browngirl | The Secret Names of Stars (Star Trek XI, Mirrorverse, NC-17 with warnings)

Behold my new tentacle icon! Which is almost completely inappropriate for this particular story, but c'est la vie.

Title: The Secret Names of Stars
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: NC-17 with warnings.
Pairing: Chekov/Cthulhu, Chekov/Sulu, Cthulhu/Sulu kinda implied.
Summary: "What will you give me?" Chekov asks. Written for this prompt.
Content Advisory: Mirrorverse. Tentacles. Shockingly enough, actually consensual (for the most part). Slash.
Acknowledgements:

fairhearing for asking and

shinychimera for this picture prompt
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.

"What will you give me?" Chekov asks, looking up at the narrow inhuman eyes above the slowly writhing tentacles where the Unpronounceable's mouth should be. A tall narrow brow rises above those eyes, its grey-green skin mottled and gleaming with an oily sheen, and the curling and twisting of the tentacles below make the borders of Chekov's vision sore as with the afterburn of an agonizer, something impossibly non-Euclidean about the curves they describe. But the eyes are hard and black as vaccuum, smooth and gleaming with glints in their infinities like Chekov's memory of his first dizzying view of space. Chekov can feel little scraps and tatters shredding off the edges of his sanity, but he can endure these eyes.

In response there's a voice, a huge and terrible voice, that echoes from everywhere and nowhere and through Chekov's mind, deep like his Papa's and sardonic like Hikaru's, with a rolling accent he can't place and metallic screams around its edges. Knowledge, little mortal. Knowledge of the stars to match your shimmering eyes.

Chekov blinks his eyes, resisting the urge to keep them closed, and keeps his phaser up even though he doubts more and more it could harm this humanoid. The long clawed hands, rugose and four-fingered, wave slowly and aimlessly as the tentacles, but something in the shadows woven between them speaks of swift and cruel movement, of pain and blood. The Unpronounceable is clearly Someone beyond the normal boundaries of the material world, and Chekov doesn't know yet how that can be possible, but he came to space through the Imperial Service seeking knowledge and power, and he has not yet shied from any source of either. "What knowledge?" Chekov asks firmly, despite the lump rising in his throat and the quiver in his belly and the shadows curling at the edges of his sight.

The secret names of stars, he hears around him, through him, reverberating inside his skull. The impossible monsters amongst them and the chartless pathways between them. How to witness the ultraviolet dance of stars' birthing and hold a shriveled corpse of quarks between your soft carbon hands. The hidden lore of the depthless sky will be yours, little bright-eyed mortal, if you will for an ecstatic moment be mine.

The astounding promises lick at Chekov like green flames, and he pretends to consider while his body already burns and his mind clamors hungrily. Tentacles weave and wave towards his face, and he should flinch away but he doesn't as a dry boneless ripple curls over his cheek. "Why?" he asks, a 'yes' in his voice.

As a clawed hand flickers through shadow, terrible, wonderful, astonishing laughter crashes all around Chekov like metal falling from a great height, much louder than the quiet little pop and hiss of his phaser spontaneously disassembling, its components trailing smoke as they fall to the cavern floor. Because your ass is a pert curve of protein and I feel like getting laid, Chekov hears, and he has been propositioned before, but never before by a god. He laughs crazily at that earthy answer and a tentacle slides smoothly over his bottom lip into his mouth.

Chekov gasps, and closes his lips around it as it wriggles, tasting starlight and ichor on his tongue. You may have me, Chekov thinks with a tentacle throbbing in his mouth, and shivers as those hands stroke him lightly and his uniform falls apart along the seams of their touch, claws like daggers of ivory drawing atom-fine lines along his skin.

He shivers harder, vibrating with the crashing metallic laughter, as he hears, That was never in question.

* @ * @ *

Green-edged infinity swirls behind Chekov's eyes, four starbright-sweet points of pain arrayed along his left temple, the claws of the Unpronounceable resting delicately above his skull as images and patterns and mathematics flow between their minds. Chekov has been sung the true reason for linearity, given the fractal equation that governs the structures of diffuse nebulae, shown how a black hole can fistulate time, and his mind feels weightily expanded, fucked open, hungry for more.

All the while the other hand, dry and sleek as snakeskin, has pinned his wrists above his head to the chilly cavern floor, the tentacles have slid and flickered over his chest and belly and thighs like dry tongues and boneless fingers, tasting him and stroking him and pinching tingles into every sensitive centimeter of him. All the while the Unpronounceable leans over him, columnar thighs wedging his apart, flesh no warmer than the shale beneath his back, watching with unblinking gleaming eyes as Chekov squirms and gasps and learns and learns.

And all the while Chekov is nudged by undeniable, inflexible bluntness like a throbbing stone, as the Unpronounceable holds a position just there, just this side of sinking into him, just barely refraining from filling him with immensity. Chekov writhes under every searing brush of tentacles over his cock and balls and between the rounds of his ass, every microscopic explosion beneath his most secret skin; he can feel supraliminal infinities just beyond his reach, and he hooks his knees behind the granitic thighs and strains his arms to their utmost stretch and bucks and writhes to no avail. His heart pounds at his breastbone like it could burst free, his body vibrates and tingles and burns and he wants and wants and wants.

At length, he collapses beneath the pinning hand, to the cold stone, gasping and breathless, shuddering from every touch. He hears a growl rise as if from the cavern floor, and Continue the writhing. I like the writhing.

Chekov can growl too, and he does, and snarls, "Do not toy with me."

That was the correct response, or the most incorrect. As the bronzen laughter crashes, the tentacles constrict from flickering to welting-tight, squeezing sparks into his nipples, rippling torturously round his cock, and one plunges roughly between his lips, fucking his mouth so his eyes roll up. And should I not, mortal toy? Why should i not eat you up, succulent little mouthful?" All at once Chekov is penetrated, filled to straining by a hilt-deep shove, and he feels every yielding fiber of his crackling flesh, every molecule of his mortality as his back snaps into an arch, as unyielding hips slam into his, knocking a scream up from his guts to burn his throat and vibrate around the tentacle stroking his tongue.

And then the Unpronounceable chuckles like metal rending, and a sheet of white overload sweeps across Chekov's mind, a billion words and equations in symbols of fire all imprinting on the same page. The scream before was nothing to this one, every cell in his body seemingly exploding like a galaxy's stars going supernova in unison.

Abruptly it stops, spangled darkness washing into Chekov's mind again, the Unpronounceable still buried within him and all his body sizzling as if he's been pumped Agonizer-full of delight. Or I could simply fuck you, Chekov hears in a voice like Hikaru's echoing from everywhere, as those implacable hips grind in a little circle, pressing that throbbing baton into his prostate, making him sob ecstatically. You are wonderfully responsive.

Fuck me, Chekov begs as he would no mortal, with all the thought left in his shivering mind, with teeth and tongue and suction on the tentacle between his lips, with his own hips' writhe, bucking into the sliding coil around his cock and impaling himself one more millimeter of depth. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, until he can't think in words anymore, only electricity and gravity and pressure and light, as the bronzen chuckle rumbles through him, as his mind is pushed open and his body thrust into, knowledge and sensation shoved into him pulse by rising pulse of exaltation.

* @ * @ *

Pavel's alive, Sulu thinks with relief he'd never admit to aloud, as he falls to his knees beside his naked, limp boy. His chest rises and falls shallowly and his pulse is sleep-normal, even if he's pale against the dark stone and chill beneath Hikaru's fingers, skin flecked with red lines and hickeylike dots and obvious spatters of come, not a scrap of his uniform to be seen. Someone somehow managed to catch Pavel unawares, stripped him and rode him hard, and when Sulu finds them he and his katana will teach them not to touch Sulu's boy.

"Chekov," he calls now, lifting Pavel's limp hands from where they lie outstretched above his head, pressing them between his. "Chekov, report! Ensign, wake up!" Sulu gulps a breath, holds it and listens, but he hears nothing in the cavern, no one else's breathing or footfalls, nothing but his own pounding heart. So he dares to bend low and urgently whisper, "Pavel!" into that translucent ear. "Pavel, come on! Who did this to you? What happened?"

"I learned," Pavel sighs, slowly and langorously, his hands tensing out of laxness finger by finger. "I learned everything," and he sounds lazy, satisfied, nothing so much as extremely well fucked. He wasn't caught, then.

Sulu lets his throb of jealousy tighten his fingers crushingly until Pavel should wince, but the dreamy little smile doesn't change. "What could you learn that's worth the lesson I'm going to teach you back in our quarters, you little tomcat?"

Pavel smiles wider at that, opening his eyes, and they're as blown as Sulu would have expected, pupils so wide they look drugged, but instead of darkness within Pavel's glass-green irises Sulu sees a pale unholy glow of colors he can't name. "You can learn too," Pavel says, and Sulu hears a heavy footfall, feels it shudder through the cavern floor.

He glances over his shoulder. Then he turns, drawing his katana. There's a -- a Something, tall and green-gray skinned, shadows folding like wings behind it and tentacles where its mouth should be, but Sulu gets an impression of a narrow wicked grin, of laughter like metal being torn asunder.

Sulu's fist is empty. He glances at it and his katana is lying on the cavern floor, vanishing into the shadows beneath the tentacle-faced intruder. A long-fingered hand rises, its claws' tips glinting in the gloom, and Sulu's uniform starts disassembling itself along its seams and falling off his body.

Sulu opens his mouth in reflexive stupidity, and he doesn't let loose the scream quivering in his chest, but he can't help but murmur, "Oh, fuck."