Some Distraction; McCoy/Chekov
Title: Some Distraction
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Word Count: ~1,300
Rating: R, for lightly sexual situations
Notes: Yet again, writing Star Trek ficlets > sleeping. Oh well. In celebration of getting to see the movie again today (I cannot explain the awesomeness, or the unexpectedness), and because I wanted to. I really did not intend this to get so...serious, is probably the right word here. It was supposed to be more fantasy-focused and in this sense, I think I kind of failed at the prompt.
Speaking of prompts, this would also be for the st_xi_kink meme: "The one where Chekov makes McCoy feel like a dirty old man."
Apologies for typos. Changes of various sorts may be made later when I reread this.
Summary: Pavel goes swimming. McCoy watches. Then other stuff happens.
Disclaimer: Star Trek, McCoy, Chekov, any and all planets, are note mine.
Ensign Chekov announces loudly that he has not been swimming in SO long and then he crosses his arms down against his chest, grips the edges of his gold and black shirts in his fists, and pulls them both off in one swift motion, flashing his bare skin.
Dr. McCoy is standing farther up shore. His black boots sink in the sand. He’s standing too far back for even the slightest hint of water to catch his toes, and he is fully clothed. He hasn’t been swimming in a long time either, but if anything, the ocean is even more dangerous than space-just because it’s made of water doesn’t mean it’s clean-and he has no intention of stripping down and following his crewmembers in.
Still, he can watch.
Watch as Chekov throws the two shirts down on the sand and stretches his long arms over his head like he’s trying to touch the sun, watch his pale torso grow long through the stretch, so lean, skin so taut, no mere wisp of a body this but so flexible, has to be, and strong, despite first appearances, muscles from combat training visible in the afternoon light.
(How could one possibly keep from thinking these thoughts, thoughts of sucking kisses into that skin, trailing one’s mouth up those ribs as they jut out, lungs full of held breath, biting into that neck, so soft-impossible to stop thoughts like these, impossible.)
McCoy clears his throat, very low, so no one can hear him. He crosses his arms tight against his chest.
Chekov kicks off his boots in two different directions and throws his socks after them, hopping around on one foot at a time as he does, laughing at himself and Sulu is laughing at him, too, calling him to hurry up. Just before he pulls the second sock off the ends of his toes he loses his balance and falls, still giggling, and McCoy’s stomach tightens because the laugh is a young man’s laugh, barely a man’s laugh.
But he can’t stop watching. Chekov pulls himself up and skims out of his trousers as quickly as he can, and McCoy swallows hard at the sight of those bare legs; the boy is skinny all the way down, but lithe. He imagines those legs wrapped around him, as he presses all those barely nineteen years hard against the wall, tongue twisting tongue-
He shakes his head at the sound of his name spoken just behind him.
“Dr. McCoy. I see that you, also, do not wish to swim as the rest of our colleagues do.”
McCoy can’t help feel a twinge of annoyance toward the pointy eared hobgoblin, at first, for how swiftly and efficiently he put an end to the Doctor’s fantasies. But perhaps it’s better. He hasn’t been this aware of Chekov’s age since their first mission-boy genius, that’s a new one, McCoy had thought, and shook his head at the craziness he’d found himself in. But now, as Chekov dissapears for a moment under the water, coming back up with a high shout and a forceful shake of the head, it’s hard not to notice. Barely more than a kid, McCoy thinks, and looks down at his boots.
“Dr. McCoy?” Spock repeats.
“Uh, yeah,” he answers, shaking his own head to clear the distraction. “I’m not much of a water person.”
“Neither am I,” Spock says. He is standing formally, hands behind his back, staring out a straight line to the horizon. “I trust you will find some other way to relax during your leave.”
Chekov’s legs kick out toward the sun and then somehow he’s twisted under the water and he comes up again head first. It’s hard to tell from the distance, but he seems to have caught sight of McCoy on the shore, and he raises one arm in a sweeping wave. McCoy waves a bit hesitantly back, and Spock raises one eyebrow.
“I think I’ll find some distraction, yes, Mr. Spock,” McCoy answers. He can’t help but feel a bit proud, despite everything, at the slight twitch in Spock’s expression, embarrassment for just a second on his face.
“You’ll be my undoing, kid,” McCoy huffs out in one shaky breath, and grips a bit tighter at Pavel’s hips.
Pavel just grins, and shifts a little where he’s straddled at McCoy’s waist. He runs one hand through the Doctor’s hair possessively and then leans down and kisses him, unexpected and breath catching, stretched open mouth and insistant tongue.
When he does speak, all he says is, “Vhen vill you stop referring to me as a kid, Leonard?” The words are spoken hot into his mouth and he closes his eyes and breathes them in.
“Out there on the beach today,” he answers, not an answer, he doesn’t care, he can move his hand up just the slightest bit and feel the lowest edge of Pavel’s spine through his skin, the ladder of his vertebrae. “Couldn’t stop watching you-looked like a-like a goddamn teenager.”
“I am a teenager, Doctor McCoy,” Pavel laughs, almost giggles, trailing his lips to his ear. He puts an evil, grinning emphasis to the title.
“Don’t remind me.”
But his order is more a groan and then Chekov grinds down his hips just the slightest, just enough, and McCoy’s thinking, no, I’m not a dirty old man, I’m a filthy one. He gasps out as much to Pavel and he laughs again like it’s all a joke. But it’s a breathless laugh.
“You are making zis too complicated, Leonard,” he whispers reassuringly, and begins to kiss softly, sweetly, down the line of McCoy’s jaw. “I am an adult and you are an adult and I vant you and you vant me and I am not stupid, yes, I see how you look at me and how you stare and I like it, I vant it, I encourage it, and I am alvways looking at you too, imagining you, horrible images of you I imagine sometimes even on ze bridge on slow days, Leonard, you are so sexy-” He’s kissing and nipping and licking in between words, words so quiet and so even, McCoy loses himself in them a little, slowly slips under them, and he almost doesn’t hear it, what Pavel adds on to the end.
“And you are so smart and so handsome and so kind and so good to me and I love you, a little.”
Then he pulls himself up to kiss McCoy straight on the mouth once more, and when they part, he just waits, staring down at McCoy’s face and giving him a moment to answer.
McCoy opens his eyes and meets Pavel’s, kind and longing above him in that flushed and sweaty and so beautiful face; there’s the slightest nervous smile to Pavel’s mouth, the slightest frown creasing between McCoy’s eyes.
“Just a little?” he asks finally.
“Maybe a little more than a little,” Pavel admits.
McCoy puts a palm to Pavel’s cheek, a light touch. He opens his mouth to say it back. But the moment holds too long and then Pavel’s eyes drop, stare down at their bodies pressed against each other, so much skin and so much skin.
“I’m still here,” McCoy says finally. “I’m still…Pavel…”
This is all he can say, just this breath of a name. He closes his eyes again and lets himself just feel, feel Pavel’s weight on him, the softness of skin beneath his rough fingertips.
A soft kiss lands at his temple. “Is okay, Leonard,” whispers light into the curl of his ear. “I am young but I am patient.” Lips trail along his cheek and meet his lips again and now he’s thinking, can’t help thinking, you are a lucky son of a bitch, old man.
Pairing: McCoy/Chekov
Word Count: ~1,300
Rating: R, for lightly sexual situations
Notes: Yet again, writing Star Trek ficlets > sleeping. Oh well. In celebration of getting to see the movie again today (I cannot explain the awesomeness, or the unexpectedness), and because I wanted to. I really did not intend this to get so...serious, is probably the right word here. It was supposed to be more fantasy-focused and in this sense, I think I kind of failed at the prompt.
Speaking of prompts, this would also be for the st_xi_kink meme: "The one where Chekov makes McCoy feel like a dirty old man."
Apologies for typos. Changes of various sorts may be made later when I reread this.
Summary: Pavel goes swimming. McCoy watches. Then other stuff happens.
Disclaimer: Star Trek, McCoy, Chekov, any and all planets, are note mine.
Ensign Chekov announces loudly that he has not been swimming in SO long and then he crosses his arms down against his chest, grips the edges of his gold and black shirts in his fists, and pulls them both off in one swift motion, flashing his bare skin.
Dr. McCoy is standing farther up shore. His black boots sink in the sand. He’s standing too far back for even the slightest hint of water to catch his toes, and he is fully clothed. He hasn’t been swimming in a long time either, but if anything, the ocean is even more dangerous than space-just because it’s made of water doesn’t mean it’s clean-and he has no intention of stripping down and following his crewmembers in.
Still, he can watch.
Watch as Chekov throws the two shirts down on the sand and stretches his long arms over his head like he’s trying to touch the sun, watch his pale torso grow long through the stretch, so lean, skin so taut, no mere wisp of a body this but so flexible, has to be, and strong, despite first appearances, muscles from combat training visible in the afternoon light.
(How could one possibly keep from thinking these thoughts, thoughts of sucking kisses into that skin, trailing one’s mouth up those ribs as they jut out, lungs full of held breath, biting into that neck, so soft-impossible to stop thoughts like these, impossible.)
McCoy clears his throat, very low, so no one can hear him. He crosses his arms tight against his chest.
Chekov kicks off his boots in two different directions and throws his socks after them, hopping around on one foot at a time as he does, laughing at himself and Sulu is laughing at him, too, calling him to hurry up. Just before he pulls the second sock off the ends of his toes he loses his balance and falls, still giggling, and McCoy’s stomach tightens because the laugh is a young man’s laugh, barely a man’s laugh.
But he can’t stop watching. Chekov pulls himself up and skims out of his trousers as quickly as he can, and McCoy swallows hard at the sight of those bare legs; the boy is skinny all the way down, but lithe. He imagines those legs wrapped around him, as he presses all those barely nineteen years hard against the wall, tongue twisting tongue-
He shakes his head at the sound of his name spoken just behind him.
“Dr. McCoy. I see that you, also, do not wish to swim as the rest of our colleagues do.”
McCoy can’t help feel a twinge of annoyance toward the pointy eared hobgoblin, at first, for how swiftly and efficiently he put an end to the Doctor’s fantasies. But perhaps it’s better. He hasn’t been this aware of Chekov’s age since their first mission-boy genius, that’s a new one, McCoy had thought, and shook his head at the craziness he’d found himself in. But now, as Chekov dissapears for a moment under the water, coming back up with a high shout and a forceful shake of the head, it’s hard not to notice. Barely more than a kid, McCoy thinks, and looks down at his boots.
“Dr. McCoy?” Spock repeats.
“Uh, yeah,” he answers, shaking his own head to clear the distraction. “I’m not much of a water person.”
“Neither am I,” Spock says. He is standing formally, hands behind his back, staring out a straight line to the horizon. “I trust you will find some other way to relax during your leave.”
Chekov’s legs kick out toward the sun and then somehow he’s twisted under the water and he comes up again head first. It’s hard to tell from the distance, but he seems to have caught sight of McCoy on the shore, and he raises one arm in a sweeping wave. McCoy waves a bit hesitantly back, and Spock raises one eyebrow.
“I think I’ll find some distraction, yes, Mr. Spock,” McCoy answers. He can’t help but feel a bit proud, despite everything, at the slight twitch in Spock’s expression, embarrassment for just a second on his face.
“You’ll be my undoing, kid,” McCoy huffs out in one shaky breath, and grips a bit tighter at Pavel’s hips.
Pavel just grins, and shifts a little where he’s straddled at McCoy’s waist. He runs one hand through the Doctor’s hair possessively and then leans down and kisses him, unexpected and breath catching, stretched open mouth and insistant tongue.
When he does speak, all he says is, “Vhen vill you stop referring to me as a kid, Leonard?” The words are spoken hot into his mouth and he closes his eyes and breathes them in.
“Out there on the beach today,” he answers, not an answer, he doesn’t care, he can move his hand up just the slightest bit and feel the lowest edge of Pavel’s spine through his skin, the ladder of his vertebrae. “Couldn’t stop watching you-looked like a-like a goddamn teenager.”
“I am a teenager, Doctor McCoy,” Pavel laughs, almost giggles, trailing his lips to his ear. He puts an evil, grinning emphasis to the title.
“Don’t remind me.”
But his order is more a groan and then Chekov grinds down his hips just the slightest, just enough, and McCoy’s thinking, no, I’m not a dirty old man, I’m a filthy one. He gasps out as much to Pavel and he laughs again like it’s all a joke. But it’s a breathless laugh.
“You are making zis too complicated, Leonard,” he whispers reassuringly, and begins to kiss softly, sweetly, down the line of McCoy’s jaw. “I am an adult and you are an adult and I vant you and you vant me and I am not stupid, yes, I see how you look at me and how you stare and I like it, I vant it, I encourage it, and I am alvways looking at you too, imagining you, horrible images of you I imagine sometimes even on ze bridge on slow days, Leonard, you are so sexy-” He’s kissing and nipping and licking in between words, words so quiet and so even, McCoy loses himself in them a little, slowly slips under them, and he almost doesn’t hear it, what Pavel adds on to the end.
“And you are so smart and so handsome and so kind and so good to me and I love you, a little.”
Then he pulls himself up to kiss McCoy straight on the mouth once more, and when they part, he just waits, staring down at McCoy’s face and giving him a moment to answer.
McCoy opens his eyes and meets Pavel’s, kind and longing above him in that flushed and sweaty and so beautiful face; there’s the slightest nervous smile to Pavel’s mouth, the slightest frown creasing between McCoy’s eyes.
“Just a little?” he asks finally.
“Maybe a little more than a little,” Pavel admits.
McCoy puts a palm to Pavel’s cheek, a light touch. He opens his mouth to say it back. But the moment holds too long and then Pavel’s eyes drop, stare down at their bodies pressed against each other, so much skin and so much skin.
“I’m still here,” McCoy says finally. “I’m still…Pavel…”
This is all he can say, just this breath of a name. He closes his eyes again and lets himself just feel, feel Pavel’s weight on him, the softness of skin beneath his rough fingertips.
A soft kiss lands at his temple. “Is okay, Leonard,” whispers light into the curl of his ear. “I am young but I am patient.” Lips trail along his cheek and meet his lips again and now he’s thinking, can’t help thinking, you are a lucky son of a bitch, old man.