Fic: The Ways In Which We Fail And Fall (1/1)
Title: The Ways In Which We Fail And Fall
Rating: R
Pairing: Chekov/Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 547
Summary: For one more night, they have this. For rubynye, who requested “Chekov/Kirk/McCoy: At the end of the 5 year mission, Chekov and Sulu are about to leave for the Excelsior. Chekov, Kirk and McCoy's last threesome the night before/the morning of Chekov leaving.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This was something else entirely when I sat down to write it. I don’t know if what came of it in the end was better or worse, but I do hope you enjoy it :)
The Ways In Which We Fail And Fall
It’s quiet, eerily quiet, and for the first time since their first time, Pavel feels conscious of himself above others, feels as if he’s interrupting something sacred with ever labored breath he tries to hide.
His nerves are tamed -- too frayed to soothe -- when he feels a chest curl in around his side, feels a hand slide, sweat-slick on his thigh at the opposite; he tries his best to relish the feeling of being cared for, of being safe: of affection and desire closing in from all sides, assured and unyielding; he tries to live inside this moment, unperturbed, without thoughts to what will come tomorrow.
He listens for the pattern of breath from the men that flank him, twirled around him in their own ways, seen and unseen: Leonard, lungs filling up and rushing as they empty, steady and composed at the surface, but no further down, Pavel’s ear pressed tight enough against his chest to hear the truth, the way his pulse shudders and quakes; and Jim, hot against him, panting still because he feels it deeper, if not stronger, lets it sink past his defenses and take him in -- and Pavel knows he’s been blessed to have this at all, blessed to know it as long as he has: he has no right to mourn its loss when it was only happenstance -- the kind that tugs and changes you beyond recognition, he’ll grant, but it was mere coincidence, just this side of fate; he does not believe in destiny, won’t give it that kind of sway -- that brought them here to begin with.
He exhales slow, a puff of sound and breeze through the musk of sex and need, desperate conclusion, a reluctant kind of end laced upon the air between them; he breaks the stasis without meaning to, without preparing, steeling himself.
“It’s been an honor,” comes the gruff voice of McCoy, and Pavel smiles, because it’s so like him, it’s so his way, and he sighs against his will when he feels Leonard’s deft fingertips tracing along his ribs, like he’s trying to draw something lasting into the skin.
“A privilege,” Kirk adds, tone low and filled with something tender when he leans in and presses a kiss to the lower half of Pavel’s neck, just above his collarbone, the dip between; lingers, like he wouldn’t with another, like he doesn’t often even here, and breathes in before pulling back and running his fingers idly through Pavel’s hair.
And Pavel wants to say something, wants to tell them what this has meant to him, what they have come to be in his mind, in the tight hollow of his chest, but he can’t -- he doesn’t have anything more to add, anything to say: language sells this short, he thinks, and so he merely stays where he is, still where he lies in between them, drinking it in, drinking them in, for the last time; lets go of the illusions of could be’s and someday’s, finally, for good. He deigns to let a tear escape him, and he sinks in for one more night -- or else, what remains of it -- and lets the morning come for him on its own.
Rating: R
Pairing: Chekov/Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 547
Summary: For one more night, they have this. For rubynye, who requested “Chekov/Kirk/McCoy: At the end of the 5 year mission, Chekov and Sulu are about to leave for the Excelsior. Chekov, Kirk and McCoy's last threesome the night before/the morning of Chekov leaving.” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Star Trek XI (2009).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: This was something else entirely when I sat down to write it. I don’t know if what came of it in the end was better or worse, but I do hope you enjoy it :)
The Ways In Which We Fail And Fall
It’s quiet, eerily quiet, and for the first time since their first time, Pavel feels conscious of himself above others, feels as if he’s interrupting something sacred with ever labored breath he tries to hide.
His nerves are tamed -- too frayed to soothe -- when he feels a chest curl in around his side, feels a hand slide, sweat-slick on his thigh at the opposite; he tries his best to relish the feeling of being cared for, of being safe: of affection and desire closing in from all sides, assured and unyielding; he tries to live inside this moment, unperturbed, without thoughts to what will come tomorrow.
He listens for the pattern of breath from the men that flank him, twirled around him in their own ways, seen and unseen: Leonard, lungs filling up and rushing as they empty, steady and composed at the surface, but no further down, Pavel’s ear pressed tight enough against his chest to hear the truth, the way his pulse shudders and quakes; and Jim, hot against him, panting still because he feels it deeper, if not stronger, lets it sink past his defenses and take him in -- and Pavel knows he’s been blessed to have this at all, blessed to know it as long as he has: he has no right to mourn its loss when it was only happenstance -- the kind that tugs and changes you beyond recognition, he’ll grant, but it was mere coincidence, just this side of fate; he does not believe in destiny, won’t give it that kind of sway -- that brought them here to begin with.
He exhales slow, a puff of sound and breeze through the musk of sex and need, desperate conclusion, a reluctant kind of end laced upon the air between them; he breaks the stasis without meaning to, without preparing, steeling himself.
“It’s been an honor,” comes the gruff voice of McCoy, and Pavel smiles, because it’s so like him, it’s so his way, and he sighs against his will when he feels Leonard’s deft fingertips tracing along his ribs, like he’s trying to draw something lasting into the skin.
“A privilege,” Kirk adds, tone low and filled with something tender when he leans in and presses a kiss to the lower half of Pavel’s neck, just above his collarbone, the dip between; lingers, like he wouldn’t with another, like he doesn’t often even here, and breathes in before pulling back and running his fingers idly through Pavel’s hair.
And Pavel wants to say something, wants to tell them what this has meant to him, what they have come to be in his mind, in the tight hollow of his chest, but he can’t -- he doesn’t have anything more to add, anything to say: language sells this short, he thinks, and so he merely stays where he is, still where he lies in between them, drinking it in, drinking them in, for the last time; lets go of the illusions of could be’s and someday’s, finally, for good. He deigns to let a tear escape him, and he sinks in for one more night -- or else, what remains of it -- and lets the morning come for him on its own.