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browngirlTitle: Untitled Non-Con #1: Chekov/Sarek
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: NC-17 with warnings
Pairing: Chekov/Sarek
Summary/Prompt: Aliens make them do it, from the Kink Meme.
Content Advisory: Nonconsensual sex. Slash, violence.
Author's Note: In first comment.
Disclaimer: None of the named characters or their settings belong to me.
Pavel sobs helplessly, laid out on his back, arms stretched taut above his head, chill metal manacles securing his wrists. He sobs and curses himself for his weakness, curses the merciless captors who have drugged and bound him, stripped and blindfolded him for no better reason than to torment another sentient being. As he writhes in his bonds, twisting away from their prodding, pinching fingers, he tries to cling to his training and his math, but everything he's learned slips away, the numbers crumble into the seething red darkness behind his eyes, the drug pounds feverishly inside his skull and he coughs and curses and sobs.
Then three fingertips land lightly on his brow, calm radiating from them in silvery blue waves. Do not fear echoes through his mind, soft like warm arms, deep like bedrock. Do not fear. He gasps a huge breath, hope unfurling in his chest--
-- and just as soon foundering and shattering against the undeniable bluntness nudging into him, the heavy, hot body bearing down on his. Pavel's ankles are manacled as immovably as his wrists, his thighs helplessly canting open under the press, and twist and buck as he may all he does is impale himself further. He shouts and screams futile threats, furious imprecations as his body is invaded so deeply he can seemingly feel it in back of his throat, tearing him from his possession of himself.
The hand returns, large, long-fingered, apology in its light strokes. Its touch over his breastbone somewhat calms his racing heart, it skims the vulnerable pound of his pulse and sweeps tears from his cheeks before resuming that three-point touch. I beg pardon, says the voice in his head, and Pavel knows he has heard it aloud before. This is not by my will. Slowly, in heartbeats and millimeters, the man over him presses into him, and though the stretch crackles, uncomfortable and unwanted, the pace is so slow it hurts much less than the rigid fire around his straining wrists.
Pavel believes that voice, this hand. He knows he would know who's with him if he could just think, he tries to say as much but all that rips from his throat are shuddering sobs. "Shhh," he hears, a low sibilant whisper and heavy slow breaths, the long fingers brushing through his damp curls, soothing over his scalp. The thrust reverses, pulling him with it, so slowly he can't breathe, can only quiver, gasping and suspended.
"Pozhaluysta," Pavel sobs as the push returns, please, please. Please stop, please speed up, pleas for comfort. He begs with broken words and broken voice as he is penetrated inexorably again and again, hard hips rhythmically bearing down on his, every breath thick with the scents of hot skin and his own sweat. The man with him can't stop, doesn't speed the metronome pace, but keeps skimming Pavel's skin with those long reassuring fingers, smoothing away his tears, blunting the edges of agony, supporting the thread of his awareness against snapping.
Behind them, parsecs distant and a meter away, there's a harsh impatient noise. "Harder," demands one of their captors, and Pavel shakes helplessly at the sound of that voice, associated with torment.
"No," Pavel hears above him, the deep resonant voice that has echoed through his mind, stirring dread and surety in equal measure, and he knows that voice, if he could just pull together his shattered mind and think...
He hears a flexing electric crackle. "What is this squalling little human to you?" asks their captor, hissing as if with a forked tongue, "Ambassador?" Pavel's heart slams against his ribs, he knows now, he knows, and as he moans despairingly their captor laughs a sharp cackle. This is Ambassador Sarek, and Pavel has failed him twice; his guilt over losing Lady Amanda led him to take the rear as their party fled, to give himself up to buy the rest time to escape, and he failed in that bargain, the Ambassador's been captured as well.
Sorry, so sorry, he thinks because he can't speak, racked with choking sobs, but the fingers brush a benediction across his forehead. "I will not harm him further," says Ambassador Sarek over Pavel, voice steady, rhythm unchanged.
A whipcrack slices the air, there's a waft of ozone, but the Ambassador doesn't flinch or shake. "Harder," insists their captor as the whip cracks again; this time it curls around Sarek's side and flicks over Pavel's ribs, like a burst of lightning just beneath his skin. Before he can think to brace himself he arches and screams, and hears the cruel cackle again. "Make him make that pretty sound again, or we will."
The Ambassador rumbles, subterranean deep, and the next push is indeed harder, bottoming out, knocking a hitching whimper up Pavel's throat. I beg forgiveness, his echoing voice whispers in Pavel's mind.
"No, no," Pavel whimpers, desperately struggling with everything in him towards speech. "No, I am sorry, I have wronged you again, I, I--" His voice breaks entirely, he's wrenched by sobs too violent to breathe through, but he thinks, your wife, your lady wife, I'm so sorry I killed her, Ambassador, I'm so sorry--
Be at peace, Ambassador Sarek says in his head, even as the next thrust shudders through them both. I forgive you, Ensign. I will hurt you no more. There is a moment's breathless pause, everything as still as before an earthquake, and then the Ambassador shakes over and within Pavel, emptying himself in a series of spasms that seem to bring no pleasure, just release.
Their captor spits a high-pitched, sibilant phrase, and snarls, "That was unwisely premature." Pavel gulps air and braces himself as best he can by the Ambassador's solidity, the cool calm radiating from his touch, listening for the next crack of the electric whip.
What he hears instead, whistling and welcome, are phaser-blasts, masonry crashing, the cries of their captors and the shouts of angry Federation officers. Ambassador Sarek pushes away, dragging from Pavel's body, and he bites his lip until it throbs to keep himself silent. "Oh, hell," he hears muttered in a woman's voice as a blanket settles over him, and much more crisply, "Ambassador Sarek, sir. Please hold this, we'll have you aboard in moments. Ensign Chekov, we'll have you loose even sooner."
Pavel's face is dripping wet, if he opens his mouth he'll do nothing but whimper, so he nods silently, and a laser scalpel whines at his wrists before they fall free. Large hands reach for his, helping him up as the shackles drop from his ankles, but the arms enfolding him are bare; Pavel pushes the blindfold off and looks up into the long still face of Ambassador Sarek, a dark green bruise mottling his temple.
He tries to speak and his vision spins with all the drugs still in his system; the Ambassador brushes his fingertips over Pavel's eyelids, and he obediently shuts them, shivering, his hands in useless fists as the Vulcan Ambassador tenderly pulls the blanket around his bare, raw shoulders. As noise and shouts swirl around them and the medic runs her tricorder over them, Sarek presses his three fingertips to Pavel's face again. Thank you, Pavel thinks, for the Ambassador's forgiveness, for his efforts to not hurt him, for everything.
I could not be cruel to you, Pavel hears echo through his mind once more. You remind me of my Amanda.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: NC-17 with warnings
Pairing: Chekov/Sarek
Summary/Prompt: Aliens make them do it, from the Kink Meme.
Content Advisory: Nonconsensual sex. Slash, violence.
Author's Note: In first comment.
Disclaimer: None of the named characters or their settings belong to me.
Pavel sobs helplessly, laid out on his back, arms stretched taut above his head, chill metal manacles securing his wrists. He sobs and curses himself for his weakness, curses the merciless captors who have drugged and bound him, stripped and blindfolded him for no better reason than to torment another sentient being. As he writhes in his bonds, twisting away from their prodding, pinching fingers, he tries to cling to his training and his math, but everything he's learned slips away, the numbers crumble into the seething red darkness behind his eyes, the drug pounds feverishly inside his skull and he coughs and curses and sobs.
Then three fingertips land lightly on his brow, calm radiating from them in silvery blue waves. Do not fear echoes through his mind, soft like warm arms, deep like bedrock. Do not fear. He gasps a huge breath, hope unfurling in his chest--
-- and just as soon foundering and shattering against the undeniable bluntness nudging into him, the heavy, hot body bearing down on his. Pavel's ankles are manacled as immovably as his wrists, his thighs helplessly canting open under the press, and twist and buck as he may all he does is impale himself further. He shouts and screams futile threats, furious imprecations as his body is invaded so deeply he can seemingly feel it in back of his throat, tearing him from his possession of himself.
The hand returns, large, long-fingered, apology in its light strokes. Its touch over his breastbone somewhat calms his racing heart, it skims the vulnerable pound of his pulse and sweeps tears from his cheeks before resuming that three-point touch. I beg pardon, says the voice in his head, and Pavel knows he has heard it aloud before. This is not by my will. Slowly, in heartbeats and millimeters, the man over him presses into him, and though the stretch crackles, uncomfortable and unwanted, the pace is so slow it hurts much less than the rigid fire around his straining wrists.
Pavel believes that voice, this hand. He knows he would know who's with him if he could just think, he tries to say as much but all that rips from his throat are shuddering sobs. "Shhh," he hears, a low sibilant whisper and heavy slow breaths, the long fingers brushing through his damp curls, soothing over his scalp. The thrust reverses, pulling him with it, so slowly he can't breathe, can only quiver, gasping and suspended.
"Pozhaluysta," Pavel sobs as the push returns, please, please. Please stop, please speed up, pleas for comfort. He begs with broken words and broken voice as he is penetrated inexorably again and again, hard hips rhythmically bearing down on his, every breath thick with the scents of hot skin and his own sweat. The man with him can't stop, doesn't speed the metronome pace, but keeps skimming Pavel's skin with those long reassuring fingers, smoothing away his tears, blunting the edges of agony, supporting the thread of his awareness against snapping.
Behind them, parsecs distant and a meter away, there's a harsh impatient noise. "Harder," demands one of their captors, and Pavel shakes helplessly at the sound of that voice, associated with torment.
"No," Pavel hears above him, the deep resonant voice that has echoed through his mind, stirring dread and surety in equal measure, and he knows that voice, if he could just pull together his shattered mind and think...
He hears a flexing electric crackle. "What is this squalling little human to you?" asks their captor, hissing as if with a forked tongue, "Ambassador?" Pavel's heart slams against his ribs, he knows now, he knows, and as he moans despairingly their captor laughs a sharp cackle. This is Ambassador Sarek, and Pavel has failed him twice; his guilt over losing Lady Amanda led him to take the rear as their party fled, to give himself up to buy the rest time to escape, and he failed in that bargain, the Ambassador's been captured as well.
Sorry, so sorry, he thinks because he can't speak, racked with choking sobs, but the fingers brush a benediction across his forehead. "I will not harm him further," says Ambassador Sarek over Pavel, voice steady, rhythm unchanged.
A whipcrack slices the air, there's a waft of ozone, but the Ambassador doesn't flinch or shake. "Harder," insists their captor as the whip cracks again; this time it curls around Sarek's side and flicks over Pavel's ribs, like a burst of lightning just beneath his skin. Before he can think to brace himself he arches and screams, and hears the cruel cackle again. "Make him make that pretty sound again, or we will."
The Ambassador rumbles, subterranean deep, and the next push is indeed harder, bottoming out, knocking a hitching whimper up Pavel's throat. I beg forgiveness, his echoing voice whispers in Pavel's mind.
"No, no," Pavel whimpers, desperately struggling with everything in him towards speech. "No, I am sorry, I have wronged you again, I, I--" His voice breaks entirely, he's wrenched by sobs too violent to breathe through, but he thinks, your wife, your lady wife, I'm so sorry I killed her, Ambassador, I'm so sorry--
Be at peace, Ambassador Sarek says in his head, even as the next thrust shudders through them both. I forgive you, Ensign. I will hurt you no more. There is a moment's breathless pause, everything as still as before an earthquake, and then the Ambassador shakes over and within Pavel, emptying himself in a series of spasms that seem to bring no pleasure, just release.
Their captor spits a high-pitched, sibilant phrase, and snarls, "That was unwisely premature." Pavel gulps air and braces himself as best he can by the Ambassador's solidity, the cool calm radiating from his touch, listening for the next crack of the electric whip.
What he hears instead, whistling and welcome, are phaser-blasts, masonry crashing, the cries of their captors and the shouts of angry Federation officers. Ambassador Sarek pushes away, dragging from Pavel's body, and he bites his lip until it throbs to keep himself silent. "Oh, hell," he hears muttered in a woman's voice as a blanket settles over him, and much more crisply, "Ambassador Sarek, sir. Please hold this, we'll have you aboard in moments. Ensign Chekov, we'll have you loose even sooner."
Pavel's face is dripping wet, if he opens his mouth he'll do nothing but whimper, so he nods silently, and a laser scalpel whines at his wrists before they fall free. Large hands reach for his, helping him up as the shackles drop from his ankles, but the arms enfolding him are bare; Pavel pushes the blindfold off and looks up into the long still face of Ambassador Sarek, a dark green bruise mottling his temple.
He tries to speak and his vision spins with all the drugs still in his system; the Ambassador brushes his fingertips over Pavel's eyelids, and he obediently shuts them, shivering, his hands in useless fists as the Vulcan Ambassador tenderly pulls the blanket around his bare, raw shoulders. As noise and shouts swirl around them and the medic runs her tricorder over them, Sarek presses his three fingertips to Pavel's face again. Thank you, Pavel thinks, for the Ambassador's forgiveness, for his efforts to not hurt him, for everything.
I could not be cruel to you, Pavel hears echo through his mind once more. You remind me of my Amanda.
