Fandom & Pairing: Star Trek Reboot (aka AOS, ST XI, etc.), McCoy/Chekov with a dash of one-sided Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Fairly mild BDSM
Word Count: around 1400
Summary: Chekov's body makes a beautiful canvas.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to anything whatsoever is purely coincidental.
A/N : This was written for my kink bingo square "temperature play." It's my first time writing Chekov, so I hope I didn't screw it up too badly. I blame random00b for luring me into writing this pairing. :P Many thanks to hitlikehammers for the speedy beta.
Chekov's body makes a beautiful canvas, it really does. He's long, lean, and smooth, nearly hairless. And he's so pliant, so willing to try anything McCoy wants. Oh, of course he has a safe word, but he hasn't used it yet, even though on several occasions his huge eyes have filled with tears that spill so damn prettily onto his flushed cheeks. Or, as now, over the outside corners of his eyes, trickling down into his ridiculous, adorable curls.
He's tied, spread-eagled, to McCoy's bed, his stiff, purplish cock incongruously large against his slim milk-white abdomen. There's a random pattern of cooling red wax hardening in droplets over his torso. It's not the color of blood -- McCoy's seen enough blood to last him ten lifetimes -- but a brighter, more tomatoey red. A happy, vivid color, he thinks, to go with the kid's buoyant nature.
Chekov really likes this, the contrast of hot and cold. McCoy certainly has no objection to humoring him. The way the kid reacts makes it worth it. He's all gasps and sighs as he writhes beautifully in his restraints.
While the wax is still hot, McCoy takes an ice cube out of the thermal bucket on his bedside table and smoothes it over Chekov's nipples. Chekov lets out a single, high-pitched squeak that should not go straight to McCoy's cock, but it does. Then he begins to babble, and damn if that isn't even hotter.
"Doctor, oh, yes, please, oh, oh..." Then he lapses into Russian and McCoy smiles.
He leaves the ice cube on Chekov's sternum, melting slowly, chilly water running in rivulets across and down the sides of his chest. He takes up the beaker of melted wax again, this time focusing on Chekov's groin, spilling it over his hipbones, first one and then the other, working his way in a tightening spiral towards the cock that's straining for contact, pre-come leaking out to pool on the surface of his slightly concave stomach.
He drips some of the wax onto Chekov's testicles, which shift noticeably in their sack. His hips buck upwards, seeking more. McCoy obliges him with a steadier stream of heated wax, creating a thin coating over his balls which hardens rapidly into a fragile shell. Chekov's moaning now, almost ready to come just from this.
McCoy puts the beaker back on its warming plate. He's not ready for it to be over yet.
The ice isn't the only thing in the thermal bucket, and now McCoy removes a synthetic butt plug, one that chills nicely and keeps its temperature well, but doesn't get cold enough to harm sensitive skin. He greases it up quickly and then works it into Chekov's tight hole, reveling in the "Ahhhh!" of surprise he lets out. Once it's fully seated, he can see the muscles contracting, trying to expel the foreign object, but the wide plug tapers to a very narrow neck before flaring out into the base, so there's no way in hell it's going anywhere.
McCoy has tested it out on himself, so he knows exactly what it's like, the chill of the plug against the warm, tender skin of the rectum. It's a strange feeling, intense in its wrongness, the body unable to reconcile the sensation with anything remotely familiar.
Chekov is whimpering now, reaching the end of his endurance, and so McCoy picks up the container of wax again and this time pours a cascade right over the exquisitely sensitive flesh of Chekov's cock. Chekov screams and comes, thrashing furiously against his restraints, his body bowed into a beautiful arch, his hips raised as high as they can go.
He collapses back on the bed, shuddering, and while he's still wracked with the last waves of his orgasm, McCoy quickly lubes up his hand and starts fisting his cock, hard and fast. He's the lowest kind of asshole already, using the kid like this, but at least he makes it about Chekov's pleasure, his own only an afterthought. He grunts his way through an orgasm that leaves his body exhausted and spent, his come spurting out to mix with the pool already on Chekov's chest.
He quickly wipes himself down, then wipes the worst of the mess off of Chekov, and eases the plug out. He releases the kid from his restraints, massaging the skin around the ankles and wrists to restore circulation. No bruising, so he won't have to get out the portable regen unit he keeps in his quarters.
Chekov swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, just a bit unsteady. McCoy grasps him around the waist, their faces now only centimeters apart, closer than they've been all evening. Chekov's gaze drops to his lips, and he knows damn well what the kid wants, but he can't give it to him. So McCoy steadies him, steps back, and says gruffly, "Go clean up now."
Chekov smiles faintly, nods, and heads for the fresher. The sonic shower runs a hell of a lot longer than necessary, and McCoy pointedly doesn't think about why.
When he comes out of the head, Chekov's freshly scrubbed and perfectly presentable in his uniform. No one would ever believe tales of the debauchery in which he's just been engaged. He looks subdued, though, not his usual effervescent self. He cocks his head to the side and speaks.
"I am sorry, Doctor."
"Why the hell would you be sorry, kid?"
"For not being the Captain."
McCoy freezes. Shit, shit, shit. He tends to forget how goddamn astute the kid is. It's easy to assume he's a genius with numbers and clueless when it comes to reading people, but McCoy should know better by now. Chekov's favorite kind of pillow talk is chattering about the other crew members, and his observations always surprise McCoy with their insight, even as they coax laughter from him. There's always an underlying current of compassion, though, understanding and acceptance, and never malice.
"Pavel, I..." He stops, not having any idea what to say, how to explain, how to make it better. Not that there's any way to make this better.
"Is okay." The kid shrugs, gives a crooked smile. "Half of the loaf is better than none."
"Is it?" McCoy asks bitterly.
Chekov speaks softly, carefully. "Have you told the Captain how you feel?"
McCoy can't look at him. He squeezes his eyes shut, tells himself that grown men, experienced surgeons for Christ's sake, don't cry over this shit. Hell, he'd held Ensign Wheeler while she cried in his arms last week after she miscarried. He has no right to be this goddamn melodramatic over his goddamn unrequited love.
Opening his eyes, he still keeps them averted from Chekov's. "Yeah, yeah I have. He doesn't feel the same." His answer is brief, maybe even curt. But he doesn't want to talk about it, really doesn't even want to think about that conversation ever again. He's pretty sure he's going to have to down an entire bottle of bourbon tonight to purge it from his brain. Again.
"So, we are in same basket." Chekov's voice is gentle.
"Boat, kid. We're in the same boat." Now he looks up, sees a quirk at the side of Chekov's mouth. He's never quite sure when the kid's fucking with him.
Come to think of it, maybe it's time he found out. Maybe it's time he stopped moping and brooding over something that's never gonna happen. Maybe it's time to move on, pull his head out of his ass and see what's right in front of him.
"How about dinner, you and me, tomorrow night? And for god's sake, call me Leonard."
Pavel's smile is bright enough to rival the sun. And if it reminds him a little bit of a different grin that can light up a room, well, he supposes that will fade in time.