#ack i've gone on too long already but you get the idea

[astraldrake]

rotating something in my brain rn but like i think i might let my lil guardians retire once final shape is over (and possibly move on with them) (no spoilers here just a long post)

like unless bungo pulls something insanely good or interesting out of their ass I'm probably going to put the end of their story there. like d2 will probably go on and on until it runs itself aground like a ship on a sandbar (because it's not profitable for bungo to stop updating the game weather or not it'd be better for the story if they laid the game to rest.) and i've seen what happens when a story goes on longer than it should. so i suppose you could say I'm putting my foot down wrt my ocs. whatever happens, the end of the light and darkness saga will be the end of their tales as well. they've done plenty and seen plenty and i think it'd be fitting if they were finally allowed to rest, to go home, to figure out what they're going to do with themselves now that their greatest threats are vanquished. If all you've ever known for the past ten or so years has been world ending threat after world ending threat, what do you do now that there aren't any more of them? What did it cost you to win and how do you deal with that? Whatever New Big Bad bungie comes up with probably won't be as interesting to me as the answers to those questions. So I'll probably just make some canon divergent "postcanon" oc stuff and dip. maybe go revisit some of the old lore, maybe check in from time to time to see what new unhinged nonsense the canon narrative is up to. idk

i just know i can't keep going on forever. all stories need an ending, and it is far better to plan for it and end with grace than to have to rush because you're running out of profits. I think I'd prefer to end with grace, let the corporation crash and burn if it so desires, my little guys are mine, and so i intend to give them the ending they deserve.

[repo-net]

Something Much Needed

Piles, and piles of paper, filled with all sorts of illustrations and notes. Most of which had been scribbled out to the point where only I'd know that they actually had words behind them...

This kind of sight isn't unfamiliar to me, but even I have to admit that it gets sickening to look at and be reminded of so many horrid memories. I feel dizzy just smelling the ink the third pen I've had to use up in a single sitting... maybe I should ask Jataro if he has any pencils I could use.

Then again, the reason I don't use pencils is because it sprains my hand more than pens. Still, this scent is just dominating my desk and my senses, ugh.

What am I even thinking anymore? I'd promised to them that I'd provide them with a scope of locations in where we can start establishing our major bases once all the adults have been removed from the city, along with any facilities that could inspire "fun" to them.

... That said, I feel like an ice cream store is not only unhealthy, impractical, but also a bit of an impossibility... where are we even going to find the sources and means to constantly stock that up anyways? I'd much rather just spare the adult that works his stand and tell him he can live as long as he keeps those four pleased.

Things like bounce castles, house-sized pillow forts, ball pits, swimming pools, ... dress-up dorms? Whatever that is, I want no part of it. I could already imagine the amount of hours that'd get wasted off of my day just being left in there with her...

Still a lot of other things to consider too, aside from securing the happiness and morale of the team's future once everything is finally done. Once everything's finished, once every single demon's been wiped, surely all the nightmares about what I've had to witness for myself, surely all the repulsive thoughts of doubting my own comrades will be gone.

That's what we've been aiming for, after all. Surely that should finally give me closure and the satisfaction I yearn for.

A base with our robots ready to attack on sight of any intruder that defies us, or tries to disturb the peace... a place where no demon can even hope to touch us... a throne our princess can sit on, where I can admire her sugary smile for hours upon hours as she acknowledges all the work I've done and how I've lived up to her expectations...

Yes, that praise... it's not too far... from now...

Strange... I feel... hot... a fever, perhaps? No, I can't rest yet, I've still got work to do... No, no...

Her expectations... no, their expectations... they have hopes for me... like she hopes for us, like how I follow their hope, I want to live up to it... prove... myself...

My eyes are... shutting down... why do I feel so... ex... haus... te... d...

"I need... to..."

...

...

...

"... Naggy-sa! Hey, hey! It's no use, he's completely knocked out! Dummy really overworked himself. Again."

"Oh nooo... what do we do? His skin's really, really hot too! Our sage is super sick... it must've been because of me..."

"Hmmm. Well, he'd probably nag at us and tell us not to worry about him if we tried to help him while he's still awake... I see an opportunity! Hoho, I've got a totally awesome and adorbs idea! Monaaacaaa~!"

"Hey, where are you- gah, wait up! Oh, wait... uhhh... just gonna throw this on you. There you go! I'm such a good leader! Hey Kotoko, wait up!"

...

...

... What is this thing on my back... it feels soft... mmm... don't want to wake up... don't want to go back to work... just a few more hours, plea-

Huh?! Wait, what am I doing? Ack, I fell asleep! Damn it, damn it...! To be doing something so important and to doze off on the job like this... idiot, you idiot! You're useless, completely, utterly-

... Hang on, are those... cookies I smell? Chocolate chip, too... wait, why is my blanket on me in the first place? I don't remember having it on me.

These things on my desk... apple juice? With a note on it...

"Nagisa, you seemed super tired. I don't know if you really like apple juice, but I heard that apples are super healthy and stuff. Being an apple must be really weird, people want to eat you because they like you, people want to kill you because they think you're good. It's super weird.

Anyways, you can have mine. And stop working so much, you don't have to keep pushing it. Unless you wanna end up as ugly as me, ehehehe.

- Person You Hate"

... Jataro, you know I could never hate you. But...

I look to the other side of my desk. A plate of chocolate chip cookies. Some of them with more particular designs than others, one looking like a soccer ball and another one having pink horns on them... is that supposed to be icing or something? I picked up the plate to bring it closer to me, but underneath it was another note.

"Hi hi, our wonderful vice leader and sage! Monaca noticed that you've been working so, so hard. Monaca's been keeping a super close eye on you, and she noticed that Nagisa's been working super duper hard lately. And it's starting to worry Monaca out.

So the idea of baking cookies to keep you motivated and relaxed came to my attention! Masaru and Kotoko in particular wanted to insert themselves into this for their own reasons, so I agreed and let them help with some of the designs. Jataro seemed like he wanted to help too, but he might have ruined the taste and the look with his grossness.

Monaca knows just how much you love her cookies, that stoic face of yours always just seems to break character whenever you get offered them. And you rant all the time about how bad sugar is for us, but then you seem to always be the one so eager to eat them as soon as they're fresh out of the oven! It's quite adorable.

Keep up the good work! I'm sure someone as talented as Nagisa could never ever disappoint us. I'm looking forward to the day Monaca's paradise is completed.

- Monaca"

This is...

She knew that I've been working myself this much...? I thought of you to be an unmatched genius, but my feelings for someone who notices... someone who acknowledges me... someone who understands me... someone I just...

Someone I just feel like cares about me, and not just the guinea pig working for everyone...

Monaca Towa... you truly are an angel...

Yes, yes... as long as you're around, I can accomplish anything. I can let go of everything just for you. Your wish is my command. And if your wish to eliminate every single adult off of the face of this world, then I'll take control.

For you, and for them too, who care about me... yes, I can do anything.

Thank you, everyone. I'll do my best.

I'll make sure this world has a happy place for all of us.

[soap-brain]

My prompt isn't part of the hug list and is kind of really angsty so feel free to ignore it if you want! XD I've read a lot of stories where the authors had Spock act like an asshole to make Jim run into Spock Prime's arms and it always makes me sad because I feel that it's unfair to expect Spock to act like his counterpart when SP had decades to accept his human side (1)

(2) so here's my prompt. Spock catches SP and Jim in a intimate situation (kissing or acting intimately or other situations) for whatever reason of your choosing (Spock and Jim had a fight, SP melded with Jim and the emotional transfer made them both act strangely...). The rest is completely up to you :)

it’s finally done!! this was a trip, man. at first i had /no/ idea what to write, how to write it, what you wanted exactly. then i started and it was slow and odd and then it began feeling good as long as i was careful, and now i’m SO PROUD OF THIS!! it’s my new favorite fic (sorry @ His Silver Lady)

i hope you like it though, it’s completely different from what and how i usually write, and i researched some interesting stuff (hey did you know they finished the golden gate bridge in 1937? and did you know there’s already a concept for roads to be replaced with solar panels?? the more you mcfreaking know i guess)

so, without any further ado:AOS Spirk, mentions of AOS Jim Kirk/Spock Prime, mentions of sex, established TOS Spirkwarnings for: a metric ton of sadness and Spock Prime whump, also references to suicide ideation; misuse of Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, ABBA, Pacrim 2, The One With The Whales and a fuckton of odd metaphors

Rating: probably T??Wordcount: 4742

(it’s under a cut because it’s so damn long)

How can I then return in happy plightThat am debarred the benefit of rest,When day’s oppression is not eased by night,But day by night and night by day oppressed,And each, though enemies to either’s reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee?I tell the day, to please him, thou art brightAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st the even.     But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,     And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

How do you know something is missing? Something you never had - how do you know you’re missing it? You feel displaced, a bit empty, searching, maybe. It’s certainly not the best feeling there is, but it’s also far from the worst.

Because the worst is having been searching for all your life, and then you find what you were looking for - love and acceptance, given completely unconditionally. And then you lose it.

Of course, you had it. For a while, you were happy. You had everything you could wish for - and more.

And then you lose it.

You lose it and there’s no replacement, because that thing is gone. Forever. It’s not coming back, you can’t get a second one, no second chances, no winning in life.

You’re alone, lost and broken. Forever.

*∞*∞*

Blue. It’s the first thing he notices. Blue, like … like a summer sky. Like a warp trail. Like a science uniform, like the eyes of a dear friend. On the wrong person maybe, but still … still …

Well. He doesn’t quite know what to say. Not … right, certainly not, more like jarringly wrong, like an atrocious deformity. Everything is wrong about the stranger. He’s too tall, too slim, too different, too wrong, not sunshine-and-honey, more starlight-and-ice.

Perfectly wrong, perfectly right.

He’d thought he’d die here, alone, in the cold, finally, maybe, because he’s not entirely sure he wants to see what this universe becomes, out of time out of space out of order infinite entropy in infinite combinations different and wrong and perfectly, perfectly right after such a long time. Like coming home to a new place.

A difficult concept to explain or grasp, without a doubt.

    “James T. Kirk.”

The confusion on his face is all wrong, epidermis scrunching up in the wrong places. It’s perfect.

    “Excuse me?”

He found him.

    “How’d you find me?”

Not that he’s surprised, exactly. This is a Kirk, after all.

    “Whoa, whoa. How’d you know my name?” Confusion, worn so beautifully. Not what he wants to see, of course - not how he’d like to see it, certainly! - but … he’s grateful for everything by now.

    “I have been, and always shall be, your friend.” It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t break. Or maybe it does, but can you blame him? Miracles like this don’t happen.

He’s not alone anymore, not lost, not broken. Not anymore.

*∞*∞*

My glass shall not persuade me I am old; // So long as youth and thou are of one date.

They have no place in this universe. Or, well, he doesn’t. Jim, Jim, beautiful Jim - he does. He deserves so much. He’s so young, so bright, so fearless, so, so beautiful.

Spock found his missing half again. His t’hy’la, his sun, his everything. Like the universe falling back into alignment, a pendulum with unending weight and no mass.

And then it swings past.

There’s a marvelous ship launching, a goddess in her own right, and her crew is beaming sparkling smiles, turning their backs on Earth with no regrets.

Is this what an abandoned pet must feel like? Watch those it loves and admires turn their backs and walk away, not a glance spared?

His knees want to buckle under the merciless weight of the stars, of years and years lived and forgotten and never happening. Because - because they never were.

Six sets of eyes, blue, brown, golden-sunshine-and-laughter. They never were. And nobody remembers, because they never lived.

Now, they are brown, they are green, they are grey, and a bright, burning blue. Like a shooting star: can’t touch, can’t feel, but all you want to do is latch on. It won’t let you.

What is there to do, when you have nothing? Nothing left, everything taken. Nothing ventured and nothing gained - but. What to venture for? What is there left to fight for?

For the first time in his life it seems like maybe giving up is the right way to go. Maybe - maybe it was enough.

The thoughts don’t come at night, under glittering stars, so far away, held dear in memory. The thoughts don’t come at day, under burning sun, merciless. The thoughts are already here and they won’t leave.

You become used to it.

Have you ever tried reaching out to the stars? Even if they aren’t yours, all wrong because they are exactly the same -  have you tried touching them? Fingers stroking over a cheekbone. The eyes should be phoenix-gold, but they’re a morning sky. And the memory is but a dream.

“‘Let me help.’ A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words even over ‘I love you.’”

So he will help. If nobody ever knows who for, then so be it. He can’t chase after a lover that was never his to have.

*∞*∞*

    “Do you genuinely believe he likes me?”

Sigh. “He is me, and I do know myself. Yes, Jim. Spock likes you.”

    “He doesn’t act like it though.”

So different. So much less calm. Exactly the same.

A smile the other man surely doesn’t see often from him - or his counterpart.

    “Vulcan education doesn’t make it easy to act on our feelings, if we even admit we have them.”

    “But - he doesn’t even use contractions when speaking! Hell, he told me off for using them in official reports! And you - I’ve heard you parody Bones’ accent!”

    “Jim, all I can ask of you is to give my counterpart time and ample supply of possibilities to change. I am over a hundred and ninety years old, and the majority of that time was spent in Human company. It … wears you down, eventually.”

Jim flips the stylus he’d been fiddling with. “I did everything you said though! We’re playing a lot of chess, we have dinner together, I ask to hear him play the lute, I get him little trinkets, I’m trying to be as respectful as I can be, I’m practically flirting with him non-stop - how many more situations should I needlessly and weirdly bend over something? How dense can a guy be!”

    “Always so impatient - ack!”

He’s so close all of a sudden, invading a personal bubble that hasn’t been invaded in a long, long time (actually, never. Because it never happened), smelling and feeling wrong, and exactly right.

Feelings are a confusing thing, but is there anything that’s quite as good?

    “What’s wrong?”

A hand on his elbow, and bright blues looking worried. A momentary lapse of control, and suddenly it’s so much harder to regain his balance, externally, internally, eternally. Of course it’s his presence that set the timer off, tick-tocking towards doom, the shallow contact on Delta Vega, the most intimate connection, a mind recognizing its counterpart, no matter how distorted.

    “Spock. Talk to me!”

    “Selek.”

    “No, you’re - you’re Spock!”

He sits up again.

    “Jim …”

    “Is it a medical condition? Do you need a doctor? Oh god, I’ll call Bones right-”

    “Jim.”

    “Yes?”

    “It is, in fact, a medical condition of sorts, but nothing modern medicine can help me with. Or you.”

    “What do you mean?”

Sigh. He doesn’t want to lie - his body craves the relief, the closeness, like a starving man craves food, the most delicious buffet laid out right in front of him.

If he touches it, it will wither away, leave, run, snarl in disgust. He won’t be able to survive that. The other alternative - abstinence, depriving himself - seems almost better.

Selek - Spock has never been strong. His mental restraints are mainly born from self-hatred, indoctrinated into him at a very young age. It makes it easier to deny himself.

But it has been so, so very long that he almost wants to give in.

Weariness goes deep - to your skin, after a long day. To your bones, after years. To your soul, after a lifetime of almost only mourning.

    “Tell me what’s wrong, so I can fix it.”

Let me help.

‘The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself’, after all.

    “I can’t let you. This is something I have to bear myself.”

    “No. Nobody is ever alone. Let. Me. Help.”

*∞*∞*

To have known him, to have loved himAfter loneness long;And then to be estranged in life,And neither in the wrong;And now for death to set his seal—Ease me, a little ease, my song!By wintry hills his hermit-moundThe sheeted snow-drifts drape,And houseless there the snow-bird flitsBeneath the fir-trees’ crape:     Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine     That hid the shyest grape.

Giving in is, in a way, always harder than abstaining. It opens up places inside of you - deep, dark, horribly twisted places. Of why you shouldn’t have given in, ever. Of why you shouldn’t have abstained, ever.

Sensorimotor memory is another fascinating thing. It digs deep and leaves grotesque scars, and touching them again shakes you to your very foundations.

*∞*∞*

The first day feels like happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness. Like seeing the sun for the very first time in your life.

The second day is bittersweet. You can already feel it ending, a bit, even though you’re just cresting the highest peak.

The third day is regret and lack. It’s already over, almost. Sanity is returning.

Hour zero, day zero, ground zero afterwards is disgust. Not normally, no. But in this case - golden head on a pillow, bare shoulders and back covered in marks, a picture of utter exhaustion - it was wrong.

When you’re very young, and your mother tells you off for stealing your sister’s treats, and you’re unhappy and angry with yourself that you did something, took something you had no right to, already loathing the bliss you found in it.

This Jim, with this blue eyes and bright smile - that one hadn’t been meant for Spock. And he took him anyways.

He stands there, in the open bedroom/living space, mug of tea in his hand, looking down at the sleeper, and he resents every mark on the pale skin, every memory revolving around those marks.

There’s a chime at his door and he knows, instinctively, who it is. He allows admittance. There’s nothing to hide. Like a thief caught red-handed.

His counterpart barges in, chock-full with questions, and he stops dead in his tracks.

There’s shock, then there’s realization, and then there’s anger.

Selek watches him. He doesn’t have anything to hide, all his crimes out here in the open for Spock to judge.

    “You - you - he.”

Is there anything quite like fury choking your every word? Spock has every right to feel cheated, betrayed, stolen from.

And then his features fall.

    “It was you. Not me. You. He wanted you.”

Selek shook his head. “No, Spock. He wanted you. I’m sorry.”

    “Why?”

    “Why I did what I did? I’m old, Spock. I’m old and foolish and I’m alone. I don’t belong here. I’m weary. I don’t know whether giving in made it worse or better; it doesn’t matter. He’s not meant for me. And he only wanted to help. He doesn’t want me.”

    “But … you are more than me. Why - why wouldn’t he choose you?”

    “The simplest explanation I can give you is that he’s not my Jim, and I’m not his Spock. There’s a Jim and a Spock in every universe, and they belong together. But … this isn’t my universe, Spock. This isn’t my Jim. My Jim … was different. I’m sorry.”

Spock stares down at the golden head on the pillow, fighting emotions that remain unseen. Selek knows them all.

    “I need you to leave,” he chokes out, and Selek nods. Of course.

He dresses himself, puts on shoes, makes for the door.

    “There’s a dermal regenerator in the bathroom,” he says. There’s no answer. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

*∞*∞*

Spock sits down, hands shaking, knees suddenly unable to bear his weight. Jim is still motionless, deeply exhausted from -

Something ugly rears its head in Spock, dark and snarling. From servicing his counterpart, taken like some kind of whore. Jim is his, his, his alone, and he wants to hurt Selek, make sure he never lays a hand on Jim again. Illogical? Yes. But justified. Jim is his! Selek should have taken better care of his own Jim, then he would not be alone.

He trails a hand over Jim’s shoulder, fighting the urge to dig his nails in and mark Jim. The Human moves under his touch, pressing against it. Yes. Jim knows who his Spock is.

It is terrifying, if Spock is honest with himself. This urge to mark Jim, claim Jim, like his consent is of no importance.

    “Sp’ck?” He’s turned his head, lashes fluttering open and revealing crystalline blues.

    “I am here, Jim.”

Jim rolls around more, until he’s on his side. He stares, and then his eyes widen.

     “Spock! I - I can explain!” He scrambles to sit, bedsheet pooling around his waist.

    “There is no need.” It comes out colder than Spock wanted.

    “No, listen, I need to explain. Please!” Jim rubs a wild hand over his face and through his hair. “I - I - I don’t know how to say this, but please listen to me!”

Spock cocks his head.

    “I - oh god - I didn’t mean to - look, I had no idea how to interpret the signals I was getting from you, and Selek needed help. Spock, I couldn’t just - I couldn’t just let him die. But … I - Whatever we had, I -” He swallows harshly. “I destroyed it, didn’t I? Everything we could’ve had.”

    “I didn’t know you wanted - anything.” Spock exhales. There’s something in his chest, tight and loose at the same time. “I didn’t think you’d want … me.”

    “I did. I do. If you still do then I’m, I’ll.”

Spock closes his eyes. He had always tried to quench optimism with realism, or pessimism if his heart grew too bold. He had not dared hope - but he had thought. Had thought of Jim, just Jim, with him. As if nothing else mattered. (It didn’t.)

    “I do.” Said quietly, screamed across the rapidly shrinking distance between them.

Jim is smiling. Their foreheads touch without either of them consciously allowing it, so close together.

    “I do,” Spock repeats, watching the tentative smile on the Human’s face turn brilliant.

*∞*∞*

It’s an interesting trait, Human sentimentality. Certainly one of the greatest flaws and greatest strengths of their race, decidedly not to underestimate. Take this bridge, for example. 323 years old, it would be considered a waste of space and resources, logically, and would be set for destruction. Maintenance and continued safety checks cost a fortune that could well be invested elsewhere.

If you would propose that same course of action to any of the locals, you would decidedly not endear yourself to them, but the fact remains that the upkeep of the bridge doesn’t follow any kind of logical way of thought.

The paint alone, specially synthesized to protect the ancient materials, costs a fortune. A colorful metaphor for Human sentimentality.

If Selek were another man, one and a half centuries younger, not yet worn down, he would surely have chuckled. A joke. He doesn’t make those very often, the references he makes with his punchlines far too obscure for anyone to understand, and, as in this case,  they never happened in the first place.

The sidewalk isn’t made from concrete and stones anymore - a series of large remodeling projects allow all of San Francisco to be powered exclusively by solar panels that have been integrated everywhere. Roads now have a dull shine to them, looking far more finely fashioned than cracked concrete.

Selek wishes for the concrete. Watching where to step, careful to not bump into the man beside him, no matter how much he may want to, yearning for something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

‘Admiral.’ - ‘You used to call me Jim.’

He  used to, yes. In another time.

Now, it doesn’t hold the same meaning. Now, it’s a hollow ache, desperation, a void refusing to be filled except with unjust, unhealthy appropriation.

It used to be the warm glow of belonging.

And the yearning for it is a Human feeling, through and through. Sentimentality.

The pier is more or less deserted - it’s hardly the weather for a nice stroll. There’s only one person, ahead of Selek. They’re leaning over the little wall between the walkway and the stony shore, robes flying in the wind.

It’s for the better. As though less people would see Selek’s shame.

It was a selfish act, meant to resurrect whatever he once was and making it about himself. Selek has lived for other people. It used to be his primary enjoyment, fulfilling him.

A life, devoid of meaning now. And for how much longer? Physically, Selek doesn’t feel that old yet, and his luck has been bad. How much longer? Twenty years? How do you live twenty more years after almost a lifetime without your heart, briefest glimpse of happiness, those few years, so long gone?

    “And Quoth the Raven “Nevermore”!” the stranger exclaims, pushing away from the little wall. “Oh, you Humans. Always so doomy and gloomy. Find some enjoyment in life! Live a little!” He clasps Selek’s shoulder. “Oh, apologies. You are half Vulcan, after all. But do you hear yourself think? There’s more humanity in you than anything else.”

    “Can I help you?”

The stranger winks. “Oh, maybe, yes. Do you happen to know a man by the name of … Admiral James T Kirk?”

Selek stops dead in his tracks.

    “How -” His voice fails. “How do you know that name?”

    “About 5’10’’, brown eyes, brown hair, a bit curly … used to be blond! He likes horses, Shakespeare, flowers, astronomy … Do you know him?”

    “Who are you?!” There’s an age-old anger shaking in his chest, at the name seemingly used in vain by this stranger.

The stranger smiles like a cat that got the cream. “I am one of the Q.”

    “What’s your name? Who are you?”

    “Q.”

    “How do you know - how do you know that? Him.”

    “Mmmmmh, let’s just say I have my sources. But if I may: You two were fantastic for each other. A perfect fit.”

I know.

    “But then, he had to step on the, what was it, Enterprise-B and, well, the rest is, as they say, history. What a sad story. Such a bright, bright man, and he gets himself killed before his time. Pity.” The stranger grins, entirely too off.

And then he leans close to Selek. “Or did he? He was presumed dead. Did he die, Spock? Did you ever see a body? How do you know that he’s really dead? The bond? What if it broke because he’s inside a singularity that transcends dimensions?”

    “What do you want?” Selek is shaking by now.

    “It’s called the Nexus. I’m pretty sure he’s still alive in there!”

Selek starts walking again, trying not to shake, not to stumble, keep his lips pressed thinly together and blinking away the overboarding emotions, throat weighed down with ‘Ambassador Spock, sir, apologies for interrupting, but there has been a message from the USS Enterprise-B.’ on top of the scalding emptiness of knives in his heart, memories, memories, loss, over and over.

The hand on his shoulder almost makes him buckle; the bridge offset in dark, garish red against gray skies bleeds away into lush green, a garden, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

    “Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

It’s a voice Selek would have recognized anywhere. His heart stops, free-falling; whether it’s relief or breaking, hollow sadness he couldn’t say, nostalgia and fear and yearning and ecstasy mixed together.

The caller comes into focus and Selek can’t help himself but reach out. Just one touch. One fleeting press of fingertips against fabric, against skin, against hair, and he would be content for eternity.

The vision fizzles and fades, replaced instead by the heavy gray around. It’s started to rain. Q is nowhere to be found.

*∞*∞*

    “They were thigh-la,” Jim says absent-mindedly, running his fingers over the fabric of Spock’s robe. It is not as though Spock minds - he has waited far too long for this. But Jim’s statement is perplexing.

    “They were what?”

    “Thigh- Thigh-la? It’s a term Selek used, I think it’s Vulcan.”

    “There is no such term. Perhaps you misheard.”     “No, no, it’s a thing! Um, they were like … it’s going to sound stupid, but they were - soulmates, so to speak.”

    “Oh. You are referring to the bond of t’hy’la.”

    “Yeah! Exactly!” Jim sits up to face Spock, excitement sparking from his eyes. Spock finds he misses the warm weight of the Human’s torso against his. “What does it mean, exactly?”

    “Like you said. Soulmates.”

    “Oh.” Jim leans against Spock again, tethering him back to the universe that is wide open and, for the first time, welcoming. Smiling. Like coming home to a new place.

Then: “Are you angry at him? Selek, I mean.”

Spock allows himself a deep exhale, Jim’s pulse loud in his fingertips on his neck.

    “I think … I think I am lucky to be unable to understand his motivation.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Selek is … broken, beyond words. I cannot imagine - such a life, only so few years with your counterpart, and then all the time spent alone. I cannot be angry at him for - for being desperate. For wanting.”

    “I wanted to help him. I really did. I still do. But … unless we find my counterpart, there’s no helping him, is there?”

    “I am afraid not.”

    “So he’ll never know love again.”

    “No. And not even - what you gave him, Jim, though well-meant - it was not the love he needs. You are not what he needs, even though it is of course easier for him to delude himself to think that you are. I do not blame him.”

*∞*∞*

They see Selek again for their departure, the first time since, well, since. The Enterprise is set to a set of coordinates that presumably hold a singularity, and Selek will be coming with them. Presumably. Dear Creator, Humans certainly are one of the most delightful species.

Command hadn’t given them a reason for any of this, and it hadn’t seemed like any of them even know why the Enterprise needed to go there. The Humans find it odd, but have decided not to argue.

Jim’s only barely keeping himself from touching Spock. They’re not exactly out - Spock had felt the need to inform Nyota, and Jim had of course told Leo, but to everyone else they were still Captain Kirk and Commander Spock, nothing more. Delightful in their insecurity.

Selek holds himself differently, even more of a paradox than he’d been before, more straight, more lively, but like someone else was pulling the strings. Hm. As easy as all these little beings are, they certainly are fascinating. You can never really know how they’ll react.

    “I’m happy to have you on board,” Jim ventures. He’d been worried about the old half-Vulcan, but then pre-departure-preps had hit him and he hadn’t found the time to check up on him, and in true Human fashion he had resigned himself to hoping that he was alright.

Selek reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Spock steps closer to Jim, warning, threatening.

    “I learned my lesson, Spock. And I’m grateful you didn’t take it amiss. Learn from my mistakes, Spock.”

Selek keeps to himself. The Enterprise shoots through the stars, brimming with eagerness as she always does, always did, in every universe, in every dimension, a beating heart bright like the sun, a beacon of hope. They all hope, each for their own sake, and the ship carries the hope out into the void, a cheerful resistance against inevitability.

Oh, they have no idea.

A flick, a flimmer of thought, and the Enterprise stops, dead, out of power, shining brightly among the eternal night.

Inside, there is mayhem.

They can’t see it of course, but the Nexus is there, waiting. Not an entity that had endeared itself with kindness usually - it’s a grotesque, ugly thing, devouring, feeding off life energy, the immortal souls trapped within. Paradisical for lower lifeforms, no doubt - that was, after all, the Nexus’ spiel - but for anyone with a bit of a mind to see beyond the veil, it appeared more of a parasite.

Its maw was gaping, tongue trying to reach out to the tiny silver ship braving its edges, like a predator in waiting. Thank the Creator for chaining it at the Junction; otherwise, it would’ve been unstoppable.

The old half-Vulcan doesn’t seem to be interested in the when’s and if’s and but’s presented in increasing desperation by the Enterprise’s crew.

    “It’s where I have to go. Please, let me. Allow me this one last thing.”

Ah. So he can feel it then. Splendid.

Jim Kirk doesn’t cry as he allows Selek a shuttle and wishes him farewell. Maybe there’s a part of him that understands.

And then the shuttle takes off, a tiny speck of silver, a shooting star, falling right into the abyss,  the beast’s open maw. The Enterprise crew doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, only the shuttle’s life signals cutting off as though it never was. In a way, it wasn’t. The nonexistent prime timeline dies with Selek - Spock. This one will be different. Far, far different, except for the constants that vein every timeline, every universe, every dimension, a tether to the greater order.

Perhaps it is only merciful to give the Enterprise something to explore here. The Nexus can’t touch them anyways. Their time hasn’t come yet.

So, an oddly colored nebula sparkles into existence, flickering in and out, a proper scientific problem. It will let them discover several properties of dark matter instability years before they should have that knowledge, but then again it’s nothing but a drop in the ocean.

*∞*∞*

The shuttle begins gradually fading away, mattering less and less in this - wherever, whatever. Then, there’s only the forest. Trees rushing in the wind, birds singing, golden sunshine and bright green, stones and leaves crunching underfoot.

The path is narrow but worn, boot prints and hoof prints engraved deep into the ochre soil. Around a bend and over a wooden bridge crossing a stream, until there is a small artfully rusted gate. It swings open easily.

The garden is lush green, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

    “Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

There’s the call again.

The rusted metal is real under his fingers; the roses smell lovely and the leaves are green. It’s like coming home to a new place. Different, but home.

*∞*∞*

Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no! it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.     If this be error and upon me prov'd,     I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

there we go that was it!!! i really, really hope you enjoyed it, and i’m sorry for the super duper long wait. i’ll post it to ao3 some day, i think, as soon as i manage to come up with a title 

thank you for that wonderful prompt, anon!!

if you found every reference and stolen quote, let me know :D

also, disclaimer: i’ve seen the first four eps of tng, that’s how well i know q. i’ve never seen generations, of the poems i used i only ever analyzed one (the last one, aka my favorite). AND ofc it’s not beta read at all or anything, yikes!!! :DD

i think @gumballgladiator wanted to be tagged in this when it’s done? if anyone else wants to be tagged in stuff lmk!!

bye i’ll go to the gym now, i’m mentally exhausted :p

[not-poignant]

I've stumbled on the now deleted comments thread. So... What are your thoughts about rude commentators and over protective fans?

Oh, ha, yeah.

My personal policy with trolls (which I believe the instigator was, even if they don’t think of themselves that way, or even if it didn’t start that way) is to ignore them once I’ve said all I need to say. Even if that means they get the ‘satisfaction’ of getting the last word etc.

However, after that, I think a few people read the thread that was there and had their own feelings on the matter. I’ve actually been asleep and woke up to the thread kind of having exploded? In the end, since the OP was obviously someone who wanted to engage with a lot of people in a toxic manner, and since things were getting more and more heated, I decided to make the call to screencap the whole thing, and then delete everything barring the original comment and my original response. (I’ll delete the whole thing if I have to). I’ve done this once before, though a long long time ago now. Maybe during ISWF.

It’s actually not my first line of response when things like this happen. In the past, I’ve left threads up where someone has been (knowingly or unknowingly) toxic, or where my comment has provoked something without me realising (I’m not perfect, I make communication gaffes all the time, autism + not being able to read tone practically ensures it), mostly because a) people don’t get involved and b) I don’t really like censoring things to the degree of deleting threads. But after a few more years on Tumblr, and a few more years of knowing how  some sorts of people are likely to behave, I’ve come to realise that sometimes the reason I’m on AO3 is to write fic, and not host emotional crapfests where one person brings out a lot of anger in others.

Re: over-protective fans: I don’t like dogpiling. Sorry folks, I’ve never really liked it. I didn’t think last night when I went to bed that dogpiling was happening (I could’ve been wrong on that call), but this morning I think it was headed in that direction - I mean I think of it this way: the instigator possibly - initially - meant well despite being entitled and rude in their original comment (I’m unsure how well they meant tbh based on all of their responses afterwards), they weren’t going to alter how they were interacting with people after reason, compassion, or being yelled at. Therefore, it was just going to become a completely emotional clusterfuck (or more of one). You either got two kinds of responses from them: defensiveness and insult, or condescension and...insult. Glen looked over the whole thread and just said: ‘is it still gaslighting if they don’t know they’re doing it to you?’ -> though his view was that I probably shouldn’t have responded to them in the first place, lol. Which is why I should wait until he comes home before replying to things like that.

The only thing to get out of that thread at that point, was the satisfaction of yelling at each other, venting anger, and mutual insult. I mean I agree with one thing they said: ‘this whole thing has been blown out of whack’ (it’s just you know, they kept coming back to encourage that too). And while I can understand how these things happen (look, I grew up on pagan forums, boy howdy have I been in some vicious thread/flame wars), I don’t really support it. I’m not like angry or ‘disappointed’ or whatever, I guess I’m just... ‘ack this situation has become poisonous I’m going to try and neutralise it’ about it.

I have been an over-protective fan on another author’s story. A couple of times now. Both times it’s happened because the person wasn’t just critiquing but had become truly underhanded and entitled to the story and was being rude to the author, and I was genuinely mad and upset on the author’s behalf (I think it’s more likely if you either know the author, or have an understanding of them through social media.) But both of those times, the rude OP never came back to constantly get the last word, the threads never exploded, etc. It was more like ‘hey it’s not okay to talk to an author (or anyone) this way, so cut it out.’ And they appeared to cut it out, lol.

Maybe I’ve been wrong to do that. Maybe I’ve been wrong to delete the thread too. I don’t believe that all social critique of how a person is responding in comments is wrong or misplaced. (In the same way that I don’t believe social critique of authors putting down readers for not giving comments etc. is wrong or misplaced). Some people genuinely don’t know how to talk to authors, or their fellow fans. Some people also genuinely don’t want to change how they talk to others; and that’s what I was seeing (and what other people were seeing).

So I’m not against someone coming into another thread between two people to share their thoughts. If things had stayed where they were at last night when I’d gone to sleep, I may have left the thread up, though I was already toying with the idea of deleting most of it. And I’d probably prefer if people didn’t keep responding to the OP, because I can guarantee it will just devolve into being insulted and condescended to, and probably getting pretty damn angry in response, and then I’ll be there with my delete button again. I mean we’re hopefully here to read fic and have a (mostly) good time, and I’m sorry if my behaviour let down anyone who expected differently or better.