Neck Pain - Star Trek - Chekov/McCoy
Title: Neck Pain
Pairing: Chekov/McCoy
Word Count: 1706
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for st_xi_kink.
Summary: When McCoy can't sleep, he slips into a little fantasy for stress relief.
He can't sleep, not up here in space. His eyes stay wide and he stares at the ceiling above him. Counting sheep does nothing. He's a doctor; he could grab some sedatives from the medical bay and be out like a light in seconds. Sure, it's a little bit on the morally grey side, but at this point McCoy doesn't think he gives a damn. He needs sleep and the Enterprise needs a fully alert doctor. Wouldn't do for him to fall asleep on the job. He glances at the clock by his bedside, and tells himself that if he's still awake in forty-five minutes then maybe that means it's time for drastic measures.
In the meantime, though, his hand slips under the covers, because there's a simpler type of relief that might help him drift off. Underneath his pyjama bottoms his cock is already beginning to harden in anticipation, a process that spends up considerably when he grasps himself and delivers a few lazy strokes to bring himself to full hardness. Natural relief; it's bound to be better than medication.
His eyes close, blocking out the heavy darkness of his room, and his mind immediately wanders to the one place and the one person that it's been focused on these days. The kid isn't his type, not at all. He's male for a start - and most of McCoy's sexual encounters have focused purely on women. On top of that, he's not even out of his teens, almost half McCoy's age, and McCoy's never been into that barely-legal trend. Not his thing. Not at all. Then there's that constant air of faux-innocence that drives him to endless irritation and there's the way he mangles his words and there's those unruly curls of hair...
In short, Pavel Chekov is not at all the kind of person that McCoy should be attracted to - but nobody, it would seem, has bothered to let his dick know this.
He immediately thinks about Chekov on his knees, right here in his bedroom. He could crouch by the side of McCoy's bed, looking up at him with pleading, coltish eyes. Blue, his eyes are such an unexpected splash of colour on his perfectly pale face. In the depths of McCoy's mind, Chekov whimpers and reaches out for him. "Please, sir," he says. "Please, may I..."
McCoy looks down at him, eyes neutral and evaluating. They're naked, both of them, and there are marks of use on Chekov's body already, fading bruises and bite marks. His neck is covered with those bites, some of them fresh enough that Bones can still see the indents from his teeth: everything about it shows that Chekov has been claimed. It's a sign that nobody else should look at him the way that McCoy does.
"Please - I want to..." And he can't say it, he won't. He stammers when he tries and a pink blush leaps to his skin. A blushing virgin... Something of a cliché, but whatever works. McCoy's lips curl into a smirk.
"Do you want to suck me?" McCoy offers, as kindly as if he were offering him sugar in his tea.
And, yes, of course Chekov wants to, that's the way fantasies work. McCoy wants to feel that hot young mouth around his dick and that means that, in his mind, Chekov is as much of a slut for it as he wants him to be. Still kneeling, Chekov whimpers again and leans forward, hands steadying himself on McCoy's hips as his lips descend tentatively over the head of McCoy's cock. Despite the signs of inexperience he manages to take McCoy deep - fucking impossibly deep - the first time he tries. He can feel Chekov's burning, slick mouth around every inch of him, from the tip to the root. Shouldn't even be possible for Chekov's small, delicate mouth to take him like this but he manages it, his wide-eyed gaze connecting with McCoy's eyes as he does so as if searching for approval from him.
McCoy reaches out for him, burying his hands in the uncontrollable curls on top of Chekov's head. With a firm grip he's able to guide Chekov's movements, tugging and pulling until he hits just the right pace. God, it's good - fast and rushed while pained but pleased noises are ripped from Chekov's mouth and only muffled by the cock he's almost choking on.
It's good but it's not enough, and the fantasy shifts and wavers when McCoy blinks. Chekov's mouth is gone, replaced by something much better - tighter. Chekov rests on the bed in front of him, ass in the air and his head and shoulders resting on McCoy's pillow. McCoy kneels behind him, embedded deep inside the boy's virginal young asshole. The figment that captures most of his attention is the strip of leather around Chekov's neck, the only item of clothing or jewellery on him. The black collar is even better than the bites and bruises were: a real mark of ownership, something that nobody would be able to ignore. There's a leash attached to it as well, clipped around a small metal ring at the back of Chekov's neck. McCoy's never done anything like this in real life, never wanted to, but as he looks down at Chekov now it's hotter than he ever would have considered before.
So deep inside of his young body that his hips are pressed flush against Chekov's pale ass, McCoy gives the end of the leash in his hand a powerful tug. Chekov responds with a strangled moan and allows himself to be pulled up until he's supporting himself on his forearms, spread before McCoy like an invitation to sin.
"Y'see this, Chekov?" McCoy says - and his voice is steady, not even ragged from his breathing. He could win an award from the goddamn Vulcans for showing that self-control. He gently tugs on the leash again to make sure the teen knows what he's talking about. "Do you know what it means?"
Rhetorical question but Chekov answers it all the same, his accent curling around words that make McCoy's hips start moving, start slamming against him as they fuck. "Means I'm yours, sir. And everybody knows it. I'm - yours. Going to stay here forever. Waiting. Always waiting."
His voice rocks and shudders every time that McCoy thrusts into him, and he punctuates each sentence with breathy gasps and foreign curses. "Waiting for what?" McCoy prompts between grit teeth.
"For you - for you to fuck me. Need it. I need it, always. You can use me, sir; I will be ready for you, whenever you need me." He promises everything that McCoy needs him to, giving him eternity and dependability even though he is seventeen damn years old and if this was real he'd up and leave him like everyone else. Not now, not here, not when he's a fantasy of McCoy's control and - damn it - not when McCoy is so close to coming he could scream.
Without opening his eyes he scrambles for a tissue from his bedside table, still imagining how Chekov would promise him the world and could probably deliver it. He imagines the taste of Chekov's untouched skin and his hips jut upwards into his frantic hand. He comes hard and catches it with the tissue so it won't stain his bed, though the sheets are already wet with the sweat from his skin. He opens his eyes, panting for breath, and throws the rubbish into the bin in the dark. Rolling over onto his side, dirty images still play through his mind, but McCoy is too tired out and sleepy to feel like a pervert as, sated, he begins to drift off.
*
He's well-rested when he gets into work tomorrow and unnaturally good-tempered; there's even a pleasant smile on his face. He is comfortable and the ship is not in danger. The world seems a little bit brighter today than it did yesterday.
And, of course, he should have known that his good mood could not be sustained for long. Fate has it out for him in a way that not even his ex-wife or Kirk could compete with. He knows this for a fact because his first patient of the day is sitting on one of the beds waiting for him: and that first patient is none other than Pavel Chekov himself. He looks tired, a stark contrast to McCoy, but even in his rumpled state there is something irritatingly cherubic about him. McCoy's smile turns quickly to a scowl.
"Doctor," Chekov says brightly, sitting up straighter when he sees McCoy approaching him. He is sitting at the side of the bed and his legs dangle in the air, far from the floor. "The keptain told me I must see you. I have slept very badly."
"Trouble sleeping," McCoy murmurs, taking care not to meet Chekov's eyes because he knows exactly what kind of images are going to race through his head the second he sees them. "I can fix that. There are some-"
"No, no. I go to sleep fine, but when I sleep it is bad. My neck, doctor, it hurts."
Damn it, McCoy is a doctor, not a hormone-ruled teenager. The mention of Chevok's neck absolutely does not make him swallow hard and think of leather collars and controlling leashes. "Your neck, ensign?"
"Yes. I must have sleeped- slept on it very strange. I cannot turn it." He demonstrates by trying to look to the side, only to wince after moving barely a centimetre, and when he looks up at McCoy he manages to catch his gaze. His eyes are big, blue and trusting, and there's a hopefulness in them that could fuel a few more fantasies. "Please, can you help me?"
McCoy swallows again, trying to ignore the blood rushing south, and he prescribes some painkillers in a hurry to get the kid out of his sight. As he watches Chekov leave, he curses his own bad luck and vows that he's going to stick to pornos in the future: their navigator might be the perfect fodder for a sordid imagination, but the potential awkwardness in the morning is more than McCoy is willing to put up with.
Pairing: Chekov/McCoy
Word Count: 1706
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for st_xi_kink.
Summary: When McCoy can't sleep, he slips into a little fantasy for stress relief.
He can't sleep, not up here in space. His eyes stay wide and he stares at the ceiling above him. Counting sheep does nothing. He's a doctor; he could grab some sedatives from the medical bay and be out like a light in seconds. Sure, it's a little bit on the morally grey side, but at this point McCoy doesn't think he gives a damn. He needs sleep and the Enterprise needs a fully alert doctor. Wouldn't do for him to fall asleep on the job. He glances at the clock by his bedside, and tells himself that if he's still awake in forty-five minutes then maybe that means it's time for drastic measures.
In the meantime, though, his hand slips under the covers, because there's a simpler type of relief that might help him drift off. Underneath his pyjama bottoms his cock is already beginning to harden in anticipation, a process that spends up considerably when he grasps himself and delivers a few lazy strokes to bring himself to full hardness. Natural relief; it's bound to be better than medication.
His eyes close, blocking out the heavy darkness of his room, and his mind immediately wanders to the one place and the one person that it's been focused on these days. The kid isn't his type, not at all. He's male for a start - and most of McCoy's sexual encounters have focused purely on women. On top of that, he's not even out of his teens, almost half McCoy's age, and McCoy's never been into that barely-legal trend. Not his thing. Not at all. Then there's that constant air of faux-innocence that drives him to endless irritation and there's the way he mangles his words and there's those unruly curls of hair...
In short, Pavel Chekov is not at all the kind of person that McCoy should be attracted to - but nobody, it would seem, has bothered to let his dick know this.
He immediately thinks about Chekov on his knees, right here in his bedroom. He could crouch by the side of McCoy's bed, looking up at him with pleading, coltish eyes. Blue, his eyes are such an unexpected splash of colour on his perfectly pale face. In the depths of McCoy's mind, Chekov whimpers and reaches out for him. "Please, sir," he says. "Please, may I..."
McCoy looks down at him, eyes neutral and evaluating. They're naked, both of them, and there are marks of use on Chekov's body already, fading bruises and bite marks. His neck is covered with those bites, some of them fresh enough that Bones can still see the indents from his teeth: everything about it shows that Chekov has been claimed. It's a sign that nobody else should look at him the way that McCoy does.
"Please - I want to..." And he can't say it, he won't. He stammers when he tries and a pink blush leaps to his skin. A blushing virgin... Something of a cliché, but whatever works. McCoy's lips curl into a smirk.
"Do you want to suck me?" McCoy offers, as kindly as if he were offering him sugar in his tea.
And, yes, of course Chekov wants to, that's the way fantasies work. McCoy wants to feel that hot young mouth around his dick and that means that, in his mind, Chekov is as much of a slut for it as he wants him to be. Still kneeling, Chekov whimpers again and leans forward, hands steadying himself on McCoy's hips as his lips descend tentatively over the head of McCoy's cock. Despite the signs of inexperience he manages to take McCoy deep - fucking impossibly deep - the first time he tries. He can feel Chekov's burning, slick mouth around every inch of him, from the tip to the root. Shouldn't even be possible for Chekov's small, delicate mouth to take him like this but he manages it, his wide-eyed gaze connecting with McCoy's eyes as he does so as if searching for approval from him.
McCoy reaches out for him, burying his hands in the uncontrollable curls on top of Chekov's head. With a firm grip he's able to guide Chekov's movements, tugging and pulling until he hits just the right pace. God, it's good - fast and rushed while pained but pleased noises are ripped from Chekov's mouth and only muffled by the cock he's almost choking on.
It's good but it's not enough, and the fantasy shifts and wavers when McCoy blinks. Chekov's mouth is gone, replaced by something much better - tighter. Chekov rests on the bed in front of him, ass in the air and his head and shoulders resting on McCoy's pillow. McCoy kneels behind him, embedded deep inside the boy's virginal young asshole. The figment that captures most of his attention is the strip of leather around Chekov's neck, the only item of clothing or jewellery on him. The black collar is even better than the bites and bruises were: a real mark of ownership, something that nobody would be able to ignore. There's a leash attached to it as well, clipped around a small metal ring at the back of Chekov's neck. McCoy's never done anything like this in real life, never wanted to, but as he looks down at Chekov now it's hotter than he ever would have considered before.
So deep inside of his young body that his hips are pressed flush against Chekov's pale ass, McCoy gives the end of the leash in his hand a powerful tug. Chekov responds with a strangled moan and allows himself to be pulled up until he's supporting himself on his forearms, spread before McCoy like an invitation to sin.
"Y'see this, Chekov?" McCoy says - and his voice is steady, not even ragged from his breathing. He could win an award from the goddamn Vulcans for showing that self-control. He gently tugs on the leash again to make sure the teen knows what he's talking about. "Do you know what it means?"
Rhetorical question but Chekov answers it all the same, his accent curling around words that make McCoy's hips start moving, start slamming against him as they fuck. "Means I'm yours, sir. And everybody knows it. I'm - yours. Going to stay here forever. Waiting. Always waiting."
His voice rocks and shudders every time that McCoy thrusts into him, and he punctuates each sentence with breathy gasps and foreign curses. "Waiting for what?" McCoy prompts between grit teeth.
"For you - for you to fuck me. Need it. I need it, always. You can use me, sir; I will be ready for you, whenever you need me." He promises everything that McCoy needs him to, giving him eternity and dependability even though he is seventeen damn years old and if this was real he'd up and leave him like everyone else. Not now, not here, not when he's a fantasy of McCoy's control and - damn it - not when McCoy is so close to coming he could scream.
Without opening his eyes he scrambles for a tissue from his bedside table, still imagining how Chekov would promise him the world and could probably deliver it. He imagines the taste of Chekov's untouched skin and his hips jut upwards into his frantic hand. He comes hard and catches it with the tissue so it won't stain his bed, though the sheets are already wet with the sweat from his skin. He opens his eyes, panting for breath, and throws the rubbish into the bin in the dark. Rolling over onto his side, dirty images still play through his mind, but McCoy is too tired out and sleepy to feel like a pervert as, sated, he begins to drift off.
*
He's well-rested when he gets into work tomorrow and unnaturally good-tempered; there's even a pleasant smile on his face. He is comfortable and the ship is not in danger. The world seems a little bit brighter today than it did yesterday.
And, of course, he should have known that his good mood could not be sustained for long. Fate has it out for him in a way that not even his ex-wife or Kirk could compete with. He knows this for a fact because his first patient of the day is sitting on one of the beds waiting for him: and that first patient is none other than Pavel Chekov himself. He looks tired, a stark contrast to McCoy, but even in his rumpled state there is something irritatingly cherubic about him. McCoy's smile turns quickly to a scowl.
"Doctor," Chekov says brightly, sitting up straighter when he sees McCoy approaching him. He is sitting at the side of the bed and his legs dangle in the air, far from the floor. "The keptain told me I must see you. I have slept very badly."
"Trouble sleeping," McCoy murmurs, taking care not to meet Chekov's eyes because he knows exactly what kind of images are going to race through his head the second he sees them. "I can fix that. There are some-"
"No, no. I go to sleep fine, but when I sleep it is bad. My neck, doctor, it hurts."
Damn it, McCoy is a doctor, not a hormone-ruled teenager. The mention of Chevok's neck absolutely does not make him swallow hard and think of leather collars and controlling leashes. "Your neck, ensign?"
"Yes. I must have sleeped- slept on it very strange. I cannot turn it." He demonstrates by trying to look to the side, only to wince after moving barely a centimetre, and when he looks up at McCoy he manages to catch his gaze. His eyes are big, blue and trusting, and there's a hopefulness in them that could fuel a few more fantasies. "Please, can you help me?"
McCoy swallows again, trying to ignore the blood rushing south, and he prescribes some painkillers in a hurry to get the kid out of his sight. As he watches Chekov leave, he curses his own bad luck and vows that he's going to stick to pornos in the future: their navigator might be the perfect fodder for a sordid imagination, but the potential awkwardness in the morning is more than McCoy is willing to put up with.