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sepdet · 29 days ago

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Killing Time excerpts #2:

Kirk & Spock compare dreams over breakfast (p 7-10)

(from that totally canon Star Trek novel that Pocket Books rapidly recalled from stores to de-gay certain Kirk/Spock scenes, but my Mom beat the censors to a first edition!)

Kirk poked at the eggs on his plate with the tip of his fork, but it was blatantly obvious to Spock that the captain had little interest in the food.

"I don't know who I was, but ... I wasn't who I was supposed to be." He laid the fork aside and took a healthy gulp of the reconstituted orange juice. "And that's not exactly right either," he continued, not quite looking at the Vulcan. "It was as if I was still James Kirk—the same James Kirk I've always been—but I wasn't in the right . . . place." He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it, Spock."

Spock eyed his friend carefully. "Dreams of alienation are not unusual," he pointed out. "In situations such as exist onboard starships, they are, in fact, extremely common." Taking a sip of the hot herb tea, he pushed his own plate of untouched tood aside. He couldn't help remembering that he, too, had been experiencing dreams of alienation and displacement for nearly a full solar week; but something restrained him from mentioning it. "In your dream, Captain," he continued cautiously, "was it as if you were . . . not how you would normally envision yourself to be?"

Kirk frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up as his open palm slapped the table."That's exactly it!" he exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he noticed a young yeoman at the next table cast a quick look in his direction. He leaned closer to the Vulcan, feeling vaguely ridiculous for the outburst, but somehow closer to the solution. "I was on the Enterprise— but it wasn't even the Enterprise—at least not like I know her," he added as an afterthought. "And . . . I kept seeing you." At last, he looked up. "But you were different, too, Spock," he stated emphatically. "I'm not sure, but . . . I think you were the captain."

He shuddered internally, as the haunting quality of the dreams sharpened. He thought he saw a faint smile come to the young yeoman's face as she stood and quickly left the dining area, but he no longer cared. At least it might alleviate her boredom. "And I didn't know who I was." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I must've been an ensign or something, because I remember trying to think of some way to approach you—to tell you that things weren't the way they're supposed to be."

He grinned without looking up, and took another swallow of the orange juice, tasting it for the first time. It only strengthened his resolve to put in a formal request to Admiral Nogura for fresh orange juice at the next opportunity. "And I also remember thinking that you would never believe me. After all," he added as the smile broadened, "you were the ship's captain— and a Vulcan! What chance would a lowly human ensign have of trying to inform the Vulcan commander that he (meaning me!) was supposed to be the cap-tain?" He laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension ebb away just in the act of telling Spock about the absurdity of it all.

The Vulcan leaned forward, and their eyes met across the table. "Jim," he murmured in a tone suddenly deep and foreboding, "I also dreamed."

Kirk swallowed the lump of nervousness which rose in his throat, but he could only stare mutely at his first officer. Guiltily, he looked around to see if the yeoman was still eavesdropping. Bad enough that the captain's having anything but delusions of grandeur, he thought. But if Spock buckles . . . He let the thought drift into silence.

The Vulcan steepled his fingers in front of him. "At first, I believed the dreams were attributable to the somewhat uneventful mission currently assigned to the Enterprise. However, I am no longer convinced that such is the case."

Kirk looked at his friend for a long time, their eyes holding them together. "What did you dream, Spock?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain neutral.

But he didn't need to hear the answer; it was clearly inscribed in the dark eyes, carved in the angular features, written in the almost tangible conviction with which the Vulcan spoke.

One eyebrow arched, and it seemed for a moment as if the first officer might surrender to the human urge of shrugging. He did not. "I do not believe it is worth concerning yourself, Captain," he said as if attempting to dismiss his own statement. Somehow, it sounded far less logical in reality than it had in his own thoughts. "We have observed in the past that our minds have developed a telepathic rapport of sorts. Perhaps I was merely receiving fragments of your dreams, thereby—"

"Spock," Kirk interrupted with an exasperated sigh. He reached across the table, resting his fingers lightly on his friend's arm. "I know it's an inconvenience to your Vulcan logic to have this link with a human, but just tell me!" But the gentle smile robbed the words of any harsh implications.

After a moment, Spock nodded almost imperceptibly and took a deep breath. "I dreamed that you were an ensign," he stated, "and that I was . . . captain of the Enterprise."

Kirk leaned heavily back in the chair, letting his hand fall back to his side. He could think of nothing to say.

"Perhaps we should inform Doctor McCoy," Spock suggested. "Since Vulcans do not normally dream whatsoever, and since our dreams do bear remarkable similarity . . ." His voice drifted into silence.

Kirk glanced at the chronometer on the wall, then nodded. "You're probably right," he agreed. "As a precautionary measure, we probably should tell Bones. But . . ." He put one hand to his forehead, sensing a headache struggling to break through. "Just keep it to yourself today, Spock. I'm going to talk to a few other people and see what I can come up with first."

Spock's head inclined in acknowledgment, and he rose from the chair as Kirk stood and followed him toward the door.

Once inside the lift. Kirk tried to shake the feeling of uneasiness with a deep breath. His success was marginal. But when the double doors opened to reveal the familiar refuge of the bridge, he stepped back, smiling deceptively at Spock's apparent confusion. "After you . . . Captain Spock," he offered graciously.

The Vulcan turned, both brows climbing in a moment of surprise. "Illogical," he noted, but nonetheless stepped onto the bridge first. "Captain, I need not point out that it would be irrational to base rank solely on the basis of dreams—regardless of the fact that I would, no doubt, make an excellent commander.*

Kirk shrugged, scrutinizing his first officer discreetly. "Maybe," he conceded, stepping onto the bridge and pulling the professional air of command into place. But he couldn't resist one final urge. "But keep in mind that I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock!*

The Vulcan stopped, meeting Kirk's eyes warmly. "Of that," he readily agreed, "I have no doubt."

Next Time

Things get steamy (literally) as Kirk dons a lumberjack shirt and invites Spock to stroll with him in a garden.

See tag Killing Time excerpts for more

#killing time excerpts #killing time #spirk #pocket books #star trek TOS #star trek #kirk/spock

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roguishcat · 3 months ago

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A sound judgement

Thank you so much @pursuitseternal for your request and for giving me this prompt (Magistrate Astarion AU, where he was never turned)! This was an absolute delight to write, even if it took me a while to actually get done. Hope you enjoy it!

Excerpt:

And this was when Astarion remembered that he was, in fact, the law and you had no choice but to obey him. A small voice in the back of his mind chose to remind him how badly this could backfire. Astarion chose not to heed the warnings of said voice and immediately began plotting.

Word count: 5.1k

Pairing: Astarion x female Reader

Tags: some suggestive themes, Astarion being a menace to society, Astarion being a brat, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff

❤️Love it? Hate it? Tell me what you think! ❤️

If you want to be added to my taglist, feel free to send me a message or leave a comment!

The afternoon sunlight brushed warmly against your cheek as you enjoyed a rare moment of peace. Instead of running around Baldur's Gate, fixing buildings, helping those in need, the Hero of the Gate for once decided to read a newspaper in a park. Something quite mundane for some, a rare luxury for you.

You were not slacking. But you have come to realise that in your bid to please everyone you would soon completely burn out. Which is why you didn’t feel a smidge of guilt when you found yourself going to Bloomridge park instead of the Upper City.

Not having to make any decisions and just simply be for an hour felt absolutely heavenly. Children played, the members of the book club gossiped, and couples whispered among themselves. This was exactly what you loved about this city. No matter how much havoc was wrought, Baldur's Gate healed rapidly and would soon be back to its former glory.

You cast your eyes over the articles in the newspaper. Nothing special, thank the gods. Just silly gossip and the like. You quickly looked through it and gave a happy sigh. No news was always good news in your books!

Yet, no matter how pleasant this little break was, you were well aware that your assistance was needed at ten odd locations today. It was time to get back to work.

Getting up, you looked at the newspaper in your hands and decided that perhaps someone would enjoy reading it. Afterall, there was hardly any reason for you to take the paper with you. And leaving it behind would probably save some poor apprentice a copper. Thus assured that you were doing no harm, you folded the newspaper up neatly and set it down on the park bench for another to enjoy.

Just as you were about to walk away, you heard someone clear their throat loudly.

"What do you think you are doing?"

It was one of the Fists. You didn't recognise him. Perhaps it was a new recruit, seeing as otherwise he would have known who you were.

"Excuse me?"

"You are littering," he stated, pointing to the newspaper with an accusatory finger.

Ah, so a simple misunderstanding.

"I am not littering,” you smiled pleasantly, in spite of feeling that it was rather strange of the Fist to worry about something as inconsequential as litter out of all things. “Just thought someone else might enjoy reading the paper now that I'm done with it."

The Fist did not look impressed by your explanation. In fact, if anything he seemed even more set in his belief that a heinous crime was being committed in broad daylight.

"I am arresting you for littering in a public garden," he seemed to think about it for a moment. "And for arguing with a city guard."

"I've hardly said any-"

"Resisting arrest, are we?" he drawled, making your mouth tighten as you bit back a snarky retort.

"No, I will come with you willingly," you grumbled.

Perhaps if you played along for a bit, you could talk to someone of a higher rank. Saying anything to an overly eager guard who was obstinately sticking to his accusations would just attract onlookers.

"Good. The judge is waiting for your arrival."

"What? What do you mean judge?" you frowned. What business did any judge have looking into misdemeanours and especially something like littering?

"His Honor Judge Ancunín is waiting for you. Don't dawdle. It's rude to keep him waiting."

Suddenly all of this made sense. You ground your teeth and followed the Fist. Of course it was Astarion! That ass!

"Oh, trust me. Him waiting for me will be the least of his worries once I see him."

You felt that you had every right to be annoyed at Astarion. No scratch that. You had every right to be livid and spitting fire! Because this was the fourth time that bastard got you arrested in a little more than a month! And every single bloody time if was for something dumb and trivial. You had no idea how Astarion managed to do it, how he knew exactly where you would be, and how he convinced those Fists that he was to be the judge handling your case.

That stupid, stupid ass!

He couldn’t just come by the tavern and talk to you like someone normal. No, he needed a show of power, especially with him being promoted to judge in high court! Because apparently this was how Astarion got his kicks nowadays. He needed for you to be near forcibly escorted to the courtroom and thrown at his feet. Preferably pleading for mercy and asking him if there was any way that you could make it up to him.

You scowled. The whole scenario just sounded like the plot of some cheap, third-rate smutty novel one would pick up at Sharess'. But if he thought that you would cower before him, that elf had another thing coming!

On the other side of the city, Astarion Ancunín was drumming his fingers against some book he was supposedly reading. Astarion was in a foul mood. It's been several months since the defeat of the Absolute. He and the merry band that defeated the cultists were celebrated just as you deserved for about a tenday, and then went back to your lives. Halsin was immediately off with his wagonfuls of brats, Gale returned to Waterdeep, Shadowheart went to live with her parents in the countryside, Wyll and Karlach waged war in Avernus whilst Lae’zel sought to overthrow Vlaakith. In short, everyone left the city except you and Astarion. Well, Jaheira and Minsc were probably about, but he didn’t care about them enough to check.

For a while, Astarion enjoyed the privileges that came with the title of Savior of Baldur's Gate. The fame had him moving up the ranks with impressive speed until he was promoted from magistrate to judge. No more minor cases! Oh no, he was in the big leagues now. And he was so, so bored.

Astarion could hardly believe that this dull, bureaucratic crap was all he did for years until he got tadpoled. And in the past, he enjoyed it well enough. But having experienced the thrill of adventure, the rush of adrenalin, the drama and the fun of travelling, he could not fathom sitting at a desk for the rest of his long, long life.

Which was when he realised that the only acceptable source of entertainment was you. Except getting to you was easier said than done. Everyone wanted your time and, being the annoyingly selfless creature that you were, it was near impossible to find any window of opportunity and see you for longer than a few minutes. And by the gods Astarion wanted to.

You two shared a couple passionate encounters when you were on the road and decided that you were better of as friends. Well, at least you decided that. Astarion was not quite on board with the whole platonic thing, but with death literally being around every corner, he begrudgingly agreed that a budding romance was the last thing you both needed at the time.

And this was how the two of you became friends. Except Astarion wanted more, so much more. And herein lay the problem. He never in the past had to woo anyone. His good looks and roguish charms were generally enough to have everyone chasing after him. An interested look and a smirk would often be enough for his potential lovers to drop their pants fast.

But this tactic, if one could really call it that, didn’t actually work on you. And he tried showing his interest. Astarion invited you on outings and to parties. Afterall, there were soiree aplenty where he his resplendent beauty would definitely be reason enough for you to want to sneak away and spend some quality time in some secluded alcove. Except yoh would actually have to turn up for that to happen.

Not deterred, Astarion tried sending you gifts and you sent him something equally pleasant back. Which he interpreted as 'thanks for the present, but not for the interest'. This had him gritting his teeth in annoyance but surprisingly not giving up.

Because he wanted, and craved and yearned. He wanted nothing more than sequester you in his rooms and not allow you to leave for weeks. Or until he felt that he fucked that whole ‘friendship’ idea out of your mind.

So he abused his power in every way, had you arrested time and time again, dragged through the city and thrown into prison to await his judgement. You should have been flattered really that he went to all that trouble simply to arrange a meeting. Honestly, most wanted nothing more than to have a passing glance from him, when you had the entirety of his attention!

Except something seemed different this time. When you walked into the courtroom and levelled him with a look previously reserved for your enemies, Astarion wondered if perhaps his plan was not quite as foolproof as he had thought.

But it was too late to back out. He assumed a sort of casually reclining bored noble position and waited for the Fist to read out what you were being charged with.

It was a surprisingly long list. Perhaps Astarion should have chosen a less zealous guard.

As each wrongdoing was reported to him, Astarion couldn’t help but worry about the way your face darkened by the minute as your eyes shot daggers. He was quite sure that it would have been actual steel piercing his flesh by now if it weren’t for all those witnesses.

“Enough,” he lifted his arm with an imperious look, making the Fist pause, only half-done with his report.

“Your Honor?”

“I see that this matter does indeed require my special attention. Yet, seeing as this is the Hero of the Gate,” he paused for dramatic effect noting with annoyance that this seemed to have the desired effect only on the scribe, the Fist and whatever staff were about rather than you, “I may be persuaded to lift the charges.”

“How generous of you…. Your Honor,” you said in a reverent tone that contradicted your face expression.

Astarion gulped, to his confusion feeling both concerned and aroused.

"Well,” he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, “I am nothing but generous."

"Of course. And earnest too!" you nodded. “Why, I am sure that your impartial perspective will allow you to deliver an objective verdict-"

"You forget yourself!” Astarion cut you off abruptly. He rather enjoyed your insolence, but appearances had to be kept up. “Justice should be a harsh lesson. To make sure that no such offense occurs in the future. I ought to administer the punishment where you stand. Make an example of you."

"Well, what are you waiting for, your Honour?” You leaned forward slightly and lowered your voice. “Punish me as you see fit."

Astarion thanked every god he could think of at that moment that he was required to wear loose fitting robes. Because he was already half-mast and carrying on with this conversation would eventually make his problem rather obvious to all present. That would be the Fist, the mages, the scribe, and whoever else was milling about that he generally did not notice. Wholly unacceptable.

"Do follow me, no guards required, thank you."

"But- but your Honor!” the Fist stammered, clutching the report to his chest. “What if she tries to assault you!"

"Trust me, I am perfectly capable of handling this one."

He pretended not to notice you rolling your eyes, motioning for you to follow as he started for his office.

You made your way down the long, winding halls, quite sure that you would be lost if it wasn’t for Astarion. Every now and then the surface of the walls would ripple, and a clerk would emerge from the depths of a secret passage and shuffle past, head bowed and curling in on themselves, only to sink into the opposite wall. If you were to press your fingertips against the surface, you were sure that you would find solid stone.

The narrow hallway widened and you walked into what appeared to be the archive, shelves filled with scrolls, stone tablets and books. A veritable cornucopia of every kind of crime carefully recorded and catalogued over centuries. You scowled as you thought of how your supposedly atrocious crimes were among the entries.

You walked up two flights of stairs and finally reached the door to what seemed to be Astarion’s office. The elf opened the door and stood aside, letting you walk in first. You scoffed and pushed past him, making a show of flicking your hair in his face. Astarion drew back a little with a grin, anticipating you doing something so childish.

The door clicked closed behind you and immediately magic hummed to life.

"Arcane Lock? Really?" you arched an eyebrow.

"Just so we don't get disturbed, dearest."

Your eyes followed Astarion as he walked around his desk and sat in the beautifully upholstered chair. Just like everything else in his office, it looked eye-wateringly expensive and imported.

"How may I help you on this fine day?" he motioned for you to take a seat on the other side of the desk.

"How may you-"

You cut yourself off and took a few deep breaths before you said something terse that would get thrown into prison. Again. You took a seat, noticing immediately that your chair looked much less comfortable. Trust Astarion to make his company squirm in their seats.

"Astarion, I think-"

"Your Honor," he corrected you with a smirk.

"Fine, whatever! Tell me, oh great Judge Ancunín, ignoring the abuse of power, the made up charges and you potentially bribing the city guard into arresting me, what are you actually hoping to get out of this, hm?"

Astarion took off his glasses and started polishing them with careful, unhurried movements. Outwardly he was the epitome of calm and grace, the one in charge. Inwardly, however, he didn’t have a clue what to do now that he had your full, undivided attention.

Because eloquence in the courtroom apparently did not translate into eloquence with you. Astarion was kind of hoping that you would just somehow fall into his arms and then the two of you would forget about the battle of wits in favour of something far more engaging. But apparently you wanted a real, honest answer. And that would be tricky seeing as he didn’t know how to put what he felt into words.

The silence stretched, tensions high, your patience almost at its end.

"Do you know what? Fine,” you spat, narrowing your eyes at him. “Don't answer that. It was stupid of me to think that you would treat me as a friend. I'm just going to pay a fine or whatever else I have to do and be out of your hair. You obviously have better things to do around here than talk to my lowly self."

"I never wanted to be your friend,” he interjected, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Well," you cleared your throat, annoyed at yourself for feeling hurt by his words. "You've made that plenty obvious."

Understanding that you misinterpreted his words, Astarion quickly grasped your sleeve as you prepared to rise.

"I- I am not sure exactly what I want,” he frowned, looking down at the polished wood of his desk. “I have very little experience of wanting to be around others for the sake of enjoying their company. Getting acquainted with someone was always done with one purpose in mind, to climb the social ladder until I came out on top," he gave a little high-pitched laugh, running his fingers through his hair to brush it back.

"So when it comes to you, my dear, the last thing I want is to be your friend,” he took a deep breath, letting go of your sleeve to interlace his fingers to stop himself from fidgeting. “I have never wanted to be just friends with anyone less in my life.”

“And I don't know what you are to me,” he took a breath to summon the courage to carry on. “But when I look at you, I ache. We are good together. There is a potential for... something wonderful,” he did look up then, eyes locking with yours. “And I want to find out what that is, if you want that too."

You were stunned, momentarily speechless. Looking at him as if you were seeing him properly for the first time. Because it has been so long since you've seen that raw, earnest expression on his face. Body language filling in whatever blanks that were left behind by words.

"Oh hells, say something," he pleaded and put his hands on top of yours.

And then you were in his lap and your lips were on his, because you would be lying to yourself if you did anything but kiss him at that moment.

"You are still an ass," were the first words out of your mouth when you broke apart.

"Yes, dear," he kissed you jaw and then down your neck.

"I can't believe you had me arrested!"

"And I probably will again if you take days to answer my letters or otherwise ignore me," Astarion was already done with the ties of your outer clothing, discarding them by throwing them carelessly somewhere behind you.

"Do you know how embarrassing it was to be escorted to the courthouse? I bet newspapers will have a field day with this!"

"And any journalist who writes a word about this will be brought before me."

You tried to get his robes off him but were having trouble with the diamond encrusted broach holding the cravat in place.

"Argh, why do you insist on decorating yourself with all of these useless baubles!"

"Well, someone has to support the local businesses. You do your bit to see Baldur's Gate restored, I do mine."

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, finally getting a glimpse of his chest and running your hands down soft skin with a sigh.

"Feeling happier dear?"

You felt a breeze on your shoulders and then Astarion's hands cupped your breasts.

"No, I'm still annoyed at you."

"Well then I must double my efforts."

Clerks scuttled about the endless, winding halls, each wanting to impress their superiors.

A loud thump was heard, and a tremor reverberated throughout the building, making the panes of glass zing in protests.

A young human clerk gasped, "What in the hells is going on?"

"Judge Ancunín is questioning the Hero of Baldur's Gate," another replied with a yawn, seemingly not worried.

"This sounded bad, do you think he will need a hand?"

"What, ya mean since his own hands are full?"

The other clerks tittered, picking up scrolls and putting them back on the shelves.

"Oi, stop being mean to the newbie!" someone called from a distance.

"Or be even more of an ass and let him barge in, that would be even more entertaining," a tiefling chortled without looking up from his scroll.

"So, no one is in danger?" He said slowly, not really sure whether he was meant to ignore whatever was going on during an interrogation.

"Nope, in fact, I'm pretty sure that next couple of days are going to be easy," the tiefling took another scroll and added it to the pile in front of him.

Another tremor went through the building, making an ink pot fall off the desk.

"What do you think is going on there?" the young clerk whispered to the co-worker that seemed fairly friendly, unlike the rest.

"Aw crap, don't tell me that no one explained the birds and the bees to you yet?"

"Oh. Oh!" He gasped, a blush dusting his cheeks as realisation set in.

A halfling carrying thick tomes past his desk stage-whispered to no one in particular, "This one is not the sharpest quill, right?"

"Shit! Code Arsehole! Judge Buttershed is in our wing!"

An elf burst in, every head turning in his direction. The clerks stopped laughing, one hurrying down the hall towards Judge Ancunín’s office whilst the rest got to work with impressive speed.

"Why are you even covering for Judge Ancunín?"

The tiefling rolled his eyes at the newbie but graciously chose to reply.

"Because in spite of his eccentric ways and borderline obsession with the Hero of the Gate, he is the best we've had in years! Do you want to have to rewrite all your scrolls because your handwriting is neither here nor there?"

"Gods, do you remember the 'no use of magic above Level 1 in governmental buildings’?"

"Pft, that was nothing,” a handsome elf with long hair put up in a severe, tight chignon scoffed. “I heard they used to have gremishkas just to make sure no one used magic on site.”

"He's here!"

Most would not understand what the commotion was even about. To a casual observer, Judge Buttershed would appear fairly unremarkable. Just a short, portly man with a sweaty face and capricious expression whose spectacles were woefully unfashionable even a century ago. His whole demeanour screamed that he disliked everyone in this room immensely and could not wait to go back to his wing, where according to him things were still done the right way, and settle into his chair in his office.

"I heard that Ancunín was late for court yesterday. Again. Although, judging by the disorder I see here,” he boomed, a little spittle flying forth, “this is of little surprise. Therefore, I feel it is my duty to give him a stern talk."

"Considering his status, your Honour, is that wise?”

Judge Buttershed looked down his nose at the half-elf who dared contradict him.

“Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do? I will make sure to fire you first once Ancunín is out of here,” he pointed a fat finger at the clerk.

Expecting to see fear and reverence in forest-green eyes and finding neither, he cursed under his breath and made his way down the hall, muttering to himself and shooting hard looks at whoever happened to cross his path.

Thus assured that he was doing the only thing that would save Baldur’s Gate judicial system from collapse, Buttershed burst through the doors, all righteous anger, ready to deliver his judgement. Only to find his rival and the Hero of the Gate sipping tea, engaged in amicable conversation.

“Oh? To what do I owe the honour Buttershed?” Astarion quirked a brow. “What was important enough for you to barge into my office without making an appointment with my secretary?”

“Don’t you dare talk to me that way, you- you- charlatan! You know full well that you have no business sullying these halls with your disgusting presence!”

“Astarion? Who is this? I will make sure to mention him the next time I pay a visit to Duke Ravengard,” your voice was pleasant enough but the look you levelled the intruder with spoke volumes. “In fact, I was going to call on Ulder tomorrow. Luckily, with us being old friends and all, I hardly need to bother to make an appointment!”

Judge Buttershed was defeated, and he knew it. Whilst he was prepared to take on Ancunín, feeling that he could successfully make a case and prove that the elf committed professional misconducts, the Supreme Marshall of the Flaming Fists was not someone to trifle with. Bidding his farewells to you only, he left the room in a flurry of silk and barely concealed complaints muttered under his breath.

“Now, my dear. That was most impressive,” Astarion purred, taking a sip of tea.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you shrugged, picking out a particularly scrumptious-looking biscuit and happily crunching on it. And then selecting one more, wondering if Astarion would mind terribly if you took the rest with you.

“I mean, you accuse yours truly, saying that I abuse my power. But are you any better?” he set his cup aside to place a kiss on the corner of your lips, your cheek and under your jaw. “It’s nice to know that the heroes are as bad as the rest of us.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Astarion,” you popped the biscuit into your mouth with a smile. “Now then, I must leave. Seeing as I missed most of my appointments for today and have to reschedule, don’t expect to see me for a while.”

His hands tightened round your middle, head resting in the crook of your neck.

“Must you leave?”

“For now. But I will make sure to come by in the next few days or so, okay? I miss you when I’m not around you,” you admitted, looking at him from underneath long lashes. “But there is so much to be done still… I feel selfish. For feeling so happy.”

Ah. And that was your most vexing quality that he exploited so readily when you first started travelling together. Your damnable selflessness. He loved you for it. He hated that you extended it to others.

Astarion sighed into your shoulder and withdrew. You felt the absence of his warmth so acutely that it took all your willpower to turn around and walk out of his door at that moment.

Astarion got you arrested on five more occasions before he finally summoned the courage to ask you to move in with him. Not for any particular reason. You were barely home as it was, so did it really matter which space you cluttered up with your armour and such? Which corner you tossed your boots in at the end of a long, tiring day?

Astarion, of course, being quite meticulous, made sure to organise your things for you. He began by colour-coding your undergarments drawer. To which he got a mixed response, considering he expected nothing but enthusiasm and gratitude.

A year into you living together, Astarion tossed a book onto your shared bed with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Dearest, I got you this. Considering you might not have enough reading material.”

“The ‘Court of Love’? Let me guess, you saw the title of this smutty little number and just couldn’t pass by?”

“Something like that. Would you indulge me by reading out a passage or two whilst I get ready to retire for the night?”

You narrowed your eyes. Something seemed off.

“What are you up to, Astarion?”

“My love! Your suspicions wound me!” Astarion crawled onto the bed and leaned against the bedframe.

You didn’t trust him for one second, but decided to play along for now, being a little curious yourself.

“The culprit was dragged in front of the magistrate. Her heavy breasts heaving with every laboured breath, nipples erect and pointing in his direction… Oh gods, this is terrible!” you chortled, making yourself comfortable and putting your head on Astarion’s bare chest.

“Isn’t it? Go on then, I want to hear what happens next,” he grinned, twirling a strand of your hair around his long fingers.

You giggled and turned the page.

“The magistrate rose in one swift movement, his eyes flashing and muscles flexing. He moved slowly, a predator circling his prey. Her eyes followed him, heart hammering as he breasts rose and fell with every breath, her nipples- What is with this writer and nipples?” you rolled your eyes.

“Hot, isn’t it?”

Astarion was clearly having a whale of a time, though he seemed to be familiar with the text, his attention directed at you, as if wanting to make sure he caught every reaction, every expression.

“Are the nipples meant to be moving around so much? They could be out there directing foot traffic! I’m guessing that you picked this up at Sharess’?”

“Indeed, I did! And who are you to judge the quality of this book!” Astarion said with an air of a mother defending her child. “I’ll have you know, it was sold out in hours! I worked hard to get my hands on this copy!”

Then something clicked in your mind. You read the next two pages quickly.

“Magistrate Arunin and the Hero of the Coast? Astarion, is this based on us?” you looked at the cover at the book to check the name of the author. And sure enough, it was the Fist that arrested you for littering and then two more times after that.

“I’m going to kill him!” you growled, throwing the book on the floor. “And I don’t mean that in a cutesy way. I mean I will literally run my sword through him,” you pushed against Astarion’s chest. The elf gripped you tighter to stop you from leaving, as you were clearly intent on making good on your promise in spite of the late hour.

“Being a slave to the quill is truly a dangerous profession these days,” Astarion laughed, flipping you over and manoeuvring you so swiftly that you felt a little dizzy until he had you pinned against the bed.

“Now, whilst that murderous glint in your eyes is truly fetching, I think our energies would be better spent on each other rather than on some writer. Besides,” he went on, popping button after button open and pulling your shirt open slowly, fingers trailing along your skin, “I hear that he is planning on writing a sequel. And I find myself eager to read what depraved adventures the magistrate and the hero will get up to.”

Your words of outrage were quickly cut of by insistent lips as Astarion kissed you, tongue darting out through the smallest opening in his mouth to coax your own to open. And then there was no more talking, just groans and sighs, and gasps and moans.

As night bled into morning and you were fast asleep, Astarion congratulated himself on his usual practical sagacity, as once again his sound judgement resulted in an outcome most pleasant. Perhaps you were not keen on his brilliant plan at first, but you had no reasons to complain about his ways of going about getting what he wanted now.

And thus assured that he was always right, Astarion pulled you closer and closed his eyes, allowing himself to rest.

💖 Tag list 💖:

@ninty900, @ayselluna, @dajeong, @ravenswritingroom,

@misscrissfemmefatale,

@clazberryk, @anukulee,

@preciouslittlebhaalbae,

@sh3rl0ck, @mellowenthusiast2299,

@fleetstreet78, @starlight-rogue,

@obsessedwhyyes, @arzen9

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #bg3 astarion #fanfic #astarion fanfiction #fanfiction #baldur's gate fanfiction #astarion x reader #astarion x you

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haleswallows · 2 months ago

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i come with a gift. that gift is an excerpt from dragon fic

The sun had not yet risen, the deep fathomless black of night breaking slowly into purples, red, and oranges. Not yet blue. And beside him, the prince continued to sleep. Buried in the blankets until only a tuft of raven black hair was visible.

The prince hadn't lied - he was a terrible bedmate, prone to tossing and turning. Even now, he kicked his legs only to roll over and press his face into Danny's arm. His face, smoothed in sleep, was beautiful.

He was beautiful in waking, of course. Danny's self control was the only reason he didn't stare endlessly at the prince. Tracing his sharply angled jawline, plush lips, a thick fan of eyelashes, Danny took the opportunity to admire the prince in his sleep. And pale, so pale, skin entirely unmarred save for a small scar under his eye. Danny wished he knew the story of it, glad whoever had wielded the blade had missed his husband's eye.

Danny kept his sigh to himself. The memory of kissing the prince was still fresh in his mind. It had been an impulsive want. The ceremony didn’t call for it but Danny…

It was hard to forget the way the prince went soft and pliant during the kiss. The way he leaned into Danny and kissed back. His fingers itched with the urge to brush the prince's - Timothy's - hair from his face.

They were married. Twice even! But the prince hadn't yet given Danny permission to his name, and schooled himself to respectfully honor that even if in his thoughts alone. Danny was a lot of things, but 'proper' definitely isn't one of them. And… he wanted to do this properly. For the prince. To treat him well.

It was backwards. Despite being married and sworn to each other in the laws of two countries, Danny thought about how he'd like to court the prince. Treat him with the respect and admiration he deserved.

Another lifetime. Maybe they would have been friends first, maybe they could have cared for each other before making vows, maybe they could have done it right. In this lifetime, Danny was nothing but a commoner and then cursed and now the High Chief.

Danny couldn't change that.

He doesn't know the prince. Not really, not yet. There were hints of it, the truth of Timothy Drake-Wayne. Beautiful, brave, thoughtful. Danny liked that. It seemed every time he looked at the prince, there were countless thoughts behind the pretty smile and his sharp attention.

The prince doesn't know him either. Danny is… Danny doesn't know what he is. Brash, too stubborn for his own good. Trying his best, for all that's worth. Used to be clever with his hands, his mind rooted in engineering like his parents. But that all got left behind. He was the High Chief now, no time in his life left for tinkering or inventing.

Hopeful. Danny was hopeful.

He wanted a lot of things.

Right now, Danny was being lazy, curled up under the blankets even though he was wide awake. The only excuse he had to not be up yet was the prince still asleep at his side, curled into a comma.

The bonds were a sleepy thing in his mind. Fright Knight a cool and calm thrum as he moved through his never ending nightly patrolling. Jazz, still asleep and warm, soft. Dan, starting to stir and the bond lighting up with his drowsy morning thoughts. All enveloped by his strongest bond - Aquila, deep asleep in the tower, grumbling.

Idiot, probably has an upset stomach, Danny thought ruefully to himself. Added getting milk weed to his mental list, to soothe the silly dragon's gut. Smiled softly at the ceiling, nothing but fond and warm.

He had to get up. There was a list as long as his arm and then some that he needed to do today. First of which being check on Dan, debrief with Fright Knight, hit the town to gather supplies for a trip to Frostbite. At some point, getting the prince's ring resized. Take him to Paulina to get clothes appropriate for the chilly mountain conditions.

Danny sighed. No more lazing about. He needed to start his day. Any moment, he'd get up.

It was just…

Being close to the prince was nice.

Girding himself with every responsibility and duty, Danny forced himself from the bed. His movements caused the prince to stir, pulling away from where his face had pressed against the bulk of Danny’s shoulder. He blinked slowly as he propped himself up on an elbow. One side of his hair was flat, the other side sticking up.

Ancients, Danny was screwed. He thought even the prince’s bed head was charming.

“Hey,” he spoke, keeping his voice low. “It’s early, you should sleep more.”

#fantasy au #dead tired #dc x dp #dragon fic #my writing #i have doodles #many doodles #huge doodles #that i might actually post when my face isn't #you know the size of a fucking watermelon from all the swelling #faeriekit #because i know you love dragon fic

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griefabyss69 · 3 months ago

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Vulture

Have this fic I started working on months ago, it's still unfinished but it's 10 chapters already! If you've been playing along with my WIP games, you'll recognize this by its working title: Quiet House. I'm ready to start sharing it, it might have slow updates depending on how my life is in the next few months, but the story isn't too complicated to follow along with!

Steddie - Rated: E - CW: Absent/bad parenting

Tags: Tags will be added as story progesses, Post-Vecna (Stranger Things), Slow Burn, Getting Together, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives

[ AO3 ]

Chapters 1 & 2 are posted!

Summary

Another ending, another aftermath—and then, somehow, another ending, aftermath pending.

Steve's exhausted, but his friends don't mind. In fact, there's someone who holds him up with steady shoulders and cuts through his malaise. He just has to have self control so he doesn't kiss him and scare him away. That gets harder when Eddie gives him something special—something Steve becomes a little bit obsessed with.

Excerpt

The exhaustion feels like an insurmountable curse, but... it'll go away. Eventually.

A pair of his favorite jeans can't get rid of bruises and scrapes and the ringing in his ears, but he can put them on and pretend the flesh inside of them hasn't been desecrated like the graffitied walls of an abandoned building. Then it's a soft t-shirt, not his favorite and not something with a tidy collar, but his skin is raw in some places and he's not ready to deal with the claustrophobia of bandages unless he absolutely has to. Besides, most of it's just more of the same old on his back, a place that's hard to get at and a place that's already fucked up with scars.

He has to laugh, thinking about what his mom would say about them.

___

The phone call is short, quick like getting stabbed by a million demo-teeth or perhaps a needle full of weird drugs.

There are no pretty lights on the ceiling though, except for the way the tears in his eyes make everything look gauzy and smeared.

It's not an end—the Harringtons are too smart for that—but Steve feels the same kind of peaceful acceptance as he did one of the times he thought he was bleeding out on the ground somewhere. The impossible ultimatum sits heavy in his gut like a stone, and he makes a snap decision all at once.

#griefabyss69 writing #quiet house tag #steddie fanfiction #steddie fanfic

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zexapher · 8 months ago

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Weiss: You know… I’ve been thinking back to when you asked me to the dance.

Jaune: You – ah, you have? I’m sorry if I was a bit… much, back then.

Weiss: Don’t worry, you weren’t so bad. It certainly frustrated me to no end back then, but now it seems cute. Something personal, and heartfelt. I had all these ideas in my head and, well…

Jaune: I shouldn’t have kept at it like that.

Weiss: No, but now things are different. Things have changed – we have changed. And I wouldn’t mind you trying your hand at another serenade.

Jaune: Really?

Weiss: You know I like music. And I have a collection of instruments back home. Perhaps we could put on our own little duet. You can… you can grab one of the guitars, finger a few of my strings.

Thought I'd share a little excerpt from the fanfic I published today, titled "Pastry Pandemonium." I threw a chunk of innuendo in, but that last line is about the most risqué it's gonna get. But I know what the people want, so I added a little arm in arm hand-holding action. You animals!

It's really all fluff and humor for a White Knight date night set in Mantle. 2k+ words, so it's a quick read. I figured it rates K+ on FF.net, so PG if you want to be careful. Originally planned to just make it as another edit, but then I got rather taken with the idea and turned it into a nice little story. I'll come back around to make that edit eventually.

Anyway, here are the links if you're interested in reading:

FF.Net

AO3

#RWBY #rwby fanfiction #weiss schnee #jaune arc #rwby white knight #white knight #rwby whiteknight #whiteknight #jaune arc x weiss schnee #shipping #fanfic #fanfiction #memes #rwby memes #my writing #my edit #rwby ships #rwby fanfic

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lakesbian · 6 months ago

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Although that Discord excerpt is often cited as the original "Coil is black WoG", my secondhand understanding is that the actual original moment is a fair bit older, took place in IRC instead, and sadly wasn't recorded as far as I know. Basically, someone floated the hypothetical possibility that Coil was black. Another user insisted that he couldn't be black, apparently for racist reasons, and Wildbow decided to do a little trolling by decreeing on the spot that Coil was canonically black, to dunk on the racist in the chat. And because of Wildbow's whole personality, he then became very attached to the idea that this had always been his intent, even though it was clearly an impulsive decision and he clearly hadn't actually thought through the implications for the race politics of Worm as a whole.

Sending this ask actually sent me down a whole rabbit hole, because the main piece of evidence that gets cited that Wildbow totally actually did intend Coil to be black all along is that at one point, in 16.10, when Taylor is blind, she describes his hair as "coarse". I was going to bring that up, but it suddenly occurred to me that Wildbow has gone back and edited Worm several times, especially over this kind of internet discourse bullshit, and it's entirely possible that this was one of those times. So I decided to do some investigating on the Internet Archive, and it turns out that I was right! The word "coarse" was added to the description of Coil's hair in 16.10 sometime between September 19, 2015 and May 27, 2016. Which I guess narrows down when that incident in the IRC must have happened.

damn you should have made this your own post this is good detective work. didn't know that was a mystery that needed solving but the more you know. i was rather baffled as to how the book that's infamously racist about derogatory descriptions of Evil Gross Black People managed to have a black child predator villain without ever including gratuitous racism in the description of coil, and "it's because coil wasn't initially intended to be black and wildbow retconned it in an ill-advised attempt to own a racist + maintained it as true henceforth" would actually make perfect sense as an explanation

#ask #wormblr #parahumans #not really super relevant to the book itself but im trying to do the tagging things so they can be located later thing #worm spoilers

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emkayewrites · 5 months ago

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Another Behind The Scenes of Luke and Nicola rehearsing THAT sex scene taken from my Lukola fanfic. In my universe, this was just practice for them ;)

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

15th October 2022 – Buckinghamshire (UK)

Luke leaned over until he was on top, supporting his body weight with arms that enclosed her from either side. She observed that he was not quite his usual alert self and his tousled hair and sleepy eyes evidenced this. He was clearly sleep-deprived, a common issue afflicting most of the actors and crew at this stage of the production.

Luke lowered himself so that his lips were right next to hers; the strong minty smell of toothpaste overpowered her senses.

He probably didn’t even get his morning coffee. She thought to herself.

He delicately ran a hand across her forehead and over her hair. It was a tender albeit unscripted moment.

“Can I follow that with a closed mouth kiss?” He asked, a small smile spreading across his face.

Another action that was not scripted.

“It feels right.” She smiled back.

He pressed his lips to hers and she felt her mouth tingle in response. It was likely the most chaste kiss she had ever experienced but there was something about it that excited her nonetheless. It was exactly how she imagined Penelope and Colin would be; shy but hungry, wanting more and more of one another but still somewhat hesitant.

As Luke pulled back, his face above her again, their eyes briefly met before he looked down as he manoeuvred himself above her into position. The position. She found herself instinctively placing a hand on his chest to stop him.

“Wait.” She breathed. “Don’t break eye contact.”

He nodded in response. They both started to move together in the slow, rhythmic motions of coitus, their eyes never leaving the others. She had been right about the eye contact. There was something about it that added to the intensity of the moment. She wondered where his mind was right now as they made these sensual movements together.

The modesty cushion that was placed in the gap between their pelvic regions pressed into her, and she felt a light pressure down there.

She felt the cushion shift and then she felt the distinct motions of the cushion not only pushing down on her but also rubbing against her. She was pretty sure that was not supposed to happen. She let out an audible gasp of surprise. Despite it being off-script, Luke responded with a mischievous smile and quickened his pace above her. She thought that he was clearly reading this as Penelope showing enthusiasm and passion. The friction between her and the cushion increased and she was beginning to realise that it was not entirely soft, it in fact had pretty hard edges. She found her heart racing at the sensations that were starting to happen between her legs and pressed a hand into his chest, as if pushing him away.

“Oh, oh!” She exclaimed breathlessly. “That’s touching, that’s touching!”

He was quick to respond, a look of concern crossing his face.

“Wait, what?” He pulled back, sitting up and appraising the neutral-toned, heart-shaped cushion that had been between them.

“Nothing could be touching - the cushion remained in place.” Lizzy stood up from the armchair she was seated in and walked towards to them.

They were on set in the room where this scene would be filmed in front of the crew and the cameras. They were rehearsing with just Lizzy, trying to finalise their choreography using the real space where the action would occur. Nicola and Luke were situated on a large check-patterned chaise longue that they had been told would likely be used in the actual filming.

“It might have looked in place, but it felt like it was going up and down the place, if you catch my drift.” Nicola explained, using her elbows to support herself into an upright position.

Luke’s eyes widened as he took in her meaning. “You mean…?”

“Yeah.” She smirked. She marvelled at how comfortable she was with admitting something like this. The instinct to feel embarrassed or awkward about anything relating to their intimacy scenes had long left them both.

“Wow, you’re welcome.” He joked.

She could not help but to cackle in laughter at the remark.

“Oh, drat.” Lizzy was appraising the cushion with a frown. “I think this needs to be glued or strapped down to stop that happening.”

Nicola pictured herself, all but butt-naked, with the modesty cushion glued to her nether regions as she paraded herself through a set filled with, amongst others, the director, the cinematographer, and the grip. She could tell from the amusement spreading across Luke’s face that the same image had crossed his mind.

“I knew I was going to look a little ridiculous, but I think we’ve reached the peak here.”

“Hmm, I think it needs to be fastened to both of you to prevent rubbing on either end really.” Lizzy had barely registered Nicola’s comment, instead she was turning the cushion this way and that, her mind already in problem-solving mode.

“I stand corrected.” Nicola quipped, the visual of her and Luke attached to one another’s nether regions through a cushion taking over her thoughts.

“Great, we’ll be a really sexy pair of conjoined twins.” Luke remarked, making Nicola snigger.

“Hmm, I think we’ll need to take this over to Wardrobe and see how we can attach this to the modesty garments.” Lizzy continued. “Why don’t we break for an hour and that will give me time to whip something up with this?”

This was not what Nicola had wanted to hear. They had only started their rehearsal twenty minutes prior to this. It was not setting a good precedent for the rest of the day. As enticing as it was to be given regular breaks, those breaks also served to elongate what was already going to be a very long day. She could sense Luke was feeling the same way from the face he pulled.

“Well, I guess we could rehearse other parts of the scene while we’re in here.” He suggested.

Lizzy’s expression quickly changed into one they rarely saw.

“I really wouldn’t recommend that.” Lizzy stated sternly. “This is a safe space to work out boundaries and consent and my presence helps to ensure that from a professional but also legal standpoint.”

“I think we can handle it. I feel like we’ve got the consent and boundaries well laid out.” Nicola added in support of Luke. “Honestly, it almost felt like you weren’t even in the room now.”

Lizzy blinked at her with the same unchanging look on her face. “As much as I’m glad you’re so comfortable in my presence that I may as well be furniture in the room now – I am still in the room, and that part is important.”

Nicola was not sure she was entirely convinced but understood that this seemed a non-negotiable.

“Fair enough. I won’t protest to work more when I could be taking breaks.” Nicola shrugged.

“Good. I’ll see you guys at eleven o’clock. Why don’t you grab a cuppa and go for a walk - it’s lovely out there!” The smile returned to Lizzy’s face; she seemed content that her point had been made. She disappeared from the room, cushion tucked under her arm, leaving them to collect themselves.

“You’re thinking it, right?” Luke fixed Nicola with a knowing look.

“That it’s a stupid rule and we are going to take any opportunity to practice that we can?” Nicola asked.

“Yeah!” He enthused.

“Yeah, I was thinking it but I’m surprised Mr. Never Even Jaywalks is.” She teased. “Are you sure your conscious will allow it?”

“Why do it when there’s a zebra crossing or traffic light on every street? Why even take that risk?” His voice was tinged with an annoyance that served to amuse her further.

“You’re right, there should be special prisons for those people.” Her tone was mocking, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Alright, well we’ll start with breaking a set rule or two, and we’ll work our way up to the ol’ jaywalk.” Nicola reassured him.

“Rehearsing extra hours is not really a rule break.” He replied dismissively, almost as if to reassure himself.

“This is going to break your brain, isn’t it?” She snickered.

“I’m not gonna be given a hard time for following rules, thanks.” He intonated, raising his hands in the air in a back off gesture. “But some rules are made to be broken.”

As soon as the words left his lip, she could tell he regretted them.

“Did ya just hear your voice out loud and realise how lame you sounded?” She asked.

“I really can’t pull that statement off, can I?” He sighed.

She laughed and wrapped an arm around his neck. “Well, at least you’re self-aware about it.”

He pulled an arm around her waist in return. These were actions they hardly thought about. There was an instinct that kicked in that made them reach for each other, physically or emotionally. It was something that had developed gradually and was now a feature of their relationship.

“We’ll have to rehearse those scenes in one of our trailers when Lizzy’s not around then.” He suggested. "Could head there now?”

"I've never known anyone so keen to break the rules!"

"It's not a rule if it's stupid." Luke continued to insist as they left the room, arm in arm.

She burst into laughter at his words. She had already been having fun but she sensed things were only going to get more entertaining.

#luke newton #nicola coughlan #bridgerton #polin fanfiction #bridgerton fanfiction #lukola #polin #colin x penelope #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #ao3 fanfic #lukola fanfic #derry girls #clare devlin #behind the scenes #on set #bridgerton bts #polin sex scene #polin gifs

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littlemisspascal · 5 months ago

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Today marks the 3rd anniversary of my fic The Infinity Cube. I can still remember posting the first chapter, hoping at least one person out there liked it, and I can still remember how it felt to reach the end, a feat that wouldn't have been possible without the support of so many kind souls 💗 I wanted to make something for the occasion and having seen so many amazing web weavings out there, I thought I'd give it my best shot 😊

THE INFINITY CUBE: a journey home

Shades of Earth by Beth Revis // I Choose You by Adam Melchor // When Did It Happen? by Mary Oliver // First Love by Jennifer Franklin // The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde // The Bronze Horseman by Paullina Simons // The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman // 10 a.m Is When You Come To Me by Louise Bourgeois // Maybe In Another Universe, I Deserve You by Gaby Dunn // Maybe When the Time is Right You Will Find Me Again - K. Tolnoe // We Were Missing the Present by Mahmoud Darwish // Persona (1966) // Matched by Ally Condie // In the Pines by Alice Notley // It Wasn't Love // La Pointe Courte (1955) // "My better half" by Pablo J. Davis // The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller // Bioshock Infinite // Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar // Oh It Was Meant to Be - Kate McGahan // Pillow Thoughts by Courtney Peppernell // If My Body Could Speak by Blythe Baird // Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens // Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore // The Blinding Star by Blanca Varela // Wild Spirit, Soft Heart by Butterflies Rising // Finding You by Kesha // Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want by The Smiths // Web weaving about the untold story in you // "Feel like making a deal with the devil?" // A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara // Reborn: Journals ad Notebooks by Susan Sontag // I love you like a rotten dog // Sax Rohmer #1 by The Mountain Goats // The Bubble (2022) // Rabbit Hole (2010) // Beginning with O by Olga Broumas // How many times can the same thing break your heart? // War of the Foxes by Richard Siken // On Death in Heartbreak // Lonely Day by System of A Down // This Road (The Mirror is a Trap) by Poe // Memory for Forgetfulness by Mahmoud Darwish // "Do you think we're soulmates in another universe?" // Radio Silence by Alice Oseman // "In one timeline we kiss" - Elizabeth Hewer // Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed // Almond Blossoms and Beyond by Mahmoud Darwish // X // The Collected Poems of Alvaro de Campos by Fernando Pessoa // Excerpt from Moony Moonless Sky's 'I am an observer, but not by choice' // @/lookoflove // Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg // "Do you know what it's like to live somewhere that loves you back?" - Danez Smith // Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros // The Chaos of Stars by Kiersten White // Home // You and Me

All Pedro Photos - Pinterest // Reader in my story is physically a blank slate, I just really like the photo of Javi + Gabriela touching foreheads

#marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the infinity cube #my poor edit attempt

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moodymisty · 9 months ago

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'We float for Macragge.' That is the cutest quote ever omg. Thank you for blessing me with this, I'd never seen the meme before. The blueberries are so charming sometimes 🥺 -anon that likes excerpts

It's one of the less popular iconic WH40k memes, but I see people reference it sometimes. Here's some more funnies because I like forcing people to read this stuff.

There's also the fucking hilarious scene of an astartes with new terminator armor falling through a floor, and his buddy has to call a crew with a crane to get him out, which is fucking hysterical. (master of sanctity)

‘Some kind of sub-level here,’ reported Daellon. ‘Descending.’ ‘Wait!’ yelled Telemenus, but his warning came too late. The audio pick-ups brought the sound of splintering woods and crumbling ferrocrete followed by an almighty crash. Daellon cursed without pause over the vox. ‘Report,’ barked Arbalan. ‘Brother Daellon misjudged the load bearing of some internal stairs, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, trying not to laugh. For once he was glad somebody else was attracting the negative scrutiny. There was a chuckle from Cadmael and a sigh from Arbalan. ‘Daellon, can you climb out?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Negative, a three metre drop at least. The floor will not hold my weight to pull myself up.’ ‘No threats detected,’ Telemenus added, his auspex sensors encompassing the long row of huts. ‘Understood,’ said Arbalan. He sounded impatient. ‘Daellon, remain in place, I will signal for an armoury extraction team. Telemenus, rejoin the squad.'

There's also a book I don't remember where a group of baseline humans are descending from tight steps with an astartes, and are VERY concerned at the creaking of the stairs from his weight. Chunky boi

Also here's Guilliman making a joke in Armour of Fate about him being stuck in this massive bulky armor and Sicarius just, doesn't get it. This moment was another reason why I always recommend Dark Imperium to people, it just kind of gets Guilliman and how different he is from his legion now.

Sheaves of blueprints were scattered across the desk in front of him. He spotted something of interest written on one and reached for it, gritting his teeth against the purring of the suit. He always reached with his right hand. The integration points for the Hand of Dominion on his left made picking anything up nigh on impossible, even with the over gauntlet and its underslung bolter removed. Day-to-day tasks such as this were a struggle. His armoured fingers pushed at slick plastek. Ceramite skidded across the papers, knocking them to the ground in wafting flutters. ‘Oh, for the love of…’ he grumbled as he bent awkwardly to pick them up. The Armour of Fate was bulky. As its waist joint prevented him from flexing his spine and reaching the floor, he had to kneel. He reached for the scattered flimsies. Fingertips failed to grasp the sheets, sending them fleeing in small armadas over the polished floor. He growled in frustration, abandoned his task and stood, drawing a curious look from Sicarius. ‘I have the manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton!’ Guilliman said. ‘Created by the Lord of All Mankind, master of the greatest armies in the Imperium, and I cannot pick up a plastek flimsy.’ He glared at the offending articles. ‘My greatest enemy.’ There was a thoughtful quiet. ‘You are joking, my lord?’ said Sicarius. Guilliman looked at Sicarius. He had to turn all the way around to do so. The pauldrons, ornamental wings and large halo mounted on his back made it impossible for him to see over his shoulder. At least he had stopped knocking into things. There was that. ‘By the Throne, why am I expected to be serious at all times? Yes, Captain Sicarius, I am making light of my predicament. During the worst of the Great Crusade, I was known to make the occasional jest. Even after Terra fell. I did not spend my entire previous life writing deep thoughts into little notebooks, but sometimes dared to enjoy myself. I suppose that was not recorded in the hagiographies.’ ‘Humour is not something you are renowned for, my lord.’ ‘My time in this new age has revealed that to me amply.’

I have way too many random book moments stuck in my head. And not enough space for actual useful information.

#reply #or an excerpt where a tau almost convinces Sicarius not to kill her but then he changes his mind and runs up and football kicks her #or Ferrus roasting Lorgar into the next millenium #Misty's book club

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larluce · 12 days ago

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Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

I was given the word TIME by @tansyuduri . Thank you SO much for the tag! ❤️

The first one is a fragment of the next chapter of my fic From the Grave to the Craddle

The second one, a fragment of the next chapter of my fic Protecting the Dragonlord's Son

The third one, a very future scene that will happen on my Merlin as Arthur's familiar/Arthur's shapeshifter falcon AU

And the fourth one, a scene from Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU that will appear once is fic (Yes I'm working on that too) , which I'm co-writing with @evadne01 and @rubinaitoart by the way!

- T -

The wooden dummy falls to the ground, the sound of the impact muffled by the grass. Arthur gasps, sweat running down his forehead and nose. He's exhausted, he had to defeat ten 'bandits' today, but the adrenaline is still strong in his veins, so he doesn't abandon his defensive stance. He's sure this is the last one, but there was always the possibility that he had miscounted or that his master had added more hidden dummies to take him by surprise.

“Boo!” a voice shouts behind him and Arthur turns quickly, almost dropping the handle of his sword, startled. Those electrifying blue eyes he knows so well look at him mischievously accompanied by a big smile worthy of someone very pleased with himself.

“By the gods, Merlin!” exclaims Arthur. “One of these days I'm going to stab you by accident if you keep doing that.”

“With a wooden sword?” Merlin looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Arthur looks at his sword.

“It's more dangerous than it looks,” the blond defends his trusty weapon, stubborn and proud as only a fourteen-year-old can be.

Besides, I'll soon have a real one, Arthur thinks with excitement, Emrys promised me.

“Your reflexes have improved, Arthur, good job,” as if he had summoned him with his thoughts, his mentor emerges from the shadows. He has a slight smile on his face, just a hint of a smile, and yet it is the widest smile he has seen in years. “Merlin, what did I tell you about butting in on your partner's training?” the old man scolds his other pupil.

“Oh, but he was done!” Merlin retorts, but when he sees that his master does not take his disapproving look away, he sighs. “I'm sorry, I won't do it again.” Emrys just shakes his head.

“Help Arthur out of his armor and we’ll start your training,” the old man turns around and, with a movement of his hand, makes the wooden and straw dolls scattered on the floor stand up, as if they had a life of their own, and follow him in a row behind him, marching.

“You see that?!” exclaims the twelve-year-old warlock, between impressed and irritated, pointing in the direction his mentor went with the fake bandits. “He didn’t even use a spell or anything. He just…” he imitates the movement with his hand in an exaggerated manner. “That!”

“You can also move things without casting any spells, Merlin,” says Arthur as if it were no big deal, while trying to undo the straps of the armguard. “Ow!” he complains when his friend removes the shoulder pad with his arm in the wrong position.

“Don't move,” Merlin warns. “Moving objects is one thing, Arthur, animating them is another. Even with spells it’s hard to achieve-Stop moving!”

- I -

“I’m fine now. Really.”

Arthur stares at his servant’s face for a few seconds to make sure he’s not lying. Merlin knows this, so he holds his gaze, even though he feels self-conscious at the intensity in the prince’s eyes. He understands that after so many lies Arthur doesn’t believe him right away and that they have to rebuild the trust between them.

Merlin understands that, but… Is it necessary that Arthur looks at him straight in the eyes like that?

“Very well,” the prince finally agrees. “Since we have that settled. We need to talk about the dragon.”

“Oh…” Merlin gets nervous again. “Can’t we start with something else?”

The young warlock doesn’t feel comfortable talking about the dragon right now. Not when the worst mistakes he’s made are related to it.

“No, Merlin,” Arthur says in a tone that almost sounds apologetic. “We have to start with this. My father is going to question you about the dragon.”

“What?!” Merlin screams in panic. What does he mean Uther is going to interrogate him again? He barely survived the first interrogation!

Noticing his distress, Arthur quickly grabs his arm with one hand. Merlin is puzzled for a moment. Does he think he's going to run away?

“It's just a routine investigation,” the prince reassures him, and the hand on his arm begins to gently caress him with his thumb. “You were the last to interact with the dragon and the dragonlord, so he wants to know if you have any information that could help stop them.”

Merlin looks away and blushes helplessly. It's absurd, it's not like it was the first time Arthur grabbed his arm or held him this close, but it was always rough and in a camaraderie-like manner. This… this feels more intimate somehow. It's…

As his anxious hands begin to play with the sheet he remembers that he's sitting on Arthur's bed. Right, Arthur has sat him on his bed! Since when does he do that?

“Merlin?” the prince snaps his fingers, bringing his servant out of his thoughts.

- M -

Much to his dismay, Carleon realises how doomed his nephew actually is.

It was no secret that the King of Camelot was a falcon lover, especially merlins. They were the national bird par excellence and their hunting was forbidden throughout Camelot kingdom. He's been informed its King has 6 pet merlins, 1 that turned out to be a magical creature and 5 common merlins that he has entrusted to his most trusted knights and they are better trained than any domesticated bird ever seen in all Albion. Everyone knows that Arthur Pendragon loves those merlins with his life.

And his nephew, his nephew had...

Arthur: (barely contained rage) He shot him with an arrow that went through his wing and chest. (His voice breaks a bit) He was just two years old.

Carleon: I'm sure my nephew didn't mean to... I mean, I don't think he knew it was one of your merlins. He's still not aware of all the new customs of your kingdom. Where we come from, bird hunting is very common-

Arthur: In other words, he didn't even want to kill my merlin in an act of defense or attack, but just for the fun of it.

Carleon: You have to understand. He's young, immature.

Arthur: We're the same age. Are you implying that I'm not mature enough to be king?

Carleon: ...

Arthur: Of course you are. That's why you keep sending raiders to my borders. That's why you haven't wanted to sign a peace treaty or negotiate with me in my nearly two years of reign. You think me incompetent, an easy target, and what word did you use? Immature.

Carleon: Well, you risking your kingdom to go to war with another just because your bird pet was shot doesn't exactly help my image of you.

Arthur: (pauses dangerously, and says in a low voice) "just because your bird pet was shot." (Repeats, raising his voice, furious) Just because your bird pet was shot!

Carleon: We have several falcons in Gwynedd too, I'm sure we can come to an agreement-

Arthur: Blizzard.

Carleon: ... Pardon?

Arthur: My merlin, the one your nephew injured, is called Blizzard. I took care of him since he was an egg, I saw him hatch, I fed him myself, I saw him grow, molt his feathers, he was the first of my merlins to learn to fly. My merlins were one of the few joys and comforts I had after my father passed away and my home was almost burned to the ground, King Carleon. My merlins are not my pets, they are my children and you are offering to replace him?

Carleon: (shocked) No... I mean...

Arthur: Well, I'll give you the same solution. You replace your nephew.

Carleon: (furious and offended) You little brat-

Arthur: Be careful with your words, I think you forget that I still have your prince's life in my hands.

Carleon: (sighs to calm down) If you kill him there will be war. Be reasonable.

Arthur: I tried to be reasonable with you several times in the past and you rejected each opportunity. Don't call me unreasonable now. Your prince committed a crime in my kingdom. If it had been anyone else, the sentence would have been the same. I'm just enforcing the law, it's not my fault that the prince wasn't aware of the laws of the lands he was trying to steal from me. Besides, weren't you looking for the perfect excuse to go to war with me? Well, here it is. Aren't you happy?

Carleon: (threatening) If you execute him, I'll have no mercy when these lands are mine.

Arthur: I admire your optimism, as if Camelot's army wasn't as strong and large as yours. But guess what? Even if you left a river of blood in your wake, nothing, absolutely nothing, will bring you back your beloved nephew.

Carleon: ....

Arthur: (laughs humorlessly, his eyes glazed over) It hurts, doesn't it? You won't see your nephew again and I won't see my Blizzard again. Nothing will bring him back to me.

Carleon: (sighs) Alright, I underestimated you and I was greedy and for that I ask for your forgiveness. I'm willing to negotiate now.

Arthur: I don't want to negotiate. I want justice.

- E -

Everyone eyes are on the sapling now. Horrible realization in their eyes. Gwen gasps and covers her mouth, her eyes watering. Leon pales so much it's almost funny. Percival, who seems dead inside, hardly responsive, opens his eyes wide as the only reaction to the news. Gaius… Gaius already suspected, of course, but it doesn't make him look less devasted.

Gwen: Why? Why would they…?

Arthur: They wanted to punish him. Something about him doing more wrongs than rights with his power, I don't know. (Thinks) And honestly I don't care. Who are they to decide? What right do they have?

Gaius: Rather Merlin wronged them. They’ve meddled in Camelot’s affairs twice before. Lady Sofia and Lord Aulfric. Princess Elena. Merlin stopped them every time.

Arthur: (Thinking) Nobody thought to tell me any of this until now? (Bitterly) So it was personal?

Gaius: I… wouldn't be able to tell.

Arthur: (about to lash out) You knew that and you thought going for them for help was the best idea?!

Gaius: I…

Gwen: (scolds) Arthur! (rests her hand against his arm, and both Leon and Percival bow their heads a little.) I know you're hurt. We are all hurting. But don’t You dare blame Gaius for this. Don't You dare!

Arthur: (composes himself) You’re right. My apologies, Gaius. You are not at fault, lets focus in what we can do to get him back to normal.

....

That would be all.

The word I choose is LATE.

I tag: @evadne01 , @rubinaitoart , @theroundbartable , @ramblings-of-a-chaotic-neutral .

#bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin #merthur #Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU #The Dragonlord's Son series #Merlin as Arthur's familiar/Arthur's shapeshifter falcon AU #From the Grave to the Cradle

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blenselche · 7 months ago

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I love Minerva infinitely.

referenced this scene recently in another comic thing so I decided I should prob sketch something to throw into the fic

“I wanted to ask you something,” Minerva nods, encouraging him to continue, “do you need help with botanicals to synthesize medicine from? Can’t really imagine these islands have that much biodiversity.” “That’s… that’s very thoughtful of you,” she says, brows lifting in surprise. “You’re right, of course, we’ve unfortunately had to make substitutions with our compounds,” she rubs at her upper arms, sound of her silicon skin echoing against the walls as she sighs, “treatments are limited and at one point our hospice wing took up the majority of our hospital’s footprint. I would welcome that happily, but how?” Fern uncurls his fist between them and reveals a green foxglove as it emerges slowly from his body. “It’s something I do at home– as part of a phytochem gig. The bomb mutated a lot of the life there so we've got a similar problem in Ooo.” “… for heart failure. That’s amazing.” Minerva moves to cup his palm between her hands, voice faint as she speaks. She takes it between two fingers and holds it closer to her face, inspecting it for abnormalities. “I don’t know a lot about the actual process of creating medicine, but if you give me a list I can make whatever," he pauses before adding "except full grown trees, so don’t look at me if you need aspirin," with a sheepish shrug. Minerva laughs and gathers his hand between hers. “Thank you, truly. Even if you didn’t offer this gift, I should thank you anyway for keeping my son safe.” “You’re—“ Fern's face flushes violently, roots of his hair turning a dark maroon, “welcome. I, uh, jeez this is weird for me," he mutters, eyes darting to their feet. "You’re a doctor so I thought ‘I’ll use my magic trick to get her to like me after what I did’ but I guess I didn’t need to try so hard.” “I am overjoyed with your offer,” Minerva explains as concern pitches her processors higher, “but your value does not come from what you can do for others.” She scoots her lounge forward and cradles his cheeks loosely with gentle hands as Fern's face twists, as his set chin wobbles against his cracking composure. “Even if you've decided that you are not my son you still hold parts of him, and you don’t need to try to get me to like you when I already love you.” Her thumbs pet at his skin, wiping away the wetness that starts to stain his lower eyelids. “A parent’s love isn’t conditional, but I am so proud, no matter who you find yourself being.”

Keep Yourself Redux Ch 1 excerpt

#keep yourself au #fern the human #minerva campbell #adventure time

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sepdet · 23 days ago

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Killing Time Excerpts #7: Amok Mind

(pages 165-180)

Oh my dear Kirk/Spock fans, I have a special treat to start the year: genuine vintage The Premise from an old 1980s Star Trek novel.

Dubcon Warning: While it's no more overtly sexual than Amok Time, we learn once again that Vulcans have no concept of safewords.

THE VULCAN AWOKE, and noticed without emotion that the pain in his back had all but paralyzed him. He tried to force weighted eyelids apart, but to no avail. Scents drifted to his nostrils, and he breathed deeply. Antiseptic. Clean. Noises of gentle footsteps.

"Take it easy, Spock," a familiar voice murmured as he struggled to move.

Delirium crept closer, its black hands creating a mutation of reality.

"J-Jim?" he whispered, his voice coming out as little more than a painful gasp. Breathing, he discovered, was quite painful. But as reality slowly returned, he wondered why he should be addressing the young ensign as "Jim," and precisely why he should think that Kirk, of all people,would be leaning over him. And yet, as with so many things, it seemed natural, familiar . . . as if it had happened that way countless times before.

"It's McCoy," the voice explained. "Just take it easy for a while, Spock."

Sinking back on the bed, the Vulcan felt a moment of disappointment mingle with confusion.

"The landing party?" he asked, battling a demon of pain. "Are they . . .?" He opened his eyes at last, wincing at the bright light which stabbed sensitive pupils.

McCoy nodded, but the Vulcan could see that the usual sparkle was absent from the blue eyes.

"Everyone's safe, Spock— except Donner," the doctor said, knowing that attempting to delude the Vulcan into quiescence would prove futile. "He was already dead when we beamed aboard." His voice was gentle, soothing; yet he knew there was nothing he could say to ease the guilt Spock would feel. "We've got him in the cryogenic chamber for now," he added. "I can't do anything for him here, but maybe the doctors at Starbase Ten will be able to help."

Spock's eyes drifted shut once again. Despite his personal disapproval of the ensign's bigotry and violence, he had no desire to see the man dead; and he wondered if he'd made the wrong decision in allowing him to be part of the landing party to begin with. But still . . . too many crewmen unable to function . . . too many incidents of slippage . . . Death would have claimed someone,regardless.

"And the others?" he demanded, teeth clenching with agony as he attempted to speak.

"Selon took a spear in the behind when he turned to run," McCoy said through the tunnel of darkness. "He won't be sitting down for a while, but nothing too serious. Doctor M'Benga's patching him up right now."

Spock nodded, then struggled to rise on one elbow, stopping only when the doctor's hand pushed him gently back down.

"Kirk?" the Vulcan asked, feeling something related to horror slice through him. The last conscious thought . . . Kirk . . . "What about . . . Jim?" The pain moved a little closer, threatening to take him back to blackness.

"Not a scratch," McCoy's distant voice said reassuringly.

It was the last thing the Vulcan remembered before a hypo hissed against his bare arm. Coenthal.

The cold crept up into his shoulder. But that one statement from McCoy was enough. The human paradox was safe. Despite the odds, despite himself . . . Kirk was alive.

Darkness claimed Spock in warm black arms.

[…NEXT DAY, after Spock's mostly healed and returned to the bridge, McCoy calls to report Kirk's disappeared . . .]

"He's not in his quarters, not listed on any duty shift, and the computer indicates that he hasn't used his identification chip for meals since the Canusian incident."

The Vulcan felt himself go cold inside, only then consciously realizing that he hadn't seen Kirk in over a day. Odd . . . he hadn't sensed anything wrong. But with that thought came another. He hadn't sensed anything. An eyebrow rose, and a cold phantom which he recognized as himself took a step closer.

"I shall attempt to locate Ensign Kirk myself, Doctor," he said at last. "If my search is successful,I will meet you in your office later this evening."

"Well . . . don't take too long, Spock," the doctor replied after a momentary hesitation. "If you can't find him within a couple of hours, get down here anyway."

Irritation crept closer, threatened to mutate into anger. "Of course, Captain McCoy," he replied,and headed for the lift once again, unaware of the astonished stares which followed him.

—•—

AS SHIP'S NIGHT fell, the Vulcan walked down the long corridor which would lead to the ship's botanical gardens; but as he reached the double doors, he stopped. A sudden wave of dizziness and disorientation swept over him, and blood sang in his ears. He took a deep breath.

Something had drawn him here, he realized disjointedly. Something . . . human. After a momentary battle, the dizziness passed; and, forcing his hand to move, he depressed the button which would open the doors.

Ship's night was everywhere, and the pseudo-sunset colors on the garden's dome gave an ethereal glow to the odd variety of plants, trees and flowering vines which climbed the walls, completing the illusion of a small forest. He entered into silence, but a quick survey of his surroundings left him illogically disappointed. The room appeared empty.

He turned to leave, recalling McCoy's insistence, but stopped when his ears detected a faint sound of movement no more than a few yards away. His eyes traveled back to the doors, warring between Time and duty; but slowly his gaze returned to the central portion of the gardens. He'd heard of other starships becoming inhabited by certain animals which sentimental human crewmen smuggled aboard during planetfall, and he couldn't help wondering if some rodent or cat had taken up residence on board the ShiKahr.

Choosing a path which would lead to the source of the noise, he made his way past to dense foliage until he reached the garden's center. Six large trees grew in a circle, their branches cascading to the ground like dark veils of mourning. In contrast to the eerie sight, the scent of fresh earth and flowers came to the Vulcan's nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, wondering how longit had been since he'd experienced the inner peace which had once been a natural state of being.

Shoving the melancholy thought to the back of his mind, he simply stood there, pointedly ignoring Time and galaxies as the lighting grew progressively dimmer. At last, only a luminescent purple haze remained. For a moment, the colors took his mind back to Vulcan— to childhood days when the red sun had slid beneath a distant horizon, and golden sands had begun to cool beneath his bare feet.

Vulcan! He turned from the image. Starfleet had indeed been the only solution; and except for unbidden moments of retrospection, he had— he thought— succeeded in divorcing himself from the past altogether. But here, with only the plants to share private memories, perhaps it was safe to think of what he'd left behind. He realized that his nerves had been something less than perfect recently . . . and a few more minutes could not matter so very much.

In many ways, Spock accepted that he was no longer Vulcan at all; that culture and heritage had been stripped from him too many years before— when the marriage to T'Pring had terminated in disastrous mental disharmony.

He felt the sting of embarrassment return to darken his face, despite the fact that it was now years later. But his mother's human blood had been too strong, and the emotional traits which had been bequeathed to him in her genes had condemned him to spend the remainder of his life as a drifter . . . an outcast. Amanda could not be blamed for that, he realized logically . . . yet even Sarek had seemed pleased to see him go.

And, at the very least, he was free of T'Pring— an unfaithful creature who had held nothing but contempt for his mixed blood and distasteful human emotions.

T'kona . . . Go from this place alone. That's what T'Pau had ordered when T'Pring demanded formal severance of the bond. Leave Vulcan. Do not come back. T'kona, Spock . . .

Less than Vulcan . . . other than human. No choice but to obey T'Pau's command.

And Vulcan was gone.

He was drawn from his disturbing melancholy, however, as he heard the sound again— a distinct rustling of leaves less than twenty feet away. With an arched brow, he moved closer to the circle of trees, parted their branches quietly, and peered into cool lavender darkness. It took a moment for even his keen eyes to adjust, but he was soon able to discern the lone figure on the ground. At first, the logical portion of his mind asked if someone had been injured, or had fainted from the humid heat of the gardens. It was only when he looked closer that he remembered why he had come here to begin with: Kirk.

Quietly, carefully, he edged closer, kneeling by the man on the ground.

Dressed in civilian clothing, the human had drawn himself into a fetal position, and was clutching his chest tightly in sleep. Apparently, the Vulcan surmised, Kirk had fallen asleep in the afternoon "sun" of the gardens. But even in repose, the ensign appeared tired and troubled,almost to the point of mental and physical exhaustion.

Telling himself it was purely professional concern, knowing otherwise, Spock studied the sleeping man openly, not surprised to see several scars and bruises where the unbuttoned shirt had become dislodged. But in those minor injuries— apparently a combination of Donner's rowdiness and the Canusian incident— Spock observed much more. For an instant, he was in Sickbay, standing over this human as he'd done a hundred times before. Kirk had been injured during planetfall (again); McCoy was working frantically to save his life (again); and Spock knew he must be there when his companion awakened (if indeed he ever did).

Wrenching himself free of the memory which wasn't a memory at all, the Vulcan leaned back to sit on the ground, curiosity filling black eyes. Face filled with expression even now, Kirk appeared familiar; and for an instant, the phantom memory appeared so tangible that the Vulcan thought he might be able to simply reach out and grasp it. He felt himself soften inside as the human moaned restlessly, and he suddenly understood that aloneness— loneliness— was not something assigned only to outcast Vulcans. Despite Kirk's previous facade of defiance, the mask of self-assuredness, the human— like himself— walked totally alone in a universe which seemed determined to drive him mad.

Without daring to ask himself why, Spock reached out hesitantly, then stopped with his hand poised less than an inch from the human's face. Perhaps madness had already intervened; for what right did he have to intrude, even if his only intention was to help? He was, he reminded himself sternly, basing an act of mental transgression on nothing more than a fleeting and illogical assumption that this human's mind had always been open to him before. The hand trembled, hesitated. Yet he knew he had seen Kirk's thoughts. . . many times. He had walked through the layers of consciousness and subconscious. . . sharing secrets, healing, befriending.

Line of duty. . . personal, dual curiosity. The meld was not alien to the two of them. Somewhere. . .somewhen. And yet, and unsolicited meld shattered all of the Tenets of Vulcan. Regardless of intent, it was nothing less than mental trespass.

But as he sat there, alone despite the human's presence, a sudden simplicity of vision presented itself. A few moments before, he had accepted that he was no longer Vulcan; and the concept that ancient doctrine and taboos would prevent his helping the young ensign severed whatever strand had tied him to his own heritage. With the cool rapport of a meld, he could stop the human's nightmares, erase the lingering mental anguish from the Talos Device . . . fill emptiness with purpose.

And perhaps there would be other answers as well. The mind knew no limits. And any universe— no matter how small or large— could dwell inside one thought.

T'lema . . . he who walks in dreams.

No . . . Kirk was no stranger to his mind.

Dizziness swayed the Vulcan's hand. Logic fought . . . and lost. Before permitting himself the luxury of altering his decision, he allowed his hand to come to rest on the warm human face.

Kirk tensed instinctively in his sleep, as much from the unexpected physical contact as from the mental thread which gently entered his mind. For an instant, he moved instinctively toward the familiar warmth, allowing his thoughts to enter well-known territory. But as he became aware of his true surroundings, his eyes snapped open, a gasp of surprise slipping past his control when he saw the Vulcan commander leaning over him.

For a moment, Spock did not move, neither continuing with the meld nor withdrawing his hand.

And as their eyes met in near-darkness, the Vulcan thought he detected the same sense of recognition in Kirk that he had experienced within himself. He'd seen the ensign relax, had felt an openness draw them closer. For the briefest of instants, reality had altered. .. accepting the two of them as one entity. An eyebrow rose.

Not moving, Kirk took a deep breath. "What are you doing?" he asked pointedly, tone neither accusing nor encouraging.

The Vulcan began breathing again, and hesitantly withdrew the initial strand of the fragile link.

He did not have a logical answer; yet his suspicions were confirmed. He did know Kirk . . . or would know him in some alien future. In the mind, the Time-mistress had no authority, the Reality Keeper was lost. And Kirk's reaction alone proved something. Logically, Ensign Kirk would have responded with outrage, the Vulcan thought. But the utterly calm human exterior left him confused.

"I . . . sensed that you were troubled by . . . dreams," he stated, schooling his voice to its calmest level as his hand dropped back to his side. "Please forgive me," he added, annoyed by words which became more clipped and difficult as he continued. "I did not intend to . . . intrude."

Surprisingly, the enigmatic human only stretched out on the ground. A fallen leaf tangled in golden hair; and with a heavy sigh, Kirk met his captain's questioning eyes. "Since I'm already considered to be crazy by the majority of people on this ship," he began, "maybe it won't be too difficult to say what I'm thinking for a change." He smiled wistfully, wondering where his anger had disappeared to. "Then you can haul me down to Sickbay and have me fitted for one of those jackets that tie in the back."

A curious brow arched. It was the first time Spock could recall the ensign displaying any sense of humor at all. "Please explain."

Kirk didn't move from his reclining position as he began nervously twisting the gold ring on his left hand. His eyes settled on the ceiling, on the purples and muted blacks and the foggy humidity which was shedding dew-tears on the mossy ground.

"Right now," he began, "I feel just about as phoney as that sunset." Somehow, it was easier to share his thoughts with the Vulcan than he'd expected. Briefly, he wondered how far the meld had gone while he was asleep, but . . . no. It was something else which had thrown their lives together. "I don't know myself anymore," he added matter-of-factly, "but I do know you." He turned, studying the angular face of his commanding officer— the thin lips and the dark eyes and the lithe feline musculature.

The Vulcan's expression softened as he held himself open to Kirk's visual inspection. "Would you consider me a madman if I informed you that I reflect your thoughts?" he asked.

Kirk propped himself up on one elbow, looked cautiously at the Vulcan, then abruptly abandoned the pose of disinterest. "I talked to a couple of people down in the psyche lab," he confessed at last. "Gossip has it that the ShiKahr's been swept into some sort of alternate universe."

The Vulcan remained silent, watching Kirk twist the gold band. "That is one theory," he relinquished, wondering where the conversation was leading.

For a very long time, Kirk continued to stare at the captain; but his expression slowly hardened to one of bitterness.

"What made you save me instead of Donner down on Canus Four, Captain?" he asked.

Disjointedly, he cursed himself for the sudden anger; yet it came anyway. Another blessing of the Talos Device. "Or was it an accident that you just happened to go out of your way to kill the savages who were closer to me?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Donner's little friends were directly in your line of fire, Captain," he continued. "Yet you deliberately let him die. Why?"

The Vulcan blinked, surprised by the chameleonlike change in the human. He glanced away,suddenly uncomfortable. It was a question he'd asked himself constantly since the incident. It was a question to which there was— again— no logical answer. "I . . . calculated that there would be ample time for a second shot," he responded. "Donner was more experienced in planetfall." Liar! his mind screamed. Unfit for Vulcan. Unfit for Command. Liar! "Unfortunately, my calculations were incorrect." He steeled himself, told himself to be silent, but to no avail. "It was a command decision," he added, battling another wave of dizziness and disorientation.

"Bullshit," Kirk muttered to himself, then looked straight into the Vulcan's eyes. "Logically," he said, "you should have saved Donner. He belonged here. He . . . wanted his life." Darkness crept into his cheeks.

One eyebrow arched as the Vulcan attempted to mask his own sudden emotions with the appropriate air of command. "And you do not want yours?" he asked. It was dangerous territory.

Kirk shrugged. "That's not what I meant," he snapped, turning away from scrutinizing eyes which stripped away the charades. He forced himself to speak more calmly. "All I know is that Donner had more of a . . . right to life than I do." He bit his lower lip painfully. "Look, Captain," he said at last, "whether you saved my life by accident or by choice doesn't matter." He paused,hating the part of himself which had broken free to the surface. "But you might've done both of us a favor if you hadn't!" He avoided looking at the Vulcan; it hurt to care. "This . . . this isn't right," he insisted. "I don't know what is right, but it isn't this! It's as if we're all going through the motions of something we can't even begin to understand!"

The Vulcan flinched inwardly despite his cool exterior, appalled that any living creature could hold such little regard for its own life. It did matter— if not to Kirk, then to him. He tasted a moment of fire— an illogical, un-Vulcan anger at the sudden rejection. Kirk had led him on, had practically asked for the meld. . . and now the human was hurling jagged knives into vulnerable tissue. With an effort, he wrested himself back under control, choosing a less personal approach.

"If you are familiar with the dual universe theory," he began, feeling his own muscles tense,"then you are aware that your assumptions may well be correct. There is every possibility that your alternate life is completely different from that which you are currently experiencing. And if a way can be discovered to reinstate— "

"Stop it!" Kirk hissed, damning himself for the threatening emotions which were starting to build again. Hope was the worst of all. Misplaced, hopeless hope. "You've got what you want, Captain Spock!" he said hotly, unable to control the anger. "You've got everything anybody could ever want, so why should I believe you're in any hurry to change things?" Hardened hazel eyes locked with stunned ebony ones. "You've got your precious ship and your pious logic and your goddamned supremacy to keep you happy. And I've got my life!" He spat the word out in disgust. "Well, you can have both, sir!" he continued, climbing to his feet in an uncontrollable wave of fury. "You can take the whole damned mess and— "

But before he could complete the sentence, he found himself falling to the ground, the Vulcan's arms wrapped tightly and unexpectedly around his legs. Lethal anger flared in the human's eyes as he fell painfully into the dirt; he kicked but to no avail.

Without completely understanding what he was doing, the Vulcan rolled over, covering the ensign's writhing body with his own. Powerful Vulcan hands seized Kirk's wrists, forcing muscular arms to the ground despite violent resistance.

"Understand one thing, Human," a rough whisper commanded harshly. "On this ship, your life does belong to me! If I choose to spare it, that is a choice by which you are bound!" He saw a single instant of fear and disbelief in the wide, hazel eyes, but that glimpse was enough. The madness covered him, claiming him. "I grow weary of your self-pity, Kirk. And Time, in this universe, shall not wait for you to outgrow your childish bitterness!"

In the back of his sane mind, a logical Vulcan voice requested an answer as to what had brought his anger to the surface with such a vengeance. But the madman ignored it. In seven years as command of the Shi'Kahr, he had never met a human who could arouse such forbidden feelings,who could wrestle emotion from him as easily as turning on the light.

Beneath him the human continued to struggle, Fierce hatred flared on Kirk's proud features. "So why don't you just transfer me off this ship and out of your hair?" he suggested, shoving violently against the hands which held him pinned to the ground.

But the Vulcan merely shook his head as something tore free inside him.

T'kona . . . He had nothing left to prove— not to Vulcan, not to himself. Vulcan was a word without meaning, a port in which he was never to be welcomed again.

Something dangerously resembling a smile came to his lips.

"No," he stated very gently, sensing another wave of fear flash through the human. "No . . . I shall not make it so simple for you, Kirk." He shook his head, an eerie laugh parting lips which had never laughed before. "It's time to stop running!"

Using Vulcan strength, Spock seized both of Kirk's wrists in one hand, holding him immobile.

With his legs, he scissored the human's angles; ebony-black eyes stabbed through hazel-golden pools, compelling coorperation. With his free hand, he reached for the human's face, fingers spreading and seeking the neural centers necessary to a link.

And suddenly, a look of horror came to dwell on Kirk's features as his body went limp. But a cunning smile came to his lips. "You wouldn't dare," he said, wondering nonetheless if he'd tempted the fates once too often.

The Vulcan merely shook his head has his fingers pressed firmly against pliant flesh. "In this universe," he replied, "you are wrong, James Kirk!"

Without another thought on the matter he injected himself into the human's unshielded mind.

Kirk tensed against the unexpected dizziness which swirled through his thoughts and clouded reality. He was vaguely aware of twisting his arms in a final attempt to free himself, but the resistance seemed futile. . . unnecessary. His eyes closed, and he did not notice when the gold Academy ring slipped from his finger and lodged in the loose sand. It was just another part of the past . . . gone.

He took a deep breath, tired of fighting, and surrendered to the pleasant vertigo which accompanied the meld. Somewhere, a Vulcan stranger-friend removed the layers of fear and hesitation; and for an instant, Kirk tasted regret . . . regret over what his actions had obviously cost the captain. It could have been different, he thought. It should have been different. But the Vulcan took the pain away, too— the pain of the past, of memories which were somehow unreal and unimportant.

At last, Kirk opened his mind's eye. The terrain was familiar . . . and deep in the primal darkness of the mind, a man he recognized as himself was waiting.

Edith . . . a warm face, compassionate eyes.

And love. His arms went around her; but somewhere in the back of his mind, Kirk knew he was saying good-bye.

Nebulous territory, the mind.

His eyes scanned the night sky of a filthy city somewhere on Old Earth. Edith or the stars . . .Edith or the Enterprise. Captain's decision . . . command decision. But it did hurt. Again. She. Silver woman goddess. She. The decision was premade when the universe itself was created.

The ghost of Edith slipped away, leaving his arms empty.

Miramanee . . . priestess of a forgotten race. Miramanee . . . wife. Peace here . . . except for the dreams and the faces in them. One dark and angular. One blue-eyed and curious. His eyes searched the face of the Indian-goddess. Gentle, beautiful wife-for-a-season. But there was guilt . . . guilt of cheating on a long-established mistress. She demanded more than simple tools and ancient gods. She demanded all . . . a price.

Miramanee stepped aside.

Other faces . . . some forgotten, some well-remembered. Deela, Ruth, Rayna (Forget the pain, Jim. Forget).

He turned toward the Source.

"Congratulations, Captain Kirk," Admiral Komack said, pumping his hand vigorously. "She's all yours for the next five-year mission. Take good care of her." The admiral laughed. "Treat her like a wife— only better."

Trembling, Kirk nodded. She. Silver flesh and blood and bone. Starship. A love-affair not to be taken lightly. A responsibility not to be handled alone.

Warm, dark eyes entered reality. The reassuring touch of an alien hand which was not alien at all.

Spock?

The syllable echoed in his mind. Blood-brother among the stars. The other half of the whole. The other part of the Trinity. The only other person She would accept in his life.

Yes, Jim, a deep mind-voice said shakily. I . . . believe we have indeed found our answers. . . .

Kirk swallowed. But . . . is it real?

The answer was enough. It is all that is real, Jim.

But the new reality rejected Kirk, sending him back down a long tunnel of darkness. Yet there was no pain. He could go back, he told himself. He would go back to her.

Somewhere, in a distant alien reality, he heard himself start to breathe again. Thoughts of birth came to his mind . . . thoughts of coming into a cruel world.

On the ShiKahr, James Kirk opened his eyes to see the Vulcan regarding him with an unreadable expression. For a moment, the Kirk-he-had-been wanted to reach out to the commander, to confirm physical reality with a gentle touch. But he found himself too exhausted to move; and slowly the Vulcan released him, rolling into a sitting position.

One eyebrow slid beneath disheveled black bangs as Spock shook his head, then looked away,angular face darkening.

"I . . ." The Vulcan stood suddenly, turned away as the full memory of what he had done returned.

"Wait," Kirk's voice commanded quietly.

The Vulcan stopped, but did not look at the other man.

Kirk climbed slowly to his feet, brows narrowing as he pondered Spock's tense frame. For a moment, he could think of nothing to say . . . but he forced himself to remember what he'd seen in the meld, forced himself to rely on the man who commanded starships. Ensign Kirk retreated respectfully.

"Spock?"

"You must forgive me, Ensign," the captain stated flatly. "I . . . am obviously not myself. This . . . incident . . . must be reported at once." A forced meld, regardless of impact or reason . . . it was wrong. He started to walk away, suddenly recognizing his own insanity for what it was. Blood murmured hot against his ears.

But behind him Kirk only laughed, and a very tentative hand touched his shoulder.

Spock flinched.

"Why?" the human asked, gently forcing him to turn around. "How can you regret proving to me that there is something worth living for?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If that other universe is real," he ventured, "then you had every right to do what you did." He winked conspiratorically,feeling something— someone— come back to life inside him. Reality wavered, fighting the transformation, but he held on, using the Vulcan's downtrodden eyes as a focal point.

But Spock merely shook his head. "There is a danger," he stated.

Kirk tensed. "What?" he demanded.

Giving in to the human for a moment, a Vulcan eyebrow rose as he met the ensign's eyes. Now he understood the bitterness . . . now he knew how much Kirk had lost. And his own losses, he reflected, seemed minor by comparison.

"There is a danger that we may not be able to . . . get back," Spock said at last. "A danger of becoming . . . permanently entrapped in this universe." His eyes closed painfully. The emotions were too close to the surface; and he began to recognize the additional danger as well . . . the danger within himself. "In the event that should happen," he continued, using the sound of his voice as a reminder of reality, "our minds will not . . . accept this reality into which we have been thrust."

Kirk swallowed with difficulty. A few moments ago, it had seemed so easy . . . so right. "How long do we have?" he asked.

The Vulcan glanced away. "Less than eleven days," he replied truthfully. "And there is not enough data— at the present time— to know where to begin effecting repairs."

Kirk considered that and all the implications. If there were no way to re-create that other reality,it was over. All of it. He looked away before the thought could transmit itself to the Vulcan. Something in him refused to accept defeat; something stronger than Ensign Kirk demanded a chance . . . a right to the life he had once known.

"Then we'll make a way," he said, wondering what special control he thought he possessed over the universe.

The Vulcan nodded silently, easily sensing the determination— and the desperation— in this peculiar ensign-captain. "The ship's computers are working on possible theories," he ventured. "And if a way can be discovered before time itself intervenes . . ."

The sentence trailed off, and Kirk thought he saw the Vulcan tremble. For an instant, the hopelessness reasserted itself, but he tried to drive it away. "We've faced worse, Spock," he said,wondering where the words were coming from, wondering what he was referring to. "Something has to come along."

The Vulcan shook his head, started to respond, but was cut short when a hidden communication speaker chirped noisily. He felt himself jolt in surprise and anger.

"Captain Spock?" Uhura's voice said questioningly.

But the Vulcan made no immediate move to respond. His eyes remained locked with Kirk's.

At last, the human smiled, taking a deep breath as some unspoken message passed between them. "Duty calls . . . Captain," he said with a grin.

Very slowly, the Vulcan nodded. "Indeed . . . Captain," he replied. After another moment, he moved to a nearby stone bench, sank down onto it and activated the wrist communicator. "Spock here."

"Captain," Uhura responded, "the VSS T'Ruda is signaling us; requesting your presence on the bridge."

The Vulcan glanced at Kirk . . . and let the moment fade after taking a deep breath. There were still unanswered questions . . . but for now his priorities were clear. If only he could hold on long enough, keep insanity at bay . . .

He let the thought go back into darkness. "On my way, Lieutenant," he said at last, switching off the communication device as he turned back to the human. He stood . . . on legs which seemed unsteady and weak.

"If there's anything I can do to help," Kirk offered, letting the sentence trail off.

Spock nodded, and started to walk away; but he stopped suddenly. "Perhaps there is, Ensign," he said quietly. "I believe Doctor McCoy is expecting both of us in Sickbay for review of some new information concerning the dual universe theory. Perhaps you could see to the doctor's needs while I speak with the T'Ruda's commander." And, the Vulcan realized, it would keep McCoy off i back for a few more minutes.

Kirk nodded, then gave a mock salute, trying not to think of what would happen if they were wrong, if they were unable to make the changes soon enough. Already, he'd felt twinges of the madness . . . of an insanity worse than Death itself. And it was easy to see the toll it was taking on Spock. The Vulcan appeared tired, drained . . . almost frightened beneath the layers of command.

But he laid those images aside. The universe had always obeyed his commands before, he reminded himself. And Time was like an old friend . . . one he'd tricked too often in the past.

Next Time:

Hey, didn't Spock say something about it being seven years since he left Vulcan? It seems his symptoms aren't merely a result of the fractured universe... he's still Vulcan, and a Vulcan's got needs.

Check back to see my killing time excerpts tag for the latest!

#killing time excerpts #killing time #star trek tos #spirk #kirk/spock

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