More Bones/Chekov...
Seriously, I'll stop torturing y'all with this if someone will write me some Bones/Chekov. *puppy eyes*
Bones is glaring in complete disgust as Kirk drags a limping Chekov into his his sickbay.
Even before they get to the table, he's grabbing supplies and inwardly seething because that is his Chekov wobbling precariously as he climbs onto the table, and there isn't an ounce of repentance in Jim's impish bloody split lip grin.
"What the hell did you do?" He rounds on Jim, because really, the puppy isn't a likely candidate for trouble making and Jim can't seem to walk two feet without cordially inviting someone to beat the shit out of him.
"We went to a bar!" Chekov exclaims all smiles as he tries to climb off the table he's just climbed on and almost falls off all together in the process. It's only because of Bones's quick reflexes that he catches the pup before he falls flat on his face.
His puppy smells as if he's been playing in a distillery. Even worse, liquid courage has Chekov's clever fingers skimming over his shirt and grabbing in ways that Bones is not sure he's comfortable with anyone, let alone Jim, seeing.
"You got him drunk?!" He glares at Jim once more.
"It'll put hair on his chest," Jim gestures, completely unconcerned with the impending bodily harm that Bones is about to deliver for having gotten his Chekov into a tawdry bar fight. Not to mention that his puppy's chest, hairless or no, is none of Jim's damned business. "Isn't that right, Pavel?"
Bones roughly grabs the front of Jim's shirt, because friend or no friend he's getting a little too friendly, and tosses Jim at the other table. "You two are a fucking mess," he grumbles, taking great joy at Jim's yip of pain as he jabs him to deliver a tetanus shot. "You're the captain of the goddamned ship."
It bears reminding because Bones suspects that Jim's had one too many concussions to remember himself.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jim queries with a laugh, and Bones has to remind himself to not strangle the impetuous brat because for some reason, leaving the Enterprise captainless would be a bad thing. In theory.
"Yes, Doctor," Chekov scrambles to be beside him, and Bones catches him neatly before he once more almost faceplants on the floor. "I am not that hurt. It is just superficial."
It's the big words, really, and the carefully correct English that come tumbling out of Chekov's mouth garbled by his accent that make Bones want to suck the kid off until the only syllables he can string together are grunts. He's embarrassed to admit that when Chekov rattles off a bunch of engineering mumbo-jumbo about equations and accelerators and integrated schematics, its enough to almost make him come in his pants like an untried teen.
"The hell it's superficial," he grinds out instead of orgasming because he is not an untried teen, "you're limping. And as such, you shouldn't be standing, so park your ass right back on that table."
The surly words earn him a beatific smile and not for the first time, Bones wonders how the hell the kid is wired that hearing Bones bark like an ill tempered geezer makes him happy.
Case in point, Jim snickers back with a disbelieving, "Chill out, gramps. We only had one drink. It's not like I took him to an opium den and introduced him to prostitution."
Jim, as it turns out, has absolutely no sense of self preservation and Bones lunges. Of course, as Jim never sees danger until it is virtually on top of him, his eyes widen into that patented confused what-the-fuck Kirk face as they both tumble gracelessly to the floor.
He's got his hands around Kirk's neck ready to wring it as the brat is cackling, amused by Bones's attempts at homicide, when Chekov's tugging at his arm finally registers.
Giving up the ghost of strangling sense into Jim, he just sits on Jim's chest and glares up at Chekov.
"It was just a normal bar, Doctor," Chekov smiles softly, and Bones tells himself that he is not won over by one measly little smile, no matter how angelic it looks. "I was not even involved in the altercation."
His cock jumps both at the words and Chekov's tentative grip on his bicep. Jim is eying Bones's crotch with more interest than Bones is comfortable with Jim displaying, and abruptly climbs off the idiot, not bothering to offer him a hand to get back up off his feet.
Call it a lesson in survival. If Jim is going to piss everything that breathes off without meaning to, he can damn well learn how to climb back up when the pissed off breathing thing cleans his clock.
"Of course I didn't drag Chekov into it," Jim scoffs.
"I can hold my own," Chekov informs them both. Neither of them believe him. "If nothing else I am a very fast runner." He looks pointedly at Jim, even if it is obvious that he's mildly disgusted with them both.
"That doesn't even matter because you shouldn't even be in a bar," Bones growls, bodily hauling Chekov up onto a table to inspect an ankle which is definitely swelling as they are talking. "And if you are going to be stupid enough to go into a bar I am going to be the one to take you."
Chekov beams at him as if he's just announced that he's discovered universal peace or something.
"Why go to a bar?" Jim has that shit eating grin on his face that so many people have probably wanted to knock clear off. "Your bunk's better stocked."
It's one of Jim's more dubious charms. The ability to tease a potential beat down into submission. There's something about the brat's absolute unrepentant attitude about any of the dumb shit he does that prevents Bones from beating him into next Tuesday and often engenders his reluctant admiration and amusement.
"He is very right, yes?" Chekov grins, a bit of impishness to it that states that he clearly has been allowed to spend too much time around Kirk. "Although maybe you should show me again so I can see for myself." There are many things in those big hazel green eyes and slightly upturned lips.
There's the promise of having that taut lithe body under him, squirming at his mercy. There's the promise of those hands touching every bit of flesh that they can reach before they drive Bones mad with need and he's forced to restrain them. There's the promise of those pretty pink lips wrapped artlessly, but eagerly, around his cock with the same exuberant enthusiasm that Chekov brings to every other aspect of his life.
His puppy, while occasionally bold and fearless and eager to have Bones, is generally not so much so in front of others, so Bones knows that in part the liquor is helping to loosen Chekov's tongue, sweet as it might be.
He can practically see the cogs turning in Kirk's head as he's watching, because Kirk is anything but stupid. There's a flash of the confused what-the-fuck face followed by a slow dawning realization and culminated by a sly grin that Bones knows he's going to come to regret.
"Holy Shit!" Jim's caterwauling is interrupted by a wince as he breaks open his own split lip with his revelation. And while, as a Doctor, Bones is not supposed to be amused at the pain of others, he finds this at least worthy of a smile. "Chekov? You and Chekov?!"
Rolling his eyes at Jim and ignoring the way his cheeks feel as if they're on fire, he grabs Chekov, who more than eagerly plasters himself against Bones, his sweet tongue latching on to the pulse point at Bones's throat.
He turns to Jim, an evil little smile of his own lighting his face, knowing that Jim will appreciate what he's about to say. "Dammit Jim, I'm not a veterinarian!" The what-the-fuck face resurges. "But I do know where you sleep and can castrate you if necessary."
He walks out, arms full with his sweet and horny puppy, and the door to sickbay snicks shut on Jim's laughter.
Bones is glaring in complete disgust as Kirk drags a limping Chekov into his his sickbay.
Even before they get to the table, he's grabbing supplies and inwardly seething because that is his Chekov wobbling precariously as he climbs onto the table, and there isn't an ounce of repentance in Jim's impish bloody split lip grin.
"What the hell did you do?" He rounds on Jim, because really, the puppy isn't a likely candidate for trouble making and Jim can't seem to walk two feet without cordially inviting someone to beat the shit out of him.
"We went to a bar!" Chekov exclaims all smiles as he tries to climb off the table he's just climbed on and almost falls off all together in the process. It's only because of Bones's quick reflexes that he catches the pup before he falls flat on his face.
His puppy smells as if he's been playing in a distillery. Even worse, liquid courage has Chekov's clever fingers skimming over his shirt and grabbing in ways that Bones is not sure he's comfortable with anyone, let alone Jim, seeing.
"You got him drunk?!" He glares at Jim once more.
"It'll put hair on his chest," Jim gestures, completely unconcerned with the impending bodily harm that Bones is about to deliver for having gotten his Chekov into a tawdry bar fight. Not to mention that his puppy's chest, hairless or no, is none of Jim's damned business. "Isn't that right, Pavel?"
Bones roughly grabs the front of Jim's shirt, because friend or no friend he's getting a little too friendly, and tosses Jim at the other table. "You two are a fucking mess," he grumbles, taking great joy at Jim's yip of pain as he jabs him to deliver a tetanus shot. "You're the captain of the goddamned ship."
It bears reminding because Bones suspects that Jim's had one too many concussions to remember himself.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Jim queries with a laugh, and Bones has to remind himself to not strangle the impetuous brat because for some reason, leaving the Enterprise captainless would be a bad thing. In theory.
"Yes, Doctor," Chekov scrambles to be beside him, and Bones catches him neatly before he once more almost faceplants on the floor. "I am not that hurt. It is just superficial."
It's the big words, really, and the carefully correct English that come tumbling out of Chekov's mouth garbled by his accent that make Bones want to suck the kid off until the only syllables he can string together are grunts. He's embarrassed to admit that when Chekov rattles off a bunch of engineering mumbo-jumbo about equations and accelerators and integrated schematics, its enough to almost make him come in his pants like an untried teen.
"The hell it's superficial," he grinds out instead of orgasming because he is not an untried teen, "you're limping. And as such, you shouldn't be standing, so park your ass right back on that table."
The surly words earn him a beatific smile and not for the first time, Bones wonders how the hell the kid is wired that hearing Bones bark like an ill tempered geezer makes him happy.
Case in point, Jim snickers back with a disbelieving, "Chill out, gramps. We only had one drink. It's not like I took him to an opium den and introduced him to prostitution."
Jim, as it turns out, has absolutely no sense of self preservation and Bones lunges. Of course, as Jim never sees danger until it is virtually on top of him, his eyes widen into that patented confused what-the-fuck Kirk face as they both tumble gracelessly to the floor.
He's got his hands around Kirk's neck ready to wring it as the brat is cackling, amused by Bones's attempts at homicide, when Chekov's tugging at his arm finally registers.
Giving up the ghost of strangling sense into Jim, he just sits on Jim's chest and glares up at Chekov.
"It was just a normal bar, Doctor," Chekov smiles softly, and Bones tells himself that he is not won over by one measly little smile, no matter how angelic it looks. "I was not even involved in the altercation."
His cock jumps both at the words and Chekov's tentative grip on his bicep. Jim is eying Bones's crotch with more interest than Bones is comfortable with Jim displaying, and abruptly climbs off the idiot, not bothering to offer him a hand to get back up off his feet.
Call it a lesson in survival. If Jim is going to piss everything that breathes off without meaning to, he can damn well learn how to climb back up when the pissed off breathing thing cleans his clock.
"Of course I didn't drag Chekov into it," Jim scoffs.
"I can hold my own," Chekov informs them both. Neither of them believe him. "If nothing else I am a very fast runner." He looks pointedly at Jim, even if it is obvious that he's mildly disgusted with them both.
"That doesn't even matter because you shouldn't even be in a bar," Bones growls, bodily hauling Chekov up onto a table to inspect an ankle which is definitely swelling as they are talking. "And if you are going to be stupid enough to go into a bar I am going to be the one to take you."
Chekov beams at him as if he's just announced that he's discovered universal peace or something.
"Why go to a bar?" Jim has that shit eating grin on his face that so many people have probably wanted to knock clear off. "Your bunk's better stocked."
It's one of Jim's more dubious charms. The ability to tease a potential beat down into submission. There's something about the brat's absolute unrepentant attitude about any of the dumb shit he does that prevents Bones from beating him into next Tuesday and often engenders his reluctant admiration and amusement.
"He is very right, yes?" Chekov grins, a bit of impishness to it that states that he clearly has been allowed to spend too much time around Kirk. "Although maybe you should show me again so I can see for myself." There are many things in those big hazel green eyes and slightly upturned lips.
There's the promise of having that taut lithe body under him, squirming at his mercy. There's the promise of those hands touching every bit of flesh that they can reach before they drive Bones mad with need and he's forced to restrain them. There's the promise of those pretty pink lips wrapped artlessly, but eagerly, around his cock with the same exuberant enthusiasm that Chekov brings to every other aspect of his life.
His puppy, while occasionally bold and fearless and eager to have Bones, is generally not so much so in front of others, so Bones knows that in part the liquor is helping to loosen Chekov's tongue, sweet as it might be.
He can practically see the cogs turning in Kirk's head as he's watching, because Kirk is anything but stupid. There's a flash of the confused what-the-fuck face followed by a slow dawning realization and culminated by a sly grin that Bones knows he's going to come to regret.
"Holy Shit!" Jim's caterwauling is interrupted by a wince as he breaks open his own split lip with his revelation. And while, as a Doctor, Bones is not supposed to be amused at the pain of others, he finds this at least worthy of a smile. "Chekov? You and Chekov?!"
Rolling his eyes at Jim and ignoring the way his cheeks feel as if they're on fire, he grabs Chekov, who more than eagerly plasters himself against Bones, his sweet tongue latching on to the pulse point at Bones's throat.
He turns to Jim, an evil little smile of his own lighting his face, knowing that Jim will appreciate what he's about to say. "Dammit Jim, I'm not a veterinarian!" The what-the-fuck face resurges. "But I do know where you sleep and can castrate you if necessary."
He walks out, arms full with his sweet and horny puppy, and the door to sickbay snicks shut on Jim's laughter.