#Chekov x Reader

[mybullshitsensesaretingling]

Optimistic

Request:

hi hi!!! i've been reading through some of your stuff and its all just ahh<3 anywho I was wondering if you could write some AOS!Chekov x reader maybe? somethin with either a doctor reader working under Bones or an enemies-to-lovers type? of course you don't have to if you don't want I just though i'd ask

ok love ya bye

A/N: I got this request in 2021. Anon, if you're still out there, I am so sorry. What's worse is that I genuinely wrote most of this soon after getting the request and then just... got distracted. I went with the doctor reader request but tried to put in some enemies-to-lovers vibes. Its more annoyances-to-partners, but I hope you still like it. It's a different side of Chekov than I normally write too. Hopefully y'all enjoy exploring that side as much as I did

ok love ya too bye

“Yes, thank you so much for explaining my job to me,” you said through a forced smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you really must be going.” 

“I must be going? Is it not-” Chekov started. 

“No, you must be going.” You stood in front of the sickbay doors so they slid open. “Goodbye.” He opened his mouth to speak again but you had no intention of letting him and quickly repeated, “Goodbye.” 

Finally, he took the completely unsubtle hint and left through the doors. 

You let out a sigh of relief and let your muscles relax to the point of slouching. 

“That kid drives me nuts.” You crossed the near-silent sickbay to Bones' desk in a few strides. 

“‘Kid’,” he repeated with a half-laugh. “You’re practically the same age.” 

“Maybe he should act a little more like it.” You dropped into a chair across from him and stretched out a kink in your neck. A knot started to form anytime you had to deal with a bright, shiny cadet or ensign. It formed twice as fast when that bright, shiny ensign was Chekov. He was hyper and chatty and over eager. It made your muscles tighten. You were sure that it was all an act to cover up his true self. A self you had convinced yourself you saw peaking out on the edges when the two of you argued or when he got a little two confident.

“He does act like it.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You act like a 75-year-old cynic who's been hardened by a lifetime of troubles,” he informed you, barely glancing up from his computer. 

“That’s why you love me.” You leaned into the back of the chair, letting the sharp smell of antiseptic and tritanium sooth you after your long shift. 

“It could be good for you to spend time with people your own age. Maybe make some friends.” 

“You’re my friend.” 

He grabbed a PADD and scanned the information. “I’m your senior officer.” 

“Are you saying we’re not friends?” You picked up the PADD when he set it down, scanning it yourself. 

“I’m saying it would be beneficial for your emotional wellbeing for you to form bonds with other members of the crew whom you share cultural touchstones with.” 

You raised your eyes to his but they were still focused on his work. “And that’s Ensign Chekov?” 

“It could be.” 

You put the PADD back on his desk. “The only thing we share is a location.” 

“If you say so.” 

You watched him for a second longer, before letting out a sigh and going to prepare for your next scheduled appointment. 

His knowing look that followed you to a biobed made you want to press him, but something told you that was not a path of conversation you wanted to go down. You hoped by dropping the conversation, he wouldn’t push the issue, but that was naive and you knew it. All you were doing was biding your time. 

And you had less of it than you thought. 

A week later when you asked him what he wanted for lunch, Bones had informed you that you weren’t to eat in the sickbay. You didn’t have to go to the mess hall and socialize but he recommended it and was more likely to let you be if you did. The man was like a dog with a bone when he got it in his head that he was doing something good for his crew mates and you would do anything to get him off your back when he did. So reluctantly you went to the mess hall and grabbed a tray. 

You stood by the replicator, scanning the room and weighing your options. Taking a deep breath and gripping your tray a little tighter, you decided that if you were going to do this you might as well go all in and started moving towards the tables that a group of ensigns had pushed together. 

As you got closer, one of them quickly moved his bowl away from the empty seat to give you more room at the table. You gave him a grateful smile as you sat down. He graced you with a smile of his own before turning his attention back to the conversation. For a brief moment, you forgot why you ate with Bones or in your quarters. The crew was so kind and inviting. Then you realized what the conversation was about and you remembered.

“Did you really get to be part of the landing party to Markoddia?” an eager ensign asked.

“Yes,” Chekov answered from the end of the table. 

“What was it like?” 

Half the group leaned forward to better hear his retelling. He glanced up from his soup to check that he had their attention before starting. 

“It was a standard assignment.” A few people leaned back in disappointment and the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Until it wasn’t.” 

He regaled them with the story that you were sure was at least partially exaggerated. Ensigns who got to work with the senior staff were treated like minor celebrities by certain members of the lower decks. Over the years Chekov had learned to love the attention and even occasionally, on slow weeks, play to it. His definition of a slow week was expanding and the mess hall was starting to become his own personal stage. 

You didn’t have much interest in the landing party play by plays when it didn’t have anything to do with your job or furthering medical knowledge. You had even less interest people twisting the truth so they could play the hero. 

“You were attacked by a Markoffian sea lizard?” someone gasped. 

“I could have died!” Chekov answered. 

“Not from that,” you scoffed into your food. You thought that the comment would have gone unheard in all the commotion of the mess hall but when you lifted your gaze you found a dozen pairs of eyes on you. “You barely had a scratch on you,” you clarified a little louder. 

“Maybe I fought them off.” 

“Or maybe they’re herbivores,” you countered. 

“Markaffian sea lizards are omnivores.” He pointed his spoon at you, clearly thinking he had got you. 

“Maybe they just don’t have a taste for show off navigators. I don’t know. I’m not an exozoologist. But I do know that you were not anywhere close to dying.”

“How would you know?” one of his peers asked. 

“I was in that landing party.” 

“On the other side of the city,” Chekov added. 

“Yeah, treating the President, who happened to have a sea lizard as a pet. His two year old daughter was hand feeding it insects.” You raised your brows at him. “Are you saying you were almost killed by the same thing that a toddler was playing with?” 

“What about the pollen from the carnivorous flowers?” he asked. “Even you said it was incredibly toxic.” 

“Okay, sure,” you conceded. “You were almost killed by some flowers. Is that what you want to hear?” 

“Yes.” 

You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to your lunch.

“My throat was closing up!” he started again, a dramatic hand clutching at his neck. “Neither I nor the Lieutenant could breath. I thought it was the end, but luckily the doctor here was quick at finding an anti-toxin.” 

There was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at you. It seemed like he was throwing you a bone but it felt like he was dragging you into something you didn’t want to be a part of. 

***

“Bones, Stapes,” Kirk greeted as he entered the sickbay. “Slow day?” 

“Not at all,” you answered before turning to Bones and lowering your voice. “If I had known that this job came with a demeaning nickname I wouldn’t have taken it.” 

“It grows on you,” he responded in the same low volume.

“Like a cyst?” You glanced up at him. “That’s disgusting.” 

Bones shook his head and looked back at the captain. “What can we do for you, Jim?” 

“We received a distress call from a nearby planet.” He handed Bones a PADD and you leaned over to look at it with him. “Looks like they could use a doctor.” 

“Seems simple enough.” Bones handed the PADD to you. “(Y/L/N) will take this.” 

The captain turned to you. “Report to the transporter in fifteen, Doctor.” 

“Aye, Captain.” Your attention dropped to the PADD as he left. Anxiety bubbled up inside you, mixing with your excitement. “Are you sure?”

“You can treat Chamberlin virus in your sleep,” Bones said without looking at you. 

“You’ve never let me go with a landing party without an attending.”

“Do you want me to change my mind?”

“No!” You said quickly, starting to read the report to prepare yourself. You swallowed thickly and lowered your eyebrows when you got to the short list of officers that would be on this mission. Just two. 

Your head snapped back to Bones. “I want you to change your mind.” 

“Too late.” He handed you a medkit. “Have a safe trip.” 

You shot him a glare before giving him a reluctant “Aye, sir.” 

“Have fun.”

“Is that an order?” you asked. 

“No.” 

“Then I won’t.” You started towards the door. 

“I know. Just do your job,” he said after you.

“Of course, sir,” you said with an eye roll so strong you were sure he could hear it in your voice as you entered the hall. 

You never worried too much about maintaining a perfectly respectful attitude with Bones despite him being your CO. Your eye rolls and complaints and casual demeanor didn’t come from a place of disrespect, but a place of familiarity. It came from the comfort of looking into your mentor and seeing yourself reflected there. He had looked into the same mirror when you were in the academy and took you under his wing. He guided you through your time there and your time serving as a cadet on another ship. Your similarities to Bones had earned you a place on the Enterprise and the nickname Stapes. As the smallest bone in the body, the captain saw it as a natural progression from his original nickname for you, Little Bones. You saw it as silly and a little demeaning, not that you would say that to his face. 

You knew that the reflection of Bones’ cynical but driven personality that shined through you was why he pushed you out of your comfort zone. He didn’t just want you to be the best doctor you could be, but a better person than he could be. But that didn’t mean you didn’t occasionally fight against it. 

You wanted to fight against this, but you didn’t want to miss out on this opportunity even if it meant- 

The transporter doors opened to curly hair and bright eyes. 

-having to work with him.

“Where is Doctor McCoy?” Chekov asked. 

“Sickbay.” You stepped up on the transporter. “He’s not coming. I’m coming.” 

You had hoped that arriving five minutes early would make you the first to arrive. You wanted some time to prepare yourself, both for your partner for this assignment and for the assignment itself. You knew that Bones was right and you were ready for this, but you hadn’t fully convinced that insistent little voice in your head of that fact. But of course Chekov had to get here even earlier. He always had to out do you just a little bit. 

“Oh. Is this your first time on a solo mission?” he asked, joining you on the transporter. 

You adjusted your grip on your kit, watching the hands of the engineer at the terminal. “Yes.”

“Are you nervous?” 

You snapped your attention up to him. “Are you?” 

“I wasn’t.” There was that twinkle in his eyes. It was like he was playing a game you didn’t have the rule book for. 

You narrowed your eyes but decided to let the slight slide. 

“Energize,” you ordered the chief at the controls. 

Within fifteen minutes of landing in the colony, you had set up a make-shift examination room in a small lab and had over a dozen people waiting to see you. You had quietly bickered with Chekov the whole while. Even your tones contradicted each other. His comments were bright and confident, mixing off-handed insults with what appeared to be genuine attempts at helpfulness. Your own words remained on the icy side of sarcasm, giving the impression that you were only partially tuned into your conversation with him. You just wanted to focus on your work. 

Thankfully when you started seeing patients he stopped talking to you. Unthankfully, he started talking to the waiting patients. At first, you figured your irritation over it was due solely to your usual level of pettiness when it came to him. You set equipment down louder than necessary when his voice got louder, causing him to look at you. He would give you a smile but wouldn’t miss a beat in the conversation. When you had finally managed to tune him out mostly, you overheard him explaining that this was your first time working alone so they needed to be extra patient with you. It was amazing the amount of condescension he could fit into innocuous phrases. 

You tried to grit your teeth and focus on your work but a few minutes later his laugh made something rise up inside you. You found yourself unable to focus. You must have read over the readings on your tricorder three times before you gave up. 

“Ensign, if you insist on being this loud, could you at least take the chit-chat elsewhere?” 

He smiled up at you from the seat next to a few patients. “Yes, unlike some people, I can be charming anywhere.”

“How special for you. Please take your charm into the hall.” 

He did as you asked and you were finally able to work in peace. Without Chekov constantly drawing your attention you were able to get through the rest of the patients fairly quickly. It wasn’t until after the last one left the lab that you realized how draining that had been. Bones was right, you could treat Chamberlin virus in your sleep, but the pressure of doing it alone was greater than you had expected and you had never treated this many patients in such a short time. They just kept coming. You must have seen most of the colony. 

You dropped into a chair, letting your head lull back and your eyes slip shut. Your feet ached from standing. Your face hurt from smiling. The mere thought of moving or talking to someone almost brought tears to your eyes. 

The door to the lab swished open and you jumped to your feet, praying you hadn’t missed someone. You were grateful to see that it was only the mayor and Chekov. 

“Doctor,” the mayor greeted, taking one of your hands in both of his. “Thank you. Your help means more than I could communicate.” 

You felt Chekov’s eyes on you while you mustered up what you hoped to be your last smile of the day, “Your people should be free of the virus now, but I have provided the updated vaccine recipe. Everyone who hasn’t been sick in the last nine days should receive it.” You handed him a PADD and he thanked you. 

The rest of the pleasantries washed over you. You knew you participated in them, but if you were asked to recount what you had said you wouldn’t be able to. For the first time, you were actually glad that Chekov was with you. He carried the weight of the conversation and handled correspondence with the ship. As much as you hated to admit it, he was charming. 

When you had made it back to the ship. You let out a sigh and took your time stepping off the pad and into the hall, but Chekov remained behind you. You stopped when you came to the lift, trying to decide if you should go back to sickbay or your quarters. 

“Good work down there,” Chekov said, stepping up beside you.

You eyed him for a moment, before responding, “Yeah, you too.” 

***

After your first solo mission it seemed to have been decided, much to your chagrin, that you and Chekov worked well together. After the third time you were paired up together in a single month, you stopped fighting it, but you still dragged your feet. Now, as your shuttle shook and the lights turned red, you wished you had fought it harder. 

“What’s happening?” you shouted, gripping on to your arm rests for dear life. 

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t-” A squealing sound interrupted Chekov’s panicked yelling. He scanned the readouts in front of him before looking over his shoulder at the source of the noise and then at you. “You need to fly.”

“What? I’m a doctor not a pilot! I haven’t flown anything since the academy and you want me to fly us out of planetary rings while we're being shot at? I’ll get us killed.” 

“How long has it been since you have done environmental engineering?” 

You blinked at him then turned to the control panel. “Okay, I’ll fly.” 

The shuttle rocked as you took over, causing Chekov to stumble on his way to the back. 

“Sorry!” you shouted.

Your hands trembled as you tried to remember the flight training you had done five years ago. It felt more like a dream than a memory and you couldn’t recall any of the specifics. 

As you got deeper into the rings the dust filled your view screen and you were forced to operate using the sensors alone. Sweat began to bead on your forehead and your stomach twisted from the jerky movements the craft made while you tried to dodge large chunks of ice and phaser cannon blasts from the assailant ship. Every sway and jolt made your thoughts swim and your heart hammer against your chest a little harder. Behind you Chekov let out a string of stressed noises. 

“What? What’s happening?” you asked without really wanting to know. The view screen started to clear as you flew through the last of the rings. 

“The shields are down and the nacelles are down and-” 

“We only have axillary engines?” You had to force yourself to keep your attention locked on the controls instead of swinging back to the ensign. 

The shuttle rocked again as it was hit. You gripped the terminal to keep yourself steady. The lights dimmed and everything came to a standstill. 

“No, we had axillary engines. Now we have nothing.” 

“Did you fix the environmental controls?” 

“Yes, but we can not fly out of here and emergency power is declining fast.” His anxiety was making his accent thicker and his words stick together.  

“I got us out of orbit, and,” you leaned forward, watching the other ship pass you by, “they seem to think we're dead in the water. They’re leaving. How much time do we have?” 

“Twenty hours.” 

You slumped down. “Not even a day.” 

“No.” 

Glancing over your shoulder, you found him bent over a tricorder. He started to bounce nervously. Watching him made you feel even queasier. 

“There’s nothing you can do?” 

He responded with a series of unintelligible Russian sounds as he started digging through the compartments of the shuttle. He must not have found what he was looking for because he dropped to the floor with a defeated huff. 

“No.” 

In all the assignments you had had with Chekov over the last several months he had only ever been stubbornly optimistic. Even when he was overcome with stress or complaining he still acted with a firm belief that what you were doing was important and you would make it out alive with a job well done. Not once had you seen him even consider giving up. You had not so secretly been waiting to see his optimism falter, to see what lay beneath his showy exuberance, but it wasn’t the slip of the mask or the peak behind the curtain you’d thought it would be. This defeat wasn’t revealing something about him, it was taking something from him. 

You got to your feet slowly, gripping the back of your seat and closing your eyes as a wave of dizziness passed over you. You didn’t do well in a shuttle on a good day. After being rocked around my phaser fire and ring debris and having to pilot yourself you weren’t sure your stomach would ever settle down. 

You were glad to see that Chekov was staring down at his tricorder and seemed completely unaware of your momentary weakness. 

“Come on. Where’s that trademark pep and sense of adventure?” You sat down on the bench next to him. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally met a mission you can’t glorify into heroic splendor.” 

He looked up at you through narrowed eyes. The corners of his mouth were drawn down further than you thought was possible. Was he actually about to start pouting? Was it actually endearing? 

“Aw.” You puffed out your lip in a pout that was both sympathetic and mocking of his. “What happened to Ensign Chekov, hopeful hero of the lower decks?” 

“He went down with the shields and the nacelles.” 

Rolling your eyes at his dramatics, you grabbed your medpack and pulled out your tricorder. You pointed it at him without bothering to actually look at the readings. 

“Huh,” you said in faux contemplation. “This says that he’s still operational, he's just offline.”

He looked up at you. The twinkle in his eye was starting to return, clearly delighted that you of all people were willing to play this game. “How do you suggest we bring him back online, Doctor?” 

“Oh these things tend to work themselves out.” You replaced your tricorder and leaned back. “When would we be back, if we hadn’t gotten in that chase?” 

He barely had to think about it. “Four to five hours.” 

“How long does it normally take them to suspect a mission has gone awry?”

Chekov spent considerably more time with the majority of the senior staff. He knew their usual patterns. You spent most of your time with the Chief Medical Officer, who tended to assume a mission went awry the moment they left the ship. He was right more often than he was wrong. 

“Between two hours and one week.” 

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Can you narrow down that estimate for me?” 

“In this situation, I would suspect it would not take longer than a day.” 

You didn’t have a day. 

“Doctor McCoy usually pays more attention to missions that have medical staff on them. Something about not wanting us to die because he hates paperwork,” you told him. “And he almost always assumes the worst. That should bring your estimate down by a few hours.” 

The navigator suddenly jumped to his feet and sprinted to the controls. 

“If I could get a message to them, they might get here in time!” 

You rested your forearms on your knees both to steady yourself and to more easily watch him. “Are we close enough for that? I thought shuttles didn’t have subspace communication capabilities.” 

“They do not, but…” he faded off as he fiddled with the screen. His movements had regained that jerky, impatient quality they often had, like his hands couldn’t move fast enough to keep up with his brain. He let out a triumphant sound and spun to face you. 

“If I send out a distress beacon and put all remaining power into transmitting a signal they could find us faster. If I divert all emergency power not needed to keep us alive, I could keep it running for the full 20 hours and the beacon would increase our range by 35%!” He quickly dropped into the pilot's chair and got to work. 

You smiled despite yourself at his returning optimism and moved to the environmental controls he had been working on earlier. Most of the readings were all but nonsense to you, but you had a decent understanding of the most essential functions and an even better understanding of the math needed to calculate how much time you had left. 

“What are you doing?” Checkov turned in his chair.

You kept your eyes on the screen as you spoke, “Say we ran into some minor difficulties on the planet and/or the mission took longer to complete than we thought, then maybe it would take us another eight hours to get back to Enterprise.” 

“Okay,” he said hesitantly, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Given that this was a fairly straightforward assignment and we both have a reputation for working efficiently, those eight hours would already make the more observant members of the crew suspicious.” 

“If there is not another crisis happening on the ship.” 

“That is a major if, but we’re trying to be optimistic here.” 

“We are?” he asked in an almost teasing tone, just as surprised as you were that you were abandoning your cynical ways. 

“Yes.” You pulled up the oxygen output. “Dr. McCoy will definitely assume something had happened if I don’t show up for my shift tomorrow at 0800.” 

“That’s almost eighteen hours away. It would take them three hours to get here unless they’re at top speeds.” He seemed to remember that you were being optimistic and asked, “Could you sedate us?” 

“I could but then there would be no one to respond if we were hailed and no one to deal with the next crisis. Besides, we’d only use about 6% less oxygen, but we could survive with 20% less.” You started messing with oxygen controls. 

“That would give us four more hours.” 

“I could push it to 25% to give them even more wiggle room, but we would start experiencing symptoms of hypoxia.” 

“Will it kill us?” 

“No more than doing nothing will.” 

He made a noise and you turned to face him. “We’ll get sick. Headache, confusion, difficulty breathing, anxiety, tachycardia. But if they find us we’ll recover quickly. And if they don’t find us,” you lowered the oxygen output, “we’ll die either way.” 

“They’ll find us,” he assured you, before turning back to the terminal. “I wish there was more we could do than wait.” 

The temperature dropped quickly as the power that normally went into keeping the shuttle comfortable went to keeping the distress signal broadcasting. It wasn’t cold enough to cause any health risk but it would be soon enough. You wonder what would hit you first: hypothermia or hypoxia. 

You pulled open one of the storage compartments and grabbed two dark gray blankets. They were perfectly folded and soft to the touch. They probably hadn’t ever been used before. 

Chekov was watching you as you placed one blanket on the bench you had been sitting on and held the other out to him. 

“We do what we can to stay alive.” 

He took it and sat down on the other bench. You followed suit, wrapping yourself in your blanket, leaning your head back, and shutting your eyes against a fresh wave of nausea. 

“Doctor, are you okay?” 

Distantly it occurred to you that normally you would have responded to the question with brusk sarcasm or at the very least the truth forced through tight lips. But in that moment you didn’t feel the need to push him away or put on a brave face, and you told the truth freely. 

“Just a little nauseous from the flight. It’ll pass.” It was already starting to pass now that things were calming down. The waves were gentler and no longer crashed down on top of you.

“You get space sickness?”

You peaked your eyes open at him. “Yeah, why do you think I didn’t want to come on this mission?” 

He shrugged. “Because you don’t like me.” 

“I can have more than one reason.” You adjusted the blanket around your shoulder and shifted around on the seat a bit. The benches may have been designed to double as beds for long journeys, but that didn’t mean they were exactly comfortable. 

“You can.” Even though he fell silent, you could tell from his clipped tone that he was biting something back and history had taught you he wouldn’t for long. “But why do you hate me?” 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“You don’t like me.” 

“Not everyone’s gonna like you, Chekov.” 

“Yes, but why do you not?” 

“It’s not like you like me either.” 

This gave him pause. Just when you had thought he was dropping the subject he responded, “I do not dislike you.” 

“But you don’t like me.” 

Again he hesitated. “I did not.” 

You opened your eyes fully and sat up a little straighter. “Did?” 

“What?” 

The blanket slipped from one of your shoulders as you leaned towards him. “You said ‘did’. Past tense. Implying that now you do.” 

“You have grown on me.” 

“Like a cyst.” 

He considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “Like moss.” 

You looked away to try to conceal the smile you were struggling to fight back and a realization settled in your chest. It fell slow and heavy like snow piling up on a roof in the middle of winter. 

You couldn’t have beared being stuck in this shuttle alone. You would have died trying to get off world. Even if you hadn’t, this quiet waiting with nothing to do would have driven you insane. But sitting here, across from the man you had fought so hard to never share a space with, it was bearable. Everything was more bearable with Chekov. He was the otherside of a very high strung coin. You weren’t just growing on him, you were growing to rely on him. 

The temperature fell further and you shivered, pulling your feet up onto the bench to curl in on yourself more. 

“Are you cold?” 

The exasperated look that took over your expression couldn’t be helped. “Yes, Chekov, I’m cold.” You took in the blanket he had draped only across his lap and his comfortable posture. “How are you not?” 

“Russian winters are much colder than this.” 

You chuckled. By the end of your time serving aboard the Enterprise you would be able to write a history book on Russia just from the facts Checkov shared at any given opportunity. 

As long as that time didn’t end tonight. 

Your breath caught in your throat at the thought. You slipped sideways down the wall until your head hit the bench, but you kept your eyes on him the whole way down. 

“Tell me about it.” 

His grin was brighter than the stars outside and took over his whole face, scrunching up his cheeks and eyes. He launched into a story from his youth that rolled easily into another. His descriptions made the Russian winter sound like a magical fairy land. Again you were sure it was exaggerated. You knew how many people had died from that cold. You knew that it was a dangerous and vicious winter. But you didn’t care anymore. You let yourself enjoy his version of reality. 

When he had to pause to catch his breath and cover himself more with the blanket, you took a turn at storytelling. Your voice was thin and breathless as you told him about the winters of your childhood and some of the nastier cases of frostbite you had treated. Your chest started to burn for more air and your fingers started to ache, growing stiff in the cold. 

The pauses between your stories became longer and longer and your voices morphed into barely audible murmurs until you started to drift into a restless sleep. You knew you shouldn’t sleep and kept trying to claw your way back to consciousness, but you kept sinking deeper and deeper. Until a choking sound came from the otherside of the shuttle. 

You sat up, trying to place your surroundings. The soft hum of the dying shuttle sounded so unfamiliar to you. The deep aching cold sinking into your bones and the harsh roughness that screamed in your throat and lungs every time you took a breath felt all encompassing. Your heart raised and your head pounded as you glanced around. 

Chekov slept across from you. You called out to him as a series of coughs and wheezes racked his body. His face was twisted with pain but he didn’t open his eyes. You wrapped your blanket tightly around yourself and moved to hover over him. Shaking his shoulder gently had no greater effect than calling his name. His coughing got worse and then it stopped. He went still. You shook him harder. His name turned to a wheeze in your mouth. His eyes fluttered but he couldn’t keep them open. You tried to force him into a seated position but he was a dead weight that your freezing arms struggled to manipulate. 

You dropped to your knees, brushing a hand against his face. It was so pale it looked almost gray. 

“Please, Chekov. Just take a breath. Just a small one.” Your hand dropped back to his shoulder and his hand found it. His purple lips parted to let in a shaky breath. It left him in a cough, but it was enough to give you hope. 

You pushed his shoulders up and wriggled underneath them. His eyebrows furrowed and you did your best to pull him up to rest against you. With his lungs more up right, he was able to take a few shallow breaths. 

“Good. That’s good. Just a little longer. Keep breathing a little longer.” You turned your head away from him as a coughing fit hit you. When your breathing evened out, you leaned your cheek against his curls. “The hero of the lower decks doesn’t die like this.” The sentence barely made it out of you before you were drifting off again. A pressure on your hand kept you from drifting entirely. 

“Stapes neither.” 

A smile tried to work its way onto your face. You had no idea he even knew the nickname. 

His hand fell from yours, but not all the way. The tips of his cold fingers remained on the side of your hand, holding you there with him. You would keep breathing as long as he did. It was a silent promise you made. Your old need to out do him mingling with a new need to stay with him. 

Sleep found you again, dragging you down to a quiet but panicked place. An insistent beeping filled your head, but the harder you tried to wake, to identify the noise, the tighter sleep’s grip on you became. 

You had no idea how much time had passed before its grip finally loosened and you swam your way back to consciousness. Your body no longer ached or burned. Your heart was calm, almost still. The panic had faded. For a brief moment you thought you weren’t waking up. You were dying and it was peaceful. But then you sucked in a breath. It was deep and cleansing and filled your lungs with ease and without pain. It smelled like that beautiful mixture of antiseptic and tritanium that meant you were home. You were safe. 

You bolted upright. 

“Chekov.” Your voice was rough and desperate. The bright light above you kept your eyes from adjusting. You looked around trying to find the golden uniform through the speckled static filling your vision. 

Then the light was pushed aside and Bones came into view. His warm hand landed on your shoulder. 

“He’s okay. He’s still asleep. The two a’you had a rough night.” He searched your face. “How are you feeling?” 

“What? I’m- I’m fine.” Your brain was working overtime trying to catch up to now while still piecing together the memories from the shuttle. “Are you sure he’s- because he was-” 

“Chekov is in perfect health,” he told you gently.

Relief filled you and passed through you in a sigh. Your shoulders slumped and you rested your arms on your legs. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until that moment. 

“Heard you were down right cuddlin’ the boy.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him as he stepped behind you to get a better look at the biobed readings. 

“I was keeping liquids from pooling in his throat and blocking his airways.” 

“I bet you were.” 

“I’m his doctor. It’s my job to keep him alive,” you pointed out.

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Never had to cuddle one of my patients.” 

“Well, I’m more hands on than you.” 

He stepped back so he was facing you again. “You did good, kid.” His hand fell to your shoulder again, squeezing softly like he was making sure you heard him. “I’m giving you a clean bill of health. Go get some rest.” 

You got to your feet and headed towards the door, but you only made it a few steps. Something held you back, rooting you to the spot. 

“Unless…” 

You looked to Bones. Your eyes felt raw with exhaustion, but you didn’t want to close them again. Not yet. 

“You want to stay until he wakes up.” 

“He is my patient. I should make sure he’s okay,” you told him. 

Bones just gave you one of his knowing smiles and pointed you towards Chekov’s bed. You followed his direction and found Chekov laying still in the corner. The blue tinge to his skin was gone, replaced with a slight roseiness. You watched his chest rise and fall, listened to the smoothness of his breathing, and resisted the urge to slip your hand into his. You wanted to touch him, to confirm that he was real and alive and safe, but instead you wrapped your arms around yourself and stood by the end of his bed. 

He moaned softly, turning over. His eyes opened slowly, looking out across the sickbay. 

“We made it. I am alive,” he said to himself like he needed to hear it outloud to be sure. 

“Yes,” you answered. 

He scrambled into a seated position at the sound of your voice. A smile lit up his face when he saw you. His right hand lifted off the bed for only a moment, reaching for you on instinct before his conscious thought took control of it again. 

“You are alive.” 

“It would appear so.” You walked to the head of the bed to check his vitals. You could feel his eyes on you as you tripled checked them, still trying to convince yourself that he was okay and wanting a reason to stay by his side for a moment longer.

“Do you still hate going on missions with me?” 

“Yes.” Your answer came quick, but it was followed by a smile. 

You turned to leave, satisfied that he was indeed in perfect health. He let out a breathy laugh and you stopped at the end of the bed and looked over your shoulder at him. 

“Wouldn’t have wanted to be on that mission with anyone else though.”

[silversword7000]

Omg I want to write more for Chekov but I have no ideas about what to write this is so tragic😭😭😭.

[iamthemain-character]

hello! may i request something about chekov x reader? maybe the reader wakes up from nightmares and chekov comforts them? thank you have a good day 🫶

thank you for requesting! i am so sorry it’s taken so long, somehow this got lost in my drafts. :( but i hope you enjoy! :)

In My Arms

Pavel Chekov x reader

gender neutral pronouns

TW: nightmares (and possible wrong use of russian)

star trek mastertlist

“My love. My love, wake up!”

Sharply inhaling, your eyes finally open. Petrified with fear, you stay stiff, unable to move any part of your body.

“Любимая (Beloved), it’s okay, I’m here.”

Finally blinking away the last effects of sleep, you see your partner’s face hovering above you. You realize he has arm wrapped around your torso, the other hand cupping your face. Gently Chekov strokes your cheek with his thumb, offering a small smile in an attempt to comfort you.

You breathe out slowly, finally feeling your body relax as you realize that everything you just went through was all only a nightmare. You blink away the last tears that linger in your eyes, trying to calm your body and mind.

“I’m sorry if I woke you.” You whisper.

Vehemently Chekov shakes his head, laying back down and pulling you close to his chest. “No, none of that, you don’t need to apologize.”

You nod in acceptance, relaxing into Chekov’s warmth and the safety you feel from your lover’s arms around you. You feel his chest rise and fall underneath your head, and you focus on that, grounding yourself as you match his breathing.

“Are you okay?” Chekov asks after a few moments of silence.”

Tilting your neck back to look at him, you nod again. “I’m okay, it was just a nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Your mind thinks back to the terrors you mentally went through; it had felt so real in the moment, but now it seems so impossible and distant as you relax in your bed with your partner.

“It was just…unsettling. I was lost—I lost you.”

You feel Chelov’s arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nestle deeper into your lover’s hold, the comfort of your bed and his warmth and his arms bringing you peace again.

“Will you sing for me?”

You can feel Chekov smile and softly laugh at your request, but nevertheless you hear his gentle voice breaking through the stillness.

“Спи, младенец мой прекрасный, (Sleep, my beautiful good boy,)

Баюшки-баю. (Bayushki bayu)

Тихо смотрит месяц ясный (Quietly the moon is looking)

В колыбель твою. (Into your cradle)

Стану сказывать я сказки, ( I will tell you fairy tales)

Песенку спою; (And sing you little songs,)

Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки, (But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,)

Баюшки-баю. (Bayushki bayu)

As you drifted back off to sleep, you knew that with Chekov by your side, you were safe, loved, and would never be alone.

———————————————————————

a/n: if you want to hear a beautiful recording of the lullaby i used, check out this youtube video!

[perseephoneee]

⭑ FIC RECS ⭑ part II

↳ fic recs part I ↳ masterlist ↳ ship exchange ↳ taglist

it’s been a few months since I’ve shared fic recs, and tumblr won’t let me tag more people in the original post 😭

as a reminder— the kindest thing you can do for writers is reblog and comment :) it’s an exhausting job and they deserve your love

VAMPIRE DIARIES

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ KOL MIKAELSON

miscommunication @captainsophiestark

kinktobers 1 & 2 *smut* @wholoveseggs

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ KLAUS MIKAELSON

spellbound *smut* @shrenvents

OUTER BANKS

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ JJ MAYBANK

linecook!jj *smut* @princessbrunette

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ RAFE CAMERON

bittersweet *smut* @nadvs

MARVEL

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ LOGAN HOWLETT

“you’re not her” @not-neverland06

relationship hcs @corrupt-fvcker

sugar, sugar *smut* @eupheme

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ STEVE ROGERS

watchful eyes *smut* @espinosaurusrexex

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ LOKI LAUFEYSON

as the clock strikes midnight *smut* (series) @cleo-fox

TEEN WOLF

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ ISAAC LAHEY

tell me you want this @fangirl-writes

STAR TREK

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ JAMES T KIRK

aos kirk @asgards-princess-of-mischief

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ LEONARD MCCOY

pining @toboldlygohome

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ PAVEL CHEKOV

heads up @captainsophiestark

SUPERNATURAL

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ CASTIEL

noises @womanhopper

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ DEAN WINCHESTER

better than pie *smut* @hintsofhoney

[aerospas]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍 ; their pet name for you ── tos characters !

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ; ᶜʰᵃᵖᵉˡ, ᶜʰᵉᵏᵒᵛ, ᵏᶦʳᵏ, ᵐᶜᶜᵒʸ, ʳᵃⁿᵈ, ˢᶜᵒᵗᵗʸ, ˢᵖᵒᶜᵏ, ˢᵘˡᵘ, ᵘʰᵘʳᵃ

( SWEETHEART ) sweetheart ; they'll tenderly cup your face in their hands, their thumb gently tracing the curve of your cheekbone. each glance at you feels like a stolen moment of bliss, as if the universe conspired to bring you two together. in their eyes, you are the embodiment of all things sweet and pure, a cherished gem in a world of rough stones. they'll shower you with affectionate words and gestures, their love for you pouring out in every touch and smile.

kirk, sulu

( DARLING ) darling ; it is a term that dances on their lips with an effortless grace, carrying with it a promise of warmth and tenderness. their gaze holds a depth of adoration that knows no bounds, as though you are the centre of their universe, a guiding star in their sky.

chapel, mccoy, scotty

( LOVE ) my love ; they possess an innate tenderness that envelops you like a warm embrace, their arms a sanctuary where you find solace and comfort. they lavish you with affection, expressing their devotion through every word uttered and gesture made. in their eyes, you are not just a person, but a soulmate a companion in the journey of life.

chekov, rand, spock, uhura

[standfucker]

More Than Enough

Extremely belated birthday gift for @nekomacheercaptain, thanks for being a great friend these past few months! Hope it was worth the wait, thanks for your patience!

Characters: Rosinante

Reader: Cis Fem

Word Count: 11,898

CW: fluff, explicit N.SFW content, established relationship, lots of smooches, shy reader, chubby reader, lil bit of soft dom Rosi, body worship, praise, dirty talk, oral (fem receiving,) fingering, vaginal penetration, size difference, size kink, big insertion, belly bulge, slight bit of hurt/comfort, reader does not finish but has a great time so it’s all good

Summary: When Rosinante discovers that your birthday's coming up, he does what he can to make it special.

Ao3 Link

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

Rosinante’s call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts. You blink, now back in reality, and look his way. At this distance, you can see his concerned frown under the red paint, pointed opposite of the harlequin curves.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine,” you reply quietly.

“You seem distracted.”

His eyes are soft. It’s not something you would ever see around the family. To the outside world, they are cold and aloof, all out of necessity. But the way he looks at you in private–it’s like he’s a completely different person.

All Rosinante had done was comment on the date, and you had gone quiet, a realization setting in that you didn’t know how to feel about. Knowing the stakes as you do, this long after he had divulged his secret to you, it seems trivial. Now that you’re both playing this deadly game of pretend under Doflamingo’s nose, what does it matter?

You play with the hem of your sleeve, thumb sliding across the worn threads for stimulation and comfort, a nervous habit. Rosi’s eyes settle on your busy fingers. He knows it means you’re agitated, you’re pretty sure. He’s frighteningly observant.

“It’s nothing, really,” you try to dismiss, hoping to avoid the conversation altogether.

Rosinante hesitates, unsure if he should pry. He hates making you uncomfortable, but you can tell he wants you to confide in him–he told you as much, after all, those many months ago when he revealed his voice.

“I’ve told you my secret. In exchange, you tell me yours, and we’ll call it even.”

Guilt stirs uncomfortably in your chest. Rosinante had long since earned your trust, hadn’t he? He would probably want to know.

“It’s just… It’s my birthday tomorrow,” you finally admit. “I completely forgot about it, to be honest, until just now when you mentioned the date.”

His reaction is as you feared–shock slowly morphing into excitement, his lips curling up to match the direction of the face paint. He starts to speak.

“We should do somethi–”

“No!” you cut him off, surprising you both. Then you cringe at your outburst, giving him an apologetic look. “Sorry! I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know. Birthdays can be a weird time for me. I don’t know that I want to celebrate.”

His face falls. “Oh.”

The disappointment in that little ‘oh’ reinforces the guilt. You try not to overthink it–you’re too tired from the mission Doflamingo assigned you two to let minor stresses pile up now. At least you and Rosinante had finished up early. There were still two more days until you were scheduled to meet the Numancia Flamingo, from which you would be sailing to the next island, only a day’s travel away. 

For now, you took temporary refuge in a recently-abandoned house on the outskirts of town. It meant that for the next 48 hours, neither you nor Rosinante had to pretend. He seemed aware of the shrinking span of time you had left, because he had been touchier since the mission ended, even for him.

“It’s just…” Rosi takes your hand, dwarfing it in his. His thumb sweeps over your knuckles, his go-to gesture when you’re anxious.  “I want to do something for you.”

“I knew you would,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips, because of course he would. He cares fiercely, as you've come to find out, for his loved ones–and somehow, somewhere along the line, you'd become one of them. It’s only natural he’d want to celebrate. And while you don’t know if you have the mental energy for an outing tomorrow, you wonder if you can make a compromise. Indulge him in indulging you.

“Spend time with me?” you suggest. “Just me and you staying in tomorrow, keeping each other company, doing absolutely nothing. That would be more than enough.”

That was what you needed. To relax for a day, to have no expectations, to give your nerves time to come down. Having Rosinante by your side for that seems like a pretty good birthday gift to you.

“You want to do nothing?” he questions, uncertain.

“Yep.” 

Uncertainty turns to thoughtfulness. You know he’s tired, too.

“...I suppose we have earned a break.”

Rosinante holds you close when you go to bed that night, one huge arm across your torso tucking you against his chest like you're a stuffed animal. Your hands come to rest on his arm. He’s solid and warm against your back, bringing a sense of safety you’d never really felt in your life before knowing him.

With privacy among the family nearly impossible to find, you soak in each other’s presence as much as you can in these rare opportunities. He kisses the top of your head before settling, and you squeeze his arm in response.

“I love you,” he says sleepily.

That has you twisting in place, rolling over to face him. Even in the dark, you can clearly see those soft eyes looking down at you fondly.

Why? A part of you wants to ask. But you don’t. There will be plenty of time for doubts once you’re back around his brother. Right now, it’s just you, Rosinante, and the delicate, wild thing that’s bloomed between you this past year. Candid, honest, and trusting. The ‘why’ doesn’t matter.

So you say, “I love you too,” and you look into those adoring eyes of his when you do, to let him know you mean it.

Even as tired as he is, Rosinante’s smile is bright and giddy, more like a schoolboy whose crush held his hand rather than a three-meter tall grown man. He bends down to kiss you, and you stretch to meet him, freeing your arms from between your bodies so you can hold his face to yours.

He's holding you almost too tightly as he falls asleep, but the pressure is soothing, and once he dozes off, his grip loosens. You both tend to move in your sleep, you more so than him, so you’re not surprised to no longer be in contact when you wake the next morning. But when you reach your arm out to the other side of the bed, seeking his warmth, you find that it’s empty.

You sit up, right in time to hear the front door open. On instinct, you get tense, battle-weary nerves anticipating a possible enemy. But then you hear a thump, followed by Rosinante’s yelp, and you know all is well.

As you’d expected, a single night’s sleep wasn’t enough to ease your tension after the stresses of the mission. You’re still tired as you stretch and rise, briefly debating on just going back to sleep but deciding you wouldn’t rest as well without Rosinante there anyway.

You find him in the kitchen. There’s a bag with crumpled take-out boxes on the table, likely smashed during his fall.

“Good morning,” Rosinante says merrily, rubbing a new sore spot on his head. “Happy birthday!”

Right. Your birthday. The momentary blank look on your face makes Rosi chuckle.

“Did you forget again?”

“Um… Maybe?” you say sheepishly, pulling out a chair to plop into.

“Well, I didn’t,” he says, his proud look turning into a slight cringe when he removes the crushed boxes from the bag. He slides one over to you. “Got us breakfast. Should be intact.”

The boxes have the logo of what must be a local diner. Inside is a stack of heart-shaped waffles. Thankfully, being flat, they survived the fall without being ruined. There’s little containers of butter and syrup inside with them, upturned but miraculously still closed.

“Oh, it smells so good!” Your mouth is already watering–restaurant food was always a welcome change from boat food. “Thank you, Corazon! I was so drained from this week, I didn’t even think about what we’d eat today.”

“Sure." He beams at your response, proud of himself again. “We can figure out lunch and dinner later.”

After breakfast, you check on the laundry you had hung up the day prior. Sweat, dirt, blood–not a trace of the mission remains on them. Washing the bloodstains out of clothing by yourself had always felt sinister, like you were covering up your crimes. Doing it next to Rosinante, for some reason, was different. With him, it felt more like a cleansing ritual–sitting side by side, working to return your attire, and by extension, yourselves, to a state of normalcy. Afraid he would get the stain remover into his eyes somehow, you had forcibly taken over for him. After some initial protesting, he acquiesced, sitting you in his lap as you worked, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist.

Everything is dry except for Rosinante’s black feather coat, the thick material still damp to the touch. There are spots along the shoulders where the feathers are scratchy and stiff from having been singed, but the rest is soft. You run your hand over it, then lean in to sniff the garment without really thinking about it. Even having been washed, it still smells like him, a comforting mix of his natural scent and nicotine.

“Is it dry?”

Rosinante’s voice behind you makes you jerk away from the coat, face flushing warm. His goofy smile and the dusting of pink on his cheeks tells you that you’ve been caught.

“N-No, it’s not,” you say quickly. “Might be a while before it is, so try not to get that one dirty again soon…”

Rosinante’s smile widens, playful. “I guess that detergent smells pretty good, doesn’t it?”

The detergent you had on hand last night was unscented. He’s messing with you. 

“Cora…” The heat creeps further up your cheeks.

“All sweet and floral,” he continues.

“Cora.”

“Or is it the cigarette smell you like?”

“Rosinante!” you say firmly.

He rubs the back of his neck, grinning apologetically. “Sorry, love. I’m done.” 

The teasing is relatively new, something he didn’t start doing until you became fully comfortable with each other. You’re not used to it yet. It’s a bit frustrating how easily it gets to you, but you also know that on the rare moments you get the nerve to tease him back, he falls apart worse than you do.

Rosinante starts heading your way, but hesitates at the clotheslines strung across the yard. They’re at chest height to him, perfect to get tangled up in. You shake your head as you take down the last of the dry garments. At least he’s self-aware. (If only it was enough to prevent accidents.) You approach him so he doesn’t have to take the risk, and he holds his arms out, offering to take the clothes off your hands.

Rosinante's blushing when you set the bundle in his arms, and he doesn’t move right away, looking down at you with a bashful grin.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I like when you call me Rosinante.”

It’s not the first time he’s told you that, but you still get a bit flustered, averting your eyes like you haven’t slept together before. The last time he said that, he added, “but it can’t become habit,” concerned that it would potentially give you two away if it slipped out in front of the family.

This time, he must not be worrying about it, because he adds in a lower voice, “I like ‘Rosi’ even better.”

That makes you heat right back up again, and you fidget in place. “I thought you said you were done,” you mutter, poorly suppressing a smile. 

“Ah, that’s right! I’m sorry. You’re just so cute, it’s hard to help.”

You shove your face into the pile of clothes he’s holding to hide the furious blush that must be tinting your skin, muffling your whine. “Rosi…”

“There it is.” He leans over and kisses the back of your head. “Mwah~! Come on, let’s go inside.”

Rosinante insists on folding the laundry, since you did most of the washing. He sits down to work, and you drape yourself against his back, your arms hanging over his shoulders and your face buried into his neck. He’s so tall compared to you that you have to be standing up to do so.

“Aren’t you tired, baby? You don’t wanna sit?” he asks.

“I’m good here,” you mumble, more than content to be close. 

Taking advantage of the fact that your heads are currently level for once, Rosinante turns his head to kiss you, first on your nose, then your cheek, working his way down with soft pecks. Your giggle is cut off when he reaches your lips, his eyes fluttering closed. Responding eagerly, you angle your head for better access, making him hum in satisfaction.

“Don’t let me distract you, Rosi,” you whisper.

“How can I not be when you’re right here?” he whispers back. “Radiant as a star, with none of the family around to disturb your light.”

Given your eye bags and messy hair, you’re not sure where he’s getting ‘radiant,’ but at the same time, you understand–you’ve seen him dirtied, bloodied, and exhausted and still especially found him attractive. But you're not used to such compliments, no matter how often he gives them. The flattery is always overwhelming, because no one's really spoken to you that way before him.

At your doubtful look, Rosinante opens his mouth to add something. You know it's going to be more praise, and you're already blushing, so you shut him up with a kiss, small hands holding his face to pull him right back in.

At some point while he’s folding clothes, you’re suddenly hit by the domesticity of it. In another life, this could be your reality: Mundane. No stakes. No risking your life. Just the day-to-day upkeep that you would share, together. Maybe it’s still possible someday. Maybe, if you’re lucky, this could be your future. You hold him a little tighter at the thought, and his sigh of contentment is like warmth in sound form, melting away doubts and worries.

All that the prior house occupants had left behind in the pantry are an unopened jar of coconut oil, a tin of stale crackers, and some half-empty spice containers, so despite your initial plan to stay in, the two of you decide to go into town for lunch. The weather’s nice for an outing anyway, sunny and temperate with a light breeze. You hold hands as you walk and discuss your plans, settling on getting lunch from a restaurant and then buying some groceries to make dinner yourselves. 

You’ve finished with lunch and are walking to the market when a storefront catches your eye, the rows of transponder snails sitting by the window standing out. They’re arranged in a neat display, though their purpose isn’t immediately obvious, as it doesn’t look like a typical snail-breeding operation. Rosinante encourages your curiosity, and the both of you duck into the store to see what’s going on. The clerk is happy to explain–the snails are actually visual transponder snails available to rent, each one having memorized three films they can project. It’s your first time seeing such a service, and you can’t help but be impressed as you browse the options, each snail resting next to a card with its films listed.

“Three entire films, huh?” you muse, picking up one of the snails and scratching along its shell until it purrs. “That’s pretty impressive. Aren’t you neat, you cute little thing?”

The snail withdraws slightly into its shell, eyestalks still poking out, but it won’t look at you, which makes you giggle. “Aww, Cora, I think it’s shy.”

Rosinante glances at the store clerk, currently a ways away but still within earshot, and then snaps his fingers, creating a small bubble of silence around the two of you. At this point, you recognize the ability when it manifests, though you don’t know why he chose to use it right then, especially so close to a civilian.

“It reminds me of someone,” Rosinante says cheekily, clownish grin stretching when you predictably get flustered. 

So he didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the clerk, but still felt that teasing you was necessary enough to risk being seen using his power? Before you can come up with a clever retort or admonishment, however, he drops the bubble, forcing you to keep it to yourself lest you sound like a crazy person. You try to communicate your disapproval with a pointed look, which promptly fails on account of your blush and only serves to make him chuckle.

After you pick out a snail and continue on your way to the market, you’ve calmed down enough that your stern expression actually comes off as stern.

“I can’t believe you did that,” you chide, “taking such a risk just for the sake of teasing me. Really, Corazon…”

“Well, I won’t be able to once we meet up with the family,” he says casually, “I’m trying to get it all out of my system while I can.”

“Is that even possible for you?” you joke as you side-eye him, knowing full well that Rosinante can be a bit… unhinged, at times.

That harlequin grin returns. “Maybe not, but I don’t think you mind nearly as much as you act like you do.”

There was that keen observation of his again. Sometimes you could be apprehensive over just how well he knew you. But other times, on those long nights where you were stuck deep in your own head, and he would just know without you saying a thing, and he would come to your side and wordlessly hold you close–those times reminded you that this was what trust was supposed to be like. Even if a small, dark part of you kept waiting to be taken advantage of, it never happened.

“Even so,” Rosinante adds, “if it’s too much, you know, just say the word. I’ll stop.”

A sharp swell of gratitude in you threatens to form tears, and you look away from him, taking a deep breath to hold it in. What did you do to deserve him? To show you’re not upset, you squeeze his hand, but he still picks up on your distress, lightly returning the pressure.

“Y/n?” he questions.

“I’m okay.” You compose yourself with another breath and smile up at him. “I love you, Rosi. That’s all.”

Rosinante’s cheeks turn a shade of pink that matches the hearts on his shirt. Then, breaking out into a delighted grin, he picks you right off of the ground in a tight hug. You immediately wrap your arms and legs around him in turn, both of you giggling.

“As hard as the mission was,” you say, “I’m glad it was just us two. I’m glad I don’t have to spend my birthday with anyone else.”

“Me too.” Rosinante kisses your cheek, and you push him away half-heartedly.

“You’ll smear your paint again.”

“So what?”

“We’re trying not to stand out, remember?”

His huffy pout is so childish it makes you giggle again. 

“You’re right…”

After you return to the house and put the groceries away, you spend the next hour or so unwinding from the trip. There’s a bookshelf in the living room with a variety of paperbacks, so you take advantage, each picking out one that looks interesting. Rosinante manages to knock the entire bookshelf over somehow, getting pelted by a small avalanche of books. Once you help put them away, the two of you curl up against each other to read on the rather large couch in the living room, big enough to hold even his bulk. The exhaustion from the previous week still lingers, as you both end up falling asleep, you leaning on his broad chest and soothed by the lullaby drumming of his heartbeat.

When you wake up next, you finally feel refreshed. Coming back to consciousness to the feel of his large body against yours is a soul-deep comfort, one you wish you could enjoy more often. If only you didn’t have to hide your relationship… You idly trace formless shapes on his chest, mulling the thought over like you have hundreds of times before, and he begins to stir.

The slight movement draws your attention. Rosinante had passed out hard enough to drool a bit in his sleep, and as you reach up to wipe it from his chin, he grabs your wrist, pulling your fingers to his lips to kiss them sleepily.

“Rest well?” you ask, smiling.

“Mm. Always do, when I’m with you,” he responds, kissing your palm next.

You sigh. “Cora…”

“Something on your mind?” He lowers your hand so he can fix his marigold eyes on yours, searching and curious.

You hesitate, mustering up the courage to share your thoughts. “I was just thinking… If we revealed to Doffy that we’re seeing each other, maybe we could be close more often. Share quarters instead of sneaking around. We could have this every night…”

Rosinante sits up, shifting you to sit onto his lap. He’s pensive, frowning slightly, the look alone making anxious nerves unsettle your stomach. As always, though, he notices, rubbing soothing circles on your lower back to show he’s not mad.

“I have thought about that,” he says after a minute, “but I want to save that information.”

“Save it?”

“As my brother gains momentum, the stakes only continue to rise, as do the risks we take. If we are ever out doing something conspiratorial against him, and, god forbid, he catches wind of it… I want to be able to use our relationship as an alibi. So I can tell him that we were just trying to hide that we’re dating.“

So that was his plan. Moments like these were a sobering reminder of his true nature–ever the cautious spy, strategically manipulating any and all information available to him. You imagine Doflamingo’s response to hearing that. After years spent in his service, it’s not difficult–you can picture his demonic grin clearly in your mind, and how it would widen upon the revelation. ‘A relationship? Why would you hide such a thing from me, dear brother?’

“He’d question why you went to lengths to hide that.”

“But he knows you,” Rosinante says, wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand. “He knows you’re shy, and he’s still under the impression I’m reserved. It might be enough to convince him. On the off chance that it could save us…”

You nod, if a bit reluctantly. “I understand.”

His smile is wistful, at first, before he puts on a more confident front, bending over to press his forehead to yours. “I’ll find ways to be close to you, Y/n. No matter what. Okay?”

“Okay.” You cup his face, mindful not to smear the paint, and he wraps his arms around your back. You both stay like that for a while, like you can combat an uncertain future by figuratively and literally holding onto each other. And maybe it’s just because you’re head-over-heels for him, but sometimes, his embrace feels a lot like hope.

You make dinner for the both of you, outright refusing to let him help, knowing no good can come of him being around open flames or knives. After eating, you set up the video transponder snail, settling on the couch to watch the films. By then, Rosinante’s coat has fully dried, and he lets you curl up in it, more like a massive blanket in comparison to your body. He must get a kick out of seeing you practically drowning in the fabric, because he can’t stop giggling to himself as he tucks it around you.

Having not been familiar with most of the films advertised at the store, you had picked out the snail at random. The first film turns out to be enjoyable, a lighthearted but thrilling espionage flick that Rosinante can’t resist making comments on.

“That’s not how that works…”

“It’s just pretend, Rosi.”

“Still-!”

The both of you are lying down by the time the second film starts, your back to his chest, his hand resting on your hip. You’re not really paying this film much attention, focused more on the soft joys of the present: his scent surrounding you, the heat of his body that you can feel even through the coat, the sense of safety you get from being in proximity.

Rosinante must not be paying attention to the film, either, because after a while, he noses into your hair and breathes in deep. A moment later, his lips press to the back of your neck.

“Mm…” You shift a bit. “Rosi?”

“I know you said you don’t want to celebrate your birthday, but…” He doesn’t pull away from your neck to speak, and you can’t tell if the goosebumps that result come from the tickling of his lips on your skin or his deep baritone in your ear. “Can I make you feel good?”

A pulse of excitement runs through you at the husky intent in his voice, but it’s quickly tempered by doubt. It’s not like you haven’t done it before, but you’re self-conscious regardless, since…

“You know I won’t be able to finish,” you remind him. 

It kills you that because of your issue, Rosinante can’t even do that much for you. He’s well acquainted with your struggle by now, and while it’s never stopped him from seeking this type of closeness, you still feel guilty. But it’s like he can sense your shame, because he kisses the back of your neck again as if to soothe your worries.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “So long as you enjoy yourself.”

That swell of gratitude returns in full force, rising in your chest along with such a strong surge of love that it almost hurts. You roll over to face him. He’s already blushing from the proposition, and you feel the heat start to crawl up your own cheeks.

“I love you so much,” you confess. “Yes, Rosi, you can. I… I want it. I want you…”

That giddy schoolboy grin returns for a moment, and then it changes, becoming something far more subdued and adult, his eyes half-lidding as he cradles your face in both hands.

“Then you’ll have me.”

Rosinante kisses you softly at first, pacing himself like he’s committing the feeling to memory. Then you grab onto the open collar of his shirt, and the tug of fabric triggers something in him, arms wrapping around you as he brings a heat that wasn’t present in any of the sweet kisses throughout the day. You can sense the change, his intent seeming to flow directly into your veins from his mouth like venom, burning you up in a good way. He’s measured, even restrained when he swipes his tongue along the seam of your mouth, only for his breath to hitch when you reciprocate, you parting your lips to curl your smaller tongue around his. His resulting moan comes from deep in his gut, stirring heat in yours.

Without breaking the kiss, he lets go of your face in order to peel his coat off of you, tossing it out of the way and swallowing your little noise of protest before his hands are right back on you, pulling you even closer. You reach up to grab the tails of his hat, eagerly pressing your body against his as you return everything he gives you.

Breaking for air lets him get a good look at your face, flushed and panting, and he curses at the sight of his face paint smeared across your swollen lips.

“Fuck, Y/n… Seeing my paint all messy on you–it does things to me,” he admits breathlessly, pupils blown wide.

“I could say the same,” you smile, as his is smudged just as badly. It would look ridiculous if it wasn’t so hot.

Rosinante kisses you again, open-mouthed and passionate. Given that he’s larger in every way, all parts of him proportionate to his height, even his tongue is that much bigger, filling up your mouth when he thrusts it past your lips. You moan around his tongue, and again when his large hands start to roam your body, greedily feeling you up. The tails of his hat aren’t sturdy enough for your liking, so you pull it off his head and bury your fingers directly into his hair, gripping the blond locks tightly enough to make him groan into your mouth. He starts to kiss and nibble along your jaw, muttering huskily in between each one.

“Could smear it elsewhere,” kiss, “could smear it all over you,” nip, “d’you want that, baby girl?”

“Ah! Rosi, y-yes! Please!”

His low chuckle sends a spike of heat between your legs, another one following when he rolls you onto your back, hovering over your form. “There’s my good girl.”

You whimper at the praise as Rosinante kisses his way down your neck, gliding his hands up and down your sides before hooking them under the hem of your shirt. He peels it up with reverence, like he’s unwrapping a long-anticipated gift, slow and methodical. You raise your arms to help him remove it, then undo the clasp of your bra yourself, figuring he’d only struggle with his large fingers. You let him remove your bra the rest of the way, too, knowing he enjoys disrobing you, though feeling a wave of embarrassment at how he sucks in a breath once your breasts are exposed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, awestruck, and you can’t help but cover your face. He always acts like he’s never seen you naked before.

Rosinante pulls your hands away, kisses you with tongue, then replaces your hands where they were, making you giggle. Then he presses his face between your breasts with a muffled sigh, enjoying the feel of your body for a moment before he shifts himself lower, mouth leaving a stripe of red down your front until his head rests on your stomach. His fingers sink into the doughy flesh of your hips, and you tense only for a moment before relaxing.

“You okay, baby?” he checks in.

“Mhm,” you assure him, “feels good.”

By now, you were used to how Rosinante reacted to your body, but the first time you had been intimate, you froze up at his touches.

“It doesn’t bother you?” you had asked him as he kissed your hip, trailing his lips along a stretch mark.

“Hm?” His eyes, glassy with lust, flicked up to meet yours, making you shiver. “Does what?”

“My, um…” Unable to say it, you grabbed your stomach to illustrate your point.

Rosinante followed your gaze down to your hands. There was a beat where he just blinked, unsure of what you meant, before his eyes widened with realization. Then he blushed even deeper. Tentatively, his hands came to rest over yours on your stomach, and then he gently pulled them away so he could lay his head there instead. 

“Silly girl…”

The way he said it, like he was in on something you weren’t, went straight between your legs. He let go of your hands so he could lecherously squeeze at your thighs again.

“You have no idea…” he whispered, and kissed your stomach with the same veneration of one kissing the foot of a revered statue. “...No idea what you do to me.”

Finding out he liked it–once you got over the initial shyness–had been a major confidence booster, even if it veered on overwhelming at times. Rosinante’s size may have made you weak-kneed if you dwelled on it too much, and his hidden gentleness had its draw, of course, but the sexiest thing about him was just how into you he was.

His lips press to your stomach the same way they did that first time together, and thanks to the sheer size of him, the purr in his throat sounds more like a growl.

“You’re so soft, Y/n…” His tongue dips out to taste your skin.

“Ah!” You squirm. “Rosi-!”

Rosinante’s grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place. “Can’t get enough…” He licks his way to the top of your hip, where he starts sucking a bruise that has you whimpering. His hands travel lower to wrap around your thighs, and then, without warning, he suddenly drags you further beneath him, so his head is level with your neck, handling you like the tiny thing you are in comparison. You gasp at how easy it is for him, and again, breathier, when his lips touch your shoulder.

He’s gotten bolder in bed. You would have never imagined it from how cautious he was your first few times together, but Rosinante was keen. This long into your relationship, he’d zeroed in on what you liked–not that you made it all that difficult, reacting rather strongly whenever he manhandled you a little. Sure enough, between that and his earlier kisses, you already feel yourself growing slick.

“Soft,” he repeats, kissing your skin. “Sweet.” His mouth skims along your shoulder until he’s at the curve of your neck. “Like something to be eaten…” He bites into the tender flesh, drawing a moan from you.

“Rosi,” you whine, a little gasp escaping when he starts sucking on the spot. “Mm-! Please! D-Don’t tease me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mutters, then promptly contradicts his words with another gentle bite.

“Rosi!”

“Sorry, baby girl… Hard to help when it makes you sound like that.” He kisses your neck in apology. “I’ll take care of you, promise...”

True to his word, Rosinante pushes you back up the couch so he’s positioned over your hips this time. The removal of your pants and underwear is treated with the same careful devotion that he did your shirt, savoring the act almost as much as what will follow. He doesn’t hesitate once you’re fully nude, immediately kissing your mons despite the soft curls of hair, then kissing your outer lips, groaning with heady anticipation.

“Spread your legs for me,” he directs, the command making you throb. There's something immensely appealing about knowing he could easily do it himself, but having you do as he says anyway. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth when you comply, entranced by the display. “Oh, good girl, so pretty. I’m so lucky…”

Before you have a chance to react shyly to that, he dips his head and licks a broad stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit, and your back arches at the electric contact, a small cry slipping out.

“So wet for me,” Rosinante moans. “Tell me if you need to stop, okay?”

With that, he dives back in, warming you up with slow, persistent licks, large tongue spread flat against your entire slit. Only a few seconds in and you’re already whimpering and squirming, prompting him to hook his muscular arms around your thighs to hold you still. The strength in his grip is almost as intoxicating as his enthusiasm, all the shrewd composure he’s forced to uphold for his mission gone, not even an afterthought when presented with the opportunity to indulge himself. He’s like a different person when he’s between your legs, usual modesty replaced by something carnal and hungry.

Rosinante eats you out like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance, shameless and thorough, deftly weaving his tongue between the folds of your inner lips before suckling on them. He gives quick, toying flicks of his tongue along your entrance, teasing the idea but not yet penetrating, and you can’t stop yourself from thrusting slightly into his mouth, which makes him tighten his grip on you.

“Oh-! Oh! Rosi!” you whine, unable to escape the blissful onslaught, fingers digging uselessly at the couch.

He’s noisy about it, too, not just because of the wet, messy slurping, but because he won’t stop moaning against your cunt, like he’s on another plane of being. While he claimed to be doing this for you, you suspect, even despite how incredible it feels, that he’s the one getting more out of this. He doesn’t let up for a single moment. You’re not sure how he’s breathing.

From the very start of your sexual relationship, Rosinante has always had a natural aptitude for giving head, and he’s only gotten better with time. He reads your body effortlessly, attentive nature serving him well for the task, knowing when to be consistent and when to switch it up. He’ll lick in one direction for a while, then, right before you become used to it to the point of the pleasure diminishing, he’ll change direction, interspersing with a new sensation that has your toes curling.

Once he’s decided you’re warmed up enough, he starts being more precise, using the tip of his tongue for more pinpoint stimulation in between the steady, rhythmic licks. Then he licks a long stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit again, except this time, he finishes by circling around your engorged clit. You arch deeper, if possible, as you cry out, burying your fingers in his hair and tugging hard, and he moans even louder. There’s a brief pause where he takes a breath–more of a gasp of your name, really–and then he’s buried his face between your legs again, focusing his attention on your clit, flicking and lapping his tongue at it like it’s his goal to get you to pull his hair out. Your noises, your writhing, the slight pain of your grip on his hair, all of it drives Rosinante mad, self-control slipping as he starts to buck his hips into the couch now and then while he goes down on you.

Right as the attention to your clit becomes too much, he snakes his tongue down and finally penetrates you, licking and undulating along your walls. Thrusting as deep as he can go, he curls his tongue to collect your slick at the source before drawing it back into his mouth to swallow it down, groaning depravedly at the taste. He never slows down, either, tongue-fucking you with a drive bordering on obsessive.

You’re almost as noisy as Rosinante is, now, hopeless to stop each shaky little whimper and moan of his name that he so expertly coaxes out of you. With his relentless pace and excellent attention to detail, it’s only a matter of time before it all becomes overstimulating.

“Rosi,” you gasp, tapping his shoulder. “Rosi, it’s too much.”

He looks a complete mess when he lifts his head, hair disheveled, mouth and chin shiny with slick and drool, almost no face paint left on him, likely all smeared on your vulva–you’ll definitely need a shower later. With the color and thickness of his hair, his reluctant look reminds you somewhat of a golden retriever that’s been called by its owner to leave the dog park. 

“Just a little more?” he asks with an innocence that has no place being there after how he just ate you out.

You giggle, both at that and because this was supposed to be about you, but you’re flattered that he can’t help himself when it comes to your body. “Give me a minute to recover, first. Then you can keep going. But slow down a bit when you do, okay?”

He rests his head on your thigh. “Whatever you need, baby girl. Just tell me when you’re ready.”

You lay your head back, catching your breath as you come down. Rosinante busies himself with marking up your inner thighs in the meantime, nibbling and sucking one bruise after another while you stroke his hair appreciatively. Once your nerves have settled, you give him the okay, and he wastes no time getting back to work.

Rosinante adjusts his hold on your thighs and drags your body closer, grinding your cunt right against the flat of his tongue as your fingers find their way into his hair again. He doesn’t stop you from rolling your hips into him, encouraging it with a gratified moan. Pleasure builds back up gradually, only to spike too high when he turns his attention to your clit again.

“Slow, Rosi,” you remind him, and he grunts an affirmative, easing up significantly.

One of his arms unhooks from your thigh, large hand squeezing your rear before he slips it between your bodies. As promised, he moves slowly when he penetrates you with a thick finger, but you still arch from the contact–his fingers are so much bigger than yours, and taking his time means the sensation is drawn out that much longer.

“Oh!” Your gasp is only pleasured, but he checks in anyway.

“This okay?”

“Yesss,” you moan, making him chuckle.

Mindful of your sensitivity, Rosinante pumps his finger at a leisurely, unhurried pace, relishing in each of your twitches and cries.

“What a good girl you are, Y/n,” he praises, then licks along the side of your clit, just once. “Letting me do this to you behind closed doors…” His tongue sweeps over your nub again. “You’re sweet all over, aren’t you, baby?”

He keeps from overstimulating you by breaking up each pass of his tongue with praise, until you don’t know if it’s his mouth or his words that’s making your breath catch in your throat.

“Your moans are so cute.”

“I love how you try to hold back…”

“You don’t need to, Y/n.”

“After all… This is all for me.”

“All mine to see, to hear, to taste. My girl...”

Rosinante curls his finger, and you cry his name. He’s gentle but insistent, sparking little pulses of pleasure through your core. It doesn’t build up much, but you ride it as long as you can, until your enjoyment starts to wane and there’s more friction than you’d like.

“Rosi, I–I need a break,” you tap his shoulder in signal, and he withdraws from you.

“You lasted longer that time,” Rosinante notes, then grabs your thigh and drags you underneath him so he’s at eye level with you again. Despite how he moves you as he pleases, he looks at you like you’re an angel gracing the earth. “You taste so damn good… Want me to show you?” He sticks out his tongue devilishly.

You consent by reaching for his face, pulling him in for a messy kiss that tastes of your slick. He probes his tongue deep, making sure to fill your mouth with the slippery tang. You moan softly in approval, and the thought that you like it turns him on so much he’s bucking slightly again in response. If it wasn’t for the significant height difference, he’d be grinding against you, but with your heads currently level, his hips are below your own.

Rosinante growls into your mouth, hands roaming your body to grab and squeeze as he likes. You can feel the rumble of it in your chest, and along with the dizzying taste of your slick and his covetous groping, you find yourself craving even more of him, like the depth of his need has rubbed off on you. Your hand trails down, reaching for his pants, but alas, he’s too damn tall for you to get any further than his abs. He picks up on it, though.

“You want my cock?” Rosinante whispers huskily, thrusting into the couch again.

“Yes, yes, please, Rosi!” you beg, and he grins at your desperation.

“I thought you needed a break.”

“Don’t be mean! It’s my birthday…” A cheap card to pull, maybe, but you’ll say anything at this point to get what you want.

Rosinante chuckles and kisses you, gently biting your lower lip. “Think it’ll fit this time?”

Even after all of his prior attention, the words pool fresh heat between your legs, an anticipatory shudder running up your spine. “Let’s try?” you ask. “Pretty please?”

“Like I could say no to you.” He kisses you again, groaning when you grind your crotch against his stomach. “Just don’t push yourself if it hurts.”

Rosinante’s eyes glaze over as he watches you hastily unbutton his shirt, taken at your impatience and at how avidly you run your hands down the soft fuzz of his chest once it’s exposed. He’s already undone the button of his pants earlier for some relief from the tightness, and there’s a wet spot on the fabric you don’t miss. He takes enough mercy on you to remove his own bottoms quickly, sliding both off in one motion. His cock springs against his stomach, fully hard and leaking, leaving a smear of precum on his abdomen. Like the rest of him, it’s proportionate to his size, far bigger than anything someone your height was probably meant to take. The length and girth would be more intimidating if it was attached to anyone else, but Rosinante was always mindful of your limits, taking the utmost care anytime you attempted penetration. Still, you can only fight the confines of anatomy so much, and as such, there’s only been a few times that you’ve been able to take him, all of which involved the assistance of lubricant.

Rosinante sits up with his back against the couch, and you eagerly straddle him, scooting forward until your clit’s pressed against the base of his twitching cock. The tip reaches past your navel, promising an incredible stretch if you can manage to fit him.

“Take it nice and slow, okay? Don’t force yourself,” he says as he rests his hands on your hips, helping you position yourself over him. He gasps at your touch when you reach to line him up with your entrance, your fingers not meeting even around the head of his dick.

His energy has changed, all earlier lust now controlled under a tight leash, restrained but brimming beneath the surface. You can feel it in the twitch of his fingers on your hips, and in his shaky breathing as he watches you lower yourself onto him. You both let out a breath when the blunt head of him presses against you. The delicate walls of your entrance are gradually spread wider and wider, stretching to accommodate the intrusion. There’s a dull tinge of pain, one that’s not concerning enough to stop you yet. But despite how wet you are from earlier, it’s still not enough to compensate for his girth, and you find yourself unable to get even the head of his cock fully inside without the friction becoming too painful.

Frustration pushes you to try again. You want him badly, you want to be close in this way, you’ve done it before–you know it’s possible. The resulting pain of your attempt shows in your grimace, making Rosi halt your progress with a firm hold on your hips.

“Baby, stop,” he says, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. “It’s not worth it if it hurts you.”

“I’m so close,” you whine. “I know I can do it.”

“You sure?” His thumb strokes your temple. “Listen to your body, Y/n. If it’s too much, there’s no shame in calling it off for today. We can try again next time.”

You make one more valiant attempt with no luck. Since you’ve taken him before, you have an idea of what to expect when it goes right, and this does not feel like one of those times. It just wasn’t going to happen without lube. Sighing, you dismount, trying not to feel too disappointed. Finishing him with your mouth is a fun option, too, but you were looking forward to riding him…

Then you remember something.

“Wait,” your eyes widen in realization, “the coconut oil.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head cutely.

“There was some left behind in the pantry, remember? I’m pretty sure that’s body-safe…”

Rosinante considers it, then shakes his head. “It’s probably contaminated, or expired.”

“I think it’s still sealed.”

“Is it?” He blinks for a moment, like he can’t believe the luck. Then he jumps to his feet with a hastiness that betrays his excitement, only to slip on nothing and fall hard on his ass. Undeterred, he hops right back to his feet, but is stopped by you grabbing his wrist.

“Nuh-uh, you stay here. I’ll get it,” you assert, picturing him retrieving the jar only to wipe out and let it shatter onto the floor. If that happened you might actually cry.

“I understand,” Rosinante says. You meet each other’s eye and immediately know you’re picturing the same thing, making you both break into giggles. Rosinante pulls you in for a kiss before plopping back down onto the couch, his dick bobbing enticingly from the action. “You gonna stare or you gonna hurry it up, then?”

Caught, you can only flash him a playful grin before you dart into the kitchen. (Wandering through someone else’s home nude always feels a bit awkward, but knowing it’s been abandoned helps ease the discomfort somewhat.) The coconut oil is unrefined, thankfully. Bringing it back to the couch, you scan the label to make sure it’s still in date. The lid is stuck tightly enough to prove it’s still sealed, resisting your attempts to open it until Rosinante twists it off in one easy motion that has you staring at his flexing forearms. He sniffs the contents before offering it to you to inspect. It smells light and faintly sweet, and the pure white color along with the smooth consistency reassures you that it’s safe.

You straddle Rosinante again. He’s so broad your legs don’t reach the couch when you do, but his muscular thighs are sturdy enough that it doesn’t matter. He bites back a whine when you start applying the coconut oil, bucking into your hands.

“Oh, shit. Your hands are so warm,” he moans.

“I’m even warmer on the inside,” you joke.

His chuckle breaks into a gasp when your hand passes over the head of his cock. You keep eye contact while you work, reveling in the flushed, needy way he watches you, this giant of a man now putty in your hands.

“You need–mm, fuck–you need some, too,” he pants, dipping two fingers into the jar and prompting you to raise your hips. Slick with oil, both of his thick fingers slip inside you without resistance, causing you to grab his forearm for stability as pleasure buzzes through you like static. He fingers the oil in deep, eyes half-lidding as you grind into his palm. “There you go…”

While Rosinante seems content to watch you fuck yourself on his hand, you have no intention of getting this messy only to not go all the way.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, come on,” you insist, and he curls his fingers teasingly before he withdraws them just to hear you moan. He wipes the excess oil on his hips before grabbing hold of yours, helping you position yourself again.

“Take it slow,” he says softly, watching your face for signs of pain.

The lube makes a world of difference, eliminating that threshold of friction that stopped you before. Holding your breath seems involuntary, an instinctive response to the feeling of your walls gloving the broad head of his dick. The stretch seems endless as you gradually lower yourself, slick flesh sliding past with little resistance until you’re spread impossibly wide around the first few inches. Rosinante reminds you to breathe through gritted teeth, his strained expression telling you just how good it feels. You don’t need the added motivation, plenty resolved to keep going for the euphoric stretch alone, but knowing it’s just as good for him only makes it better. A helpless little whimper falls out as you take a few more inches, holding onto his forearms for support. He’s thicker toward the tip, so once you conquer the first half, the rest is a matter of patience rather than struggle.

“Gods, Rosi,” you breathe, legs trembling as you work your hips in little up-and-down motions to open yourself further. “You’re so big. So big...”

Rosinante moans, head falling back on the couch. “Oh, fuck. Say it again.”

“You’re so big, Rosi!” Your eyes roll back as you sink another inch, his girth stretching you to your very limit until, finally, he’s more or less bottomed out. There are a few inches of him still left out, beyond what you can physically fit, but the fact that you can manage to take the majority of him at all is an amazing feat on its own.

You stay still for a moment, basking in the bliss of being filled near to bursting, the taught stretch of your walls shooting hot pulses of sensation through your pelvic floor without him moving. Even the slight edge pain feels incredible, cutting through the pleasure and keeping you grounded and aware of everything you’re feeling.

“You are warm,” Rosinante says, and even with him essentially in your guts, you can’t help but giggle. He shifts just slightly, but the slick movement inside you has you gasping and clenching down hard, making him groan and tighten his grip on your hips. He bends down to press his forehead against yours, lust morphing his expression into being both broken and ravenous as he looks into your eyes.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands breathily, almost against your lips.

“It feels so good!” you moan without shame. “Rosi, it feels so good.”

“There’s my girl.” He splays his fingers over your abdomen, feeling the distinct bulge of himself through the flesh with a pleased hiss. “You look so damn good like this. Love the sight of you stuffed full of my cock.”

You clench at the words and rock your hips forward, making you both moan in tandem, and again when you start steadily moving up and down his length. His hands on your hips keep you stable, supporting but not guiding your movements, letting you go at your own pace while he mutters filth in your ear.

“Can’t believe you took all of me… What a greedy little cunt you have, Y/n. Such a good girl, opening up for me…”

Rosinante kisses you roughly, drawing messy stripes on your tongue while you fuck yourself on his cock. You try to pay it back once he pulls away, praises spilling from your lips when you have enough presence of mind to do something other than whimper. But where Rosinante can dish it out, it seems he cannot not take it, because after only a few enamored ravings of how big he is and how good he feels, he’s suddenly stuffing two fingers in your mouth to silence you.

“If you keep talking like that, I’ll cum too soon,” he rasps, but it immediately backfires when you start sucking on his fingers, making him twitch and curse. “Fuck! Little demoness, you like that too?”

He’s plugging your mouth with the fingers that were inside you earlier, and maybe it’s just because of the sex high, but the lingering taste of yourself alongside the sweetness of the coconut oil combines into something incredible. You let him know with a moan, sliding the tip of your tongue between and around his fingers as he presses down on the back of it.

Your body’s more adjusted to him now, letting you ride him harder and faster. His gaze flicks between your fucked-out expression, a little drool trailing from the corner of your lips, to the point where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear in your heat. After the rigors of the mission, you can’t maintain the pace for very long, tiring earlier than you normally would–unfortunately, your stamina can’t keep up with your need, but Rosinante always has plenty to spare.

You pull his fingers out of your mouth with a wet gasp. “Rosi, I need help. Please–”

“I got you, baby girl.”

He adjusts his grip on your hips, getting a more secure hold so he can lead your movements rather than just guide them. The passing of control to him is unspoken, an agreement given with intent gazes instead of words. You feel completely safe in giving yourself to him fully, letting your tired legs relax as he takes over, and in turn, he’s careful in the way he bounces you on his length. He sets a faster pace than how you were taking him, but doesn’t go as hard as you’d like–thankfully, at this point in your relationship, you’re better at communicating your needs.

“Harder, Rosi,” you pant, “I need it harder.”

The brief flash of his grin is your only warning before one of his hands wraps around your thigh and yanks you further down onto him, spearing his length in as deep as it’ll go. The breath is knocked out of you as his cockhead nudges your cervix, but the intensity with which you clamp down on him, along with your full-body shudder, tells him all he needs to know.

“You even like that, huh? You like when I use you like a plaything. Filthy, needy girl…”

You cry out in agreement as Rosinante takes you harder, thrusting up into you while pulling you down to meet his hips. The furrow in his brow and the grit of his teeth indicates he’s close and trying to hold out, tapping into that crazy willpower of his in order to please you for as long as he can. Each deep thrust works you further into a blissful haze, coiling pleasure in your gut until you can barely keep your head up–you can barely do anything aside from moan. He tilts your chin up with one finger, slowing down slightly so he can steal another kiss. Neither of you can maintain it very long with you both breathing heavily from exertion, but you stay close, lips parted and panting against each other.

You go from bracing your arms on his chest, to his shoulders, to raking your nails down the scarred expanse of his arms, feeling the muscles flex beneath your fingers. His gaze is fixed on yours, and you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. Even with his pupils blown wide and his eyes half-lidded, it’s every bit as adoring as it always is in private, but there’s something deeper to it now. It’s in the years of him having watched your back, it’s in the long process that was the gradual lowering of your defenses, it’s in getting to the point you could be so mutually vulnerable, it’s in wanting to make each other feel good out of love and nothing else. You wished you could exist in this moment forever, just to be close in the ultimate way.

No matter how good Rosinante feels, it never builds right. You wish you could cum. You want to experience that with him. But at the same time, you know he won’t be upset with you for it. And so, when you inevitably feel the pleasure start to wane in a way that indicates oncoming discomfort, you feel no shame in speaking up.

“I can’t… Rosi, I can’t go much longer.”

Rosinante immediately slows down. “Want me to stop?”

“No, I–I want you to cum.”

His eyes darken, and he leans in to whisper in your ear. “Where do you want it, baby girl?”

“Inside.”

You can feel his dick twitch when you say it, and he rests his head on your shoulder with a low groan.

“Fuck. Okay. Sure, I can do that for you.”

Rosinante plants a sloppy kiss on your neck before turning toward the long end of the couch, gently laying you back without pulling out. He repositions you both into a more comfortable missionary, resting his burly arms above you.

“This feel okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, s’good.” You raise a hand to touch his cheek. “This way I can see your face when you cum.”

Got him. It took all day, but you finally turned the tables for once, and the result is a wonderful sight to behold. Even flushed with exertion, the blush across his face deepens to a shade you’ve rarely seen before, his jaw going slack. To his credit, he recovers quickly, bringing a hand to cup yours on his cheek and grinning down at you.

“Guess I deserved that after all of today.” He turns his head to kiss your hand. “I won’t be much longer, but stop me if you need to, yeah?”

“I will.”

“Good girl.”

Rosinante lets go of your hand to trail it down your side, settling on your hip to anchor you in place as he starts thrusting. He’s only slow for the first few thrusts, quickly working himself back up to a firm, brisk pace. Having held out until now, it doesn’t take him long to get back to the edge, evident by the way his groans deepen and intersperse with broken gasps. Just as erotic as the sound of him is the sight of him, abs flexing as his huge body rolls into you. It’s enough to spark your weary nerves back to attention, dragging the pleasure out one last time. 

“Fuck, it’s so good,” he moans, “always so tight, every damn time.”

Rosinante curls over you like he can’t hold himself up anymore, his head pressed to your shoulder, but it doesn’t slow the pounding of his hips at all, nor does it stop him from singing your praises into your ear.

“My sweet girl, so good to me. Love you so much, love that you’re mine…”

The husky devotion with which he says it has you throwing your head back onto the cushions and arching into his thrusts, whimpering when it angles him perfectly into your g-spot. The sound must trigger something in him, because his talking plummets from praise into filth faster than an angel falling from grace.

“You’re right, Y/n. We should tell my brother about us. That way I could fuck you every night, ‘til I’ve molded you to the shape of my cock. You’d get so used to it I wouldn’t need to hold back, and you’d fucking love the process, wouldn’t you? Begging me to fuck your pussy even though you can barely take it. We could even fuck in the room right next him and thanks to my power, he’d never even hear you screaming my name.”

“Rosi!” you cry, throwing your arms over what part of his back you can reach and digging your nails in. “Don’t you dare hold back! Give me everything, right now!”

It’s not a request he’s ever really granted you, but drunk as he currently is on the pleasures of your body–and maybe because it’s your birthday–he relents this once. A deep, uncharacteristic growl rumbles in his chest as his thrusts turn brutal, one arm braced above your head. His other hand’s wrapped around your thigh to keep you from bouncing off him from the force, ironlike grip keeping you in place so he never slips out. For a short but wonderful amount of time, you’re at the mercy of the brunt of him, just like you’d asked. At no other time does the scope of his size come into perspective like when he’s throwing all that weight behind his thrusts, three meters of solid muscle bullying your insides. It hurts a bit, but you’re treated to the incredible sight that is Rosinante on the edge, gritting his teeth and groaning like a beast, completely lost to higher thought.

“Gonna cum,” he gasps, and then he’s chanting your name like a sacred incantation, each time a little louder. His pace stutters, grip on your thigh tightening, and he pulls you down on him one last time, thrusting as deep as he can go and staying there with a penultimate moan. You can feel his length throb and pulse as he releases, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

For a minute, neither of you move, catching your breath and weakly holding each other. Then he pulls out, the absence feeling like a gaping loss as much as a relief. He has just enough presence of mind to collapse next to you rather than on top of you, trembling with what must be little aftershocks. A gentle touch to his cheek grounds him, making him blink and focus on you. He breaks into a dopey grin, pulling you close.

“You’re perfect.” He kisses you softly, all traces of roughness vanished. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You beam, somewhat giddy after having your craving sated so thoroughly. He’s no better off, giggling and kissing you again.

The post-orgasm clarity must hit him around then, because his face suddenly falls, levity turning to concern in an instant.

“Oh, shit! Oh, Y/n, are you okay?” He cradles your face in his hands, inspecting you as if it was your face that endured any of it. “I’m so sorry–I got a bit rough there, and we never went over a safe word–does anything hurt?”

“I’m okay, Rosi!” You cover his larger hands with yours, rubbing your thumbs across the back like he does for you when you’re stressed. “It hurt a little, but I would have stopped you if I didn’t like it.”

That helps him relax somewhat, though the worry doesn’t fully leave him. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not much. Might be sore later. Nothing I can’t handle.”

It takes some more reassurance before he’s satisfied, listening to you soothe his concerns while he massages your hips and thighs. You help each other come down, sometimes with touches, sometimes with soft words, sometimes just holding one another close and listening to the sounds of your breathing. You can only ignore the aftermath for so long, however, in this case being the trickle of his cum down your thigh.

“It is far too late for me to be realizing this,” you say, “but we forgot to put a blanket down, and now there’s stains on the couch…”

“Yeah,” Rosinante says, “I’m gonna be honest. I don’t feel bad at all.”

You snicker. “A pirate’s a pirate, huh?”

“Actually, that’s the Marine side of me.”

“No way. Pirates fuck way more than Marines.”

“I have news for you about shore leave.”

You mirror his grin. “You can tell me all about it, but I’d prefer a demonstration.”

“I bet you would.” He pulls you in for a kiss.

The last movie had long since played and ended without your noticing–thankfully, the snail put itself to sleep after the end of the movie (you sure hope so, anyway.) The shower isn’t large enough to fit both of you, so you take turns, each helping wash the other from outside the tub. While Rosinante’s no worse for wear, you benefit more from the hot water, easing your tension while he runs his hands over your sore muscles in an echo of his earlier worship.

After you’ve both cleaned up, you rehydrate with some tea before bed, sitting in his lap at the kitchen table and talking.

“Rosinante?” 

“Hm?”

You turn in his lap so you can look at him clearly. “Thanks for today. I really enjoyed my birthday. Probably for the first time in a long time.”

His smile lights up the room, and he hugs you tight, pressing his face into your hair. “I’m so glad!”

You giggle. “This is kind of dumb, but I kind of wish I had a cake after all.”

Rosinante pauses. When he lifts his head, his expression is hard to read, some odd mix of contemplative and sheepish that you can’t discern.

“Rosi?” you ask.

“Um…”

“What is it?”

He glances to the side. “...Well… I actually got a little cake this morning, but I dropped the box it was in when I fell… It’s still in the fridge.”

You sit up straighter. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t get excited! It’s totally ruined, at least in appearance. Still edible, but I was so embarrassed I didn’t want to say anything…”

You’re sliding off his lap before he finishes his sentence, going to see for yourself. Sure enough, there’s a little box shoved in the back of the fridge that you didn’t notice. It’s bent in a few places, and the clear plastic window on top of the box is smeared on the inside with cream, blocking your view of the damage.

Rosinante covers his face as you open the box. It’s a disaster; the layers of the cake are in different places, the whipped cream frosting is more on the inside of the box than on the cake itself, and the fruit pieces that must have been a beautiful outer decoration are now scattered. It’s hard not to laugh at the chaos of it, but you manage for his sake, especially considering the circumstances. The thought that he got up early after a tiring mission in order to find a bakery for you is more than a little overwhelming, and you know you’ll cry if you dwell on it too much. You’d take a dropped cake over a flawless one any day if it was coming from him.

“For the record, Rosi,” you say, “I think it’s perfect.”

There’s no way to cut a uniform slice out of the cake, so you fork a piece directly from the mess. It’s delicious, fresh and not too sweet, and even though Rosinante doesn’t care for baked goods, your pleased look convinces him to try it, too.

There’s some symbolism there, something about appearances and damage and sweetness in spite of it all, but for once, you don’t overthink it.

Rosinante has one last surprise for you when you snuggle into bed, getting your attention once you’ve settled in. “I had an idea,” he says.

“What about?”

“It would be a few days late for your birthday, but… I looked into the next island we’re going to stop at. Apparently, it’s famous for its zoo. And, you know, Law told me he’s never been to a zoo before.” He gauges your reaction, hesitant. “...I’d love to take you and the kids.”

Your love of animals didn’t escape his notice either, then. You smile at that, though it falters. “Sounds kind of like a date… What will we tell the others?”

“I won’t say anything. You will mention the zoo in front of the kids. Law will pretend not to want to go, but Baby 5 and Buffalo will jump at the idea, and he’ll end up tagging along. I’ll accompany you all as a ‘bodyguard.’ There’s a chance others in the family will want to come, but it could still be nice.”

It does sound nice. Even if you won’t be able to hold hands as you go, even if you’ll have to keep up pretenses–he’ll still be there, and the two of you will know the true meaning behind the visit. That’s more than enough.

Rosinante’s presence alone has always been enough, but the little ways in which he’ll go out of his way for you serve as comforting reminders of his devotion. It’s not as easy to harbor doubts when he always shows up to chase them away.

“I’d love to go with you, Rosi.” You scoot backwards until his chest is against your back, solid and warm as always. His arm automatically drapes across your body to bring you just a bit closer, and you both drift off like that–sated, secure, and looking forward to the coming days.

[generalkenobee]

And I'm asking questions again 😖🎀

[codgod]

x readers just make me think of that time when i was 13 reading a markiplier x reader on wattpad where y/n spent half the fic with her pants off because the author forgot to write her putting them back on

[belle46p]

I think you'd like this story: "Reader Inserts " by Belle346u on Wattpad

You can request any characters from the shows or movies I do using my guidelines.

[snowberriies]

I read this fic years and years ago and lost track of it until now!! my long lost love has been reunited with me

Prompt: "You should write a fic in which Chekov is unknowingly to himself being sexy af by hanging out in his room with his shirt off and some nice sweatpants showin off his bottom half if you know what I mean, and the reader is trying not to make it obvious that they’re attracted to him" - Anon

Word Count: 1336

Author’s Note: I got to research men’s yoga pants for this piece and it was a lovely bit of research indeed. Enjoy my lovlies <3

Cyrillic Key:  За здоровье - Za zdrovye - Cheers

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[silversword7000]

Help guys I wrote some weirdly specific Pavel Chekov headcannons and I want to post them but I am also nervous about sharing my writing publicly I hate this😭😭

[captainsophiestark]

Thank you so so much!! I’m so happy to hear you enjoyed it 😄❤️ I had a lot of fun writing it and I ADORE Chekov, so I’m glad other people share that feeling lol

Heads Up

Pavel Chekov x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Day Twenty-Nine of Fictober!

Fandom: Star Trek

Fictober Prompt: “Back up!”

Summary: Reader’s working in engineering, trying to repair damages to the Enterprise after they had to pull some crazy moves to get out of danger. They’re running all over the place, and when the ship’s resident Russian whiz kid finds his way down to engineering and almost gets himself killed, it might turn out to be just what reader needed.

Word Count: 2,723

Category: Fluff

****************

I grimaced as sweat dripped down my face, and I tightened my grip on the wrench in my hands. Starfleet engineers had a whole host of high-tech tools at our disposal, but sometimes, the classic solution was the best one. My muscles strained as I worked to tighten the bolt in front of me, one of the only things keeping the ship from venting its hot air into engineering and frying us all.

I got the bolt to a point where it would hold, then ducked down from the catwalk to the computer below. I typed furiously, trying to route the excess heat from the engine through pipes tough enough to take it and eventually into space. The captain had called down with an impossible ask again, and again, we delivered. But we’d had to push the ship so hard she’d almost come apart, and now we were dealing with the consequences in engineering.

I managed to find half a route for my excess heat, but before I could finish saving the day, I heard noises coming from the bolt I’d just tightened. Even worse, it wasn’t just more stress noises. It also sounded like a person.

I turned from the computer I was working on to look, and I saw a young yellow shirt leaning right over the steam pipe like a total idiot.

“Look out!” I yelled, diving for my wrench and sprinting for the guy. He gave me a curious look as I rushed towards him, but didn’t move, so I shoved him in the chest to push him back a few steps as I popped back onto the catwalk with him. “Back up!”

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[toboldlygohome]

Oblivious

Leonard McCoy x Reader

Summary: You are oblivious to all of Leonard's attempts to flirt and all of your friends think it's hilarious.

Character(s): Leonard "Bones" McCoy, James "Jim" Kirk, Spock, Nyota Uhura, Pavel Chekov, Hikaru Sulu

Warning(s): Slightly cringe attempts at flirting, Painfully oblivious reader, Stephen King references

Leonard was finally ready to move on. The divorce had left him with wounds he wasn't sure he could heal from. He hadn't been interested in dating for years afterward. But for the first time since then, someone had caught his attention.

You were the new head of Archaeology aboard the enterprise. You had been transferred from the USS Celine to assist in the 5 year mission. To say you were new wouldn't be exactly correct, you had been on board for about 6 months already. You had taken to the position well and were already good friends with everyone in your unit, as well as all of the bridge and command personnel.

Leonard knew he liked you the moment you met. You had a firm handshake, a killer smile, and when Captain Kirk asked if you were single, you told him it wasn't his business. Jim's stunned face when you shook his hand and walked away was priceless.

Of course there were far more reasons to admire you other than your ability to take the captain down a peg. You were incredible at your job, finding ancient ruins in the most unlikely of places. You were like a dog when it came to fossils, sniffing them out almost as soon as you landed on alien soil. You were smart and always ready to answer questions. You were also highly tolerant of people's mistakes, something that was slowly rubbing off on him. When you were around, Leonard found he had more patience for stupidity and everyone else noticed as well.

You were kind, you were a great listener, you were hilarious, you were dependable, considerate, honest, cheerful, and you could always be counted upon for some witty banter. Not to mention you were the most beautiful person Bones had ever seen in his life.

That's not to say you didn't have your downfalls too, everyone does after all. You were self deprecating, a little easily distracted, and of course you were the most painfully oblivious person in the universe.

~~~

It all started one morning at breakfast. You were sitting in the cafeteria with Jim, Nyota, and Spock.

Leonard had made his decision the previous night while drinking with Jim. Bones wanted to pursue a relationship with you, but he wasn't going to just tell you point blank. He wanted to gauge your interest before taking that leap of faith.

"Mornin'" Leonard said as he sat down beside you. "Jim, you look terrible."

Jim, who was still hung over from the night before, frowned at the doctor. "Gee, thanks. I had no idea."

"You're welcome. Now Y/N on the other hand, you look great this morning," Bones smirked. Jim and Nyota immediately perked up, clearly not expecting him to be so forward (especially not this early in the morning.)

"Thanks Doc," You smiled at him and returned your attention to your oatmeal.

"What's your secret?" Asked Bones upon deciding that your smile was a good sign.

"My secret?" You raised an eyebrow.

"To looking so good every morning," he clarified. Nyota and Jim looked at each other incredulously.

"Ummmm," You thought out loud. "Get good sleep, take your vitamins, and don't get wasted at two in the morning." You patted Jim's shoulder and stood up with your empty bowl. "I better get to the lab, see you guys later!" You grinned.

Everyone bid you a good morning before gawking at Leonard, amusement etched on their faces. "What's your secret? Did you seriously ask 'what's your secret?'"Jim cackled.

"Leonard, you seriously need to up your flirting game." Uhura barely stifled a giggle.

"I know it's been awhile doc but seriously, that was terrible! And I've heard Spock's attempts at flirting," Kirk snickered.

"It wasn't that bad, y'all are acting like I'm some cretin who stole their oatmeal and called it flirting. I called them attractive, get off my back." Leonard rolled his eyes.

"No, you said they looked good. That could be interpreted in, so many ways. As far as flirting goes, that was pretty pathetic." Nyota said.

"I would have to agree doctor, perhaps you could take instruction from the captain or even-" Spock started.

"Shut up and eat your breakfast," Leonard snapped, causing another fit of giggles around him.

Bones sat there, glaring into his eggs, trying to figure out where he went wrong. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Uhura was right. You didn't realize he meant it in a romantic way. Maybe he was more out of practice than he thought. He was just going to have to give it another shot. Practice makes perfect after all.

~~~

The next day, Leonard tried a different approach. Coffee mug in hand, he made his way to your office only to find it empty. He looked all over the labs, nowhere to be seen. It wasn't until made it up to the bridge that he found you deep in a discussion about landing sites for an upcoming mission.

Your head perked up when you saw the doctor come in from the turbolift. "Ahoy, McCoy! We missed you at breakfast this morning." you smiled as he came to stand beside you.

"Sorry darlin', had some gamma shift engineers to patch up." Bones casually passed the mug over to you. "Made you some coffee."

"Really? for me?" You peered into the cup and beamed, "thank you doctor, it's just how I like it!" Jim gave Leonard a subtle thumbs up while you sipped your drink.

Leonard had a good feeling this time. You were happy with the gesture and even Kirk seemed impressed. It felt like a good first step, until-

"First Chekov brings me a croissant, then McCoy brings me a coffee. I'm so lucky to have such great friends. Thank you guys!" You smiled at the two men.

"You are very welcome!" Pavel grinned.

Leonard's mood plummeted almost instantly. While he was glad you got to enjoy a croissant and a coffee, Chekov's untimely generosity made his romantic gesture seem more like a friendly one. He was going to have to go back to the drawing board.

You turned to the captain, cradling your warm cup in your hand. "Is there anything else you need of me Captain?"

"No Commander, I believe you've answered all my questions," Jim said.

"Wonderful! If anyone needs me, I'll be in the lab trying to decode some ancient texts," you took another sip of your coffee before strolling back to the turbolift.

Once you were out of sight, Jim patted Leonard on the arm. Sulu and Chekov were trying their damnedest not to laugh, and failing miserably of course.

Leonard furrowed his brows at the two of them before looking back at Jim's cheeky grin.

"You told them?" Leonard scowled.

"Told them what?" Jim laughed.

"About..." Leonard rolled his eyes and gestured to the turbolift.

"The only ones I told were Uhura and Spock," Jim assured.

"He didn't need to tell us anything, It's written all over your face Dr. McCoy," Sulu said.

"Yes, you get all red in the cheeks and you have this look in your eyes like you've seen the sun for the first time. It is very obvious you are vying for the Commander's attention," Chekov agreed.

"If I'm so obvious, why isn't Y/N picking up on it?" Leonard crossed his arms.

"Maybe you need a new approach, try... I don't know, making up new excuses to spend time with them. Or maybe you could try touching them," Jim suggested.

"Touching them?"

"Yeah, nothing inappropriate or anything. Just little things, like pats on the back, nudging their shoulder. Stuff like that. Might show Y/N you're interested without having to use the words, you know?"

"I don't know Jim..."

"Look, you're a doctor right?"

"I hope that'd be pretty goddamned obvious by now," Leonard glowered and put his hands on his hips.

"And as a doctor, you have a pretty good gauge on if someone's uncomfortable right?" Jim asked, "just try it and if you get the sense they're uncomfortable, just stop doing it. Easy as that."

"Why do I get the feeling it's not going to be as 'easy as that?'" The doctor shook his head.

"Because you are an incorrigible pessimist, Bones." Jim patted his shoulder.

"I'm done here, some of us actually have work to do," Leonard grumbled and trudged to the turbolift.

"All work and no play makes McCoy a dull boy," Kirk beamed.

"Quote Stephen King to me one more time. See what happens." Bones said as the doors closed. Alone in the elevator, he allowed himself to think about where to go from here. Perhaps Jim's ideas weren't so terrible. He rather liked the idea of spending more time with you. He usually talked with you during mealtimes and meetings, but not much outside of that. The touching is what was making him nervous.

He came into contact with people all the time, being a doctor was a very hands-on profession. He just didn't have Jim's level of confidence anymore. It felt ridiculous, he could stitch a man's thumb back to his hand and deliver an infant in the middle of a battle, but he couldn't touch your shoulder? Maybe he'd just skip that step for now. Quality time, that seemed like as good of a direction as any.

~~~

He continued bringing you coffee every day, It gave him more time to get to know you and Leonard was falling harder by the minute. He hadn't really looked forward to anything in a long time, but he looked forward to your coffee talks. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough anymore. The chats weren't long enough and you still weren't catching on to his feelings.

It had been a particularly stressful day, it felt like everyone needed something from him and he was in desperate need of a break. The moment things got quiet in the medbay, Leonard snuck away and his feet carried him to the archaeology labs.

It was quiet inside. A few ensigns were at work in their stations, putting together fossilized bones and carbon-dating old tools. Leonard found you in the back of the lab where you were busy decoding some old scrolls. Learning to understand a lost language was no easy task; Leonard couldn't fathom the amount of reading it would take to accomplish such a thing. Still, you seemed ready to take on anything the Captain dished out.

"Commander, I see you're hard at work," Bones smiled and came to stand beside you.

"I see you're not!" You joked and looked up at him from your seat. "What brings you to my neck of the woods doctor? Did I forget about an appointment?"

"Not at all, I was just taking a break and wanted to see how you were doing," he said, hoping you would understand what he was trying to say: that he was thinking of you and wanted to see you out of everyone else on the Enterprise.

"Well I'm really glad you're here Len, because I've just made a breakthrough!" You beamed. "Take a look at this," you motioned for him to look closer.

Leonard leaned in to look at your scroll. "So, you know how I found these papers in a box under the Mofeli excavation right?"

"Mhm, you insisted there must be a basement and you found one," Bones hummed.

"I originally thought the site was a business, that these papers must be some sort of documentation. You know, like land deeds, proof of insurance, perhaps even money. Basically stuff you would usually keep in a lock box, but these aren't ledgers or inventory slips or anything like that at all."

"What are they?" He turned to look at you.

You met his gaze and gave him a grin that could melt the ice caps and outshine Sirius. "They're love letters," you said and his heart hammered his chest painfully. He was only just now realizing how close he was to you. How his hand was resting on your back, how his face was mere inches from yours.

"See, if you look here you'll find this symbol all over the place in these letters. It's the symbol meaning love or lover. I've completed the translation on this one right here." You returned your attention to the paper. Leonard swallowed and glanced at the sheet, trying his damnedest not to stare like some creep.

"What, um... what does it say?" He cleared his throat.

"It says, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'My dearest love, I find words elude me. My heart blossoms for you under the light of the sun and keeps me warm when the light fades. I find not the courage to speak, but many a whim to write. I desire your embrace. I seek your song. I crave your hand. I covet your blazing eyes. One day I-' This part is all faded so I can't make it out, but the last thing it says here at the bottom is 'May our hearts and bodies be intertwined for eternity, and our souls may sing together as one.' Then there's what I assume to be a name at the bottom, but I'm not sure how to pronounce it."

"It all sounds a little sappy to me," Leonard joked in a slightly strained voice. This whole thing with the closeness and the touching and the letter was really affecting him. If you noticed his struggle, you gave no indication, In fact, you seemed perfectly at ease being this close to him.

"Hey, a little sap never hurt anybody," you elbowed him lightly in the side.

"Croakus sap can."

"Touché"

Leonard chucked softly and lightly patted your back before crossing his arms casually over his chest Your easy conversation was already helping him relax again. "so, Commander, you've been down here in your lab for an awfully long time. What do you say we go for a walk to the observation lounge?"

"Sorry doctor, I would but somebody's got to make sure the ensigns don't blow the place up. That, and Spock wants me to finish three more translations by the end of my shift," you explained.

"Of course he does," Leonard huffed.

"But I'm free this evening if that works for you?" You tilted your head.

"Of course, absolutely." Leonard had no idea if that was going to work for him, but he was going to make it work.

"Great, I'll see you then," you said with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

"See you then. Don't work too hard," he smiled and left you to your translating.

Bones was pleased with himself. He had managed to follow Jim's suggestions and they appeared to work. He'd even managed to secure a date with you later that evening...Well...he hadn't actually called it a date when he suggested it. No matter, Leonard would just clarify all that the next time he saw you!

~~~

He never got to make the distinction that your walk was intended to be a date. You had brought a friend with you. Leonard could feel the fear in your ensign companion's eyes. Bones was sure everyone on the goddamned ship knew what he was trying to do but you. It was still a nice night despite the unwanted guest. He learned a lot about where you grew up, your interests, and your favorite films and music. He learned your favorite flower was the iris, your first job was a librarian, he even learned you were in a band during your time at the academy.

The more he learned, the more he liked you. He wasn't even sure if liked was the right word anymore. You had quite a few things in common. Your favorite foods, you liked the same movies, and you enjoyed the same music. You asked him questions that got him really thinking. They were the sort of topics you don't realize you have an opinion on until you start talking about them. But what surprised him most of all was when you asked about his daughter. What sort of interests does she have? How is she doing in school? I wonder if she would like X,Y, and Z. He was always hesitant to talk about Joanna or his ex, but it felt easier with you. Like that wound he had been carrying for so long was finally closing.

Your friendship progressed beautifully, but he felt like you were growing more and more blind to his advances. He had seen you turn plenty of people down before. If you weren't interested in someone, you made it abundantly clear. But you had yet to do the same with Bones. It wasn't just him: Jim, Nyota, Pavel, Scotty, Hikaru, and pretty much everyone else who knew you were puzzled as well. Even Spock couldn't understand how you were so incognizant. It was funny for them at first. They would laugh at every compliment you didn't register, every smile you didn't realize had meaning, every coffee, every walk to the deck, every deep conversation, every breath of relief when you come back from a mission. He was even so bold as to tell you in no uncertain terms that he'd do anything to make you smile.

The laughter turned into looks of pity. Leonard was about ready to give up. Maybe you weren't interested and you just wanted to let him down easy, you were good friends after all. Bones sat at the bar as Jim poured him another glass. Normally he was the one playing bartender, but Jim insisted he take over.

"I gotta say Bones, I really hate seeing you like this." Jim poured himself a drink too. "How did lunch go?"

"I told them they have beautiful eyes." Leonard sighed and shook his head.

"And?" The Captain probed.

"They said 'if only they worked as well as they look,'" Bones groaned.

"Ah..." Jim stared into his drink. He tried to put himself into Leonard's shoes. What would he do if he were in this situation?

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong..." McCoy muttered.

"You aren't doing anything wrong, Y/N just-" Jim started.

"It's something I'm doing, it has to be. Maybe this is a mistake."

"No, Bones it's not a mistake. That couldn't be farther from the truth."

"And how would you know? It's not like you have any problems finding dates," Leonard rolled his eyes.

"Seems like Y/N's not the only one who's oblivious," Kirk chuckled.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes Jim." Leonard took a sip of his whiskey and ran a hand over his face.

"Believe me Bones, I wish it were a joke. There's just no way the two most unaware people are head over heels for each other. I'm waiting for the punch line" James smirked.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bones scowled.

"Look, just... we have shore leave coming up in a few weeks. Ask them on a date. Like really ask them. Be frank, be clear, make sure there is no way Y/N can misunderstand you. Trust me," Jim squeezed Leonard's shoulder.

"Fine. But if this goes south, you owe me as many drinks as it takes to forget this whole debacle." The doctor downed the last of his glass.

"Bones if this goes south, I'll eat my hat."

"You don't have a hat."

"Point still stands. It'll work, you just have to have a little faith. And lucky for you, I have enough faith for the both of us." Jim winked.

Leonard wished he had Jim's enthusiasm. Officious little prick, he thought to himself...Dammit, now I'm quoting Stephen King.

~~~

Shore leave was just around the corner and Leonard was no closer to his goal of asking you on a date. Everyone was running around, trying to prepare the ship for inspection, he still had his normal duties to attend to, neither of you had time for coffee all week, Spock was being especially nitpicky about protocol, and he was anxious about what you'd say when he eventually got around to asking the million dollar question.

Yeah, Leonard was about ready to lose his marbles.

He was prepping the supply storage units, when Spock strolled in for the tenth time that day.

"Dr. McCoy," Spock greeted, startling Bones to the point that he nearly dropped his box of gauze.

"My god man, what the hell do you need this time?" Leonard implored, "don't you have anything better to do with your day than pester me?"

"Indeed I do, doctor" Spock replied.

Leonard huffed and sat down his box, "then what is it, did you miss my face or something?"

"I saw your face only moments ago, I have no need to miss-"

"It was a joke Spock, what do you want?" Leonard pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I came to inform you that I saw Commander Y/L/N coming in this direction." Spock stated.

Leonard raised an eyebrow, "and?"

"It is my understanding you are anxious to speak with them regarding your-" Spock started.

"Your understanding is correct, I just..." Leonard sighed and shook his head.

"Would it help if I told you the odds that they will say yes?" Spock asked.

"Never tell me the odds Spock," Leonard grumbled.

"Then I will simply say, good luck." Spock turned and left again, leaving Bones to decide if he was ready for this. He didn't have time for a decision, because there you were in the doorway with two mugs in your hands.

"Hey, stranger," You laughed. "Looks like I got here just in time, you look like you need some." You handed over the cup and Leonard took it gratefully.

"Thanks," Leonard offered you a smile and took a sip from his mug. It was just how he liked it, right down to the temperature. Together, they retreated to the safety of his office. Once inside, they fell into their usual conversation. He waited until things got quiet, then he decided to go for it.

"So, got any plans for shore leave?" Leonard asked, leaning back in his chair in an effort to appear more at ease.

"No, not really. Maybe I'll visit with a couple friends, catch up on sleep. How about you? got any exciting plans?" You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand.

"Not yet," he admitted. "But I'm hoping to make some."

"Oh? You got someone special in mind?" You hummed.

"Someone incredibly special, yeah." Leonard smiled. So far, so good.

"Oh, well I hope it goes well." You shifted awkwardly in your seat.

"Me too..." Leonard agreed. You both didn't speak for a moment, the distant hum of the warp core did little to tame the silence.

"Hey Y/N... I was thinking maybe we could go to that restaurant you like, you know the one with the really good Chicken Parmesan you're always talking about." He mused, "what do you think?"

"I, um... I think they'd like it" The smile you gave him looked...sad?

"What are you talking about? Who'd like it?" Leonard couldn't possibly be more confused.

"Your special someone?" It was your turn to look confused.

You've got to be kidding me

"I'm talking about you darlin', do you want to go to that restaurant with me, just us, nobody else. You and me. Together." Leonard clarified, meeting your gaze.

You looked positively flabbergasted. He couldn't possibly mean what he was saying, right? There was no way Leonard wanted to... I mean, he was way too good for you! You had been trying for months to get his attention, to no avail. This must be a dream. You're going to wake up any minute.

"Darlin'?"

"I, uh...what?" You blinked out of your daze.

"Dammit Y/N, I'm trying to ask you out on a date!" Bones ran a hand through his hair, exasperation evident in his tone.

"Really? Me?" You asked hopefully.

"Yes!" He replied "Look, it's okay if you don't w-" You suddenly burst into laughter and all the words died on his lips. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, I'm sorry! It's just-" You giggled, "I actually came here to do the same thing..." You said sheepishly as you dug into your pocket "I, um... I got us tickets to see your favorite band. Figured if you said no, you could just take Jim instead." You handed the tickets over to him.

Leonard stared at the tickets in his hand, shock written all over his face. "Sweetheart, are you telling me we've both been dancing around each other for months, when we could have been doing stuff like this the whole time?"

"Seems that way, yes."

Leonard smiled and shook his head. "We're not very good at this, are we?"

"Not at all," You laughed. "Ahoy McCoy? What was I thinking?"

"Points for creativity darlin'," Bones chuckled. He almost couldn't believe things had turned out so perfectly. But in his experience, coincidence didn't exist. "Jim knew, didn't he?"

"He was actually the one who pushed me to come here," you admitted.

"Same. The bastard told me you'd say yes... Guess this was one of the few times I should have trusted him." Leonard concurred.

"So... What now, doctor?" You leaned a little closer. How had he never noticed your eyes before. He knew they were beautiful of course, but the way they were looking at him now made him weak in the knees. Had you always looked at him like that?

"Well, for now we're going to finish up our shifts, wouldn't want anyone to think we're slackers. But later, we're going to meet at the recreation room for a drink, possibly a game of darts. Then we'll see where the night takes us," McCoy smirked.

"How romantic, I can hardly wait for you to sweep me off my feet, they're killing me from all this running around, you know?~" You mused, resting your chin on your palm.

"Now you listen here darlin'. I'm a doctor, not a broom." Bones couldn't hide his amusement when you rolled your eyes at him.

"Well, what if I sweep you off your feet then?"

"You'll have to be careful, you might drop me and we could end up tangled in a whole mess of limbs."

"Oh, I'm counting on it.~" You teased.

Leonard swallowed hard and hid his bashfulness with a sip of his coffee, "Well in that case, sweep away."

You laughed again and McCoy was sure he had never heard a more beautiful sound in his life. He could see a future with you then. He wanted to sweep you off your feet, kiss you until you were breathless, share coffee with you early in the morning, and swap stories until late in the night. He wanted to introduce you to his daughter.

Baby steps.

"I hate to cut this short doctor, but I left the ensigns alone for too long, I'm worried there will be no lab to return to. I'll see you tonight?" You asked, fidgeting nervously with cuffs of your sleeves.

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'm not going to change my mind." Leonard smirked.

You blushed and smiled in relief, "good! Great!" You stood, grabbed your mug, and sauntered happily to the door. You paused just a moment and looked back at Bones sweetly. "See you later, handsome."

"See you later Y/N," replied Leonard. You gave him a cute little wave before hurrying back to the labs.

Once he was alone again in his office, Bones leaned back in his seat and admired the tickets on the desk. He almost couldn't believe how thoughtful you were, but this wouldn't be the first time you gave him an incredible gift. A couple months after you met, Bones had mentioned offhandedly that he missed a particular brand of whiskey from Earth. Despite being light years away, you managed to find some and give it to him. It wasn't even a special occasion, you got it just to make him happy. Leonard supposed he should have realized your feelings for him right then and there. Damn. He really was oblivious.

McCoy wanted to give you something tonight- no, he needed to give you something tonight. Something sweet, something romantic, something that says: 'you're special to me and I need to show it to you because I'm terrible with words'. But where was he going to find something like that on a starship? The botany labs. Flowers make for a great gift on a first date! Maybe if he was lucky, they would have irises growing down there. So what if bouquets are a little sappy?

A little sap never hurt anybody after all.

[aerospas]

hiii can I request some dating headcannons for tos chekov? thanks! :)

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ; dating tos chekov!

chekov is remarkably affectionate, expressing his love through gentle touches, soft kisses, and whispered words of endearment. he's not one to shy away from physical affection; wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace or intertwining his fingers with yours whenever he gets the chance. whether it's a quick peck on the cheek or a lingering hug, he finds comfort in showing his love openly and frequently.

his idea of a perfect date involves a blend of adventure and intimacy. you'd find yourselves stargazing on the observation deck of the enterprise, wrapped in blankets as he points out constellations and shares stories from his childhood in russia. he might surprise you with a picnic on a distant planet's surface, complete with russian delicacies he learned to make from his grandmother's recipes. he cherishes moments where it's just the two of you, away from the chaos of the ship.

when you're facing challenges or feeling overwhelmed, chekov is by your side. he's perceptive, picking up on subtle cues that indicate when you're struggling, and he doesn't hesitate to offer his support. whether it's lending a listening ear, offering words of encouragement, or simply holding you close, he makes it his mission to be there for you in both good times and bad.

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos Halloween Special 2024

Spock x Empath! Reader

Halloween Special

            “A test of courage?” said Spock, raising a brow. “I hardly think that necessary after our countless missions.”

            “Whatever they try to do to scare us, I’m pretty sure we’ve been through worse,” chuckled (Y/N).

            “Yeah, but he’s a young captain, he’s cocky, and he’s challenging me to prove myself,” said Kirk, waving a hand. “We might as well teach him a lesson about underestimating people.”

            “I think he’s an upstart,” said Uhura. She grinned. “We should scare his crew while they try to scare us.”

            “I approve. Very Russian,” said Chekhov.

            “I think this whole thing is gonna be tiring,” said Bones. “At my age, I don’t need to get scared.”

            “I think it could be fun,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Spock raised a brow. “T’hy’la?”

            “Think of it as a training exercise, dear,” said (Y/N). “Facing fear and learning not to underestimate your opponents.”

            “So, when is this ‘challenge’ happening?” asked Chekov curiously.

            “Tomorrow,” said Kirk. “The captain saw me at the refuel station today and got eager about proving himself.”

            “And we’re definitely going to his ship, aren’t we?” sighed Bones.

            “In costume. You know, to get in the Halloween spirit,” said Kirk.

            “Ah, that human celebration,” said Spock.

            “Having a holiday surrounding fear is quite odd,” said (Y/N).

            “But fun,” said Uhura with a smile.

            Spock and (Y/N) cast each other doubtful looks.

l

            “We’re about to enter our haunted house—haunted ship,” said Kirk. He looked quite excited. He was dressed as Elton John, a very, very old human musician, complete with a crazy getup.

            “I’ve got the ‘sparklers’ ready,” said Uhura. “Scotty prepared them for me.” In her neon getup, she was a seventies barbie with the dramatic hair and earrings to match.

            “I’ve got smoke bombs,” said Chekov cheerfully. “I wanted Molotov cocktails, but Uhura talked me down.” He was a ballerino from a Russian dance.

            “Sparklers with smoke will be dramatic enough,” said Uhura.

            “And give us a chance to scare the youngsters properly,” said Bones. He had been hesitant to join in, but he was wearing an old, earth-style doctor uniform.

            “I still fail to understand the necessity of all of this,” said Spock.

            “Me, too, but I’ll let everyone know when someone’s coming.” Their empathic auras couldn’t hide from (Y/N).

            Spock and (Y/N) stood side-by-side in black. Spock had on a sleek black suit, and (Y/N) wore a lovely black dress. According to Kirk and Uhura, who had dressed them, they were Mr. and Mrs. Smith from an old Earth movie.

            “Then let’s go,” said Kirk, grinning as they stepped onto the new ship.

            The lights had been dimmed, and various pieces of equipment, fake, were sparking. It was trepidatious to continue walking inward, but the group did.

            “(L/N)?” said Kirk.

            “Around the corner,” whispered (Y/N).

            “Uhura, Chekov?” said Kirk.

            “Ready,” said Uhura, grinning.

            Chekov excitedly lifted his smoke bombs.

            “Who’s going to lead?” said Bones. “With my heart—”

            “Bones, you’re still relatively,” said (Y/N), amused.

            “Still,” said Bones.

            “I’ll go,” said Spock. He was hardly going to be startled now due to (Y/N)’s warning, so he could let the other ship spring their trap.

            “Have fun, dear,” said (Y/N).

            Spock nodded, walked in front of the group, and rounded the corner.

            “Ha!” Several people jumped out of nowhere, but Spock was no perturbed.

            He looked at their phasers and raised a brow. “Holding a weapon against a fellow officer is prohibited.”

            The group faltered.

            “But smoke bombs are just good fun,” said Chekov, jumping out from behind Spock.

            The other crew let out a surprised cry, and Chekov smashed the bombs on the floor. In an instant, smoke covered the hallway, and the crew coughed. Chekov grinned madly.

            Bang! Bang!

            The other crew yelped and ran as they heard what sounded like explosions. And, from the smoke behind them, Uhura emerged like a pink-clad demon.

            “Run for your lives!” she said, the sparklers going off in her hand. Chekov whooped and ran with her. Kirk laughed and gave chase.

            “I always thought Jim was a rule-follower,” said Bones. “I mean, until becoming a captain.”

            “He was a bookworm at the academy,” said (Y/N). “Perhaps he missed out on mischief.”

            “That would explain a lot,” said Bones. He grinned. “Might as well join him in it.” And, “age” notwithstanding, he ran down the hall.

            “We should make sure they don’t go too far,” said (Y/N).

            “Captain Kirk has a sense of responsibility,” said Spock. “It is the others that are far too entertained.”

            “But isn’t that the fun of them?” said (Y/N), smiling fondly.

            Spock paused. “I suppose.”

            (Y/N) chuckled and touched their fingers to his. “Come on, dear. Let’s go keep an eye on our friends.”

            “Lead the way, T’hy’la,” said Spock. He would follow wherever they went.

Taglist:

@a-ofzest

@grippleback-galaxy

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@groovy-lady

@im-making-an-effort

@unending-screaming

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@neenieweenie

@keylimeconstellation

@wormwig

@technikerin23

@ilyatan

@nthdarkqueen

@kyalov

@starlit-cass

@rookietrek

@gingertimelord

@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

[cowgurrrl]

Playing the Game

Pairing: Javier Peña x CIA!reader

Summary: The Aftermath [4.0k]

Warnings: interrogation setting, language, description of injuries (NOTHING GRAPHIC), discussions of nightmares, short dialogue in Spanish, Chekov’s gun if you squint really hard, some smutty thoughts and happenings, a little bit of backstory, canonical violence

"I understand that the events from a few months ago are still fresh in everyone's minds," you say, looking around the room of higher-ups. It's a big mix. CIA, DEA, military personnel, and even Ambassador Noonan. That's standard, you think. It's not every day an undercover CIA agent gets made in the streets of Medellín, kidnapped, and tortured for three days. "But my health has improved over these past few weeks, and my doctors have cleared me to return to the field. Given the grace of the board here today, I would like to return to work and finish the job I came to Colombia to do." 

You accepted the transfer to the United States Embassy in Bogotá a little over two years ago and did desk work for a few months before committing to an undercover job to collect intel on the cartel. It was safe enough. Most days were uneventful as you tuned into the codes and subtle behaviors of those involved. Still, you almost always carried your service weapon with you. You made the right friends. You kept your head down. You checked in with another CIA agent once a week and regularly relayed information to two DEA agents, Javier Peña and Steve Murphy. You were fine until you weren't. 

You still don't really know how they found out you were undercover or exactly what happened over those three days after they snatched you from the sidewalk. Sometimes, you're able to string together conversations had between them beating the shit out of you, but it's a lot of you repeating yourself. "No sé nada. No sé nada." You said over and over again as they accused you of lying and went back to torturing you. It wasn't an official ruling, but the people who stormed into the building collectively believed you were dead. When they stumbled in to find you sitting there, beaten but breathing, they thought it was a small-scale miracle. Upon further investigation and questioning, they were even more surprised you didn't give up any information. Instead, you threw out false leads to buy yourself and the embassy time. This wasn't your first rodeo. You knew better. 

All in all, you walked away starving and dehydrated with a perforated eardrum, deep lacerations from your own pair of handcuffs, a broken wrist, countless cuts and bruises, a concussion, a fucked up knee, and cigarette burns on your arms. Guards parked themselves outside your hospital room and your apartment until they were sure the threat to your life was suspended. Since then, you've been stuck at home, bored to tears, doing physical therapy exercises to regain strength in your leg, and reading declassified files sent to you. You're up to date on the latest happenings in Medellín and more than ready to come back. 

"Agent, I appreciate your willingness and courage to return to work, but how do you know the sicarios won't try to come after you again?" Colonel Wysession asks, and you shrug.

"How do we know that they might not try to come after any of us?" You ask. "You made a statement when you killed everyone involved with my kidnapping. They should know not to fuck with government agents, especially after Kiki Camarena's death." 

"'Should' doesn't mean they won't try it again." Ambassador Noonan chimes in. 

"You're right. They're still out there, wreaking havoc on the country and innocent people, which means you need all the hands you can get to catch them. I know firsthand how they operate and communicate with each other. You won't be able to get that information again, especially after the raid." You say. Agent Jones, the CIA representative, sighs as he flips your file open and looks over it. The interagency cooperation is nice and all, but it really comes down to him and Ambassador Noonan to make the final call. 

"You have an impressive record here, Agent. You were one of the top graduates from Camp Peary. A stint overseas to surveil communist groups in Eastern Europe. Assistance in multiple criminal investigations at home. Your information and skill have helped your country in innumerable ways," he says. "They even gave you a code name for your successes undercover: The Swallow."

"To be clear, I didn't approve of that name." You say quickly, and Agent Jones looks up from your file. 

"It's rare to get a code name anyone approves of." He says, and you nod, deciding to play nice.

"I guess that's true." 

You know exactly why you got given that name, and it will never not make your skin crawl. Years of work in the Agency, months spent undercover, and enough bullets fired in the name of democracy to haunt you for a lifetime, and in return, you get that name plastered to your record forever. So much for respect, right?

"Agent, our main concern right now is that in bringing you back to the field, we are putting a target on your back. Now, you've made it very clear that is a burden you're willing to carry, but that doesn't mean the United States is willing to carry it as well." Ambassador Noonan says.

"Ambassador, with all due respect, the second we put American agents on the ground here in Colombia, the United States not only carried the burden but also condoned it. Other Agency personnel are all aware of the immediate threat of being here and doing this work, and many, many men have disappeared because of it. I've made it back more than once. I can do it again."

"Are you sleeping well, Agent?" Agent Jones asks out of the blue, and you turn to look at him. The question throws you off guard. You were prepared to defend your work and skill, not your personal habits. But, your mind immediately jumps to the other night without your permission. 

It started how it always starts. Flinching in your sleep at phantom hits and talking to no one in particular. Random mumbling at first but then clearer, louder, until you were screaming. You shot up in bed, shaking and crying and swearing you could smell burnt flesh again. You didn't know where you were at first, but old habits die hard, and you instinctively reached for your gun. Someone grabbed your hand to keep you from hurting yourself and shushed you when you cried louder at the grip on your wrists. "It's me," he said gently, turning you around to face him. "It's me."

"I'm sleeping as well as anyone in my line of work can." You tell Agent Jones, pushing the memory from your head. "I'll sleep much better once Escobar's in the ground or behind bars."

"You're really dedicated to this, huh?" Colonel Wysession says, eyeing Noonan out of the corner of his eye, and you nod.

"A couple of loyal men with guns don't scare me, sir," you say. "After the show of force at the recon, I doubt they'll come after any one of us again. But if they do and it's me, I'll get on the first flight home. No questions asked." You know it's a good offer. You know they love to take risks with their agents and then act like they're doing them a service by taking them out. You know how to play this game.

Jones, Noonan, and Wysession talk quietly amongst themselves as you sit there, your hands folded calmly in front of you. It takes them all of two minutes to come to a decision. 

"You're cleared to return to four weeks of desk duty. After that time, we will reevaluate your position and see if we can't get you back in the field." Ambassador Noonan tells you decisively, and your jaw clenches. 

"Four weeks?" 

"I can make it six."

"Four will be perfectly fine, ma'am. Thank you, Ambassador." You say as you stand up and shake her hand.

"Welcome back, Agent." 

You almost forgot how mind-numbing desk duty is. If you hadn't been made, you definitely would've. All day, you watch agents from other agencies come in and out with intel and stories from the streets while you're forced to sit there and file reports on a typewriter that may be older than you. You want to gouge your eyes out when you catch wind of a planned tactical pursuit. The gun sitting in the top drawer of your desk feels like it's burning a hole in your brain, and all you want to do is go back out and do actual work. You didn't graduate top of your class to be a fucking secretary.

You don't know what's worse: desk duty or being chained to your desk when a familiar voice calls your name.

"Well, if it isn't the biggest pain in my ass," you greet as Javi parks himself in front of you. He doesn't object to you calling him a pain in the ass. It even seems to amuse him. "How can I help you, Javier?" 

"What makes you think I need somethin', huh? Maybe I just wanted to see how you're doing." Javi says, and you chuckle, shuffling especially important files away from prying eyes. He rests his hands on your desk and leans forward, his billowy shirt opening enough to give up a nice view of his chest. You glance between him and his collarbones and level him with a knowing look. 

"Call it intuition." You say. You wait another second for him to fess up to what he needs before lifting your hands to start typing again. He sighs and slides you a picture of a sicario, looking around to ensure nobody's watching the interaction. 

"What do you know about him?" He asks quietly. You furrow your brows and shake your head. 

"Who's that?" 

"C'mon, I know you have intel on all these fuckers. I just need to know where he hangs out. We need to ask him a few questions." 

"And when Noonan asks where you got the information? Because you know she will ask."

"I'll say I got it from an especially beautiful high-level CI."

"Enticing," you say. "I don't work for you, Javi. If you want information, go out on the streets and get it yourself." 

"Nobody's willing to acknowledge that this guy is the reason a CIA agent got kidnapped." He says. You stiffen in your chair and look at the picture again. You know you have information on him and remember seeing him around town when you were undercover. You also know you're not supposed to give classified information to the DEA until it is declassified.

"How do you know that?" You ask, and he shrugs as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"If I tell you, are you gonna give me something in return?"

"If you make it good." 

"We have reason to believe one of Pablo's informants caught you sniffing around for information and started tracking your movements. We still don't know how he found out you were CIA, and we need to find him to understand how," he says, pointing at the picture to emphasize his point. You take a deep breath and debate your options. "Look, all I'm asking you to do is… misplace a few files. It happens all the time. There's no way it would come back to you. Plus, I know how bored you are. Live a little."

"They've still got you on desk duty?" Steve asks as he comes down the steps, and you look away from Javi's intense gaze to smile at him. Steve, Javi's partner and DEA's golden boy, has always been kind to you. You're friends with his wife, Connie, and you've spent many a drunken night at their apartment. He's a good man. You give it a few more months here before that changes. 

"Couple more weeks." You say before looking back at Javi. “Sabe lo que me estás pidiendo que haga?” Thank God for white men who move to a country with no understanding of the language. Javi gives you a look and chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“Por supuesto que no.” He shakes his head and you scoff. 

"Eso es que piensaba," you say as you sigh, tear off a corner from a scrap piece of paper, and write down the name of a local bar. "His name is Jorge Alemán. He hides from his wife and mistresses at this bar downtown. He's gonna be armed, so be careful." You hold out the piece of paper to Javi but pull it back before he can grab it. "This doesn't come back to me."

"Course not." He says. You finally hand it to him and look over your shoulder to make sure nobody's watching you give him information. Steve looks confused but willing to go along with whatever as Javi memorizes the name. 

"Do me a favor?" You say, forcing his brown eyes away from the paper. "Don't pull your punches with him. They certainly didn't with me." It's the most you've talked about the kidnapping at work since it happened. You catch both Steve and Javi looking at the thick scars around your wrists, but you don't pull them away. If anything, you hope it inspires them to get a little creative with their interrogation. 

"Yes, ma'am," Javi promises. With that, he takes the paper and the picture, and the two of them disappear up the stairs to do whatever they need to get information. It's better for all three of you if you don't know the exact details of how the other does their jobs. You've each seen the aftermath of each other's training. You don't need to imagine much, but it's a nice boundary in a time where there seems to be none.

When Steve and Javi come back a few hours later with "important intel" for the Ambassador, you pretend not to know anything about it. Thirty minutes later, you're called in to get the information for the first time, and you tell them what you already told Steve and Javi. They agree to fly CENTRA SPIKE over him for a few days to see if they can pick anything up. "Is there anything I can do to assist with this investigation, Ambassador?" You ask before she can try to dismiss the three of you, and she shakes her head. 

"A few more weeks, Agent. I need to ensure your safety before I let you loose again."

"Ambassador, it might be helpful to let her return fully to the field. It could inspire Alemán to reach out to his contacts about her, and we could get more information about how she got made." Steve suggests, and Javi nods.

"He's right. We have to give CENTRA SPIKE something to pick up. Why not details about her?" Obviously, your absence has impacted them, especially if they're going to bat for you. Part of you warms at the thought of them caring so much about you, but the other part worries about what the Ambassador will say. 

"Her work is also valuable to the Embassy as a whole. It would be a mistake to sideline her any longer."

"Okay, gentlemen, you've made your point," Noonan cuts Steve off before he can continue, and you have to fight your smile when she looks at you. "Can you handle this?" She asks, and you nod.

"Yes, ma'am." You say. She shakes her head before reaching for what you're assuming is your file behind her and writing something down.

"The second I think it's too much for you, I'm pulling you back out. This time for two months and there will be no negotiations to be had unless you want to get on a plane home. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," you agree. "Thank you, Ambassador."

"Don't make me regret this." 

You'd be lying if you said you didn't go home with a little extra pep in your step. You got two weeks taken off of your mandatory desk duty and got your badge back. You've had much worse days, most of which ended with you drinking one too many and smoking until your small apartment is hazy. Today, you feel much better despite your apartment being a mess.

Mail has piled up on the counter next to your medical discharge paperwork and physical therapy exercises. Letters postmarked from the United States bore into you as you do your best to ignore them by plopping your bag on top of them. Half-open rolls of gauze are scattered around, so you could always have one on hand when changing your dressings. Your breakfast dishes are still in the sink, but you are not motivated to wash them. Besides, you're just gonna make a bigger mess once you start making dinner. 

You'd been thinking about what you would make all day and only settled on it once you left the Ambassador's office. There's not much you get to control during your day, so you take special care with the food you eat. You like cooking. You always have, and you're not half-bad at it. It's one of the only times you can call the shots and turn your mind off, worries about cartel numbers and communist groups in the jungle pushed away for a time. You're stirring a big pot on the stove when the knock sounds at your door.

He's late. He's always late. He'll claim it's deliberate so nobody can track his movements, but you're convinced he has no sense of time. His work habits can prove as much. You can't count how often you've been working late with him and had to pull him away from his desk because he didn't realize it was midnight. "Just let me do one more thing, and then we can leave," he's always tried to negotiate. You barely manage to get him to stop every time, but he relents after so much convincing. 

You turn down the radio in your kitchen and walk over to the door to let him in, a smile already tugging at your lips. You barely have the deadbolt unlocked before he's pushing through the door and stealing air from you. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes (a nightcap with Steve?), and your hands reach up to play with the curls at the nape of his neck. He hums against you as he shuts the door behind him and presses you against it. 

"Somethin' smells good." He mumbles.

"I'm making dinner. Figured it was a special occasion." You say, but he's already ducking his head down to mouth at the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the spot he knows makes you dizzy.

"'M not hungry." He says even though you know for a fact he's been living on cigarettes and coffee all day. You push him away and give him a look, but he feigns innocence, his fingers sneaking their way up your shirt.

"I did not cook all this food for you to tell me you're not hungry," you say. He opens his mouth to argue, but you kiss him before he can, and he, predictably, melts into you. "Dinner first, and then I'll let you do whatever you want me to do. Deal?" 

"Whatever I want?" He echoes, and you nod. "Must be a damn good dinner."

"Mm, the best." You say as you push him off you to return to the stove. He sighs and lets you pass, but he quickly settles behind you, his hands dangerously roaming over you as you stir the pot again. You smack his wrist when his hand tries to duck under your waistband, and he groans. "You made a deal."

"Deals are broken all the time," he kisses the back of your neck, insatiable, and you shiver as his mustache brushes against your skin. "I've also been thinkin' bout this since you pulled that shit at work."

"That really did it for you, huh?" You ask, a smirk pulling at your lips, but it quickly fades when he grinds his hard cock against you. He nips at your earlobe and successfully manages to unbutton the top of your jeans, your breath hitching when his fingers trace the waistband of your panties.

"You don't work for me, huh?" He breathes, and you laugh as you rest your head back on his shoulder.

"My security clearance is higher than yours." 

"Y'know, sometimes I think you like terrorizing me."

"Who says I don't?" You know you're treading thin ice with him, but you don't care. You always like to rile Javi up just to see what he'll do. When he reaches around you to safely turn off the stove, you know you've got him right where you want him. Something in your brain complains about the dinner you made, but it quickly shuts up once his fingers push your underwear to the side and graze your clit. You sigh in relief, already putty in his hands, and he's barely touched you. 

He draws tight circles around the little bundle of nerves, and you grip the edge of the counter to try to keep your balance. His other hand rests lazily around your throat, not enough to restrict your breathing but enough to keep you upright with the promise that he could. This— the desperate need and no time wasted— is more familiar than anything else.

Since the kidnapping, he's treated you like you're made of glass. He tried a few times to come to take care of you, but every time you argued about something, you would make him leave. You'd rather heal alone than have someone staring at you like a kicked dog. You were the one practically begging him to touch you the second you felt well enough, and you were the one who had to convince him you wouldn't break. Later, he would tell you he was scared to even kiss you because he just kept seeing you chained to that chair, bloody and beaten. It's taken a lot of adjustments on both sides, but him pressing you against the counter and taking control is the most reminiscent of the beginnings of your relationship when it was still "one more time," and you could barely stand each other. 

It was stress relief. In a lot of ways, it still is. Nobody knows about you two, and neither of you is ready or willing to disclose to Noonan. She'd immediately send one of you home, but it definitely wouldn't be Javi. So, you're completely fine sneaking between apartments and fucking catastrophic days away. It's enough. Unlike the way he's touching you.

"Javi," you whine, arching into his touch, and he shushes you. His middle finger barely pushes into you when a loud boom sounds nearby, followed by blaring car alarms. You jump, and he quickly withdraws and shields your body with his as the floor shakes. It might not have been in the neighborhood, but it was really fucking close. You wait out any aftershocks or additional bombs, and both your phones start ringing, not even five minutes later. 

A car bomb planted in Jorge Alemán's truck exploded when he put the keys in the ignition. He died before the bomb was even done exploding. Whoever found out you were CIA not only sold that information, but they killed Alemán before he could talk. They must've seen Javi and Steve poking around. They might know you're back at the Agency. They might try to kill you as a way of tying up their loose ends. Steve warns you as much when you show up at the scene, uncomfortably turned on and annoyed at the same time. 

"This could get real ugly," Steve says, and you nod. 

"You regret coming down here?" You ask. He gives you a look as Javi walks around the vehicle's wreckage but shakes his head.

"Do you?"

"No," you say. "I came here to nail Escobar, and I'm not going home until we do. If it has to get ugly for that to happen, that's fine." He looks like he wants to say something more but stops himself. Instead, you join Javi next to the car and talk with the local police about what happened, completely aware that bystanders have seen your face and the gun on your hip. They know you're with the United States government, and they know what you're worth.

Yeah, shit was gonna get real ugly, and you thought you were ready for it. But then again, everyone did in 1992.

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