“Lying Makes Me Sweat. That’s Why I Can’t Play Poker Or Talk To Pregnant Women.”

credit to @fasciinating

⸻one never knows how loyalty is born. ”

spock & nyota, madmen au

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I love your rendition of Sulu and even more than that I love a dedication to wanting to explore those niche places of Star Trek — like established planets! Here’s to our Second Contact Missions in the Best Space Friends Triumvirate in our own version of a Project Swing By with @ensnchekov !! ❤︎︎

❛ i wish i could say i’m making a difference, but i don’t know. ❜ - from mccoy

𝑈𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑃𝑈𝑅𝑃𝑂𝑆𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑂𝑁𝐸’𝑆 𝑆𝐸𝐿𝐹 and stacking it against the great and varied needs of which that purpose serves is, at its very best, a lesson in futility; then compounded by the fact that the type of individual Lenoard McCoy was, choosing to serve inside the field he did – there is the potential to habitually feel every effort was not enough. Though, in the very humble opinion of this Comms Officer, was that so many of them [ herself included ] had McCoy to thank for the very air in their lungs, because without him nearly half the crew of the Enterprise wouldn’t be alive to draw breath. The varying instances when it was McCoy alone, whose knowledge in xenobiology - she felt - often surpassed her own knowledge in xenolinguistics [ a point of pride she did not relinquish easily or to just anyone ], was the very difference between Commander Spock being amongst the living and amongst the – not.

It was late evening, both of them having come off the end of their Beta shifts, and the mess hall was thinly populated; a few late diners from Alpha shift finishing their meals, a table of cadets consumed in some deep gossip circulating the lower decks, and then McCoy and Uhura at their happily removed little table; present enough to seem normalized to the cadet class, but a area small enough to deter more company. Nyota’s hand cradled overtop of McCoy’s, and a smile ripped the seam of her mouth;

“Bones — ” her voice, warm like a smooth whisky, said the nickname most favored by their Captain; rarely did Uhura use the moniker unless very specifically trying to convey the gentle and intentional place she spoke from, “ — the difference you’ve made for some of these people is the difference between having their lives or being memory in an eulogy. At the end of it all, the only thing we can give is all that we have, and of anyone on this ship Lenoard ; I have seen you give everything when you didn’t have anything else left but those goddamn brilliant hands of yours.”

Fondly, Nyota’s hand squeezed his, “ — best in the fleet, am I right?”

“ 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 ? ”

AN ANSWER FAILED HER or at least one that seemed like it would produce any sensical clarity to either of them. The question held an answer so large Nyota wasn’t sure how to respond for several long minutes. In that time, the dark from the room mirrored the darkness that lingered at the edges of her thoughts, a puzzle to carry with her from birth, to this moment, to seemingly the rest of her days.

Uhura did this on occasion; in these private, silent, and intimate spaces she held with him. Where her mind wandered to the end of the galaxy, gently pulling his hand along behind her, only to stop right at the edge where infinite darkness began.

At long last her mind pulled her back into the present reality, back inside of Spock’s quarters with a far more familiar darkness. Darkness that held no pretense, just as the man of whom she laid her body against. The resolute and unrelenting heat from all of her radiated deep into his skin as Nyota made a brief ascent upward where her head came to rest under the point of his chin.

When the words finally came to her, they came packaged inside of a query; “Spock – what do you think is out there . . . beyond the galactic wall?”

This was not the first instance in which Nyota came to her mate with this question; and very nearly each time the way it was asked, changed. The hour of day and circumstance - always different. In some instances appearing as a non-sequitur; as it did now. Conversely — there was hardly anything random in her question; a question she thought on nearly every day of since youth.

It was hardly untoward for scientists and explorers to pose alike quandaries and wonder grand, mysterious things — but it was her tone that never implied Uhura was asking for the purposes of science or exploration.

This was a secret thing she asked him — with no expectation of a specific answer, leaving it to be little more than a rhetorical question, far from direct or specific.

@fasciinating

Her fingers smooth down the midnight hair covering Spock’s chest while her voice breaks through the silence of his bedroom — “ . . . are you sleeping?”

                                        IN THE DARK, HE SNAPS ALERT at the touch of Nyota’s slender fingers, long and ruminating across bare skin and the steady heart beat drumming under his ribs. Parsing a quick mental check, his internal time sense tells him that it is close to oh two hundred, the room dim with only the silhouette of her face.

Blinking slowly, he looks down at her.

“ Negative, ” or not anymore, but catching the smooth glide of her hand, Spock attempts to convey through the haziness of sleep that he has no complaints. He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle or deter her gestures — he desires it, contact, when they are alone like this — pinning their hands on his chest.

“ What do you need? ”

@haiiling

  ——— INDEPENDENT ORIGINAL CHARACTER within the worlds of fallout, dune, star trek, & more. mature & triggering themes present. / CREATED BY AMY.

“I’m thirty years old, and I’ve peed in every pool I’ve been into. Every single one.”

@endeavvor

DIVIDING THE SELF INTO CONTRARY PARTS can very easily tempt the elasticity of the mind into snapping; only those with the right mental dexterity and constitution can withstand conditions of such deep social and behavioral shock. In the methodology of a daily routine that consisted of combing through her procedural and implicit memories, Nyota, as best she could, established some kind of inward touchstone - a method on which to rely that would remain even amongst the tumult of their situation. In doing so it allowed her to also suss out the underlying emotions that would betray their identities, risk their lives. To take those memories and carefully place them in the sacred and secret places of the mind and heart. The memories shaped like people she longed for, that she dreamt of in the night - only to wake with that familiar feeling of a weight sitting on her chest, compressing the air from her lungs; reaching out across the bed for someone who was light years and light years away.

The hollow aches of home filled by further retention of data, schematics, all things that would have to be recorded down to be deliberated with the Federation after the fact. All a part of a stringent order and application so as not to be discovered while gleaning the necessary intelligence they were sent for; operating like the spies of old fallen regimes like the Soviet Union and United States.

And through it all she had Pavel - her comrade, her brother in arms. Her dearest of friends.

Her last hope at this seeming edge of darkness.

[ Or so it had the bitter way of feeling like. ]

Uhura had been sitting on the edge of her bunk, wide legged, forearms on her knees, while she inspected her hands. They were chartreuse, as they had been for these long months, posing as Orion Arms Dealers. Though the color, on this dreary and aimless night in space, struck a different chord - one that plucked a bittersweet note from the stretched out sinew of her heart.

The thought that was lending itself to the painful sting of welling emotion in her throat was mercifully cut short and snuffed out by Pav’s harried return, but before her questions could be asked, her friend was already answering them and swiftly pulling out a cloth - on it all Pavel could scribe. Uhura and Chekov knew better than to recite aloud their intel while still aboard the Chonnaq; leaving them often to simply scribe things down, speak in code, or simple vagaries. So the clever Lieutenant naturally made use of anything and everything available to him; she often considered herself immeasurably lucky to have had Pavel Chekov with her on this mission. For reasons that seemed beyond counting, but presently he was demonstrating one of those many brilliant points of why right then.

This information was invaluable.

“You know what this means though? When we dock at the next outpost - we can make our way back, finally. This pattern proves what you’ve been saying, Pav,” Nyota, fully in agreement with her cohort that even in what was supposed to be their sleeping quarters, they couldn’t be entirely direct in what they said. “One of the moons of XurXur is the next Outpost,” her voice was low, rushed “ – this isn’t just all that the captain needs, but … ” Uhura lowered her voice even further, “Pav, this is what the Federation needs to try the The Orphan for – everything.”

@ensnchekov

While each day onboard the Chonnaq grinds away at his already fraying nerves, Pavel is still mildly surprised to find that every day he wakes up, the interior of the ship has not morphed around them into the abysmal dungeon he'd always imagined a Klingon Bird-of-Prey to look like on the inside.

It doesn't make their mission any easier, but he will take whatever small comforts where he can find them when surrounded by enemies who would not bat an eyelash at stringing them up and using them as leverage.

The reports about the Orphan have not been exaggerated.

Pavel waits until the door is fully shut behind him, double-checking for good measure, before walking up to Nyota, voice conspiratorially low. He still does not trust the Orphan is not yet on to them, that he does not have eyes and ears in the walls even he couldn't find.

"Normally I am not the one to say this, but I think the captain is wrong. You know as well as I do that for someone to change, they have to want to, and the Orphan does not. I've been digging through some of the ship's files, and—" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded up scrap of cloth which has been repurposed as paper.

"I was not going to risk the chance he finds out I downloaded information. But look at this."

@haiiling, sc.

𝖭 𝖸 𝖮 𝖳 𝖠 𝖴 𝖧 𝖴 𝖱 𝖠 ．

． 𝐼 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠

ᶠʳᵉᵠᵘᵉⁿᶜʸ ᵐᵒⁿⁱᵗᵒʳᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵏ

P R O M O

header, icons & promo credit: @fasciinating

animated dividers: @cafekitsune

[ [ all other edits & graphics done by me ] ]

hello there, i’m 30+ & i am mostly writing in the aos / kelvin timeline, but am happy & open to writing inside other star trek timelines ( specifically tos & snw ), but my portrayal will always be grounded in the concepts of the aos trilogy.

quick guidelines: crossover / oc friendly, 21+, slow-moderate activity, multiship, triggers tagged [ — tw. ] & ooc tagged [ — ooc. ], DMs open for plotting & ooc only, extremely heavy on plotting & world building. some nsfw will appear & tagged accordingly. i do use small text, icons, with minimal formatting. will happily adjust anything for mutuals with eyesight difficulties. please operate with basic roleplay ettiquette & manners.

ENSNCHEKOV — Indie roleplay blog for Pavel A. Chekov of the Abrams reboot films (Alternate Original Series). Multiverse/crossover & AU friendly, multi-para to novella length writer with a bias towards plotting. Heavily headcanon based with inspirations drawn from films, comics, novels, and the prime timeline. Written / loved immensely by Red, 25+.