You Eighteen Yet?
Fourth Time: 17 and Nine Months
» Rating: M
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance
» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations
» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. Cute and/or sexy times with the good doctor and his bit of Russian jailbait. Inspired by the "You 18 yet?" panel of Annime1231's Star Trek Reboot Meme on deviantART. Look it up, it is the lulz. :-D
Fourth Time: 17 and Nine Months
McCoy didn't think he'd blushed this hard since his baby sister caught him with classic Playboys on his PADD.
"This—" He was cut off by a low hiss, the rush of hot breath against the nape of his neck raising goosebumps all down his spine. His voice cracked like a teenager's. "This is probably not the best angle," he managed to get out. Specifically, he was speaking of the angle that had one Pavel Andreivitch Chekhov draped over the front of Bones's body while the doctor attempted to remove bits of shrapnel from his back and hindquarters.
"But it hurts," Chekhov told him with a pained whimper, fingers clutching distractingly at Bones' shoulders. "I need somezing to hold on to."
The Russian was naked but for a thin, open-backed hospital gown that was threatening to fall off any moment, and he knelt on the edge of an examination table with his weight braced against Bones's chest. The position was, to put it mildly, dangerous—it put the Russian's bare ass on display and his mouth just a few centimeters above the doctor's sensitive collarbone.
"Then—just— hold still, damn it," McCoy pleaded, trying desperately to ignore the heady press of that slim body against his. He splayed his latex-gloved hand over the small of Chekhov's back in an attempt to stop the squirming as he brought his forceps back to the task at hand.
"Bol'na," the boy protested, as Bones slowly wiggled another fragment of whatever the hell had blown up in command out of the smooth, inviting— no. That way lay madness. And as a physician there was no way he should have to be fighting down an erection from rubbing antibiotic cream into the tempting inner curve of—gah.
Ten more minutes of Chekhov's sultry moaning in his ear and Bones felt a little light-headed, but the end was in sight. "How's the pain, Pavel?" His voice came out hoarse.
In response, the Russian ran a thumb down McCoy's jugular and husked into his collar, "You could kiss it better, doctor."
Bones's mouth went dry as a desert. Drier. He swallowed convulsively and rasped, "You eighteen yet, kid?"
A voice floated over to them from beyond the drawn curtains of the semi-private sickbed. "Pashka, does your virtue need saving?"
Shit. Bones'd forgotten they had an audience. "Shut up or it's the hypo again, Sulu," he snapped.
The helm officer giggled like a little girl. "Naw, I'm still good. Them purple unicorns are really great mimes. Awesome."
"I loooooooove unicorns," a dreamy-sounding Jim seconded. "They're so, like, magical. And pretty. Aren't they pretty, Spock?"
Spock sounded very tired. "As I do not metabolize kava-derived sedatives in the same manner as humans and thus am not participating in your shared hallucination, I can form no opinion, Captain. I am, however, enjoying the pink sehlats."
"Oh! Oh! I got it!" Uhura gasped rapturously. "He's riding a bicycle! He's miming that he's riding a bicycle!"
"Duh," snorted Jim.
"That's right, guys, watch the miming unicorns," McCoy mumbled. "Last one, Pavel." One last puncture to tend, and then he could wrap that sinful body three deep in bandages and slap a mental gift tag on him: Do Not Open Before Age of Majority.
He tugged the piece free and Chekhov slumped forward onto him, the last of the tension leaving his body. "Three months," the Russian sighed.
"Hmmm?" Bones leaned back a bit to drop the fragment into a stainless steel dish, unconsciously putting his arm around Chekhov to balance him.
"Three more months," the Russian said wistfully, just as the hospital gown finally gave up the ghost and slid off thin shoulders to bunch at the elbows. Bones hurriedly looked away and prayed for patience. Christ, where was a patron saint for severely overtaxed libidos when you needed one?
Chekhov flipped the fabric over the Bones's head with his forearms still braced inside the sleeves. Instant lasso.
Trapped against the now very very naked Russian as he snuggled into him like a happy cat, Bones squeezed his eyes shut and gritted out, "Damn it, Chekhov! I'm a doctor, not a stripper pole!"
Author Note:
Wow, keeping the chapters short has allowed me to update every day pretty consistently! I guess I average about a page a day... which would explain why chapters for my other stories take at least a week to get up. TT,TT
Crash course in Russian diminutives: Pavel = Pasha = Pashka = Pashulitchka. The only difference is level of affection. :-D
