Trek Fic: Ruffles and Flourishes
Title: Ruffles and Flourishes
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy/Chekov, McCoy/Chekov, Kirk/McCoy
Length: ~5k.
Rating: NC-17 for sex.
Notes: This, I have to warn, contains double penetration. I'm not as ashamed of that as I thought I would be. I just hope enough people have the same kink for this as I do. Huge huge cookies to anyone who gets the title :D Looked over by the lovely credulesque Crossposted to AO3 here.
It’s bumfuck o’clock in the morning, evening, it’s not like there’s even time in space anyway but the point of the matter is Jim’s been conscious for over fifty-three hours now and he’s not a happy camper. Captain. Oh, fuck off already. “We should be arriving in neutral space in approximately six and a half minutes, keptain,” Chekov happily supplies, twirling around primly on his chair. Sulu, to his left, looks ready to smash his own head into his screen. Even Spock has these little twitches in the side of his mouth that betray the fact that none of them are really having fun on this one. Okay, it is a little amusing to ponder the way Chekov trips up over approximately, but even that sort of humour stopped being funny a long time ago. And for Jim Kirk that’s saying something.
“Kid,” Jim starts, and doesn’t miss the flicker of annoyance that crosses Chekov’s face. “How are you so fucking happy all the time?”
Spock doesn’t even bother to ask him to restrain his language, partly because he knows Jim will just fire the expletive back in a shorter, sharper form. Chekov is initially a little taken aback at the question, eyebrows twitching, and then appears to ponder it for a while, licking his lips a little and staring off into space. Eventually, he flicks his gaze back to Jim with a beatific smile. “Incredible gay sex, keptain,” he answers happily, and turns back to his console.
Even Spock looks a little surprised.
Jim doesn’t spend all evening jerking off to that thought.
Not at all.
Fuck.
Is it even legal?
Everything’s legal on some planets, Jim, his brain helpfully supplies.
Since when do I refer to myself as Jim?
Who the fuck is he sleeping with?!
Jim makes a list in his head. It’s all very methodical, which is surprising considering his terrible history with that area. He doesn’t commit it to paper, because he’s not stupid enough for that, but it does mean he keeps forgetting things.
You’ll forget your own name one day, Jim.
Not with his head around to remind him of it all the time.
He really has to stop calling himself Jim.
So.
Scotty.
They could so go have geeky sex in Engineering or something. It is pretty remote down there. But, ew, that’s not only completely not arousing it’s actually quite disturbing. Besides, Chekov spends less time down there than he does on the bridge, and seems to have nothing more than awed admiration for Scotty. Then again, Chekov has awed admiration for pretty much everyone.
So, not Scotty.
Hopefully.
Sulu’s a greater possibility.
There is the whole friendship thing going on there. And Chekov’s so shy and indulgent around him, all blushes and writhing, it’s totally possible he’s hiding some deep emotional manlove. And Sulu seems to reciprocate the affection just as strongly. But, then again, the look on Sulu’s face at Chekov’s earlier announcement, well, that suggested otherwise.
So, weirdly enough, not Sulu.
Not yet, at any rate.
Spock -
No.
Just no.
Hmm. Maybe he should alphabetize them, just in case he misses someone out.
He has way too many crew members with names beginning with S.
He must have left out someone.
Well, there’s Bones. But don’t be ridiculous.
Jim includes Bones for the sake of argument.
It’s not like they’ve exchanged words in the last year they’ve been on the ship. Or looks. Have they even been in the same room together? Well, obviously at some point, what with Bones being his CMO and Chekov his chief navigator. And there was that time Chekov got beaten to shit by those fucktards on that shithole of a desert planet, so someone must’ve treated him, ‘cause he did walk back onto the bridge pretty soon after.
Okay, okay. Maybe Bones.
Maybe it’s all of them.
Hmm.
Chekov orgy.
Cue another evening Jim definitely doesn’t spend jerking off to that thought.
Jim’s no further forward. He knew being methodical wouldn’t work - yeah, take that, Spock, logic sucks in the face of working out who your ensign’s sleeping with.
If only he could rub his face in it.
Yeah, that’s probably not such a great idea.
So, if logic doesn’t work, it’s time for him to go in all guns blazing with his ineffable charm. It’s pretty useless flirting with each of his crew members to get a reaction out of Chekov; the kid’s permanently flustered anyway. Jim wouldn’t see any difference. Besides, flirting with Scotty? Jim loves the guy, yeah, but he’d rather suck Romulan ass.
Literally.
Flirting with Chekov it is, then.
Hmm. This isn’t turning out to be as bad as he thought.
Jim’s feeling utterly fed up. It’d been hard, uniting all of his suspects together like this for maximum potential. So he could hone in on a target. He would have made an awesome spy. Or a cop. He’s seen the inside of more police stations than most cops, but that’s not a good thing.
Anyway.
He’d tried flirting with Chekov in front of various members of his crew on separate occasions, but it’s hard keeping anyone in the room with him for longer than two minutes in order to gauge a reaction. It’s even harder keeping Spock out of the room, because he guesses his first mate would highly disapprove of these antics. So he makes up some shitty ‘anniversary-of-my-kickass-crew-being-awesome, oh-what-a-shame-you-can’t-come, Spock’ excuse and drags them all down to the nearest planet, dumps them in a bar and tries to get them drunk.
He fails with Chekov. Hey, the kid’s Russian, Jim was expecting it. But Sulu, he’s totally under the table. Must be an Asian thing. And Scotty was drunk when he turned up. Bones… is just Bones. He’s constantly quaffing anyway, Jim’s lost track of whether he’s drunk or not.
So they’re sitting around a table - well, four of them are - and Jim’s doing his best to flirt with Chekov, who’s just looking at him oddly and flashing him nervous smiles. Scotty’s arguing loudly with someone at the bar, Sulu’s oblivious and Bones is just staring into space.
Jim scowls.
He doesn’t like it when his plans go wrong.
Observation, Jim, his brain says when they get back on the Enterprise. A stakeout. Jim knows from experience stakeouts always sound way more fun than they actually are. He really doesn’t want to go to the effort of spending the next however-many-months watching Chekov and assessing his behaviour for tiny details.
So Jim cheats.
He isolates Sulu in the training area, finishing up a practice joust. Jim thinks it must be hard to simulate a swordfight, but Sulu always seems capable of kicking ass. “I want you to tell me who Chekov’s sleeping with,” he says.
Sulu looks up glumly. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
They form a deadly alliance. Well, Jim sees it as a deadly alliance. He wants to go full out with codewords and secret handshakes and meetings, but he daren’t broach the ideas to Sulu, who, he suspects, would either kick his ass or never treat him seriously again. Which, you know, with Jim being his captain, would kinda fail.
They both watch him for three weeks before they meet again.
“I got nothing,” Sulu says as he sits down.
“Yeah, me neither,” Jim replies miserably.
“Fuck.”
Jim’s staring at Chekov’s personnel files, as if he suddenly expects there to be a whole subdivision on sexual relations. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea; Jim’s would probably crash and burn Starfleet’s computer system, which would be devastating. He might not be able to watch porn in the evenings, or something. And yeah, alien threats, and shit, but since Jim’s become captain he’s learnt he has to prioritise.
He clicks over to medical files. Wow, it’s pristinely clean, with shit-tons of vaccines before any infections could set in. Bones must have been going mental with the hypospray again. Must be his way of showing affection or something. Very phallic. Freud would have a field day.
He goes to Scotty.
“Chekov?” Scotty echoes, taking a long, slow swig. There’s something round and fluffy on Scotty’s desk. Jim swears it’s looking at him. He glances back over to Scotty. “Aye, the kid’s cute, righ’, but he’s no my type. Ah have a tendency tae go for the, uh, less impressionable when it comes to our sex.” Scotty makes a gesture with his arms which Jim can only describe as hulking. “Ah tend tae lean to the more intimidating type. Ah’m very dominantable,” he elaborates, and then mouths back through the syllables, frowning. Jim’s pretty sure that’s not a word. He’s also pretty sure the thing on Scotty’s desk has moved since he last looked over there.
When he leaves, knowing more about Scotty’s sexual preferences than he ever wanted to, he’s pretty sure Chekov’s not sleeping with Scotty. Aside from the latter’s fervent testimonial against the idea, the place is so unsanitary he’s sure Chekov would have picked up some form of disease, and his medical files are flawless.
Jim jerks awake and battles with his sheets.
Wait.
His medical files are flawless.
Bones’ way of showing affection.
Oh, Hell no.
“It’s Bones,” he tells Sulu as he sits down next to him and takes a bite out of his lunch.
Sulu raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Jim nods. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck,” Sulu breathes, leaning back and shaking his head with a sigh. “So what’re we gonna do?”
“No idea,” Jim shrugs.
Scotty meanders over and sits down at their table. “What’re you talking about?”
“Chekov,” Sulu supplies, making room for him.
“Oh,” Scotty replies. “You two must be pretty desperate.”
Jim lets the comment slide for a while. “Can I just clarify I’m not out to get in his pants?” he says suddenly after some time.
Scotty and Sulu both look sceptical. “Really?” Sulu says, surprised.
“Of course not,” Jim says quickly. “I thought you were.”
“No,” Sulu scowls, “of course not. He’s my friend. I was just wondering what it was he wasn’t telling me.”
Scotty and Sulu leave at the same time. Jim sees Scotty lean over to Sulu and murmur something in his ear as he goes, glancing back at Jim, and he’s pretty sure it’s “denial.”
Jim’s genuinely lost. Operation: Find Out Who His Ensign’s Screwing is completed. A finished case. Closed book. A million other literary metaphors.
But he can’t let it go.
Jim’s naked, kneeling on his bed, staring at the wall. He drags his tongue across his lips. Chekov and Bones spring across his mind and he moans, desperate fingers around his cock. He thinks about what incredible gay sex constitutes; is the kid as vanilla as they come or as slutty as his pink lips suggest? Fucking cocksucking lips, he thinks, and groans, shoving his other hand in his mouth and biting down hard. Chekov never has bruises on his neck; Jim thinks about how he’d like to make one, deep and purple, sore and hanging there for days till it fades to a pale yellow, like a dying star.
Does he fuck, or is he fucked? Well, that’s an easy one; the kid’s so damn effeminate he couldn’t top a Christmas tree. Jim hisses into his hand, biting down on it harder, and groans a little, tightening the pull of his hand on his cock. A million things flash unbidden through his mind; Chekov, underneath him, feet locking round his back and whimpering for more. Bones, behind him, shoving his face into the pillow and fucking him till he can’t breathe. The two of them together, slow and soft, completely ignorant of Jim watching in the corner, cock aching and heart aching harder. I want to see his eyes when he comes, Jim thinks, and he doesn’t know who he’s thinking of anymore. He just wants to see.
Dammit, Jim, snap out of it.
He decides he needs a plan.
The list should do it. It’s never let him down before.
Writing down ‘walk in on them fucking’ enough times to cover two sides of paper really hasn’t helped much.
And sex pollen is an excuse, not a solution.
Fuck it, he thinks, jerking awake to sticky, dream-inspired come all over his stomach. You’re Jim Kirk. You just do what you do best.
Right, Jim agrees. He just needs a shower first.
About an hour of jerking off later Jim’s prowling to Bones’ quarters and sincerely hoping the two of them are in there. Well, at least hoping Chekov’s there; Bones (on his own) will just quite rightly tell him to fuck off. He knows if they’re anywhere they’ll be at Bones’; he’s pretty sure Chekov’s still bunking with Sulu - only ranking as Ensign wouldn’t give him his own quarters - and he knows from experience Bones doesn’t have an exhibitionist kink. More’s the shame.
Chekov flusters when he comes through the door; he and Bones had been sitting well apart on separate couches, but he still flushes and drops his head, fingers twitching in some semblance of guilt. Jim drops to his knees in front of Chekov, grabs his chin in his fingers and kisses him.
For a fraction of a second, his brain tries to catch up with his mouth; it registers Bones freezing to his left, Chekov’s eyes widening and his fingers grabbing onto Jim’s shirt. Then it’s all about Chekov’s mouth, all about trying not to bump teeth, all about trying to get his tongue into Chekov. He doesn’t expect Chekov’s tongue trying to get into him; nor does he expect Bones to just sit there beside them, watching, and fuck, is he panting? His eyes slant sideward as far as they can till they’re burning with the strain, and he moans a little at the sight of Bones’ nails, pushed to the point of breaking into the synthfabric of the sofa. Chekov’s showing no sign of slowing - fuck me, Jim thinks, the kid’s a good kisser - and it’s Jim that has to pull away, slightly wheezing for breath as Chekov runs his lips along his jawline, already wanting to get back to the task in hand.
“He’s been wanting to do that for a while,” Bones says hoarsely.
Jim slides his eyes across to him. “I couldn’t have guessed.” Chekov pushes him back till they’re both settled, kneeling on the floor, and his fingers are sliding down Jim’s chest, tugging at the rim of Jim’s shirt, his eyes pleading. Bones rolls his eyes and lands behind Chekov, sliding a hand under the back of his shirt, and Jim watches as Chekov shudders and smiles. “Is he ridiculously responsive or are you just brilliant in bed?”
Bones smirks. “Mixture of the both.”
To be honest, Jim doesn’t mind either way.
Chekov’s fingers become more determined in their quest to remove Jim’s shirt; they make a harsh tug that has to be painful, but it brings Jim’s shirt to head height and scrapes his fingertips all the way up his chest, catching on a nipple. Jim grunts and his hips shunt forwards involuntarily, and he pushes Chekov’s hand away to replace it with his own, tugging till the shirt’s gone, and by the time he’s removed it Bones and Chekov are caught up in their own little world; Bones’ lips are against Chekov’s neck and he’s slowly pulling his shirt up from behind, and Chekov’s shuddering, his head back on Bones’ shoulder. Jim just watches.
When Chekov’s shirt is gone he springs forwards again, grabbing onto Jim’s shoulder, his fingers slipping along his collarbone. He’s on all fours but his hands are all over Jim; Jim’s back’s buckling with holding the weight of enthusiastic teenager and he falls back a little, catching himself on his hands, the carpet stinging his palms. Chekov’s kissing him again, and over the roar of his ears he hears Bones undo Chekov’s trousers and glances up to watch as Bones pulls them as far as his knees and then stands to do his own. Jim’s gaze follows him up, catches his eye, and Bones takes off his slacks; the movement in itself is simple. Undressing on your own, well, it’s a chore, but undressing in front of a crowd - Jim’s good at it. Very good at it, and he damn well knows it.
Bones is better.
Bones reaches down and puts his hand on Chekov’s shoulder; Chekov slides his lips off Jim’s and looks over his shoulder at Bones, and his tongue’s flicking unconsciously at the left corner of his mouth. He stands, slowly, unintentionally pushing his knee into Jim’s stomach and Jim grunts, but Chekov doesn’t hear. Chekov kicks off his slacks and underwear and reaches up to kiss Bones, and Jim’s left to just watch them again, a wheezing heap on the floor. The hitches of breath Chekov lets slip - they’re soft and unintelligible but even more beautiful because of it. Jim’s had more than enough experience to know sex is all about what you can’t see. He swears he can hear the slide of Bones’ fingers on the bottom of Chekov’s spine, soft and slick with the collected sweat running down his back. Jim can taste the tang in anticipation, heavy on his tongue, and he’s fixated on that spot, his fingers curling into the carpet. Bones just sends him this look over Chekov’s shoulder as he reaches down to bite on his neck and Jim stands, slipping off his slacks and underwear with no ceremony, but Bones watches him do it nonetheless.
Bones keeps his eyes on Jim as he leans down to murmur in Chekov’s ear, and Chekov’s fingers rub on Bones’ waist as his hips jolt in little frustrated half-motions. Jim wonders what the fuck he’s saying, but he’d have to be pressed right up against Chekov’s back to hear; he only hears one long drawl, clipped occasionally by Bones’ hitches of breath. When Chekov moans a little, cut off by a fluttering gasp, Jim does start to move closer, his legs jolting and shaking, but by this time Chekov’s already moved across to Bones’ bed and is sprawled happily on his back, staring at the ceiling. Bones keeps his eyes on Jim as he kicks off his underwear, but then it’s all about Chekov, straddling him on the bed and kissing him, hands all over each other and Jim’s left standing in the middle of the room watching again. It’s becoming a pattern, and Jim’s not sure if he likes it but he’s damn well prepared to live with it.
Chekov lets out this moan, and Bones grunts out “fuck” and Jim’s knees nearly give way; he has to shuffle round to get a proper look but he knows Bones has just started to fingerfuck him, two fingers crooked and Jim wants to be there, wants to hear the slick sounds it makes, wants to hear anything over the sound of his own heart, but the two of them are caught up in their own little world and he daren’t intrude. Chekov hitches his legs around Bones’ waist and lets his head fall back, and Jim imagines catching it, imagines kissing him upside-down with too much teeth and cherry-red lips. As it is, he’s standing halfway across the room, and Chekov’s head is sprawled across the bottom of a pillow, just where it’s always been meant to.
“Fuck him,” Jim says suddenly, ripping through and besmirching their pretty little picture. Bones looks across at him, but Jim’s eyes are still fixed on Bones’ fingers and the way Chekov’s shunting his hips to fuck himself on them.
“I was planning to,” Bones replies. Chekov’s eyes blearily slide across at him, his hips stuttering, and Jim licks his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “fuck, look at him, you’re not going fast enough - ” Chekov whines, appearing to agree heartily with this statement, and his back arcs off the bed and his filthy mouth lets off a string of garbled syllables. Cheeky fucker, Jim realises, and stares incredulously at Bones. He found his prostate while he talked to you.
Bones smiles. “Get behind him,” he grunts, reaching down for Chekov’s hips. “Hold him up.” Jim climbs on the bed and hooks his arms through Chekov’s, propping his back against his chest and staring along him at Bones, who’s working on moving his legs higher up. Chekov’s head drops back against Jim’s shoulder, his hair smearing and soaking in the sweat, and Jim places little grounding kisses all along his jawline as Bones grabs onto his hips and pushes in. Chekov comes alive under Jim’s hands, whole body slamming up into the air, the tightest of shrieks ripping out of his throat and Jim watches Bones shudder and still, eyes up the way his fingers are clenched in the sheet beside Chekov’s hip. Chekov pushes away from Jim till he’s upright on his own, sitting across Bones’ lap with his cock rutting into his stomach, shamelessly driving his hips in a monosyllabic rhythm. Jim’s left a little bereft as he watches the two of them again, Chekov’s head falling forwards onto Bones’ shoulder. Jim’s hand reaches down to tug at his cock, and he figures this is the way it’s going to be. Not that he’s complaining, not one little bit.
Chekov eyes up the movement of his hand over his shoulder, and then he leans in to Bones again, whispering rapidly in his ear. Jim’s too far away to hear what he’s saying, but the way Bones’ eyes slam across to him tells him all he needs to know. Harder, Jim tries to think with his eyes. Fuck him harder. Bones’ eyes are slipping out of focus, but they’re still fixed on Jim, on his face, on his lips - Jim licks them and Bones chokes, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands fumbling on to Chekov’s shoulders. Chekov keens at the movement, breaking the noise of his steady, rapid whispers, and shudders at the way Bones suddenly slams forwards into him. There’s a few halting moments of panting and shuddering, before Chekov regains the ability to move and starts shunting his hips around Bones’ cock again, and his mouth clamps down on Bones’ ear as the whispering recommences.
Jim scowls. He really wants to know what he’s saying; there’s been entirely too much of this secrecy tonight, and he’s a little sick of it. He shuffles forwards on the bed, closer to the two of them and ignores the warning look Bones sends him. He glides his fingers down Chekov’s spine, the sweat running through his fingers, and tries to catch what he’s saying.
He frowns. There are entirely too many obscure consonants in that speech for it to be coherent, but Bones seems to know what he’s whispering; he keeps reacting to one thing or another, fingers tightening or mouth slackening or breath hitching. “Wait,” Jim breathes, and Bones’ eyes slide across to him again. “You can speak Russian?”
Chekov sends him a sly, filthy smile across his shoulder, and leans in to whisper to Bones again.
“What’s he saying?” Jim whispers, his hand drifting down to his cock. “Fuck, Bones.”
“I can’t tell you,” Bones grits out above the hushed litany Chekov’s mumbling into his ear. “I’m a doctor, not a fucking translator. Besides, you’ll think I’m full of shi- fuck,” he trails off, and digs his fingers into Chekov’s hips, shuddering.
“What’s he saying?” Jim repeats, and Bones shudders again.
“He’s… fuck, Jim, he’s saying how good it feels, me being in him - how big, how deep - ” Bones trails off again, face glazing over with concentration as he tries to translate the nonstop message Chekov’s happily spilling out into his ear. Then, all of a sudden, he clamps down on Chekov and groans, his head falling forwards onto Chekov’s shoulder, overcome by the moment.
“What did he say?” Jim asks hoarsely, and Chekov’s stopped speaking, stopped moving, just staring at Bones with the smallest of smiles and slowly licking his lips.
Bones looks up at him, panting, vaguely trying to keep under control. “He wants… you,” he mutters.
Jim quirks an eyebrow. “No shit.”
“No,” Bones gasps, shaking his head. Lost in translation, maybe? he thinks. Whatever it was, Bones is almost incoherent at the idea of it, which can only be a good thing. “Fuck, Jim, he wants you now. He wants us both.”
Chekov’s smile nearly takes him over.
“Jesus,” Jim blurts out finally. “Is that even physically possible?”
“You have not done it before?” Chekov asks quietly, slipping back into English with a wry smile.
“Look at that,” Bones rasps, mouth twitching. “A first for Jim Kirk. We’re privileged.”
“I have done it before,” Chekov says proudly. “It works. It is good.”
Jim’s fingers trail down Chekov’s spine, resting just shy of the small of his back. “I don’t know…” he admits, eyes staring at what he can see of Bones’ cock, still inside Chekov’s ass.
“Fingers, first,” Chekov murmurs, and lets his head fall back on Jim’s shoulder. “Slow.” Jim gets the message, and slips the first finger in beside Bones’ cock. It’s the weirdest and probably hottest thing he’s ever had to do; he’s just shy of giving Bones a handjob inside Chekov’s fucking ass. He licks his lips and sets to it, slow and methodical, gently working and probing till he’s got three fingers splayed in Chekov’s ass, and it’s so disconcerting the way he keeps brushing up against Bones’ cock. Bones is completely still, his head downwards with his eyes shut, his whole face flushed with concentration and trying not to breathe. Chekov’s head is still on Jim’s shoulder, eyes glazed up at the ceiling, mumbling softly to himself and occasionally hitching his breath and whimpering when Jim catches him with the inside of his nail or Bones shifts unexpectedly inside him. “S’okay,” he finally rasps. “Done.”
“You sure?” Jim asks, just as Bones’ eyes peel open. He’s got no idea of the logistics of this, of what to do next - Bones looks at him and he looks at Bones and he’s torn.
“Go,” Chekov murmurs, head spinning fitfully on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim knows he’s not going to be much help in this process. Jim ends up with his chest pressed against Chekov’s back and his fingers still inside, keeping him open long enough till the head of his cock’s inside and then he’s pushing, deeper and hotter, stealing his breath and Chekov’s moaning louder and louder and he’s stopped breathing and Bones is staring and fuck, so tight, so hot - Bones -
He waits for the world to stop whirling and then he opens his eyes. He’s pretty sure Chekov’s not breathing anymore, save for these little gasp-wheezes every now and then, which cannot be healthy. Somewhere in the movement Jim’s palm has splayed across Chekov’s chest and he can feel his heart thundering like a jackrabbit, but his face is blank with just these impossibly-blown eyes staring in silence at the ceiling. His mouth’s pinched, and Jim knows this must be hurting, but the vague smile tugging at the curves of his lips shows just how blissfully happy he is.
His eyes slide over to Bones. He can feel Bones’ cock pressed up against his, so much heat surrounding and pressing from every angle, and he knows Bones will be feeling the same, too frightened to move, too goddamn desperate to stay still. Jim starts off the process, because he’s used to doing the dirty work; just the slightest shimmy of his hips, in and out no more than an inch, and Bones groans, head falling forwards onto Chekov’s chest. Chekov’s unresponsive, save for the tiniest twitch of his fingers in the sheet beside Jim’s thigh. Jim goes for gold, then, pulls out a bit further, slams in a bit harder and is rewarded by Chekov’s back arcing out of proportion, and Jim catches Bones’ warning glance and shudders to a halt, toes clenched. Bones is reminding him that Chekov is still a teenager, and it’s remarkable he’s even managed to hold on for this long. He catches Bones’ eye again, and they silently time their movements, pulling out and pushing back in with fucked synchronicity, the feeling of Chekov amplified by the feeling of each other, pushing and moving to the common purpose.
Chekov is naturally the first to go - Jim had kind of suspected it, considering his position. It still manages to come without warning, because Chekov is past the point of being able to utter any verbal sound, just the occasional rasping choke; his fingers lock tight by Jim’s thigh and he arcs, mouth stretched in a silent scream as he comes messily all over Bones’ chest. The act in itself is enough to send Bones off beside him, shuddering and gasping as he comes inside Chekov’s ass. Jim has to admit he follows only a heartbeat later; the feel of Bones’ come makes everything hotter and slicker and tighter and he’s not sure what he shouts when he comes, but he’s pretty sure it’s loud, incoherent and long.
It’s been a while since he’s blacked out after sex, so he’s left a little confused when he comes round, the stink of it all around him. The three of them are lying on the bed, Chekov in the middle, back still pressed flush to Jim’s chest; Bones is lying on the opposite side, watching Jim carefully as he peels open his eyes. Chekov’s flat out, still, and Jim tugs his cock free of his body, wincing at Chekov’s unconscious hiss. Bones’ fingers are moving tentatively on Chekov’s hip, small, slow circles betraying an underlying emotion. Jim glances down at them, before looking up at Bones; he’s too tired to talk, and besides, he doesn’t want to risk waking up Chekov. Tell me you can fix him up, he thinks, instead, and tries to convey the message imploringly with his eyes.
It seems to work; Bones nods, and mouths tomorrow.
It’s answer enough for Jim, and he lets his eyes close. Just as he’s drifting off to sleep, the smallest voice in his head murmurs another job well done, Jim.
He really has to stop calling himself Jim.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy/Chekov, McCoy/Chekov, Kirk/McCoy
Length: ~5k.
Rating: NC-17 for sex.
Notes: This, I have to warn, contains double penetration. I'm not as ashamed of that as I thought I would be. I just hope enough people have the same kink for this as I do. Huge huge cookies to anyone who gets the title :D Looked over by the lovely credulesque Crossposted to AO3 here.
It’s bumfuck o’clock in the morning, evening, it’s not like there’s even time in space anyway but the point of the matter is Jim’s been conscious for over fifty-three hours now and he’s not a happy camper. Captain. Oh, fuck off already. “We should be arriving in neutral space in approximately six and a half minutes, keptain,” Chekov happily supplies, twirling around primly on his chair. Sulu, to his left, looks ready to smash his own head into his screen. Even Spock has these little twitches in the side of his mouth that betray the fact that none of them are really having fun on this one. Okay, it is a little amusing to ponder the way Chekov trips up over approximately, but even that sort of humour stopped being funny a long time ago. And for Jim Kirk that’s saying something.
“Kid,” Jim starts, and doesn’t miss the flicker of annoyance that crosses Chekov’s face. “How are you so fucking happy all the time?”
Spock doesn’t even bother to ask him to restrain his language, partly because he knows Jim will just fire the expletive back in a shorter, sharper form. Chekov is initially a little taken aback at the question, eyebrows twitching, and then appears to ponder it for a while, licking his lips a little and staring off into space. Eventually, he flicks his gaze back to Jim with a beatific smile. “Incredible gay sex, keptain,” he answers happily, and turns back to his console.
Even Spock looks a little surprised.
Jim doesn’t spend all evening jerking off to that thought.
Not at all.
Fuck.
Is it even legal?
Everything’s legal on some planets, Jim, his brain helpfully supplies.
Since when do I refer to myself as Jim?
Who the fuck is he sleeping with?!
Jim makes a list in his head. It’s all very methodical, which is surprising considering his terrible history with that area. He doesn’t commit it to paper, because he’s not stupid enough for that, but it does mean he keeps forgetting things.
You’ll forget your own name one day, Jim.
Not with his head around to remind him of it all the time.
He really has to stop calling himself Jim.
So.
Scotty.
They could so go have geeky sex in Engineering or something. It is pretty remote down there. But, ew, that’s not only completely not arousing it’s actually quite disturbing. Besides, Chekov spends less time down there than he does on the bridge, and seems to have nothing more than awed admiration for Scotty. Then again, Chekov has awed admiration for pretty much everyone.
So, not Scotty.
Hopefully.
Sulu’s a greater possibility.
There is the whole friendship thing going on there. And Chekov’s so shy and indulgent around him, all blushes and writhing, it’s totally possible he’s hiding some deep emotional manlove. And Sulu seems to reciprocate the affection just as strongly. But, then again, the look on Sulu’s face at Chekov’s earlier announcement, well, that suggested otherwise.
So, weirdly enough, not Sulu.
Not yet, at any rate.
Spock -
No.
Just no.
Hmm. Maybe he should alphabetize them, just in case he misses someone out.
He has way too many crew members with names beginning with S.
He must have left out someone.
Well, there’s Bones. But don’t be ridiculous.
Jim includes Bones for the sake of argument.
It’s not like they’ve exchanged words in the last year they’ve been on the ship. Or looks. Have they even been in the same room together? Well, obviously at some point, what with Bones being his CMO and Chekov his chief navigator. And there was that time Chekov got beaten to shit by those fucktards on that shithole of a desert planet, so someone must’ve treated him, ‘cause he did walk back onto the bridge pretty soon after.
Okay, okay. Maybe Bones.
Maybe it’s all of them.
Hmm.
Chekov orgy.
Cue another evening Jim definitely doesn’t spend jerking off to that thought.
Jim’s no further forward. He knew being methodical wouldn’t work - yeah, take that, Spock, logic sucks in the face of working out who your ensign’s sleeping with.
If only he could rub his face in it.
Yeah, that’s probably not such a great idea.
So, if logic doesn’t work, it’s time for him to go in all guns blazing with his ineffable charm. It’s pretty useless flirting with each of his crew members to get a reaction out of Chekov; the kid’s permanently flustered anyway. Jim wouldn’t see any difference. Besides, flirting with Scotty? Jim loves the guy, yeah, but he’d rather suck Romulan ass.
Literally.
Flirting with Chekov it is, then.
Hmm. This isn’t turning out to be as bad as he thought.
Jim’s feeling utterly fed up. It’d been hard, uniting all of his suspects together like this for maximum potential. So he could hone in on a target. He would have made an awesome spy. Or a cop. He’s seen the inside of more police stations than most cops, but that’s not a good thing.
Anyway.
He’d tried flirting with Chekov in front of various members of his crew on separate occasions, but it’s hard keeping anyone in the room with him for longer than two minutes in order to gauge a reaction. It’s even harder keeping Spock out of the room, because he guesses his first mate would highly disapprove of these antics. So he makes up some shitty ‘anniversary-of-my-kickass-crew-being-awesome, oh-what-a-shame-you-can’t-come, Spock’ excuse and drags them all down to the nearest planet, dumps them in a bar and tries to get them drunk.
He fails with Chekov. Hey, the kid’s Russian, Jim was expecting it. But Sulu, he’s totally under the table. Must be an Asian thing. And Scotty was drunk when he turned up. Bones… is just Bones. He’s constantly quaffing anyway, Jim’s lost track of whether he’s drunk or not.
So they’re sitting around a table - well, four of them are - and Jim’s doing his best to flirt with Chekov, who’s just looking at him oddly and flashing him nervous smiles. Scotty’s arguing loudly with someone at the bar, Sulu’s oblivious and Bones is just staring into space.
Jim scowls.
He doesn’t like it when his plans go wrong.
Observation, Jim, his brain says when they get back on the Enterprise. A stakeout. Jim knows from experience stakeouts always sound way more fun than they actually are. He really doesn’t want to go to the effort of spending the next however-many-months watching Chekov and assessing his behaviour for tiny details.
So Jim cheats.
He isolates Sulu in the training area, finishing up a practice joust. Jim thinks it must be hard to simulate a swordfight, but Sulu always seems capable of kicking ass. “I want you to tell me who Chekov’s sleeping with,” he says.
Sulu looks up glumly. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
They form a deadly alliance. Well, Jim sees it as a deadly alliance. He wants to go full out with codewords and secret handshakes and meetings, but he daren’t broach the ideas to Sulu, who, he suspects, would either kick his ass or never treat him seriously again. Which, you know, with Jim being his captain, would kinda fail.
They both watch him for three weeks before they meet again.
“I got nothing,” Sulu says as he sits down.
“Yeah, me neither,” Jim replies miserably.
“Fuck.”
Jim’s staring at Chekov’s personnel files, as if he suddenly expects there to be a whole subdivision on sexual relations. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea; Jim’s would probably crash and burn Starfleet’s computer system, which would be devastating. He might not be able to watch porn in the evenings, or something. And yeah, alien threats, and shit, but since Jim’s become captain he’s learnt he has to prioritise.
He clicks over to medical files. Wow, it’s pristinely clean, with shit-tons of vaccines before any infections could set in. Bones must have been going mental with the hypospray again. Must be his way of showing affection or something. Very phallic. Freud would have a field day.
He goes to Scotty.
“Chekov?” Scotty echoes, taking a long, slow swig. There’s something round and fluffy on Scotty’s desk. Jim swears it’s looking at him. He glances back over to Scotty. “Aye, the kid’s cute, righ’, but he’s no my type. Ah have a tendency tae go for the, uh, less impressionable when it comes to our sex.” Scotty makes a gesture with his arms which Jim can only describe as hulking. “Ah tend tae lean to the more intimidating type. Ah’m very dominantable,” he elaborates, and then mouths back through the syllables, frowning. Jim’s pretty sure that’s not a word. He’s also pretty sure the thing on Scotty’s desk has moved since he last looked over there.
When he leaves, knowing more about Scotty’s sexual preferences than he ever wanted to, he’s pretty sure Chekov’s not sleeping with Scotty. Aside from the latter’s fervent testimonial against the idea, the place is so unsanitary he’s sure Chekov would have picked up some form of disease, and his medical files are flawless.
Jim jerks awake and battles with his sheets.
Wait.
His medical files are flawless.
Bones’ way of showing affection.
Oh, Hell no.
“It’s Bones,” he tells Sulu as he sits down next to him and takes a bite out of his lunch.
Sulu raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Jim nods. “Pretty much.”
“Fuck,” Sulu breathes, leaning back and shaking his head with a sigh. “So what’re we gonna do?”
“No idea,” Jim shrugs.
Scotty meanders over and sits down at their table. “What’re you talking about?”
“Chekov,” Sulu supplies, making room for him.
“Oh,” Scotty replies. “You two must be pretty desperate.”
Jim lets the comment slide for a while. “Can I just clarify I’m not out to get in his pants?” he says suddenly after some time.
Scotty and Sulu both look sceptical. “Really?” Sulu says, surprised.
“Of course not,” Jim says quickly. “I thought you were.”
“No,” Sulu scowls, “of course not. He’s my friend. I was just wondering what it was he wasn’t telling me.”
Scotty and Sulu leave at the same time. Jim sees Scotty lean over to Sulu and murmur something in his ear as he goes, glancing back at Jim, and he’s pretty sure it’s “denial.”
Jim’s genuinely lost. Operation: Find Out Who His Ensign’s Screwing is completed. A finished case. Closed book. A million other literary metaphors.
But he can’t let it go.
Jim’s naked, kneeling on his bed, staring at the wall. He drags his tongue across his lips. Chekov and Bones spring across his mind and he moans, desperate fingers around his cock. He thinks about what incredible gay sex constitutes; is the kid as vanilla as they come or as slutty as his pink lips suggest? Fucking cocksucking lips, he thinks, and groans, shoving his other hand in his mouth and biting down hard. Chekov never has bruises on his neck; Jim thinks about how he’d like to make one, deep and purple, sore and hanging there for days till it fades to a pale yellow, like a dying star.
Does he fuck, or is he fucked? Well, that’s an easy one; the kid’s so damn effeminate he couldn’t top a Christmas tree. Jim hisses into his hand, biting down on it harder, and groans a little, tightening the pull of his hand on his cock. A million things flash unbidden through his mind; Chekov, underneath him, feet locking round his back and whimpering for more. Bones, behind him, shoving his face into the pillow and fucking him till he can’t breathe. The two of them together, slow and soft, completely ignorant of Jim watching in the corner, cock aching and heart aching harder. I want to see his eyes when he comes, Jim thinks, and he doesn’t know who he’s thinking of anymore. He just wants to see.
Dammit, Jim, snap out of it.
He decides he needs a plan.
The list should do it. It’s never let him down before.
Writing down ‘walk in on them fucking’ enough times to cover two sides of paper really hasn’t helped much.
And sex pollen is an excuse, not a solution.
Fuck it, he thinks, jerking awake to sticky, dream-inspired come all over his stomach. You’re Jim Kirk. You just do what you do best.
Right, Jim agrees. He just needs a shower first.
About an hour of jerking off later Jim’s prowling to Bones’ quarters and sincerely hoping the two of them are in there. Well, at least hoping Chekov’s there; Bones (on his own) will just quite rightly tell him to fuck off. He knows if they’re anywhere they’ll be at Bones’; he’s pretty sure Chekov’s still bunking with Sulu - only ranking as Ensign wouldn’t give him his own quarters - and he knows from experience Bones doesn’t have an exhibitionist kink. More’s the shame.
Chekov flusters when he comes through the door; he and Bones had been sitting well apart on separate couches, but he still flushes and drops his head, fingers twitching in some semblance of guilt. Jim drops to his knees in front of Chekov, grabs his chin in his fingers and kisses him.
For a fraction of a second, his brain tries to catch up with his mouth; it registers Bones freezing to his left, Chekov’s eyes widening and his fingers grabbing onto Jim’s shirt. Then it’s all about Chekov’s mouth, all about trying not to bump teeth, all about trying to get his tongue into Chekov. He doesn’t expect Chekov’s tongue trying to get into him; nor does he expect Bones to just sit there beside them, watching, and fuck, is he panting? His eyes slant sideward as far as they can till they’re burning with the strain, and he moans a little at the sight of Bones’ nails, pushed to the point of breaking into the synthfabric of the sofa. Chekov’s showing no sign of slowing - fuck me, Jim thinks, the kid’s a good kisser - and it’s Jim that has to pull away, slightly wheezing for breath as Chekov runs his lips along his jawline, already wanting to get back to the task in hand.
“He’s been wanting to do that for a while,” Bones says hoarsely.
Jim slides his eyes across to him. “I couldn’t have guessed.” Chekov pushes him back till they’re both settled, kneeling on the floor, and his fingers are sliding down Jim’s chest, tugging at the rim of Jim’s shirt, his eyes pleading. Bones rolls his eyes and lands behind Chekov, sliding a hand under the back of his shirt, and Jim watches as Chekov shudders and smiles. “Is he ridiculously responsive or are you just brilliant in bed?”
Bones smirks. “Mixture of the both.”
To be honest, Jim doesn’t mind either way.
Chekov’s fingers become more determined in their quest to remove Jim’s shirt; they make a harsh tug that has to be painful, but it brings Jim’s shirt to head height and scrapes his fingertips all the way up his chest, catching on a nipple. Jim grunts and his hips shunt forwards involuntarily, and he pushes Chekov’s hand away to replace it with his own, tugging till the shirt’s gone, and by the time he’s removed it Bones and Chekov are caught up in their own little world; Bones’ lips are against Chekov’s neck and he’s slowly pulling his shirt up from behind, and Chekov’s shuddering, his head back on Bones’ shoulder. Jim just watches.
When Chekov’s shirt is gone he springs forwards again, grabbing onto Jim’s shoulder, his fingers slipping along his collarbone. He’s on all fours but his hands are all over Jim; Jim’s back’s buckling with holding the weight of enthusiastic teenager and he falls back a little, catching himself on his hands, the carpet stinging his palms. Chekov’s kissing him again, and over the roar of his ears he hears Bones undo Chekov’s trousers and glances up to watch as Bones pulls them as far as his knees and then stands to do his own. Jim’s gaze follows him up, catches his eye, and Bones takes off his slacks; the movement in itself is simple. Undressing on your own, well, it’s a chore, but undressing in front of a crowd - Jim’s good at it. Very good at it, and he damn well knows it.
Bones is better.
Bones reaches down and puts his hand on Chekov’s shoulder; Chekov slides his lips off Jim’s and looks over his shoulder at Bones, and his tongue’s flicking unconsciously at the left corner of his mouth. He stands, slowly, unintentionally pushing his knee into Jim’s stomach and Jim grunts, but Chekov doesn’t hear. Chekov kicks off his slacks and underwear and reaches up to kiss Bones, and Jim’s left to just watch them again, a wheezing heap on the floor. The hitches of breath Chekov lets slip - they’re soft and unintelligible but even more beautiful because of it. Jim’s had more than enough experience to know sex is all about what you can’t see. He swears he can hear the slide of Bones’ fingers on the bottom of Chekov’s spine, soft and slick with the collected sweat running down his back. Jim can taste the tang in anticipation, heavy on his tongue, and he’s fixated on that spot, his fingers curling into the carpet. Bones just sends him this look over Chekov’s shoulder as he reaches down to bite on his neck and Jim stands, slipping off his slacks and underwear with no ceremony, but Bones watches him do it nonetheless.
Bones keeps his eyes on Jim as he leans down to murmur in Chekov’s ear, and Chekov’s fingers rub on Bones’ waist as his hips jolt in little frustrated half-motions. Jim wonders what the fuck he’s saying, but he’d have to be pressed right up against Chekov’s back to hear; he only hears one long drawl, clipped occasionally by Bones’ hitches of breath. When Chekov moans a little, cut off by a fluttering gasp, Jim does start to move closer, his legs jolting and shaking, but by this time Chekov’s already moved across to Bones’ bed and is sprawled happily on his back, staring at the ceiling. Bones keeps his eyes on Jim as he kicks off his underwear, but then it’s all about Chekov, straddling him on the bed and kissing him, hands all over each other and Jim’s left standing in the middle of the room watching again. It’s becoming a pattern, and Jim’s not sure if he likes it but he’s damn well prepared to live with it.
Chekov lets out this moan, and Bones grunts out “fuck” and Jim’s knees nearly give way; he has to shuffle round to get a proper look but he knows Bones has just started to fingerfuck him, two fingers crooked and Jim wants to be there, wants to hear the slick sounds it makes, wants to hear anything over the sound of his own heart, but the two of them are caught up in their own little world and he daren’t intrude. Chekov hitches his legs around Bones’ waist and lets his head fall back, and Jim imagines catching it, imagines kissing him upside-down with too much teeth and cherry-red lips. As it is, he’s standing halfway across the room, and Chekov’s head is sprawled across the bottom of a pillow, just where it’s always been meant to.
“Fuck him,” Jim says suddenly, ripping through and besmirching their pretty little picture. Bones looks across at him, but Jim’s eyes are still fixed on Bones’ fingers and the way Chekov’s shunting his hips to fuck himself on them.
“I was planning to,” Bones replies. Chekov’s eyes blearily slide across at him, his hips stuttering, and Jim licks his lips.
“Fuck,” he breathes, “fuck, look at him, you’re not going fast enough - ” Chekov whines, appearing to agree heartily with this statement, and his back arcs off the bed and his filthy mouth lets off a string of garbled syllables. Cheeky fucker, Jim realises, and stares incredulously at Bones. He found his prostate while he talked to you.
Bones smiles. “Get behind him,” he grunts, reaching down for Chekov’s hips. “Hold him up.” Jim climbs on the bed and hooks his arms through Chekov’s, propping his back against his chest and staring along him at Bones, who’s working on moving his legs higher up. Chekov’s head drops back against Jim’s shoulder, his hair smearing and soaking in the sweat, and Jim places little grounding kisses all along his jawline as Bones grabs onto his hips and pushes in. Chekov comes alive under Jim’s hands, whole body slamming up into the air, the tightest of shrieks ripping out of his throat and Jim watches Bones shudder and still, eyes up the way his fingers are clenched in the sheet beside Chekov’s hip. Chekov pushes away from Jim till he’s upright on his own, sitting across Bones’ lap with his cock rutting into his stomach, shamelessly driving his hips in a monosyllabic rhythm. Jim’s left a little bereft as he watches the two of them again, Chekov’s head falling forwards onto Bones’ shoulder. Jim’s hand reaches down to tug at his cock, and he figures this is the way it’s going to be. Not that he’s complaining, not one little bit.
Chekov eyes up the movement of his hand over his shoulder, and then he leans in to Bones again, whispering rapidly in his ear. Jim’s too far away to hear what he’s saying, but the way Bones’ eyes slam across to him tells him all he needs to know. Harder, Jim tries to think with his eyes. Fuck him harder. Bones’ eyes are slipping out of focus, but they’re still fixed on Jim, on his face, on his lips - Jim licks them and Bones chokes, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands fumbling on to Chekov’s shoulders. Chekov keens at the movement, breaking the noise of his steady, rapid whispers, and shudders at the way Bones suddenly slams forwards into him. There’s a few halting moments of panting and shuddering, before Chekov regains the ability to move and starts shunting his hips around Bones’ cock again, and his mouth clamps down on Bones’ ear as the whispering recommences.
Jim scowls. He really wants to know what he’s saying; there’s been entirely too much of this secrecy tonight, and he’s a little sick of it. He shuffles forwards on the bed, closer to the two of them and ignores the warning look Bones sends him. He glides his fingers down Chekov’s spine, the sweat running through his fingers, and tries to catch what he’s saying.
He frowns. There are entirely too many obscure consonants in that speech for it to be coherent, but Bones seems to know what he’s whispering; he keeps reacting to one thing or another, fingers tightening or mouth slackening or breath hitching. “Wait,” Jim breathes, and Bones’ eyes slide across to him again. “You can speak Russian?”
Chekov sends him a sly, filthy smile across his shoulder, and leans in to whisper to Bones again.
“What’s he saying?” Jim whispers, his hand drifting down to his cock. “Fuck, Bones.”
“I can’t tell you,” Bones grits out above the hushed litany Chekov’s mumbling into his ear. “I’m a doctor, not a fucking translator. Besides, you’ll think I’m full of shi- fuck,” he trails off, and digs his fingers into Chekov’s hips, shuddering.
“What’s he saying?” Jim repeats, and Bones shudders again.
“He’s… fuck, Jim, he’s saying how good it feels, me being in him - how big, how deep - ” Bones trails off again, face glazing over with concentration as he tries to translate the nonstop message Chekov’s happily spilling out into his ear. Then, all of a sudden, he clamps down on Chekov and groans, his head falling forwards onto Chekov’s shoulder, overcome by the moment.
“What did he say?” Jim asks hoarsely, and Chekov’s stopped speaking, stopped moving, just staring at Bones with the smallest of smiles and slowly licking his lips.
Bones looks up at him, panting, vaguely trying to keep under control. “He wants… you,” he mutters.
Jim quirks an eyebrow. “No shit.”
“No,” Bones gasps, shaking his head. Lost in translation, maybe? he thinks. Whatever it was, Bones is almost incoherent at the idea of it, which can only be a good thing. “Fuck, Jim, he wants you now. He wants us both.”
Chekov’s smile nearly takes him over.
“Jesus,” Jim blurts out finally. “Is that even physically possible?”
“You have not done it before?” Chekov asks quietly, slipping back into English with a wry smile.
“Look at that,” Bones rasps, mouth twitching. “A first for Jim Kirk. We’re privileged.”
“I have done it before,” Chekov says proudly. “It works. It is good.”
Jim’s fingers trail down Chekov’s spine, resting just shy of the small of his back. “I don’t know…” he admits, eyes staring at what he can see of Bones’ cock, still inside Chekov’s ass.
“Fingers, first,” Chekov murmurs, and lets his head fall back on Jim’s shoulder. “Slow.” Jim gets the message, and slips the first finger in beside Bones’ cock. It’s the weirdest and probably hottest thing he’s ever had to do; he’s just shy of giving Bones a handjob inside Chekov’s fucking ass. He licks his lips and sets to it, slow and methodical, gently working and probing till he’s got three fingers splayed in Chekov’s ass, and it’s so disconcerting the way he keeps brushing up against Bones’ cock. Bones is completely still, his head downwards with his eyes shut, his whole face flushed with concentration and trying not to breathe. Chekov’s head is still on Jim’s shoulder, eyes glazed up at the ceiling, mumbling softly to himself and occasionally hitching his breath and whimpering when Jim catches him with the inside of his nail or Bones shifts unexpectedly inside him. “S’okay,” he finally rasps. “Done.”
“You sure?” Jim asks, just as Bones’ eyes peel open. He’s got no idea of the logistics of this, of what to do next - Bones looks at him and he looks at Bones and he’s torn.
“Go,” Chekov murmurs, head spinning fitfully on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim knows he’s not going to be much help in this process. Jim ends up with his chest pressed against Chekov’s back and his fingers still inside, keeping him open long enough till the head of his cock’s inside and then he’s pushing, deeper and hotter, stealing his breath and Chekov’s moaning louder and louder and he’s stopped breathing and Bones is staring and fuck, so tight, so hot - Bones -
He waits for the world to stop whirling and then he opens his eyes. He’s pretty sure Chekov’s not breathing anymore, save for these little gasp-wheezes every now and then, which cannot be healthy. Somewhere in the movement Jim’s palm has splayed across Chekov’s chest and he can feel his heart thundering like a jackrabbit, but his face is blank with just these impossibly-blown eyes staring in silence at the ceiling. His mouth’s pinched, and Jim knows this must be hurting, but the vague smile tugging at the curves of his lips shows just how blissfully happy he is.
His eyes slide over to Bones. He can feel Bones’ cock pressed up against his, so much heat surrounding and pressing from every angle, and he knows Bones will be feeling the same, too frightened to move, too goddamn desperate to stay still. Jim starts off the process, because he’s used to doing the dirty work; just the slightest shimmy of his hips, in and out no more than an inch, and Bones groans, head falling forwards onto Chekov’s chest. Chekov’s unresponsive, save for the tiniest twitch of his fingers in the sheet beside Jim’s thigh. Jim goes for gold, then, pulls out a bit further, slams in a bit harder and is rewarded by Chekov’s back arcing out of proportion, and Jim catches Bones’ warning glance and shudders to a halt, toes clenched. Bones is reminding him that Chekov is still a teenager, and it’s remarkable he’s even managed to hold on for this long. He catches Bones’ eye again, and they silently time their movements, pulling out and pushing back in with fucked synchronicity, the feeling of Chekov amplified by the feeling of each other, pushing and moving to the common purpose.
Chekov is naturally the first to go - Jim had kind of suspected it, considering his position. It still manages to come without warning, because Chekov is past the point of being able to utter any verbal sound, just the occasional rasping choke; his fingers lock tight by Jim’s thigh and he arcs, mouth stretched in a silent scream as he comes messily all over Bones’ chest. The act in itself is enough to send Bones off beside him, shuddering and gasping as he comes inside Chekov’s ass. Jim has to admit he follows only a heartbeat later; the feel of Bones’ come makes everything hotter and slicker and tighter and he’s not sure what he shouts when he comes, but he’s pretty sure it’s loud, incoherent and long.
It’s been a while since he’s blacked out after sex, so he’s left a little confused when he comes round, the stink of it all around him. The three of them are lying on the bed, Chekov in the middle, back still pressed flush to Jim’s chest; Bones is lying on the opposite side, watching Jim carefully as he peels open his eyes. Chekov’s flat out, still, and Jim tugs his cock free of his body, wincing at Chekov’s unconscious hiss. Bones’ fingers are moving tentatively on Chekov’s hip, small, slow circles betraying an underlying emotion. Jim glances down at them, before looking up at Bones; he’s too tired to talk, and besides, he doesn’t want to risk waking up Chekov. Tell me you can fix him up, he thinks, instead, and tries to convey the message imploringly with his eyes.
It seems to work; Bones nods, and mouths tomorrow.
It’s answer enough for Jim, and he lets his eyes close. Just as he’s drifting off to sleep, the smallest voice in his head murmurs another job well done, Jim.
He really has to stop calling himself Jim.