Title: The Deeper It Runs
Author: [personal profile] calicokat
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Bones/Chekov
Summary: "McCoy. Chekov. Rimming. GIVE TO ME NOW PLEASE." – [personal profile] cathybites
Notes: For The McCoy-a-thon. Sequel to "Remedial Intercourse."

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

The Deeper It Runs
by [personal profile] calicokat

McCoy's developed a kind of fondness for the vulnerable space between the rounded cheeks of Ensign Chekov's narrow hips. It arguably has something to do with how much time his cock's been spending there, recently. McCoy's damn well aware how it'd look to the rest of the crew if it got around a kid fourteen years his junior's been giving him a workout between the sheets, but he's not telling anybody and Chekov is smart enough to stay discreet.

Chekov's stick-figure legs lie lanky on either side of him as McCoy crawls in close, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the tight pucker of skin concealing a part of Chekov's body he's gotten to know better and better. Chekov's fingers tighten in the covers. McCoy pushes closer, tongue plumbing the uneven indention of Chekov's gathered flesh. Chekov exhales some startled, incomprehensible Russian exclamation.

Give McCoy twenty minutes and Chekov's soft, pink little anus will be slick with lube and semen, flushed, a little swollen, relaxed, and fucked through. Right now, though, McCoy's still giving it tender personal attention he'll never own up to outside his bedroom.

They always do this in his bedroom. The pictures of the Russian's family smiling at McCoy from the shelves and the grinning pictures of Chekov's youthful peers from both his motherland and the Academy make McCoy feel like a bastard. (He's closer to Chekov's parents' age than Chekov's.) In his own quarters, Bones can at least contextualize the ways in which Chekov became a man before the kid ever edged his way into his spare time. In that pushy, teenage way Chekov always knows exactly how he wants McCoy to fuck him.

"Ay ay…" Chekov exhales breathlessly, brow wrinkled and an expression of concern on his young face when McCoy glances up his slender body, but Chekov's staring at nothing. "—it's good…" he concludes, clearly preoccupied.

"That all?" McCoy prompts, returning to his ministrations, licking deeper until the skin parts and hearing Chekov choke a little.

"That's your tongue," Chekov remarks, bewilderment audible.

"Last I checked," McCoy mutters, laying more kisses on the crevice of flesh Chekov's spread bare. His body's aching for a fuck, erection heavy and burning a metaphorical hole in the regulation slacks he's still wearing. It's hard to watch Chekov's thighs flinch and his narrow chest rise and sink in shuddering, desirous breaths without putting himself in the middle of that – hauling Chekov against him and massaging him from the inside while Chekov counter-thrusts with enthusiastic abandon.

McCoy goes on making out with Chekov's backside and Chekov begins to touch himself. His fingers trail aimlessly across his erection, body jumping when his own caresses spark against McCoy's patient ministrations.

McCoy's still waiting for the day the Russian realizes he's bitter, drunk, boring, cantankerous and unlikely to ever take him on a date – especially not to any of those places popular with teenagers in the backgrounds of the photos in the ensign's room. It's not like there's any way this can actually work.

Right now, it works like this, a little less or a little more than once a week: Chekov shows up, one of them locks the door, they start losing clothes, one of them drags the other into making out, and sooner or later (usually sooner) Chekov's getting fucked up against a hard surface or spread open on the bed on his back or tantalizingly, shamelessly on display on his hands and knees. At least, it mostly works like that.

Some days McCoy doesn't have the energy to occupy a horny teenager, no matter how pretty Chekov looks after he's been debauched (hair a mess, blotchy red blush on his cheeks, and the glint of sweat on his skin). Some days Chekov only stretches out beside him on the bed, taking up surprisingly little space – able to tuck himself in at odd angles. Those days, they kiss leisurely and Chekov talks, babbling brightly. McCoy has nothing to say.

Today definitely isn't one of those days.

Chekov starts to pull on his dick with real purpose and McCoy has a finger in his ass at this point, alternately fucking him on it and lapping at him until he shivers. Chekov's hips jerk and clench and he curses Mat' in Russian, cumming over his hand. McCoy simultaneously thinks his bad influence is rubbing off on the kid and that he's pretty sure that translates to Mother.

He pushes himself up on his hands, glaring up the bed into Chekov's glazed eyes. The ensign's dazed and breathing hard.

"You better be fucking Catholic," McCoy warns guardedly.

Chekov's uncomprehending. McCoy watches him chase the words across his scattered thoughts, visibly struggling to put a sentence together through his post-orgasmic exhaustion.

"I am Catholic and fucking, yes. Why?"

McCoy rolls his eyes, grumbling incoherent discontent. Chekov grins at him with indefatigable cheer. He gave up on taking McCoy's moods to heart a month and a half ago.

McCoy loses his pants and finds the spent tube of lube he's gone through since this started. His thumb smoothes the flexible plastic, eking out enough to smear on his rigid erection. McCoy rolls Chekov onto his side and the Russian acquiesces. The youth's eyes fall shut as McCoy hitches up behind him. McCoy pushes himself inside, Chekov's well-aroused sphincter stretching tight around his girth. He caresses Chekov's quivery abdomen and kisses the back of his neck a he sates himself in the Russian's tired body.

McCoy's expecting this to end, and he has time to think about that as he holds Chekov in the crook of his bigger body in the quiet aftermath. It's hard to be honest with himself: He doesn't want it to. Chekov's snoring – a soft, wheezy noise – and the room stinks like sex. There's not much more to this than sex. Chekov's mature for his seventeen years and doesn't want a boyfriend who fucks around on him – doesn't want the drama of teenage romance, but wants to get laid with some kind of regularity. McCoy understands that. But for McCoy, Chekov's the first person he's had sex with more than twice since his wife. At thirty-one, he's looking for more than a fling.

Funny thing, though. McCoy won't be the one to end it.

"The Inner Workings Of Faith">>
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags