experienced [mccoy/chekov, nc-17]
A year in the making. Sorry, ranka_lee. But it's here now! At last!
Title: Experienced
Pairing/characters: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Chekov may technically be underage in some countries.
Summary: A year(ish) ago, ranka_lee requested the following: Do a thing on the, "Oh, Good he's seventeen" for McCoy/Chekov~! Chekov proving he is much more mature ;D (OMG, I sound like a perv, I dunno if you write NC 17 D:) I've finally finished it. I hope you like it, bb!
Note: Unbeta'd. I couldn't wait to post it. Oops.
The resounding applause rang in McCoy’s ears, turning the sound into a haze around his ears. The sound enclosed his head like a bubble, leaving him alone to ponder the new position of his closest friend. Kirk was Captain. Captain of the Enterprise, the ship that McCoy had been groomed to serve on since Captain Pike had heavily suggested Starfleet as an alternative to drowning in a bottle of bad whiskey.
After the Narada incident, McCoy knew he’d continue serving on the Enterprise. Only now it was under Kirk instead of Pike. On one hand, he was glad. There was no one else he’d rather have in that chair than Kirk. But… Starfleet regulations about Captain-subordinate relationships were very clear. They were hazier around fraternization of other ranks, even when positions of authority were concerned, but for Captains, the rules were solid. And the mild flirtation that he and Kirk had since they met would never progress past friendship. It couldn’t now.
McCoy wasn’t sure what he’d been waiting for. Maybe he was waiting for Kirk to work his way through every cadet of every gender before turning back to him. Maybe he was just waiting to get over his own qualms about the implications of being with his best friend. But it was too late now.
So yeah, the look on his face wasn’t exactly one of joy, and though he was pleased that Kirk had made his goal come true in less time than anyone else ever, he couldn’t help but feel a little cheated.
The auditorium of people was dismissed, and McCoy was quick to rise. He wanted to fill himself up with booze and forget what he’d wanted with Kirk, to sit with him like friends, like they used to and just get drunk. He came up beside Kirk and put a hand on his shoulder. Kirk looked back at him with a grin.
“Celebratory drinks?” asked McCoy with a reciprocal smirk.
“I can’t,” said Kirk. McCoy raised an eyebrow. “The Admiralty has a thing planned,” he continued flippantly. “I don’t know who’s going to be there. I’m pretty sure Spock is the only one I’ll have there to commiserate with. But hey, I’ll tolerate whatever they give me. They did make me Captain, after all.” And despite the words, McCoy could tell that Kirk was excited, interested, and ready to take on his role as Captain in every respect. They were already moving in different circles.
“Yeah,” said McCoy without thinking. “Yeah, sure. I’ll… I’ll see you around then.”
“See ya, Bones!” said Kirk, walking forward to meet Pike, who was waiting a few feet away, his uniform whites gleaming. They moved away, part of a group that McCoy would never join. He’d never wanted to become anything more than a doctor before, and didn’t want to now, but the way the Commanders and Captains and Admirals moved together rubbed him the wrong way.
“I suppose they have something special planned, yes?” asked Chekov from somewhere behind McCoy.
“Yeah,” said McCoy. “Commanding officers only. That leaves folk like you and me out of the celebrations.”
“You do not sound as happy as one would expect, Doctor.” Chekov’s curly hair entered McCoy’s peripheral vision. He could see the kid looking up at him. He was more cheerful than McCoy could ever remember being.
“I’m plenty happy, kid.”
“Forgive me if I am not convinced.” They stood in silence for a moment longer. McCoy was about to give his goodbyes and loose himself in some alcohol but then Chekov said,
“Would you like to go for a drink?” McCoy’s right eyebrow shot up.
“Kid, you’re seventeen! What the hell are you doing drinking?”
“Where I go,” Chekov responded with a small smile, “no one knows I am only seventeen.” He gave a jerk of his head towards the large doors through which most of the occupants of the hall had already left through, and then was off. McCoy hadn’t had the chance to respond to the offer, really, so he followed, taking large strides to catch up with the fast-paced younger man.
“Listen, Chekov, I’m not really sure I should be facilitating your alcoholism.”
“You would rather facilitate your own-alone?” The Ensign didn’t let up on his pace, meaning that McCoy had to speed up even his own long strides to stay in tandem.
“I’m a grown man,” muttered McCoy. “You’re still learning how to grow a beard.”
“I am aware of the status of my physical growth,” Chekov said as he descended the staircase at a rapid pace. “I am also aware that I am well beyond my years intellectually. I did get into Starfleet, after all.”
“Can’t argue with that logic, Mr. Spock.” Chekov stopped. McCoy took two steps before he realized the kid was still standing there, grinning at him like an idiot.
“What?” he asked.
“You made joke,” said Chekov. “Until this moment, I have not heard you make one without malicious intent.”
“Malicious intent--! Kid, you know very little about me.” McCoy started walking again, and exited the building at last into the crisp evening air. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the grounds. McCoy couldn’t want to get off ‘fleet property.
“I know enough,” called Chekov from behind him, hurrying to follow. “I know you are very loyal. I know you take pride in your work. I know you are dissatisfied with your interpersonal relationships…”
“You’ve got a damn lot to learn about interpersonal relationships,” McCoy snapped. “You barely passed puberty, and you think you can read me like one of your physics textbooks? Figure me out like an equation?” McCoy paused at the exit into the rest of San Francisco, looking angrily at Chekov. Chekov came around in front of him and looked up defiantly. McCoy stared back.
“You should not be surprised you are so easy to read, Doctor McCoy,” he said at last. “I am seventeen, but I am not a child: I have seen much of the world.”
“Not as much as I have,” McCoy growled back. “I’m your superior in experience, if nothing else.” McCoy was surprised when Chekov averted his gaze and turned to lead the way off the Starfleet Academy campus. McCoy followed in silence, cataloguing his win.
As the last of the sun’s rays disappeared from the streets of San Francisco, the two men came upon a bar at the corner of two fairly shady streets. They were only a few minutes away from Starfleet, but it already felt like a very different city.
“What the hell is this place?” asked McCoy. He felt out of place, still in his impeccable cadet reds. But Chekov was dressed the same, and seemed to have no qualms about it.
“Nirvana,” said Chekov simply, and led the way inside. He nodded to the bartender, who gave the kid a smirk and set two cold beers onto the counter. They made a beeline for the bar, and Chekov picked up the drinks, handed one to McCoy, and headed towards a table near the back of the bar. It was dark and warm in there, comfortable but inexpensive. Chekov sat down and McCoy sat across from him, clutching the sweating bottle.
“This is not going to be enough,” said McCoy as he raised his drink. He downed nearly half of it without taking a breath, and set it down heavily. Across from him, Chekov was still drinking, his throat working as he drank, and drank, and drank. He set the bottle down, only a third of its contents left in the bottle. He smirked at McCoy. A signal from Chekov had a waitress, older than Chekov but younger than McCoy, heading over to their table.
“Can I get another?” asked Chekov, jostling the bottle before him. The waitress nodded, and turned to face McCoy.
“Bourbon, straight up,” he said gruffly, and then, remembering his manners, smiled as best he could manage. “Thanks.” The waitress left with a lingering smile at Chekov that McCoy was not entirely sure he approved of. Chekov wasn’t paying attention to her though, was instead un-doing his jacket and slipping it sloppily off his shoulders to be crumpled behind his back.
The sweater underneath was too small. It clung to Chekov like a second skin; the pattern following the contours of his body like it had been made just for him. McCoy’s eyes followed the lines of the pattern from Chekov’s neck right down to his stomach, where the table stopped him from looking further. But his mind wandered lower. He swallowed.
“You are sweating,” said Chekov. McCoy jumped.
“What?” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat quickly. “Of course I’m sweating,” he muttered, undoing the delta b at his throat It’s hot as all hell in here.” He slid his jacket off as well, but slung it over the back of the chair beside him. His eyes flicked back to Chekov’s, and Chekov had a strange expression on his face. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Chekov quickly, and drank the rest of his beer. McCoy tried not to watch Chekov quickly suck back the contents of the bottle. His throat was working like it had been before, peeking out over the top of his turtleneck. McCoy drank. It was a weak distraction.
They put down their bottles at the same time, and then sat in silence. Chekov’s eyes flicked upwards. McCoy was startled when they made eye contact. Chekov’s eyes weren’t open and innocent. They were a little guarded, and there was something else his brain refused to name. He looked away, at the gaudy stills on the wall of the bar. The silence stretched on. McCoy thought of the way Kirk would be filling it with excited babbling or complaining about some thing or another that Spock had said. Actually, on second thought, Kirk would have probably dragged Spock along, and then McCoy would have had to suffer through the Vulcan’s indifference along with Kirk talking like silence were a sin. But for a second he felt like he wouldn’t mind so much.
Thankfully, the waitress finally appeared with his bourbon and Chekov’s second beer.
“So,” said McCoy, before silence could cause his brain to work overtime again. “How’d a kid like you end up serving on the Enterprise?”
“I am not a kid, Doctor,” said Chekov smoothly. “I trained at Russian Star Academy until end of last year. I arrived at Starfleet only to complete practical requirements. I was recruited by Captain Pike, as you were.” McCoy quirked an eyebrow.
“Why do you think Pike recruited me?”
“When briefing me, he mentioned some others he had recruited. Like Helmsman McKenna, and Engineer Olson. And a promising surgeon.” McCoy’s mouth twisted. He was unsure if Pike had been trying to impress young Chekov or was simply speaking frankly. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or not.
“That’s… a compliment. I suppose,” he grumbled at last. Chekov smiled at him sidelong.
“You are country doctor, yes?” said Chekov, wiping moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand. McCoy nodded, laughing a little. He’d said the phrase a lot already. Chekov frowned a little. “ I am not sure I understand the meaning of this. You come from countryside. And yet you are one of the best surgeons in Starfleet.” McCoy didn’t know how to respond to the compliment, and was glad when Chekov continued away from the complimentary vein. “I wonder how someone so afraid of space came to work there.”
“Not by choice,” McCoy said quickly. “It was the only option. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sucked back the rest of his bourbon quickly. Chekov kept licking his lips and playing with the neck of his beer bottle. It was the sort of little signal that McCoy would have given to a man in a bar, before he met Jocelyn. But Chekov was too young, too straight-laced, too innocent to be doing that.
“Is there something you would rather talk of?” Chekov asked, his voice smooth.
“Listen, kid, I’m not so good at conversation.” Honesty. Of course his ability to filter his thoughts is the first thing to go while drinking. And he continued, though he knew he shouldn’t. “I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. I should be drinking better whiskey in the comfort of my own quarters.”
“I am not good at conversation either,” said Chekov. He didn’t look like he was about to let McCoy walk out of there. But he just slouched comfortably in his seat. “I am better,” Chekov continued, his voice dropping in volume, “at physical interactions.” McCoy’s eyes widened. That was obviously a line. He couldn’t avoid the slightly thrilling, slightly uncomfortable feeling he had been getting since Chekov had smiled at him and told him about his drinking habits.
“Chekov,” he said hastily, “This is not the time or the place for flirting. You’re seventeen, I’m a hell of a lot older than you and I’m not about to-“ He stopped talking then. He couldn’t continue, lest his voice come out a squeak. Chekov had, at some point, worked his boot off and was running a foot up the inside of McCoy’s thigh. He shakily found his voice again, though it was quieter than it had been. “This isn’t appropriate, kid. Why do you think I-“
“It is not appropriate for most places,” Chekov agreed coolly, grinding his foot gently into McCoy’s crotch. McCoy groaned a little, and hated that Chekov could feel him getting hard under the table, in public, like a teenager. “Here, it is not so uncommon.” McCoy did not respond right away, just grasped at the empty glass on the table to anchor himself to a world where he wasn’t being molested by a seventeen year old in a seedy bar.
“Kid…” began McCoy shakily.
“I am very much not a kid,” said Chekov, emphasizing this point by rubbing a little harder, and making McCoy groan harder. “And you are not complaining.”
“Damnit I am complaining,” McCoy said quickly, squirming a little. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
“Around,” said Chekov airly.
And then, “Another bourbon?” The waitress was there, smiling at Chekov but talking to McCoy. He had to answer. He nodded yes, and tried to choke out a thank you but Chekov wiggled his toes and it was all he could do to hand over the glass. “For you?” Chekov grinned at her.
“Vodka,” he said. “Straight.” He winked at the waitress and she grinned back. McCoy really didn’t approve of her now. But she returned quickly with a shot and the bourbon, and only lingered a moment longer than she should have.
Chekov took the shot while still massaging McCoy under the table. McCoy had, at this point, given up on all reason. He supposed not eating all day and then rapidly drinking straight whisky and beer was the reason his judgment was so clouded. And Chekov, no matter how young he seemed, was doing this of his own free will. And McCoy was weak when it came to resisting the advances of an attractive man. His ex-wife came to mind anytime he almost became involved with a woman, but with a man he had much less trouble. And Chekov’s grin staring at him from across the table was way to appealing to pass up.
“Finish your drink,” Chekov ordered, his voice commanding. He rubbed his foot a little harder, and then took it away. A moment later, he rose and wandered towards the bathroom, throwing McCoy a look over his shoulder. The look told McCoy they were about to get up to something fairly illegal in the bathroom of this bar. He looked down at the glass, and then downed it.
McCoy pushed the door open. The bathroom was empty. He stepped forward and let the door swing shut behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chekov’s reflection in the mirror, just in time to turn around. Chekov grinned at him, and then leaned forward to kiss him, hard, slow. McCoy fell into the kiss, allowed Chekov to get both hands behind his head and pull him down to his height. One of the hands slipped away and McCoy hissed in pleasure as Chekov’s hand ground against the front of his pants. Chekov laughed against his lips and let him go, and then stepped back. McCoy blinked as his eyes got used to the light again, but lamented the loss of Chekov’s hands and lips. But Chekov just smiled, and pushed McCoy into the stall at the far end. McCoy sat heavily on the seat and Chekov knelt between his legs and worked at the fastenings.
“You will find I am more mature than you believe,” said Chekov, his voice low. And then he pushed McCoy’s underwear down so he could reach his cock. McCoy stared down at the kid wet his lips, opened his mouth, and then went to work on his cock with relish. He had no idea where to put his hands, so he put them on either side of the stall. But after a moment, he couldn’t resist-his right hand fisted itself in the curly top of Chekov’s head. And Chekov just hummed his approval, which in turn made McCoy grip a little harder. He knew it was going to be fast. He was wound quick and tight, and when Chekov flicked his eyes up to meet McCoy’s, McCoy barely held on. Chekov didn’t seem to mind. He worked McCoy in one hand while his lips stretched over the head of his cock, saliva coating McCoy where Chekov’s mouth had slid.
“I’m gonna-“ choked McCoy, tipped his head backwards. He tugged on Chekov’s hair to get him out of the way, but Chekov swatted his hand away and pressed down further and moaned. McCoy gasped, groaned and came in Chekov’s mouth, hot and hard. He twitched, his hand on Chekov’s head again, barely managing to watch the younger man relish the taste of him.
After a moment of recovery, Chekov stood, leaning against the wall of the stall. McCoy looked up at him, licked his lips slowly. He reached out for Chekov’s hips, to pull him close, to return the favour. Chekov would not move.
“Not here,” he said. “What I would like to do next does not take place here.” He came forward then, still standing, but leaning to whisper in McCoy’s ear. “We will go back to Starfleet. In your room, or perhaps mine, I will strip you naked. I will show you what I have learned. I learn more than just physics, Doctor. And when you are ready, and begging for it, I will fuck you. And then you will never call me “kid” again.” At the end, he nipped lightly at McCoy’s rough jaw, and then walked out, leaving McCoy to follow as he had before. For a moment, McCoy considered this. It seemed almost amusing, this fresh-faced kid with his runner’s body fucking him. But he shivered at the thought, and knew he had to see what Chekov could do.
Title: Experienced
Pairing/characters: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Chekov may technically be underage in some countries.
Summary: A year(ish) ago, ranka_lee requested the following: Do a thing on the, "Oh, Good he's seventeen" for McCoy/Chekov~! Chekov proving he is much more mature ;D (OMG, I sound like a perv, I dunno if you write NC 17 D:) I've finally finished it. I hope you like it, bb!
Note: Unbeta'd. I couldn't wait to post it. Oops.
The resounding applause rang in McCoy’s ears, turning the sound into a haze around his ears. The sound enclosed his head like a bubble, leaving him alone to ponder the new position of his closest friend. Kirk was Captain. Captain of the Enterprise, the ship that McCoy had been groomed to serve on since Captain Pike had heavily suggested Starfleet as an alternative to drowning in a bottle of bad whiskey.
After the Narada incident, McCoy knew he’d continue serving on the Enterprise. Only now it was under Kirk instead of Pike. On one hand, he was glad. There was no one else he’d rather have in that chair than Kirk. But… Starfleet regulations about Captain-subordinate relationships were very clear. They were hazier around fraternization of other ranks, even when positions of authority were concerned, but for Captains, the rules were solid. And the mild flirtation that he and Kirk had since they met would never progress past friendship. It couldn’t now.
McCoy wasn’t sure what he’d been waiting for. Maybe he was waiting for Kirk to work his way through every cadet of every gender before turning back to him. Maybe he was just waiting to get over his own qualms about the implications of being with his best friend. But it was too late now.
So yeah, the look on his face wasn’t exactly one of joy, and though he was pleased that Kirk had made his goal come true in less time than anyone else ever, he couldn’t help but feel a little cheated.
The auditorium of people was dismissed, and McCoy was quick to rise. He wanted to fill himself up with booze and forget what he’d wanted with Kirk, to sit with him like friends, like they used to and just get drunk. He came up beside Kirk and put a hand on his shoulder. Kirk looked back at him with a grin.
“Celebratory drinks?” asked McCoy with a reciprocal smirk.
“I can’t,” said Kirk. McCoy raised an eyebrow. “The Admiralty has a thing planned,” he continued flippantly. “I don’t know who’s going to be there. I’m pretty sure Spock is the only one I’ll have there to commiserate with. But hey, I’ll tolerate whatever they give me. They did make me Captain, after all.” And despite the words, McCoy could tell that Kirk was excited, interested, and ready to take on his role as Captain in every respect. They were already moving in different circles.
“Yeah,” said McCoy without thinking. “Yeah, sure. I’ll… I’ll see you around then.”
“See ya, Bones!” said Kirk, walking forward to meet Pike, who was waiting a few feet away, his uniform whites gleaming. They moved away, part of a group that McCoy would never join. He’d never wanted to become anything more than a doctor before, and didn’t want to now, but the way the Commanders and Captains and Admirals moved together rubbed him the wrong way.
“I suppose they have something special planned, yes?” asked Chekov from somewhere behind McCoy.
“Yeah,” said McCoy. “Commanding officers only. That leaves folk like you and me out of the celebrations.”
“You do not sound as happy as one would expect, Doctor.” Chekov’s curly hair entered McCoy’s peripheral vision. He could see the kid looking up at him. He was more cheerful than McCoy could ever remember being.
“I’m plenty happy, kid.”
“Forgive me if I am not convinced.” They stood in silence for a moment longer. McCoy was about to give his goodbyes and loose himself in some alcohol but then Chekov said,
“Would you like to go for a drink?” McCoy’s right eyebrow shot up.
“Kid, you’re seventeen! What the hell are you doing drinking?”
“Where I go,” Chekov responded with a small smile, “no one knows I am only seventeen.” He gave a jerk of his head towards the large doors through which most of the occupants of the hall had already left through, and then was off. McCoy hadn’t had the chance to respond to the offer, really, so he followed, taking large strides to catch up with the fast-paced younger man.
“Listen, Chekov, I’m not really sure I should be facilitating your alcoholism.”
“You would rather facilitate your own-alone?” The Ensign didn’t let up on his pace, meaning that McCoy had to speed up even his own long strides to stay in tandem.
“I’m a grown man,” muttered McCoy. “You’re still learning how to grow a beard.”
“I am aware of the status of my physical growth,” Chekov said as he descended the staircase at a rapid pace. “I am also aware that I am well beyond my years intellectually. I did get into Starfleet, after all.”
“Can’t argue with that logic, Mr. Spock.” Chekov stopped. McCoy took two steps before he realized the kid was still standing there, grinning at him like an idiot.
“What?” he asked.
“You made joke,” said Chekov. “Until this moment, I have not heard you make one without malicious intent.”
“Malicious intent--! Kid, you know very little about me.” McCoy started walking again, and exited the building at last into the crisp evening air. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the grounds. McCoy couldn’t want to get off ‘fleet property.
“I know enough,” called Chekov from behind him, hurrying to follow. “I know you are very loyal. I know you take pride in your work. I know you are dissatisfied with your interpersonal relationships…”
“You’ve got a damn lot to learn about interpersonal relationships,” McCoy snapped. “You barely passed puberty, and you think you can read me like one of your physics textbooks? Figure me out like an equation?” McCoy paused at the exit into the rest of San Francisco, looking angrily at Chekov. Chekov came around in front of him and looked up defiantly. McCoy stared back.
“You should not be surprised you are so easy to read, Doctor McCoy,” he said at last. “I am seventeen, but I am not a child: I have seen much of the world.”
“Not as much as I have,” McCoy growled back. “I’m your superior in experience, if nothing else.” McCoy was surprised when Chekov averted his gaze and turned to lead the way off the Starfleet Academy campus. McCoy followed in silence, cataloguing his win.
As the last of the sun’s rays disappeared from the streets of San Francisco, the two men came upon a bar at the corner of two fairly shady streets. They were only a few minutes away from Starfleet, but it already felt like a very different city.
“What the hell is this place?” asked McCoy. He felt out of place, still in his impeccable cadet reds. But Chekov was dressed the same, and seemed to have no qualms about it.
“Nirvana,” said Chekov simply, and led the way inside. He nodded to the bartender, who gave the kid a smirk and set two cold beers onto the counter. They made a beeline for the bar, and Chekov picked up the drinks, handed one to McCoy, and headed towards a table near the back of the bar. It was dark and warm in there, comfortable but inexpensive. Chekov sat down and McCoy sat across from him, clutching the sweating bottle.
“This is not going to be enough,” said McCoy as he raised his drink. He downed nearly half of it without taking a breath, and set it down heavily. Across from him, Chekov was still drinking, his throat working as he drank, and drank, and drank. He set the bottle down, only a third of its contents left in the bottle. He smirked at McCoy. A signal from Chekov had a waitress, older than Chekov but younger than McCoy, heading over to their table.
“Can I get another?” asked Chekov, jostling the bottle before him. The waitress nodded, and turned to face McCoy.
“Bourbon, straight up,” he said gruffly, and then, remembering his manners, smiled as best he could manage. “Thanks.” The waitress left with a lingering smile at Chekov that McCoy was not entirely sure he approved of. Chekov wasn’t paying attention to her though, was instead un-doing his jacket and slipping it sloppily off his shoulders to be crumpled behind his back.
The sweater underneath was too small. It clung to Chekov like a second skin; the pattern following the contours of his body like it had been made just for him. McCoy’s eyes followed the lines of the pattern from Chekov’s neck right down to his stomach, where the table stopped him from looking further. But his mind wandered lower. He swallowed.
“You are sweating,” said Chekov. McCoy jumped.
“What?” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat quickly. “Of course I’m sweating,” he muttered, undoing the delta b at his throat It’s hot as all hell in here.” He slid his jacket off as well, but slung it over the back of the chair beside him. His eyes flicked back to Chekov’s, and Chekov had a strange expression on his face. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Chekov quickly, and drank the rest of his beer. McCoy tried not to watch Chekov quickly suck back the contents of the bottle. His throat was working like it had been before, peeking out over the top of his turtleneck. McCoy drank. It was a weak distraction.
They put down their bottles at the same time, and then sat in silence. Chekov’s eyes flicked upwards. McCoy was startled when they made eye contact. Chekov’s eyes weren’t open and innocent. They were a little guarded, and there was something else his brain refused to name. He looked away, at the gaudy stills on the wall of the bar. The silence stretched on. McCoy thought of the way Kirk would be filling it with excited babbling or complaining about some thing or another that Spock had said. Actually, on second thought, Kirk would have probably dragged Spock along, and then McCoy would have had to suffer through the Vulcan’s indifference along with Kirk talking like silence were a sin. But for a second he felt like he wouldn’t mind so much.
Thankfully, the waitress finally appeared with his bourbon and Chekov’s second beer.
“So,” said McCoy, before silence could cause his brain to work overtime again. “How’d a kid like you end up serving on the Enterprise?”
“I am not a kid, Doctor,” said Chekov smoothly. “I trained at Russian Star Academy until end of last year. I arrived at Starfleet only to complete practical requirements. I was recruited by Captain Pike, as you were.” McCoy quirked an eyebrow.
“Why do you think Pike recruited me?”
“When briefing me, he mentioned some others he had recruited. Like Helmsman McKenna, and Engineer Olson. And a promising surgeon.” McCoy’s mouth twisted. He was unsure if Pike had been trying to impress young Chekov or was simply speaking frankly. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or not.
“That’s… a compliment. I suppose,” he grumbled at last. Chekov smiled at him sidelong.
“You are country doctor, yes?” said Chekov, wiping moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand. McCoy nodded, laughing a little. He’d said the phrase a lot already. Chekov frowned a little. “ I am not sure I understand the meaning of this. You come from countryside. And yet you are one of the best surgeons in Starfleet.” McCoy didn’t know how to respond to the compliment, and was glad when Chekov continued away from the complimentary vein. “I wonder how someone so afraid of space came to work there.”
“Not by choice,” McCoy said quickly. “It was the only option. I’d rather not talk about it.” He sucked back the rest of his bourbon quickly. Chekov kept licking his lips and playing with the neck of his beer bottle. It was the sort of little signal that McCoy would have given to a man in a bar, before he met Jocelyn. But Chekov was too young, too straight-laced, too innocent to be doing that.
“Is there something you would rather talk of?” Chekov asked, his voice smooth.
“Listen, kid, I’m not so good at conversation.” Honesty. Of course his ability to filter his thoughts is the first thing to go while drinking. And he continued, though he knew he shouldn’t. “I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. I should be drinking better whiskey in the comfort of my own quarters.”
“I am not good at conversation either,” said Chekov. He didn’t look like he was about to let McCoy walk out of there. But he just slouched comfortably in his seat. “I am better,” Chekov continued, his voice dropping in volume, “at physical interactions.” McCoy’s eyes widened. That was obviously a line. He couldn’t avoid the slightly thrilling, slightly uncomfortable feeling he had been getting since Chekov had smiled at him and told him about his drinking habits.
“Chekov,” he said hastily, “This is not the time or the place for flirting. You’re seventeen, I’m a hell of a lot older than you and I’m not about to-“ He stopped talking then. He couldn’t continue, lest his voice come out a squeak. Chekov had, at some point, worked his boot off and was running a foot up the inside of McCoy’s thigh. He shakily found his voice again, though it was quieter than it had been. “This isn’t appropriate, kid. Why do you think I-“
“It is not appropriate for most places,” Chekov agreed coolly, grinding his foot gently into McCoy’s crotch. McCoy groaned a little, and hated that Chekov could feel him getting hard under the table, in public, like a teenager. “Here, it is not so uncommon.” McCoy did not respond right away, just grasped at the empty glass on the table to anchor himself to a world where he wasn’t being molested by a seventeen year old in a seedy bar.
“Kid…” began McCoy shakily.
“I am very much not a kid,” said Chekov, emphasizing this point by rubbing a little harder, and making McCoy groan harder. “And you are not complaining.”
“Damnit I am complaining,” McCoy said quickly, squirming a little. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
“Around,” said Chekov airly.
And then, “Another bourbon?” The waitress was there, smiling at Chekov but talking to McCoy. He had to answer. He nodded yes, and tried to choke out a thank you but Chekov wiggled his toes and it was all he could do to hand over the glass. “For you?” Chekov grinned at her.
“Vodka,” he said. “Straight.” He winked at the waitress and she grinned back. McCoy really didn’t approve of her now. But she returned quickly with a shot and the bourbon, and only lingered a moment longer than she should have.
Chekov took the shot while still massaging McCoy under the table. McCoy had, at this point, given up on all reason. He supposed not eating all day and then rapidly drinking straight whisky and beer was the reason his judgment was so clouded. And Chekov, no matter how young he seemed, was doing this of his own free will. And McCoy was weak when it came to resisting the advances of an attractive man. His ex-wife came to mind anytime he almost became involved with a woman, but with a man he had much less trouble. And Chekov’s grin staring at him from across the table was way to appealing to pass up.
“Finish your drink,” Chekov ordered, his voice commanding. He rubbed his foot a little harder, and then took it away. A moment later, he rose and wandered towards the bathroom, throwing McCoy a look over his shoulder. The look told McCoy they were about to get up to something fairly illegal in the bathroom of this bar. He looked down at the glass, and then downed it.
McCoy pushed the door open. The bathroom was empty. He stepped forward and let the door swing shut behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chekov’s reflection in the mirror, just in time to turn around. Chekov grinned at him, and then leaned forward to kiss him, hard, slow. McCoy fell into the kiss, allowed Chekov to get both hands behind his head and pull him down to his height. One of the hands slipped away and McCoy hissed in pleasure as Chekov’s hand ground against the front of his pants. Chekov laughed against his lips and let him go, and then stepped back. McCoy blinked as his eyes got used to the light again, but lamented the loss of Chekov’s hands and lips. But Chekov just smiled, and pushed McCoy into the stall at the far end. McCoy sat heavily on the seat and Chekov knelt between his legs and worked at the fastenings.
“You will find I am more mature than you believe,” said Chekov, his voice low. And then he pushed McCoy’s underwear down so he could reach his cock. McCoy stared down at the kid wet his lips, opened his mouth, and then went to work on his cock with relish. He had no idea where to put his hands, so he put them on either side of the stall. But after a moment, he couldn’t resist-his right hand fisted itself in the curly top of Chekov’s head. And Chekov just hummed his approval, which in turn made McCoy grip a little harder. He knew it was going to be fast. He was wound quick and tight, and when Chekov flicked his eyes up to meet McCoy’s, McCoy barely held on. Chekov didn’t seem to mind. He worked McCoy in one hand while his lips stretched over the head of his cock, saliva coating McCoy where Chekov’s mouth had slid.
“I’m gonna-“ choked McCoy, tipped his head backwards. He tugged on Chekov’s hair to get him out of the way, but Chekov swatted his hand away and pressed down further and moaned. McCoy gasped, groaned and came in Chekov’s mouth, hot and hard. He twitched, his hand on Chekov’s head again, barely managing to watch the younger man relish the taste of him.
After a moment of recovery, Chekov stood, leaning against the wall of the stall. McCoy looked up at him, licked his lips slowly. He reached out for Chekov’s hips, to pull him close, to return the favour. Chekov would not move.
“Not here,” he said. “What I would like to do next does not take place here.” He came forward then, still standing, but leaning to whisper in McCoy’s ear. “We will go back to Starfleet. In your room, or perhaps mine, I will strip you naked. I will show you what I have learned. I learn more than just physics, Doctor. And when you are ready, and begging for it, I will fuck you. And then you will never call me “kid” again.” At the end, he nipped lightly at McCoy’s rough jaw, and then walked out, leaving McCoy to follow as he had before. For a moment, McCoy considered this. It seemed almost amusing, this fresh-faced kid with his runner’s body fucking him. But he shivered at the thought, and knew he had to see what Chekov could do.