LISTEN MATE I REALLY WASN’T PLANNING ON IT BUT fuck it, have some medikaz, there needs to be more figging honestly
The thing about Ronan is that his anger never translates through impulsive aggression like Big Boss’s does.
Where
getting on the Boss’s bad side usually results in an impromptu
fistfight, Ronan’s displeasure is always very methodical, controlled,
yet palpably intense, just like his entire personality. Like heavy
tidal waves in slow, perpetual rhythm, contained and predictable, though still unfathomably powerful and capable of sweeping you under any second.
So it’s
with a stuttering heart that Kaz makes his way to his medic’s office,
actually dragging his feet down the hallway like a kid on his way to the
principal, swallowing thickly against the lump of nervousness
constricting his throat.
Any time Ronan says in that carefully modulated doctor’s voice that “I need to see you in my office, Commander,” he knows some form of punishment is in store for him.
It
isn’t like he doesn’t have a choice. He could easily back out of this
strange little arrangement of theirs with no pressure or disappointment
from his medic. Kaz is the Commander, of course. But this goes far
beyond the confines of rank. This is something entirely separate,
personal, an exercise in catharsis and discipline.
The first time
they’d done this sort of thing, it had been unplanned, under-negotiated,
spontaneous, and one of the very few times Kaz had ever seen Ronan act
on impulsiveness out of irritation, a whirlwind of tense but composed
fury and dominance that the medic rarely ever got the opportunity to act
upon. Kaz had admittedly found it a little exciting seeing him that
way, and though it had resulted in a painful crosshatching of tram lines
across his ass that left him smarting for days, what was initially a
surprising reversal of authority became a cherished – if somewhat dreaded – habit.
Though merely being the cause of
Ronan’s disappointment always stung far worse than any punishment he
could ever administer.
Kaz is greeted by the haunted melancholy of
Rachmaninoff emitting softly from the cassette deck on the shelf as he enters – a
taunting representation of foreboding calm. It’s one of many small
reflections of Ronan’s poise, his unwavering composure as the vintage
gentleman, though with some chaotic savagery lurking just beneath the
surface, waiting to be provoked.
The moment the door slides
shut behind him, Kaz descends to his knees at Ronan’s feet, hands
pleadingly clutching his thigh as he demurely keeps his eyes locked
on the medic’s immaculately polished boots.
“I’m sorry,” Kaz whispers, and he feels Ronan’s hand on the back of his head, shockingly tender as it strokes his hair.
“I’m sorry, what?” he says, voice subdued but carrying all the insistence of authority.
“I’m
sorry, Doctor.” He finally raises his eyes, and Ronan is staring down
at him, his mouth a firm, straight line of disappointment, but his face
is still an open expression of sympathy and compassion.
“Will you punish me?” Kaz asks, dropping his gaze to the medic’s boots again.
“Yes, Kaz, of course.” He makes it sound more like a consolation than a warning. “You know what to do, now get to it.”
The
command is finalized by a firm but mildly affectionate squeeze at the
back of Kaz’s head, authoritative fingers tweaking him into action.
Grudgingly, Kaz rises to his feet, still keeping his eyes locked on the
floor, then sluggishly removes his scarf, holster, and officer’s jacket and
carefully lays them on the couch – a luxury the chief of medical staff was afforded for his
office that ultimately turned into a private comfort for the two of them when
they wanted to steal away from Big Boss’s prying eyes – but it wouldn’t
be seeing any use today.
Kaz is actually a little disappointed –
he relishes the intimacy of punishments dealt over Ronan’s knee, and
some small part of him had expected it today, but with no such luck.
He’s even sometimes allowed to choose the implement Ronan punishes him
with, but something tells him he won’t be allowed that luxury today
either.
With trembling fingers, he unfastens his pants and slides
them and his briefs down to mid-thigh before bending himself over the
desk. His face is burning with shame, even though there’s nothing here
Ronan hasn’t already seen – but something about the situation always makes him
feel considerably more exposed. The helplessness and humiliation makes
him feel too much like an unruly child.
“Mm,” Ronan hums, his thumb
lightly caressing Kaz’s bottom, making him shrink away in dreaded anticipation. “Interesting time to be showing modesty, don’t you think,
Commander?” he muses. “You certainly didn’t seem to have a problem
earlier when you were exposing this very backside to the entire base.”
“So I had a little too much to drink, I don’t – ”
“I don’t seem to remember asking you a question,” Ronan says tersely.
Kaz
bites down on his bottom lip and resigns to folding his arms in front
of him so he can rest his cheek on them in defeated silence.
“There
are children present on this base now,” Ronan chides. “That calls for a certain level of decorum the likes of which I’m sure you are very unaccustomed. Shall we begin correcting that behavior?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he mumbles.
To
Kaz’s bewilderment, Ronan doesn’t circle around the desk to retrieve
the rod or the crop that he keeps stashed away in the bottom drawer.
Instead he retreats to the other side of the room, and Kaz’s heart jumps
into his throat when he hears the snap of latex gloves, followed by a
curious splash of water.
Kaz dares a glance over his shoulder and
sees Ronan moistening something in a glass of water, and though he
doesn’t get a good look at what it is, he can at least make out the
general shape of the thing and can deduce where it’s about to go. There’s also a strangely familiar scent lingering on the air that he hadn’t noticed before, an aromatic spice that stirs distant memories from home, lingering just out of reach of conscious recollection so he can’t immediately place it.
He whips back around the moment Ronan turns back toward him, nearly jumping out of his skin when, without any warning, Ronan’s gloved fingers
are spreading his cheeks apart and the moistened implement is pressing
against his hole.
“No lube?” Kaz wonders aloud, his confusion overwhelming any restraint he might have from speaking out of turn.
Surprisingly, his medic doesn’t chide him for it. Instead he continues to calmly work the object in, still cool and moist from the water, though not entirely unbearable as it isn’t nearly as big as the toys they play with, or Ronan’s cock, for that matter.
“No. Lube diminishes the effect,” he says idly, gently twisting the object at Kaz’s opening to work it inside.
What effect? Kaz thinks as a dreadful unease churns the pit of his stomach. He knows Ronan is being intentionally cryptic for a reason.
“Commander. Relax,” Ronan says, and his tone softens just slightly.
It helps, a little. Kaz’s cock twitches at being addressed by his title even as he’s bent and spread over his subordinate’s desk – it’s a small flourish that Ronan uses regularly, just to keep Kaz helpless enough to be pliable. It’s the best way to appeal to Kaz’s kinks, and Ronan knows it.
In reality, this doesn’t feel like a punishment at all. He’d expected to be switched or caned straight away, perhaps even made to kneel and remove Ronan’s belt himself only to be promptly bent over and have his backside thoroughly lashed with it – but that doesn’t seem to be on the agenda today. This is likely another one of Ronan’s teasing games, where he intends to test Kaz’s stamina and edge him until he’s a weeping, begging mess.
He smirks to himself, thinking that Ronan must not know him at all. He can definitely handle it. He’s a sexual martyr, it takes a considerable amount of teasing to break him.
So Kaz relaxes, wills his body slack and resists the nervous instinct to clench against the invading object, and as soon as he does, it becomes marginally pleasant. He flexes a little, arches his hips up to welcome the penetration, but is greeted by a heavy, chastising smack across his ass. It smarts for a fleeting second, but it’s nothing compared to what Ronan’s dealt out in the past. Kaz swallows a short grunt and stills his hips as the object is pushed all the way into him, where it seats itself comfortably inside him.
“You will keep your hands flat on the desk, and hold that position until I tell you otherwise,” Ronan says curtly, then snaps his gloves into the bin and casually circles around the desk to settle down to his paperwork.
This is different. Ronan has never entirely abandoned him before, but at least now that they’re facing each other, Kaz can make some small attempt at catching his eye.
But Ronan seems entirely oblivious to him now, as though he immediately shut off the world around him while he diverts his attention to signing sickbay release forms. Kaz understands that this is likely some exercise in humiliation and restraint, but a rather tame one at that, and he becomes impatient.
“Is this it, then?” Kaz challenges, smirking as he boldly looks into Ronan’s impassive face.
Ronan doesn’t even bother looking up, only continues scribbling signatures and shuffling leaflets of paper from one side of his desk to the other. “Just give it a minute,” he says idly.
Almost as soon as he says it, a ticklish warmth begins to spread in Kaz’s hole, a nagging sensation that’s distantly pleasant even if it is a little annoying. He squirms a little to alleviate the strange tingling sensation, experiments with relaxing around it and clenching up in order to draw out more of the initial pleasant warmth, but instead he’s met with a profound sting, causing him to hiss through his teeth. Relaxing again doesn’t seem to help, and the heat only grows stronger.
“Uh, this is starting to burn,” Kaz warns. “Like a lot.”
“Ah, good.”
This response startles Kaz and it makes him panic a little, and he clenches around the object involuntarily, which makes the heat spike through him again with much more intensity. He swallows his ensuing yelp, mind racing as he tries to figure out what the fuck it was that Ronan shoved up inside him.
There’s that familiar scent still lingering on the air, and with some frantic concentration, Kaz finally places it – ginger. It’s pretty much a staple in Japan, hardly anyone ever cooks without it. He’d recoil in horror at such a grievous abuse of a cherished spice if he didn’t have to expend every ounce of his dwindling fortitude on enduring the still-increasing discomfort permeating his hole. Did Ronan really shove a piece of fucking ginger up inside him?
“Ro, is this gonna hurt me?” he sputters.
Ronan finally snaps his eyes up, a sharp, chastising glance for not having been addressed correctly, though he ultimately ignores the error and returns to his paperwork.
“As in, will it cause you pain?” he says distantly. “Oh yes, plenty. Will it inflict physical damage? No, not at all. It’s perfectly safe, you’ll be fine.”
Ronan’s glib, conversational tone combined with the tranquil melody still playing from the cassette deck is an infuriating contrast to the sensation of his asshole being on fire. Something about it all seems so…dismissive. Kaz has no doubt in his mind that Ronan very deliberately arranged the scene this way to deliver a very profound lesson in self-control.
“Well how long are you gonna make me keep it in?” he squeaks, too frantic to care about the embarrassing crack in his voice.
“Hm. Presumably until the oils deplete. Don’t worry, it doesn’t take long.”
The consolation is effective for all of about ten seconds, though the ever-present heat builds up inside him still, flaring up with such unbearable intensity that he actually considers just pushing the damn thing out himself and dealing with the consequences. The only thing stopping him is the understanding that Ronan likely has more of the hellish little roots already prepared for such an occasion, and he’d likely just start over with a fresh root out of spite.
“Please…” he keens, squirming in place, his fingers clawing at the desktop. “Doctor, please take it out.”
Ronan’s pen stops scratching against the papers, and he pauses for a second before looking up again. He locks eyes with Kaz for an extended, sobering moment – Kaz knows he’s waiting for it, waiting for him to drop the safeword. He has his chance at escape here, and Ronan allows him ample time for it. And Kaz considers it, too – he’s just one small phrase away from instant relief – but he doesn’t take it.
The moment passes, and Ronan keeps his eyes locked on Kaz as he sets down his pen. “No,” he answers simply.
Then the medic leans back in his seat and reaches for the bottom drawer.
Kaz’s heart lurches uncomfortably against his rib cage, he even makes some involuntary whine in the back of his throat as Ronan pulls out the thin rattan rod – the same implement he used on Kaz the very first time he punished him.
“Please…” Kaz begs, but it’s more of a breathless gasp at the dark realization that the punishment hasn’t even truly begun yet.
Ronan calmly rises and circles around the desk, deftly twirling the rod between slender fingers as he comes to stand behind him. He lays a gentle hand on Kaz’s back and caresses him in slow, soft circles, achingly tender amidst the mind-numbing discomfort building inside him.
“Whereabout are you on your pain threshold?” Ronan asks softly.
Kaz huffs out a couple of fortifying breaths. “I’m at a solid amber,” he growls through clenched teeth.
Ronan’s fingers brush a continuous, electrifying caress along Kaz’s spine, and his eyes flutter shut. It’s a small, nearly insignificant comfort, but he cherishes every bit of it.
“Five strokes should be sufficient,” Ronan concludes. His palm smooths down Kaz’s bottom, soft and warm and oh, so pleasant – a charitable reprieve to prepare him for the worst. “As per usual, you will count each stroke aloud. Understand…this will not be pleasant for you.”
Kaz pants heavily through his nose, fingers still grasping feebly at the desktop, and he manages another small whine before answering, “Yes, Doctor.”
He’s entirely unprepared for the first stroke. It comes immediate and swift, almost as soon as he’d responded to Ronan’s strict instruction – a harsh crack that echoes off the walls. His choked declaration of One! is more of a shrill yelp. The unexpected strike naturally makes him recoil and clench up around the root nestled inside him, exacerbating the burn so that his mind goes white with numb shock and pain.
He’s allowed time to collect himself before the second one. Or perhaps Ronan is still banking on that safeword. And Kaz knows most of all that there is no real pressure here – Ronan would never shame him or express disappointment if he used it. And again, he really considers it – this is a type of pain completely new and different from what he’s used to. But still, he bites his tongue.
The next stroke cracks across his ass, mere millimeters above the first stripe. He clenches up again, swears under his breath at how agonizingly close it had landed to the initial stroke, barely having the stamina to choke out a gasping “Two.”
“Are you aware of this practice’s origins?” Ronan asks, his voice infuriatingly tender.
“No,” Kaz groans.
He feels the rod line up against his smarting bottom, where it rests for a moment before Ronan tauntingly drags the rattan over his tender flesh. The burning inside his hole is at a continuous crescendo, and try as he might to not clench up around the root inside him, it’s an unavoidable impulse against the painful threat of the cane.
“The Victorians used it as a disciplinary tool,” he explains, and his hand returns to Kaz’s back to brush another fleeting caress over his skin. “Paired with a thorough caning, a plug of peeled ginger inserted into one’s bottom proved a rather effective form of corrective punishment.”
Figures, Kaz thinks. Ronan had always seemed to him like a man plucked haphazardly out of his own time – as distinguished yet subtly twisted as Kaz knew he was, he could easily picture Ro being a lot more comfortable as a Victorian gentleman. Of course he’d be drawn to their perverse forms of punishment.
The third stroke comes as unexpected and sharp as the first, and it comes with such a cruelly heavy hand that Kaz’s knees buckle a little. He’s sweating profusely, the heat inside him is so intense that he’s actually started weeping a little, there’s no way this isn’t going to cause some kind of damage inside him. He can feel it eating away at his insides, god, it hurts –
“Three,” he manages after finally catching his breath.
“Breathe, Commander. You’re almost done.”
The rod slices through the air again with a perceptible hiss and cracks audibly across his ass, crisscrossing with a previous stripe that elicits another yelp.
“Four!” he sobs, and he buries his face in his arms this time, rubbing his eyes against them to dry the tears streaking down his face.
He’s sure his asshole is going to be burning for days, he’s spasming and twitching around the root inside him almost like it’s giving him convulsions, and he can’t imagine having anything shoved up there again for a long, long while. And on some small, mortifying level, he’s dreading the next time he has to go to the bathroom, because he can’t imagine it will at all be pleasant.
The final stroke is especially swift and sharp, though it mercifully avoids
landing
directly on any previous stripe. He coughs out a final yelp, which dissolves into soft whimpering as he whispers, “Five.”
The root is promptly pulled out of him and disposed of. To his surprise, the unbearable burning subsides mere seconds after the thing has left his body, and all that’s left in its place is a vague, residual warmth. The tracks on his ass are infinitely more painful now, but five strokes is nothing, really.
“All done,” Ronan says gently. “You may get up now.”
The profound effect of immediate relief almost acts as a sedative, and Kaz suddenly feels so drowsy that he hardly has the energy to straighten himself and pull his pants up. Even more troublesome is how his cock had been gradually thickening out through the entire punishment, and now that it’s over, it feels particularly heavy and cumbersome between his thighs, especially with as hypersensitive and receptive as his asshole feels now.
But then he instantly feels the delicate touch of his medic pulling his pants up for him, taking extra care not to let the fabric graze against his sore backside too much, and then he’s being hauled upright before being gently pulled into Ronan’s lap on the couch. A tissue dabs lightly at his face, and Kaz just keeps his eyes closed and leans into it, relishing the heated, insistent throb on his bottom.
“You took it very well,” Ronan praises, and Kaz can’t help his sheepish smile. “Do you think perhaps you’ll reevaluate who you show that bottom to from here on out?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he gasps, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and arousal.
He squirms a little from a sudden sharp stab of pain as the fabric of his clothes rubs against the stripes laid into his backside, and Ronan isn’t entirely unsympathetic. Kaz feels Ronan’s lips brushing rewardingly over his cheek, his jawline, a teasing nip at his neck.
“All right then, Commander,” he breathes against his ear. “Why don’t you pull those pants back down and lay across my lap and I’ll rub something into those welts. You can even grind yourself against my knee while I do it, if you like.”
Kaz doesn’t need to be told twice.
Can You Bring Me The Gun of Rambo? 