Second S/C Fanworksathon Fic: Very Late at Night
Title: Very Late at Night
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Kirk/Sulu, Sulu/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~12,500
Summary: This was written for the Fanworksathon prompt: "Chekov is with McCoy and Sulu is with Kirk. They're all enjoying themselves, but late at night Chekov wants to be held, while Sulu keeps getting pushed away by Kirk when he tries to hold him."
Chekov did not feel overwhelmed when he rushed onto the bridge during the Nero conflict, or when he took his place at the helm, or even when the Enterprise was in danger of being sucked into a black hole. It all seemed to be happening according to some script that he didn't have to know much about and could easily go along with. The only time he felt shaken out of his automatic and professional response to the situation was when Kirk and Sulu were falling toward Vulcan. Then he felt not overwhelmed but certain: he could save them. He did, and perhaps this is the reason Kirk has chosen him for his alpha shift pilot on the Enterprise's first five-year mission. Considering all that he's already accomplished, Chekov is not sure why he should feel overwhelmed now, but he thinks it might have something to do with the words five years. Five years is more than a quarter of the life Chekov has lived so far.
Having Sulu beside him at the helm helps. There are a wide variety of personalities among the alpha shift on the bridge, but all of them are confident, some of those confidences sharper or louder than others. Sulu's confidence is calm, understated, easy to be around. By contrast, the volume of Kirk's voice occasionally makes Chekov flinch.
"He's not that bad," Sulu says, laughing as they head to the gym together after their shift.
"I did not say 'bad,'" Chekov says. "Just -- noisy."
"I kind of like it," Sulu says. "I mean, as opposed to a stuffy, older guy, you know? I think it's cool that he's so young, and a little informal."
"Sure, yes," Chekov says, though informal things have always made him uncomfortable. He likes to know exactly what's expected, and Kirk keeps him guessing.
Even more intimidating than Kirk is Dr. McCoy, who Chekov dreads having to see for regular checkups. When he's due for one after his first full month in space he reports to sick bay with uncharacteristic slowness, dragging his feet on the way there.
McCoy is in a bad mood, as usual. He still looks at Chekov as if he's a preschooler who somehow wandered aboard, and Chekov always shrinks in McCoy's presence, which seems to only irritate him further.
"Undress," McCoy says, his eyes on a tricorder as Chekov shakily removes his clothes. He doesn't like being naked in front of other people, not even doctors. The few romantic fumblings he dared at the Academy took place while he was fully or mostly clothed.
Once he's wearing only his underwear, a snug black pair that he chose this morning out of a hope to impress his maturity upon the doctor, Chekov climbs up onto the bio bed. It's cold in sick bay, and he hates having his nipples uncovered while the doctor scans his body with a tricorder. His face is burning, the rest of his body as fish white as the sanitary sheet that covers the bio bed.
"Why's your heart beating so fast?" McCoy asks, giving Chekov a look as he's taking his pulse. "You run here?"
"Y-yes," Chekov says, lying. More like shuffled mournfully. McCoy grunts.
"No running in the halls," he says. "Unless you've got a captain and a pilot to save, it's an idiotic thing to do. You could fall. Crash into someone."
"Yes, sir." Chekov is having a hard time meeting McCoy's eyes, and when he does, McCoy is frowning like he'd better explain himself and quickly.
"Do you have a problem with me, Ensign?" he asks. Chekov's heart rate spikes, the tricorder beeping in warning.
"No, sir, not at all!"
"Fine." McCoy removes the heart rate sensor. "It must be doctors in general that make you nervous, huh?"
He looks up at Chekov again, not frowning now. He actually looks sympathetic, concerned. It's such a relief that Chekov laughs.
"Maybe," he says. "A little. It is ridiculous, I know." He looks down at his lap. "Childish."
"Bullshit," McCoy says, and when Chekov looks up in alarm he gets a shoulder full of hypospray. "Plenty of full grown adults get nervous about being poked and prodded. Hell, I don't really care for it myself. It can leave one feeling -- exposed." McCoy grunts as the hypospray retracts. "I have been told before that my bedside manner is not my strong suit."
"It's fine, sir," Chekov says, feeling guilty.
"It's not me, it's you?" McCoy says. He smirks, and Chekov laughs again, feeling dizzy. He never thought McCoy would actually smile at him.
"Something like this," Chekov says.
"Lie back," McCoy says, putting the tricorder down. "I have to test your muscle sensitivity. Deep space tissue aberrations are a serious matter."
"Yes," Chekov agrees, lying down. Once he's on his back, his temporary calm dissipates, and he feels too vulnerable. McCoy seems to sense this, turning down the light that glows over the bio bed so that it's not so harsh.
"It's cold in here," McCoy says. He grabs a sterile blanket from the cabinet and rips open its plastic wrapping. "And you've got, what, two percent body fat total? Here, you can lie under this during the exam."
"Thank you, sir." Chekov accepts the blanket gratefully, spreading it over himself. The comfort it brings is instantaneous, and he almost feels like he could drift to sleep as McCoy reaches beneath it to examine Chekov's muscle tissue. He starts with Chekov's neck and moves down to his shoulder, over his arm and down along his side. Chekov's eyelids begin to lower, and he wonders if McCoy would snap at him for drifting off or just be pleased with himself for being able to get Chekov to relax. Then McCoy's hands move to Chekov's thigh, opening Chekov's legs a bit as his fingers test their way over Chekov's tight runner's muscles, looking for aberrations. Chekov is wide awake now, his anxiety flooding back in as he worries that he'll get an erection. McCoy's touch is gentle but firm, and it's beginning to feel very, very good.
"So far so good," McCoy says, impassive, his brow knit in concentration. "Now the other side." He moves around the bio bed and this time starts at Chekov's ankle, his hands moving upward. Chekov grits his teeth and tries to think of anything but how incredibly adept McCoy's hands are and how good it feels to have the tension rubbed out of his muscles, even if it's just a side effect of a medical examination. He squeaks involuntarily when his cock begins to stiffen enough to tent the blanket, and sneaks a look at McCoy, expecting him to either be horrified or ignore Chekov's erection completely.
"That's not uncommon," McCoy says, seemingly unperturbed as his fingers move in tight circles, from Chekov's knee and up along his thigh. "Just relax."
Chekov's mouth hangs open, his heart pumping fast again.
"You're tightening up," McCoy says, giving Chekov a displeased look as his hands move high up his thigh. "I know it's a little awkward, but you've got to try to be as loose as possible."
For a moment Chekov is afraid he'll come just from those words. As loose as possible. He allows himself one traitorous thought about McCoy telling him this during a massage of a more intimate place on Chekov's body. A tight one that would need to be loosened. Relaxed. Chekov pinches his eyes shut, trying to breathe deeply and calm down, but his cock is so hard now, and McCoy is right there and still rubbing.
"For God's sake, kid," McCoy says. "I can give you an injection to get rid of that, if it's bothering you so much."
"Is okay," Chekov says, because that sounds painful. He cracks his eyes open and sneaks a look at McCoy. The sympathetic expression is back, and he's finally finished with Chekov's thigh, moving up to rub at his side. Warmth floods Chekov's chest, and he lets out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. The tension begins draining from his body as if the bio bed itself is sucking it out of him. McCoy's touch is so sure, calm and reassuring despite Chekov's current condition. The blanket is tented in such an obvious fashion that it's almost comical, but Chekov doesn't feel humiliated. McCoy said it's not uncommon. Chekov is not going to be blamed or judged.
"Thank you," Chekov says as McCoy's hands move up along his shoulder and to his neck. McCoy raises his eyebrows.
"Just doing my job," he says, though they both know he's done more than that. He didn't have to open a fresh emergency blanket for Chekov, or withhold the sarcastic remarks he could have made about Chekov's age when he got hard just from having his legs touched. McCoy has been kind, and Chekov is melted with gratitude as he finishes his examination.
"Your muscles seem good," McCoy says, clearing his throat. "You're an athlete -- that will help, up here." McCoy types something into a tricorder and brings it down to hold it over Chekov's eyes. "Optical scan looks good," he says. "And that does it." He flips the tricorder off. "You're all clear until your next checkup, at the three month mark."
Chekov isn't ready to get off the bio bed yet. He feels stunned, like someone has flipped a light switch on in the middle of his nap. He wants to stay here, with the blanket tickling over his pointed nipples, his cock throbbing between his legs.
"I'll give you some privacy," McCoy says, picking up Chekov's clothes from the footstool he dumped them onto. He puts them on Chekov's lap as Chekov sits up, groggy with arousal.
"'Til next time," McCoy mutters as he walks out of the examining room, shutting the door behind him. Chekov pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and gives himself a moment to process his thoughts, but they're all muddled and strange. When he finally dresses his erection begins to wane, but he's still itchy and flushed by the time he gets back to his room. He goes straight for his bed, not even bothering to take his pants all the way down while he lies on his back and strokes himself, thinking about McCoy telling him to relax, kid, relax.
*
Since they left Earth, Hikaru has tried not to end up alone in elevators with Kirk, because he pretty much knew this would happen. Kirk is giving him that grin, the one that works on everyone and has worked on Hikaru before. Kirk is a good guy, smart, and Hikaru thoroughly enjoyed being fucked by him when they returned to Earth after the Nero conflict, but he's pretty sure that trying to make it happen again wouldn't go well. Kirk is Hikaru's captain, beloved by everyone, and Hikaru knows he would get too attached too fast. He's good at a lot of things, but keeping up with guys like Kirk has never been one of them.
Also, Hikaru has a crush on Pavel Chekov, and doesn't want to mess things up with him, even if he does sometimes still think about how good Kirk's insanely fat cockhead felt on that first slow push inside.
"Plans tonight?" Kirk says as the elevator whirs down toward the crew quarters. Kirk is still grinning, moving a little closer. They're both leaning against the back wall, Hikaru watching the deck numbers on the display while Kirk watches him.
"Just the gym," Hikaru says. "Dinner, you know. Nothing special."
"That's a shame," Kirk says, turning to stare at the numbers, too.
"It is?"
"The nothing special part."
Hikaru smiles and pretends not to realize that Kirk is flirting, perfectly aware that Kirk will see through this. It's another reason he finds the prospect of actually dating Kirk exhausting, even if he could believe that Kirk would fuck him exclusively: Kirk reads him like he wrote the manual. Hikaru still half-believes that the reason Kirk was able to act so quickly on the drill involved him somehow anticipating Hikaru's stupid stumble.
"Personally, I have all kinds of special shit planned for my evening," Kirk says. He's smiling at his reflection in the elevator doors, cracking himself up. Hikaru snorts.
"That's awesome, sir," he says.
"You wound me," Kirk says.
"Huh?"
"The sir thing."
"You are 'sir,' sir. Technically."
"Don't I know it," Kirk says, sighing, trying to appear upset about this. Hikaru plays along, patting Kirk's shoulder, and when they grin at each other Hikaru feels it low in his stomach, which is why he needs to steer clear of Kirk. This is way too easy for him.
"Here's my floor," Hikaru says when the lift doors slide open.
"Enjoy the gym," Kirk says, and Hikaru thinks of Chekov waiting for him in the shallow end of the pool, breathless and pink-cheeked from his run. He's still smiling as he walks out of the lift, but it's got nothing to do with Kirk.
Hikaru has actually started looking forward to his workouts since falling into this habit of meeting up with Chekov in the pool afterward. Generally he prefers real action to repetition: actual fencing matches instead of drills and hikes over real terrain rather than treadmill runs. Realizing that he would have to get most of his physical exercise inside the walls of the Enterprise gym was not something he was looking forward to when he signed up for the five-year mission, but having his swim with Chekov to look forward to helps his reps feel like they mean more. He's not sure why, except that he wants to impress Chekov by getting bigger, and can imagine that his muscles swell with each work out. Once, in the pool, Chekov braced himself on Hikaru's arm and blushed when Hikaru flexed. Hikaru went back to his room and beat off furiously in the shower, thinking about Chekov's hands moving over his arms, down his chest, and slipping shyly between his legs.
He's in a state by the time he reaches the pool, unable to think about anything else. Chekov is there in the shallow end, looking a little forlorn, but he smiles when he sees Hikaru.
"Have a good run?" Hikaru asks as he slips into the water, careful not to splash him.
"What? Oh, yes." Chekov seems dazed. He leans against the side of the pool and watches an Orion girl who is poised to dive off the high board.
"I had a pretty good work out," Hikaru says, examining himself. "Did my arms, mostly." Chekov isn't looking. The Orion girl dives, knifing into the water almost soundlessly.
"Hikaru," Chekov says. "I think I have a problem."
"A problem?" Hikaru wants names. He's ready to fight to the death for this boy, especially now that they're standing together in the water, half-naked, Chekov in his tiny blue swim shorts.
"Is embarrassing," Chekov says with a moan. He sinks down so that the water covers his shoulders and peers up at Hikaru, so sweet-faced with concern that Hikaru actually swoons toward him. He catches himself before he can do anything drastic, and squats down so that they're face to face.
"Tell me," Hikaru says. Chekov sighs.
"The doctor," he says. "I want him."
"Want him to what?"
Chekov raises his eyebrows, then laughs.
"Hikaru," he says.
"Yeah?" Hikaru is confused. Does Chekov have some medical secret that he's afraid to trust to McCoy? Hikaru couldn't blame him. McCoy seems to get off on being as scary as possible.
"You are really not understanding me?" Chekov says, looking concerned again. "I mean that I -- desire him. Physically."
Sulu waits for that to make sense. It doesn't. He rejects it. No fucking way.
"Um," he manages to say when Chekov stares at him, the worried look on his face increasing.
"I know!" Chekov says. He winces and curses in Russian, slapping the water. "Is stupid. He would never. But since this exam I had with him, I can't stop thinking about it. He was so kind. He gave me a blanket."
"Kind?" Sulu says, sputtering. "A blanket?"
"Yes, and yes!" Chekov moves closer, the sweat and chlorine smell of him drawing Sulu closer, too. "Also, Hikaru. The exam. I became -- affected."
"Affected?"
"Aroused."
"Oh, God."
"Yes."
Sulu might throw up. No, he definitely will. He moves toward the stairs and Chekov follows.
"I have tried to stop thinking about it," Chekov says. "Those hands. Hikaru -- you don't mind if we talk about things like this, do you? You are, ah. My best friend, here on the ship."
Hikaru turns back, halfway out of the pool. What is he doing? Refusing to look at Chekov now that he knows Chekov doesn't return his feelings? It was just a dumb crush, even if it is literally becoming that thing in Hikaru's chest at the moment, crushing his insides into painful slop.
"Of course it's okay," Hikaru says. "I'm just going to get some water. I -- I think you're wrong, also. I think he might be interested."
"Really?" Chekov's grin is a supernova, too bright to look at. "You think?"
Hikaru spends the next twenty minutes swimming with Chekov while working hard to convince him that he and McCoy would make a great couple. He has no idea why he does this, except maybe as a cover for his actual, unbearable feelings. When they've parted, Hikaru showers in his room, drinks some of the special Belgian beer that he had been saving as a gift for Chekov on Friendship Day, and goes knocking on Kirk's door.
Kirk, of course, smiles at Hikaru as if he'd been expecting him.
"So," Hikaru says. He's not drunk, but the beer was stronger than he expected. Brewed by monks. Hard to come by. "Are you still in here doing special shit?"
"Hikaru," Kirk says, cocking his head as if he's insulted. "Am I ever not doing special shit? Get in here."
The hanging out portion of the evening lasts roughly five minutes, and by the ten minute mark Hikaru is naked on Kirk's plush sofa. Kirk is a force of nature, and it feels so good to submit to him, just like Hikaru remembers. They had only fucked that one time, leftover adrenaline from their fall spurring them toward each other almost as soon as they stepped off the ship. It was the morning before Kirk's medal ceremony. They got drunk together the night before, and Sulu fell asleep on Kirk's sofa -- a sofa much less impressive than this captain's quarters version, more like a couch, really. He thought he'd messed it up, that his chance to achieve sexual tension closure had passed in drunkenness, but then Kirk came in with a rehydrated waffle and some orange juice, and he fucked Sulu as soon as he'd finished eating. Later, Sulu met up with Chekov before the ceremony. The thing about Kirk was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by getting too excited about it. He ended up being very glad that he hadn't said anything; Kirk disappeared with a crowd of admirers after the ceremony, and didn't send Sulu so much as a PADD message for two weeks. When a message did come, it just said, oh man i just saw the stupidest movie but it had this guy who looked like you.
In the captain's quarters, on the much more impressive sofa, Kirk fucks Sulu like he did last time, probably the same way he's been fucking since he was fourteen years old: enthusiastic, effortless, and proud of himself. Sulu goes liquid for him, forgetting the Chekov thing while Kirk opens him wide, kissing him like they're in the climactic scene of a movie about how they both walked five hundred miles to meet up for this moment. People assume that Kirk's talent in this area is all about his huge cock, but it's really the way he kisses that makes people want to come back for more. He kisses, and fucks, really, like this is the last best time he'll ever do it. Sulu comes twice, and he spreads his legs as wide as he can when he takes Kirk's.
It's exactly what Sulu needed for almost a full minute, Kirk the heaviest thing that's ever been warmly on top of him, but then Kirk recovers and slides away, and Sulu is left feeling like he just got thrown out the window of a bus.
"Damn," Kirk says, going to his wet bar for a bottle of water. "I needed that. You needed that?"
"Uh, yeah," Sulu says. He looks around for a blanket or even a pillow to cover himself with, but there's nothing.
"Water?" Kirk says, holding up the bottle.
"Please," Sulu says, hoping that bringing him the water will give Kirk an excuse to drop down onto the couch and hold him. Getting fucked was nice, but Sulu is just now realizing that he really came here to cuddle up against Kirk's chest and hope that doing so would make him feel better about the McCoy conversation that he had with Chekov.
Kirk brings Sulu the water, ruffles his hair and heads for the bathroom, where he proceeds to take the longest piss Sulu has ever heard.
*
Seducing the doctor is easy once Sulu has assured Chekov that it will be. All it takes is following him off the ship while the Enterprise is docked at a space station. McCoy heads for a bar, and Chekov heads there, too.
"Can I help you?" McCoy says as Chekov trots along merrily beside him.
"I'm a good drinking partner," Chekov says.
"Yeah? Well, I'm one of the few people in the universe who enjoys drinking alone. So you're out of luck."
"I have a question about a rash!" Chekov blurts, panicked, and McCoy boggles at him, then laughs hard. The rest is booze-soaked and simple.
There are rooms in space stations that can be rented by the hour. Chekov never thought he would lose his virginity in one, but as far as McCoy knows that's not what's happening. Chekov had to swear up and down that he's had sex -- lots of sex! -- before McCoy would even take off his shirt. Chekov's heart is pounding by the time he's lowered to the bed. McCoy smells so good, like a big flannel blanket that Chekov wants to wrap himself into, and Chekov's head is swimming from all the drinks, his body thrumming from weeks of wanting this so badly. He just wants to close his eyes and be touched everywhere, maybe while lying under an actual blanket.
"I don't really do the face to face thing," McCoy says when Chekov surges up to try to kiss him. McCoy's mouth quirks apologetically when Chekov stares up at him, trying to parse that.
"It's, you know." McCoy leans up and rubs the back of his neck. "The divorce. Kid -- what are you doing with me?"
"I like your hands," Chekov says. He takes McCoy's right hand and curls it into a fist, kissing his knuckles. McCoy still looks queasy and uncertain, so Chekov uncurls his fingers and begins sucking on them. McCoy watches, his eyes darkening like ink pooling in water, and when he growls with approval at the sight of Chekov's tongue sliding up his index finger, Chekov knows that his hesitation is gone.
McCoy turns Chekov onto his stomach, and Chekov finds that he likes this, the safety of not having to lock eyes. A sharp tremble moves through him as McCoy reaches down to part his ass cheeks, and Chekov can hear the lid popping open on the little container of lube provided by the hotel.
"Just relax," McCoy says, soothing his big hand over Chekov's back, and Chekov melts into the mattress, humping it weakly, nodding to himself. The magic words.
McCoy prepares him like a professional, taking his time, making Chekov come once, twice, until he's in a puddle on the bed, come sticky under his stomach, his limbs useless and heavy. Every time he watches Chekov hump another climax onto the sheets McCoy makes a sound that creeps right up Chekov's spine, a combination between a predatory growl and a satisfied purr.
"That feel good?" he keeps asking, softly, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over Chekov's left ass cheek. Chekov has lost the ability to speak and can only nod slowly, his eyes half-open against the sheets.
"Want something bigger in there?" McCoy asks, curling his fingers so that Chekov's affirmative answer comes out in a moan.
"Please," he says, trying to get up onto his knees and finding that he doesn't have the strength. "Please, please." He laughs at himself when he realizes that he's begging in Russian. McCoy seems to understand well enough, slicking himself and lining up. Chekov is so dazed that he barely thinks about the fact that this actually is the first time he's ever done this until the head of McCoy's cock is pushing into him, already unbelievably big; there's no way the rest will fit. He gasps, and McCoy leans down over him, rubbing his hand over Chekov's back and shoulders.
"You're so small," McCoy whispers, in awe, his breath boiling hot on Chekov's cheek. "Does it hurt?"
"No," Chekov says. It doesn't hurt exactly, just feels scary, too much, too full, too everything. There's a trembling feeling in his chest, and he berates himself internally: he will not cry.
"Take deep breaths," McCoy says, still rubbing him, his hand moving slowly up Chekov's neck, into his hair. "Just stay relaxed. We're not in a hurry, are we?"
"No," Chekov squeaks out. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out. McCoy sinks in another inch, and Chekov gasps, the scariness of the sensation morphing into curiosity, then need. He angles his hips back and McCoy laughs under his breath, pleased-sounding.
"There you go," he says. His hands are in two fists now, braced against the mattress as he sinks in deeper. "There you go. Breathe, sweetheart. Good boy."
Chekov whimpers into the blankets. He's hard again. Good boy. He can't believe this is sex. It feels so wonderfully dirty, so far almost exactly like the pornography he's watched obsessively since he was twelve. He was afraid there would be awkwardness, stumbling, but McCoy knows what he wants. Chekov cries out as the last few inches of McCoy's cock push in. It's deep, maybe too deep, but McCoy is quick to soothe him, rubbing his stubbly cheek against Chekov's as he takes Chekov's clenched fists and works his fingers loose, twining his own fingers through them. Chekov opens his eyes and stares ahead blearily, moaning at the sight of McCoy's hands pressed over his. Chekov's look tiny and delicate in comparison. He can feel the low growl that rumbles through McCoy's chest as their bodies lock together, McCoy's heavy balls settling over Chekov's. McCoy is so impossibly deep inside him that it feels irreversible, and Chekov's heart is hammering against the mattress, but it's starting to feel good, how spread and pinned he is.
"Still breathing?" McCoy asks.
"Yes," Chekov says. It feels like a lie. McCoy sighs, and it moves through Chekov's body, too, making him shiver and spread his legs a bit wider.
"Damn, kid," McCoy says, rubbing his hand down over Chekov's arm while he keeps Chekov's other hand pressed to the mattress. "That's the tightest fucking ass I've ever had."
Chekov almost laughs, not sure why he was expecting something very different to be said just then. He feels alarmed for a moment, as if he's just remembered a math test he's supposed to be taking right now, but then McCoy shifts back slowly, dragging his cock through Chekov's ass, and all thought processes are shoved aside in favor of this sensation.
They go slow at first, and Chekov gradually relaxes, his hips canting back to follow the drag of McCoy's cock. He comes against the mattress when McCoy begins striking his prostate with harder thrusts, and he feels something akin to dehydrated as he drops down and arches, his whole body a lewd curve, everything on offer. He has a hard time believing that McCoy can last this long, and at one point actually worries that they'll have to pay for a second hour. When McCoy finally comes it's on Chekov's back, a huge load that, again, makes Chekov think of some of his favorite porn vids.
"Let me look at you," McCoy says, panting. He pumps the last drops onto Chekov's wide open hole, sitting back with a long, satisfied groan as he holds Chekov's cheeks apart. Chekov lies there, letting him look.
He falls asleep for a few seconds, drooling against the sheets. McCoy goes somewhere, to the bathroom presumably, and returns with a warm, wet cloth that he uses to clean Chekov's back, ass, thighs. Chekov moans out his gratitude and falls asleep again, waking when McCoy rolls him over to clean his front.
"How many times did you come?" McCoy asks. He seems very serious about the question, as if he's asking as Chekov's doctor, not the guy who just fucked him.
"Three," Chekov says. He can barely keep his eyes open. He lifts his arms, ready for McCoy to lean down onto him and let him sleep under the flannel blanket that is his body, but McCoy just puts Chekov's clothes into his hands.
"Better hurry," McCoy says. "Our time's almost up."
Chekov sits up slowly, confused. McCoy is already dressed. When did that happen? He's lacing up his boots.
"You're welcome for not coming inside you," McCoy says. "Figured you wouldn't want that mess dripping out of you while you go about your business. Me, I've got a hair cut and a shave scheduled. You ever gotten a professional, old fashioned shave? What the hell am I talking about -- of course you haven't. Well, it's goddamn relaxing."
Chekov can't tell if McCoy is nervous or just distracted. He thinks of what McCoy said before: I don't do the face to face thing. Does Chekov do the face to face thing? It was almost a relief not to, but what is happening now? Is he actually supposed to get dressed, roam the space station alone, run errands?
Apparently, he is. McCoy gives him a parting slap on the shoulder and heads off toward his barber. Chekov still feels drunk. He doesn't entirely remember getting dressed and leaving the hotel, but suddenly he's standing in the middle of the busy space station, cold and sore and more tired than he's ever been in his life. He feels like he'll have to sit down on the ground until someone stops and helps him, like a child, like a pet, and then he thinks of Sulu.
Chekov will tell Sulu everything, get his opinion, ask his advice. He's smiling to himself as he remembers Sulu telling him that he would be at O'Pub's, a cheesy tourist bar that's meant to be like an authentic pub on Earth. Sulu likes it because they broadcast American sports, and always goes there when they visit this space station. Chekov is practically running, pushing rudely through the crowd. Sulu will tell him how to proceed. When he sees the sign for O'Pub's in the distance Chekov thinks of actually sitting in Sulu's lap during this conversation, resting his head on Sulu's shoulder. He's just so tired.
There's a large outdoor patio where most of the broadcast screens are kept, and Chekov finds Sulu easily as he draws closer to the restaurant. Sulu is drinking from a pint, probably one of the Belgian beers that he's always going on about, telling Chekov he would love them, that he hasn't had real beer and therefore can't dismiss it based on replicator swill. Chekov's grin stretches to its limit, and he's ready to leap over the short fence around the bar area when he sees a gold-sleeved arm slide around Sulu's shoulders.
Kirk is there, which is okay; Chekov can persuade Sulu to leave Kirk here in favor of a private conversation elsewhere. Except that Kirk seems to be not only speaking into Sulu's ear but whispering into it, and then pulling it between his teeth, giving the lobe a lick. Chekov blinks rapidly, waiting to make sense of this. Sulu turns to grin at Kirk, bumping his nose against Kirk's cheek, which makes him laugh. Kirk pulls Sulu closer, and Sulu lets his head loll back to rest on Kirk's shoulder, his eyes still on the soccer game that's playing on the pub's biggest broadcast screen.
Sulu is smiling. He looks happy, relaxed, enjoying a day away from the ship. Enjoying Kirk's attention. Kirk is ignoring the game in favor of petting Sulu, kissing his neck, sneaking a hand up under Sulu's shirt to stroke his side. He's probably a little drunk. Chekov's eyes are burning.
Well.
Back to the ship, then.
*
Sulu was not expecting Kirk to agree when Sulu gave him the ultimatum about exclusivity. He brought it up after sex one night, when he was trying to hang on to Kirk in bed, to get him to relax and rub his face against Sulu's the way he sometimes does when he's had a few beers. Kirk only lasted twenty-three seconds in Sulu's arms - Sulu counted - before getting up to check his PADD for new communications.
“I'm not the fuck buddy type,” Sulu said while Kirk stared down at the screen, scrolling through messages with his index finger. “So maybe we should just call this what it is and move on.” Sulu was furious, kicking away the blankets, but he stopped and looked back when Kirk grabbed his arm.
“Hey.” Kirk stared at him for a second, more confused than hurt, though there was some of both in his eyes. Then he beamed. “Wait. You want to be my boyfriend?”
“Fuck you.” Sulu snarled and pulled away, but Kirk was undeterred. He pounced on Sulu, laughing, and held him to the bed.
“I like how you're old-fashioned,” Kirk said. “And I haven't been fucking anyone else, anyway. You satisfy me, Hikaru.”
“God.” Sulu was regretting the offer, realizing too late that he'd been looking for an excuse to end this. Having sex with Kirk felt good, until it was over, and then he just felt come-stained and lonely. He should have been relieved to hear that Kirk wasn't seeing anyone else, but it didn't feel true, even if Kirk wasn't actually fucking them. He flirted with everyone, loved a lot of things. Even as he rolled Sulu onto his back to have slow, boyfriend-style sex, Sulu didn't feel like Kirk's one and only anything.
He realized why when they finished and Kirk went for his PADD again, Sulu left on his back, legs still open, his bones heavy with need.
Now they've been exclusive for two weeks, and nothing has changed. Sulu sleeps in Kirk's bed, but Kirk always fights free of grip before really settling in for the night. Sulu has begun to suffer from insomnia, and when he grows bored with wandering Kirk's quarters and nosily poking around, he starts taking long walks around the ship during Gamma shift, when things are quietest.
The first time he runs into Chekov, they both laugh. They already see so much of each other on the bridge, and in combination with taking their meals together during breaks and their talks in the pool after working out, they probably see each other more than they do their significant others. Chekov is still with McCoy, which still hurts, but he seems happy, and Sulu likes it when Chekov is happy.
“We've got a shift in three hours, you know,” Chekov says as they walk together past the virtual environment library and the engine room.
“I know,” Sulu says, groaning. “Can't sleep, though.”
“Me either.” Chekov sighs. “I'm still not accustomed to the beds here.”
“McCoy's isn't more comfortable than yours?” Sulu asks. There's a little spark of regret in his chest as he asks this, because he's smirking, trying to be cute, and it's fake.
“His is fine,” Chekov says, tightly enough that Sulu lets the subject drop. Chekov never seems to want to talk about McCoy the way he used to, and Sulu can guess why. It's real now, too sacred to discuss with friends. Chekov doesn't seem like the type who would kiss and tell, and so far he hasn't. Sulu is relieved. He doesn't think he could stand to hear any details; he can barely hold his lunch down when he sees Chekov cast looks of longing across the mess when McCoy comes in to grab a sandwich. McCoy eats most of his meals in his office, and Kirk never has time to sit still. In the absence of those two, Sulu and Chekov keep each other company. Sulu laughs under his breath, because that's what they're doing now, too.
“What is funny?” Chekov asks, and only then does Sulu realize that they've been walking together in silence. It didn't feel awkward at all, and Sulu is usually pretty sensitive about things like that, filling the air with aimless words if his companion goes quiet. Maybe it's all the time spent sitting together on the bridge and performing their tasks in silent tandem that has prepared them to be the kind of friends who can pass quiet hours together.
“Nothing,” Sulu says. He bumps his shoulder against Chekov's to see if he'll grin. He does, looking up at Sulu as if he's waiting to hear a great joke.
“Is the keptin asleep?” Chekov asks.
“I guess,” Sulu says. “He was when I left.”
They go quiet again, and this time it feels different, tense. When they come to the large observation window between the engine room and Rec Center B, they both stop walking and look out at the stars, as if this detour was in their plan for the evening. Sulu used to think about what they would be like in bed together, considering how they've been trained to act as one at the conn, specialized but in sync. He doesn't think about it anymore. Not often, anyway. Usually only after they've performed an especially complicated maneuver with the ship, Chekov blowing away meteors while Sulu weaves between them. Sulu doesn't think about sex while he's flying, just afterward, when the coast is finally clear and he can look over at Chekov. They're both always a little breathless after something like that, trying not to grin too widely.
“I think I'm going to go back to my room,” Sulu says. “Maybe listen to some music.” It's not until he hears himself saying so that he realizes he wants Chekov to come with him. Chekov is staring out at the stars as if he's not really seeing them, his eyes wide and glazed-over.
“Goodnight, then,” he says.
“You're staying here?” Sulu feels alarmed by the idea, as if Chekov isn't safe here alone, which is ridiculous.
“I will go back and sleep.” Chekov scratches at his elbow, still staring out at space. “To my room, I think.”
Sulu starts to say something, then considers his own situation and thinks better of it. For some reason, before leaving, he shakes Chekov's hand.
“I don't know why I did that,” Sulu says, embarrassed. Chekov just smiles at him like he's waiting to hear more, but Sulu doesn't trust himself not to say something stupid, so he holds up his hand, waves, and goes.
*
Part II
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairings: McCoy/Chekov, Kirk/Sulu, Sulu/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~12,500
Summary: This was written for the Fanworksathon prompt: "Chekov is with McCoy and Sulu is with Kirk. They're all enjoying themselves, but late at night Chekov wants to be held, while Sulu keeps getting pushed away by Kirk when he tries to hold him."
Chekov did not feel overwhelmed when he rushed onto the bridge during the Nero conflict, or when he took his place at the helm, or even when the Enterprise was in danger of being sucked into a black hole. It all seemed to be happening according to some script that he didn't have to know much about and could easily go along with. The only time he felt shaken out of his automatic and professional response to the situation was when Kirk and Sulu were falling toward Vulcan. Then he felt not overwhelmed but certain: he could save them. He did, and perhaps this is the reason Kirk has chosen him for his alpha shift pilot on the Enterprise's first five-year mission. Considering all that he's already accomplished, Chekov is not sure why he should feel overwhelmed now, but he thinks it might have something to do with the words five years. Five years is more than a quarter of the life Chekov has lived so far.
Having Sulu beside him at the helm helps. There are a wide variety of personalities among the alpha shift on the bridge, but all of them are confident, some of those confidences sharper or louder than others. Sulu's confidence is calm, understated, easy to be around. By contrast, the volume of Kirk's voice occasionally makes Chekov flinch.
"He's not that bad," Sulu says, laughing as they head to the gym together after their shift.
"I did not say 'bad,'" Chekov says. "Just -- noisy."
"I kind of like it," Sulu says. "I mean, as opposed to a stuffy, older guy, you know? I think it's cool that he's so young, and a little informal."
"Sure, yes," Chekov says, though informal things have always made him uncomfortable. He likes to know exactly what's expected, and Kirk keeps him guessing.
Even more intimidating than Kirk is Dr. McCoy, who Chekov dreads having to see for regular checkups. When he's due for one after his first full month in space he reports to sick bay with uncharacteristic slowness, dragging his feet on the way there.
McCoy is in a bad mood, as usual. He still looks at Chekov as if he's a preschooler who somehow wandered aboard, and Chekov always shrinks in McCoy's presence, which seems to only irritate him further.
"Undress," McCoy says, his eyes on a tricorder as Chekov shakily removes his clothes. He doesn't like being naked in front of other people, not even doctors. The few romantic fumblings he dared at the Academy took place while he was fully or mostly clothed.
Once he's wearing only his underwear, a snug black pair that he chose this morning out of a hope to impress his maturity upon the doctor, Chekov climbs up onto the bio bed. It's cold in sick bay, and he hates having his nipples uncovered while the doctor scans his body with a tricorder. His face is burning, the rest of his body as fish white as the sanitary sheet that covers the bio bed.
"Why's your heart beating so fast?" McCoy asks, giving Chekov a look as he's taking his pulse. "You run here?"
"Y-yes," Chekov says, lying. More like shuffled mournfully. McCoy grunts.
"No running in the halls," he says. "Unless you've got a captain and a pilot to save, it's an idiotic thing to do. You could fall. Crash into someone."
"Yes, sir." Chekov is having a hard time meeting McCoy's eyes, and when he does, McCoy is frowning like he'd better explain himself and quickly.
"Do you have a problem with me, Ensign?" he asks. Chekov's heart rate spikes, the tricorder beeping in warning.
"No, sir, not at all!"
"Fine." McCoy removes the heart rate sensor. "It must be doctors in general that make you nervous, huh?"
He looks up at Chekov again, not frowning now. He actually looks sympathetic, concerned. It's such a relief that Chekov laughs.
"Maybe," he says. "A little. It is ridiculous, I know." He looks down at his lap. "Childish."
"Bullshit," McCoy says, and when Chekov looks up in alarm he gets a shoulder full of hypospray. "Plenty of full grown adults get nervous about being poked and prodded. Hell, I don't really care for it myself. It can leave one feeling -- exposed." McCoy grunts as the hypospray retracts. "I have been told before that my bedside manner is not my strong suit."
"It's fine, sir," Chekov says, feeling guilty.
"It's not me, it's you?" McCoy says. He smirks, and Chekov laughs again, feeling dizzy. He never thought McCoy would actually smile at him.
"Something like this," Chekov says.
"Lie back," McCoy says, putting the tricorder down. "I have to test your muscle sensitivity. Deep space tissue aberrations are a serious matter."
"Yes," Chekov agrees, lying down. Once he's on his back, his temporary calm dissipates, and he feels too vulnerable. McCoy seems to sense this, turning down the light that glows over the bio bed so that it's not so harsh.
"It's cold in here," McCoy says. He grabs a sterile blanket from the cabinet and rips open its plastic wrapping. "And you've got, what, two percent body fat total? Here, you can lie under this during the exam."
"Thank you, sir." Chekov accepts the blanket gratefully, spreading it over himself. The comfort it brings is instantaneous, and he almost feels like he could drift to sleep as McCoy reaches beneath it to examine Chekov's muscle tissue. He starts with Chekov's neck and moves down to his shoulder, over his arm and down along his side. Chekov's eyelids begin to lower, and he wonders if McCoy would snap at him for drifting off or just be pleased with himself for being able to get Chekov to relax. Then McCoy's hands move to Chekov's thigh, opening Chekov's legs a bit as his fingers test their way over Chekov's tight runner's muscles, looking for aberrations. Chekov is wide awake now, his anxiety flooding back in as he worries that he'll get an erection. McCoy's touch is gentle but firm, and it's beginning to feel very, very good.
"So far so good," McCoy says, impassive, his brow knit in concentration. "Now the other side." He moves around the bio bed and this time starts at Chekov's ankle, his hands moving upward. Chekov grits his teeth and tries to think of anything but how incredibly adept McCoy's hands are and how good it feels to have the tension rubbed out of his muscles, even if it's just a side effect of a medical examination. He squeaks involuntarily when his cock begins to stiffen enough to tent the blanket, and sneaks a look at McCoy, expecting him to either be horrified or ignore Chekov's erection completely.
"That's not uncommon," McCoy says, seemingly unperturbed as his fingers move in tight circles, from Chekov's knee and up along his thigh. "Just relax."
Chekov's mouth hangs open, his heart pumping fast again.
"You're tightening up," McCoy says, giving Chekov a displeased look as his hands move high up his thigh. "I know it's a little awkward, but you've got to try to be as loose as possible."
For a moment Chekov is afraid he'll come just from those words. As loose as possible. He allows himself one traitorous thought about McCoy telling him this during a massage of a more intimate place on Chekov's body. A tight one that would need to be loosened. Relaxed. Chekov pinches his eyes shut, trying to breathe deeply and calm down, but his cock is so hard now, and McCoy is right there and still rubbing.
"For God's sake, kid," McCoy says. "I can give you an injection to get rid of that, if it's bothering you so much."
"Is okay," Chekov says, because that sounds painful. He cracks his eyes open and sneaks a look at McCoy. The sympathetic expression is back, and he's finally finished with Chekov's thigh, moving up to rub at his side. Warmth floods Chekov's chest, and he lets out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. The tension begins draining from his body as if the bio bed itself is sucking it out of him. McCoy's touch is so sure, calm and reassuring despite Chekov's current condition. The blanket is tented in such an obvious fashion that it's almost comical, but Chekov doesn't feel humiliated. McCoy said it's not uncommon. Chekov is not going to be blamed or judged.
"Thank you," Chekov says as McCoy's hands move up along his shoulder and to his neck. McCoy raises his eyebrows.
"Just doing my job," he says, though they both know he's done more than that. He didn't have to open a fresh emergency blanket for Chekov, or withhold the sarcastic remarks he could have made about Chekov's age when he got hard just from having his legs touched. McCoy has been kind, and Chekov is melted with gratitude as he finishes his examination.
"Your muscles seem good," McCoy says, clearing his throat. "You're an athlete -- that will help, up here." McCoy types something into a tricorder and brings it down to hold it over Chekov's eyes. "Optical scan looks good," he says. "And that does it." He flips the tricorder off. "You're all clear until your next checkup, at the three month mark."
Chekov isn't ready to get off the bio bed yet. He feels stunned, like someone has flipped a light switch on in the middle of his nap. He wants to stay here, with the blanket tickling over his pointed nipples, his cock throbbing between his legs.
"I'll give you some privacy," McCoy says, picking up Chekov's clothes from the footstool he dumped them onto. He puts them on Chekov's lap as Chekov sits up, groggy with arousal.
"'Til next time," McCoy mutters as he walks out of the examining room, shutting the door behind him. Chekov pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and gives himself a moment to process his thoughts, but they're all muddled and strange. When he finally dresses his erection begins to wane, but he's still itchy and flushed by the time he gets back to his room. He goes straight for his bed, not even bothering to take his pants all the way down while he lies on his back and strokes himself, thinking about McCoy telling him to relax, kid, relax.
*
Since they left Earth, Hikaru has tried not to end up alone in elevators with Kirk, because he pretty much knew this would happen. Kirk is giving him that grin, the one that works on everyone and has worked on Hikaru before. Kirk is a good guy, smart, and Hikaru thoroughly enjoyed being fucked by him when they returned to Earth after the Nero conflict, but he's pretty sure that trying to make it happen again wouldn't go well. Kirk is Hikaru's captain, beloved by everyone, and Hikaru knows he would get too attached too fast. He's good at a lot of things, but keeping up with guys like Kirk has never been one of them.
Also, Hikaru has a crush on Pavel Chekov, and doesn't want to mess things up with him, even if he does sometimes still think about how good Kirk's insanely fat cockhead felt on that first slow push inside.
"Plans tonight?" Kirk says as the elevator whirs down toward the crew quarters. Kirk is still grinning, moving a little closer. They're both leaning against the back wall, Hikaru watching the deck numbers on the display while Kirk watches him.
"Just the gym," Hikaru says. "Dinner, you know. Nothing special."
"That's a shame," Kirk says, turning to stare at the numbers, too.
"It is?"
"The nothing special part."
Hikaru smiles and pretends not to realize that Kirk is flirting, perfectly aware that Kirk will see through this. It's another reason he finds the prospect of actually dating Kirk exhausting, even if he could believe that Kirk would fuck him exclusively: Kirk reads him like he wrote the manual. Hikaru still half-believes that the reason Kirk was able to act so quickly on the drill involved him somehow anticipating Hikaru's stupid stumble.
"Personally, I have all kinds of special shit planned for my evening," Kirk says. He's smiling at his reflection in the elevator doors, cracking himself up. Hikaru snorts.
"That's awesome, sir," he says.
"You wound me," Kirk says.
"Huh?"
"The sir thing."
"You are 'sir,' sir. Technically."
"Don't I know it," Kirk says, sighing, trying to appear upset about this. Hikaru plays along, patting Kirk's shoulder, and when they grin at each other Hikaru feels it low in his stomach, which is why he needs to steer clear of Kirk. This is way too easy for him.
"Here's my floor," Hikaru says when the lift doors slide open.
"Enjoy the gym," Kirk says, and Hikaru thinks of Chekov waiting for him in the shallow end of the pool, breathless and pink-cheeked from his run. He's still smiling as he walks out of the lift, but it's got nothing to do with Kirk.
Hikaru has actually started looking forward to his workouts since falling into this habit of meeting up with Chekov in the pool afterward. Generally he prefers real action to repetition: actual fencing matches instead of drills and hikes over real terrain rather than treadmill runs. Realizing that he would have to get most of his physical exercise inside the walls of the Enterprise gym was not something he was looking forward to when he signed up for the five-year mission, but having his swim with Chekov to look forward to helps his reps feel like they mean more. He's not sure why, except that he wants to impress Chekov by getting bigger, and can imagine that his muscles swell with each work out. Once, in the pool, Chekov braced himself on Hikaru's arm and blushed when Hikaru flexed. Hikaru went back to his room and beat off furiously in the shower, thinking about Chekov's hands moving over his arms, down his chest, and slipping shyly between his legs.
He's in a state by the time he reaches the pool, unable to think about anything else. Chekov is there in the shallow end, looking a little forlorn, but he smiles when he sees Hikaru.
"Have a good run?" Hikaru asks as he slips into the water, careful not to splash him.
"What? Oh, yes." Chekov seems dazed. He leans against the side of the pool and watches an Orion girl who is poised to dive off the high board.
"I had a pretty good work out," Hikaru says, examining himself. "Did my arms, mostly." Chekov isn't looking. The Orion girl dives, knifing into the water almost soundlessly.
"Hikaru," Chekov says. "I think I have a problem."
"A problem?" Hikaru wants names. He's ready to fight to the death for this boy, especially now that they're standing together in the water, half-naked, Chekov in his tiny blue swim shorts.
"Is embarrassing," Chekov says with a moan. He sinks down so that the water covers his shoulders and peers up at Hikaru, so sweet-faced with concern that Hikaru actually swoons toward him. He catches himself before he can do anything drastic, and squats down so that they're face to face.
"Tell me," Hikaru says. Chekov sighs.
"The doctor," he says. "I want him."
"Want him to what?"
Chekov raises his eyebrows, then laughs.
"Hikaru," he says.
"Yeah?" Hikaru is confused. Does Chekov have some medical secret that he's afraid to trust to McCoy? Hikaru couldn't blame him. McCoy seems to get off on being as scary as possible.
"You are really not understanding me?" Chekov says, looking concerned again. "I mean that I -- desire him. Physically."
Sulu waits for that to make sense. It doesn't. He rejects it. No fucking way.
"Um," he manages to say when Chekov stares at him, the worried look on his face increasing.
"I know!" Chekov says. He winces and curses in Russian, slapping the water. "Is stupid. He would never. But since this exam I had with him, I can't stop thinking about it. He was so kind. He gave me a blanket."
"Kind?" Sulu says, sputtering. "A blanket?"
"Yes, and yes!" Chekov moves closer, the sweat and chlorine smell of him drawing Sulu closer, too. "Also, Hikaru. The exam. I became -- affected."
"Affected?"
"Aroused."
"Oh, God."
"Yes."
Sulu might throw up. No, he definitely will. He moves toward the stairs and Chekov follows.
"I have tried to stop thinking about it," Chekov says. "Those hands. Hikaru -- you don't mind if we talk about things like this, do you? You are, ah. My best friend, here on the ship."
Hikaru turns back, halfway out of the pool. What is he doing? Refusing to look at Chekov now that he knows Chekov doesn't return his feelings? It was just a dumb crush, even if it is literally becoming that thing in Hikaru's chest at the moment, crushing his insides into painful slop.
"Of course it's okay," Hikaru says. "I'm just going to get some water. I -- I think you're wrong, also. I think he might be interested."
"Really?" Chekov's grin is a supernova, too bright to look at. "You think?"
Hikaru spends the next twenty minutes swimming with Chekov while working hard to convince him that he and McCoy would make a great couple. He has no idea why he does this, except maybe as a cover for his actual, unbearable feelings. When they've parted, Hikaru showers in his room, drinks some of the special Belgian beer that he had been saving as a gift for Chekov on Friendship Day, and goes knocking on Kirk's door.
Kirk, of course, smiles at Hikaru as if he'd been expecting him.
"So," Hikaru says. He's not drunk, but the beer was stronger than he expected. Brewed by monks. Hard to come by. "Are you still in here doing special shit?"
"Hikaru," Kirk says, cocking his head as if he's insulted. "Am I ever not doing special shit? Get in here."
The hanging out portion of the evening lasts roughly five minutes, and by the ten minute mark Hikaru is naked on Kirk's plush sofa. Kirk is a force of nature, and it feels so good to submit to him, just like Hikaru remembers. They had only fucked that one time, leftover adrenaline from their fall spurring them toward each other almost as soon as they stepped off the ship. It was the morning before Kirk's medal ceremony. They got drunk together the night before, and Sulu fell asleep on Kirk's sofa -- a sofa much less impressive than this captain's quarters version, more like a couch, really. He thought he'd messed it up, that his chance to achieve sexual tension closure had passed in drunkenness, but then Kirk came in with a rehydrated waffle and some orange juice, and he fucked Sulu as soon as he'd finished eating. Later, Sulu met up with Chekov before the ceremony. The thing about Kirk was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by getting too excited about it. He ended up being very glad that he hadn't said anything; Kirk disappeared with a crowd of admirers after the ceremony, and didn't send Sulu so much as a PADD message for two weeks. When a message did come, it just said, oh man i just saw the stupidest movie but it had this guy who looked like you.
In the captain's quarters, on the much more impressive sofa, Kirk fucks Sulu like he did last time, probably the same way he's been fucking since he was fourteen years old: enthusiastic, effortless, and proud of himself. Sulu goes liquid for him, forgetting the Chekov thing while Kirk opens him wide, kissing him like they're in the climactic scene of a movie about how they both walked five hundred miles to meet up for this moment. People assume that Kirk's talent in this area is all about his huge cock, but it's really the way he kisses that makes people want to come back for more. He kisses, and fucks, really, like this is the last best time he'll ever do it. Sulu comes twice, and he spreads his legs as wide as he can when he takes Kirk's.
It's exactly what Sulu needed for almost a full minute, Kirk the heaviest thing that's ever been warmly on top of him, but then Kirk recovers and slides away, and Sulu is left feeling like he just got thrown out the window of a bus.
"Damn," Kirk says, going to his wet bar for a bottle of water. "I needed that. You needed that?"
"Uh, yeah," Sulu says. He looks around for a blanket or even a pillow to cover himself with, but there's nothing.
"Water?" Kirk says, holding up the bottle.
"Please," Sulu says, hoping that bringing him the water will give Kirk an excuse to drop down onto the couch and hold him. Getting fucked was nice, but Sulu is just now realizing that he really came here to cuddle up against Kirk's chest and hope that doing so would make him feel better about the McCoy conversation that he had with Chekov.
Kirk brings Sulu the water, ruffles his hair and heads for the bathroom, where he proceeds to take the longest piss Sulu has ever heard.
*
Seducing the doctor is easy once Sulu has assured Chekov that it will be. All it takes is following him off the ship while the Enterprise is docked at a space station. McCoy heads for a bar, and Chekov heads there, too.
"Can I help you?" McCoy says as Chekov trots along merrily beside him.
"I'm a good drinking partner," Chekov says.
"Yeah? Well, I'm one of the few people in the universe who enjoys drinking alone. So you're out of luck."
"I have a question about a rash!" Chekov blurts, panicked, and McCoy boggles at him, then laughs hard. The rest is booze-soaked and simple.
There are rooms in space stations that can be rented by the hour. Chekov never thought he would lose his virginity in one, but as far as McCoy knows that's not what's happening. Chekov had to swear up and down that he's had sex -- lots of sex! -- before McCoy would even take off his shirt. Chekov's heart is pounding by the time he's lowered to the bed. McCoy smells so good, like a big flannel blanket that Chekov wants to wrap himself into, and Chekov's head is swimming from all the drinks, his body thrumming from weeks of wanting this so badly. He just wants to close his eyes and be touched everywhere, maybe while lying under an actual blanket.
"I don't really do the face to face thing," McCoy says when Chekov surges up to try to kiss him. McCoy's mouth quirks apologetically when Chekov stares up at him, trying to parse that.
"It's, you know." McCoy leans up and rubs the back of his neck. "The divorce. Kid -- what are you doing with me?"
"I like your hands," Chekov says. He takes McCoy's right hand and curls it into a fist, kissing his knuckles. McCoy still looks queasy and uncertain, so Chekov uncurls his fingers and begins sucking on them. McCoy watches, his eyes darkening like ink pooling in water, and when he growls with approval at the sight of Chekov's tongue sliding up his index finger, Chekov knows that his hesitation is gone.
McCoy turns Chekov onto his stomach, and Chekov finds that he likes this, the safety of not having to lock eyes. A sharp tremble moves through him as McCoy reaches down to part his ass cheeks, and Chekov can hear the lid popping open on the little container of lube provided by the hotel.
"Just relax," McCoy says, soothing his big hand over Chekov's back, and Chekov melts into the mattress, humping it weakly, nodding to himself. The magic words.
McCoy prepares him like a professional, taking his time, making Chekov come once, twice, until he's in a puddle on the bed, come sticky under his stomach, his limbs useless and heavy. Every time he watches Chekov hump another climax onto the sheets McCoy makes a sound that creeps right up Chekov's spine, a combination between a predatory growl and a satisfied purr.
"That feel good?" he keeps asking, softly, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over Chekov's left ass cheek. Chekov has lost the ability to speak and can only nod slowly, his eyes half-open against the sheets.
"Want something bigger in there?" McCoy asks, curling his fingers so that Chekov's affirmative answer comes out in a moan.
"Please," he says, trying to get up onto his knees and finding that he doesn't have the strength. "Please, please." He laughs at himself when he realizes that he's begging in Russian. McCoy seems to understand well enough, slicking himself and lining up. Chekov is so dazed that he barely thinks about the fact that this actually is the first time he's ever done this until the head of McCoy's cock is pushing into him, already unbelievably big; there's no way the rest will fit. He gasps, and McCoy leans down over him, rubbing his hand over Chekov's back and shoulders.
"You're so small," McCoy whispers, in awe, his breath boiling hot on Chekov's cheek. "Does it hurt?"
"No," Chekov says. It doesn't hurt exactly, just feels scary, too much, too full, too everything. There's a trembling feeling in his chest, and he berates himself internally: he will not cry.
"Take deep breaths," McCoy says, still rubbing him, his hand moving slowly up Chekov's neck, into his hair. "Just stay relaxed. We're not in a hurry, are we?"
"No," Chekov squeaks out. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out. McCoy sinks in another inch, and Chekov gasps, the scariness of the sensation morphing into curiosity, then need. He angles his hips back and McCoy laughs under his breath, pleased-sounding.
"There you go," he says. His hands are in two fists now, braced against the mattress as he sinks in deeper. "There you go. Breathe, sweetheart. Good boy."
Chekov whimpers into the blankets. He's hard again. Good boy. He can't believe this is sex. It feels so wonderfully dirty, so far almost exactly like the pornography he's watched obsessively since he was twelve. He was afraid there would be awkwardness, stumbling, but McCoy knows what he wants. Chekov cries out as the last few inches of McCoy's cock push in. It's deep, maybe too deep, but McCoy is quick to soothe him, rubbing his stubbly cheek against Chekov's as he takes Chekov's clenched fists and works his fingers loose, twining his own fingers through them. Chekov opens his eyes and stares ahead blearily, moaning at the sight of McCoy's hands pressed over his. Chekov's look tiny and delicate in comparison. He can feel the low growl that rumbles through McCoy's chest as their bodies lock together, McCoy's heavy balls settling over Chekov's. McCoy is so impossibly deep inside him that it feels irreversible, and Chekov's heart is hammering against the mattress, but it's starting to feel good, how spread and pinned he is.
"Still breathing?" McCoy asks.
"Yes," Chekov says. It feels like a lie. McCoy sighs, and it moves through Chekov's body, too, making him shiver and spread his legs a bit wider.
"Damn, kid," McCoy says, rubbing his hand down over Chekov's arm while he keeps Chekov's other hand pressed to the mattress. "That's the tightest fucking ass I've ever had."
Chekov almost laughs, not sure why he was expecting something very different to be said just then. He feels alarmed for a moment, as if he's just remembered a math test he's supposed to be taking right now, but then McCoy shifts back slowly, dragging his cock through Chekov's ass, and all thought processes are shoved aside in favor of this sensation.
They go slow at first, and Chekov gradually relaxes, his hips canting back to follow the drag of McCoy's cock. He comes against the mattress when McCoy begins striking his prostate with harder thrusts, and he feels something akin to dehydrated as he drops down and arches, his whole body a lewd curve, everything on offer. He has a hard time believing that McCoy can last this long, and at one point actually worries that they'll have to pay for a second hour. When McCoy finally comes it's on Chekov's back, a huge load that, again, makes Chekov think of some of his favorite porn vids.
"Let me look at you," McCoy says, panting. He pumps the last drops onto Chekov's wide open hole, sitting back with a long, satisfied groan as he holds Chekov's cheeks apart. Chekov lies there, letting him look.
He falls asleep for a few seconds, drooling against the sheets. McCoy goes somewhere, to the bathroom presumably, and returns with a warm, wet cloth that he uses to clean Chekov's back, ass, thighs. Chekov moans out his gratitude and falls asleep again, waking when McCoy rolls him over to clean his front.
"How many times did you come?" McCoy asks. He seems very serious about the question, as if he's asking as Chekov's doctor, not the guy who just fucked him.
"Three," Chekov says. He can barely keep his eyes open. He lifts his arms, ready for McCoy to lean down onto him and let him sleep under the flannel blanket that is his body, but McCoy just puts Chekov's clothes into his hands.
"Better hurry," McCoy says. "Our time's almost up."
Chekov sits up slowly, confused. McCoy is already dressed. When did that happen? He's lacing up his boots.
"You're welcome for not coming inside you," McCoy says. "Figured you wouldn't want that mess dripping out of you while you go about your business. Me, I've got a hair cut and a shave scheduled. You ever gotten a professional, old fashioned shave? What the hell am I talking about -- of course you haven't. Well, it's goddamn relaxing."
Chekov can't tell if McCoy is nervous or just distracted. He thinks of what McCoy said before: I don't do the face to face thing. Does Chekov do the face to face thing? It was almost a relief not to, but what is happening now? Is he actually supposed to get dressed, roam the space station alone, run errands?
Apparently, he is. McCoy gives him a parting slap on the shoulder and heads off toward his barber. Chekov still feels drunk. He doesn't entirely remember getting dressed and leaving the hotel, but suddenly he's standing in the middle of the busy space station, cold and sore and more tired than he's ever been in his life. He feels like he'll have to sit down on the ground until someone stops and helps him, like a child, like a pet, and then he thinks of Sulu.
Chekov will tell Sulu everything, get his opinion, ask his advice. He's smiling to himself as he remembers Sulu telling him that he would be at O'Pub's, a cheesy tourist bar that's meant to be like an authentic pub on Earth. Sulu likes it because they broadcast American sports, and always goes there when they visit this space station. Chekov is practically running, pushing rudely through the crowd. Sulu will tell him how to proceed. When he sees the sign for O'Pub's in the distance Chekov thinks of actually sitting in Sulu's lap during this conversation, resting his head on Sulu's shoulder. He's just so tired.
There's a large outdoor patio where most of the broadcast screens are kept, and Chekov finds Sulu easily as he draws closer to the restaurant. Sulu is drinking from a pint, probably one of the Belgian beers that he's always going on about, telling Chekov he would love them, that he hasn't had real beer and therefore can't dismiss it based on replicator swill. Chekov's grin stretches to its limit, and he's ready to leap over the short fence around the bar area when he sees a gold-sleeved arm slide around Sulu's shoulders.
Kirk is there, which is okay; Chekov can persuade Sulu to leave Kirk here in favor of a private conversation elsewhere. Except that Kirk seems to be not only speaking into Sulu's ear but whispering into it, and then pulling it between his teeth, giving the lobe a lick. Chekov blinks rapidly, waiting to make sense of this. Sulu turns to grin at Kirk, bumping his nose against Kirk's cheek, which makes him laugh. Kirk pulls Sulu closer, and Sulu lets his head loll back to rest on Kirk's shoulder, his eyes still on the soccer game that's playing on the pub's biggest broadcast screen.
Sulu is smiling. He looks happy, relaxed, enjoying a day away from the ship. Enjoying Kirk's attention. Kirk is ignoring the game in favor of petting Sulu, kissing his neck, sneaking a hand up under Sulu's shirt to stroke his side. He's probably a little drunk. Chekov's eyes are burning.
Well.
Back to the ship, then.
*
Sulu was not expecting Kirk to agree when Sulu gave him the ultimatum about exclusivity. He brought it up after sex one night, when he was trying to hang on to Kirk in bed, to get him to relax and rub his face against Sulu's the way he sometimes does when he's had a few beers. Kirk only lasted twenty-three seconds in Sulu's arms - Sulu counted - before getting up to check his PADD for new communications.
“I'm not the fuck buddy type,” Sulu said while Kirk stared down at the screen, scrolling through messages with his index finger. “So maybe we should just call this what it is and move on.” Sulu was furious, kicking away the blankets, but he stopped and looked back when Kirk grabbed his arm.
“Hey.” Kirk stared at him for a second, more confused than hurt, though there was some of both in his eyes. Then he beamed. “Wait. You want to be my boyfriend?”
“Fuck you.” Sulu snarled and pulled away, but Kirk was undeterred. He pounced on Sulu, laughing, and held him to the bed.
“I like how you're old-fashioned,” Kirk said. “And I haven't been fucking anyone else, anyway. You satisfy me, Hikaru.”
“God.” Sulu was regretting the offer, realizing too late that he'd been looking for an excuse to end this. Having sex with Kirk felt good, until it was over, and then he just felt come-stained and lonely. He should have been relieved to hear that Kirk wasn't seeing anyone else, but it didn't feel true, even if Kirk wasn't actually fucking them. He flirted with everyone, loved a lot of things. Even as he rolled Sulu onto his back to have slow, boyfriend-style sex, Sulu didn't feel like Kirk's one and only anything.
He realized why when they finished and Kirk went for his PADD again, Sulu left on his back, legs still open, his bones heavy with need.
Now they've been exclusive for two weeks, and nothing has changed. Sulu sleeps in Kirk's bed, but Kirk always fights free of grip before really settling in for the night. Sulu has begun to suffer from insomnia, and when he grows bored with wandering Kirk's quarters and nosily poking around, he starts taking long walks around the ship during Gamma shift, when things are quietest.
The first time he runs into Chekov, they both laugh. They already see so much of each other on the bridge, and in combination with taking their meals together during breaks and their talks in the pool after working out, they probably see each other more than they do their significant others. Chekov is still with McCoy, which still hurts, but he seems happy, and Sulu likes it when Chekov is happy.
“We've got a shift in three hours, you know,” Chekov says as they walk together past the virtual environment library and the engine room.
“I know,” Sulu says, groaning. “Can't sleep, though.”
“Me either.” Chekov sighs. “I'm still not accustomed to the beds here.”
“McCoy's isn't more comfortable than yours?” Sulu asks. There's a little spark of regret in his chest as he asks this, because he's smirking, trying to be cute, and it's fake.
“His is fine,” Chekov says, tightly enough that Sulu lets the subject drop. Chekov never seems to want to talk about McCoy the way he used to, and Sulu can guess why. It's real now, too sacred to discuss with friends. Chekov doesn't seem like the type who would kiss and tell, and so far he hasn't. Sulu is relieved. He doesn't think he could stand to hear any details; he can barely hold his lunch down when he sees Chekov cast looks of longing across the mess when McCoy comes in to grab a sandwich. McCoy eats most of his meals in his office, and Kirk never has time to sit still. In the absence of those two, Sulu and Chekov keep each other company. Sulu laughs under his breath, because that's what they're doing now, too.
“What is funny?” Chekov asks, and only then does Sulu realize that they've been walking together in silence. It didn't feel awkward at all, and Sulu is usually pretty sensitive about things like that, filling the air with aimless words if his companion goes quiet. Maybe it's all the time spent sitting together on the bridge and performing their tasks in silent tandem that has prepared them to be the kind of friends who can pass quiet hours together.
“Nothing,” Sulu says. He bumps his shoulder against Chekov's to see if he'll grin. He does, looking up at Sulu as if he's waiting to hear a great joke.
“Is the keptin asleep?” Chekov asks.
“I guess,” Sulu says. “He was when I left.”
They go quiet again, and this time it feels different, tense. When they come to the large observation window between the engine room and Rec Center B, they both stop walking and look out at the stars, as if this detour was in their plan for the evening. Sulu used to think about what they would be like in bed together, considering how they've been trained to act as one at the conn, specialized but in sync. He doesn't think about it anymore. Not often, anyway. Usually only after they've performed an especially complicated maneuver with the ship, Chekov blowing away meteors while Sulu weaves between them. Sulu doesn't think about sex while he's flying, just afterward, when the coast is finally clear and he can look over at Chekov. They're both always a little breathless after something like that, trying not to grin too widely.
“I think I'm going to go back to my room,” Sulu says. “Maybe listen to some music.” It's not until he hears himself saying so that he realizes he wants Chekov to come with him. Chekov is staring out at the stars as if he's not really seeing them, his eyes wide and glazed-over.
“Goodnight, then,” he says.
“You're staying here?” Sulu feels alarmed by the idea, as if Chekov isn't safe here alone, which is ridiculous.
“I will go back and sleep.” Chekov scratches at his elbow, still staring out at space. “To my room, I think.”
Sulu starts to say something, then considers his own situation and thinks better of it. For some reason, before leaving, he shakes Chekov's hand.
“I don't know why I did that,” Sulu says, embarrassed. Chekov just smiles at him like he's waiting to hear more, but Sulu doesn't trust himself not to say something stupid, so he holds up his hand, waves, and goes.
*
Part II