Fandom & Pairing: Star Trek Reboot (aka AOS, ST XI, etc.), McCoy/Chekov
Word Count: around 3300
Summary: It's McCoy's party, and he'll
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to anything whatsoever is purely coincidental.
A/N : This was written for random00b for help_pakistan. I hope it pleases, bb! Many thanks to wemblee for the chat-beta/cheer session.
Story Prompt (spoilery, obv): McCoy hits forty and feels even more over-the-hill than ever, especially when Kirk throws him a surprise birthday party on the ship. Cue twenty-six year old Chekov flirting with and/or seducing McCoy (during the birthday party? after the birthday party?), showing him that at least one person is convinced he's still the sh*t! Bonus points if Chekov is mature, experienced, and knows what he's doing. None of this "you're so young & innocent & don't know what you're getting into with me" stuff.
Note: I made Chekov 23 as opposed to 26 because in my head-canon, movie!McCoy is 34, and we know that movie!Chekov is 17. So if McCoy's turning 40, it's six years later (time flies!) and Chekov is 23.
Good god, he was old. Forty was officially old. All right, all right, not really, since McCoys regularly lived to be 150 or better. Still. It was his birthday, and he'd wallow in self-pity if he wanted to. Not like anyone was paying attention anyway -- it was supposed to be his goddamn party, for god's sake, and he was standing in the corner, ignored, while Jim held court and gathered the crew's congratulations for being such a good friend and arranging such an awesome surprise party (Jim's description, not his).
McCoy didn't even like surprise parties. Parties weren't really his style anyway, but surprise parties were even worse. Why the hell would you inflict a heart attack on a friend? And then on top of it, expect them to be all sociable when they hadn't even had time to mentally prepare for a deluge of irritatingly cheerful well-wishers. And Jim, of all people, should know better. Hell, he'd heard McCoy hold forth on this very subject on more than one occasion.
But in typical Jim style, he'd done what he wanted anyway, all the while patting himself on the back for it. Probably his birthday gift to Leonard would be a gym bag -- the kind that Jim had been coveting -- with "James T. Kirk" embroidered on it. Which he'd then "borrow" and McCoy would never see again, not that he had any use for such a thing since he pretty much avoided the gym at all costs. Chasing after the captain's fool self was enough exercise for any three men.
He snorted and raised a glass of punch -- liberally spiked with whiskey from his hip flask -- to himself. And then somebody jostled his elbow and he promptly spilled it all over his shirt.
"God damn it!" What a waste of perfectly good booze.
Suddenly that somebody was right up in his personal space, dabbing at his chest with a napkin, saying "Sorry, sorry!" McCoy's nose was practically buried in soft sandy curls. Fuck. Chekov. It would have to be Chekov. He was too goddamn gorgeous for his own good. Half the ship was panting after him -- much to Jim's disgruntlement -- and McCoy might've entertained a thought or two in that direction himself even though it was completely hopeless.
He took a deep breath so he could give the kid what-for, only when he did, he caught the scent of those curls. Good lord, nothing on a man should ever be allowed to smell that good. He didn't know what shampoo Chekov was using but he was going to get a bottle of it from the commissary for himself.
Okay, he was going to get a bottle so he could sniff it while he jerked off. But the point stood -- he needed that shampoo. He realized suddenly that he was just standing there like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open. He closed it with an audible snap.
Then opened it again. "What kind of shampoo do you use, kid?" Oh good god, he did not just say that. What a goddamned idiot he was.
Chekov smiled, though, seemingly not put off. "Is from Russia. My mother sends it to me in her care packages."
Care packages. The kid got care packages. He had absolutely no business lusting after a kid who still got care packages from his mama. And okay, so he wasn't really a kid, he was twenty-three, as McCoy knew since he was the kid's -- the ensign's -- doctor, not that he'd spent any extra time poring over his chart like a creepy stalker, just to learn any tidbit he could.
"I could have her send an extra bottle, next time, if you like."
McCoy blinked. What was the kid on about? Oh, right, shampoo. "Yeah, all right," he said before he could think about it.
Wait a second. Great. Just great. Now he was having the kid's mother procure shit that he could use to jerk off while thinking about her son. He groaned.
Chekov apparently mistook the cause of his distress. "You should not stay in a wet shirt. You will catch cold. It is well-known fact in Russia."
"Kid, you can't catch cold from wearing a wet shirt. A cold's caused by a virus, specifically either a rhinovirus or a coronavirus, and... you already know this, don't you?"
Chekov's eyes sparkled with mischief. "It is fun to -- what is the saying? -- wind you up. Besides, is cute when you are grumpy and doctory."
"I'm pretty sure 'doctory' isn't a word. Not even in Russia."
Chekov shrugged. "I like it. It is a good word. It suits you." They were almost at the door of the rec room now and McCoy realized that Chekov had been shepherding him along without his even realizing it.
"Hey wait, where are we going?"
"I told you, you must change out of this wet shirt. My quarters are closer. I will lend you one."
"No offense, kid, but I'm pretty sure if I tried to wear one of your shirts I'd rip it apart."
Chekov's eyes glazed over for a moment, and what the hell was that about? But then he was speaking again, as they entered the corridor, the door closing behind them and blessedly shutting out the noise of the party.
"Okay, we will go to your quarters instead, then."
"Fine." Wait, what did he just agree to? What exactly was going on here? He cast a suspicious glance at Chekov, who looked just as angelic as he always did. It was goddamn distracting, that angelic look, was what it was.
So distracting, in fact, that they were at the door to his quarters now and he didn't even quite remember walking the rest of the way there. Chekov was just looking at him expectantly, though, so he typed in his access code and waved the kid in.
As soon as the door closed behind him, warm hands were lifting his shirt and he instinctively raised his arms to make its removal easier. The fingers lingered just a little, skating over his skin and leaving tingles in their wake. The world went dark momentarily as the shirt was pulled over and off of his head, and then Chekov was standing in front of him, tossing the shirt to the side and resting his fingers lightly on McCoy's chest.
McCoy's heart was thundering. This could not be happening. Gorgeous, lithe, brilliant men with cheekbones and lips any model would kill for did not throw themselves at cantankerous, over-the-hill doctors. Not in any sane universe, anyway.
"If you are going to object, Doctor, please do so now," said the kid in what was practically a purr and McCoy wanted to object, really he did, because obviously Chekov was under the influence of alien spores or maybe this was a practical joke, planned by Jim, no doubt, only he couldn't speak and now those sinful lips were nearing his and his eyes were fluttering closed and oh good lord, it felt so good.
The kiss was sweet, but not at all tentative. At first it was just Chekov's pouty lips pressed up against his, then pulling back gently, then pressing again, giving him time to get accustomed to this entire situation. The soft sounds of their kisses filled McCoy's ears and he moaned. Chekov took advantage of his open mouth and slid their tongues together, angling his head just so and bringing his hands up to sink into McCoy's hair.
Now McCoy was whimpering, and good god, he did not make sounds like that -- he'd been through a marriage and a divorce, for god's sake; he wasn't a teenaged virgin.
Apparently he did make sounds like that, though, because Chekov pinched one of his nipples and he outright squeaked. Chekov must've liked that reaction, because he did it again and again, until McCoy couldn't even kiss him anymore because he was babbling in a constant stream.
"Wait, wait, wait," he finally got out.
Chekov pulled back fractionally and looked at him askance. "Doctor?"
McCoy groaned. He was probably insane to put a stop to this, but he had to know... "This isn't some kind of goddamn pity thing, is it?"
Chekov huffed and blew a couple of curls off of his forehead. "Doctor, you are not very observant. I have been waiting for you for years."
"What the hell are you talking about, kid?" This was just getting surreal.
"I have wanted you since I was seventeen. But I see that you will not look at me, that you think I am too young. So, I wait."
"You expect me to believe that you waited six goddamn years for me?"
Chekov shrugged. "Whether or not you believe, it is true."
"Good god, man. You're not saying that you're a..." He couldn't even finish the sentence.
"A virgin? Of course not. I am not a saint. Also, I wanted to know how to give you pleasure when you were ready for me."
McCoy's head was spinning. "When I was ready for you?"
Chekov was nodding earnestly. "Yes. You are ready now. Or at least, I cannot wait any longer."
"Now hang on just a minute. You're getting a little ahead of yourself here, don't you think? What makes you think I want you?"
Chekov said nothing but pointedly looked at McCoy's erection, straining against his uniform trousers. McCoy flushed. "That's just a biological reaction. It doesn't mean anything."
"Okay. If you do not want me, tell me to go and I will go." Chekov cocked his head and watched McCoy patiently, apparently willing to wait until kingdom come if that's how long it took McCoy to decide. McCoy started to think it through, weigh pros and cons, decide whether it would make things too awkward afterward...
Oh, to hell with it. He'd been wanting this for longer than he cared to admit, and it was his birthday, for god's sake. "Get over here, kid."
Chekov pouted, and that really should not be so attractive. "I am not a 'kid.' And if we are going to do this, do not call me Chekov. My name is Pavel. Or, if you prefer, Pasha."
"Pasha, huh? That's kind of cute, actually."
Chekov -- Pasha -- rolled his eyes but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "Shall we retire to the bedroom?" he asked, gesturing to the area separated from the main room only by a perforated metal wall.
They walked the few steps to the bed and McCoy stopped awkwardly. It had been... a while, for him. He didn't really do casual. At least he hadn't before this. Come to think of it, he had no idea whether the kid -- Pavel, he reminded himself -- was thinking this was casual or not. It didn't seem like quite the moment to ask.
"Doctor, you are thinking too much."
McCoy scowled. "If I don't get to call you 'kid,' you don't get to call me 'doctor.' It's Leonard, or Len. Leo, if you must."
"I like Leonard. Is good, strong, Russian name. Nickname for Leonard is Laya. Perhaps I shall call you that."
"You prefer 'Bones'?"
"Enough talking. Take off your clothes now."
"Bossy one, aren't you?" But he was already unbuttoning his pants and kicking off his boots while Pavel stripped with unconscious grace. McCoy was sure he would've felt awkward at being naked, only he didn't have time to, since Pavel was pushing him onto the bed and straddling his hips, his fingers seemingly everywhere. The kid was like an octopus, had more hands than was possible, all of them doing amazing things to McCoy's body.
His mouth was busy too, nipping at McCoy's neck, then darting his tongue out to soothe the sting before moving on. Then he was working McCoy's nipples again, with both hands and mouth, and driving him purely crazy in the process. McCoy bucked and that brought his groin into direct contact with Pavel's hard, hot length. They both gasped.
"Pavel, shit, not gonna last long." It was a humiliating admission but better than the alternative of coming in about thirty seconds if Pavel kept up what he was doing to McCoy's nipples.
"Is okay. Me either," Pavel said, and then he was rising up onto his knees and sinking down onto McCoy's cock, and he was already stretched and slick, and oh fuck he must've gone to the party already prepared because McCoy was damn sure he hadn't prepared himself just now, and then it felt too good to think at all anymore.
Pavel took him slow and deep, bottoming out and then grinding down to take just a bit more. McCoy's toes curled and he cried out, his hands coming up to grip Pavel's hips. Pavel seemed to take that as encouragement, because he started sliding himself up and down, their bodies making obscene squelching noises as they came together again and again. Pavel's head was thrown back, and the line of his neck, his torso, was so elegant and heartbreakingly beautiful that McCoy couldn't stand it.
"Pasha," he gasped out, helpless, and Pavel moaned at the sound. One of Pavel's hands was braced on McCoy's chest, and the other was fisting his own cock, with increasingly frenetic strokes. Pavel's movements were becoming less coordinated as he neared his orgasm, so McCoy tightened his grip on Pavel's hips and took over the rhythm, pushing upward and fucking into Pavel's tight little ass hard and fast, while Pavel's hand raced over his cock, the ruddy head appearing and disappearing under his grip.
After only a few seconds, Pavel yelled out something incomprehensible in Russian and then he was coming, his semen spurting thick and warm onto McCoy's stomach and chest. McCoy managed a couple more strokes and then he was coming too, with a heartfelt groan and a clench of his fingers on Pavel's hipbones that was probably going to leave bruises.
Pavel stayed upright, riding out the aftershocks while McCoy watched his slender body shiver in pleasure, several more drops of come dribbling out to join the stripes already adorning McCoy's torso. McCoy shuddered through his own orgasm, lifting his hips a few more times, fucking his semen deeper into Pavel.
There was utter silence for a moment, and then they both exhaled a gusty sigh. McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Worth waiting six years for?"
"Oh yes," he said, nodding his head so vigorously McCoy was worried he was going to get whiplash.
"Come lie down, Pasha, you're heavier than you look," he grumbled, but he was pretty sure Pavel had his number.
Pavel curled up next to McCoy, resting his head on McCoy's shoulder and throwing an arm across his torso, then grimacing when it landed in the sticky mess. McCoy rumbled a laugh, and damn that felt good, then he grabbed a corner of the sheet and wiped them both off.
"Happy birthday, Leonard," murmured Pavel. "Next time, I will last longer."
"There's going to be a next time?" McCoy couldn't quite figure out what he'd done to deserve this kind of reward.
"There will be as many next times as you wish there to be, Laya," said Pavel firmly.
"Well, give me a couple minutes to recover. I'm not as young as I used to be."
"Mmm, no, you are not. You are much more sexy now."
"Thanks, I think," McCoy said dryly.
The door chime sounded, and McCoy could hear Jim's voice through the door. "Booo-ooones, you killjoy -- you can't ditch your own birthday party! Come on out or I'm coming in!"
McCoy rolled his eyes and started to get up, but then he thought better of it. Fuck it. It was payback time for all those nights at the Academy when he'd walked into their room after a late night studying at the library to find Jim doing the deed with his latest conquest.
Sure enough, after a few moments, he heard the override code being punched in. He shared a glance of perfect conspiratorial understanding with Pavel.
"Where are you hiding, old man? You better not be sulking in the dark with a bottle!"
McCoy pulled Pavel upwards just enough to engage in a long, leisurely, wet kiss that was just getting heated when Jim discovered them.
"Bones, I -- oh fuck!"
"Just did that, thanks," drawled McCoy.
"And very well too," Pavel chimed in.
Jim, for once in his goddamned life, was speechless. "I -- but you -- and you -- " he said, looking between them.
This was unbelievably satisfying. It was, as Jim would say, awesome. Jim was standing there opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.
"This here's a private celebration," McCoy said. "You're not invited. Why don't you go on back to your surprise party. And take your goddamned personalized gym bag with you!"
Jim was recovering his aplomb now, and he mouthed "gym bag?" at Chekov, who just shrugged. Jim apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and he gave them a thumbs up before skedaddling. As he left McCoy's quarters, he was already yelling, "Oh my god you guys, you're never going to believe it!" Infant.
He looked over at Pavel, whose eyes were full of laughter.
"I guess it's going to be all over the ship now," McCoy said uncomfortably, not sure how Pavel felt about that. He knew how he felt about it -- he'd sing it from the rooftops, if this sardine can had a rooftop.
"It is good," Pavel said, nodding decisively. "Then everyone will know that you are mine and that they cannot have you."
Well. That sounded like more than a one-night stand. Even if it was utterly ridiculous of Pavel to think that anyone would be after him. More than likely, he was going to have to be beating off rivals for Pasha with a stick. Or better yet, with a hypo, since he always had one of those handy. "All's fair in love and war," he muttered to himself.
"Is excellent saying," Pavel responded, proving that his hearing was disturbingly acute. "Was invented in Russia."
McCoy growled and pulled Pasha under him, kissing him hard to wipe the mischievous grin off his face. He was getting the feeling that forty was going to be his best year yet.