#chekov / reader | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

standfucker · 1 year

Text

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.

#one piece smut #one piece x reader #rosinante x reader #corazon x reader #gift fic #chekov's coconut oil #den den mushi blockbuster #did the snail sleep through it all or did you traumatize him? the answer is in your heart #zen writes

374 notes · View notes

silversword7000 · 5 months

Text

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😭😭

#silversword7000 posts #Star Trek #Star Trek tos #Star Trek aos #Pavel Chekov #Pavel Chekov x reader

28 notes · View notes

imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul · 2 years

Text

Pajama Party - Star Trek

A/N: inspired in part by this work of Art, and also by my obsession with cute pajamas. Mostly just a fic about the crew, but had to throw in a little reader x Leonard, cause you know me. Also let’s just pretend JJ is not there.

Pairing: Leonard McCoy x Reader, Enterprise crew x Reader Word Count: 2.5k Synopsis: When the power goes out in the Enterprise, the crew must navigate through the darkened halls in their pajamas to restore power.

You can find all the pajamas in this post here!

When the lights went off, you had just pulled back the covers of your bed.

You gave it a moment. You were in deep space, after all, much farther than anyone had travelled before. Hopefully, this was just a brief glitch as the Enterprise acclimated to the new territory.

A few seconds later, you heard the sound of machinery powering down, and the steady hum of the thrusters stopped.

“Fuck,” you muttered. Emergency lights came on in your room, leading you towards the exit. When the door slid open, you knew that the Enterprise at least had some power. The hallway was littered with bright red emergency lights every few feet, and at every cabin door, a crewmember’s head was popping out.

“What is it, Y/N?” a crewmember three doors down from you asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll see if I can find Jim,” you said. “Everyone just hang here for a while. When there’s an update, you’ll know.”

“Are we in danger?” someone asked.

“No, we are not.” All heads turned towards the opposite end of the hallway where Jim Kirk was strutting towards you. Also dressed in his pajamas, Jim looked as if he had just woken up, with his hair mussed at the back of his head.

“What’s going on?” you asked as he stopped in front of you. His pajamas had you doing a double take. “Is that . . . the Enterprise?” you asked, unable to hide the smile on your face.

“What?” He looked down at his pajamas and a soft blush appeared on his face. He stammered over a response before shaking his head. “Is it wrong for a man to be proud of his ship?”

“When that pride manifests itself like this? Absolutely. You are such a nerd.”

“Oh, come on, like yours are any better,” he said, motioning to the floral pattern of your own pajamas.

“They are. One hundred percent better than yours.”

“So you’re telling me you always dress in matching three piece sets? You weren’t expecting someone, Y/N, were you?”

“Please,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “The only thing I was expecting was a full night of sleep.”

“As was I. So what happened?”

“What, just because I work in engineering you think I know what’s going on?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, looking at you incredulously.

“Fine, I can figure it out. I don’t know what happened just by sound. Let’s go down to engineering.”

“Why do I have to go down, too?” Jim asked, “I really could use a good night’s sleep.”

“How can you take pride in your ship if you don’t help her in her time of need?” you asked, your eyes flashing back to his pajamas.

“Just lead the way,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

As you walked down the halls, you took note of what was still functioning on the Enterprise. You were still standing, so the gravity levels were still normal. Oxygen levels were normal, as was the temperature regulator.

“All necessary functions are still running, meaning that it wasn’t a complete shut down of the system,” you said. “It has to be something with the energy core, then.”

“My thoughts exactly, Ms. Y/L/N.”

You and Jim both turned to see Spock and Uhura walking towards you from the hallway connecting their sector to the main corridor. They were both dressed in pajamas, and when they stepped into the light, your jaws dropped.

“What are you wearing?” Jim asked at the same time that you said, “What’s on your face?”

“Nyota was applying an avocado based facial mask to my skin when the power went out.”

“He has very dry skin,” Nyota said as explanation.

“Does he?” Jim considered, studying his first officer’s face.

“Captain, as interesting as Lieutenant Uhura’s face mask recipe may be, I believe our primary focus should still be on returning the ship’s power.”

“I agree,” you said, tugging on Jim’s arm to lead him back down the hall.

“The energy core has three distinct parts, every few months, these pieces must be rotated to ensure that none of the parts are drained of their full energy, in the case of an emergency. It is my theory that perhaps one of these pieces was not rotated soon enough, and thus was drained of its power, sinking us into this darkness,” Spock explained.

“That sound about right to you?” Jim asked.

“I don’t usually deal with the energy core,” you said, “But yes, I believe Spock’s theory is correct. Once we get down to engineering, we’ll know for sure.”

“And you can fix it?”

“Like I said, I’m not an expert on the energy core. Mr. Scott should be able to, though.”

“Let’s hope Scotty’s awake then,” Jim said.

The turbolift was apparently not deemed a necessity, because when you tried to use it to bring you down to engineering, there was only a hum that came from the doors that never opened.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far down here,” Nyota said. “Never walked down here at least.”

“I have,” Jim said. He stopped in his tracks, looking around at the number of doors around your group. He followed the numbers back a few doors before knocking loudly on a door.

“No,” a voice yelled from the other end. Leonard.

“Come on, Bones, I know you heard us.” The door slid open and Leonard stepped out, dressed in a long nightshirt that made your jaw drop.

“How the hell could I not?” he asked. “I’ve heard you coming since you were three levels up. What happened to the power?” he asked, looking at you.

“What are you wearing?”

“Pajamas.”

“You look like Ebenezer Scrooge,” Jim laughed.

“Why did you wake me up if you were just going to make fun of my pajamas?”

“Because I had no idea you would be wearing a dress.”

“It’s not a dr--”

“Gentleman,” Spock said, stepping between the captain and his CMO. “Instead of making comments about each other’s nightwear, perhaps our time would be better spent bringing power back to the ship.”

“Yeah, alright,” Leonard said, rolling his eyes as he stepped away from Jim. “It’s not like yours aren’t even more embarrassing.”

“How are mine more embarrassing than a dress?” Jim asked. “And speaking of pajamas,” he said, turning to Spock, “What are you wearing?”

“My sleepwear falls under Starfleet regulation, as does Dr. McCoy’s. Not only are your pajamas out of regulation, Captain, they are also, by far, the most embarrassing.”

“Okay, okay,” Uhura said, “Let’s just get down to engineering. Clearly, we’re all a little sleep deprived.” You exchanged a glance with her and found the same smirk on her face.

“I never would have taken you as a nightgown person,” you said to Leonard as the rest of the group fell into step around you. He seemed annoyed when he looked at you, but there was a soft smile on his face. You also never would have thought you could be attracted to a man in a nightgown.

“What should I be wearing? Colorful, floral pajamas like you?” he asked.

“Well, mine are a lot cuter.”

“They are,” he said. A slight blush rose in your cheeks, but thanks to the dim red light from the emergency lights, no one noticed it.

“If you two are done flirting,” Jim called. “Can we please just get to engineering.”

“You’re the one who stopped to pick him up,” you said, pointing a thumb at Leonard.

“And you’re the one slowing us down to flirt with him,” he said, “We can blame each other all day.”

“Whatever, let’s just--”

“Captin! Captin!”

The entire group turned to see Chekov and Sulu rushing towards the group. Chekov had been the one to yell, and when he reached the group, he was panting, and sweat was slicking his skin. This was easy to see, because despite a pair of plaid pajama pants, Chekov wasn’t wearing anything. A quick glance at the group, you saw that you weren’t the only one surprised by Chekov’s muscles.

Conversely, Sulu was wearing the exact opposite. Fully clothed, Sulu's pajamas were designed to look like a penguin.

“Ha!” Jim said, pointing to Sulu. “His are more embarrassing than mine!”

“My husband, daughter, and I all got matching ones last Christmas,” he said, “I like to wear them. They remind me of home.”

“Yours are still more embarrassing, Jim,” you said. He waved a hand to shut you up.

“Why did you guys run all the way down here?”

“The ship has dropped out of warp,” Sulu said.

“Are we in friendly space?”

“We’re in unknown space, Captin,” Chekov said with a sigh. “As far as we can tell, there are no nearby life forms.”

“Either way, shields up,” Jim ordered.

“Already done, sir.”

“Good. Now, no more interruptions,” he said. “Let’s go figure this out.”

“All of us?” Leonard asked.

“We’ve all made it this far,” Jim said with a shrug. “I guess we’re all going to engineering.

You were not aware that the ship even had stairs, the thought never crossed your mind that one day you might have to go down twenty flights of them. When the group finally arrived in engineering, you all took a moment to catch your breaths.

“Everyone alright?” Leonard asked. Everyone grumbled in the affirmative.

“What are you all doing down here?” Scotty asked, walking up one of the metal staircases that led deeper into engineering.

“We’re here to fix the energy core,” you said, your eyes widening as he reached the top of the stairs. He was wearing red plaid pajamas, which would have been normal, if not for the matching nightcap on his head.

“If you had one of those you really would be Scrooge,” you muttered to Leonard. He let out a breath of laughter but shook his head.

“What?” Scotty asked.

“What are you wearing?” Jim asked.

“What are you wearing?” Scotty asked, putting his hands on his hips, “I know the Enterprise inside and out, and I wouldn’t even wear those.” The group all tried to stifle their laughter, especially when Jim glared at them.

“Scotty, the energy core.”

“I’m working on it,” he said.

“What’s the holdup?”

“I am missing a piece,” Scotty said sheepishly. “I have Keenser looking for it now, seeing as he is the one who lost it!” he yelled over the railing. “But so far--”

“What does it look like?” Uhura asked. “We can all look for it.”

Scotty described what he was looking for, then set all of you off in different directions of engineering to see who could find it first. You were walking through a section of machinery, all still humming quietly, with lights blinking every few seconds, when you heard a muttered curse.

Turning the corner, you spotted Leonard rubbing his toe as he glared down at a box of supplies. You laughed softly, and he looked up.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine. Just can’t see anything in this mess, even if I knew what I was looking for.”

“Want to search together?” you asked. “I can point out boxes of supplies to you.” He smiled weakly at you but nodded his head.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, anything for--”

“Do not call me Scrooge again,” he said, following you to another shelf of supplies.

“I wasn’t. I was just going to say you,” you said. Leonard kept your gaze for a moment longer than expected. “So, um, I think it might be in this mess here.”

“Mess is right,” Leonard said, jumping on the change of subject. “Who keeps their stuff like this?”

“Oh, that would be me.”

“Ah hell, Y/N, I’m so--”

“Don’t be,” you said, “I know how I work. Maybe if I kept my stuff more organized we all wouldn’t be stuck searching in the dark.”

“You don’t know it’s here,” Leonard said, “Besides, it’s nice.”

“What is?”

“Tonight. I’ve always wanted to have a pajama party with the crew.” You laughed and crouched down to check the lower shelf.

“Found it!” someone called. You looked towards the sound and your eyes locked with Leonard’s.

“Shall we?” he asked, holding out his hand. You took it and let him pull you to your feet. As the two of you walked back towards the group, he didn’t let go of your hand until you were in view of the crew.

“Keenser had it the whole time,” Nyota said, leading Spock and the alien in question into the gathered group. Everyone’s jaws fell open when they saw what Keenser was wearing.

“Where the hell did you get those?” Scotty asked, his face reddening with annoyance as Keenser walked up to the group with the missing piece and a matching pair of pajamas to Scotty’s.

“Scotty, please, it has been a long night,” Jim said.

“Right.” He took the piece from Keenser and within a few minutes, had the energy core back up. It hummed and started to rotate normally again.

“No power though?” Sulu asked.

“The core takes a little while to heat up,” you said, “Unless in emergency situations, the core should be given twenty minutes to return to proper functioning.”

“Why did this even happen in the first place?” Jim asked.

“We switched models last year,” Scotty said. “This one doesn’t need to be swapped every few months, except it wasn’t updated in the ship’s programming. The Enterprise turned it off as a security precaution.”

“So this won’t happen again?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll make sure the ship is updated first thing in the morning,” you said. Jim let out a sigh and nodded his head.

“Alright. Thank you all for your help. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The group made their way back up the stairs. Jim followed Chekov and Sulu onto their level, muttering something about getting a drink with Chekov. Nyota and Spock said their goodbyes at their level, until it was just you and Leonard.

“Thank you for helping us look,” you said. “Sorry Jim dragged you out of bed.”

“Don’t be,” Leonard said with a wave of his hand. “He usually finds a way to ruin my night one way or another.”

“Did you have plans tonight?”

“No. I intended to make some, but . . .”

“But?”

“I sort of chickened out,” he said, looking at you with a smile.

“What kind of plans? Not a different pajama party?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “I wanted to ask someone out.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s alright, I got to spend the night with them anyway.”

“Oh,” you said again, your eyes locking with his as he stopped in front of his door.

“Not my idea of a first date,” he said, “But still an enjoyable evening.”

“I agree. So when are you going to get the courage to ask for a second date?”

“Right no--” He stopped talking when you were plunged into darkness, even the emergency lights going out. “What’s the matter now?”

“Nothing. When the core starts up, everything is shut down for two minutes.”

“Really? In that case . . .”

If anyone had been left out in the hall, when the lights came on, they would have found you and Leonard entangled in each other’s arms, in the middle of a hell of a kiss. You broke away with the lights and looked at him, breathless.

“So? A second date?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d love to.”

“Me too. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Leonard.”

#leonard mccoy x reader #star trek x reader #leonard mccoy #jim kirk #spock #nyota uhura #pavel chekov #hikaru sulu #montgomery scotty #leonard mccoy imagine #star trek imagine #leonard mccoy fanfic #star trek fanfic #star trek fanfiction #leonard mccoy fanfiction #reader insert

517 notes · View notes

generalkenobee · 8 months

Text

And I'm asking questions again 😖🎀

#x reader #star trek #polls #generalkenobee #asks open #dr mccoy #spock #spock imagine #spock smut #pavel chekov #data star trek #data smut

28 notes · View notes

mybullshitsensesaretingling · 1 year

Text

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.”

#chekov imagine #chekov imagines #chekov x reader #pavel chekov x reader #pavel chekov imagine #star trek imagine #star trek imagines

135 notes · View notes