"Busted"
Title: Busted
Author: Fair Hearing
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, adolescence.
Kink request: "5 times someone made Chekov jizz... in his pants, and one time Chekov made someone jizz in their pants." (lol, so crass yet to-the-point)
Chekov finds himself thinking how truly unfair this is. For one thing, both of his sister's friends are stripped to their bras and panties. For another, they're giving each other back massages. (With oil. And moans.) But least fair of all, he's stuck hiding in the closet, watching them, and he just hit puberty, like, last week.
Fuck being twelve.
"Nn, Natalya, right there. Yeah."
Chekov closes his eyes and swallows.
"God, you're making this sound dirty, Anna."
"What, like sex?"
"Yeah."
Chekov crosses his legs more tightly.
"Have you ever thought about that, actually?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, sex. With another girl."
There's a pause.
"Yeah," one of them whispers, and Chekov's gasp is not, in fact, in reaction to the word, but in reaction to something a bit more biological. He's still loud enough to be heard, and before the girl's finished saying "what the hell?" he's thrown himself out of the closet and through the door, chanting "don't kill me, don't kill me" the whole time.
Cleaning himself up in the bathroom afterward, he figures they must have taken pity on him, judging from the lack of outraged pounding on the door. Or maybe they're otherwise occupied.
Okay, thirteen isn't his ideal age to join Starfleet, true. Not because he's afraid he'll be homesick or bullied or anything -- people always adore him, especially people older than him, like his sister's friends Anna and Natalya -- but because the Academy's bound to be full of nubile young adults and he still doesn't trust his treacherous body around nubile young adults. But he's been bored to death at school for three years and, seeing as he managed to bring einsteinian physics to heel during that time, he's confident he can do the same to a lowly penis.
This lasts until his first Sexual Health seminar. Specifically, Instructor Yilla's description (with slides) of various positions in human coitus. Specifically, the instant the "fellatio" diagram appears on his PADD.
He's smart enough not to excuse himself directly afterwards, no matter how sticky and uncomfortable it is. He does, however, pretend to be taking notes for a full minute after the bell rings so he can be the last one to leave. Instructor Yilla, God bless her, pretends not to notice.
Once he turns fifteen, he's reasonably sure he's gotten past the worst of it. Until that time at a party when, excusing himself from an extremely hot game of truth-or-dare, he ducks into what he thinks is a bathroom when it is, in fact, a bedroom. With a bed. With three people in it.
Thankfully the lights are dim enough that none of them can see the burning blush of his cheeks, or the wet spot on his pants. Hopefully.
"Sorry," he squeaks, struggling to pull the door closed.
A blond head pops out from the writhing sheets. "Oh, hey, no problem."
"You sure you don't want to join us?" the man continues hopefully, as Chekov shuts the door on him.
Cleaning himself up in the bathroom afterward, Chekov ponders how little three years can actually mean. Also that he probably just met the famous Jim Kirk.
His first girlfriend, a freshman named Padma Klywons, ends things less badly than she might, considering she and Chekov have been dating for all of three weeks when she walks in on him watching gay porn.
"Really?" she says kind of sadly as he struggles to zip up. "Or are you bi?"
"Um, I have, um -- I'm so sorry -- I have never, um, considered this?"
"Oh, you wouldn't have, would you, you're not even sixteen." Now she's smiling at him. "Well, let's check. Here, this one sucks. Computer, play file PKlywons Nums seven, password access delta-gamma-charlie-gamma-fructose. The guys in this are so much hotter, see?"
After two hours, Chekov has considered his sexuality very deeply. And excused himself to the bathroom twice.
In retrospect, the warning signs were so obvious they should have blinded him. He actually stared when Sulu introduced himself, like in a holovid or a bad romance novel. And now he has to stop himself from staring all the time, especially because a sidelong stare is even more obvious than a regular one. And when they start hanging out together, Chekov often catches himself wearing an extremely stupid grin on his face, or starting to lean unconsciously into Sulu's heat.
And the day itself, he'd already been practicing feints with Sulu for an hour beforehand -- an activity of which his crotch strongly, strongly approved, primarily because they were shirtless. And now he's in Sulu's room, which smells like him, sitting on Sulu's bed, which smells even more like him, listening to the sound of the shower as it beats off Sulu's skin (naked skin), trying to answer Sulu's cheerfully shouted questions while his cock is harder than it's ever been in his life. And that's saying something.
"... but in any case," Sulu's voice is clear now that he's left the bathroom, "I told her, if your favorite isn't 'Return of the Jedi' in spite of the Ewoks, you don't really appreciate what the Force is supposed to be. You know?"
"Yes," says Chekov in a higher voice than usual. "I agree." And he does, but it sounds less genuine than it might, because he's more focused on finding somewhere to look that doesn't involve a towel slung low enough to reveal distinctively delicious-looking hipbones.
"I don't care how well-directed the second one is, the third's the entire crux of the series. Hey."
Chekov looks up reflexively, then wishes he hadn't. Sulu, still in that damn towel, is grinning in front of him, his damp hair mussed adorably, dots of water still on his (strong, beautiful, perfect, exquisite) shoulders.
"What's on your face?" Sulu continues, looking amused.
"Eh?" Chekov rubs at his cheek.
"No, it's --" Sulu's laughing. "Here, hold still a sec."
And Chekov does indeed go still. He goes, in fact, completely and utterly frozen when Sulu climbs on top of him, straddling his hips in, Christ Jesus, that towel, his chest bare, still grinning, leaning in, touching his face
"Just some fluff," Sulu's saying as he rubs his fingers lightly off the side of the bed. "It looked kind of like a piece of pasta from -- Pavel?"
Chekov can only stare at him, mortified.
"Are you okay? You look like you have a fever."
"Nyet, no, I am fine," Chekov babbles, feeling his stomach swoop again at the feel of Sulu's cool hand on his forehead. "Just, ah, hungry, it makes me hot sometimes -- makes me get hot, when I am hungry, sometimes."
Sulu's looking at him suspiciously, obviously not buying this for a minute. Soon he'll inspect further, get up, notice Chekov's pants, and Chekov will spontaneously die. It's guaranteed. Nothing can save him now short of divine intervention.
"Spock to Sulu."
"Oof," says Sulu as he does a quick roll to grab his communicator. "Sulu here."
"I apologize, Lieutenant, for disturbing you off-shift. However, your presence is requested at the helm for the upcoming twenty gigameters of space."
Sulu pulls a little face at Chekov and gets up. "No problem, I'll be there in five minutes."
"It never fails," he calls back to Chekov as he throws on his uniform. "It's like they wait for the second we're off-duty. All right, see you later. And eat something, okay?"
"Okay," Chekov manages as the doors close. He stays where he is for a long time, wondering what Spock's sudden divinity will mean for the universe.
"Oh," Chekov breaths into Sulu's mouth.
"Tell me if it's too much," Sulu mumbles in reply.
"No, Hikaru, it is not too much. I want, to," he opens his eyes and stares at Sulu, "with you."
Sulu blinks, then swallows. "Are you sure?"
He doesn't reply, just grins and reaches down to pull off his jersey and undershirt. His boots are already gone, and it's the work of seconds to deal with his pants and boxers.
Sulu just stares down at him, his lips parted.
"Come on, Hikaru," Chekov says, laughing. He bucks his hips once, slowly, letting his bottom lip catch between his teeth. Sulu gasps a little at the sight, exactly according to plan. It's an image Chekov has spent a long time perfecting in his mind. With Sulu, not himself, as the star performer, but Sulu need not know that.
"If, if you want this," Sulu stutters, leaning in, "I'll -- if you want it --"
"Oh, it seems I must be very clear." Chekov grins, then laces his fingers in Sulu's hair and brings him down close.
"Fuck me," he whispers into his ear.
Sulu goes still.
"Hikaru?" Chekov looks back at him, concerned. Sulu's cheeks are brilliantly red and he won't meet Chekov's eyes.
"Hold on one second," he mumbles, and rolls off Chekov and the bed in one swift, almost frantic move.
Chekov leans up on his elbows, blinking in confusion as Sulu ducks into the bathroom. Then he realizes.
After so long. Finally. It happened to someone else.
His mind races as the faucet runs. What will he say? "Don't worry about it"? "It's not polite to get started without me"? "That's what happens when you insist on getting everywhere early"? "Welcome to my world"?
He deliberately averts his eyes from the door, lying back on the pillows and playing with a loose stitch above his head. He turns just as Sulu climbs back onto him, grasping both of his hands and kissing him deep.
"Sorry," Sulu whispers when they part. "I was just saying, are you sure you wouldn't prefer the best blowjob of your life instead?" His smile is rakish and his voice is steady. Only someone who knows would notice the slight tension, the way his throat moves in a nervous swallow.
Chekov lets his eyes fall shut.
"Ah... I think I would like that even better," he says breathily, making himself sound too blissed-out to have noticed anything at all.
It's true soon enough, anyway.
Author: Fair Hearing
Pairing: Chekov/Sulu
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, adolescence.
Kink request: "5 times someone made Chekov jizz... in his pants, and one time Chekov made someone jizz in their pants." (lol, so crass yet to-the-point)
Chekov finds himself thinking how truly unfair this is. For one thing, both of his sister's friends are stripped to their bras and panties. For another, they're giving each other back massages. (With oil. And moans.) But least fair of all, he's stuck hiding in the closet, watching them, and he just hit puberty, like, last week.
Fuck being twelve.
"Nn, Natalya, right there. Yeah."
Chekov closes his eyes and swallows.
"God, you're making this sound dirty, Anna."
"What, like sex?"
"Yeah."
Chekov crosses his legs more tightly.
"Have you ever thought about that, actually?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, sex. With another girl."
There's a pause.
"Yeah," one of them whispers, and Chekov's gasp is not, in fact, in reaction to the word, but in reaction to something a bit more biological. He's still loud enough to be heard, and before the girl's finished saying "what the hell?" he's thrown himself out of the closet and through the door, chanting "don't kill me, don't kill me" the whole time.
Cleaning himself up in the bathroom afterward, he figures they must have taken pity on him, judging from the lack of outraged pounding on the door. Or maybe they're otherwise occupied.
Okay, thirteen isn't his ideal age to join Starfleet, true. Not because he's afraid he'll be homesick or bullied or anything -- people always adore him, especially people older than him, like his sister's friends Anna and Natalya -- but because the Academy's bound to be full of nubile young adults and he still doesn't trust his treacherous body around nubile young adults. But he's been bored to death at school for three years and, seeing as he managed to bring einsteinian physics to heel during that time, he's confident he can do the same to a lowly penis.
This lasts until his first Sexual Health seminar. Specifically, Instructor Yilla's description (with slides) of various positions in human coitus. Specifically, the instant the "fellatio" diagram appears on his PADD.
He's smart enough not to excuse himself directly afterwards, no matter how sticky and uncomfortable it is. He does, however, pretend to be taking notes for a full minute after the bell rings so he can be the last one to leave. Instructor Yilla, God bless her, pretends not to notice.
Once he turns fifteen, he's reasonably sure he's gotten past the worst of it. Until that time at a party when, excusing himself from an extremely hot game of truth-or-dare, he ducks into what he thinks is a bathroom when it is, in fact, a bedroom. With a bed. With three people in it.
Thankfully the lights are dim enough that none of them can see the burning blush of his cheeks, or the wet spot on his pants. Hopefully.
"Sorry," he squeaks, struggling to pull the door closed.
A blond head pops out from the writhing sheets. "Oh, hey, no problem."
"You sure you don't want to join us?" the man continues hopefully, as Chekov shuts the door on him.
Cleaning himself up in the bathroom afterward, Chekov ponders how little three years can actually mean. Also that he probably just met the famous Jim Kirk.
His first girlfriend, a freshman named Padma Klywons, ends things less badly than she might, considering she and Chekov have been dating for all of three weeks when she walks in on him watching gay porn.
"Really?" she says kind of sadly as he struggles to zip up. "Or are you bi?"
"Um, I have, um -- I'm so sorry -- I have never, um, considered this?"
"Oh, you wouldn't have, would you, you're not even sixteen." Now she's smiling at him. "Well, let's check. Here, this one sucks. Computer, play file PKlywons Nums seven, password access delta-gamma-charlie-gamma-fructose. The guys in this are so much hotter, see?"
After two hours, Chekov has considered his sexuality very deeply. And excused himself to the bathroom twice.
In retrospect, the warning signs were so obvious they should have blinded him. He actually stared when Sulu introduced himself, like in a holovid or a bad romance novel. And now he has to stop himself from staring all the time, especially because a sidelong stare is even more obvious than a regular one. And when they start hanging out together, Chekov often catches himself wearing an extremely stupid grin on his face, or starting to lean unconsciously into Sulu's heat.
And the day itself, he'd already been practicing feints with Sulu for an hour beforehand -- an activity of which his crotch strongly, strongly approved, primarily because they were shirtless. And now he's in Sulu's room, which smells like him, sitting on Sulu's bed, which smells even more like him, listening to the sound of the shower as it beats off Sulu's skin (naked skin), trying to answer Sulu's cheerfully shouted questions while his cock is harder than it's ever been in his life. And that's saying something.
"... but in any case," Sulu's voice is clear now that he's left the bathroom, "I told her, if your favorite isn't 'Return of the Jedi' in spite of the Ewoks, you don't really appreciate what the Force is supposed to be. You know?"
"Yes," says Chekov in a higher voice than usual. "I agree." And he does, but it sounds less genuine than it might, because he's more focused on finding somewhere to look that doesn't involve a towel slung low enough to reveal distinctively delicious-looking hipbones.
"I don't care how well-directed the second one is, the third's the entire crux of the series. Hey."
Chekov looks up reflexively, then wishes he hadn't. Sulu, still in that damn towel, is grinning in front of him, his damp hair mussed adorably, dots of water still on his (strong, beautiful, perfect, exquisite) shoulders.
"What's on your face?" Sulu continues, looking amused.
"Eh?" Chekov rubs at his cheek.
"No, it's --" Sulu's laughing. "Here, hold still a sec."
And Chekov does indeed go still. He goes, in fact, completely and utterly frozen when Sulu climbs on top of him, straddling his hips in, Christ Jesus, that towel, his chest bare, still grinning, leaning in, touching his face
"Just some fluff," Sulu's saying as he rubs his fingers lightly off the side of the bed. "It looked kind of like a piece of pasta from -- Pavel?"
Chekov can only stare at him, mortified.
"Are you okay? You look like you have a fever."
"Nyet, no, I am fine," Chekov babbles, feeling his stomach swoop again at the feel of Sulu's cool hand on his forehead. "Just, ah, hungry, it makes me hot sometimes -- makes me get hot, when I am hungry, sometimes."
Sulu's looking at him suspiciously, obviously not buying this for a minute. Soon he'll inspect further, get up, notice Chekov's pants, and Chekov will spontaneously die. It's guaranteed. Nothing can save him now short of divine intervention.
"Spock to Sulu."
"Oof," says Sulu as he does a quick roll to grab his communicator. "Sulu here."
"I apologize, Lieutenant, for disturbing you off-shift. However, your presence is requested at the helm for the upcoming twenty gigameters of space."
Sulu pulls a little face at Chekov and gets up. "No problem, I'll be there in five minutes."
"It never fails," he calls back to Chekov as he throws on his uniform. "It's like they wait for the second we're off-duty. All right, see you later. And eat something, okay?"
"Okay," Chekov manages as the doors close. He stays where he is for a long time, wondering what Spock's sudden divinity will mean for the universe.
"Oh," Chekov breaths into Sulu's mouth.
"Tell me if it's too much," Sulu mumbles in reply.
"No, Hikaru, it is not too much. I want, to," he opens his eyes and stares at Sulu, "with you."
Sulu blinks, then swallows. "Are you sure?"
He doesn't reply, just grins and reaches down to pull off his jersey and undershirt. His boots are already gone, and it's the work of seconds to deal with his pants and boxers.
Sulu just stares down at him, his lips parted.
"Come on, Hikaru," Chekov says, laughing. He bucks his hips once, slowly, letting his bottom lip catch between his teeth. Sulu gasps a little at the sight, exactly according to plan. It's an image Chekov has spent a long time perfecting in his mind. With Sulu, not himself, as the star performer, but Sulu need not know that.
"If, if you want this," Sulu stutters, leaning in, "I'll -- if you want it --"
"Oh, it seems I must be very clear." Chekov grins, then laces his fingers in Sulu's hair and brings him down close.
"Fuck me," he whispers into his ear.
Sulu goes still.
"Hikaru?" Chekov looks back at him, concerned. Sulu's cheeks are brilliantly red and he won't meet Chekov's eyes.
"Hold on one second," he mumbles, and rolls off Chekov and the bed in one swift, almost frantic move.
Chekov leans up on his elbows, blinking in confusion as Sulu ducks into the bathroom. Then he realizes.
After so long. Finally. It happened to someone else.
His mind races as the faucet runs. What will he say? "Don't worry about it"? "It's not polite to get started without me"? "That's what happens when you insist on getting everywhere early"? "Welcome to my world"?
He deliberately averts his eyes from the door, lying back on the pillows and playing with a loose stitch above his head. He turns just as Sulu climbs back onto him, grasping both of his hands and kissing him deep.
"Sorry," Sulu whispers when they part. "I was just saying, are you sure you wouldn't prefer the best blowjob of your life instead?" His smile is rakish and his voice is steady. Only someone who knows would notice the slight tension, the way his throat moves in a nervous swallow.
Chekov lets his eyes fall shut.
"Ah... I think I would like that even better," he says breathily, making himself sound too blissed-out to have noticed anything at all.
It's true soon enough, anyway.