.
The Abbott house was one of the old plantation homes nestled in acres of farm and woodland. It made security a bitch but the aesthetic was quite pleasing. There were no women in the Abbott house worth speaking of - a few maids, the toys of Abbott’s middle son - but his wife was years gone in her grave and there were no daughter’s to cause concern. A lesser man may have feared also for his sons, but Jim had seen Bill Abbott train his children - they could hold their own. Besides, Jim rarely fucked the same person twice.
Jim learnt his way around Atlanta quick enough. He made note of a few bars where his fights might go unnoticed and unpunished, but focused most of his attention of tracking Jocelyn Darnell. The woman seemed primarily concerned with forging her connections through the social events and political machinations of the city. McCoy occasionally was with her, but for the most part they stayed separated unless it was an evening gathering. The eldest of the Abbott sons had some interesting speculation as to Miss Darnell’s involvement with young Mr Treadway, but in the same breath doubted that either one of them was stupid enough to piss off McCoy. Yet, both seemed to regard the man with condescension - as though he were the lesser threat, not them. Jocelyn in particular seemed to miss the subtle sadism that Jim could feel ooze from McCoy’s very veins. Treadway was just stupid.
The rendezvous, when Jim discovered them, were almost insulting in their blatancy. Nights when McCoy played doctor or inquisitor; afternoons when both Darnell and Treadway were supposed to be socialising at the club; mornings when Jocelyn pretended she was planning for the wedding. Still, perhaps Jim gave them too little credit. They had fooled the McCoy’s after all and that was no mean feat.
The note was bland, and seemingly innocuous. McCoy ran a tricorder over the damn thing to check for poisons anyway. Snatching the envelope from where it was pinned to the door, McCoy broke the seal with a flick of his thumb. The handwriting was smooth and elegant - a thick black script rendered in ink. There were a grand total of five words and a picture: Thought this might interest you. McCoy ran his finger over the letters, tracing the paper down towards the embossed emblem pressed into the bottom of the page. Holding it up to the stars, McCoy could just about make out the image in the moonlight: Bernini’s Tiber, wrapped in a snake, holding what appeared to be a Christian cross. A signature - clearly - but one McCoy did not recognise.
The picture was a holo snapshot. Plain, unobtrusive, save for the fact that it show Jocelyn in all her naked glory - spread out across cool, green sheets; clearly expecting company. McCoy’s hand convulsed in to a fist. Flipping the holo over, McCoy read the address printed their in the same neat hand and felt his blood begin to boil. Traitorous bitch.
McCoy’s rage was a beautiful thing to behold. Jim watched from his perch across the street, as McCoy laid the Treadway family to waste. One of the maids, in a show of loyalty, tried to hamstring the doctor as he jabbed a hypospray into her master’s neck. Jim thought McCoy might just spare her for her audacity but was not surprised when the maid’s blood flew in a crimson arc from her carotid artery.
Watching one man reap such damage was incredible. Jim felt a want so violent it was almost alien; the kind of childish gluttony that demanded more,want,now,mine. Jim licked his lips and tried not to come in his pants as McCoy tore into the bedroom cloistering Darnell and Treadway. The woman had the nerve to beg, to try and plead - Jim was almost sorry McCoy killed her so quickly. Treadway tried to leap out the window after that. McCoy hauled him back and stuck a hypo in his neck. Jim watched until the other McCoy men turned up and loaded all the bodies into a truck.
Another glittering ballroom, another society display - but this one had the undercurrent of morbid fear that McCoy enjoyed. His parents were holding court at the far side of the room, waiting patiently as each of their guests came to pay their respects. As if anyone would dare do otherwise.
“You know,” a voice said at his elbow, “when I watched you at the house I thought you’d killed them all then and there. But they’re actually still alive up there, aren’t they?”
McCoy turned to look at the young man, boy really, standing beside him. Blonde, fair, blue eyed - not in the least bit interesting; wearing the Imperial colours - which was. The substance of what the his companion had said sank in. “You were there?”
“Oh yes, I was watching from a tree on the opposite side of the road.” The blonde tipped his head back to get a better look at the night’s entertainment. “Nearly came right then and there. But this is even better.”
McCoy barked a laugh, and followed the kid’s gaze up to where his handiwork hung from the ceiling like bloody chandeliers. The Treadway family (plus one Jocelyn Darnell) swung like broken marionettes - naked and oozing blood from an artful dance of wounds that gaped right down to the bone; a clear warning to those who might be tempted to cheat the McCoy family. The blonde sighed in appreciation and lowered his gaze.
“I don’t suppose you’d be up to fucking me whilst one of them watches?”
McCoy snorted, forcing himself not to laugh too loud, as he turned his attention to the boy. “What are you fifteen?”
The boy pouted, sullen. “Yeah, so?”
“So, I have no interest in children. It’s like fucking a doll - breaks too damn easy.”
The kid bristled, hackles rising. “I’m not a child.”
McCoy smirked, resisting the urge to add insult to injury by patting the boy on the head. He was wearing Imperial colours - McCoy didn’t want to lose a hand to a carefully hidden knife. “Call me when you know how to use what you keep in your pants.”
A slender, calloused hand closed around his wrist. The boy looked up at him with fierce and angry eyes. “My name is James. T. Kirk.” He said, slowly - as though McCoy might need help in understanding the significance.
“James Kirk.” McCoy agreed. “I’ll remember that. Now run along kid, it’s past your bedtime.” Not bothering to wait for a response, McCoy headed off into the crowd. He could feel Kirk’s gaze pressing down on him, until the crush of people hid the kid from view.
James T. Kirk was the current Court favourite - a name to watch in the Empire, if rumour held true.
McCoy saw no reason to watch a spoilt and sullen child.
Part 2
Part 3