Kink Meme fics
De-Anoning on these two suckers :o!
First Sight: Chekov and Sulu meet in a virtual reality environment 2,600 words for this prompt :D
Sulu knows he isn’t hungry, rationally, but he feels like he’s starving and like the sweat on his brow is almost as thick as the thirst in his throat. He knows that none of what he’s seeing is real, but he needs high marks on this training scenario to pass his Environmental Tactical seminar, so his heart is racing like it’s real.
Sulu and all of his unknown peers have been purposefully made so they feel hungry, thirsty, and irritable for this simulation. Everyone is faceless and looks kind of like videogame characters from the 2220s, metallic-looking and dressed in sharp chrome outfits that realistically would never hold up to most planetary conditions. The computer avatars make everyone virtually anonymous, and you’re even supposed to disguise your voice, though Sulu feels embarrassed just thinking about that, knowing someone probably would recognize him anyway.
He looks down as he’s running and is struck by that sense of surreality that hits whenever he’s here. No matter how many hours he spends in this thing, he still feels like he’s running on hollow graphing paper.
He refocuses, which is tough beyond his pounding headache. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says to himself.
In this class, he’s supposed to round up the few peers he can find, form a team, and accomplish an objective. These are supposed to be realistic situations, but mostly Sulu and his classmates are judged on legal minutia and adherence to the prime directive. It’s kind of throwaway training; No one will be as careful on actual missions as they are here.
Sulu is has stopped to breathe, and gaze across the mile wide virtual world when he hears a despicable rumbling sound.
That can’t be-he thinks, but it is, and as soon as he looks up a dozen virtual boulders are falling on him. This is just my fucking luck.
They have the weight of Styrofoam, really, and stack up like bricks before falling on him entirely, but now he’s blocked in by walls of virtual rock. This happens to someone nearly every class and it’s that person’s job to communicate with their peers from the inside, to try and get out. Until someone turns up on his radar, he’s kind of stuck, staring at the solid computerized bulk of the rocks.
But as he looks to his stats, there is someone on his radar. It’s standing right fucking behind him and Sulu turns sharply, staring into the dim features of a blank face he’s never seen.
Sulu jumps: “Ah!”
“Ai!” the computer-person yells back, and the light is closing out fast, the bright impressions of the avatar’s face clinging to Sulu’s vision.
“Shit,” Sulu says.
It’s completely dark within seconds, and this is when it gets weird for Sulu: he’s looking at the empty darkness of the virtual world, but it’s exactly the same as looking at the blackness of his virtual reality mask, and he gets caught up a little between worlds. In a way, though, he’s relieved. Staring at all those straight lines on the ground, the way they disappear into nothing in some faux horizon, it can be a little nauseating.
He can hear the person next to him sigh and the computerized sounds of him sitting near Sulu, against the rock wall. The person sounds close, and Sulu wants to shake his hand in greeting, but he knows the students all have their own booths and none of them is closer than any other.
“Well, fuck,” Sulu says, hoping for an ice breaker, “We’re stuck.”
“Yes,” the person says, and it’s male, a little stilted. He seems a little pissed off, but then, so is Sulu. He’s usually a pretty laid-back guy, but this place is just not his bag. He didn’t earn a PhD in astrophysics and commit the next couple decades of his life to Starfleet just to be walled up for no reason.
Keep calm, he thinks. It’s no use being shitty.
“What’s your name?” he asks, trying to be friendly.
“It’s-hey, that’s cheating!” the voice says, and it’s got a soft accent that Sulu can’t place.
“Fine, fine. What’s your number?”
“C-17,” the voice says, a little haughtily, and doesn’t ask for Sulu’s, which irritates him a little. The game makes them all feel on edge; it’s part of the course. Cooperation despite personal condition, or something.
“Well. Mine’s W-10,” Sulu offers.
“Congratulations, W-10,” the voice says, and it sounds like he’s picking at the rocks. It seems ridiculous that he’s holding up his vocal disguise when they’re locked in a rock wall the size of a closet.
“You know, that’s the most ridiculous accent I’ve ever heard,” Sulu says, and the picking stops.
“Is Russian accent,” the voice says, and the fake stupid accent gets thicker in defense. “I am Russian.”
Sulu snorts. “Yeah, and I’m Polish.”
“What?! Shit, we’ll never get out of here.”
“What? Are you-Wait, what are you doing?”
“There’s a plant here,” C-17 says. “I’m going to eat it.”
“What?” Sulu asks, and wonders if he’s kidding. He also wonders if C-17’s fake Russian is mocking the only Russian student around here, the prodigy that makes everyone else’s life hell with his constant corrections and smugness. The accent’s not ridiculous enough to actually bethat student, but still, Sulu would appreciate the jibe. He works harder than anyone in his year, and it’s a little irritating to be shown up so consistently by a seventeen year old boy who treats the world as if it’s never accommodated his genius well enough.
“Is virtual plant. I am virtual starving. I am eating this,” the voice says.
“Wait,” Hikaru says, “At least let me feel it.”
“Feel it? What the hell for?”
“I’m a botanist is ze hell for,” Sulu says, “It might be a trick, or something. It might be ‘poisonous’.”
“This is absurd,” the voice says, but gives him the plant anyway. It’s a trick of the game that Hikaru can take it from C-17 and feel it in his hands, and Hikaru can tell what it is, a leafy type common on class M planets. He gives it back to C-17, who he can hear chewing it down, but who offers half of it to Sulu, too. Sulu declines but it’s still kind of nice, on C-17’s part.
Once a few classmates pass by the structure, Sulu and the voice are freed easily enough, and The Voice becomes the sort of pale, flat-planed virtual face that Sulu remembers. They join the rest of the crew in the day’s scenario: finding some sort of criminal who’d escaped the fake planet’s trial system. C-17 didn’t seem to enjoy Sulu’s company earlier, but now that they’re with the group, he hangs close to Sulu, and whispers jokes in the fake accent, and when Sulu isn’t as fast as he is, C-17 hangs back a bit so Sulu can catch up. He seems friendlier, and maybe it was the thing with the plant, or how Sulu offered his name even though C-17 didn’t ask. When the group is conflicted about something, Sulu finds himself looking for C-17’s digital face, the image of it still clear to him from when they were caught under the rockfall.
When the day’s training scenario is over, Sulu takes off his mask and stares at it. He wonders what his own avatar looks like. He wonders if C-17 likes it. Then he shakes his head, and leaves the booth.
They have a week left of these day-long training sessions and each becomes progressively more dangerous, but also kind of fun, because he has a friend. C-17 makes fun of the training conflicts and gives the other cadets sarcastic monikers and nicknames-one is Zephram, for his annoying habit of really fucking up xenosensitivity; another is Surak, for her hot temper and her tendency to blow up at the others. It gets to the point that whenever he enters the game, he searches for C-17 on his radar and seeks him out before finding anyone else. C-17 always finds him first. He’s better at running, and at finding things quickly. He’s since disclosed to Sulu that’s he’s on path to navigate a starship. Sulu hasn’t mentioned his field, and this annoys C-17 to no end.
“You know well that this anonymity function is not taken seriously!” he insists, prying at Sulu.
“What about the accent? Should I take your mispronunciation of that W as a personal affront?” Sulu, or W-10, says, and when C-17 trips, Sulu reaches out to catch his elbow and feels nothing but air.
As the days pass, it becomes a little jarring to come out of the virtual program. Looking at his hands is just a little strange, without C-17 being next to him, made of the same material.
The night before the final session, Sulu tosses and turns and thinks. There’ll be no way of finding out who C-17 is after tomorrow; class records are confidential. Sulu will have to ask him, or he’ll have to guess forever. How tall is he? What color are his eyes? His hair? Shit, what if he’s all scales? But no, avatars generally reflect the cadets’ species pretty accurately. More importantly, will Sulu ever associate C-17’s voice with a flesh-and-blood thing? When he pictures him now, it’s pretty lame, but he’s kind of attached to that avatar, that fake-face.
He looks for C-17 the next morning, in-game, and he’s sweating. Luckily, C-17 can’t see that. He wonders if his avatar portrays his emotions as effectively as C-17’s does at times, and worries for it.
When C-17 finds him, Sulu puts a hand on his shoulder, and, smiling, he hopes that whatever C-17 looks like, he might be a little smaller than Sulu. More than anything, after all this distance, he wants to wrap around him so that nothing comes between them, wants to cover him up. It’s a little crazy and he has no idea where it’s come from, but the want is there. They run to find the group together Sulu’s anxieties fall away like so many dead leaves from a tree.
That is, until they’re rather hilariously ambushed: it comes out of nowhere and obviously they’ve saved all the good shit for the final. Sulu pulls his virtual phaser and fires at the suspiciously Klingon-looking group as they lumber toward the cadets, and at the corner of his eye, C-17 falls out of his vision.
“Shit!” he yells, firing shots behind him and forgetting completely that none of this is real; he’s genuinely panicking as he dashes to C-17’s aid.
He’s hanging off a disappearance in the floor of their world, looking at Sulu with panic and holding himself up as if hanging from a cliff. Sulu crouches and grabs his wrist, holding to the tractionless floor with just his knees.
“Let go!” he yells, and C-17 knows what he means, grabs wholly onto Sulu’s wrist. The game is so strange in this; Sulu feels like he’s pulling a weight up by a lever, not like a real body is being hauled up and it’s really not enough for him.
“Thank you,” C-17 says as he climbs to the surface, and Sulu marvels that he’s never given up that stupid accent. Sulu hasn’t let go of him, and he feels the weight slowly disappear. He stares at their hands, can see how they’re entwined, the way they fit around one another, but the only thing he can feel is an emptiness that extends forever, rolling across this visual world.
“What’s your name?” he shouts above the din of the fight, just yards away.
C-17 shakes his head and shoots something over Sulu’s shoulder. They’re in the middle of an exam; no talking.
They fight, they stun, they don’t kill: when a Klingon is defeated he fades away, just like a video game, and Sulu almost expects them to dissolve into piles of coins. C-17 smiles at him when the last one is taken care of, and he starts to walk over, to congratulate him; he has to ask now or he’ll never know:
The setting fades out, and for a terrifying moment, all Sulu can see is a black, graphed out area and he’s totally alone. Then that disappears too, and he takes off his mask, sighing. He’s hungry. He’s tired. He’s being annoyed by a voice that says join your classmates for dinner in room 47B. What?
The meal they’re given tastes like victory. And Salt. The food’s pretty salty here.
Staring around at their classmates, he’s already identified Surak, the girl who snaps for the pepper and grabs it before anyone can oblige, and no one’s how he expected them to look, and he panics, thinking perhaps not everyone is here.
The Russian, the prodigy, he’s part of the class. He’s looking down at his food and Sulu feels actually bad: he must’ve heard C-17 mocking him the entire time they were in the simulation. He’s actually kind of nice looking, the blush that’s clinging to his cheeks, the way his curly hair is falling. Sulu thinks Wait just a goddamn second--and unfortunately he’s interrupted.
“Hey, guys, what were your numbers?” a particularly gangly man with big bug eyes asks, crouching low so the professors won’t hear, nearby.
Sulu’s still feeling like shit from the simulator, and he’s so caught with sudden relief that before he can stop himself, he says, “Oh shut up, Zephram.”
The Russian, Chekov, Sulu realizes, he laughs aloud while everyone else goes quiet, and he says, “You’re not Polish!” and his laugh becomes ten times more beautiful as Sulu listens. Sulu laughs back and C-17 takes his hand from across the table, only now it’s Chekov, and Sulu can feel the warmth and the weight of his palm, and all the relief that comes with holding it.
Sulu doesn’t know why, but he decides that once they’ve left, he’s following Chekov. Chekov apparently agrees and he waits for Sulu outside the door; they end up walking the grounds for hours, laughing on adrenaline and coughing on the foggy air.
“You know, you look better than your avatar,” Sulu says, smiling at Chekov’s face, which is red from the cold.
“You look much more Russian this way,” Chekov nods, and Sulu laughs hard, clinging to his hands, so solid and smaller than Sulu’s, like Sulu had wished.
“Maybe I will miss you, though,” Chekov says. “The way you looked, when I met you.”
“You’d met me before,” Sulu says, and it’s true; they’d known eachother, in a small way.
“Yes, but..” and Chekov looks at their hands. Sulu knows what he means. He had fallen in love with C-17, initially, and though the actual person stands before him, so much more real and touchable and true, he’ll always have a little bit of fondness for that mess of pixels that first introduced them.
“Maybe we’ll ask to use the program again,” Sulu suggests.
Chekov shakes his head. “I wouldn’t like it,” he says, and his cheeks burn up as he shift from side to side. “I would want to touch you.”
Sulu steps forward, and Chekov’s face tilts upward to gasp against his kiss, opening wet for Sulu’s mouth. Their bodies fit together the way he’d longed for, and as Chekov grabs his shoulders hard enough to bruise, he thinks they will probably return to that virtual world, eventually. For now, though, he tells himself Don’t fuck it up, and holds fast to reality, to Chekov.
Pavel: Warning--I kind of creeped myself out with this one; Chekov is about 13. Chekov-centered Lolita knock-off--770 words for this prompt!
Pasha was not a boy.
Yes, surely, he rejoiced in all of the qualifications of boyhood: knobby, dirtied knees, springing curls not yet darkened with the richness of puberty, the sweat smell of ripe lilacs that hung stagnant in the air around him on moist summer days.
But he was not a boy, dear reader, as I intend to convey in the most accurate of tones. He was my love, Pasha, my obsession, Pavel, my torturous stinging delight, Pasha.
He was a nymph, a candy, a tear drop, a water sprite out of his natural habitat and clothed in the short pants of his forebearers, and I, dear reader, was a hound.
He was young, on the cusp of his thirteenth year, and as soon as I met him I wished I had known him since birth, had watched his first tender little steps, seen his gaping little mouth bite at the tiny spoon with which his mother fed him. I met him and I knew, though he was born in my thirtieth year, he had always been mine.
I remember well those nights down into which my very soul plummeted, aching for closeness with this nymph that ate up my being. I was a pathetic minstrel, a weakling flame that his tears could extinguish as easily as his smile could blast me into the very consumption of my self.
Oh, God, my Pasha, if you would give me these morsels of affection I would curl into them and subsist. Indeed, I adored him, and in a sense, I even longed for his chastity, his noble, white-cheeked purity. I longed for him to grow without knowledge of carnality or despicable physical pleasure, but he would grow; I knew he would grow, and this tore the heart from my chest and beamed it elsewhere, my body crumpling in on its absence. For more than I wished for him to remain ignorant, I was consumed by my own darkness; I was tortured by the flesh of him, the nascent, puerile new flesh that clung to his young body, his round cheeks, his thin legs that I wanted, that I lusted after in the seclusion of my room. His budding puberty was something I wished to banish to the wastelands of time, so that it may never take him from me.
He sat next to me on the bench at twilight one evening, his pugnacious faux maturity forcing his spine to stand straight and his eyes to stare fearlessly into mine. He had seen me at the park. He had been aware of my loving stares, which to anyone, anyone but a nymph, would seem harsh and introspective.
“I’m going to get a haircut tomorrow,” he said, his voice a sprightly thing, tingling like a piano in a cabaret bar, and this comforted the angelic part of me, to know that a part of him was corrupted already, and I would only drive this crookedness deeper.
I faltered, and I said, “No. You mustn’t let them cut your hair.”
“Why not?” he asked me, that American obnoxiousness, that Russian impermeability.
He looked at me bluntly but he did not want me to answer. I could tell then that he would keep his curls, for me. The sweet boy, le petit enfant, all my own now. I would always love him, just for this promise that he never made.
And I did love him, with all of the excitement of a hound, slobbering over his infantile flesh in the shadow of my rooms. His limbs bent, so tiny, so white, and I heaved over him while he kissed so innocently, licks like a kitten on my brutish face.
His little hands touched my own straight, dark hair with such admirable grace that it took all of me not to fall upon him.
“Is this why I couldn’t cut my hair?” he asked, “Do you like it, in this way? In your bed?”
And I had expected something ugly, some dark demon lying there in the wake of our sin, but somehow he was more beautiful, my little nymph, darkened with heat and with a pleasure he’d never touched. His skin clung with dew and he spoke so calmly, changed so instantly from what I had seen.
“You did break something. You broke it,” his shining little lips confessed in the dim light, “You tore something, inside.” He gave a vacant howl, and the tears came like a fire, but I was done. The ball of flame under my chest would no longer be in danger of extinction, for I had possessed him, my pet, my nymph, my Pasha.
First Sight: Chekov and Sulu meet in a virtual reality environment 2,600 words for this prompt :D
Sulu knows he isn’t hungry, rationally, but he feels like he’s starving and like the sweat on his brow is almost as thick as the thirst in his throat. He knows that none of what he’s seeing is real, but he needs high marks on this training scenario to pass his Environmental Tactical seminar, so his heart is racing like it’s real.
Sulu and all of his unknown peers have been purposefully made so they feel hungry, thirsty, and irritable for this simulation. Everyone is faceless and looks kind of like videogame characters from the 2220s, metallic-looking and dressed in sharp chrome outfits that realistically would never hold up to most planetary conditions. The computer avatars make everyone virtually anonymous, and you’re even supposed to disguise your voice, though Sulu feels embarrassed just thinking about that, knowing someone probably would recognize him anyway.
He looks down as he’s running and is struck by that sense of surreality that hits whenever he’s here. No matter how many hours he spends in this thing, he still feels like he’s running on hollow graphing paper.
He refocuses, which is tough beyond his pounding headache. “Don’t fuck it up,” he says to himself.
In this class, he’s supposed to round up the few peers he can find, form a team, and accomplish an objective. These are supposed to be realistic situations, but mostly Sulu and his classmates are judged on legal minutia and adherence to the prime directive. It’s kind of throwaway training; No one will be as careful on actual missions as they are here.
Sulu is has stopped to breathe, and gaze across the mile wide virtual world when he hears a despicable rumbling sound.
That can’t be-he thinks, but it is, and as soon as he looks up a dozen virtual boulders are falling on him. This is just my fucking luck.
They have the weight of Styrofoam, really, and stack up like bricks before falling on him entirely, but now he’s blocked in by walls of virtual rock. This happens to someone nearly every class and it’s that person’s job to communicate with their peers from the inside, to try and get out. Until someone turns up on his radar, he’s kind of stuck, staring at the solid computerized bulk of the rocks.
But as he looks to his stats, there is someone on his radar. It’s standing right fucking behind him and Sulu turns sharply, staring into the dim features of a blank face he’s never seen.
Sulu jumps: “Ah!”
“Ai!” the computer-person yells back, and the light is closing out fast, the bright impressions of the avatar’s face clinging to Sulu’s vision.
“Shit,” Sulu says.
It’s completely dark within seconds, and this is when it gets weird for Sulu: he’s looking at the empty darkness of the virtual world, but it’s exactly the same as looking at the blackness of his virtual reality mask, and he gets caught up a little between worlds. In a way, though, he’s relieved. Staring at all those straight lines on the ground, the way they disappear into nothing in some faux horizon, it can be a little nauseating.
He can hear the person next to him sigh and the computerized sounds of him sitting near Sulu, against the rock wall. The person sounds close, and Sulu wants to shake his hand in greeting, but he knows the students all have their own booths and none of them is closer than any other.
“Well, fuck,” Sulu says, hoping for an ice breaker, “We’re stuck.”
“Yes,” the person says, and it’s male, a little stilted. He seems a little pissed off, but then, so is Sulu. He’s usually a pretty laid-back guy, but this place is just not his bag. He didn’t earn a PhD in astrophysics and commit the next couple decades of his life to Starfleet just to be walled up for no reason.
Keep calm, he thinks. It’s no use being shitty.
“What’s your name?” he asks, trying to be friendly.
“It’s-hey, that’s cheating!” the voice says, and it’s got a soft accent that Sulu can’t place.
“Fine, fine. What’s your number?”
“C-17,” the voice says, a little haughtily, and doesn’t ask for Sulu’s, which irritates him a little. The game makes them all feel on edge; it’s part of the course. Cooperation despite personal condition, or something.
“Well. Mine’s W-10,” Sulu offers.
“Congratulations, W-10,” the voice says, and it sounds like he’s picking at the rocks. It seems ridiculous that he’s holding up his vocal disguise when they’re locked in a rock wall the size of a closet.
“You know, that’s the most ridiculous accent I’ve ever heard,” Sulu says, and the picking stops.
“Is Russian accent,” the voice says, and the fake stupid accent gets thicker in defense. “I am Russian.”
Sulu snorts. “Yeah, and I’m Polish.”
“What?! Shit, we’ll never get out of here.”
“What? Are you-Wait, what are you doing?”
“There’s a plant here,” C-17 says. “I’m going to eat it.”
“What?” Sulu asks, and wonders if he’s kidding. He also wonders if C-17’s fake Russian is mocking the only Russian student around here, the prodigy that makes everyone else’s life hell with his constant corrections and smugness. The accent’s not ridiculous enough to actually bethat student, but still, Sulu would appreciate the jibe. He works harder than anyone in his year, and it’s a little irritating to be shown up so consistently by a seventeen year old boy who treats the world as if it’s never accommodated his genius well enough.
“Is virtual plant. I am virtual starving. I am eating this,” the voice says.
“Wait,” Hikaru says, “At least let me feel it.”
“Feel it? What the hell for?”
“I’m a botanist is ze hell for,” Sulu says, “It might be a trick, or something. It might be ‘poisonous’.”
“This is absurd,” the voice says, but gives him the plant anyway. It’s a trick of the game that Hikaru can take it from C-17 and feel it in his hands, and Hikaru can tell what it is, a leafy type common on class M planets. He gives it back to C-17, who he can hear chewing it down, but who offers half of it to Sulu, too. Sulu declines but it’s still kind of nice, on C-17’s part.
Once a few classmates pass by the structure, Sulu and the voice are freed easily enough, and The Voice becomes the sort of pale, flat-planed virtual face that Sulu remembers. They join the rest of the crew in the day’s scenario: finding some sort of criminal who’d escaped the fake planet’s trial system. C-17 didn’t seem to enjoy Sulu’s company earlier, but now that they’re with the group, he hangs close to Sulu, and whispers jokes in the fake accent, and when Sulu isn’t as fast as he is, C-17 hangs back a bit so Sulu can catch up. He seems friendlier, and maybe it was the thing with the plant, or how Sulu offered his name even though C-17 didn’t ask. When the group is conflicted about something, Sulu finds himself looking for C-17’s digital face, the image of it still clear to him from when they were caught under the rockfall.
When the day’s training scenario is over, Sulu takes off his mask and stares at it. He wonders what his own avatar looks like. He wonders if C-17 likes it. Then he shakes his head, and leaves the booth.
They have a week left of these day-long training sessions and each becomes progressively more dangerous, but also kind of fun, because he has a friend. C-17 makes fun of the training conflicts and gives the other cadets sarcastic monikers and nicknames-one is Zephram, for his annoying habit of really fucking up xenosensitivity; another is Surak, for her hot temper and her tendency to blow up at the others. It gets to the point that whenever he enters the game, he searches for C-17 on his radar and seeks him out before finding anyone else. C-17 always finds him first. He’s better at running, and at finding things quickly. He’s since disclosed to Sulu that’s he’s on path to navigate a starship. Sulu hasn’t mentioned his field, and this annoys C-17 to no end.
“You know well that this anonymity function is not taken seriously!” he insists, prying at Sulu.
“What about the accent? Should I take your mispronunciation of that W as a personal affront?” Sulu, or W-10, says, and when C-17 trips, Sulu reaches out to catch his elbow and feels nothing but air.
As the days pass, it becomes a little jarring to come out of the virtual program. Looking at his hands is just a little strange, without C-17 being next to him, made of the same material.
The night before the final session, Sulu tosses and turns and thinks. There’ll be no way of finding out who C-17 is after tomorrow; class records are confidential. Sulu will have to ask him, or he’ll have to guess forever. How tall is he? What color are his eyes? His hair? Shit, what if he’s all scales? But no, avatars generally reflect the cadets’ species pretty accurately. More importantly, will Sulu ever associate C-17’s voice with a flesh-and-blood thing? When he pictures him now, it’s pretty lame, but he’s kind of attached to that avatar, that fake-face.
He looks for C-17 the next morning, in-game, and he’s sweating. Luckily, C-17 can’t see that. He wonders if his avatar portrays his emotions as effectively as C-17’s does at times, and worries for it.
When C-17 finds him, Sulu puts a hand on his shoulder, and, smiling, he hopes that whatever C-17 looks like, he might be a little smaller than Sulu. More than anything, after all this distance, he wants to wrap around him so that nothing comes between them, wants to cover him up. It’s a little crazy and he has no idea where it’s come from, but the want is there. They run to find the group together Sulu’s anxieties fall away like so many dead leaves from a tree.
That is, until they’re rather hilariously ambushed: it comes out of nowhere and obviously they’ve saved all the good shit for the final. Sulu pulls his virtual phaser and fires at the suspiciously Klingon-looking group as they lumber toward the cadets, and at the corner of his eye, C-17 falls out of his vision.
“Shit!” he yells, firing shots behind him and forgetting completely that none of this is real; he’s genuinely panicking as he dashes to C-17’s aid.
He’s hanging off a disappearance in the floor of their world, looking at Sulu with panic and holding himself up as if hanging from a cliff. Sulu crouches and grabs his wrist, holding to the tractionless floor with just his knees.
“Let go!” he yells, and C-17 knows what he means, grabs wholly onto Sulu’s wrist. The game is so strange in this; Sulu feels like he’s pulling a weight up by a lever, not like a real body is being hauled up and it’s really not enough for him.
“Thank you,” C-17 says as he climbs to the surface, and Sulu marvels that he’s never given up that stupid accent. Sulu hasn’t let go of him, and he feels the weight slowly disappear. He stares at their hands, can see how they’re entwined, the way they fit around one another, but the only thing he can feel is an emptiness that extends forever, rolling across this visual world.
“What’s your name?” he shouts above the din of the fight, just yards away.
C-17 shakes his head and shoots something over Sulu’s shoulder. They’re in the middle of an exam; no talking.
They fight, they stun, they don’t kill: when a Klingon is defeated he fades away, just like a video game, and Sulu almost expects them to dissolve into piles of coins. C-17 smiles at him when the last one is taken care of, and he starts to walk over, to congratulate him; he has to ask now or he’ll never know:
The setting fades out, and for a terrifying moment, all Sulu can see is a black, graphed out area and he’s totally alone. Then that disappears too, and he takes off his mask, sighing. He’s hungry. He’s tired. He’s being annoyed by a voice that says join your classmates for dinner in room 47B. What?
The meal they’re given tastes like victory. And Salt. The food’s pretty salty here.
Staring around at their classmates, he’s already identified Surak, the girl who snaps for the pepper and grabs it before anyone can oblige, and no one’s how he expected them to look, and he panics, thinking perhaps not everyone is here.
The Russian, the prodigy, he’s part of the class. He’s looking down at his food and Sulu feels actually bad: he must’ve heard C-17 mocking him the entire time they were in the simulation. He’s actually kind of nice looking, the blush that’s clinging to his cheeks, the way his curly hair is falling. Sulu thinks Wait just a goddamn second--and unfortunately he’s interrupted.
“Hey, guys, what were your numbers?” a particularly gangly man with big bug eyes asks, crouching low so the professors won’t hear, nearby.
Sulu’s still feeling like shit from the simulator, and he’s so caught with sudden relief that before he can stop himself, he says, “Oh shut up, Zephram.”
The Russian, Chekov, Sulu realizes, he laughs aloud while everyone else goes quiet, and he says, “You’re not Polish!” and his laugh becomes ten times more beautiful as Sulu listens. Sulu laughs back and C-17 takes his hand from across the table, only now it’s Chekov, and Sulu can feel the warmth and the weight of his palm, and all the relief that comes with holding it.
Sulu doesn’t know why, but he decides that once they’ve left, he’s following Chekov. Chekov apparently agrees and he waits for Sulu outside the door; they end up walking the grounds for hours, laughing on adrenaline and coughing on the foggy air.
“You know, you look better than your avatar,” Sulu says, smiling at Chekov’s face, which is red from the cold.
“You look much more Russian this way,” Chekov nods, and Sulu laughs hard, clinging to his hands, so solid and smaller than Sulu’s, like Sulu had wished.
“Maybe I will miss you, though,” Chekov says. “The way you looked, when I met you.”
“You’d met me before,” Sulu says, and it’s true; they’d known eachother, in a small way.
“Yes, but..” and Chekov looks at their hands. Sulu knows what he means. He had fallen in love with C-17, initially, and though the actual person stands before him, so much more real and touchable and true, he’ll always have a little bit of fondness for that mess of pixels that first introduced them.
“Maybe we’ll ask to use the program again,” Sulu suggests.
Chekov shakes his head. “I wouldn’t like it,” he says, and his cheeks burn up as he shift from side to side. “I would want to touch you.”
Sulu steps forward, and Chekov’s face tilts upward to gasp against his kiss, opening wet for Sulu’s mouth. Their bodies fit together the way he’d longed for, and as Chekov grabs his shoulders hard enough to bruise, he thinks they will probably return to that virtual world, eventually. For now, though, he tells himself Don’t fuck it up, and holds fast to reality, to Chekov.
Pavel: Warning--I kind of creeped myself out with this one; Chekov is about 13. Chekov-centered Lolita knock-off--770 words for this prompt!
Pasha was not a boy.
Yes, surely, he rejoiced in all of the qualifications of boyhood: knobby, dirtied knees, springing curls not yet darkened with the richness of puberty, the sweat smell of ripe lilacs that hung stagnant in the air around him on moist summer days.
But he was not a boy, dear reader, as I intend to convey in the most accurate of tones. He was my love, Pasha, my obsession, Pavel, my torturous stinging delight, Pasha.
He was a nymph, a candy, a tear drop, a water sprite out of his natural habitat and clothed in the short pants of his forebearers, and I, dear reader, was a hound.
He was young, on the cusp of his thirteenth year, and as soon as I met him I wished I had known him since birth, had watched his first tender little steps, seen his gaping little mouth bite at the tiny spoon with which his mother fed him. I met him and I knew, though he was born in my thirtieth year, he had always been mine.
I remember well those nights down into which my very soul plummeted, aching for closeness with this nymph that ate up my being. I was a pathetic minstrel, a weakling flame that his tears could extinguish as easily as his smile could blast me into the very consumption of my self.
Oh, God, my Pasha, if you would give me these morsels of affection I would curl into them and subsist. Indeed, I adored him, and in a sense, I even longed for his chastity, his noble, white-cheeked purity. I longed for him to grow without knowledge of carnality or despicable physical pleasure, but he would grow; I knew he would grow, and this tore the heart from my chest and beamed it elsewhere, my body crumpling in on its absence. For more than I wished for him to remain ignorant, I was consumed by my own darkness; I was tortured by the flesh of him, the nascent, puerile new flesh that clung to his young body, his round cheeks, his thin legs that I wanted, that I lusted after in the seclusion of my room. His budding puberty was something I wished to banish to the wastelands of time, so that it may never take him from me.
He sat next to me on the bench at twilight one evening, his pugnacious faux maturity forcing his spine to stand straight and his eyes to stare fearlessly into mine. He had seen me at the park. He had been aware of my loving stares, which to anyone, anyone but a nymph, would seem harsh and introspective.
“I’m going to get a haircut tomorrow,” he said, his voice a sprightly thing, tingling like a piano in a cabaret bar, and this comforted the angelic part of me, to know that a part of him was corrupted already, and I would only drive this crookedness deeper.
I faltered, and I said, “No. You mustn’t let them cut your hair.”
“Why not?” he asked me, that American obnoxiousness, that Russian impermeability.
He looked at me bluntly but he did not want me to answer. I could tell then that he would keep his curls, for me. The sweet boy, le petit enfant, all my own now. I would always love him, just for this promise that he never made.
And I did love him, with all of the excitement of a hound, slobbering over his infantile flesh in the shadow of my rooms. His limbs bent, so tiny, so white, and I heaved over him while he kissed so innocently, licks like a kitten on my brutish face.
His little hands touched my own straight, dark hair with such admirable grace that it took all of me not to fall upon him.
“Is this why I couldn’t cut my hair?” he asked, “Do you like it, in this way? In your bed?”
And I had expected something ugly, some dark demon lying there in the wake of our sin, but somehow he was more beautiful, my little nymph, darkened with heat and with a pleasure he’d never touched. His skin clung with dew and he spoke so calmly, changed so instantly from what I had seen.
“You did break something. You broke it,” his shining little lips confessed in the dim light, “You tore something, inside.” He gave a vacant howl, and the tears came like a fire, but I was done. The ball of flame under my chest would no longer be in danger of extinction, for I had possessed him, my pet, my nymph, my Pasha.