Title: Remedial Intercourse
Author: [personal profile] calicokat
Beta: black_regalia@livejournal
Pairing: Bones/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Chekov's more worldly than his seventeen years would give him credit for, and McCoy's not entirely immune.
Notes: Plot? —what plot?

Star Trek and all related properties © and TM 2009 CBS Studios Inc. and are used without permission.



Remedial Intercourse
by [personal profile] calicokat




McCoy frowned, the tricorder in his hands buzzing through an analysis that had turned up little to support Ensign Chekov's vague claim of an unspecific ailment.

"What'd you say happened to you, again?"

"I pulled my back, lifting. Sometimes when I get up from the Conn, or vhen I sit down, suddenly it's wery painful."

McCoy's brow furrowed further. He lowered the tricorder in another sweep down the skinny Russian's spine.

"Lifting what, exactly?"

"Lifting for Mister Scott," the young man replied with a big, earnest smile.

Somehow, McCoy suspected questions like Why were you in engineering in the first place? and I thought they call you a genius – you don't know what it was? completely missed the point of this exercise.

"Ensign, this is the sixth time you've been in my medical bay this month. Your immune system's on standby, I'm not showing any torn or ruptured muscles or ligaments – you couldn't be healthier if you were a horse."

"—Doctor, vhat does a horse have to do with it?"

"Forget it," McCoy dismissed, powering the tricorder off. He set it aside, because he doubted it'd do him or Chekov much good. McCoy didn't have much of a bedside manner, but he tried to school his expression of displeasure into an expression of marginally less displeasure, although he doubtlessly came off consternated. "What the hell's going on?"

Chekov looked at him with wide, blue eyes. "There is nothing 'going on.'"

"The other ensigns pick on you? You come in here to hide?"

"No. No, it is nothing like that. I have many friends on the Enterprise."

McCoy had to admit he could barely imagine a soul with a hard word to say about Pavel Chekov. The kid was about as unassuming as a lily and came off twice as pure.

"S'not like you prefer the company of a grumpy old man to your buddies from the bridge," McCoy grumbled, rhetorically, sparing a glance at Chekov's chart – but Chekov's reaction surprised him. The ensign flashed a flighty, skittish smile and glanced away at a distant console before he could look McCoy in the eyes, again, scarcely-buried nerves as plain as day. McCoy's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "…somethin' you wanna tell me?"

"I enjoy your company, Doctor. Even if you are a 'grumpy old man,'" Chekov avowed, completely innocent, his smile spreading. McCoy easily fended off its contagious qualities, his own expression tight and wary.

"There must be more wrong with you than a tricorder's manufactured to record," McCoy scoffed. Disturbing possibilities had begun creeping through his mind. Chekov spent an inordinate amount of time in his medical bay and—here, he double checked—never when McCoy himself was off duty. He stayed silent through an uncomfortable pause. "—you're serious, aren't you?"

Chekov sat a little straighter at the edge of the examination table, reining in his smile.

"Wery serious, Doctor." (That smile crept right back.)

McCoy made a face.

"Exactly what d'you expect?"

The question seemed to baffle the ensign.

"Nothing. I don't expect anything."

At this point, McCoy had to face some uncomfortable possibilities. The least of which was that the kid idolized him. Seventeen, fresh out of Starfleet Academy, manning one of the most important positions on the ship, and maybe Chekov saw him as some kind of living proof that you could do this job—be a Starfleet officer—and not let it change you or make you into a real military man. There remained more disturbing options. McCoy eyed the distance of the nurses and other medical staff from the table the ensign sat on before lowering his voice.

"Ensign, I can't help but get the feeling something inappropriate's going on here. You don't strike me as a hypochondriac. I need you to stay out of my med bay unless you're suffering an actual medical emergency."

Chekov weighed his words, a sadness gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening at any moment to storm into some kind of kicked puppy look. It dissipated just as quickly. His lips upturned again, but slyer now – dare McCoy say flirtatious?

"Maybe, sometime, I could wisit you in your quarters, Doctor?"

McCoy cursed inwardly. The damn punk wasn't a quarter as innocent as he looked.

"I'm gettin' the idea that would be even more inappropriate."

Chekov rubbed his hands against his knees, hunching over himself a little. His head quirked to the side, open-faced with curiosity.

"I don't think you have any friends on the Enterprise besides the keptin, Doctor. Is one more friend too much?"

"One more wet-eared punk who needs looking after is a mile past 'too much,'" McCoy gruffed, still keeping his voice down.

Chekov brightened, and McCoy's gut clenched with something not quite queasy at the confidence written on the young man's face.

"I don't need the same kind of looking after."

McCoy had a vision of those mobile lips on intimate parts of his body that had gone unattended by anything but his palm for years, now, short a few one night stands. McCoy was pretty damn sure the ensign was cultivating exactly that kind of image in his mind completely on purpose.

"Do whatever you want," he said, measuredly, watching Chekov carefully for his reaction. "But don't expect anything."

Relief flooded the ensign's expression and Chekov beamed like a Broadway marquee. He slipped off the table, straightening his uniform.

"From now on, I vill stay out of your sickbay."

McCoy studied the younger man as if he expected a sudden assault from any side.

"See you do."

____


McCoy half expected Ensign Chekov to show up at his room on Deck 3 half an hour after he'd gotten off duty, but the kid didn't. The doctor stripped his clothes off down to his skivvies, dropping down onto his bed with a scowl on his face to stare up at the ceiling and scratch his belly.

Bones McCoy didn't consider himself a catch by any stretch of the imagination. Bad attitude, marching steadily towards the hill he'd cross 'over' at forty, lonely and private by choice, and, on a good day off, alternating between drunk and boring. Worse than that, these were the best years of his life. He didn't have a glorious youth to look back on. He'd spent it on a woman who'd spent him up.

Exactly what a kid like Pavel Chekov saw in him lay beyond the stretch of his imagination. At least with Jim there was a give and take. The two of them shared the knowledge of what it felt like to scrape the bottom of the barrel. He wanted to protect Jim from some of his worse choices, but at the end of the day the younger man was just as jaded – just brimming with some kind of inexplicably buoyant reserve of determination.

Chekov couldn't have faced the hard knocks that shaped men like Jim and Bones. The kid was as loveable as a baby rabbit and as wide eyed as a kitten. It seemed he just happened to be as homosexual as a barrel of bonobos and interested in exploring that with one Doctor 'Bones' McCoy.

Chekov didn't show up that night, though, or for a week after. McCoy began to relax, the ensign straying further and further from his thoughts. He saw him on the bridge when his rounds of the ship and his affection for Jim's company took him up that way, but Chekov barely seemed to notice him. So, when a knock came on his door, Bones assumed it was Jim showing up to try and bum off his liquor supply and not some slip of a Russian whose voice had barely broken.

"It's not locked," he called from his desk, eyes on his desktop monitor reviewing procedure with a vague inclination to search up some pornography on the subspace network, later.

The door whisked open and a young man tentatively stepped in, surveying his room from wall to wall with bright, optimistic curiosity. McCoy stopped and stared, put on the defensive but unable to formulate any real reason to send the kid packing now that he'd extended an invitation.

Chekov's gaze finally resolved on the doctor, his smile wide and cheery.

"So, this is your room, Doctor. You haven't really decorated."

"I've been busy," McCoy dismissed. The most prominent object on display was a massive bottle of Gentleman Jack sitting square on the shelf behind his desk.

"May I sit down?" the Russian asked politely.

McCoy gestured vaguely to the chair across from his desk.

"Go ahead."

Chekov took his seat.

"If you are busy, I can vait," he promised, innocently enough.

McCoy took a deep breath, air loud in his nostrils. He tapped a few buttons, the windows on the screen in front of him winking shut.

"I wouldn't say I'm busy."

"That's even better," Chekov declared with too much happiness for McCoy to absorb.

McCoy sat back in his chair and stared across the table at the Russian, who appeared so completely joyous to even be in the room he offered no further stimulus. Finally, the doctor felt compelled to come up with something.

"It everything you hoped for?"

"Is vhat everything I hoped for?" Chekov asked naively with wide eyes.

"Me. My room. The Enterprise. The food replicator. Your career. The year 2258?" McCoy gestured vaguely at their surroundings, feeling tired, already.

"Yes," Chekov said cheerily. "Everything." He sobered. "Everything except the cadets and the Wulcans who died on Wulcan."

Chekov's smile fought back, spreading despite itself. McCoy didn't quite know how to parse that.

"— kid. Wha'd'you want? It's obvious you've got some kind of...crush. On me. Although, I can't figure out why." McCoy's thoughts turned towards the alcohol within his grasp, but he resisted on the principal of the thing.

"You are handsome. You are wery handsome." Chekov spread his hands in the air, illustrating, in some way, how handsome he found McCoy. (Which was ridiculous.) "And I like to be around you."

"Nobody but Jim likes to be around me," McCoy corrected. "I'm an ornery bastard."

Chekov shrugged.

"I am not arguing. But, to me, it is not so bad."

McCoy shook his head, staring forlornly at a monitor devoid of distractions. Eventually, he had to face the young Russian across his desk from him, and Chekov was watching him in a disconcerting way.

"You think I'll be different in bed? We'll bond? I'll show you something you haven't seen before?"

"No. But you're sexy. —can I say that?"

"You already said it," McCoy said sourly.

Chekov's face fell, his eyes as earnest as they possibly could be.

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

McCoy huffed out his irritability, eyes remaining steady on the young ensign's, not letting him glance off or shy away. He wanted Chekov to suffer every inch of his frustration and then, just maybe, the man would be an inch less malleable and receptive. It didn't work out the way he anticipated, although Chekov looked as soulful as an abandoned puppy right back at him. Gradually, he started to accept that Chekov wasn't exactly weak-spined.

"We're on the same page here – where we take our clothes off?" McCoy asked, double-checking.

Chekov stretched a hand across the surface of the table, fingers spreading on the smooth composite.

"Da. Where we take our clothes off."

McCoy cursed, getting up restlessly to go punch the lock on the door. The indicator light on the switch shifted from white to a light, pinkish red. McCoy waited in silence, breathing accelerated, fingers resting on the wall next to the controls. After moments, he felt Chekov's touch light but insistent on the small of his back, the Russian's fingertips dragging against the fabric of his uniform.

Surrendering to the inevitable, McCoy shucked his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side. Chekov was a lot of things: too young, too pretty for a boy, too enthusiastic, and entirely too innocent. What the Russian wasn't was ignorant – not of what he wanted to do, and probably not of its consequences.

McCoy turned around and Chekov was already shedding his own uniform top, gold fabric falling to pile with blue. Although nearly as slim as a girl, Chekov had a nice enough body, young muscles clinging to his slender frame and wispy hairs curled on his chest.

McCoy stood still while Chekov absorbed the sight of his own body. Tanned darker by fourteen more years of living and darkened further still by the hairs of an adult man, McCoy could take pride that his own body had real heft and muscle. He hadn't neglected staying trim, even if his proclivity to drink slightly softened his midsection.

He had nothing to hide, so he lost his boots and slipped loose of his slacks in due order, letting them fall to his feet, well aware that Chekov watched him disrobe. He knew that the ensign's eyes lingered at the junction of his thighs and the young man's shortened breath. Bones didn't see his body as all that particularly impressive, himself. Dark hairs shadowed his thighs beyond the edges of his briefs, and a trail of them ran from bellow his navel into his waist band, but what exactly was sexy about a little hair on a man's body? At least, what was as attractive as Chekov's lingering gaze seemed to imply?

The ensign touched the doctor's jaw and leaned in to brush his lips against McCoy's. That wasn't enough for the doctor and he gripped the back of Chekov's head, guiding him into a deeper and hungrier kiss. Funny how the meeting of lips segued into the slippery twine of tongues so easily, as if Chekov had done half of this before. McCoy didn't doubt it, but took solace that he didn't have to assume the role of tutor.

"Is it too soon for me to take my pants off?" Chekov asked, teasing permeating his voice.

"It’s never too soon to take your pants off," McCoy found himself joking, a smirk hung on his lips.

Chekov dropped his own trousers, his legs pale and relatively light-haired and his briefs boxer-briefs. McCoy grasped his butt, giving it a squeeze between his palm and thumb. Chekov caught his breath, pressing closer to McCoy's body. McCoy remembered this too well: the warmth of another's flesh against his own. He hated to admit how much he'd missed it.

"Doctor…" Chekov murmured, kissing him, again. McCoy found himself with a hand on the small of the young man's back like in some romantic movie too sentimental for the simple carnal pleasure of skin hot on skin.

No matter the depths their kisses plumbed, Chekov remained fresh-faced and innocently enthused. McCoy started to feel like a dirty older man, until Chekov's fingers grasped his sex through the hammock of fabric hemming it in and caressed him in a way he'd been hard-pressed to emulate during his time alone with his body.

"You really don't care that I'm just shy of twice your age," McCoy mumbled with his lips somewhere on Chekov's neck.

"Nyet," the Russian denied emphatically, tilting his chin away to expose more skin. "It's not how old you are…"

McCoy bit sensuously at the ridge of skin leading to Chekov's shoulder. "Or how old I'm not?"

Chekov whimpered in pleasure, breathless and malleable. "…or how old you are not…"

McCoy didn't need to know much more. He pushed the ensign away, but gently, now. His breathing had elevated, and his blood pounded in his veins.

"You've got nerve…"

Chekov grinned across the distance, body flushed with arousal. "You. I have you."

McCoy supposed if the Russian had developed some kind of fool attraction, it wasn't his place to argue that – to tell him who could and couldn't turn him on. Chekov's briefs didn't afford him the luxury of ignorance. He could easily see the effect he'd had on the younger man pressed against the taut fabric.

Chekov followed him across the room into the alcove that contained his bed with the step-in-synch obedience of a duckling, and McCoy wasn't sure he appreciated forming that comparison.

All similes escaped to the back of his racing thoughts when he took a seat on the edge of the bed and Chekov climbed into his lap. The Russian's legs splayed attractively over his own thighs and McCoy dragged Chekov against him with his fingers spread across the soft skin of the young man's back. Chekov rested his upper arms against the doctor's shoulders and kissed him greedily with his hands clasped somewhere above McCoy's crown. Wrapped up against him, his gangly body bent to acquiesce.

Chekov's hips rolled with that first mock-thrust of desire, seeking friction against McCoy's abdomen and jostling his body in pleasurable ways. The doctor's hand trailed lower to push beneath the waistline of Chekov's skivvies. He clenched one pale, rounded butt cheek in his palm and gave it a squeeze that had the Russian's breath hissing through his teeth. McCoy marked him as unusually responsive.

"I don't exactly have a condom," McCoy mumbled, warningly, seeing this heading in a certain direction.

"You are ship's doctor," Chekov lilted playfully. "You don't know if ve are having safe sex?"

McCoy squinted at him, recognizing that he didn't carry any communicable diseases and he had, in fact, passed Chekov a clean bill of health six times in the past two and a half weeks.

"—bareback it is," he supposed.

"Alvays about horses," Chekov murmured with lingering perplexity. McCoy chased it off his lips, pulling their mouths together, again for another wet and hungry kiss.

The mood escalating with a destination in mind, Chekov slipped backwards off the bed, pushing his underwear off his hips, generous and enthusiastic erection flushed and free. McCoy shoved his own briefs off without quite getting up, and the Russian surprised him by sinking to his knees and fulfilling that initial fantasy. He stared at McCoy's sex with those big eyes, like it was a gift and like he didn't quite know how to approach it. He shed that veneer of innocence the moment he leaned in, wrapping dexterous fingers around McCoy's taut flesh and guiding it into his eager mouth.

McCoy watched Chekov suckle on his flushed skin, disbelieving he had some skinny kid giving him head in the middle of nowhere on a Federation starship, even if the heat and pleasure flooding his dick was pretty damn difficult to ignore. Chekov had his eyes softly shut, face like an angel and lips like a hooker, those kiss-bruised and swollen, attractively flushed, themselves, as they slid slippery over McCoy's skin. McCoy's gaze followed the line of his back, down to those attractive, parted butt cheeks where he had more than half a mind to push his erection. He shut his eyes against a rush of arousal, curling his fingers in Chekov's blonde hair. The Russian's clever tongue caressed the head of his erection. McCoy choked another explicative and Chekov shuddered between his thighs – willing, pliant, and ready.

McCoy had nothing to say when he hauled Chekov up and rolled him onto the Federation issue single mattress that hadn't been designed with two men in a naked heap – one adult and one verging on adulthood – in mind. Chekov's thighs actually quivered, which McCoy wrote off as pretty fucking ridiculous, damn pretty, and egging him on to fucking.

"You can't be for real," he grumbled, but even then he was spreading Chekov's hips, well aware of the Russian's eyes on his ministrations. He guessed he could find something more than spit to make this slicker, but he wasn't in the mood for a break and Chekov didn't ask for it. He crawled over the younger man, peering cautiously at him as Chekov reached up to touch his cheek, that radiant smile wide and ebullient on the ensign's cheeky face. McCoy shook his head, rolled his eyes, and braced Chekov's body while he pressed those first inches inside, eyes rolling back for another reason entirely and falling shut with Chekov trembling around him and his body so damn tight.

McCoy liked to think himself a consummate 23rd century man, but he'd bedded fewer boys than girls and never a boy like this, in the literal sense of the word. Chekov breathed Doctor like a plea and McCoy began to hump against him, curse words flickering through his thoughts every time Chekov gave so easily underneath him. He gave easily every time.

Sex became a fluid thing as the meeting and parting of their bodies found its rhythm. Chekov whimpered underneath him, making goddamn sinful noises – little pleas and breathy exhalations of pleasure. McCoy gave more of a grunting, masculine fuck, but the absolute purity of Chekov's carnal enjoyment stirred him to shivers of his own as he thrust inside him with Chekov's body clinging hot and dry to his damp sex.

Somewhere in the middle of it, tangled in the sheets of the unmade bed, they started kissing, but it was breathless and sloppy. McCoy scraped his teeth against Chekov's soft jaw, what little stubble there was blonde and invisible. Chekov panted beneath him in complete abandon, head lolling back aimlessly. The Russian began to touch and stroke himself in the space between them where his erection lay against his stomach. McCoy's thrusts jostled his hand.

Chekov came with a cry and all the abandon of youth, semen splashing against McCoy's stomach. His body spasmed around McCoy's driving sex, becoming unbelievably boneless and more quivery. McCoy sort of gathered him up, clutching him in a firm embrace while he rutted towards his own satisfaction. He buried his orgasm flush against Chekov's hips, nudging a little further and a little further in as his cum spilled out of him. Chekov parted further still – impossibly, naturally receptive.

McCoy only reluctantly dragged himself out of Chekov's supple body, shifting a little to the side before he lowered himself to lie on top of him, their sweaty skin pressed together and Chekov gulping down air, long limbs wracked by the occasional tremor. McCoy caught his own breath while he took the time, now, to touch Chekov's body in what should have been foreplay, fingers toying absently with nipples and caressing bare skin. He savored the sounds he continued to wring out of the youth. He felt alive and not so old, today, and impressively virile – which he rarely said of himself.

"Can I say you're sexy, now?" the Russian joked, grin wide and blue eyes sex-bright.

"You can say just about anything for the next six minutes," McCoy scoffed fondly, voice roughened with fading arousal and sexual exhaustion.

Chekov worked to catch his breath before the words started spilling out of him.

"You have nice eyes, Doctor, and wery nice arms. I'd like you to kiss me on my stomach. When you scowl because you're grumpy, it makes my belly turn over. I like to vatch you walk. Sometimes I vait so you pass me in the hallway—"

McCoy pressed a finger to Chekov's lips.

"I changed my mind."

Chekov held his silence, too pleased with himself for McCoy to comfortably acknowledge. McCoy vented an irritated huff, but he did climb down the bed and begin to kiss the Russian's flat, skinny stomach.

"…do you think ve will do this again?" Chekov wondered aloud with his eyes wandering the ceiling.

"I'm pretty sure you'll find a way to convince me," McCoy griped without mustering much actual offense. "You've already made yourself at home." He continued planting wet kisses across Chekov's skin, sucking slightly, once or twice hard enough to leave a hickey. Chekov kept making those little noises McCoy hadn't had his fill of.

The comm blared on.

"Sick bay to McCoy. Nurse Rice requesting a consultation."

McCoy pressed a hand over Chekov's mouth as if he could stop those throaty sounds by muffling them, but the ensign was a Starfleet officer and professionally held his silence.

"McCoy here. I'll be down in three minutes."

"No hurry, Doctor," the voice on the comm. assuaged. "Sick bay out."

Chekov yawned as McCoy withdrew his hand, bringing his own hand up to cover his mouth.

"Is it alright if I sleep here avhile?"

McCoy thought about coming back to the room to find half a mile of naked, sex-spent teenager sprawled out across his bed. He could not actually convince himself of a downside to that scenario, provided nobody else walked in first, and he was one hell of a pessimist.

"…make sure to lock the door."

"Of course, Doctor," Chekov muttered sleepily around his two hundred kilowatt smile, his eyelids drifting.

McCoy pulled his clothes back on, tried to straighten his hair, and went to attend to his duties looking nothing like a man who'd just gotten sex, his usual glower squarely in place. Later, though, he suspected he might be looking after the kid, again, in that way so unlike anything Jim had asked of him yet.

The ship suddenly seemed strangely larger.



"The Deeper It Runs">>
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