Absinthe
AN: OK, it's like this: I have an exam tomorrow. So, obviously, I'm revising. Except, actually, that's a lie.
This isn't the third chapter of Business As Usual, but it is hot McCoy/Chekov porn, so I'm sure calicokat will forgive me.
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Huge age difference, some roughness, lots of alcohol. And buttsex. Like you didn't expect that.
Summary: “You do realise this is a queer club, right?”
The kid nodded brightly. “It is hard not to realise,” he said. “There are two women making out right behind you.”
It was too fucking crowded in the tiny club, it was too fucking dark and the music was too fucking loud. McCoy tossed back a double shot of whiskey, winced as it tore its way down his throat, slammed the shot glass down on the table and rubbed his eyes.
He was too fucking old for this. Should've taken his shore leave in that tropical resort that so many of the crew were raving about. Could've been lying on a massage table, having thirty-one years worth of tension pounded out of his back by a pretty young masseur with five arms. Could've been sitting by the heated pool reading Dickens and wondering whether Ebenezer Scrooge's nephew, Fred, might've looked a bit like Jim.
McCoy took another look around the club and figured he should head back to the Enterprise. Someone was bound to have got themselves blown up or caught a yet-unknown alien virus by now. Wouldn't be gentlemanly to let Christine deal with it herself.
He grabbed his coat, turned away from the bar and bumped into a skinny young man who wasn't looking where he was going. The kid turned to apologise and his forehead crinkled in recognition.
“Sorry, Sir,” Ensign Chekov said, his face reddening a little under the UV lights.
McCoy scowled and muttered something along the lines of “Don't worry about it.” The Ensign didn't seem to be moving out of his way.
“I did not expect to see you here,” Chekov added conversationally, and McCoy resigned himself to staying a while longer. Company was better than no company, and at least the kid gave him something to look at.
“Didn't expect to see you here either,” he shot back. “Get lost on your way to the club?” Chekov looked confused at this, so he added: “You do realise this is a queer club, right?”
The kid nodded brightly. “It is hard not to realise,” he said. “There are two women making out right behind you.”
McCoy's mouth twitched upwards, and he stopped himself from turning around. “Fair enough,” he said, noticing that the kid's eyes kept flickering from him to a point just over his shoulder. So he was comfortable with being in a gay bar, but not so used to the sight of a pair of dykes swapping spit that he didn't think it worth gawping at.
The girls must've moved on, because he had Chekov's full attention again, and there was something about having Chekov's full attention that made him want another drink. Preferably something that would finally kill off his liver once and for all.
“I do not usually come out to places like this,” Chekov admitted, and McCoy took that to mean the clubbing scene in general, and not specifically places like this. “But Sulu dragged me here.”
“Lost him, have you?” McCoy drawled, noticing the distinct lack of hot young Asian at Chekov's side.
“He, uh, went off with someone,” Chekov replied, looking uncomfortable. McCoy figured he must've been about to leave too. Kid lacked the confidence to hang around a club on his own. Or maybe he was disappointed that Sulu had gone off with someone else.
“So Mr Sulu's...” he said, letting the question hang open until Chekov finished it off for him.
“Bisexual,” he supplied. After a pause, he added, “like me.”
Well, that made sense, then. “You wanted him for yourself, then?” he asked.
To his surprise, Chekov actually laughed. “No, no, he is not my type!”he said, smiling brightly. McCoy's first instinct was to scowl and figure that he was being laughed at, but instead he gave the kid a thoughtful look. The urge to have another drink was still strong.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. Chekov was definitely below the standard drinking age, but probably above it in his own country, and he didn't think there was a legal age on this particular planet anyway.
“Oh, you don't have to-” Chekov protested hurriedly, but McCoy was already signalling to the barkeep with a jerk of his thumb.
“Shot of vodka, shot of absinthe,” he said, sparing a glance for the kid, who was raising an eyebrow at him. “Make that two absinthes,” he amended. “Both doubles.”
“Thank you,” Chekov said, stepping forward and leaning on the bar next to him. Now that McCoy could get a better look at him, he saw that he was wearing a plain white shirt and black jeans that weren't so much tight as well fitting. He didn't look that much different from when he was in uniform, but he did seem a couple of years older. Old enough to be in a bar, sharing a drink with colleague.
“So what is your type?” McCoy asked when their drinks arrived. They tapped their glasses together, threw the shots back and slammed them upside down on the bar, hitting the sticky plastic surface pretty much in unison. Chekov's nose twitched, but he showed no sign of revulsion. McCoy felt mildly relieved that the kid was experienced and he wasn't encouraging him to drink above his level.
“In women or in men?” the kid asked.
McCoy felt the left corner of his mouth turn up in a smirk. “Both,” he replied.
Chekov ran his tongue over his top lip. “I like tall, confident women. Blonde, if they are Caucasian, but I don't have a preference for skin colour.”
McCoy's thoughts turned to Lieutenant Uhura and his smirk widened. No surprise there; half the ship had a crush on her and the other half was mostly female.
“And for men...” Chekov hesitated. “I prefer older men.” He seemed to have more to say, but he left it there. To McCoy's surprise, the kid shyly avoided his gaze, staring instead at his hands, spread out flat on the surface of the bar.
Frowning, McCoy watched him thoughtfully as the silence spread thin around them. The kid was beginning to fidget, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth so that he could chew on it nervously. He could tell that he was building up the nerve to leave, trying to come up with a decent excuse, so he said:
“How about I get you another drink?”
The kid seemed quietly pleased with this, which was probably why, half an hour later, they were sharing an unnaturally comfortable leather sofa, both of them sat at the edge and leaning over a table, upon which was a line of empty shot glasses and two not-empty ones.
“Last one,” McCoy said, his voice harsh with the burn of alcohol and thick with the influence of warm inebriation. They held their shot glasses between thumb and index finger and tipped them messily down their throats. Both glasses hit the table at the end of a lazy but inevitable arc, more of a result of forward motion than a race to complete the ritual.
Chekov fell backwards into the sofa's greedy embrace, a silly smile on his face. “I like absinthe,” he announced.
“Absinthe,” McCoy agreed, “Is like a beautiful woman.” He thought about this and decided he could probably extend the analogy. “Not like whiskey. That's like... like, a rough, unshaven man who wants to bend you over and fuck you dry.”
He was a lot like whiskey, come to think of it. He looked over at Chekov, who was studying him intently. “And vodka, that's like a fit young man with a lot of stamina who'll stay the night and suck you off in the morning.”
Chekov smiled slowly until his face was covered with it, dimples showing and eyes dancing with amusement. Before he could make a stupid comment and ruin the moment, McCoy darted forward and grabbed the kid's shirt.
“You're so hot,” he murmured, because he was also drunk enough to make stupid comments, and then he tugged at the kid's bottom lip with his teeth and licked his way into Chekov's mouth.
Chekov moaned softly, and McCoy could tell this was what he'd been wanting since he first bought the kid a drink; the way he moaned, and the way he closed his eyes, and his solid, hard erection when McCoy dragged the kid into his lap.
“Doctor,” the kid murmured after kissing his way up McCoy's stubbly jaw to his ear. He sucked the lobe into his mouth, and McCoy's cock twitched because damn, if that didn't feel fucking amazing.
“Call me Leonard,” he said roughly. And then, “No, wait, you can call me 'Sir'.”
And he pulled the kid closer when he laughed his approval, because what was the point of having a hard, willing, seventeen year old in your lap if you couldn't indulge a kink or two? Chekov licked down his neck and slid his hands under McCoy's shirt, and he murmured, “We ought to take this behind closed doors.”
“You don't like kissing in public?” Chekov asked, and then he added the “Sir?” and that went straight to his cock. He arched up, grinding his erection against Chekov's, and realised that he'd forgotten to breathe.
“Kissing, I don't mind,” he growled, placing each of his hands on one firm ass cheek and pulling the kid up against him. “But I don't think it'd look good on our records if we were arrested for fucking in public.”
Chekov made an eager sound and thrust his hips downwards. McCoy groaned, and added: “Especially not with what I intend to do to you.”
Chekov stopped nuzzling at his neck and brought his face up close to McCoy's, cheeks flushed and breathing short. “Wh-”
The kid dug his fingers into McCoy's biceps, earning himself a low growl. He bit his lip, ground his cock into McCoy's and whimpered, too turned on to speak.
“What is it that you intend to do to me?” he asked breathlessly. McCoy tugged him forward and kissed him messily, tasting consent in the urgency of the kid's tongue. He had a list of things, actually, but seeing how loudly he could make the kid moan was top of the list, along with tying him to the bed and fucking him until he lost the English language completely. And spanking, but that was Chekov's fault for blushing so easily; he wanted to see what happened to the kid's face when he had him over one knee.
But what he said was, “You'll see.” He managed to convince the kid to get off of him for the time it took to gather his coat, exchange smirks with the barkeep and find them a hotel room. He let Chekov molest him in the lift and drag him down the corridor to their room.
They tumbled through the door into a nicely furnished room with a decently sized double bed. Chekov had his shirt half-undone by the time McCoy finished locking the door. He pulled the kid to him and did the rest of the buttons for him, and the shirt fell to the floor as Chekov jumped up into his arms and wrapped his legs around McCoy's waist.
“Steady on,” he growled into Chekov's mouth as the kid kissed him enthusiastically. The alcohol had worn off a little, and he was more into the staggering stage than the moving around with graceful confidence stage. He managed to get them to the bed, and he shoved Chekov off of him, letting the kid flop bonelessly onto the mattress. He looked up at McCoy through half-closed eyes, his face flushed.
“Stay,” McCoy ordered as he started to strip. He heard “yes, Sir,” and sped up, practically tearing his shirt as he pulled it over his head. His fingers dug into his belt and he spared a glance for the horny teenager sprawled out on the bed, who had taken the initiative and was pulling at his own jeans where they'd got stuck at his ankles.
McCoy kicked off his boots, stepped out of his jeans and climbed on top of Chekov, wearing nothing but his boxers. The kid was completely naked, having removed his own boxers while McCoy was struggling with his boots. He felt hands at the waistband of his boxers and allowed Chekov to ease them over his hips and as far down his thighs as the kid could reach, at which point McCoy finished off the job himself.
His cock was hard and heavy, and if his breath caught when it brushed against the inside of Chekov's smooth thigh, it was nothing compared to how it felt when Chekov's hips shifted slightly and their cocks slid smoothly together, slicked up with precome. He let himself drop onto Chekov's chest, buried his head in the crook of the kid's neck and let out a deep, needy groan. Chekov whimpered and pushed up against him.
“Fuck,” McCoy whispered, raising his head far enough to twist it and look up at Chekov, who was staring up at the ceiling with concentration all over his face. McCoy leaned in and bit the kid's ear, smirking through the startled gasp, and then rolled them both over so that the kid was on top and straddling him and looking down at him with the same look of concentration and a little bit of awe.
“Go fetch the lube in my pocket,” he ordered, pushing up on the kid's thighs. Chekov leaned over, off the side of the bed and scrabbled at McCoy's jeans until he found what he was looking for. He pulled himself upright without much effort and held out the small bottle of lubricant. His face was serious, a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, and McCoy wondered whether he was taking the kid's virginity, but decided not to ask. It wouldn't stop him if he was, wouldn't make him take any more care. He was a doctor; he knew exactly how gentle he needed to be and how much roughness he could get away with.
He didn't bother preparing the kid, but took the time to slick himself up instead, making sure he smeared enough lube over the kid's asshole that there wouldn't be any resistance. He lifted the kid's hips and eased him down onto his cock, letting him take it in at his own pace. Chekov's gaze stayed locked on his until he was balls deep in the kid, and then his eyes fluttered shut and he let out the breath he'd been holding in, his fingers gripping McCoy's hips tightly.
“Hold on,” he grunted, thrusting his hips upwards to push the kid up and then pulling back while holding the kid up with both hands. He held Chekov still and began to thrust, starting off slow but quickly speeding up until his ears were pounding with sharp, irregular breaths and the slap of flesh against flesh.
Chekov braced his knees against the mattress and leaned forward, his hands planted on either side of McCoy's chest and his head hanging down, mouth open and full of needy little gasps and moans. McCoy wasn't seventeen any more and he'd never been so fucking pretty anyway; his noises were low growls and grunts of exertion as he pounded into the kid, sweat beading on his chest and arms and thighs as the hot, tight pleasure in his groin built up and took over his thinking completely.
Chekov was gasping on every upward thrust by now; half of it from the thick head of McCoy's cock hitting his prostate and half from the way that his breaths were being torn from his chest before he could get enough oxygen. He closed his eyes and moaned, loudly and desperately and breathlessly as he came over McCoy's chest, hitting his chin with the first spurt and the rest of it coating his chest hair.
McCoy licked over his bottom lip to try and get a taste, and he sped up, fingers kneading the soft flesh at Chekov's hips as his thrusts became desperate and irregular. He growled deep in his throat and filled the kid with his come. Chekov was struggling to hold himself up, his thighs trembling under McCoy's hands, his own hands clutching at the sheets, and he looked a little dazed.
“You OK?” McCoy asked when he could think again, his hands rubbing gently over Chekov's hips where he'd been rough before. The kid nodded, and he took that to mean he was the good kind of dazed. He slowly lifted the kid off his cock and let Chekov sprawl over him, his cheek resting on the middle of McCoy's chest, right in the middle of the mostly-dry puddle of come.
He tugged at the kid's shoulder. “Need to get cleaned up,” he grunted, but the kid just murmured something and lifted his head long enough to lick the come off McCoy's chin and plant a kiss on his cheek. McCoy sighed and patted the kid's back fondly. His hand came to rest in Chekov's hair and he stroked it absent-mindedly.
The absinthe was catching up with him; his head was spinning and his eyes were starting to close on their own. Yawning widely, he tightened his grip on Chekov and felt the kid's long arms hugging him back. They probably ought to get into bed properly, ought to get cleaned up and they should drink some water if they didn't want to wake up tomorrow with a hangover, but Chekov was already asleep, his chest rising and falling with every deep, contented breath, and McCoy was too close to sleep himself to give these cthoughts any consideration.
His last thought before he fell asleep was I wonder if he'll suck me off in the morning.
This isn't the third chapter of Business As Usual, but it is hot McCoy/Chekov porn, so I'm sure calicokat will forgive me.
Fandom: Star Trek
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Huge age difference, some roughness, lots of alcohol. And buttsex. Like you didn't expect that.
Summary: “You do realise this is a queer club, right?”
The kid nodded brightly. “It is hard not to realise,” he said. “There are two women making out right behind you.”
It was too fucking crowded in the tiny club, it was too fucking dark and the music was too fucking loud. McCoy tossed back a double shot of whiskey, winced as it tore its way down his throat, slammed the shot glass down on the table and rubbed his eyes.
He was too fucking old for this. Should've taken his shore leave in that tropical resort that so many of the crew were raving about. Could've been lying on a massage table, having thirty-one years worth of tension pounded out of his back by a pretty young masseur with five arms. Could've been sitting by the heated pool reading Dickens and wondering whether Ebenezer Scrooge's nephew, Fred, might've looked a bit like Jim.
McCoy took another look around the club and figured he should head back to the Enterprise. Someone was bound to have got themselves blown up or caught a yet-unknown alien virus by now. Wouldn't be gentlemanly to let Christine deal with it herself.
He grabbed his coat, turned away from the bar and bumped into a skinny young man who wasn't looking where he was going. The kid turned to apologise and his forehead crinkled in recognition.
“Sorry, Sir,” Ensign Chekov said, his face reddening a little under the UV lights.
McCoy scowled and muttered something along the lines of “Don't worry about it.” The Ensign didn't seem to be moving out of his way.
“I did not expect to see you here,” Chekov added conversationally, and McCoy resigned himself to staying a while longer. Company was better than no company, and at least the kid gave him something to look at.
“Didn't expect to see you here either,” he shot back. “Get lost on your way to the club?” Chekov looked confused at this, so he added: “You do realise this is a queer club, right?”
The kid nodded brightly. “It is hard not to realise,” he said. “There are two women making out right behind you.”
McCoy's mouth twitched upwards, and he stopped himself from turning around. “Fair enough,” he said, noticing that the kid's eyes kept flickering from him to a point just over his shoulder. So he was comfortable with being in a gay bar, but not so used to the sight of a pair of dykes swapping spit that he didn't think it worth gawping at.
The girls must've moved on, because he had Chekov's full attention again, and there was something about having Chekov's full attention that made him want another drink. Preferably something that would finally kill off his liver once and for all.
“I do not usually come out to places like this,” Chekov admitted, and McCoy took that to mean the clubbing scene in general, and not specifically places like this. “But Sulu dragged me here.”
“Lost him, have you?” McCoy drawled, noticing the distinct lack of hot young Asian at Chekov's side.
“He, uh, went off with someone,” Chekov replied, looking uncomfortable. McCoy figured he must've been about to leave too. Kid lacked the confidence to hang around a club on his own. Or maybe he was disappointed that Sulu had gone off with someone else.
“So Mr Sulu's...” he said, letting the question hang open until Chekov finished it off for him.
“Bisexual,” he supplied. After a pause, he added, “like me.”
Well, that made sense, then. “You wanted him for yourself, then?” he asked.
To his surprise, Chekov actually laughed. “No, no, he is not my type!”he said, smiling brightly. McCoy's first instinct was to scowl and figure that he was being laughed at, but instead he gave the kid a thoughtful look. The urge to have another drink was still strong.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. Chekov was definitely below the standard drinking age, but probably above it in his own country, and he didn't think there was a legal age on this particular planet anyway.
“Oh, you don't have to-” Chekov protested hurriedly, but McCoy was already signalling to the barkeep with a jerk of his thumb.
“Shot of vodka, shot of absinthe,” he said, sparing a glance for the kid, who was raising an eyebrow at him. “Make that two absinthes,” he amended. “Both doubles.”
“Thank you,” Chekov said, stepping forward and leaning on the bar next to him. Now that McCoy could get a better look at him, he saw that he was wearing a plain white shirt and black jeans that weren't so much tight as well fitting. He didn't look that much different from when he was in uniform, but he did seem a couple of years older. Old enough to be in a bar, sharing a drink with colleague.
“So what is your type?” McCoy asked when their drinks arrived. They tapped their glasses together, threw the shots back and slammed them upside down on the bar, hitting the sticky plastic surface pretty much in unison. Chekov's nose twitched, but he showed no sign of revulsion. McCoy felt mildly relieved that the kid was experienced and he wasn't encouraging him to drink above his level.
“In women or in men?” the kid asked.
McCoy felt the left corner of his mouth turn up in a smirk. “Both,” he replied.
Chekov ran his tongue over his top lip. “I like tall, confident women. Blonde, if they are Caucasian, but I don't have a preference for skin colour.”
McCoy's thoughts turned to Lieutenant Uhura and his smirk widened. No surprise there; half the ship had a crush on her and the other half was mostly female.
“And for men...” Chekov hesitated. “I prefer older men.” He seemed to have more to say, but he left it there. To McCoy's surprise, the kid shyly avoided his gaze, staring instead at his hands, spread out flat on the surface of the bar.
Frowning, McCoy watched him thoughtfully as the silence spread thin around them. The kid was beginning to fidget, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth so that he could chew on it nervously. He could tell that he was building up the nerve to leave, trying to come up with a decent excuse, so he said:
“How about I get you another drink?”
The kid seemed quietly pleased with this, which was probably why, half an hour later, they were sharing an unnaturally comfortable leather sofa, both of them sat at the edge and leaning over a table, upon which was a line of empty shot glasses and two not-empty ones.
“Last one,” McCoy said, his voice harsh with the burn of alcohol and thick with the influence of warm inebriation. They held their shot glasses between thumb and index finger and tipped them messily down their throats. Both glasses hit the table at the end of a lazy but inevitable arc, more of a result of forward motion than a race to complete the ritual.
Chekov fell backwards into the sofa's greedy embrace, a silly smile on his face. “I like absinthe,” he announced.
“Absinthe,” McCoy agreed, “Is like a beautiful woman.” He thought about this and decided he could probably extend the analogy. “Not like whiskey. That's like... like, a rough, unshaven man who wants to bend you over and fuck you dry.”
He was a lot like whiskey, come to think of it. He looked over at Chekov, who was studying him intently. “And vodka, that's like a fit young man with a lot of stamina who'll stay the night and suck you off in the morning.”
Chekov smiled slowly until his face was covered with it, dimples showing and eyes dancing with amusement. Before he could make a stupid comment and ruin the moment, McCoy darted forward and grabbed the kid's shirt.
“You're so hot,” he murmured, because he was also drunk enough to make stupid comments, and then he tugged at the kid's bottom lip with his teeth and licked his way into Chekov's mouth.
Chekov moaned softly, and McCoy could tell this was what he'd been wanting since he first bought the kid a drink; the way he moaned, and the way he closed his eyes, and his solid, hard erection when McCoy dragged the kid into his lap.
“Doctor,” the kid murmured after kissing his way up McCoy's stubbly jaw to his ear. He sucked the lobe into his mouth, and McCoy's cock twitched because damn, if that didn't feel fucking amazing.
“Call me Leonard,” he said roughly. And then, “No, wait, you can call me 'Sir'.”
And he pulled the kid closer when he laughed his approval, because what was the point of having a hard, willing, seventeen year old in your lap if you couldn't indulge a kink or two? Chekov licked down his neck and slid his hands under McCoy's shirt, and he murmured, “We ought to take this behind closed doors.”
“You don't like kissing in public?” Chekov asked, and then he added the “Sir?” and that went straight to his cock. He arched up, grinding his erection against Chekov's, and realised that he'd forgotten to breathe.
“Kissing, I don't mind,” he growled, placing each of his hands on one firm ass cheek and pulling the kid up against him. “But I don't think it'd look good on our records if we were arrested for fucking in public.”
Chekov made an eager sound and thrust his hips downwards. McCoy groaned, and added: “Especially not with what I intend to do to you.”
Chekov stopped nuzzling at his neck and brought his face up close to McCoy's, cheeks flushed and breathing short. “Wh-”
The kid dug his fingers into McCoy's biceps, earning himself a low growl. He bit his lip, ground his cock into McCoy's and whimpered, too turned on to speak.
“What is it that you intend to do to me?” he asked breathlessly. McCoy tugged him forward and kissed him messily, tasting consent in the urgency of the kid's tongue. He had a list of things, actually, but seeing how loudly he could make the kid moan was top of the list, along with tying him to the bed and fucking him until he lost the English language completely. And spanking, but that was Chekov's fault for blushing so easily; he wanted to see what happened to the kid's face when he had him over one knee.
But what he said was, “You'll see.” He managed to convince the kid to get off of him for the time it took to gather his coat, exchange smirks with the barkeep and find them a hotel room. He let Chekov molest him in the lift and drag him down the corridor to their room.
They tumbled through the door into a nicely furnished room with a decently sized double bed. Chekov had his shirt half-undone by the time McCoy finished locking the door. He pulled the kid to him and did the rest of the buttons for him, and the shirt fell to the floor as Chekov jumped up into his arms and wrapped his legs around McCoy's waist.
“Steady on,” he growled into Chekov's mouth as the kid kissed him enthusiastically. The alcohol had worn off a little, and he was more into the staggering stage than the moving around with graceful confidence stage. He managed to get them to the bed, and he shoved Chekov off of him, letting the kid flop bonelessly onto the mattress. He looked up at McCoy through half-closed eyes, his face flushed.
“Stay,” McCoy ordered as he started to strip. He heard “yes, Sir,” and sped up, practically tearing his shirt as he pulled it over his head. His fingers dug into his belt and he spared a glance for the horny teenager sprawled out on the bed, who had taken the initiative and was pulling at his own jeans where they'd got stuck at his ankles.
McCoy kicked off his boots, stepped out of his jeans and climbed on top of Chekov, wearing nothing but his boxers. The kid was completely naked, having removed his own boxers while McCoy was struggling with his boots. He felt hands at the waistband of his boxers and allowed Chekov to ease them over his hips and as far down his thighs as the kid could reach, at which point McCoy finished off the job himself.
His cock was hard and heavy, and if his breath caught when it brushed against the inside of Chekov's smooth thigh, it was nothing compared to how it felt when Chekov's hips shifted slightly and their cocks slid smoothly together, slicked up with precome. He let himself drop onto Chekov's chest, buried his head in the crook of the kid's neck and let out a deep, needy groan. Chekov whimpered and pushed up against him.
“Fuck,” McCoy whispered, raising his head far enough to twist it and look up at Chekov, who was staring up at the ceiling with concentration all over his face. McCoy leaned in and bit the kid's ear, smirking through the startled gasp, and then rolled them both over so that the kid was on top and straddling him and looking down at him with the same look of concentration and a little bit of awe.
“Go fetch the lube in my pocket,” he ordered, pushing up on the kid's thighs. Chekov leaned over, off the side of the bed and scrabbled at McCoy's jeans until he found what he was looking for. He pulled himself upright without much effort and held out the small bottle of lubricant. His face was serious, a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, and McCoy wondered whether he was taking the kid's virginity, but decided not to ask. It wouldn't stop him if he was, wouldn't make him take any more care. He was a doctor; he knew exactly how gentle he needed to be and how much roughness he could get away with.
He didn't bother preparing the kid, but took the time to slick himself up instead, making sure he smeared enough lube over the kid's asshole that there wouldn't be any resistance. He lifted the kid's hips and eased him down onto his cock, letting him take it in at his own pace. Chekov's gaze stayed locked on his until he was balls deep in the kid, and then his eyes fluttered shut and he let out the breath he'd been holding in, his fingers gripping McCoy's hips tightly.
“Hold on,” he grunted, thrusting his hips upwards to push the kid up and then pulling back while holding the kid up with both hands. He held Chekov still and began to thrust, starting off slow but quickly speeding up until his ears were pounding with sharp, irregular breaths and the slap of flesh against flesh.
Chekov braced his knees against the mattress and leaned forward, his hands planted on either side of McCoy's chest and his head hanging down, mouth open and full of needy little gasps and moans. McCoy wasn't seventeen any more and he'd never been so fucking pretty anyway; his noises were low growls and grunts of exertion as he pounded into the kid, sweat beading on his chest and arms and thighs as the hot, tight pleasure in his groin built up and took over his thinking completely.
Chekov was gasping on every upward thrust by now; half of it from the thick head of McCoy's cock hitting his prostate and half from the way that his breaths were being torn from his chest before he could get enough oxygen. He closed his eyes and moaned, loudly and desperately and breathlessly as he came over McCoy's chest, hitting his chin with the first spurt and the rest of it coating his chest hair.
McCoy licked over his bottom lip to try and get a taste, and he sped up, fingers kneading the soft flesh at Chekov's hips as his thrusts became desperate and irregular. He growled deep in his throat and filled the kid with his come. Chekov was struggling to hold himself up, his thighs trembling under McCoy's hands, his own hands clutching at the sheets, and he looked a little dazed.
“You OK?” McCoy asked when he could think again, his hands rubbing gently over Chekov's hips where he'd been rough before. The kid nodded, and he took that to mean he was the good kind of dazed. He slowly lifted the kid off his cock and let Chekov sprawl over him, his cheek resting on the middle of McCoy's chest, right in the middle of the mostly-dry puddle of come.
He tugged at the kid's shoulder. “Need to get cleaned up,” he grunted, but the kid just murmured something and lifted his head long enough to lick the come off McCoy's chin and plant a kiss on his cheek. McCoy sighed and patted the kid's back fondly. His hand came to rest in Chekov's hair and he stroked it absent-mindedly.
The absinthe was catching up with him; his head was spinning and his eyes were starting to close on their own. Yawning widely, he tightened his grip on Chekov and felt the kid's long arms hugging him back. They probably ought to get into bed properly, ought to get cleaned up and they should drink some water if they didn't want to wake up tomorrow with a hangover, but Chekov was already asleep, his chest rising and falling with every deep, contented breath, and McCoy was too close to sleep himself to give these cthoughts any consideration.
His last thought before he fell asleep was I wonder if he'll suck me off in the morning.