Russian Roulette Is Not the Same Without a Gun
Just in time for Valentines Day!
Title: Russian Roulette Is Not the Same Without a Gun
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, McCoy/Chekov/Spock/Kirk . . . you get the idea
Rating: NC-17, for language, violence and pr0n
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Given what I've produced here, that's probably for the best.
Warnings: MIRRORVERSE. Possibly disturbing investigations of sexuality. Also, bloodplay.
A/N: I . . . I don't even know. Someone says "McChekov/Spork foursome" and this is what I come up with. *headdesk* I mean . . . bloodplay?? That's not even my thing! I have absolutely no idea where this came from, but here it is. OH MY GOD GUYS THERE IS ARTWORK NOW. IT IS AMAZING. IT IS EPICALLY HOT. IT IS MASSIVELY NSFW! Made by the amazing chaosraven , who is . . . yeah. fkjdl;sjfd;la
Summary: PWP. McCoy has had a long day, and he's in the mood for something a little different.
This isn’t like their usual nights together. Some things are the same: the sounds, and the smells, enough for all of it to be familiar, despite the contrasts. Wet sucking noises, gasps and whimpers and little choking cries. Salt and musk, the air thick and heavy and hot with it.
Then there are the things it’s not. It’s not Chekov flat on his back, slender arms stretched above his head by the manacles’ firm hold. It’s not a long, lean body twisting and arching in pleasure and pain, not a gasping voice pleading with him as a rock-hard cock lies dripping against a white stomach.
McCoy enjoys those nights-enjoys them more than he probably should, a small voice at the back of his mind whispers-but it’s been a long day and he’s not as young as he used to be, and tonight he’s in the mood for something different.
Jim and Spock don’t usually join them, either, but like he said. Different.
Truth be told, it’s really only their presence that makes him accept this turn of events. He’s reasonably sure that neither of them want him dead just yet, not when he’s still proving useful to the ship. So he’s reasonably sure, as well, that they’ll help him keep Chekov in line. Lord knows, he doesn’t trust the kid as far as he can throw him.
It’s the curls, he thinks sometimes. The curls, and those big green eyes, and the way he’ll look at you like a sweet, trusting little puppy. He’s good, McCoy thinks. His act is flawless, believable enough to make you forget that no one that innocent would ever have made it so far in Starfleet, so fast. Hell, McCoy might have fallen for it himself if he weren’t, as CMO, in a position to see the damage the kid wreaks on those who have.
Chekov likes knives, same as McCoy. And McCoy could tell, studying the bodies the boy left behind, that they were more than just slash-and-hack jobs. He’s seen plenty of those, and they’re interesting in their own way, but these . . . these went deeper. Cuts like these, he’d thought to himself as his fingers danced along split skin and muscle that gaped down to the bone, they had feeling behind them. Each slice had meaning, had purpose. There was art in this.
It had taken some time-three, maybe four bodies-before he’d started to see the pattern. Before he’d started to notice the looks being cast his way from beneath long, sandy lashes. The idea that Chekov had done this, even in part, to get his attention had seemed at first too ludicrous to be believed. Not with the way everyone on the ship sees him, the way he tries to get everyone on the ship to see him. But after a time it couldn’t be ignored, or denied, that they were messages to him. Love letters carved into flesh.
So McCoy didn’t fall for the act; he just fell for the kid.
Doesn’t mean he trusts him, though, and he’s glad to have Spock there with his fingers buried in Chekov’s ass as pretty blonde curls bob up and down in McCoy’s lap. Glad for the assurance that he’s not going to end up on a slab in his own Sickbay in the morning, and glad because of the way that whatever Spock’s doing has Chekov gasping and humming in pleasure. The kid’s mouth is a wonder anyway, all soft lips and wicked tongue and eager, demanding suction. But those hums and moans he’s making now around McCoy’s cock . . . hell, they’re almost as good as when he chokes.
It’s a different kind of pleasure, he discovers, to lie back with his arms crossed behind his head and simply watch, and feel, and observe. Spock seems to be taking a similar tack, moving his fingers almost lazily in and out of Chekov’s body while Jim buries his face in Spock’s groin. Every now and then Jim will lift his head and twist around to lap his tongue across Spock’s fingers where they’re stretching Chekov open. McCoy figures it’s about equal parts playing to his bondmate’s kink and the urge to make the kid squirm. To be honest he doesn’t really care about the motives, so long as the end result is those desperate little whimpers vibrating against his cock as Chekov takes him deeper into his throat.
McCoy is toying with the idea of reaching down and tangling a hand in Chekov’s hair, to hold him still while he fucks that pretty face, when Jim does something to Spock’s fingers that finally makes the Vulcan snap. With a growl he rips himself away and tosses Jim onto his back, eyes smoldering down at him out of an otherwise impassive face. Jim smirks and arches up against him, and they’re staring at each other in that way that means they’re thinking at each other again. Whatever they’re saying must be good, because moments later Spock has Jim’s knees pressed to his chest and is entering him in one violent thrust.
There’s something incredibly satisfying, McCoy thinks, in seeing his captain getting used like that, his body being worked hard and fast and rough. It seems Jim agrees, if the way his hips thrust up and his eyes shut on a blissful moan are any indication. Seeing it makes McCoy want Chekov like that, want him laid out beneath him like a feast. It will mean giving up his mouth, though, and indecision holds him there until Chekov pulls up on his own, releasing McCoy’s cock with a wet popping sound. Decision made for him, McCoy is more than willing to follow his commanding officers’ lead. Before he can move, however, a long, slim body is crawling over him and settling on his hips, and raw red lips seal over his own.
Mild alarm flares. The kid has way too much control in this position for him to allow it, despite what some parts of him think about having a lap full of eager teenager. He pulls his hands from behind his head and grips Chekov’s hips, ready to flip him over and fuck him through the mattress, as per their usual.
He doesn’t know where the knife comes from. Nowhere on the kid’s body, that’s clear enough; Chekov must have stashed it beneath the mattress or under the bed when he came in, and damn it, McCoy knew he should’ve frisked the little shit. Now, though, with a blade pressed firmly against his throat and big green eyes opening to gaze down at him in triumph, he just drops his hands and waits.
Spock growls again, and McCoy looks over to see that he’s slowed his thrusts almost to a halt, his eyes locked on the knife. Chekov doesn’t so much as glance up, however, and the blade doesn’t lift from McCoy’s neck. Apparently satisfied that his mate and captain isn’t in danger, Spock speeds up again, though his eyes remain locked on the scene playing out next to him on the bed.
Chekov’s hips shift, raise up, and then he’s pressing down, taking McCoy inside of him in one long, slow movement. Pretty lips tremble open on a tiny, pleased noise. Breathing raggedly, he begins to move.
It’s been a long time since McCoy’s had anyone ride him like this, as though his body is just a convenient tool to get themself off. Not since his ex-wife, he thinks, the idea of her coming close to killing his libido in a way that the knife against his carotid and the thin trickle of his blood trailing down to stain the sheets couldn’t. But then Chekov’s hips twist, and McCoy lets out a jagged cry. There’s nothing after that but tight heat and cool metal and miles of pale, flawless skin.
Christ, the kid is tight, so fucking tight despite how often they’ve done this, how many times McCoy has stretched him until he’s bled and sobbed. The medical part of his mind is intrigued for the split second it takes before it dies out altogether because really, he doesn’t care. It feels incredible, and the how and why are supremely, sublimely unimportant so long as he just keeps moving.
The knife shifts, hovering above his heart for a moment as Chekov’s hips slow. The blade trails from his left nipple to his right, and McCoy tries to ignore the eager twitching of his cock where it’s buried in the boy’s body. Then the cool tip slides into his flesh, the edge so sharp and smooth that for long moments there’s no pain, only the strange feeling of skin separating and the sudden heat of his blood breaking the surface.
Chekov’s hand is steady, as McCoy knew it would be, as he carves graceful shapes into skin. It’s a careful balance: too shallow to do real damage but deep enough that they both know it will scar. And all the time slender hips are moving, shifting, muscles squeezing around him so that McCoy is caught helpless in a web of mind-numbing pain and pleasure.
Dimly, he recognizes that Jim’s eyes have opened and turned to watch them as Spock continues to fuck him. McCoy doesn’t pay him much mind, unable to focus on anything but the havoc that’s being wreaked on his body. Then Spock reaches out, long white fingers dipping into the blood pooling on his chest, and McCoy tenses. Those fingertips are so close to the blade, and he’s torn between terror that Chekov might nick them and desperate anticipation of the very same thing.
As though sensing his thoughts, Spock pulls his hand back. McCoy’s blood slides slowly towards his palm for a moment before his fingers are pressing against Jim’s lips, sliding inside an eager mouth. Jim’s eyes flutter half-closed again at the taste; he sucks lustily and Spock groans, hips snapping forward with renewed violence.
Chekov is panting heavily by the time he finishes, elegant Cyrillic script stretching from one side of McCoy’s chest to the other. His pupils are blown, making his eyes look more black than green, and when he leans down his kiss is desperate and violent and just one step shy of madness. The knife clatters to the floor as their chests press together, blood smearing wet and warm between them. McCoy’s hands find Chekov’s hips again, holding them still as he pounds up into him, warm and tight and fuck, yes, and Chekov’s semen is more wet warmth against their skin and McCoy is coming, coming apart, and . . .
. . . fuck . . .
. . . well. He comes back to himself with a warm, sated body half-draped over him, clever fingers tracing the edges of the boy’s name and a soft tongue lapping contentedly at a line of blood. Spock and Jim are curled up beside him, hands twined together in a lazy embrace. The room reeks of sweat and sex and blood, and his sheets are an entirely lost cause.
McCoy allows himself a quiet smile and wraps his arm around his lover’s back. Different, it seems, agrees with him.
Title: Russian Roulette Is Not the Same Without a Gun
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov, Spock/Kirk, McCoy/Chekov/Spock/Kirk . . . you get the idea
Rating: NC-17, for language, violence and pr0n
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Given what I've produced here, that's probably for the best.
Warnings: MIRRORVERSE. Possibly disturbing investigations of sexuality. Also, bloodplay.
A/N: I . . . I don't even know. Someone says "McChekov/Spork foursome" and this is what I come up with. *headdesk* I mean . . . bloodplay?? That's not even my thing! I have absolutely no idea where this came from, but here it is. OH MY GOD GUYS THERE IS ARTWORK NOW. IT IS AMAZING. IT IS EPICALLY HOT. IT IS MASSIVELY NSFW! Made by the amazing chaosraven , who is . . . yeah. fkjdl;sjfd;la
Summary: PWP. McCoy has had a long day, and he's in the mood for something a little different.
This isn’t like their usual nights together. Some things are the same: the sounds, and the smells, enough for all of it to be familiar, despite the contrasts. Wet sucking noises, gasps and whimpers and little choking cries. Salt and musk, the air thick and heavy and hot with it.
Then there are the things it’s not. It’s not Chekov flat on his back, slender arms stretched above his head by the manacles’ firm hold. It’s not a long, lean body twisting and arching in pleasure and pain, not a gasping voice pleading with him as a rock-hard cock lies dripping against a white stomach.
McCoy enjoys those nights-enjoys them more than he probably should, a small voice at the back of his mind whispers-but it’s been a long day and he’s not as young as he used to be, and tonight he’s in the mood for something different.
Jim and Spock don’t usually join them, either, but like he said. Different.
Truth be told, it’s really only their presence that makes him accept this turn of events. He’s reasonably sure that neither of them want him dead just yet, not when he’s still proving useful to the ship. So he’s reasonably sure, as well, that they’ll help him keep Chekov in line. Lord knows, he doesn’t trust the kid as far as he can throw him.
It’s the curls, he thinks sometimes. The curls, and those big green eyes, and the way he’ll look at you like a sweet, trusting little puppy. He’s good, McCoy thinks. His act is flawless, believable enough to make you forget that no one that innocent would ever have made it so far in Starfleet, so fast. Hell, McCoy might have fallen for it himself if he weren’t, as CMO, in a position to see the damage the kid wreaks on those who have.
Chekov likes knives, same as McCoy. And McCoy could tell, studying the bodies the boy left behind, that they were more than just slash-and-hack jobs. He’s seen plenty of those, and they’re interesting in their own way, but these . . . these went deeper. Cuts like these, he’d thought to himself as his fingers danced along split skin and muscle that gaped down to the bone, they had feeling behind them. Each slice had meaning, had purpose. There was art in this.
It had taken some time-three, maybe four bodies-before he’d started to see the pattern. Before he’d started to notice the looks being cast his way from beneath long, sandy lashes. The idea that Chekov had done this, even in part, to get his attention had seemed at first too ludicrous to be believed. Not with the way everyone on the ship sees him, the way he tries to get everyone on the ship to see him. But after a time it couldn’t be ignored, or denied, that they were messages to him. Love letters carved into flesh.
So McCoy didn’t fall for the act; he just fell for the kid.
Doesn’t mean he trusts him, though, and he’s glad to have Spock there with his fingers buried in Chekov’s ass as pretty blonde curls bob up and down in McCoy’s lap. Glad for the assurance that he’s not going to end up on a slab in his own Sickbay in the morning, and glad because of the way that whatever Spock’s doing has Chekov gasping and humming in pleasure. The kid’s mouth is a wonder anyway, all soft lips and wicked tongue and eager, demanding suction. But those hums and moans he’s making now around McCoy’s cock . . . hell, they’re almost as good as when he chokes.
It’s a different kind of pleasure, he discovers, to lie back with his arms crossed behind his head and simply watch, and feel, and observe. Spock seems to be taking a similar tack, moving his fingers almost lazily in and out of Chekov’s body while Jim buries his face in Spock’s groin. Every now and then Jim will lift his head and twist around to lap his tongue across Spock’s fingers where they’re stretching Chekov open. McCoy figures it’s about equal parts playing to his bondmate’s kink and the urge to make the kid squirm. To be honest he doesn’t really care about the motives, so long as the end result is those desperate little whimpers vibrating against his cock as Chekov takes him deeper into his throat.
McCoy is toying with the idea of reaching down and tangling a hand in Chekov’s hair, to hold him still while he fucks that pretty face, when Jim does something to Spock’s fingers that finally makes the Vulcan snap. With a growl he rips himself away and tosses Jim onto his back, eyes smoldering down at him out of an otherwise impassive face. Jim smirks and arches up against him, and they’re staring at each other in that way that means they’re thinking at each other again. Whatever they’re saying must be good, because moments later Spock has Jim’s knees pressed to his chest and is entering him in one violent thrust.
There’s something incredibly satisfying, McCoy thinks, in seeing his captain getting used like that, his body being worked hard and fast and rough. It seems Jim agrees, if the way his hips thrust up and his eyes shut on a blissful moan are any indication. Seeing it makes McCoy want Chekov like that, want him laid out beneath him like a feast. It will mean giving up his mouth, though, and indecision holds him there until Chekov pulls up on his own, releasing McCoy’s cock with a wet popping sound. Decision made for him, McCoy is more than willing to follow his commanding officers’ lead. Before he can move, however, a long, slim body is crawling over him and settling on his hips, and raw red lips seal over his own.
Mild alarm flares. The kid has way too much control in this position for him to allow it, despite what some parts of him think about having a lap full of eager teenager. He pulls his hands from behind his head and grips Chekov’s hips, ready to flip him over and fuck him through the mattress, as per their usual.
He doesn’t know where the knife comes from. Nowhere on the kid’s body, that’s clear enough; Chekov must have stashed it beneath the mattress or under the bed when he came in, and damn it, McCoy knew he should’ve frisked the little shit. Now, though, with a blade pressed firmly against his throat and big green eyes opening to gaze down at him in triumph, he just drops his hands and waits.
Spock growls again, and McCoy looks over to see that he’s slowed his thrusts almost to a halt, his eyes locked on the knife. Chekov doesn’t so much as glance up, however, and the blade doesn’t lift from McCoy’s neck. Apparently satisfied that his mate and captain isn’t in danger, Spock speeds up again, though his eyes remain locked on the scene playing out next to him on the bed.
Chekov’s hips shift, raise up, and then he’s pressing down, taking McCoy inside of him in one long, slow movement. Pretty lips tremble open on a tiny, pleased noise. Breathing raggedly, he begins to move.
It’s been a long time since McCoy’s had anyone ride him like this, as though his body is just a convenient tool to get themself off. Not since his ex-wife, he thinks, the idea of her coming close to killing his libido in a way that the knife against his carotid and the thin trickle of his blood trailing down to stain the sheets couldn’t. But then Chekov’s hips twist, and McCoy lets out a jagged cry. There’s nothing after that but tight heat and cool metal and miles of pale, flawless skin.
Christ, the kid is tight, so fucking tight despite how often they’ve done this, how many times McCoy has stretched him until he’s bled and sobbed. The medical part of his mind is intrigued for the split second it takes before it dies out altogether because really, he doesn’t care. It feels incredible, and the how and why are supremely, sublimely unimportant so long as he just keeps moving.
The knife shifts, hovering above his heart for a moment as Chekov’s hips slow. The blade trails from his left nipple to his right, and McCoy tries to ignore the eager twitching of his cock where it’s buried in the boy’s body. Then the cool tip slides into his flesh, the edge so sharp and smooth that for long moments there’s no pain, only the strange feeling of skin separating and the sudden heat of his blood breaking the surface.
Chekov’s hand is steady, as McCoy knew it would be, as he carves graceful shapes into skin. It’s a careful balance: too shallow to do real damage but deep enough that they both know it will scar. And all the time slender hips are moving, shifting, muscles squeezing around him so that McCoy is caught helpless in a web of mind-numbing pain and pleasure.
Dimly, he recognizes that Jim’s eyes have opened and turned to watch them as Spock continues to fuck him. McCoy doesn’t pay him much mind, unable to focus on anything but the havoc that’s being wreaked on his body. Then Spock reaches out, long white fingers dipping into the blood pooling on his chest, and McCoy tenses. Those fingertips are so close to the blade, and he’s torn between terror that Chekov might nick them and desperate anticipation of the very same thing.
As though sensing his thoughts, Spock pulls his hand back. McCoy’s blood slides slowly towards his palm for a moment before his fingers are pressing against Jim’s lips, sliding inside an eager mouth. Jim’s eyes flutter half-closed again at the taste; he sucks lustily and Spock groans, hips snapping forward with renewed violence.
Chekov is panting heavily by the time he finishes, elegant Cyrillic script stretching from one side of McCoy’s chest to the other. His pupils are blown, making his eyes look more black than green, and when he leans down his kiss is desperate and violent and just one step shy of madness. The knife clatters to the floor as their chests press together, blood smearing wet and warm between them. McCoy’s hands find Chekov’s hips again, holding them still as he pounds up into him, warm and tight and fuck, yes, and Chekov’s semen is more wet warmth against their skin and McCoy is coming, coming apart, and . . .
. . . fuck . . .
. . . well. He comes back to himself with a warm, sated body half-draped over him, clever fingers tracing the edges of the boy’s name and a soft tongue lapping contentedly at a line of blood. Spock and Jim are curled up beside him, hands twined together in a lazy embrace. The room reeks of sweat and sex and blood, and his sheets are an entirely lost cause.
McCoy allows himself a quiet smile and wraps his arm around his lover’s back. Different, it seems, agrees with him.