You Eighteen Yet?
Plus One
» Rating: M
» Summary: Five times Bones asked the kid how old he was, and the one time he didn't have to. 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

Plus One

The door to Chekhov's quarters slid open, and the ensign stepped over the threshold with his personal comm to his ear, laughing at something someone on the other end had said. "Da, harasho, harasho. I am stepping into my room—" He hit the speaker button, setting the comm aside so he could hold into the package he carried and fumble along the wall near the door for the room controls. "I am, da, turning on ze light—" Click.

He stopped speaking abruptly, and for a moment there was only expectant silence, and the quiet whoosh of the door as it closed behind him.

"And?" came an excited voice from the comm. "And?"

"... Hikaru, you shouldn't have," Chekhov said, his eyes growing comically wide at the sight that greeted him.

"It was nothing," Sulu preened. "The best friends always give the best presents, right?"

"Nyet," Chekhov said more firmly, stepping forward to survey the damage. "You really, really should not have, because now the doctor is looking more like he wants to kill me than f—"

McCoy, after being ambushed and hypo-edin his own sickbay, had woken up a half an hour ago in the middle of Chekhov's bed, gagged and trussed like a prize pig. His chest and thighs were crisscrossed with heavy smooth ribbon, his wrists hogtied to his ankles. There was a giantfucking red satin bow on his crotch. Weren't these people supposed to be his colleagues? As in, professionals? "MmmhmmmhmmmMMMMM!" he ordered through the gag, jerking against his bonds.

"No, you really should not have," Chekhov concluded with dazed bemusement. He licked his lips, staring at the bow.

"At least look at the other part," Sulu pleaded. "It gets better!"

Chekhov blinked as if drawn out of some private reverie and looked down at the box he still held. "Better?"

"Open it! Open it!" a new voice pleaded, one that sounded suspiciously like their chief communications officer.

"Okei, okei, I am opening it," Chekhov assented, hesitantly thumbing up the lid like there might be something inside that would bite him. "Ah..."

"Well?" Sulu and the new voice prompted.

"... these, eh, would be lubricants, I am imagining?" the Russian said, obviously trying for nonchalant as a fiery red blush rushed up his cheeks. "And... t-toys... and, instruction manuals of some sort?" he squeaked out.

Raucous laughter from far more than two mouths spilled out of the comm. "I recommend the coconut, myself," someone shouted over the general merriment. Bones catalogued each and every separate laugh and promised them as slow and painful a death as his medical training could provide. He growled into the gag.

Snapping out of his embarrassed haze, Chekhov let the box fall with a thump and jumped to untie the thin strip of fabric. The second it was loose Bones spat it out and snarled towards the comm, "From now on, boys and girls, you can look forward to good old-fashioned twenty-first century medicine! When you need something fixed I'm gonna cut you open like a fish."

"Shit," someone said, but the rest began loudly singing the traditional birthday song. "—happy birthday dear Chekhov, happy birthday to you!"

Pavel looked bewildered. "But... it is not even-"

The comm gave a low buzz, and a computerized voice said, "Terran midnight. Happy birthday, Ensign Chekhov."

"- my birzday yet," he finished belatedly. "Oh."

"Yep," said a third voice. "Enjoy your gift! We all know how much you've been... looking forward to it..." On the other end of the line, lecherous sniggers abounded.

McCoy, still fighting furiously against the ribbon, promised with all the murderous rage he could muster, "I WILL find you, and WHEN I DO-!"

"So, happy birthday, Pavel," Sulu said hastily, and signed off.

"GAH!" McCoy yelled in frustration, unable to do more than wiggle and flex on the bed like a worm on a hook.

With something suspiciously like amusement coloring his tone, Pavel said, "Please, doctor. Let me help."

Bones bristled, but subsided.

As Pavel sat next to him, the bed dipped and Bones's helpless weight nearly rolled them both right off the edge. "Sorry, sorry," the Russian apologized, and moved to straddle his knees. On his stomach, the doctor couldn't see what exactly what the ensign was doing, but he heard the mumbled Russian curses and felt slight tugs here and there at the crisscrossing ribbons. After one particularly hard pull, the ensign asked, "Did zat do anyzing?"

Bones wriggled some more, and found that although his wrists were still tied to his ankles, they were no longer tied together. He managed to squirm onto his back under Pavel, knees coming up behind the other man. There was still an uncomfortable pull as his arms were forced to stretch, but at least he felt less like a roast on a platter.

Poised kneeling over him, Pavel took in his calmer face and his own expression visibly eased. "Better?"

"Better," Bones admitted grudgingly.

Pavel smiled then, a bit mischievously, and his fingers came down to toy with the huge bow. "You know, it vould be a terrible shame if you killed them," he said, a teasing glint in his eye. "After all, I do like my present. Very much," he added, leaning down to kiss at McCoy's bottom lip.

"Yeah, well, your 'present' doesn't appreciate being hauled around and dumped here like Klingon war booty," he grumbled, his ire fading despite himself.

"No?" Pavel murmured against his mouth.

Reflexively, McCoy tried to bring his arms up around him and was stopped short by the restraining ribbon. "Definitely not," he muttered back. "Untie m— hey!" He jerked his head, breaking the soft connection. "Untie me. The rest of the way."

"Mmmhmm," the Russian replied soothingly, and planted a chaste peck on the dip in his chin. "I will. But you know, doctor," he said, settling his weight more firmly onto Bones and catching the doctor's head in his hands. "I like to unwrap my presents very slowly." He leaned in and lapped lightly at the stubbornly closed juncture of Bones's lips.

The kid's kisses were addictive. What he lacked in skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm, his obvious delight in the process making something as simple as their two mouths meeting acutely erotic. The second Bones allowed his lips to be coaxed open Pavel was sucking on his tongue like it was a lollipop, and with the ribbon shackling his arms Bones found himself at a serious disadvantage leverage-wise to combat the hungry press of that ravenous mouth.

"Untie me," he ordered again, more weakly than he'd intended, when they broke apart to breathe. The Russian responded by beginning a leisurely path down the doctor's throat, Bones arching back and giving an involuntarily "Ah!" when Pavel found that sweet spot where collarbone met neck, the edge of teeth sending a flash of heat sparking through him like summer lightning. "Damn it, Pa— ngh!" he groaned when Pavel sucked there, hard.

The ensign grinned mischievously, rearing up for a moment to pull off his uniform shirts and tossing them off somewhere into the vastly unimportant space that was not the bed. He ran his hot, curious hands up under McCoy's science blues and the doctor rasped, "Untie me now!"

"Ne hochu zhdat'," Pavel whispered, and kissed him again.

McCoy yanked desperately at the ribbons, and felt them give a minuscule, miserly inch. Not enough, not nearly enough, especially when the rocking motion of the yank unbalanced Pavel into accidentally grinding down on him, surprising rough moans from both of them. "Oh," the Russian breathed, eyes slipping half-closed, and he began to move in earnest, palms sliding up to brace against his shoulders as he rode Bones. Fingers dug hard into skin and the doctor's eyes threatened to roll back in his head.

The ribbon needed to go, now. Pasha appeared to have tugged something loose, but it wasn't coming undone without a fight. Every twist and wriggle had the added drawback of rocking his hardening erection against the ensign's in a way he certainly seemed to (loudly) appreciate but which was tying McCoy into hard, tight, tangled knots of frustrated arousal. "Damn it," he ground out, unsure of exactly who he was cursing as Pavel scratched slowly down his chest. He couldn't stop himself from bucking up when nails scraped over his nipples, any more than he could stop the surprised whine as Pavel suddenly leaned down and sucked one into his feverishly warm mouth. Suddenly, the orgasm he'd been battling off was hovering just a few strokes away, driven by tugs and nips and the roll of that eager body against his. "Fuck," he gasped, and wrenched as hard as he could against the ribbon.

The fabric tore with a harsh rending sound and McCoy had Pavel flat on his back in a fraction of a second, eyes wild and breathing labored.

Pavel was flushed a delicious pink, his lips red and swollen and his eyes a little cloudy and unfocused. "Ah. Vas… vas zat too fast?" he panted.

Bones blinked down at him. "Was that—? Pash, I was two seconds away from coming in my pants."

The ensign looked completely unrepentant, already flexing testingly against the doctor's hands where they pinned his arms to the bed. "Perhaps... perhaps you should remove zem, zen?"

He snarled out something profane, but sat back to do just that. Pavel followed him, ostensibly to help; the sudden hot, wet suction of lips around his earlobe and the fingers sliding sneakily down the front of his boxers were not helpful, not at all. "Down, boy," McCoy growled as he fought off his shirts.

The Russian hummed in response and started on the doctor's pants without him, greedy hands getting progressively more aggressive and bold. At that point, McCoy gave up fending them off and, now that his own hands were free, simply tried to give as good as he got. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, months of living on this monastery of a ship— tempting altar boy included—leaving him feeling frenzied, touch-starved, reluctant to release even an inch of claimed skin but still craving more, more. More whispered curses and quivering muscle, more of the taste of sweat and the sight of Pavel's eyes going blurry and blind, lips parting on a string of almost wounded noises when Bones put one of those ludicrously-flavored lubes to use.

He'd never be able to drink a pina colada again.

Although his previous experience in this area was limited to giving prostate exams, he must have been doing something right; Pavel bucked against him, mouthing Russian words of encouragement and endearment against Bones's neck as his hands tangled in the doctor's hair, fisting there. He was trying to go slow, give this beautiful boy who had somehow ended up in his arms time to adjust and enjoy, but when Pasha slammed himsef down on Bones, his head tipping back with a grateful moan, he swore he blacked out for a moment. When he came to, Pavel was wrapped around and under him, clawing at his back and desperately calling out his name.

Later, long into Gamma shift and after slower, sweeter second and third rounds, Pavel lay draped across his chest as limp as an overcooked noodle, breath evening out as he slipped into sleep. Bones was halfway there himself, but for the moment time seemed suspended and he drifted in lazy contentment, thumb idly stroking along the soft skin behind his lover's ear. Pavel gave a drowsy "Mmm," and whispered something tender and affectionate against his neck.

Of course, it was in Russian. Pavel had abandoned English altogether at some point during the night. Bones chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "Yah lyublyu tebya, too."

Author Note:

May I finally present... the end of the series! Also, fail!porn. Why does the porn, even if it is fail!porn, always take so long to write? I have no idea.

Admittedly, it also took a bit longer because I was working on Masquerade CH2 at the same time, which I've posted tonight too. Spirk, anyone?

And, because I worry about these things... pina coladas have coconut in them. Get it? Do you? Thank the Lord.