"Atrophy," McCoy/Chekov, STXI, ADULT
Jul. 7th, 2010 09:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vinniebatmanTitle: Atrophy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vinniebatman
Fandom: Star Trek, specifically STXI, aka the Reboot.
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating/Warnings: Adult for sexy times and McCoy's invective-laden inner monologuing.
Spoilers: General spoilers for the newest Star Trek film.
Prompt: McCoy/Chekov, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." forstrickens_girl
Word Count: 855. I really freaking suck at word limits. Like, seriously.
Beta:_beetle_
Disclaimer: I so totally own this movie. Bow Down! *Doctor's Note: Patient exhibits delusions of grandeur and any claims of ownership are pure fantasy. No harm is meant. Seriously, it's better than her throwing rocks at people.*
Real Disclaimer: I make no money from this work, and claim no ownership over the to any of the copyrighted material of "Star Trek" in any of its incarnations. This work belongs to its owners.
Sonic showers weren't Leonard's favorite way to get clean. Unlike water, sonics lacked that cathartic quality that could wash awaymore than just sweat, come, and lube. No matter how well the sonics cleaned him, it wasn't enough to wash away his guilt.
Leonard had considered himself a good, kind man, despite his unwillingness to coddle fools. He'd given everything to his wife, leaving him hollow, as though she'd carved out those kinder parts of him and thrown them away.
He was fucking weak; that was the crux of the matter. He always said each fuck was the last. But something always happened; maybe the ex would block his communications, or Joanna'd cry at the end of a vid, or he'd loose a patient ... something would tear at him until emptiness filled him, withering the remenants of his soul and urging him to forget his only-one-glass-of-bourbon rule and drink straight from the bottle.
Somehow, that little Russian bastard always knew.
It was always the same: Chekov would show up, coy smile on his lips as he barged in, welcoming Leonard's biting kisses. Leonard was never sweet or gentle; instead shoving and moving Chekov like a fuck-toy. Chekov always wound up on his knees, pretty lips stretched around Leonard's cock, sucking until Leonard had to grab those soft curls and yank that mouth away.
Then he'd have Chekov stripped and on his hands and knees, keening and rocking back onto Leonard's fingers (the only time he was remotely gentle). He always watched as two fingers became three, stretching until Chekov was begging. Leonard would push inside, and surrounded by tight, perfect heat, he'd give up any pretense of civility. Everything fell away leaving only heat and flesh and lust and pleasure. Leonard would snap his hips, driving faster and harder, ignoring Chekov's moans as the younger man jerked himself off.
After they came, Chekov would look at him, eyes soft and open, pleading for more. And Leonard would force himself off the bed, away from a warm body that just fit. Leonard never knew what to say, afraid of what those eyes were asking. Those eyes dimmed a bit more each time, fading when Leonard offered the only words he had left: "Better get going, kid."
And then Leonard would shower, cursing and hating himself for using Chekov like a god damned whore, a tool to keep himself togther. Sometimes he hated Chekov for letting it happen. Chekov wasn't a kid; he was an adult, an officer, old enough to be responsile for his own actions.
He clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the wall; he was as clean as he'd get. This was the last time; it wouldn't happen again. Leonard stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist more out of habit than need, before heading into his bedroom.
He stopped short; Chekov was still on the bed, limbs splayed, ass tilted. He hadn't even moved out of the wet spot. Leonard moved closer to the pillow where Chekov's head lay. He crouched, studying his sleeping face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyes were closed, the skin around them dark with exhaustion. Fuck.
Leonard should have sent him back to his own quarters; Chekov had needed sleep, not to be used as a goddamned sex-toy. But Leonard'd been in such a rush that he'd barely looked at Chekov. It'd been a shit week; one crew member dead on the planet, one dead in the OR.
Something in his chest twinged; he reached out and gently ran his fingers through those curls. Leonard sighed and shook his head.
"Doctor?" Chekov opened his eyes, his expression hazy and drugged with sleep. He frowned and studied Leonard, then flushed at the sight of his bare chest. "Oh, I am sorry; I did not mean to fall asleep."
Chekov moved to get up.
"Go back to sleep, kid; you won't make it to your quarters before you pass out."
Chekov smiled, sleepy and content. "Okay."
He buried his face in the pillow, wriggling into a more comfortable position. Leonard stood and tossed his towel away before climbing into bed. He covered them with the blankets and shut off the lights.
He didn't say anything when Chekov moved closer.
Author:
vinniebatmanFandom: Star Trek, specifically STXI, aka the Reboot.
Characters/Pairings: McCoy/Chekov
Rating/Warnings: Adult for sexy times and McCoy's invective-laden inner monologuing.
Spoilers: General spoilers for the newest Star Trek film.
Prompt: McCoy/Chekov, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." for
strickens_girlWord Count: 855. I really freaking suck at word limits. Like, seriously.
Beta:
_beetle_Disclaimer: I so totally own this movie. Bow Down! *Doctor's Note: Patient exhibits delusions of grandeur and any claims of ownership are pure fantasy. No harm is meant. Seriously, it's better than her throwing rocks at people.*
Real Disclaimer: I make no money from this work, and claim no ownership over the to any of the copyrighted material of "Star Trek" in any of its incarnations. This work belongs to its owners.
Sonic showers weren't Leonard's favorite way to get clean. Unlike water, sonics lacked that cathartic quality that could wash awaymore than just sweat, come, and lube. No matter how well the sonics cleaned him, it wasn't enough to wash away his guilt.
Leonard had considered himself a good, kind man, despite his unwillingness to coddle fools. He'd given everything to his wife, leaving him hollow, as though she'd carved out those kinder parts of him and thrown them away.
He was fucking weak; that was the crux of the matter. He always said each fuck was the last. But something always happened; maybe the ex would block his communications, or Joanna'd cry at the end of a vid, or he'd loose a patient ... something would tear at him until emptiness filled him, withering the remenants of his soul and urging him to forget his only-one-glass-of-bourbon rule and drink straight from the bottle.
Somehow, that little Russian bastard always knew.
It was always the same: Chekov would show up, coy smile on his lips as he barged in, welcoming Leonard's biting kisses. Leonard was never sweet or gentle; instead shoving and moving Chekov like a fuck-toy. Chekov always wound up on his knees, pretty lips stretched around Leonard's cock, sucking until Leonard had to grab those soft curls and yank that mouth away.
Then he'd have Chekov stripped and on his hands and knees, keening and rocking back onto Leonard's fingers (the only time he was remotely gentle). He always watched as two fingers became three, stretching until Chekov was begging. Leonard would push inside, and surrounded by tight, perfect heat, he'd give up any pretense of civility. Everything fell away leaving only heat and flesh and lust and pleasure. Leonard would snap his hips, driving faster and harder, ignoring Chekov's moans as the younger man jerked himself off.
After they came, Chekov would look at him, eyes soft and open, pleading for more. And Leonard would force himself off the bed, away from a warm body that just fit. Leonard never knew what to say, afraid of what those eyes were asking. Those eyes dimmed a bit more each time, fading when Leonard offered the only words he had left: "Better get going, kid."
And then Leonard would shower, cursing and hating himself for using Chekov like a god damned whore, a tool to keep himself togther. Sometimes he hated Chekov for letting it happen. Chekov wasn't a kid; he was an adult, an officer, old enough to be responsile for his own actions.
He clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the wall; he was as clean as he'd get. This was the last time; it wouldn't happen again. Leonard stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist more out of habit than need, before heading into his bedroom.
He stopped short; Chekov was still on the bed, limbs splayed, ass tilted. He hadn't even moved out of the wet spot. Leonard moved closer to the pillow where Chekov's head lay. He crouched, studying his sleeping face. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyes were closed, the skin around them dark with exhaustion. Fuck.
Leonard should have sent him back to his own quarters; Chekov had needed sleep, not to be used as a goddamned sex-toy. But Leonard'd been in such a rush that he'd barely looked at Chekov. It'd been a shit week; one crew member dead on the planet, one dead in the OR.
Something in his chest twinged; he reached out and gently ran his fingers through those curls. Leonard sighed and shook his head.
"Doctor?" Chekov opened his eyes, his expression hazy and drugged with sleep. He frowned and studied Leonard, then flushed at the sight of his bare chest. "Oh, I am sorry; I did not mean to fall asleep."
Chekov moved to get up.
"Go back to sleep, kid; you won't make it to your quarters before you pass out."
Chekov smiled, sleepy and content. "Okay."
He buried his face in the pillow, wriggling into a more comfortable position. Leonard stood and tossed his towel away before climbing into bed. He covered them with the blankets and shut off the lights.
He didn't say anything when Chekov moved closer.
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Date: 2010-07-08 05:41 pm (UTC)