Damned
Title: Damned
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek (nuTrek)
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,083
Spoilers: Uh… none really.
Warnings: Frottage, angst, slash.
Disclaimer: Star Trek sure doesn’t belong to me.
A/N: Ok, so brighteyed_jill wrote this story called We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night for the startrekbigbang. It's a fabulous McCoy/Chekov angst fic, and I was one of her betas. She kept promising me that there would be a really hot frottage scene, and I finally got impatient and wrote one of my own before she sent me hers. This was the result. If you read her story, it’s an alternate to the scene in part 4b. If you didn’t read it, click on the link for a quick synopsis before carrying on with your regularly scheduled porn.
Summary: When McCoy won’t take what’s offered, Chekov has to prove how much he wants him.
[Chekov has amnesia and thinks he’s a sex slave named Pasha. McCoy rescued him from slavery and is trying to help him; he likes Chekov, but refuses to take advantage of what Pasha has to offer because he’s being all noble and doesn’t want to take advantage of Chekov while he’s like this. Pasha really wants Bones very badly, and has been hurt and confused that McCoy keeps rejecting his advances. At this point, Pasha confronts him about the situation.]
“I’m Pasha!” Pasha cried, advancing. McCoy sat down on the edge of the bed heavily. “I have tried to remember, try to be what you remembered. I would give anything to be him, Chekov. I want to be who you care about, who you lost, but I cannot. I am-. I am-.”
He was in terror at his own boldness, face hot and flushed from trying to make himself understood.
“Let me, please,” Pasha whispered, close the space between them, settling his hands on McCoy’s shoulders. A neutral touch, non-threatening from McCoy’s strange sense of morality.
“Chekov… Pasha, no. I can’t,” McCoy said quickly, his eyes glued to Pasha’s. His voice said no, but Pasha could feel the tension in McCoy’s shoulders easing as he touched them. His body was saying yes, and for a strange, sickly triumphant moment, Pasha realized that was how his masters had felt about him when they’d tease him into a frenzy. That same feeling of aching and wanting something he was denied. Oh, he was a bad slave, a bad person, not worthy for this, but… He cared, he wanted. Pasha wanted this more than anything in the world, to show McCoy everything he’d been holding back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s the only thing I can do. Just let me show… let me thank you. Please, just let me do this. You asked me what I wanted. I want this.”
McCoy still couldn’t look away as Chekov- no, Pasha -slowly pushed his way between McCoy’s thighs, Pasha’s hands seeming to burn on his shoulders. Stop, no, I can’t let this happen, God dammit, I can’t let this happen. He’s damaged, he doesn’t understand, he’s my slave, he wants me, I want him, not like this-.
I’m a doctor, not a saint!
He couldn’t encourage, that was the sole grace he allowed himself as Pasha look McCoy’s desperate passivity for consent. How many times had he done this, that he was so skilled at eliciting all of McCoy’s hidden desires with just a look and brush of a hand? Did he have any idea what he was doing to McCoy when he bent down to kiss him, lips soft and thorough, exploring every part of his hungry mouth?
He had to know when he leaned into McCoy, bearing him down to the bed, an involuntary groan coming from both of them. The damn Fleet uniforms didn’t hide a thing when they were pressed this close, and McCoy had to jam his teeth together when he felt Pasha’s unashamed arousal next to his own. And, oh God, how long had it taken Pasha to learn just how to move, a delicate rhythmic flicking of his hips, just enough for maddening, teasing friction guaranteed to make McCoy want to grab on to Pasha, hold them together, turn them over, and take everything that had been on offer for these past weeks?
He couldn’t do it, God damn it, couldn’t do it, couldn’t…
“Len, Leonard, please, it is, it feels-,” Pasha gasped. “Good. Please, I want to, want you, please.”
So close, so fucking good, all McCoy had to so was to close his eyes, hear that accented voice, put his hands in those sinful curls and pull.
“I want to…”
I’m not a saint, not anyone’s saint… No saint, but Leonard McCoy couldn’t damn himself either, not with Chekov coming along for the ride.
“No.” McCoy’s voice came out as a tiny echo of his normal voice, a wisp that could barely be heard between the gasps that filled the room. But it was enough, a wedge to regain some semblance of control, to wrench his hips away from Pasha’s clever touch, enough to push himself upright, disentangle himself, and turn away.
“Please, Pavel, I can’t let you.” A protest, a damn hypocritical protest as McCoy desperately pulled his pants open, hissing as he took his cock in hand, rubbing his hand in the same maddening slow pattern that had had him on the brink a few moments before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pasha stared in shock and dismay as McCoy turned away, all protest and bluster, his body aching from the loss of sensation, and his heart feeling like a rock in his chest. He’d thought he’d finally managed to get through, to show what he was best at, how he could make the one person who’d ever cared for him feel good, and now… He tried to stifle a sob, choking himself to silence when he saw McCoy’s arm moving, his back hunched and protective.
Kneeling upwards on the bed, he looked over McCoy’s shoulder, feeling humiliated when he saw McCoy holding himself, face flushed as if ashamed, stroking in the same rhythm Pasha had been using. Was he not enough? Why did he have to be so damn stubborn? Couldn’t he let Pasha close, just once?
Recklessly, Pasha draped himself over McCoy’s back, hands dangling dangerously close to where McCoy teased and stroked himself. McCoy let out a groan almost indistinguishable from pain when he felt Pasha’s arousal pressed into his back, but didn’t jerk away this time.
“I can’t let you, God, can’t you see that? Pavel, I just can’t let you, just not that,” he hissed, using his arms to push Pasha’s hands away from his groin. He sounded desperate, on a knife-edge, but under his hand, his cock was flushed and weeping in the embrace of Pasha’s rhythm.
Pushed away from the intimacy he craved, Pasha pressed his lips into McCoy’s neck, needing to give everything else but what he wasn’t allowed. McCoy shook under every pull of Pasha’s lips, every caress of his hands, every clothed thrust into his back. His master was rapidly coming apart under the force of Pasha’s skill, his devotion, (love), making tiny little mewls of helpless pleasure. Plunging his hands under McCoy’s shirt and tickling up his torso, Pasha felt the strange combination of godly power and a slave’s helplessness.
The feeling, and McCoy’s voice calling out faint curses and encouragements in the same sentence, had Pasha crushing his arms around McCoy as he slammed his hips forward, the long-denied pleasure of orgasm rolling through him, hot and powerful. Watching through the haze of pleasure, he was astonished to see McCoy matching him stroke for stroke, pulsing into his hand with a string of curses and damnations to every holy power he could think of.
“God, Pavel,” he whispered, sagging into Pasha’s grasp with none of his former reluctance. “God damn me.”
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Star Trek (nuTrek)
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,083
Spoilers: Uh… none really.
Warnings: Frottage, angst, slash.
Disclaimer: Star Trek sure doesn’t belong to me.
A/N: Ok, so brighteyed_jill wrote this story called We Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night for the startrekbigbang. It's a fabulous McCoy/Chekov angst fic, and I was one of her betas. She kept promising me that there would be a really hot frottage scene, and I finally got impatient and wrote one of my own before she sent me hers. This was the result. If you read her story, it’s an alternate to the scene in part 4b. If you didn’t read it, click on the link for a quick synopsis before carrying on with your regularly scheduled porn.
Summary: When McCoy won’t take what’s offered, Chekov has to prove how much he wants him.
[Chekov has amnesia and thinks he’s a sex slave named Pasha. McCoy rescued him from slavery and is trying to help him; he likes Chekov, but refuses to take advantage of what Pasha has to offer because he’s being all noble and doesn’t want to take advantage of Chekov while he’s like this. Pasha really wants Bones very badly, and has been hurt and confused that McCoy keeps rejecting his advances. At this point, Pasha confronts him about the situation.]
“I’m Pasha!” Pasha cried, advancing. McCoy sat down on the edge of the bed heavily. “I have tried to remember, try to be what you remembered. I would give anything to be him, Chekov. I want to be who you care about, who you lost, but I cannot. I am-. I am-.”
He was in terror at his own boldness, face hot and flushed from trying to make himself understood.
“Let me, please,” Pasha whispered, close the space between them, settling his hands on McCoy’s shoulders. A neutral touch, non-threatening from McCoy’s strange sense of morality.
“Chekov… Pasha, no. I can’t,” McCoy said quickly, his eyes glued to Pasha’s. His voice said no, but Pasha could feel the tension in McCoy’s shoulders easing as he touched them. His body was saying yes, and for a strange, sickly triumphant moment, Pasha realized that was how his masters had felt about him when they’d tease him into a frenzy. That same feeling of aching and wanting something he was denied. Oh, he was a bad slave, a bad person, not worthy for this, but… He cared, he wanted. Pasha wanted this more than anything in the world, to show McCoy everything he’d been holding back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s the only thing I can do. Just let me show… let me thank you. Please, just let me do this. You asked me what I wanted. I want this.”
McCoy still couldn’t look away as Chekov- no, Pasha -slowly pushed his way between McCoy’s thighs, Pasha’s hands seeming to burn on his shoulders. Stop, no, I can’t let this happen, God dammit, I can’t let this happen. He’s damaged, he doesn’t understand, he’s my slave, he wants me, I want him, not like this-.
I’m a doctor, not a saint!
He couldn’t encourage, that was the sole grace he allowed himself as Pasha look McCoy’s desperate passivity for consent. How many times had he done this, that he was so skilled at eliciting all of McCoy’s hidden desires with just a look and brush of a hand? Did he have any idea what he was doing to McCoy when he bent down to kiss him, lips soft and thorough, exploring every part of his hungry mouth?
He had to know when he leaned into McCoy, bearing him down to the bed, an involuntary groan coming from both of them. The damn Fleet uniforms didn’t hide a thing when they were pressed this close, and McCoy had to jam his teeth together when he felt Pasha’s unashamed arousal next to his own. And, oh God, how long had it taken Pasha to learn just how to move, a delicate rhythmic flicking of his hips, just enough for maddening, teasing friction guaranteed to make McCoy want to grab on to Pasha, hold them together, turn them over, and take everything that had been on offer for these past weeks?
He couldn’t do it, God damn it, couldn’t do it, couldn’t…
“Len, Leonard, please, it is, it feels-,” Pasha gasped. “Good. Please, I want to, want you, please.”
So close, so fucking good, all McCoy had to so was to close his eyes, hear that accented voice, put his hands in those sinful curls and pull.
“I want to…”
I’m not a saint, not anyone’s saint… No saint, but Leonard McCoy couldn’t damn himself either, not with Chekov coming along for the ride.
“No.” McCoy’s voice came out as a tiny echo of his normal voice, a wisp that could barely be heard between the gasps that filled the room. But it was enough, a wedge to regain some semblance of control, to wrench his hips away from Pasha’s clever touch, enough to push himself upright, disentangle himself, and turn away.
“Please, Pavel, I can’t let you.” A protest, a damn hypocritical protest as McCoy desperately pulled his pants open, hissing as he took his cock in hand, rubbing his hand in the same maddening slow pattern that had had him on the brink a few moments before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pasha stared in shock and dismay as McCoy turned away, all protest and bluster, his body aching from the loss of sensation, and his heart feeling like a rock in his chest. He’d thought he’d finally managed to get through, to show what he was best at, how he could make the one person who’d ever cared for him feel good, and now… He tried to stifle a sob, choking himself to silence when he saw McCoy’s arm moving, his back hunched and protective.
Kneeling upwards on the bed, he looked over McCoy’s shoulder, feeling humiliated when he saw McCoy holding himself, face flushed as if ashamed, stroking in the same rhythm Pasha had been using. Was he not enough? Why did he have to be so damn stubborn? Couldn’t he let Pasha close, just once?
Recklessly, Pasha draped himself over McCoy’s back, hands dangling dangerously close to where McCoy teased and stroked himself. McCoy let out a groan almost indistinguishable from pain when he felt Pasha’s arousal pressed into his back, but didn’t jerk away this time.
“I can’t let you, God, can’t you see that? Pavel, I just can’t let you, just not that,” he hissed, using his arms to push Pasha’s hands away from his groin. He sounded desperate, on a knife-edge, but under his hand, his cock was flushed and weeping in the embrace of Pasha’s rhythm.
Pushed away from the intimacy he craved, Pasha pressed his lips into McCoy’s neck, needing to give everything else but what he wasn’t allowed. McCoy shook under every pull of Pasha’s lips, every caress of his hands, every clothed thrust into his back. His master was rapidly coming apart under the force of Pasha’s skill, his devotion, (love), making tiny little mewls of helpless pleasure. Plunging his hands under McCoy’s shirt and tickling up his torso, Pasha felt the strange combination of godly power and a slave’s helplessness.
The feeling, and McCoy’s voice calling out faint curses and encouragements in the same sentence, had Pasha crushing his arms around McCoy as he slammed his hips forward, the long-denied pleasure of orgasm rolling through him, hot and powerful. Watching through the haze of pleasure, he was astonished to see McCoy matching him stroke for stroke, pulsing into his hand with a string of curses and damnations to every holy power he could think of.
“God, Pavel,” he whispered, sagging into Pasha’s grasp with none of his former reluctance. “God damn me.”