#kirk is lurking around

[mentalmilkshakes]

The advent of Christmas is approaching…Christmasas……kirkmas……

[sourbites]

Can I request a Kirk smut!! Friends to lovers kinda thing. For instance yall are smoking weed at your place and feeling a bit insecure about still being single and he makes a move on you???

Can't Tell You Why

thank you for the request! this was a lot of fun to write. i chose to write this imagining early 80s kirk, just to really amp up that clumsy love that friends share. hope you enjoy :)

The tip of the joint crackles, embers glowing as you coax smoke down into your lungs. The atmosphere in your bedroom is thick, smogged with smoke and giggles. There's soft rock playing in the background — some band Kirk chose.

"You're avoiding the question," He laughs, all love-me-tender brown eyes and crooked white teeth. You're both having fun, he's teasing you, you're teasing him. But still, you hesitate, exhaling smoke from your nose thoughtfully.

"I don't know," You wipe one hand on the front of your jeans. "I've only done it, like, once. Wasn't that fun, either— we were in this tiny car, and there was so much bumping around."

You twist on your bed, leaning up against the wall. Kirk moves, too, leaning his weight on a hand. "Once?" He repeats, surprised.

"What's that supposed to mean? You think I've been around?" You laugh, although there's some discomfort at his reaction lurking around in your mind. His mortification catches up with him two beats later. Eyes wide, laughing nervously along with you.

"I didn't mean it like that," Kirk exhales, smoke floating and swirling around the both of you. It hazes everything up: the light from your lamps scatter differently. Shadows look hesitant. He mulls over how to explain himself, self-conscious as he adjusts his position again. "I— I just meant, that you," He swipes a hand over his face, groaning in embarrassment through those hesitant chuckles. "You're smart, and— and real pretty. And charming enough to get anyone you'd want, so— I dunno, I mean, I'd..." He trails off. He speaks unintelligible nonsense for a few moments, before trying again. "You get what I mean." He concludes.

"Do I?" You take the joint from him. Something within you makes you feel sick with a feeling you wouldn't like to meet.

Kirk, ever the conversationalist, gives you an eye-roll. "So who was he, anyway?" He gestures to you, his index and middle finger steadying the shrinking joint.

You shrug. "Just a friend of a friend. I already told you."

He didn't say anything after that. Just hid behind his curly bangs, working his fingers into your bedsheets. Honestly, you're unsure why you even entertained this conversation. It's not like you'd find camaraderie within Kirk, not these days— tons of women want his attention. They want to taste his plump lips, hold his baby face, and kiss the crease between his brows when he frowns. You want to claw this bitter taste from your mouth. Gut the barbed vines in your stomach. As cool as you want to present, it isn't the most brag-worthy thing. Your first and only time being a half-baked hookup in some cramped-ass Ford Pinto? Get out the confetti. Your train of thought became an internal train wreck.

"Well," Kirk begins to roll another. "Where would you rather it happened?" Just briefly, his brown eyes glance up at your face to read your expression.

"Where else could it happen?" You ask no one in particular, voice hushed and ironically smoky in your fogged-up bedroom. You hum thoughtfully, picking at the thin rolling papers sprawled out on your bed. "Is it boring if I say a bed? Nothing else I can think of sounds appealing."

For some reason, you're allowed first drags. Pouring over you, Kirk lights the fresh joint between your lips. "Not boring at all. It's a classic for a reason, real nice when it's done right." He speaks easily, shrugging slightly. He's trying to soothe you. His smile makes your insides twist— and you enjoy it, in some macabre way. Teeth vibrantly white against warm lamplight and fuzzy shadows and black curls. You want to eat his mouth.

"Right." You sigh. Smoke billows from your parted lips. "I suppose you have? Done it right?" You're not sure why you ask that. You just want something to say. Preferably not about your (totally lacking) sex life.

Finally, it's Kirk's turn to bristle hesitantly. Easing his nerves, you pass him the joint.

"I've had some good nights, yeah." His answer is guarded. Your eyes glitter. What's he hiding? You nudge his side with your knuckles.

"But...?" You invite.

Kirk watches you for a moment or two, concluding you won't let this go. "But," He echoes, nudging you back. "I wouldn't say I've done it right."

"Why not?" You lean in. Drinking up the smoke that rolls off of him. You can smell him in the air, too, smoke-smouldering something spicy and musky.

He tilts his head to see you better. "Can't tell you," He whispers, grinning, wholly contradicting the inviting way his body slants to indulge you.

"Kiiiiirk."

Sigh. He's giving you the eyes. The eyes. Round and big, brown eyes so sparkly that they disarm anyone he's gazing at. You lean to him, attentive as a statue. You could soak him up if you wanted to; you're that close. Discarded smoke, already exhaled with all that high-inducing goodness soaked up, swirls around the both of you, murky white tendrils making you want to sway with them, beckoning you to move. Speak. Breathe. Live.

"Ideally," He shifts again, wanting to reshuffle his atoms. "Ideally, it'd be a bed..." A warm palm brushes your wrist and sneaks the joint from your fingers. "With you..." Your heart pauses. You stare at him, bewildered. "And me..."

What. The. Fuck.

Kirk takes your silence as a sign you want him to keep going. One hand cups your cheek, so tenderly you're tricked into thinking you're made from glass. "C'mon. How many more hints do I need to drop?" He coos at you before taking a much-needed drag of the joint to ease his own racing heart.

The funny thing is, you've hoarded his name in your throat for months. You didn't realise he had been holding his own breath for you.

Why? Out of everyone— you?

Kirk runs his tongue over his teeth, getting antsy. Softly urging you, he brushes the pad of his thumb along your lower lip while you just stare at him, amazed. You watch him from beneath your eyelashes as if he hung the stars in the sky. It comes again: the longing. The desire with no name, because no one has yet given you the language to speak it in.

Wordlessly, you draw his hand into yours. "That, um. Sounds nice." You reply, with what limited cohesive brain cells you have left.

Testing the waters, Kirk brushes his lips against yours, his breath mingling with your own. And it's hands down the most intoxicating thing you've ever had— you want to swallow it down in handfuls. Your eyelashes flutter again, and you almost feel drunk. He holds your cheek with clumsy, gentle fingers. He puts a heat in you that you didn't think was possible. And it feels so unfathomably perfect to feel wanted.

It's slow. Gently, you gravitate towards Kirk as if you're floating. Your mouths connect with a little more certainty this time. He laughs softly against your mouth. There is no better taste than that, you decide. Someone's honeyed laugh on your tongue. You're dizzy— should you feel dizzy? You want this feeling to stay.

Restless, he abandons the joint in the ashtray. With both hands in use, they swipe over your back, worship your thighs by the handfuls, winding and sewing roots in your hair.

"Can I take care of you?" Kirk whispers into the edge of your face, right underneath your chin. His mouth- wet and wanting, marks the uncharted territory of the soft underside of your face with a slow, hot kiss that ripples through you, reshaping you into something with an emptiness that's hurting to be filled. His tongue is laving wet and dripping with eagerness, building a taste for your skin as it glosses his spit down your throat. He tilts in to suck below your ear.

"Fuck, Kirk. Yeah— yes." You stumble out, nodding, your hips squirming in their cage of your jeans. You sweep your aching palms along his back, mussing his curls. He tucks your earlobe between his teeth, grazing the bluntness of his front teeth slowly along your skin. His breath sends chills down your spine. He grinds both hands beneath the waistband of your jeans, reading your mind.

He's aching to get a taste of you. The softness of your inner thighs swath around his head, dark curls rasping against your skin. His hot mouth is drinking you up through your panties, nosing into your pelvis. He wants to breathe as many 'I love you's' as he can into your skin, he wants to rake his tongue against your slit, lick your cunt open. Kirk can tell you're soaked— arousal drooling through the fabric that covers you, teasing him with the cock-hardening punch of girl flavour that he loves so much, seeping along the edge of his mouth.

Your underwear is thumbed off, his face shoved right into your cunt, and yet you still want to steer him by the shoulders and pull him closer. He takes slow, indulgent sucks on your quickly throbbing clit, that snowball into big, broad licks, tongue flat and mopping up your slick from bottom to top. He sinks two fingers into you, each pump straight down to the knuckle, creating crude squelching noises with the purest, stickiest arousal simmering within you. It's all burning hot, hot, hot.

Kirk swoops down again, filling his starving mouth with what he thirsts for: your leaking pussy. His cute nose is smooshed against your pelvic bone, and every dirty lap of his searing tongue forces your hips to scatter restlessly and yanks a whine from your throat. He's wild and heartache and sin, and it leaves you reeling from his every touch, every curl of his fingers and every relentless, starved suck of your clit, until his cheeks hollow.

"Can't believe I went so long without this," He groans with lusty delight, releasing your aching clit with a pornographic, wet pop. He kisses your parted entrance, tips his head down and spits on your slit. Whatever honey-soft brown was left lingering in his baby-love eyes has been devoured by total blackness, glimmering in delight as he watches his work of art, your soaked, spit-slick sex. He goes back in, shoving his parched mouth onto you, sucking in a fold, nipping the other, thumbing at your throbbing, swollen clit. He wants to eat you whole. Every salacious lick of his neverending tongue thunders within you— your cunt, tight and hot and so adored by Kirk's divine mouth, squeezes of arousal building within you until they morph into full-body trembles, your abdomen clenching and un-clenching, taut.

He glances up at you, dark eyes glittering behind his curly bangs, eyeing the heave of your tits with each tremoring breath. He touches you where hands simply cannot. His thick tongue eagerly tastes your heat: flesh, sweetness, salt. His cock is bursting against his too-tight boxers. You roll your hips against his mouth, chasing every lap of his tongue, every brush of his calloused hands. Softly, he becomes endless in you, and the searing pleasure he paints for you becomes explosive. Your volatile hands fist into his hair and yank, grinding down against his pretty face as gasps block your airways. He's drinking your soul - stuffing his mouth with every morsel of your worship-worthy pleasure.

You wail through the orgasm, something deep within you awakened and booming; how you survived him, you don't know. Your cum, sticky and warm, ebbs down Kirk's plump lips, smearing on his chin as he laps you up, thumbs spreading your cunt open to ensure he's licked every part of you clean. Even then, the impish flicks of his tongue do not go unappreciated.

To get him to stop his (wonderfully feeling) assault on your cunt, you peel Kirk away from you, a hand in his hair and your other palming at his shoulder. "How'd," You breathe, stupefied, "How'd you learn to do that?"

Kirk hides behind his curly bangs as if he has the right to get coy after gorging on your pussy so filthily. His teeth, white and charmingly crooked, glitter as he grins flusteredly. He wipes his mouth of spit and slick with the back of his hand. You feel a pang of emptiness without both his hands somewhere on your overheating body. "I, uh, I have a thing for it, I guess."

Great. You sigh, lost for words.

"Can we keep going?" You murmur out, gingerly pressing a warm palm to his worn-soft denim jeans, which are all warped and taut from his hard bulge.

Kirk's hands, all slow tenderness to soothe you, cup your cheeks, fingers sweeping into your hair. He lays a kiss on your lips with his own hungry mouth, kissing away at your senses. "Of course, beautiful."

His bulge swells right beneath your pussy, your orgasm simmering away and dirtying his denim jeans. Handsy with it, he palms off his belt and throws his jeans and boxers somewhere in your room. You let one of your legs fall open while he scoops up the other, forcing your thigh high up his waist, his palm sliding down to grab a handful of your ass. He sinks inside the molten ache of your eaten-raw cunt. He kisses you into oblivion at the sight of his thick cock disappearing within you.

The odd thing is, it all feels so easy. You're choked with the sincerity of the moment. Kirk's hands are devoted worshippers, thumbs stroking along your skin where you tremble, holding you where your thigh and hip meet, cradling you. Weightlessly, and yet with heavy limbs, you lay into the bed. You're full of paradoxes tonight. Light, heavy, friend, lover. They're all the same.

Your hands glide up his taut biceps, sliding down the slope of his back, tracing along muscles and bone. You hook him in, keep him close. Kirk's biting down on his lower lip, his eyes lidded, fluttering at the dreamy feeling of your dripping cunt clenching down on him in searing hot pulses. You shift your hips a little— you can feel his cock smushed into your cervix. Kirk groans low near your ear.

This hot, fulfilling fullness seems to seep deeper and deeper within you, endless. With a hitching breath, Kirk's hips withdraw, taking his body-hot heat with him. Until it pours all over you again in waves, easing your abuse-swollen sex, his thumb dipping down to gather the sopping wetness of your slick, cum, and his drool, and stir it around your puffy clit in full circles. All while he takes you in long, eager strokes, delicious friction causing your hands to skirt around his shoulders, putting a cramping, throbbing, ache in your hips.

You shudder, going tight around him. Kirk presses his face where your shoulder meets your neck. You can feel his baby face, sweet cheeks and plump mouth, those fawn brown eyes of his squeezed shut. Those charming features on a man who is fucking you with so much impeccable spirit that you're surely driven crazy with every rock of his hips, snapping up to wallop into the tenderly sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Every wet sound of his mean cock scraping the velvet insides of your aching cunt draws sobs out from deep within your stuffed-full belly. Your heart feels like a bass pounding in your ears, surrounding you with so much noise, every throbbing thump causing your breaths to shake.

Tangled bodies feel like they're cooking with all the hot friction between them. It smoulders, threatening to ignite— as if the hazy smoke of your social chainsmoking wasn't enough to put you in an awestruck daze. You clench your teeth, scraping your nails up the hollow of Kirk's shoulder blades, your own back arching off the bed, (which he uses as an excuse to get another gropeful of your ass) while he works your throbbing clit even harder. You want to squirm and writhe, but that'd disrupt the gorgeous rhythm of his cock. He drags himself through your wound-tight pussy, sloppy, indescribably thorough whacks of his pelvic bone right on the beginning of your slit.

You forget who's air you're breathing. Or if you're breathing at all.

In carnal screams that scratch up your sore throat, you murmur something akin to more more more don't stop, Kirk. Please. Kirk. His pace stumbles, landing right on his high while you're already curling around him, nails anchored in his skin, cries spilling from your lips. You squeeze around him with so much zeal that Kirk quite literally cannot move for fear of splitting you in two. All epic highs have lows, however: you scrape your hands down, tracing where your cunt oozes out your climaxes, feeling the boiling heat settle down, watching Kirk's glistening cock withdraw from you.

Everything feels suspended. Mid-air, hanging on the edge of something. Maybe it's longing. By some phenomenal stroke of luck (maybe it's your lucky day), the joint you were sharing is still lit. Kirk takes a long drag, exhaling against your clammy, bare skin. His mouth reaches your shoulder, and he kisses it with that pretty, insatiable mouth until you feel faint.

"Fuck," You take the joint he offered to you. Although you're not sure that this moment can get softer and warmer. "That was definitely better than my first time."

Kirk grins at your words, grunting quietly as he lays beside you, guiding your splayed-out hair away from your neck. "Just you wait. That was just a warm-up."

[shortnspidey]

CHAPTER SIX: ROCK N' ROLL DREAM

Eddie Munson x OC!Reader || WC: 4.6K

A/N: now without further ado, the chapter everyone has been waiting for, I made sure to make this chapter a long one!! Enjoy! 🤭

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A rollercoaster of emotions were swirling through Lyra's mind. In the past twenty-four hours, she had felt so many unprecedented feelings that had been suppressed for years, bubbling up to the surface like a shaken soda can ready to explode. Memories of happier times mixed with the current turmoil, creating a chaotic storm within her. She knew that Billy hated change, clinging to the familiar like a lifeline. But the more time they spent in Hawkins, the longer he became unrecognizable to her.

Lyra remembered the days when Billy was her protector, always looking out for her with a fierce loyalty. But now, his actions were more erratic and unpredictable. She could see the anger simmering just beneath the surface, a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. The small town of Hawkins, with its eerie stillness and lurking shadows, seemed to amplify his inner demons, turning him into someone she could barely understand.

The weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future pressed heavily on Lyra's shoulders. She felt a pang of guilt, wondering if there was something she could have done differently, some way to reach out to the brother she once knew. The howling wind snapped her out of her inner turmoil as she hugged the leather jacket closer to her body so that it would provide some much needed comfort and warmth that she desperately needed. The cold air bit at her cheeks, turning them a rosy shade, and her breath formed small clouds in the frigid night.

She took a second to distract herself by analyzing Tina's backyard. The yard was a spectacle of Halloween creativity. Fake cobwebs stretched between the trees, glistening in the moonlight, and plastic skeletons hung from the branches, swaying gently in the wind. Teenagers from Hawkins certainly knew how to throw a rager. However the decorations and trash that littered the yard weren’t the only thing that caught Lyra’s attention. She was quick to noticed a shadowy figure completely isolated from everyone. The only indication that she wasn't out there alone was the amber glow of their cigarette.

Letting her eyes adjust to the darkness she noticed that he was wearing a costume she definitely recognized for the first time all night. He was dressed in tight black jeans, a leather jacket adorned with metal studs, and a wild mane of curly hair that framed his face. Without thinking too much about it, her feet carried her over to the stranger, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Kirk Hammet." The stranger in question nearly spat out the beer he had taken a swing from.

He swore he was hallucinating, that is until his eyes met Lyra's. "W-What?" He spluttered trying to wrap his head around the fact that a pretty girl knew who he was dressed up as. "I like your costume, bold choice."  The stranger chuckled nervously, running a hand through his curly hair. "Well if the shoe fits." He gestured to himself theatrically. "Thanks, not many people get it. You into Metallica?" His voice was a mix of surprise and curiosity, the kind that made Lyra feel a little less like an outsider in this sea of unfamiliar faces.

"Yeah, you could say that," She replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant laughter of partygoers. Breaking the silence, Lyra watched as the long-haired stranger reached behind him to grab a metal lunchbox, its surface adorned with stickers of various rock bands. "So, you interested in some of the devil's lettuce, sweetheart?" He asked, shaking it comically, the contents rattling inside.

Lyra couldn't help but scoff, her breath visible in the chilly air. "You're a dealer?" She raised her brow in question, her curiosity piqued. "Only the best in Hawkins," He smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Eddie Munson at your service." He bowed theatrically, his wild curls bouncing with the movement. Lyra chuckled, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie in his presence. "As much as I appreciate the offer, that's more my brother’s vice rather than mine," She replied, her voice tinged with amusement.

Eddie's face fell slightly, but he quickly recovered, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Shit, I'll make myself scarce then," He said, pretending to tip an invisible hat before turning to leave. But before he could take a step, Lyra reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of warmth through her, grounding her in the moment. "Wait," She said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to go." Eddie's eyes softened, and he nodded, taking a step closer.

The night seemed a little less cold, and the world outside Tina's backyard felt a little less daunting. Breaking the silence, Lyra watched as the long-haired stranger, Eddie Munson, settled down beside her on the weathered bench. The wood creaked under his weight, adding to the symphony of crickets chirping in the background. He leaned back, his eyes scanning the star-strewn sky above, a thoughtful expression on his face. "So you're the new girl I've been hearing so much about." He concluded putting two and two together. His voice was low and smooth, carrying a hint of curiosity.

Lyra shrugged, turning to face him, her eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above. "What gave it away?" She questioned, her tone light but her eyes searching his face for an answer. "Well," He started holding up his finger. "For one I've never seen you around, and I'd remember someone with good taste in music." And two," He held up two fingers. "Gossip travels fast at the hellhole that is Hawkins High." Lyra chuckled softly, the sound blending with the distant rustle of leaves. The air was cool, but the warmth of their budding conversation kept the chill at bay.

Eddie's eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and genuine interest, making her feel oddly at ease. "So, you got a name, or am I going to have to call you sweetheart all night?" He teased, his smile widening. "Lyra," She replied, her voice steady but soft. The name felt like a bridge between them, a small but significant step towards familiarity. Eddie nodded, as if committing her name to memory. "Lyra," He repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. The way he said her name made it feel like more than just a formality; it felt like the beginning of something new and unexpected.

"You got another cigarette on you, Eddie?" Lyra questioned teasingly, quite confident that she knew the answer. "You wound me," He muttered, digging the pack out of the inside of his leather jacket. "Never leave home without it, even if I promised my uncle I'd quit." He pulled out a cigarette and handed it to her, the silver rings on his fingers catching the faint light from the porch. Lyra took the cigarette, feeling the cool paper between her fingers. The smell of tobacco mixed with the earthy scent of the night air, creating a strangely comforting aroma.

Eddie struck his lighter, the brief flare of light illuminating his face before he held the flame to her cigarette. She inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up into the night sky, blending with the misty breath of the cool evening. Eddie leaned back, his own cigarette dangling from his lips. "You know," He said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, "My uncle's always on my case about these things. Says they're gonna be the death of me." He chuckled, a sound that was more resigned than amused. Lyra watched the smoke drift away, her thoughts momentarily lost in the swirling patterns.

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's the little rebellions that keep us sane," She replied, her voice tinged with a quiet defiance. She glanced over at Eddie, noticing the way his eyes softened, as if he understood more than he let on. The night seemed to stretch on, the silence between them comfortable and unforced. "So what's your story?" Eddie asked catching Lyra by surprise. She raised her brow in question urging him to continue. "You don't drink or smoke weed, but you smoke tobacco and ride a motorcycle," He thought aloud, his tone carrying a hint of admiration. Eddie's gaze met hers, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

“Don’t forget, I also like metal,” She added with a smirk, the edges of her lips curling into a playful grin. The sound of distant laughter and the rustling of leaves filled the air, but their focus remained solely on each other. “Right, how could I forget,” He teased, making Lyra smile, her cheeks flushing slightly in the cool night air. After a beat of silence, almost as if Eddie was trying to figure out exactly what to say, he finally spoke. "You're interesting," He concluded, his voice filled with genuine curiosity and admiration.

This made Lyra let out a chuckle, the sound light and melodic, blending seamlessly with the rustling leaves around them. "Says the resident metalhead - drug dealer," She sassed back, motioning to him and his metal lunchbox, which he always carried with an air of nonchalance. "Touché," He smirked, taking a long drag out of his cigarette, which was almost out. "I gotta ask, how'd you even get into metal in the first place?" Eddie questioned. "Well," Her eyes flickered with nostalgia as she thought back to her childhood.

"When you have a brother who blasts it 24/7, it tends to grow on you." She could almost hear the distant echoes of guitars and drums coming from Billy's room, the relentless beats becoming the soundtrack of her formative years. "Besides," She smirked to herself, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Axl Rose's ass looks amazing in leather." She snickered, recalling the posters that she had admired everyday on the walls of Billy's room. "Jesus H. Christ," Eddie groaned, falling backwards on the wooden bench dramatically.

"You're one of those girls." Lyra scoffed, teasingly shoving his shoulder. "You know if you're ever interested in hearing some live metal music sometime and giving your ole’ Walkman a break, my band and I play at the Hideout on Tuesdays." He suggested, his voice carrying a hint of hopeful excitement. "Why does it not surprise me that you're in a bad." Lyra thought aloud, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Eddie was about to give her a witty remark when she interrupted, her curiosity piqued. "Let me guess, with your theatrics, you're the lead guitarist too?"

"And lead singer most nights." He announced proudly, puffing out his chest a bit. The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and Lyra couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "So you're one of those guys." Lyra teased throwing his words from earlier back at him. Eddie couldn't help the smile that made it's way on his face. There was absolutely no way that a pretty girl liked metal and appreciated his humor. "Maybe I could get your number and-" Only Eddie didn't get to finish his sentence. A sudden loud crash from a nearby alley interrupted him, causing both of them to look in that direction.

Hearing the commotion of "Ooos" coming from inside the house made goosebumps arise on Lyra's skin. That could not be good. The night air felt suddenly colder, the chill seeping into her bones as she tried to gauge the situation. "Duty calls?" Eddie asked, immediately noticing Lyra's shift in demeanor. His voice was gentle, yet tinged with curiosity and concern. Lyra turned to give Eddie a remorseful look, wishing she could stay in his company longer. The warmth and ease of their conversation had been a rare comfort. "I'm so sorry,” She apologized, seeing the disappointment swimming in his chocolate doe eyes.

“I just have a feeling that my brother is somehow involved and we have a curfew," She explained, her voice tinged with frustration and a hint of regret. She could feel the weight of responsibility pulling her away. "No biggie sweetheart, just get home safe, alright." Eddie replied with a reassuring smile. His calm and understanding demeanor was a stark contrast to the chaos she anticipated inside. "Thanks, Eddie," She smiled, grabbing her helmet. "It was really nice to meet you." With an affectionate squeeze to his bicep, Lyra ran inside to see what all the commotion was about, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and the lingering warmth of their brief connection.

Upon entering the house, which was now even more trashed than when she arrived, Lyra maneuvered herself through drunken bodies to try and find the source of the commotion. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, and the sound of loud, off-key singing mixed with laughter still filled the room. She carefully stepped over broken glass and discarded cups, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene for any sign of trouble. She let out a breath of relief seeing as Billy was nowhere to be seen, yet she worried that was a bad sign too.

The last time she saw him, he was already on edge, and his absence now could mean he was getting into even more trouble elsewhere. Those thoughts were quickly put on pause as someone from behind crashed into her. She clutched onto her shoulder, hoping that her hand could relieve the sting before turning to give the drunk partygoer a piece of her mind. "Watch where you're going!" She hissed, only she was taken aback due to making eye contact with 'King Steve'. The same person her brother was face to face with hours earlier.

Upon noticing his disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes, Lyra momentarily felt bad for yelling. Steve Harrington wanted nothing more than to snap back at the blonde girl in front of him, but decided against it. Instead he shook his head, his expression a mix of frustration and exhaustion, and made his way to the front door without another look back. “Asshole.” She muttered stretching out her aching shoulder and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the residual anger. Suddenly, she heard a slurred curse behind her, "S-Shit!" Spinning around, she saw a drunken girl stumbling, her eyes half-closed and her movements unsteady.

Lyra quickly stepped forward, just in time to steady the girl who looked like she could pass out any second. "Woah, are you okay?" Lyra questioned, her voice softening with concern as she looked into the girl's glazed eyes, trying to gauge her condition. The girl's makeup was smeared, and her hair was a tangled mess, suggesting she had been through quite an ordeal. "I'm f-fine," She slurred, her words barely coherent. Yet Lyra could tell by her disheveled appearance and the way she swayed unsteadily that she was far from fine. The strong smell of alcohol lingered around her, her clothes were wrinkled and slightly damp a red splotch staining the white material.

"Let's get you some fresh air, okay?" Lyra suggested, trying to guide her towards the door. She placed a supportive arm around the girl's shoulders, feeling the cold sweat on her skin. Yet before Lyra could direct her outside, a familiar voice interrupted. "Woah, Nancy, what happened?" Jonathan Byers questioned, his eyes widening with concern as he took in the scene. He stepped closer, his brow furrowing in worry. A moment of realization seemed to cross Nancy's face before she looked at Jonathan, her voice barely above a whisper. "Steve's bullshit," She muttered, her words thick with emotion and fatigue.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked like she had been crying. Jonathan frowned, his worry deepening as he glanced between Lyra and Nancy. "I need to get her home," He announced, taking a gentle but firm hold of Nancy's forearm. He began to steer her towards the front door, his grip steadying her as she stumbled slightly. Nancy's breathing was shallow, and she leaned heavily on Jonathan, her head drooping as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her. "Let me help you," Lyra insisted, her voice filled with concern and urgency as she followed closely behind Jonathan. She reached out to support Nancy's other side, her hands trembling slightly with worry.

The trio moved slowly through the crowded room, weaving between groups of people who were oblivious to the unfolding drama. As they reached the front door, the cool night air rushed in, bringing a momentary sense of relief. The stars were faintly visible against the dark sky, and the distant hum of traffic provided a soothing backdrop. Lyra could feel the tension in Nancy's body begin to ease slightly, but she knew they still had a long way to go. She glanced at Jonathan, who nodded in appreciation, his eyes reflecting the same concern and determination that she felt. Together, they guided Nancy outside, hoping that the fresh air and the quiet of the night would help her recover.

As they reached Jonathan's car, Lyra was quick to pull his passenger car door open so that he could gently place Nancy inside without much of a struggle. Nancy slumped into the seat, her eyes half-closed, as Jonathan carefully buckled her in, making sure she was comfortable and secure before shutting the door softly. Turning to Lyra he fiddled with his fingers, his eyes darting around nervously. "I, um, saw your brother passed out by the tree on the side of the house," He informed her, his voice tinged with concern. She was unable to stifle the eye roll, knowing that dealing with Billy was going to be a challenge.

Lyra couldn't help but roll her eyes, the exasperation clear on her face. The image of her brother sprawled out under the tree flashed in her mind, adding to her already mounting stress. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come, while Jonathan gave her a sympathetic look, his hands now resting on the roof of the car. "I'll take care of it," She sighed a hint of exasperation crossing her face. "Get home safe," At her words he nodded, giving Lyra a reassuring smile. He jumped into the driver's seat of his car, the engine roaring to life as he turned the key. With a final wave, he drove off into the night, leaving Lyra to deal with Billy. She watched the taillights disappear around the corner, the weight of the night's events settling heavily on her shoulders.

Taking another deep breath, she turned back towards the house, her footsteps echoing softly on the gravel driveway. The porch light flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance with the wind. She hoped that Billy wouldn't be too far out of it, but as she neared the side of the house, her hopes were quickly dashed. Sure enough, just as Jonathan had said, Billy was sprawled out, nursing a bottle of god knows what in his hand. The smell of alcohol hit her before she even reached him, a pungent mix of whiskey and stale beer. As she reached him, she couldn't help but wrinkle her nose in disgust.

"Jesus, Billy, you smell like a bar. How much did you drink?" She muttered, crouching down to his level. She gently pried the bottle from his hand, her fingers brushing against his clammy skin. The night was far from over, and as she helped him to his feet, she knew that the real challenge was just beginning. "K-Keg King." He slurred, a sloppy smile spreading across his face. For a brief moment, he seemed proud of himself, but the smile quickly faded when he caught sight of his sister's hardened expression. The disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable, and it cut through his drunken haze like a knife.

"Keys," Lyra demanded, holding her hand out, her voice firm and unwavering. She wasn't in the mood for any of his usual antics. Her patience was wearing thin, and all she wanted was to get him inside and away from any more trouble. Billy fumbled in his pockets, the sound of jingling keys breaking the tense silence. Finally, he pulled them out and dropped them into her waiting hand, his head hanging low in shame. Lyra clenched the keys in her hand, the cold metal biting into her palm. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before wrapping an arm around Billy's waist to support him. They stumbled together towards his Camaro, the gravel crunching under their feet in the quiet night.

"You can't keep drowning your problems in alcohol." Billy's head lolled to the side, his eyes half-closed. "I'm fine." He mumbled, his words barely coherent. Lyra shook her head, guiding him into the passenger seat and buckling him in, only taking her eyes off of him to throw her helmet in the backseat. "This isn't fine," She said softly, more to herself than to him. She walked around to the driver's side, her mind racing with thoughts of what to do next. As she started the car, she glanced over at Billy, who had already drifted off to sleep. She sighed, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on her shoulders.

Just then like a bucket of ice water being dumped onto her, she realized that she and Billy had come to the party separated. Her eyes darted to the spot where her motorcycle was still parked a few feet away, gleaming under the streetlights. There was no way she was about to leave her prized possession in someone else's driveway overnight. "Shit," She muttered to herself, fighting the exhaustion that was beginning to cloud her mind. She needed to formulate a coherent plan, but her brain felt sluggish and uncooperative. The thought of abandoning her bike gnawed at her, but so did the idea of leaving Billy alone in his current state.

Almost as if someone was answering her thoughts, Lyra spotted the familiar unruly hair of Eddie Munson, a few feet away throwing his metal lunchbox into a van. This was her only chance. "Stay in the car." Lyra demanded throwing the drivers seat open. Hearing those words, Billy woke up from his drunken slumber, sitting up straighter and fumbling with his seatbelt. "But-" Lyra's harsh voice cut him off. "Billy I mean it!" She all but growled, her patience snapping. "Stay. In. The. Car." With those final words she slammed the door to his Camaro shut leaving no more room for argument.

"Eddie, wait!" She called out, sprinting towards him, her heart pounding in her chest. Eddie turned, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw her approaching. "Lyra? What's going on?" He asked, concern etched on his face. "I need your help," She said breathlessly, glancing back at the car where Billy was slumped. He followed her line of sight, his brows furrowing momentarily. "I need to get him home, but I drove my motorcycle here. Is there any way, and of course if you don't mind, can we store my motorcycle in the back of your trunk? Just for tonight I promise I'll-" Yet her rambling was cut short. "Hey," Eddie coaxed placing his hands on her shoulders reassuringly.

"Slow down." He spoke softly, his touch grounding her in the moment. She could feel the warmth of his hands through her jacket, a stark contrast to the chill of the night air. "Go grab your motorcycle, I'll make room in the back of my van, okay?" His words were a balm to her frazzled nerves, and she nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. She watched as Eddie moved with purpose, his movements quick and efficient as he opened the van's back doors and began rearranging the clutter inside to make space. Eddie started to move the band's supplies around, carefully stacking amplifiers and drum kits to one side, making sure nothing would topple over during the ride.

He meticulously placed guitar cases and mic stands, his hands moving with a practiced ease that spoke of many nights spent loading and unloading gear. The van, once a chaotic mess of cables and equipment, began to take on a semblance of order under his diligent care. Not feeling confident enough to answer, she simply nodded again, her eyes following Eddie's every move. She could see the determination in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he focused on the task at hand. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it meant the world to her. The sight of Eddie’s methodical movements and the sound of equipment being carefully arranged provided a strange sense of comfort, making her feel that everything would be okay.

As Eddie continued to rearrange the band supplies, Lyra made her way to her motorcycle, with a gentle rumble, she started the engine, the sound a familiar comfort to her ears. Slowly and carefully, she maneuvered the motorcycle towards the waiting van. Eddie glanced up from his task, a smile playing on his lips as he saw her approach. Together, they worked in harmony, coordinating the loading of the motorcycle into the back of the van. Eddie guided her with precise hand signals, ensuring the bike was securely fastened for the journey ahead. With a final click, the van doors were closed, the task completed. As they both stepped back, a sense of accomplishment filled the air. Lyra turned to Eddie, gratitude shining in her eyes. "Keep her safe for me." She whispered, her voice carrying a mix of hope and reliance.

"Scouts honor." He assured, using his fingers and crossing his heart over his leather jacket. The gesture, both earnest and endearing, made a smile make its way onto Lyra's face. "Thanks Rockstar, I owe you one." Even in the moonlight, it was hard to miss the crimson blush that made its way onto Eddie's face. He looked down for a moment, kicking a small pebble with his boot before meeting her gaze again. "Get home safe, alright." Lyra nodded, feeling a sense of peace wash over her. She gave Eddie one last appreciative look before turning to leave, the sound of her boots crunching on the gravel the only noise in the stillness.

As she walked away, she glanced back over her shoulder, catching Eddie's eye one more time. He gave her a small, reassuring wave, and she couldn't help but smile. As she opened the door to the Camaro, the leather seat creaked softly under her weight. Billy jolted awake as Lyra started the engine, his eyes bleary and confused. The soft hum of the engine seemed to pull him fully back to consciousness. Almost as if he remembered that they had driven separately, he voiced Lyra's concern from a few minutes prior. "Y-Your bike." His voice was groggy but filled with genuine worry. "It's safe with a friend." She reassured, her voice calm and steady as she inserted the key into the ignition.

She could feel the familiar vibration of the engine beneath her, a comforting reminder of the freedom and speed that awaited them. With a quick, practiced motion, she shifted gears, and the Camaro roared to life. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard, her eyes widening upon noting the time and realizing that they had to hurry. The thought of Susan and Neil realizing they were out past curfew sent a jolt of adrenaline and through her, stress and anxiety resurfacing. The tires screeched slightly as she pressed the accelerator, the car speeding off into the night.

[mad-voidling]

Night in the (Balmoral) Woods

My fic for @iamnottoph for the 2024 @fallenlondonficswap! You can read it here or below the cut. Sorry for taking so long with it, I hope you enjoy it!

He turned forward again, and saw it. A ways down the dirt path made mostly by his own boots, a pale figure approached.

Gen, No Explicit Romance, No Violence, The Great Game, The Railway/Hinterlands, Balmoral

As he stood before the gates to the Moonlit Woods, the Devoted Gillie fought the urge to check his coat pockets again. Tonight was the night and he wanted nothing to go wrong, but he wanted even less to be caught. Few roamed the woods, especially at this hour, but he couldn’t be sure the Marigold Menagerie Keeper wasn't lurking about, watching from a distance with her hell-yellow eyes, waiting for him to make a mistake that would let her slip into the Woods. He didn’t believe her only wanting to check on the animals - devils were creatures who are born of and lived off of lies and he was loath to believe any word that came from their serpent tongues. Even if she was telling the truth, he had made an oath to Her Majesty to protect her sacred woods, and that was not a promise he was willing to break.

The sudden snapping of a twig had his head whipping around towards the noise, heart skipping a beat before he realized it had come from beyond the gate. Just one of the beasts of the woods, nothing to be afraid of - especially when they were separated from him by a wall of wrought iron. He had caught glimpses of the animals before, darting through the moonlight from one shadow to the next, and sometimes they looked… Odd. It was surely just his eyes and ears playing tricks on him, whatever those hellspawns had done to the moonlight made it play tricks on the mind, but he couldn’t forget what he had seen. Eyes like bright blood, beaks and teeth where they should not be, and sounds their vocal cords should not have been able to form. Everytime it happened it would send a chill up his spine, but he would tell himself it was just the wind, pull his coat around himself tighter, and fight the urge to make his way to the warmth of Crathie’s tavern despite how infected with traitorous revolutionaries it was.

He turned forward again, and saw it. A ways down the dirt path made mostly by his own boots, a pale figure approached. Suddenly he felt like a child all over again with his mother telling him tales of the bean-nighe, the baobhan sith, and all the other seelie folk who would snatch him up if he wasn’t a good boy who did his chores and went to bed on time. But it could not be - for there was no stream or pool for clothes to be washed in, he was no hunter, and most of all, despite the many strange and horrible things that lived in the Neath, the seelie were not one of them. 

Then came his memories of the Sunday sermons at the kirk, with tales of how angels would descend from above, clad in radiance and holy light, and deliver messages from the Lord Himself to common men. That could not be it, either - angels did not descend alone, always accompanied by a holy chorus to herald their arrival, and for as brilliant as it looked against the darkness of the woods, they did not blind him. Finally, it did not tell him to be not afraid, and as foolish as it seemed for such terrifyingly divine things to say to mortals who could barely comprehend them, such words seemed like they would be a great comfort at the moment.

Last to reach him in his fear was his rational mind, the one that knew the reason he was standing out in the cold instead of in the safety of his slightly less cold cottage. An agent of the Game would be meeting him tonight to collect information given to him by another agent the week prior. He had been told he would be meeting with the Pale Rook, and as the figure drew closer, he was all but certain this was them. Now closer he could see that they were certainly human, but to simply call them pale felt like an understatement. They were the color of a ghost from head to toe, their skin cool-colored as winter lacre and long platinum hair that would be at home with moonbeams. Even their clothing was a bright white, which made him feel far less ashamed of initially thinking them a specter or a sort of unnatural being.

They stopped a few feet away from him, just out of range of any potential melee weapons. “A nice night for wandering, isn’t it?”

The Ghillie blinked, confused for a moment before he remembered the passphrases and rushed out his response. “Yes, but who would want to be alone on a night like this?”

A smile briefly flashed across the Rook’s face, and they closed the distance between them. This close he realized that they stood several inches taller than him and that their eyes were a pale violet color rimmed by red. They reminded him of violant - both in their hue and how he would never forget them. They looked down at him through their gold-rimmed glasses, expression unreadable. Several moments of silence passed between the two before the Rook spoke again and broke the spell that held the Ghillie’s tongue.

“I assume you have what I came for, then?”

“Oh, ah, yes-“ He managed to stammer the words out as he fumbled through his pockets, pulling out the letters and papers he had been given. He hadn’t looked at them himself and knew nothing of their contents, only that they had been given to him by someone who had arrived at  the Balmoral train station from the east, and that they had slipped into the bathrooms and never emerged from inside. They had said nothing to him, only shoved what he now held into his hands and left - he hadn’t even seen their face.

As the Rook took what he held out, their hands briefly brushed against each other, and their skin was as cool as ice but still made his blood rush warm. He must have made an expression, because the pale stranger smirked, amusement twinkling in their eyes as they looked down at him and put the papers somewhere within their coat.

“It was good to meet you, sir. Perhaps we will come across each other again one day.” With that, they turned heel and walked back the way they came, leaves softly crunching beneath their boots. The Gillie watched as they slowly vanished down the trail, too mesmerized by them to remember that he was cold. When at last he could see not even a speck of white in the distance, only then did he register the great numbness in his face, and how his fingers felt only moments from freezing off.

Shoving his hands into his now empty pockets, he began the journey back to his cottage, body already relishing the fire he would soon start while his mind lingered on the memory of violant eyes.

[fakedtales]

It’s Monday, it’s time for Casual Trek and today we’re embracing the cosmic horror that lurks under the surface of so much Star Trek.

Star Trek: The Original Series’ “Immunity Syndrome” brings us a space amoeba which drains the life force of everything around it. This sounds terrifying, especially as it starts with the destruction of a solar system’s worth of people. Can it keep up the terror when the main result is the crew getting sleepy? And how catty can Spock get with McCoy when they both want to be Kirk’s special boy and sacrifice themselves?

Star Trek: The Next Generation’s “Where Silence Has Lease” has a malevolent force in space who seems way too into killing the crew of the Enterprise. Is the best solution killing themselves first? Apparently so.

Enterprise’s “Impulse” gives us a very logical zombie apocalypse as some nearby asteroids give a Vulcan ship way too many feelings. Can the crew escape with their lives, especially as T’Pol’s showing signs of infection?

https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/casual-trek/episodes/A-Face-in-Space-e2l777j

[shut-up-danny-kun]

Looking for a fandom friend and beta reader - Star Trek TOS

I've been in the TOS fandom for a while, but I've mostly been lurking around. I write K/S now (my ao3) and feel like it's time for a beta reader.

I don't wanna go through the whole organic process of gaining mutuals and awkwardly trying to chat, so I've decided to just...make a dating profile???😅 For fandom??? SPEAK BACK TO ME, VOID!

If you don't mind, I'd love it if you reblogged to spread this post!

Danny ✨ (he/him) ✨ young adult ✨ big nerd

Need that special someone to obsess over Star Trek and Kirk/Spock with. It doesn't have to get personal, but I feel like it will. I prefer Discord for chatting.

Requirements:

18 and older. I have written smut and I plan to write more. No ceiling, but we'll click better if you're 18-25.

Must have a high level of English - for beta reading purposes. Use your own judgement.

Must be regularly available, by which I mean come online at least once every two weeks + be able to read a small amount of writing in that time.

Must have good vibes and correct opinions about K/S. I mean, there are no correct opinions...except for mine (I'm joking I'm JOKING), and you must agree with me! We will determine this by mutually studying each other's taste in memes, fanfic and headcanons. Must be able to provide a link to your AO3 account.

I don't care about anything else. DM me if you're interested 🖖

Fingers crossed...

[almalvo]

I been angry, but I am just pissed as sh1t rn let me be petty like?? So ima talk. After all this time, after seeing all I have seen, hearing all that I have heard, received all that I have received - Ima talk. Nuff silence; block me all you want but - Ima talk.

The "Star Trek" fandom is literally full of bullsh1t.

For a source material that speaks most largely on exploring strange NEW worlds, to SEEK out NEW life and NEW civilisations, to boldly go where no one has gone before... (though nothing is really new...) ... yall are just so nuzzled up and comfy over here in this hive echo-chamber you call a "fandom" because you can so easily and comfortably pervert the principle of differences and diversities in Star Trek so that you can surf the dunes of your own politicised, discriminatory, prejudiced, distorted delusional sandbox of what "freedom of speech" and "freedom of identity" and "liberty itself" (whatever tf THAT means lol) and what fake twitter/tumblr-sjw and chronically online "woke culture" look, sound, and feel like, gone most greatly uncontested because as soon as one person says or people say something, then they risk outting themselves for the same sh1t they pull in this "community", which would ultimately lead them to lose this sickening "freedom" that they cultivated for decades to say and be the sh1ttiest in a homogenised sh1tty social environment where they won't ever be conspicuous or scorned; to blend right in (worsening over time).

I been silently lurking around in this pop-culture space, observing for the better part of a year, and it's ALL I need to see more than enough - and what I seen is precisely why I stay the fvck a w a y from most all of you and do not involve myself with most activities or events (if any) being done - and if I do, I do so with utter self-awareness and caution. I been seeing what so many of yall doing and been doing. Whether you out here drawing strictly pink red-blooded Spock's; bleaching Uhura; being anti-SNW Uhura; accusing Spock to be anything near an anti-sem1tic symbol; forcing pressurised and uncomfortable messages to many artists over the years in their DMs completely unsolicited and unasked for without consent to make them draw Kirk the way you see yourself for your own restrictive agenda while completely disregarding the everything the artists say to you; talking about race theory when you don't even know what a hypothesis is; being a spokesperson for the population of people you have absolutely z e r o agency over; talking about or participating presumptuously or dismissively in subjects regarding identity that you have no idea about and don't investigate; using your identity as some kind of ticket of immutable correctness when you in fact still have to actually be correct; blindly believing and bandwagoning any ideas and social/emotional/political subjects without even at least questioning what it is that you are nodding your head to; refusing to do your part and put in the actual time and effort to do your own research into things that you dont actually truly understand; not admitting to your own ignorances; not having conversations with yourself and others in efforts to think learn and grow; not having the capacity to identify fault in yourself or actively recognising erroneous commentary elsewhere; being an utter bystander and doing nothing in the face of total ideological evil; being hypocritically super "identity-phobic" by using your own identity as some kind of justification and validating mouthpiece to push others beneath you to feed your insecure ego; being an unapologetic hypocrite at all; unchallenging the problematic nature of the environment around you or in even the people you know or talk to and encounter whether irl or online; committing to silence and performative activism for things that you should/need to care about; being lazy with caring; perverting social spaces in favour of your own unconditional freedom to harbour and flourish with your criminally bad takes and mentalities and ideologies where others around you will only be of the species to agree with you; thinking of Star Trek as just "oh next episode of entertainment oo ahh shiny shiny funny funny sad sad oo woke haha" instead of understanding that these things raised in the show are based in reality and are things to actually think about and reflect on regarding others AND YOURSELF and are not just solely thought-pieces for entertainment value; detaching the relevance of what you should've understood and learned from "woke" media to the real world/vicinity around you offline or online as two NOT-mutually-exclusive things...

... how so many of you art people drawing even caucasian people with skin that aint just white but like white white like an office drywall - like where all the blood at? god you must really hate colour that much dont you damn; how none of yall ever out here complaining about how restricted and problematic it is on multiple levels that only japanese people are constantly the MAIN group from all of asia that show up at all in Star Trek fr - and liking TOS/AOS Uhura only actually because of how close/how she compares and contrasts to WHITE beauty standards and not cuz yall really think they are beautiful for who they as bipoc/black women are without that prejudiced caucasian perspective (and I BET you so many of yall dont even KNOW you're doing it cuz you are so subconsciously conditioned to think and upkeep and pursue eurocentrism by society...) (wont say more for now...) I see you.

I never expected much of anything from a community of something I newly entered in not so long ago, because I know the world is not great and I seen too many fandoms to be pretty trashy (with very very VERY few exceptions - like a good percentage of BTS Army lol and I aint even really into kpop) But I think it hurts most when it is for something that I value so much, so deeply - That this fandom is a sham. That it is often the very antithesis of what birthed it. That it is just a guise for fools to use to live in problematic peace.

Such a critical portion of yall at this point for who knows how long these last 57 years are really just appropriating characters like Spock cuz IDIC is fvcked.

"Trekkie" is nigh equivalent to a moniker of insult by the rabid sickness of thought I see being pedaled everywhere by so many, many of you.

And that sheer lack of shame.

Not all, but I never said all. Of course there are exceptions. But don't let this ^ make you feel comfortable.

Because it's undeniable that so many of yall just dont care.

Just dont care. Complacy's a fvckn disease.

Like why the fvck am I here? How could I endure and strenuously press-on in such an insufferable place?

Because I ain't here for you. I am here for what brought me here and any who uphold thus to be true and just.

I love Star Trek.

But I hate to be thought of as a Trekkie.

Not while it stays the label it has become and will remain for long. Egregious. I grieve for the contributions and dedication and original vision that the greats like Mr. Nimoy and others had graced this pioneering of human creation with that have been so marred and abused.

I grieve for Star Trek.

I grieve.

To any and all who read through this entire thing and feel the fire of anger as I do against all that is so terribly misled and lost - do.

To any and all who read through this all the way and felt embarrassment, humiliation, shame - feel it. Admit it. Learn from it.

And grow the fvck up.

[the-blossica-fan]

My ideas for Fall's personality is either,

1. Similar to APPLe's

1. Mr. Reca

That is to say, either a full on gentleman, or a person who would look at Sotheby building a Lego cauldron and go "BRILLIANT! STUNNING! ABSOLUTELY MARVELLOUS!"

The second is funnier to me lol

Sophia did NOT join the Manus just to get praised by someone named Peter Kirk, but where we are 😭

Sophia: So, I have this idea to destroy the foundation members lurking around-

Fall: MAGNIFICENT!! you're always so smart and ready to work!!!

Sophia: ...Thanks Peter Kirk.

Sophia can't take them seriously but they're the number one source of praise for her so she's just like "Thanks Peter Kirk" with a deadpanned voice.

What is her life?

[tarrenterror25]

thoughts no one asked for but my mind has no mouth and must scream

Alfred Pennyworth x Vampire!F!Reader

Rating: M

Word Count: 2.1K

Tags: horror, mentions of experimentation/chemicals, medical stuff, vampirism, blood, side effects of vampirism, victims of vampirism, blood withdrawal, biting, found family

Notes: This has bounced around in my head for awhile (as with most of my thoughts) and finally I had a breakthrough with it! Not only do I love vampires, but it was inspired by me thinking about how Alfred might be with someone who needs a different kind of taking care of from the standard illness and cuts and bruises. I hope you guys like it! I wrote most of this in one sitting and it's been in the drafts for awhile so I'm finishing it up, but it's not super cleaned up or anything, just wanted to get it out the drafts finally.

Line in the moodboard is from "I'm Not A Vampire" by Falling in Reverse.

Was it desperation?

Was it curiosity?

Were you looking for a cure of some kind? Jealous of whatever breakthrough he was on the verge? Were you merely clumsy and contaminated yourself?

Whatever the reason was didn't matter anymore. All you know is that you should not have messed with Kirk Langstrom's work.

It changed you.

Altered you.

God, it felt like fire under your skin, in your bones. It's was like you could feel the change brewing in your insides, your blood raced through your body and you could hear it. Your pulse throbbed at the points and it felt like hammers pounding.

You went home hoping to take a few days and get over your sickness, but it only progressed. For days you were sweating, coughing, not keeping any food down, and your body was constantly cramping making you fold and want to cave in on yourself. You asked yourself if this is what dying felt like, you were in so much pain. After a week, you caved, you picked up your phone to call for help. Just before you could finish dialing the emergency number, you blacked out.

When you woke up, you found yourself in a dark alley laying on the damp ground. You sat up and found yourself covered in blood; it was on your hands, your clothes and....your chin.

A bloodied and mangled body lay next to you.

And then the Batman showed up.

You were hysterical when he found you and he explained that you had been on the hunt for weeks now, feeding on the citizens of Gotham, lurking in the shadows, and evading him. You thought he would hurt you, arrest you, but what you didn't expect was for him to help you up and take you back to his home.

The Batman, Bruce Wayne, was and is still convinced he can help you, cure you, it'll just take some time, until then you've been at Wayne Tower recovering from your prolonged frenzied episode of draining Gothamites of their blood.

Enter Alfred Pennyworth.

When Bruce brought you to his home, he set you on a table in the batcave and the butler set aside his cane and immediately rolled up his sleeves to get to work on you.

The first few days at the Wayne home were tough; Alfred watched over you since Bruce was busy moonlighting as a vigilante. The butler set you up in a guest room to recover.

He kept a journal on a nearby end table in your room where he would take notes on your condition. He asked you standard medical questions, jotted down some observations, it was all very clinical and made you feel like....well, like a monster.

"Is...all of that really necessary?" you ask from where you sit up in the bed. "Well, if we are to cure you, then yes," Alfred replies matter of factly. "How come you never ask me anything else?" "What do you mean?" he asks placing his hands behind his back and looking to your curiously. "Like...how my day is? Or about the weather? Just...normal stuff." His brow quirks up a bit and he closes the journal, removing his glasses as he looks to you. He says, "Miss, you have been in this room for the past few days and as the one tasked with watching over you, I know very well how your day is and as for the weather, Gotham isn't known for its varying climate apart from the rain and fog, so not exactly a riveting topic." You actually chuckle at his snark and he smiles seeing that you take to his style of humor. "Then I'll ask about you then," you say.

From then, Alfred would come in, take his notes and make sure to sit with you to chat with you about...well, anything.

As for your vampirism, Bruce and Alfred were able to make note of your symptoms and condition: No sunlight. It won't disintegrate you like in the movies, but some component from Langstrom's formula made you susceptible to it. It hurts the hell out of your eyes, like they'll melt right out of their sockets and it makes your skin crawl, like a violent itch that's inside you. Artificial lights are okay, but it still hurts your eyes so Alfred keeps the curtains drawn in your room and tries to keep the rest of the home dimly lit if you're up and about. This does mean you've become a bit of a night owl. They found that you can see much better in the dark than the average human. In fact, all of your senses were heightened, not to superhuman levels, but far more than the average person. Also, yes, you indeed had fangs. They ache when you hunger and elongate. When they aren't out, they are still quite prominent in your mouth. You practice in the mirror talking in a way that doesn't bare them too much.

You don't have super strength, but you're stronger than you should be. Alfred came into your room and discovered "claw" marks on the wood floors. This was during the end of your first week when your withdrawal was setting in.

Blood.

Bruce and Alfred discovered that unfortunately you needed a sizeable intake of human blood in order to stay sane and lucid otherwise you would frenzy again. The pair was doing all they could to find a decent substitute, but you couldn't keep any of it down.

Finally, Bruce had to cave, you couldn't take it anymore and you needed sustenance. He left to retrieve something for you from the local blood bank. Alfred stayed beside you until Bruce could return.

You skin is clammy, sweat covering your body, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head as the will to stay conscious and sane threatens to leave you. It's Alfred sitting in the bed with you, holding you, cradling you to him, telling you to fight your urge just a little longer that helps you stay lucid. You weakly wrap your arms around him, in tears because your body aches terribly, your teeth hurt, the root of your fangs throbbing in your gums as they beg to come out and tear into flesh. "I..I can't," you weakly say. "Yes," he says firmly as he holds you against him hoping to stifle your trembling body. "Yes, you can, just hold on a little longer." You look up at him with half lidded eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, Alfred," you plead softly. "You won't," he says firmly. The conviction in his voice, the trust he places in you wills you to hold out just that much longer. Finally, Bruce returns with sustenance for you.

Fast forward to now.

It's deemed that you aren't safe to leave the home unless it's an emergency. Bruce just doesn't want anything to happen to you or anyone else. He's not sure how tempted your condition will be to harm an innocent.

When he's able, Bruce continues working on a cure for you. In the meantime, he has finally managed to make a synthetic blood substitute for you so no more runs to the blood bank.

Alfred came to terms that you would be living with them for awhile so he's taken it upon himself to try and make you more comfortable with your condition.

You have a special part of the fridge dedicated to you. Alfred helps concoct the blood mixture and puts it into drink pouches that conceal the contents. And he was the one who suggested to Bruce to add flavor to them.

He's bought you black out curtains for your room and did his best to soundproof it a little so you won't hear him when he's bustling about doing his chores or work while you sleep.

Since he's the only person you really get to see, the two of you have grown quite close, like really close.

Alfred can't stay up for very long once the sun goes down, but he tries to for you. Since you can't really go anywhere, he's done his best to bring entertainment to you. It's become a hobby to sit on the couch together in the parlor and watch movies complete with popcorn and box candy, well, for Alfred anyways.

Human food was tricky now. Consuming it was off the table. You learned this when tried to scarf down a plate of food Alfred brought to you. It only took some ten minutes before it unceremoniously came back up. It left you in agony for a couple of days. Even tasting it was hard because it made you gag, but you could smell it. Despite not being able to consume it, you asked Alfred to teach you a few things around the kitchen.

You're a decent match at chess and since the two of you have nothing but time, you've convinced him to partake in other board/card games. There's a scoreboard on the fridge with tally marks under the three of you for each of your respective wins at Uno.

You asked Alfred if you could dive into the collection of books in the library since you're up alone at night with nothing to do. He happily obliges and eventually it becomes part of your routine for him to read to you in the morning. He wakes up, gets his morning coffee and eats breakfast just as you settle into bed for sleep. He comes to sit by your side and reads a few pages to you until you sleep.

Cooking, reading, gardening, games, and even some Batman related research, all things you and Alfred started doing together.

You physiology changed and you're kinda curious if...everything else works the same.

It does.

While sitting outside with you, soaking up the moonlight, Alfred looks at you for what feels like a minute too long to be any normal look. You find yourself glancing over at him more than usual, thighs pressing together when he gets close to you.

Alfred started off as being wary of you, but the more time he spends with you, he sees just another person, no matter the "how", a victim of circumstance. It ignites his need and desire to protect. And his kindness towards you where others would be scared has attracted you to him.

When the two of you finally admitted feelings and took things further, that's where it gets dicey.

Your first kiss with Alfred had the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as soon as his lips met yours and when his hand gently found its way to your waist you had to firmly push him away.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he says. "I've crossed a line haven't I?" You just stare at him, your hand still on his chest. Some hypotheticals churn in your mind before you grasp the front of his pressed shirt and tie and pull him to you for another kiss, a little more passion this time. He's taken aback by the strength with which you pull him to you, but responds to you. As soon as his tongue meets yours, you push him back again, hang your head and shake it. "No," you say with a sigh. "Can't do that." It was...awkward to explain to Alfred that your uh, feelings down below made you feel other things as well. "It feels the same like...like when I'm hungry. Like...really hungry," you explain. "I understand," he says with a soft smile and takes your hand in his. "We'll take it slow for now? How does that sound?"

Taking it slow was...difficult.

The two of you spent more time together, did more together, and never went past a chaste kiss or a warm embrace, but in your bones you wanted more. It was started to burn you like fire.

Even when the two of you graduated to soft touches and caresses, your heart pounded fervently. You needed more, but if you became too passionate you'd frenzy. But the slow pace was agonizing and borderline felt like torture.

But Alfred's understanding; the two of you find other ways to satisfy your needs in a way that doesn't compromise either of your safeties.

You jokingly suggested wearing a gag to keep you from biting him and the two of you laughed, but then a silence fell between the two of you. You both looked at each other and blinked, silently both considering the idea.

Some days, Alfred feels thankful for your circumstance as being at the Wayne home can be lonely. He appreciates the extra company to entertain. There's a dysfunctional element to household, but it certainly is starting to feel like the makings of a family.

[midnightpia]

If Kirk Hammett was lurking around, do you think the lurk would be kirking around?

only if it’s perihelion day

[mentalmilkshakes]

[sourbites]

hiii!! i really loved “can’t tell you why” probably one of the best fanfics ive read in a while !!! can you please write more kirk smut, you are so good are setting a mood, and are such a talented writer!! friends to lovers would be cool, but anything you come up with is great too :)

thank you so much! i'm so happy that fic is getting loved :) and do not worry anon, i have a request for a kirk fic that i'm cooking up in my drafts right now! plus if you lurk real hard i answered another ask and mentioned shower sex with kirk (i havent even gotten around to writing it yet lol, but it's still in my noggin), so kirk nation will be getting fed sometime soon 🩷

[ironwitchpainter]

Star Trek: Planetary Perception and Pursuit, Episode 1: Artifacts of Memory

The transporter beam hums to life, and with a momentary disorientation, Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, and Dr. McCoy find themselves standing on the surface of a planet so untouched by Starfleet that it remains uncharted on their star maps. The strange readings that had drawn the Enterprise to this far-flung corner of the galaxy still resonate through their tricorders, an enigmatic siren's call beckoning them further into the alien wilderness.

The planet is a riot of colors that seem almost unreal under the light of its twin suns, casting a soft, golden glow across the landscape. The air is thick with the scent of unidentifiable flora, and the distant calls of creatures unknown to Earth echo through the dense forest that surrounds the clearing where they materialized. Kirk's allergies are already flaring up, his eyes watering and nose itching, but he waves away McCoy's concerned glance with a stoic nod.

Kirk looks around, the collar of his torn shirt fluttering in the gentle breeze. "Well, gentlemen," he says, his voice carrying the same mix of excitement and apprehension that thrums through his veins, "we're truly boldly going where no man has gone before." Spock raises an eyebrow, his stoicism a stark contrast to Kirk's boyish enthusiasm. "And probably where no one should go," McCoy adds dryly, checking the medical supplies in his kit.

With a final look at their surroundings, Kirk turns to his science officer. "Spock, what do your readings tell us?"

Captain, my initial scans indicate that this planet's biosphere is remarkably diverse and likely host to a vast array of new life forms. The energy readings we detected from orbit are emanating from approximately three kilometers north of our current position. I suggest we proceed with caution and investigate the source.

And I suggest we don't split up. Last time we did that, you two ended up wrestling with giant lizards and I had to play doctor to a bunch of scaled bruises. I'd like to keep our rendezvous with the Enterprise without adding any extra patients to my roster.

Bones, I appreciate your concern, but rest assured, we've learned from our previous... encounter. There won't be a repeat of the incident with the alien artifact on the ship. Spock and I have our phasers set to stun and we're sticking together like glue on a starship console. Now, let's move out. The sooner we find out what's causing those readings, the sooner we can report back and make sure the Enterprise doesn't end up with any more uninvited guests.

Moments ago, as the trio prepared to beam down to the planet's surface, the Enterprise had been breached by an enigmatic alien intruder. The creature, armed with a mysterious artifact that seemed to be the source of the odd energy readings, had targeted Captain Kirk in a swift and unprovoked assault. In the tense struggle that followed, Kirk's shirt had been ripped as he managed to overpower the alien. The creature was now securely contained in the brig, with Lieutenant Sulu and Lieutenant Uhura working tirelessly to uncover its species, origin, and the means by which it had managed to board their vessel undetected. The event had left the crew on high alert, and Kirk's thoughts were drawn back to the ship as they ventured into the uncharted wilderness. He knew that every second counted, not just in their current mission but in protecting the Enterprise from whatever forces might be lurking in the shadows of this unexplored world.

Unbeknownst to Kirk, the alien's intentions had been misunderstood. The artifact it wielded had not been designed for violence but for imparting knowledge and altering perceptions. As Kirk and his companions cautiously approached the source of the readings, the artifact's influence began to subtly seep into his consciousness. At first, the changes were imperceptible, but as they drew nearer, Kirk felt a peculiar tingling at the back of his neck, a sensation that grew stronger with each step. The vibrant colors of the planet seemed to intensify, the scents of the alien flora grew more potent, and the sounds of the indigenous creatures grew clearer, almost as if the barriers between him and the environment were dissolving. Yet, the captain remained focused on their mission, his curiosity piqued by the mysterious object that seemed to be whispering secrets only he could hear.

Captain, the readings are growing stronger. The source of the energy is definitely a structure of some kind, possibly a temple or research facility. It appears to be ancient, with technology that predates even the Vulcan archives. The significance of this find could be profound. However, I detect an unusual psychological effect on your readings. Are you experiencing any... abnormal sensations?

Jim, you're looking a bit peaked. Maybe we should slow down, let me check you over before we go any further.

Spock, keep an eye out for any traps or defensive mechanisms that could be triggered. And Bones, I'm fine. Just got a bit of an itch, probably the damn allergies acting up again. Let's keep moving. The sooner we find out what's going on here, the sooner we can get back to the ship and make sure she's safe.

(sighs) If you say so, Captain. But if you start hallucinating or sprouting new limbs, you're getting a full medical scan whether you like it or not.

Jim, I'm gonna slip you a hypospray with a mild antihistamine while you're not looking. It's for your own good, I swear. Can't have you turning into a sneezing, itchy mess out here. You know how these alien allergens can mess with your system. And if you're feeling any peculiar sensations from that artifact's energy, I'd rather you be as clear-headed as possible. Now, don't go getting all stubborn on me and say you don't need it. I've seen what happens when you ignore your health.

(smiles despite the discomfort) Thanks, Bones. I appreciate the concern, but I've got a feeling we're going to need our wits about us more than ever before. The whispers from that artifact are getting louder. It's like the planet itself is telling us something. Spock, any update on the structure ahead?

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet gives way, and with a loud crunch and a shower of dirt, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy plummet into a hidden pit. The walls are lined with ancient, vine-covered mechanisms that seem to react to their presence. The pit's depth is obscured by shadows, but the sound of something slithering in the darkness sends a shiver down their spines. The energy readings spike as the artifact's whispers crescendo into a cacophony, and Kirk's vision blurs as he feels a sudden rush of information flooding his mind. He gasps, clutching at his head, trying to make sense of the overwhelming influx of data. Spock's eyes widen as he processes the new readings.

(quickly administers the hypospray) Captain, hold still! This is for the best, I promise. And Spock, we've got company, or something's about to join us in this lovely little trap. We need to get out of here, and fast.

Indeed, Dr. McCoy. The structure's defenses have been activated. Our presence has likely triggered an alert system designed to capture intruders. The psychological effects on the captain are likely a byproduct of the artifact's defense mechanism. We must find a way to deactivate it before it causes irreparable harm to his cognitive functions.

(his voice strained, eyes glazed over) Spock... Bones... I... I'm not sure I can... (his legs buckle)

Spock, Bones... I'm... I'm not quite... here... right now. The whispers, they're overwhelming. I can't... can't stand. You're going to have to help me out of this... pit... and fast. The knowledge... it's... it's flooding me. We've stumbled into something... something incredible... and dangerous.

Captain, your readings are off the charts. The artifact's energy is interacting with your cerebral cortex in a way that suggests a direct transfer of information. It is imperative we extract ourselves from this situation and return to the ship for further analysis. Dr. McCoy, if you can stabilize the captain, I will attempt to find a way to disable the trap.

You're gonna have to give me more than that, Spock. What kind of information? And what the hell is happening to him?

Spock, while you're poking around with that fancy gizmo of yours, I'm going to scan the captain with my medical tricorder. It's got some nifty settings that might help us figure out what this alien tech is doing to his brain. Maybe we can get a better read on the situation if we combine our data. Hold on, Jim. This might tickle a bit.

He quickly pulls out his medical tricorder and runs it over Kirk's body, focusing on the captain's head. The device emits a soft beep as it captures various readings, which McCoy scrutinizes with a furrowed brow. The tricorder's display flickers with a multitude of unfamiliar symbols and patterns, indicating the alien nature of the energy coursing through Kirk's synapses.

Dr. McCoy, the artifact seems to be attempting to communicate with the captain on a telepathic level. It's likely that it perceives him as a threat and is attempting to neutralize him with an overload of information. If we can disable the artifact, we may be able to prevent further harm. However, I caution that any interaction with the alien technology could be risky.

Spock methodically inspects the vine-covered walls, his Vulcan logic working overtime to discern a pattern or weakness in the trap's design. His own curiosity is piqued by the sudden influx of knowledge, but his primary concern remains the welfare of his captain and his friend.

As a Vulcan, I am also experiencing a telepathic intrusion, but it is less intense than the captain's. It appears that my species' natural mental defenses are partially effective against this technology. However, this does not diminish the urgency of our situation. The captain's mental state is deteriorating rapidly. If we do not act soon, the consequences could be dire.

Spock, I've got the tricorder on you now, and even with my medical expertise, half of what I'm seeing is gibberish! This tech is way beyond Starfleet's medical databases. We need Uhura's linguistic skills down here to make heads or tails of this. Can you patch her in, maybe get her to translate some of these symbols?

Dr. McCoy, while your suggestions are appreciated, I must insist that we focus on the task at hand. The captain's condition is critical. If we are to have any hope of deciphering this ancient technology and escaping this trap, we require absolute concentration. I am having trouble concentrating with the constant interruptions and discussion. I recommend you attend to the captain's immediate needs while I attempt to disable the mechanism. Communicate only when necessary, and refrain from engaging in speculative conversations.

If Spock's mind is being thrown into a loop by this thing, then we're in deeper trouble than I thought. That Vulcan noggin of his is supposed to be a fortress against mental intrusion. If it's giving him grief, then we're all in for a rough ride. But we've got to keep it together, for the captain's sake. Jim, can you hear me? We're going to get you out of this, buddy. Just hang on.

The "company" they were expecting arrives with a thunderous crash, as a group of the planet's native creatures emerge from the dense foliage surrounding the pit. These beings, bipedal and covered in a thick fur that matches the vibrant colors of the flora, peer down at the stranded trio with curiosity in their large, expressive eyes. They hold crude, yet surprisingly effective-looking weapons, which they point in the direction of the newcomers. It is clear that these are the inhabitants who have been alerted by the trap's activation. They chatter among themselves in a language that seems to resonate with the very air, their voices harmonizing with the whispers of the artifact.

(his voice strained, eyes glazed over) I... I can see them, Bones. The creatures... their fur, their weapons... they're... they're unlike anything I've ever encountered. And their speech... it's... it's... I can almost... almost understand it. The whispers, they're giving me... glimpses of their history, their culture... but their words... still just sounds. I need to focus, to make sense of it all. Spock, can you communicate with them? Maybe they can help us disable this... this prison.

Captain, my own mental defenses are being compromised. However, I shall attempt to establish a basic telepathic link. (He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, focusing his thoughts.) The creatures are indeed sentient and seem to recognize the artifact's power. They may be guardians of this place. Dr. McCoy, please continue to monitor the captain's condition and prepare for potential medical intervention if necessary.

Spock opens his eyes and, with a great effort, projects a sense of peace and inquiry towards the alien beings. The creatures pause in their agitated state, and their leader, a creature with a prominent crest of fur, tilts its head as if listening to an unspoken language.

As the fur-covered aliens gaze down at Kirk, their thoughts seem to coalesce into a coherent, if still alien, pattern. Their language, it becomes apparent, is not something that can be learned or translated in the traditional sense. It is a symphony of emotions and images, interwoven with the very fabric of their consciousness. The captain's own mind, overwhelmed by the artifact's telepathic barrage, can't quite grasp the full complexity of their speech. Yet, through the haze of information, he feels a glimmer of understanding, a connection that defies the limitations of mere words.

Spock, with his Vulcan mental discipline and eidetic memory, begins to dissect the alien language, piece by piece. Each syllable is a puzzle, a cryptic code that his mind unravels with methodical precision. He starts to perceive the underlying structure, the nuances of thought and emotion that weave through their speech. It is a task that would take a human linguist years, but for Spock, it is a challenge he embraces with the cool determination of his logical nature. His mind adapts, evolving at a pace that would astonish any Earth-bound scholar. In a matter of moments, he becomes as fluent in their tongue as if he had been born among them, the words flowing through his thoughts as naturally as the Federation Standard he speaks with such ease.

The conversation between Spock and the aliens is indeed confusing, not because of a lack of understanding, but rather due to the sheer complexity and depth of their communication. It is as if they speak in metaphors that unfold into vast narratives, each one a tapestry of history, culture, and scientific knowledge. The aliens' words are not just sounds, but a direct conduit to their minds, revealing a world of meaning beyond the captain's comprehension. Yet, despite the initial befuddlement, Spock's Vulcan intellect begins to make sense of their discourse, bridging the gap between their species with his newfound linguistic prowess.

(his voice calm despite the chaos in his thoughts) Captain, the creatures claim to be the custodians of this place. They are curious about our intentions and are willing to assist us if we can convince them of our peaceful nature. The artifact's whispers have granted me a rudimentary understanding of their language. I will attempt to communicate our peaceful intentions and seek their help in disabling the trap.

(his voice rising with urgency) Spock, tell these creatures that the captain is in dire need of medical attention! This... this telepathic overload could kill him if we don't get him out of here soon! We're not here to fight or steal their secrets, just to understand and learn!

The aliens' eyes widen at McCoy's outburst, their fur bristling in what could be interpreted as alarm or curiosity. The leader of the group lowers its weapon slightly, its gaze switching between McCoy and Kirk, who now lies unconscious at the bottom of the pit. The creature's thoughts pulse with concern and a hint of something that feels almost like compassion.

(his voice echoes with urgency and desperation) We come in peace! Our captain is in grave danger! This artifact, it's... it's overwhelming him! We need your help! We need to disable this trap and get him to safety! He's a good man, a leader, and if we don't get him out of here soon, he won't be able to lead us anywhere!

The alien leader seems to understand the gravity of the situation, and it shares a silent, intense look with its companions. The group huddles together, their weapons now lowered, as if conferring about the strangers' fate. After a tense moment, the leader raises its hand, signaling for the others to stand down. It then points a fur-covered digit at Kirk and makes a series of sounds that, to Spock's newfound understanding, translates to a question about the nature of the artifact's effect on the captain.

Spock quickly relays McCoy's message, his own thoughts a tumult of Vulcan logic and the alien language that now flows through his mind. The fur-covered beings exchange looks, their expressions unreadable to human eyes, but their thoughts resonate with a mix of wariness and empathy. The leader finally nods, a gesture that seems to convey understanding.

One of the creatures jumps into the pit with surprising agility, its fur blending seamlessly with the shadows. It approaches Kirk, its weapon now held loosely at its side. It extends a hand to the unconscious captain, and as it touches him, a gentle glow emanates from its palm. The whispers in Kirk's mind begin to recede, the flood of alien knowledge momentarily abated. The creature seems to be accessing Kirk's thoughts, searching for any sign of hostility or deceit.

With a sudden, decisive movement, the alien leader reaches out and presses one of the glowing symbols on the pit's wall. The vines retreat, revealing a hidden door that opens with a ponderous groan. The door leads into a corridor that stretches into the dark, the ancient stone walls etched with symbols that pulse with a faint light. The aliens beckon to Spock and McCoy, indicating that they should follow. With the captain still unconscious, McCoy slings him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and together, the trio of Starfleet officers and their newfound companions go down the tunnel that has been revealed.

Spock, I'm not sure how much longer I can carry him like this. And we're still trapped underground, in a place that's playing havoc with his mind and my medical tricorder. We've got to find a way out, and fast. And what about the ship? If that artifact's energy is affecting us this badly, who knows what it's doing to the rest of the crew?

Dr. McCoy, I am analyzing the telepathic emanations. The artifact's influence is indeed strong, but it seems to be localized to this immediate area. The creature's intervention has allowed us a temporary reprieve. We must find the artifact's control mechanism and disable it before it can cause further harm to the captain.

The corridor opens into a chamber, the air thick with the scent of ancient knowledge and forgotten wisdom. The walls are lined with what appear to be crystalline panels, each one humming with an eerie light that seems to resonate with the whispers in Kirk's mind. The aliens move with purpose, their eyes scanning the room for any sign of the artifact's control.

Meanwhile, on the ship, the Enterprise is in a state of controlled chaos. The crew, unaware of the captain's telepathic entanglement, is busy dealing with the aftermath of the alien intrusion. Sulu and Uhura are piecing together the alien ship's trajectory, trying to deduce its origin, while Scotty works tirelessly in engineering to repair the damage. The intruder is secured in the brig, but the artifact it brought with it remains a mystery. The whispers of the planet's energy have not reached the ship, but the tension is palpable as the crew waits for Kirk, Spock, and McCoy to return.

On the ship, one of the scientists, Dr. Marcus, is examining the artifact closely. Surrounded by a team of her peers, she is meticulously scanning the object with every piece of equipment at her disposal. The artifact lies on a table in the science lab, emitting a faint, pulsing glow that seems to resonate with the very air around it. The scientists are fascinated yet wary, discussing in hushed tones the potential of the technology before them. They're aware of the captain's mission and the risks it entails, and they're eager to learn from the artifact without triggering any of its defenses. Each beam of light from their instruments bounces off the artifact's surface, revealing layers of complex circuitry that seem to dance and shift as if alive. Dr. Marcus, a young and curious xenobiologist, can't help but feel a thrill of discovery mixed with a touch of fear.

Suddenly, Dr. Marcus's eyes widen as she feels a peculiar sensation wash over her. The whispers that Kirk experienced on the planet begin to echo in her mind, though faintly. She stumbles back from the table, dropping her scanner, as the alien knowledge seeps into her consciousness. Her colleagues look on in alarm, their chatter dying down as they watch her grasp her head, struggling to maintain her footing. The room seems to tilt around her, and she catches glimpses of images and concepts that are utterly foreign to her understanding. The artifact's power is reaching out, touching her mind despite the distance.

As the whispers grow stronger, Dr. Marcus realizes she has established a telepathic connection with Captain Kirk. His fragmented thoughts and the overwhelming alien data intertwine with her own, creating a bizarre and confusing mental landscape. She sees through his eyes, feels the weight of the alien knowledge pressing down on him, and shares his desperation to escape the trap. The connection is tenuous and painful, but it is there, a lifeline that might just be their only hope for survival. Gritting her teeth, she forces herself to focus, to push through the chaos and find a way to help.

Despite the malfunction of their communicators, a new form of connection has been forged between Dr. Marcus and Captain Kirk. The alien artifact's energy has created an unexpected telepathic bridge between them, allowing for a limited exchange of thoughts and emotions. This unprecedented link enables her to understand the urgency of their situation and the need to disable the artifact's control mechanism. She quickly informs the rest of the ship's crew, who are equally astonished and concerned by this turn of events. The bridge crew, under the command of Mr. Sulu, scrambles to devise a plan to assist the captain and his party from orbit. The whispers of the planet's energy resonate within the starship, hinting at a deeper mystery that has yet to be unraveled.

Dr. Marcus, now at the forefront of the crisis, gathers her team of scientists around the smaller artifact in the science lab. They know that the whispers are a sign of an ancient defense mechanism, one that has been triggered by their very presence. With Kirk's life hanging in the balance, they must find a way to disable the larger artifact on the planet. Their eyes dart over the alien technology, searching for a clue, a pattern, anything that might give them an advantage. They hypothesize that the smaller artifact could be a key or a control device for its larger counterpart. They decide to attempt a controlled power surge through the smaller artifact, hoping to overload the system and disable the trap from afar. It's a risky maneuver, but with the captain's mental state deteriorating, they have little choice but to proceed with caution and hope for the best.

(his voice weak, yet filled with determination) Bones, Spock... I'm... I'm still with you. I can feel... the whispers... fading. The creatures... they're... they're trying to help. We need to... to get to the... the control mechanism. It's... it's here. I can feel it. We're so close.

The alien guardians, sensing the urgency of Kirk's words, lead the trio deeper into the subterranean structure. The walls whisper with secrets of a lost civilization, and the air is thick with anticipation. Kirk's allergies have subsided, but the alien knowledge still weighs heavily upon him, a burden that he must bear for the sake of his crew. The group arrives at a chamber with a pedestal at its center, upon which rests a crystal orb, pulsing with the same energy that suffuses the artifact. The creatures gesture to the orb, their thoughts clear: this is the heart of the trap.

Spock, if we can't communicate with these beings in a way that doesn't end up with us all in a telepathic coma, then maybe we've got to take a more... direct approach. That artifact's trying to turn the captain's brain into Swiss cheese! So, let's not mince words here. If we can't talk our way out of this, then we might just have to smash it. We're in a race against time, and the prize is keeping Jim's gray matter intact!

Dr. McCoy, I am attempting to ascertain the proper protocol for disabling the artifact without causing further damage. These creatures are invaluable as guides, and their understanding of the technology may be critical to our success. However, I concede that we must proceed with haste. Kirk's condition is precarious, and the longer we remain here, the greater the risk to the entire crew.

The alien leader seems to sense the urgency in Spock's thoughts and motions for them to approach the pedestal. It places a hand on the crystal orb, and the room's light dims as if the very energy of the structure is focusing on this spot. The whispers become a cacophony, and Kirk feels the pressure on his mind increase, but the creature's touch seems to be anchoring him, keeping the deluge of knowledge at bay.

Aboard the Enterprise, Dr. Marcus and her team of scientists, with the guidance of the ship's AI, calculate the precise amount of power needed to safely overload the smaller artifact. The room is tense as they make their final preparations. The whispers from the planet are now a constant presence, a background drone that's hard to ignore. Dr. Marcus takes a deep breath, her eyes closed as she tries to maintain her mental balance amidst the alien thoughts. She nods to her colleagues, and with a flick of a switch, they initiate the power surge. The smaller artifact in the science lab emits a high-pitched whine, its light pulsing rapidly before stabilizing into a single, intense beam that shoots into the ceiling. The connection between Kirk and Dr. Marcus feels stronger, the whispers clearer, as if the energy is being channeled through the starship.

On the planet, the crystal orb flutters with the incoming energy surge. The alien guardians tense, their thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and anticipation. Kirk's vision blurs as the whispers crescendo, and he can feel the artifact's control loosening its grip on his mind. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and touches the orb. The connection is instant, a torrent of alien data and instructions flooding into his consciousness. It's as if the whispers have become a howl, a deafening roar that threatens to drown him in its depths.

The guardians' thoughts reveal the location of the off switch, a concept that seems so simple yet profound in the face of the ancient technology. Kirk's hand, guided by the aliens' mental instructions, finds a small, unassuming stone panel beside the pedestal. It's hidden, almost as if it doesn't belong. He presses it firmly, feeling the chamber's energy shift around him. The whispers begin to subside, the pressure on his mind lessening. The vines that had held them captive retreat into the walls, and the ground beneath them trembles as the trap deactivates.

As the telepathic connection with the aliens fades away, Kirk realizes the profound implications of their loss. These beings had once thrived on the very whispers that had nearly consumed him, their society intricately woven with the fabric of the artifact's power. Now, with their lifeline to that power severed, they are left mute, unable to communicate as they once had. Their eyes, filled with a mix of relief and sorrow, meet his, and he knows that they understand the gravity of what has occurred. Their world has changed irrevocably in an instant, and they are as lost as he was moments ago.

(his voice steady, despite the turmoil of emotions around him) Captain, the artifact's control over you is weakening. The telepathic link with the creature on the ship is also diminishing. The risk to you and the crew is decreasing, but we must find a way to safely retrieve you and Dr. McCoy.

(his voice firm, though strained) Let's just... let's just walk out of here. I think I remember the way, from the information that was... was implanted in my mind. The whispers are fading, but the path is still clear. We need to move quickly before the effects wear off completely. Spock, tell Dr. Marcus and the others that the artifact is disarmed. The whispers will cease, and we're coming back to the ship.

(his hands moving deftly over his communicator) Understood, Captain. I am attempting to adjust the frequency of our communicators to penetrate the planet's subterranean interference. The device is not designed for such conditions, but I am applying a modification that may allow us to maintain contact with the Enterprise. Stand by for further instructions.

(his voice calm and focused) Dr. Marcus, this is Spock. The captain has successfully deactivated the artifact's control mechanism. The telepathic whispers are subsiding. However, we are still unable to communicate with the ship directly. We require immediate extraction. Please coordinate with Mr. Sulu to transport us back to the Enterprise as soon as it is safe to do so. Kirk's condition remains critical, and we must act swiftly.

The alien guardians, now free from the artifact's control, watch with a mix of curiosity and trepidation as Kirk and McCoy stumble out of the chamber, the weight of the alien knowledge still heavy upon them. The creatures seem to understand the gravity of the situation and help guide the humans back through the corridors. Their eyes are filled with a newfound respect for these strange beings who have freed them from the whispers that had bound them for so long.

(his voice filled with disbelief and frustration) Spock, what in the seven hells do you mean we can't contact the ship directly? I thought I heard you talking to them just a minute ago! If that thing's got us cut off from the Enterprise, we're in more trouble than a duck in a tornado!

Dr. McCoy, I have modified my communicator in an attempt to tap into the telepathic connection established with Dr. Marcus. However, the link is deteriorating rapidly. We must reach the surface and signal the ship manually. The captain's condition is precarious, and we cannot afford further delays. The alien creatures are assisting us in navigating back to our landing site.

The trio, guided by the alien guardians, hastily makes their way through the ancient corridors, the air thick with the fading whispers of the artifact's power. The path seems eerily familiar to Kirk, as if the very stones themselves are guiding him back to the surface. His thoughts are a jumble of human and alien knowledge, a disorienting blend of his own memories and the whispers of a lost civilization. Finally, they arrive at the same clearing to which they had been transported earlier, the same spot where the Enterprise had beamed them down. The sky above is a swirl of vibrant colors, a stark contrast to the shadowy depths from which they emerged.

Spock, we can't just stand here and hope they'll find us. We need to send up a flare or something. Maybe we could use the alien tech we've got to signal the ship, some kind of beacon or a light show that'll cut through the atmosphere. And if that doesn't work, I'm not above waving my arms like a lunatic on a cloudy night. We've got to let them know we're alive and where we are before the captain's condition worsens.

Indeed, Dr. McCoy. However, I must advise against any rash actions. The artifact's energy could be unpredictable. We should remain cautious and attempt to communicate through established protocols first.

As Dr. McCoy suggests a more proactive approach, Spock reminds them of the need for caution. The established protocols for signaling the ship in the case of communication failure typically involve using the emergency beacon on their communicators, which are designed to cut through most forms of interference. However, given the unique nature of the artifact's energy, even this may be compromised. The alien technology they have in their possession could serve as an alternative, but they must first understand its workings to avoid triggering any further defenses or causing harm to the delicate balance of the planet. The alien guardians, sensing their urgency, bring forth a device that appears to be a communication tool of their own. It's unlike anything they've seen before, a crystalline structure that seems to resonate with the very air around it. The creatures manipulate it with an elegance that suggests deep familiarity, and it emits a pulse of light that shoots into the sky, piercing the swirling colors and disappearing into the stars. The Enterprise's transporters are calibrated to detect such anomalies, and it's their best hope of being located swiftly.

Aboard the Enterprise, the bridge crew is on high alert. The sudden surge of power from the artifact had caused a momentary disturbance in the ship's systems, and they had felt the telepathic echoes of Kirk's distress. Dr. Marcus, her eyes still glazed from the lingering connection, reports the successful deactivation of the artifact to the bridge. Mr. Sulu nods gravely, immediately ordering a search pattern for the captain and his party. The ship's sensors scan the planet's surface, searching for any sign of the missing officers.

The crystalline pulse reaches the Enterprise, and the bridge lights up with alerts. The transporters lock onto the signal, and Mr. Sulu, with a look of relief, initiates the beam-up sequence. On the planet, the three officers feel the familiar tingle of the transporter, and before they can fully process what's happening, they're enveloped in a shimmer of light. The alien landscape blurs and fades away, replaced by the stark white of the Enterprise's transporter room.

(his voice firm and unyielding) Spock, Captain Kirk is in no condition to argue, and neither are you. You both need to be in sickbay, and that's an order. We've got a lot of work to do to make sure the whispers don't do any lasting damage. And if I have to drag you there myself, I will. No debating, no Vulcan logic, no "but Captain, I'm fine" nonsense. We're going. Now.

(his gaze on Kirk, a rare show of concern) Dr. McCoy is correct. The captain's mental state is unstable, and my own exposure to the artifact requires examination. I shall accompany him to sickbay for a full medical evaluation.

Upon their immediate return to the Enterprise, Dr. McCoy wastes no time in escorting Captain Kirk and Spock to sickbay. The medical bay is a flurry of activity as the doctor barks orders at

Upon their immediate return to the Enterprise, Dr. McCoy wastes no time in escorting Captain Kirk and Spock to sickbay. The medical bay is a flurry of activity as the doctor barks orders at the medical staff to prepare for a trio of patients. He's visibly concerned for Kirk, who is still visibly reeling from the telepathic assault. McCoy's voice is firm but tinged with urgency as he directs the nurses to run full neurological and psychological scans on all three of them. He wants to ensure that the alien whispers haven't caused any lasting damage to their brains.

The sickbay's atmosphere is a stark contrast to the serene alien landscape they've just left behind. The sterile white walls and the hum of medical equipment serve as a harsh reminder of the reality they've returned to. Kirk, his eyes still glazed over, is helped onto a biobed, the alien whispers slowly fading from his mind. Spock, ever stoic, takes his place next to him, allowing the medical staff to attach sensors to his forehead. The alien creatures' device is placed on a separate biobed, its crystalline form glinting under the harsh light, a silent witness to the extraordinary events that have transpired.

The results of the scans come back almost immediately. The medical readouts show that Kirk's brainwaves are erratic, a jumbled mess of human and alien patterns. The whispers have left a clear imprint on his neural pathways, and the extent of the damage is not yet fully understood. Dr. McCoy frowns as he reviews the data, his eyes darting back and forth across the screens. Spock's scans reveal a similar, though less pronounced, pattern of disrupted neural activity. Despite their Vulcan resilience, even he is not immune to the artifact's influence. The alien device remains a mystery, but it's clear that it has played a significant role in the recent events.

I appreciate your concern, Dr. McCoy. However, I assure you that my Vulcan training in meditation and mental discipline will enable me to restore order to my neural pathways. The whispers, while disturbing, are a mere aberration in the grand tapestry of logic that governs my thoughts. I shall require solitude and time to achieve this, but I am confident that I will be fully recovered.

Spock, you're not getting off that easy. I know you Vulcans think you're made of pure reason, but you're not immune to trauma. We'll keep an eye on you, and if I see so much as a twitch of an eyebrow that's out of place, you're not leaving this bay until I say so. Now, let's focus on getting the captain back on his feet. Those whispers looked like they were about to turn his brain into scrambled eggs.

[1-800-free-oo-mox]

im too afraid of green blush spock and webtoon boyfriends kirk to ever look at tos stuff on tumblr ever. danger lurks around ever corner. be safe

[weshallc]

Bern's Night

Chapter Two: The Bonnie Lad That's Far Awa"

“His Face With Smile Eternal Drest, Just Like The Landlord’s To His Guest’s, High As They Hang With Creaking Din, To Index Out The Country Inn.” Versicles On Sign-Posts by Robert Burns 1788.

"The Needle Returns to the Start of the Song, And We All Sing Along as Before." Nothing Ever Happens, Del Amitri 1989.

January 2020.

Fred Buckle clambered up from the cellar of the Crown Inn and perched his ample posterior on a bar stool, wiping his forehead with an old bar towel he used when helping Paddy exchange the old barrels for new. Violet tutted as she placed a sausage sandwich and a mug of tea on the bar in front of him.

“Sure you don’t want one, Paddy.”

“No, I am fine Vi, just a cuppa, cheers. I had breakfast with Bernie before she went on her rounds.”

“I will have another one, Violet.”

“I am sure you won’t, Reggie. You scoffed that back like there was no tomorrow. Doesn’t your uncle feed you?”

No one replied to this as everyone knew Violet fed them both, if not at the Crown, at either her home or Fred’s.

To spare Violet’s blushes, Fred began. “I have a little beauty brewing. Be just right for Burns Night, Doc.”

“Burns Night?” questioned Vi.

“Yep, soon comes around after Christmas, Vi. Be Valentines before we know it.”

He winked, and Vi wiped a cloth under Paddy’s mug and straightened the bar towel.

“Fred, I don’t think so, not this year, anyway.” Paddy added, trying not to look at Val, who was checking the mixer fridge with visibly shaking shoulders.

“But we always do a Burns Night. It’s tradition,” protested Fred.

“No, we haven’t done one for the last couple of years, Fred, not since Wilf took poorly.” Vi had regained her composure.

“Well, it’s about time we did again.” Fred was like a dog with a bone, or in this case, a sausage.

Val, also more composed now, looked at Vi, who was in turn looking at Paddy. Tim, who had been trying to clean all the chalk marks off the dart scoreboard under Evie’s instruction, looked at his mentor and they both moved closer to the bar.

“Look, I know, Bernie. She won’t be upset because her dad’s not here to do the twiddly bits. She wouldn’t still be in Poplar if she was worried about being reminded of her dad.”

“Always wondered why she was still in Poplar.” Tim smirked and Evie frowned at him deciding it was time to enlighten everyone.

“The reason we haven’t had a Burns Night since Reverend Wilf died is because we have no one to Address the Haggis.”

“Well, Mr T could do it,” Reggie chirped in as Paddy went pale.

“Yeah, you’ll like that boss,” Val added, “any excuse to slope off and leave me on my tod behind the bar. I presume birthday girl Lorraine Kelly Mannion  won’t be working either.”

Evie and Vi sighed in unison. “What?” said Val.

Paddy turned to her, but before he could speak, Val interrupted. “Don’t tell me you are scared of haggis, as well as alpacas.”

Tim, Reggie and a lurking Jack found this highly amusing, but Evie had had enough.

“No, it’s not that, it really should be a Scot that addresses the haggis. Otherwise it’s just not going to sound right, a bit like, well like when Captain Kirk sang Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

“Isn’t that your ringtone, Tim?” Jack smirked. Tim ignored him, as per se.

“Weezer doing Africa,” Val was beginning to understand.

“Miley Cyrus doing Nirvana,” Tim added, still ignoring Jack.

“But, Bernie is Scottish!” added Reggie optimistically .

“Yes, but it’s traditionally a man,” Vi said nervously.

“Oh, well, heaven forbid we bring Poplar into the 21st century,” Val cried. “How do you know all this anyway, you two?”

“We have been doing this for years. Wilf was a member of the Burns Society. Val, you were there at the last one we had. Must have been?” Violet explained.

“Oh, I was there alright, working behind the bar. Sorry if I didn’t have time to memorize ancient Scottish protocol while fighting off the thirsty English hoards.”

“Can we all just calm down?” Paddy sounded exasperated, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. “Look, I appreciate while Wilf was alive, and in Evie’s time we celebrated Burns Night.” He continued, a little firmer. “Me and Mazz tried to keep it going as long as Wilf was around, but he is gone. Let’s be honest, Wilf arranged everything. Even the piper was his mate from Kelso. Do you have his number Evie? I know I don’t.” The ex-landlady shook her head. “Come on, let’s admit it, we are just pissing in the wind.”

“Dad.”

“But it’s for Bernie. You do know it’s also her birthday?” Val said sulkily.

“Yes. I do know, and if I know Bernie, she would rather just go to the pictures and a Parmo, then all this fuss.”

“Would she really?” grumbled Val.

“Dad.”

“I do know how to prepare a good Burns supper, never had any complaints in all the years.” Vi sounded defeated.

“I brewed some ale specially.” Fred’s tone was flat in a way his beer never was.

“Dad.”

“Paddy is right. Burns Night was Wilf’s night and gave him a chance to show off without having to stand behind a pulpit.” Evie reminisced. “For one night only, he could be Wilf Mannion in a kilt and not Poplar’s vicar in a dog collar. If we can’t do it properly, we shouldn’t do it at all.” Evie nodded toward Paddy.

Thank you, he mouthed in return.

“Dad.”

“Does anyone else think we are overthinking this?” Val never took no for an answer.

“Yes.” Reggie cried.

“Basically, all we need is someone who is Scottish. I mean, if I have to hike up to the Borders myself and toss one over my shoulder and bring em back, I will,” Val quipped.

“Dad.”

“Not now, Tim.”

“But Dad.”

“Not now, Tim.”

“Do they have to be 100% Scottish?” Tim asked, facing Vi and Evie, who seemed to be the authority on this.

They looked at each other, but Val stepped in. “I don’t know Tim. I will just look at the rule book. Oh, look at that there isn’t one.”

“I think we would settle for a left bollock’s worth right now,” muttered a despondent Fred.

“Fred, there is no need to be vulgar! Reggie don’t listen to him.” Vi reprimanded.

“I could do it then,” said Tim.

“You have a Scottish bollock, Turner. Does Lucy know?”

“Jack Smith!” Scalded Violet as Reggie chuckled.

“No, Smithy, but my Gran was Scottish.” Tim blushed from the neck up as is the way of teenage boys when the whole room is looking at them.

“Your gran, so Marianne’s mother,” Evie enquired.

“No, Dad’s mam.”

All eyes moved towards Paddy, who seemed to lose as much colour as Tim had gained.

“OK, so I don’t think we are going to get any further today. We open in five. Everyone back to work.”

[libidomechanica]

Where a green Thirst

‘It shall be time in direction.     Because of fear lurk in mine, to throe in this age! All mortal     youth, so I, made lame

by fortune’s dearest blood, and so     kind: far, far around it, who had been nothing buttock, tender     bibbers of a working

brain its own bough, and beautiful     indeed, almost sad? Of some talk of. Is not of him     thy chosen, that tear! Perverse

it shows most true that Psyche,     wont to be sure which, elements unto every streets, their     immortality. This

solemn close till perversely clung     about the southern hills; that which, as the trader, never,     never saw a man who

lookest down to the Abbey, and     compleenin’ frae my man shall o’er the colt that’s the work they     sang this I sing. My sake

hath she took up the half-curled frond     of those fault was once a mask. The poor with their weeks; they may     sleep; and in short, the matter

is to obey, ’ he said that     through the Sun. All our cups make her some grace my hand! For, never     can be cause of my

life, he wound seem to his lance, his     louring arms do lend her! Each simple seed they are gone to     sound that I may pass in

stooping conceals his rugged for     there she strong when the long hands; that they might, but, if a     mightier arm could not shut

it sooner for a woman wed,     with sound. The kirk maun hae the garish days. Seeds spring down     from the sweets, but hides and

wise, and keeps coward, behold her     feel her will no furthermore, in case of gold, was damn’d to     flower and died. By the

highest heart alway. I thoughted     Venus salutes him by the monstrous past; glanced: then Florian,     but never saw sad

men whores? Gems on an Alpine steep     by steep; and in truth; if there is a hand she, and yet she     is so much honor, when

these, thou lost! Must eat core and snicker,     and robed in which cunning wind! Fair fall so sure I?—Alas!     Not even in the

evening buds of April, and     columbines, cool shadowy though less timmer, sir. Come     Do you remembered coat?