#hopefully my thing is coherent i wrote this at like 2am

[prettylittlelyres]

2022: My Year in Writing

Happy New Year, friends! I’ve been quiet again, but here’s my yearly round-up. Hopefully I’ll be more active in 2023! Without further ado:

What did I manage?

I wrote just over 168,500 words in 2022. It’s felt like a slow year for my writing, but that’s equivalent to 3 novels… so I’m pleased! I started the year wanting to write 500 words per day, and I managed an average of 462. In the spirit of being kind to myself, and celebrating achievements, I’ll consider that a target hit.

I wanted to read 50 books last year, but ended up reading 45. At first, comparing my 2022 reading record with its 2021 counterpart, I was disappointed, but then I thought about what I’d read in 2022, and realised I could remember more about the stories. Looking at my 2021 list, most of the books on there now come as a surprise. If I reading them at all, I can’t remember what they were about. More of 2022’s list is familiar, which may just be the recency effect, but I think reading more slowly has let me read more deeply. It’s hard to find time to read these days, but I do love it, so I’ve found ten or twenty minutes here and there to enjoy a tasty bite of story.

I’ve taken part in #PitMad several times, and was looking forward to future events, but it was discontinued after December 2021. I had to look for other pitching events. On 23rd June, I tweeted my pitch for “Vogeltje” at #PitchDis (a pitching event for stories by Disabled authors), and got a “like” from an agent. During Twitter pitch events, literary agents use the “like” button to express interest in pitches, as invitations to send them queries. I didn’t get a response to the query I sent, but in the meantime I’ve put querying on hold while I redraft, so that’s probably a good thing. I love the atmosphere of Twitter pitch events, and I’m looking forward to being able to take part in more!

What did I start?

I wanted to write more short-form work in 2022, so I started responding to other people’s writing prompts, and even making a few of my own. That led to five completed short stories (and even more that I planned or started but which never made it past bullet points in my notebook), and seven whole poems! I hardly ever wrote poetry before 2022, and seven isn’t a huge number, but it’s more poems than I wrote in 2023, and writing four in June alone pleased me so much.

Some of the short stories that I wrote last year have made it onto this blog, but I want to redraft others, and have a go at some of the ideas I sketched out in my notebook. I started it in May, and it’s just-over half-full of drafts and spider-diagrams planning responses to various prompts I’ve created and collected over the year. I can’t decide if I’ll start a new notebook for 2023, or if I’ll carry on working in my 2022 notebook until it’s full.

In amongst the short stories and poems that I scribbled into that notebook are bits of plans for other projects: three longer pieces that I’ve been working on this year which are probably going to end up as novels, but which are still far from finished. I’m hoping to finish drafting one of them in January, but I’m not ready to talk about it on here just yet. It’s still very early days!

What did I finish?

I finished redrafting “Vogeltje” on 1st February, at about 3am. I was still doing shift work then, so it wasn’t unusual for me to be awake so late, but now – feeling sluggish and queasy because I stayed up until 1:30am for New Year’s Eve – I wonder how I did it. These days, I can just about manage 2am, but I’m not up to writing anything coherent by then! So, not only did I finish a draft this year, I also finished my youthful years, when I could stay up late and not SufferTM.

There were drafts I didn’t finish. At the time, I felt bad about them – wondering why I couldn’t just motivate myself to complete a story like I apparently used to be able to – but now I can see that I did the right thing in stopping. I’ve learned to recognise when I need to stop, instead of slogging on to finish something I’m enjoying! I understand myself and what I want to write a lot better in January 2023 than I did in January 2022, and that’s because of all the stories I’ve abandoned.

Although it’s unrelated to writing, I’m pleased to say I’ve also completed the challenge I tentatively set myself at the beginning of the year: 300 days of clarinet practice! I’m so proud of how far I’ve come and I’m glad I recorded it all, so I can hear (and see) the improvements I’ve made. Now I feel like a proper musician again, and feel better in general. I think I’m standing up straighter, breathing more deeply, and even typing more quickly. My sight-reading has also improved a lot, and I’m finally, at 24, starting to figure out embouchure (only took me 14 years, but a win is a win).

I also had my graduation ceremony at last. I finished my degree in 2021, but graduation was postponed until 2022 because of COVID-19. It was wonderful crossing the stage with my best friends, and seeing my favourite lecturers again. (And I look absolutely delightful in my graduation photos!)

What did I do?

I put far too much pressure on myself in 2022.

I told myself I needed to write a huge amount, and finish a massive pile of projects, in a year when I was also trying to brush up another hobby, and when I changed from shift work to a 9-5 pattern and suddenly had a much more regimented schedule. Too much.

I wrote over 339,000 in 2021, probably more than I’ve written in any other year of my life, and I wanted to write just as much in 2022. I didn’t think about the fact that I was still at university for the first five months of 2021, and frequently had to write long essays and extensive notes alongside my own writing, which went very well. I work well under pressure, but only if someone else is putting it on! My brain doesn’t pay attention to deadlines I set myself because I can move them; as long as I’m in charge of what I write and when, I don’t write much at all.

2020 and 2019 were also really good years for my writing – I wrote 210,000 words in 2020, and a similar amount in 2019, although I don’t know exactly – and I expected myself to be just as prolific in 2022, but that wasn’t sensible. I was extremely lucky, three years running, to have my brain click and let me write so much, and it’s not a reflection on me that 2022 wasn’t like that. It was just an unlucky year, and I’m starting to realise that now. 2023 might be a lucky year, or it might not. It doesn’t matter how much I write, as long as I enjoy it.

How do I feel?

Honestly, I feel a little silly. I tried to overdo things and while I’m feeling healthier now than I’ve ever felt in my life, I’ve only been doing this well since October. Before that, I was floundering, and I need to remind myself of that any time I’m tempted to look at 2022 as a bit of a rubbish year. Yes, it was… but I had a bit of a rubbish time!

I didn’t finish “2021: My Year in Writing”, but I still have the bit I drafted. I gave up trying to get it all down because there was so much to talk about, and that gave me unrealistic expectations for 2022. “This year, I will write just as much as last year,” I thought to myself, not considering the context in which I wrote so much. I should have re-read the partial draft a few times this year, because, looking back at it now, there’s a few things that really jump out at me, particularly what I wrote in April:

“I rather set myself up for disappointment in April, hoping I would achieve the same amount of work as I had done the month before. There was a weekly translation for French and German, a weekly psycholinguistics reading to note down, and seminars to prepare for “German-Jewish Writing Across the Twentieth Century”. I had nearly all my weekly lectures on a single day, with barely a moment to grab a fresh cup of tea in-between them, and started to struggle with my energy levels. Sometimes, I couldn’t make it to class because I was so tired that I couldn’t sit up for an hour at a time. The rest of the week was spent trying to catch up on work I’d missed without falling behind on prep for the next week. Nevertheless, I managed to add a few scenes to “Violins and Violets”. I ended up with a 19,900-word total for the month. Couldn’t quite make those last 100 words happen… Couldn’t help being a bit disappointed in my achievements, which I knew was an unhealthy attitude, so I tried to be kinder to myself the next month.”

In hindsight, I was working so hard that I was making myself unwell. In hindsight, I knew a long time ago that I needed to be kinder to myself, and to stop setting myself up for disappointment by aiming for goals I just couldn’t achieve.

Somehow, I thought it would be a good idea to spend most of 2022 forgetting all that.

I can’t help but notice similarities between how I apparently felt in April 2021 and how I felt for most of 2022. I feel a lot better now, but I’ve been so tired this year that I’ve… managed to forget how tired I’ve been.

I’m not disappointed in myself. I just want to laugh. And then move on.

What am I looking forward to in 2023?

I’ve decided to set myself soft goals this year:

- write things I enjoy;

- put less pressure on myself;

- pause or quit projects I don’t like.

What happens happens. What I achieve, I achieve. I would quite like to be a professional writer one day, but I have to remember that I am not one at the moment. I don’t need to meet deadlines, I don’t need to write a certain number of words per day, and I don’t need to finish a certain number of books every year.

I just need to like writing.

In 2023, I want to engage more with writeblr and my local writing community (I’m part of my local NaNoWriMo group on Facebook) and participate more in the Discord server I’m in. It’s lovely having friends in other writers, and feeling like part of something. I took a writing course at the beginning of 2022, and I hope I’ll find another one (or a repeat!) this year. I loved the camaraderie of last year’s lessons, and how friendly and encouraging everyone was.

I want to read more slowly, more carefully, and more thoughtfully this year. I think I’ve benefited from reading a little less in 2022. Stephen King said, “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write,” and he was correct. I’ve let myself spend more time on each book I’ve read this year, and I’ve enjoyed everything more as a result. Hopefully in 2023, I’ll read a few more craft books, and improve my writing like I’ve improved my clarinet.

I hope all of you have a lovely new year, and I’m looking forward to reaching out a little (lot) more!

[annathewitch]

Things that go bump in the night

100 follower challenge ficlet for @starmission. Prompt “why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?” for Leonard McCoy

Summary: Bones x reader. Reader is having trouble sleeping and is surprised at how much McCoy tries to help with the unusual problem.

Words: 3000

Warnings: teen rating for mentions of sex and swearing

A/N: sorry it’s taken so long to start getting these celebration ficlets done. I should point out that I actually wrote the first part for the celebration, and then really wanted to see what would happen next, so wrote part 2. You lucky folks get both parts! This is just silliness and fluff, but is based on a real-life problem my co-worker was having…

“Is there something particularly interesting about the door of my supply closet Lieutenant Y/L/N?”

 “Huh?” Startled out of your trance, you look at Doctor McCoy and then back at the perfectly ordinary white door, which is exactly like all the other thousands of white doors on the Enterprise.

 He inclines his head towards the closet. “You’re staring at it like it holds the answers to the meaning of the universe. If it does, you should tell the Captain, because then we can all get the hell out of here and go home.” 

You squint at him. It’s supposed to be Doctor M’Benga on duty for Gamma shift but instead you’ve got McCoy and he’s asking you about doors. “Do you have any chloroform in there?” you blurt out, and even as it leaves your mouth you know it sounds like the request of a deranged individual.

To his credit, and probably as a result of years of training to deal with idiotic questions, the doctor only raises one eyebrow and scrutinises you for a second, before asking curiously, “why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?”

You start tapping your foot and you throw your hands up in exasperation, you might as well be honest with the man, since he probably already thinks you’re mad. “I wanted to knock myself out, okay?”

McCoy’s composure is pretty impressive. His reputation for flying off the handle at the least sign of idiocy seems undeserved, but then maybe he’s just waiting to see the full extent of your stupidity so he can determine how high to crank the dial. “Well I guess I should be relieved you’re not planning to reenact a kidnapping from some kind of pulp crime novel. Is there a reason you want to knock yourself out, or is it just for fun?”

Seriously, you reply, “Oh believe me there is nothing fun about it. I haven’t slept in, like, two weeks, and I think I’m going a little bit crazy,” whispering the last bit like it’s a secret. So you’re a bit surprised when the doctor’s mouth twitches in a smile.

“Can’t sleep huh? Come on, let’s get you checked out.” He motions towards a biobed and you hop up compliantly. “I’ve got to say there are better ways of knocking yourself out than chloroform Y/L/N, which might be why it’s been illegal for medical purposes for about a hundred years.”

“Really? Don’t get much call for anaesthetics beyond tranquilliser darts in xeno-zoology. I didn’t fancy using one of those, they sting.” You shuffle about a bit on the bed, trying to get comfortable. McCoy presses a warm hand to your shoulder.

“Keep still will you, just while I scan you.” You settle and he nods his thanks. “So is there anything you think might be stopping you sleeping properly?” He’s scrutinising the biobed readout as he asks the question.

You heave a big sigh. “Noisy sex.”

McCoy freezes and stares down at you mouth slightly open. He shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry did you just say… uh…”

“Noisy sex. Yeah. After two weeks of it I’m just exhausted.” You close your eyes and rub the heel of your hand into the sockets. When you open them again the doctor is still staring at you, although he seems to have gone kind of red around the ears.

“Well Y/L/N,” he eventually says stiffly, “I suggest you maybe lay off the… uh… nocturnal activities and prioritise getting some actual sleep.” He turns away and busies himself with something, and it takes your foggy brain a second or two to catch up.

You sit up bolt upright and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Oh shit, no! Not me! I mean I practically can’t remember the last time I had sex, and it definitely wasn’t noisy. Not for me anyway. Shit. No. It’s my neighbour, they hooked up with someone a couple of weeks ago and, well, the walls are remarkably thin and they’re… vocal. It’s like having a pair of mating Sehlats next door, you know, all grunts and shrieks. So yeah. No sleep and a crazy urge to knock myself out…”

McCoy has turned around, about halfway through your unstoppable outburst, and he’s definitely reached the limits of his composure now, because his eyebrows are in his hairline and he’s red all over. He opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Too much information?” you ask quietly, mortified to have blurted all that out to the doctor.

“Yeah. Little bit.” His voice is kind of gruff and his gaze is focussed absolutely on the monitor above the bed and not on you.

“Sorry. I just really need some shut-eye. I’m getting behind at work and I really don’t want to have to explain to Commander Spock why that is.”

“No I don’t imagine you do. Mind you, he had a Sehlat as a pet, so it’s possible he’d have some idea of what you’re dealing with.” He’s looking at you now with mirth in his eyes. You can’t decide what colour they are, but they’re pretty. “Well Y/L/N, your cortisol levels are raised and your blood pressure is a bit elevated. I can give you something that will put you out for tonight, but it’s not a long-term solution. Have you tried just asking them to keep it down?”

You sigh, “Yeah, I asked and they were apologetic, but it was all like ‘oh you know how it is when you get carried away in the heat of the moment.’” Fiddling with the slightly frayed cuffs on your academy sweater, you add, “you know what? I really don’t know.”

McCoy gives a noncommittal grunt, and you realise you’re on the verge of oversharing again. You’re not quite sure why your mouth keeps running away with you around McCoy, but you’re pretty certain that this wouldn’t happen with M’Benga.

“I guess we can deal with it tomorrow. I’ll go get you those meds.” He disappears in the direction of the supply closet, and you yawn and stretch thinking that ‘we’ sounds kind of nice. The bleeps and chirps of medbay machinery are kind of hypnotic after a while and you close your eyes just for a second.

The doctor comes back a couple of minutes later, brandishing a couple of hypos. But he stops short when he sees you keeled over on your side, legs still hanging off the side of the biobed, snoring gently. For a second he just looks at you, shaking his head, then he gently picks your legs up and puts them on the bed before covering you with a blanket.

Settling down in his office, he makes sure he can see across to your bed from behind his desk, just in case you might wake up disoriented or something. He quickly types out a message to Spock to excuse you from your shift tomorrow.

It’s the following evening and you find yourself raising procrastination to a fine art. You’ve kicked Sulu’s ass at dom-jot at least ten times, and lingered in the mess hall over your dinner for over an hour, before doing an extended workout in the gym. But eventually you can’t avoid going back to your quarters to find out what incredible vocal gymnastics your neighbour and their partner will manage tonight.

You decide to use some of your water credits and have a proper shower. Maybe if you can relax enough you can get to sleep before they start. Anything to avoid having to go back to Medbay. You could honestly have hugged Doctor McCoy for signing you off for the day, but you’re also mortified at the thought of what you told him, and you’re really not sure how you’ll ever look him in the eyes again.

You’re in comfy sweats, drying off your hair and it’s still mercifully quiet on the western front, when the door chime goes. To your surprise, McCoy is there leaning with one hand on the doorframe and holding a box under the other arm. He smiles a little hesitantly, looking at the towel in your hand. “Hey, did I come at a bad time?”

It turns out looking McCoy in the eyes is easy, they’re very pretty eyes after all. It’s stringing together a coherent sentence that’s hard. “Doctor! I was just… I wasn’t expecting… what are you…” You take a breath. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He straightens up and gestures into your quarters. “Is it okay if I come in? I have something for you.”

“Sure.” You step back, trying to ignore the fact that as he brushes past you, your palms have started to get all tingly. As he’s putting the box down on your tiny counter, you excuse yourself for a minute to blast your hair dry and attempt to make yourself a bit more presentable. It occurs to you that it didn’t really matter last night when you were wandering around Medbay, half crazy with sleep deprivation.

When you emerge, the doctor has perched on one of your stools, swinging gently from side to side, and is looking around your poky living space with interest. “So, Doctor McCoy I didn’t know you did house calls?”

Spinning around to face you, he grins. “Only for special cases. Anyway I’m off duty so this isn’t a house call, and you can stop with the ‘doctor’ business. It’s Leonard, or Len. Whichever.”

You plonk yourself down on the stool opposite Leonard. “Special cases huh?”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, you’ve got a pretty unique problem. And I did say I would try and help.” You stare at McCoy in disbelief. He’d said it, but you didn’t expect him to actually do anything.

He carries on, not noticing your surprise as he picks a couple of items out of the box. “So I talked to Scotty and gave me a pair of these to try. They’re industrial grade earplugs. But, since they block out so much noise, and you’ll be sleeping, hopefully, you’ll also need this.” He unpacks a thin plastic mat. “It’s an alert system, slips right under your pillow and connects to the ships computer to vibrate and wake you if there’s a red alert.” He swings from side to side again looking pleased with himself.

“You got these for me? You really didn’t have to Doc… Leonard,” you correct yourself, and he shrugs.

“It’s nothing darlin’. I mean if it stops you having to pilfer drugs from my supply closet in the middle of the night,” he says, teasing gently. “And also I might have done some research into those… uh… Sehlats.” A faint flush spreads across the doctor’s cheeks and a smile pulls at the corner of your lips.

“You did?”

“Yeah. You said they were loud, but goddammit that was something else! Chapel thought I was dying or something and practically battered down my office door. I… had some explaining to do.” You cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh. McCoy looks up at you grinning again. “It might be funny to you, but I was the one who had to convince my head nurse that looking up mating Sehlats was legitimate medical research.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m not sure she believes me. But anyway, if that’s what you’re up against, some earplugs is the least I can do.”

The tingling feeling in your palms has spread to your stomach. You’re a little dumbfounded that he’s done all this for you, and your earlier urge to hug him has morphed into something else altogether. Together with the lingering sense of mortification, it makes you tongue-tied, and it’s all you can do to whisper some thanks.

A frown creases McCoy’s brow. “Are you okay Y/F/N? You’re awful quiet, at least compared to last night.” He studies you seriously, before clearing his throat. “I should be going anyway, don’t want to keep you up,” he offers gruffly, but you realise that’s the last thing you want.

“Leonard, don’t go.” He stills and you can feel his gaze on you even though you’re looking down at the counter. “Can you just forget ninety percent of what I said last night? I’m so embarrassed for oversharing like that.” You fiddle with the packet of the earplugs until a large hand places itself over yours and squeezes.

“Don’t feel awkward darlin’, I’ve heard so much worse.” He pauses for a second and you glance up to see him looking down at your joined hands thoughtfully before continuing, “I’ve got to be honest with you though, it kind of makes things a bit complicated. I’d really like to stay and I brought the fixings for hot chocolate McCoy family-style, in case you needed to unwind, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage of you because of your, uh… dry spell.”

He releases your hand and rubs the back of his neck. That pink tinge is back in his cheeks and for some reason it gives you the courage to blurt out, “If you stay, I was going to watch a holo. And hot chocolate sounds… really good.”

With his smile it’s like the tingling sensation in your stomach metamorphoses into full-grown butterflies the size of the Andorian giants in the lab. You agree on a movie, and McCoy makes the drinks. It turns out a generous slug of bourbon is the secret ingredient in his family recipe, and you can’t argue with how amazing it tastes.

You settle down on the couch, which is too small for you not to be pressed right up against each other given the size of the doctor’s frame. He sprawls his legs out in front of him, and stretches his arm out along the back of the cushion behind you. As you relax a bit with the idea of him, you lean in and he drops his hand to your shoulder.

You’re about half an hour through the film when you hear the sound of voices next door. You can feel yourself tense and so can McCoy as he glances down at you before pulling you a tiny bit closer and rubbing soft circles across your back with his thumb. “Thanks,” you mumble, breathing in deeply and finding some comfort in his warm clean smell.

But it’s not long before things start to escalate into a gradual crescendo from moans and panting into thumps, and groans and bitten off curses. “Did they make these damned walled out of paper,” McCoy mutters.

“I don’t know, but it gets worse.” You wince as the thumping becomes the rhythmic bang of furniture against the wall and the doctor’s eyebrow shoots up. This continues for what seems like an age, until it reaches a peak of full blown shouts and shrieks and one long drawn out scream.

“You weren’t kidding darlin’,” McCoy says, looking incredulously at the wall between your quarters and next door. “ I thought they were knocking through at one point.”

“Yeah, well that was round one. They might end up crashing through the wall before they’re done tonight. Though I doubt that would stop them.”

“So it’s like this all night?” He gets up to pour you both a glass of the neat bourbon.

You nod. “Every time I doze off, they’re ready to go again.” You attempt a grin at McCoy as he hands you the drink, “I mean you have to admire their stamina.”

“And I thought living with Jim in the academy was bad.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You should try the earplugs next time, see if they help.”

You turn your attention back to the holo, and curl in beside him. You have one hand pressed on his chest feeling the steady rise and fall, and his arm is wrapped around you with his hand absently trailing gentle strokes up and down your side. You feel his cheek resting on the top of your head and the gentle tickle of his breath in your hair.

It’s quiet for now, just the sound of the holo and McCoy’s breathing, until he inhales deeply and mumbles, “Y/F/N, your hair smells incredible darlin’.” You twist to look up at him and he’s got this soft kind of disbelieving expression on his face. Biting your lip, you look into his mossy eyes before tracing down the angles of his nose, to gaze at his full, slightly chapped lips. Hazily, you wonder how they would feel on yours. He swallows and you glance up, to see him equally fascinated by your mouth. Huffing a whiskey-scented breath he leans closer…

“Oh baby, YES! Just like that!”

You jump apart, startled by the shout from next door, which is followed by the sound of someone kicking the wall and the now familiar moans and groans quickly begin to build. “Goddammit!” McCoy hisses, running his hands through his hair. You look at each other and the moment has passed.

Quelling your disappointment, you get up and grab the packet of earplugs. “Guess it’s time to try these then.” The doctor is sat there looking thunderously at the wall. “Leonard?” you ask tentatively.

He hits pause on the holo and leaps to his feet, pacing towards you and back to the couch again a couple of times. All the while the volume of shrieks intensifies. Eventually he seems to have come to some kind of decision because he turns to you and grasps you by your shoulders. “Fuck the earplugs Y/F/N, this is goddamned ridiculous.” He plants a kiss on the top of your head before storming out the door.

Stunned, it’s a second before you gather your wits to follow him, and by then he’s outside your neighbour’s door, hand slamming on the door chime. There’s no appreciable reduction in the activity from inside and so McCoy mutters something incomprehensible before hammering a fist on the door.

Suddenly there’s silence.

He hammers again, this time following it by bellowing, “this is Doctor McCoy. It sounds like you’re in considerable pain in there. I need you to open the door for me so I can confirm your status.” He looks along the corridor at you and winks. He’s actually enjoying this, and judging by the heads poking out of doors further up the corridor, he’s not the only one.

When there’s still no sign of the door being opened, he hammers one more time. “I need you to open the door for me in ten seconds, or I’ll assume you’re incapacitated and I will use my medical override to gain access. Ten, nine, eight, seven…” he doesn’t even get to six before the door swishes open and your red faced neighbour is there wrapped in a sheet.

“Uh… Is there a problem Doctor?”

“Lieutenant Y/L/N and I were trying to enjoy a quiet evening with a movie and a drink, but it sounded like someone was having their limbs ripped off by a damned Gorn next door! Frankly I was expecting to find you splattered in bits around your quarters.” McCoy’s eyebrows are at full mast and your neighbour is looking a bit queasy.

“We’ll… try to keep it down in future, sir.”

The doctor scowls murderously. “You see that you do, or I’ll slap a curfew on your sorry asses so fast it’ll make your head spin. And I won’t give you the courtesy of a warning before using my override to do it. Dismissed.” You stifle a giggle at the sight of your neighbour attempting to stand to attention in their sheet, before McCoy spins on his heels and strides back to your door.

He grabs your hand and pulls you over to the couch to sit back down beside him. He knocks back the last of his bourbon and turns the holo back on. “So where exactly were we?” he asks gruffly as he slides his arms back around you and pulls you against the solid warmth of his chest.

“I believe I was gazing adoringly at you and hoping you’d kiss me.” You tilt your head up and grin as you feel a hand slide up your back to cradle the side of your face.

“Oh yeah, you were biting those pretty lips and I just wanted to taste them” he murmurs as he leans in. Heat pools in your stomach only to burst into fire in your veins as your lips meet. It’s slow at first, then you’re moving your mouths more desperately and you’re nipping at his pouty bottom lip with your teeth. He growls and presses harder, and you open your lips to his tongue. Somewhere in the back of your mind, as he shifts you both so that he’s half lying and you’re sitting across his lap, feeling sparks where his hand has slid up under your sweater to swirl lazy circles on the skin at the small of your back, you think this might be the best damn kiss you’ve ever had.

When you eventually come up for air, you press your fingers to your tingling lips and smile. McCoy grins back at you lazily and catches your hand, kissing the tips of each finger before placing it on his chest under his. “That’s better.”

“I can’t believe you actually did that. I mean are you allowed to use your override like that?”

The doctor looks wide-eyed with mock innocence. “I only threatened to use it. Though even the mountain of paperwork if I did use it would have been worth it darlin’.”

“You know I kind of feel a bit sorry for them,” you muse, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean they’re pretty lucky to find someone who makes them feel that good.”

“You really never had that before huh?” McCoy’s voice rumbles through his chest, and you shake your head. “Well that’s a damned shame. Someone really ought to do something about that.”

It’s comfortable and warm in your Leonard cocoon, with his arms wrapped around you and your face buried in his neck, breathing in that soothing smell. You close your eyes just for a minute as you murmur your agreement.

“If you like, my legendary hands are at your disposal,” he adds with a chuckle, expecting you to laugh in return. “Y/F/N?” He peers down at you, but all he can see is the top of your head. “Y/L/N?” He feels a sigh of breath as you exhale, and the sound of a gentle snore. “Maybe next time,” he says smiling at the sound.

He shuffles carefully, trying to move you both into a more comfortable position without disturbing you until eventually he’s lying on the tiny couch with you on top of him. Then, with a rush of tenderness, he wraps his arms around you more securely and closes his eyes.

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