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[personal profile] deawrites
Title: That'd be easier if...
Author: [ profile] dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov, Scotty (Star Trek XI)
Rating: R
Warnings: Voyeurism, rough sex
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: Originally written in answer to a prompt for Voyeur!Scotty with side order of Chekov/Sulu at [ profile] st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed.

The barely muffled moans are the first things he hears - soft, almost-whines and low broken groans. Scotty stops short, glances left and right and behind him, and then creeps slowly towards the turbolift, which is where these sounds are coming from, and just glances in.

Then his jaw drops, his mouth hanging open, sandwich completely forgotten in his hand.

Sulu - easy grin, proper as pie pilot Hikaru Sulu - has Chekov pressed against the wall of the turbo lift, clearly and expertly fingering him open, lips pressed against his ear, murmuring to him. Scotty can't catch most of it but, whatever the hell he's sayung, Sulu must be bloody good at dirty talk because Chekov's practically melting against the wall, rocking and barely keeping from crying out, liquid temptation against Sulu's body.

Their uniforms are still on, Chekov's pants half way down his legs, which are spread as much as they can be, but the material's rumbled to hell and they've clearly been going at this a while.

"Yeah?" Sulu says. "You ready for that?"

Chekov keens and spreads just a little further, flailing behind him to try to claw at Sulu.

"No," Sulu says, snatches up both Chekov's hands, stretches them above him and uses his grip to pin them there. The lube still glistening on his fingers, smearing the wall, is almost obscene.

And then Chekov whines when Sulu starts pressing in, loud enough that Sulu as to lean down, stop that sound stretching out too long with his lips, bites and says, "Quiet."

Scotty swears Chekov actually sobs, but he nods, squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

Sulu shifts them, pulls Chekov's hips away from the wall, bends him over a little and keeps his wrists pinned as he pushes in deeper and starts thrusting, fast and hard and dirty, and Chekov just squirms, pushes back, sounds barely bitten back as Sulu fucks him mercilessly, the picture of concentration.

Eventually, all rhythm disappears and Chekov practically sobs, "Hikaru, Hikaru, Hikaru," like it's some language Scotty doesn't understand - and maybe it is because, in one movement, Sulu pulls out, turns Chekov around and crashes their lips together as they meld into one writhing, needing, being, rutting against each other hard and fast and - then he understands why.

Chekov practically screams when he comes, a sound that Sulu swallows greedily.

He lets go of Chekov's wrists and Chekov's arms immediately wrap around Sulu's neck, hanging on and resting his head on Sulu's shoulder.

Then he opens his eyes.

"Oh." His eyes are wide, panic clear as his face goes redder than a fucking beetroot. "Ohmygod, Mr. Scotty! What are you - you. Here. Mr. Mr. Scotty is here, sir."

Sulu turns around slowly, looking a little mortified. And, okay, more than a little bit annoyed. He's also not so subtly trying to keep Chekov from view.

"Y'know," Scotty says, and he's not surprised his voice is a little roughened, raw, mouth too dry. "That'd be so much easier with a kilt."
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