We Are Not What You Think We Are. We Are Golden.

WHAT HE SAID WAS LOST INTO THE DESERT with The Maker while Uhura was lost inside of Spock's proximity – the way it was sudden, but simultaneously time elongated. No one sat this close; Uhura rarely permitted it of anyone. But she dreamt of him. She dreamt of his closeness. She dreamt of it as recently as that morning. For long years Uhura entertained dreamless sleeps, a blank void where exhaustion went to die and be remade into something useful in time for her to meet the sun. Uhura’s slumbers, just as her days, were functional, purposeful and planned; scarcely did she award herself frivolity. She loved her people, her Sietch; her whole, short and brutal nineteen years of life were committed to their betterment, their prosperity and defense – to their survival. Uhura could hear their laughter below echoing up from the Sietch – she wanted to turn her head, to briefly escape the weight of this intimacy. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. A fear lingered that if she broke this moment, if she looked away - it would slip through her fingers like spice on hot winds rolling up from the south. The moons were alight, reflected in vivid detail against the inky dark of his eyes; and if she trained her eyes against his enough, there mirrored in his she could even make out each finger of The Hand of God. Uhura could feel his breath against her lips, his air rolling over her tongue when she breathed in – breathing him into her lungs, into her blood. Uhura pressed their hands hard against her stomach, sliding her free hand overtop, pushing harder into her abdomen creating a natural lean-in, shaving away at the liminal space between their mouths. This pervasive kind of intimacy, fresh and new, like golden sun rising over the dunes - all the same it wasn’t natural to how she connected with people. With anyone at all. Not like this. But few things can survive, whole and joyful, on Arrakis; even in the secret places held by the heart. Because here she felt a stab of what felt like grief, but a grief she had not yet felt, followed with indecent haste by grief’s familiar bedfellow: Dread. What was this feeling? Harder she pressed their hands against the sinewy muscle of her belly, nails digging into his skin. She didn't dare to move. She let grief and dread wrestle against her bones, letting the breath in her throat paralyze while she fell headlong into the endless black of his eyes – there was something ill fated screaming from the expanse of a future she couldn’t dream. Instead rose the heat of her heart, an organ of brimstone promising ruin to anything that dared seek it’s favor. Uhura’s heart was an inhospitable place – molten fire flowed where there should have been blood; it was a place where only dragons could go.  A place where only dragons could stay. “ D’rachanya, ” repeating the word with barely a breath, heady in the way it came from her like a spell or conjuration. She closed the final piece of space between them. Would they burn the other if their lips touch?

Not outwardly. Rather it burned inwardly, where the point of origin was the center of her stomach, the place where Uhura still held fast to his hand with both of hers. Deeper she pushed into him, committing the details of his mouth to sacred memory. The swirling movement of her jaw, her lips, had slowed – slowing until finally she stopped and pulled away, but only just far enough she could level her eyes to his again. “ If you were to become a dragon – would you still come to Arrakis and find me in the desert? ”

@fasciinating

She ran two, slow fingers against the underside of his index and middle fingers. It was a custom entirely alien to her, but Uhura liked the rush of warmth in her chest incited by listening to the way his breath would change, albeit almost imperceptibly. They sat on the ridge of a particularly steep dune, the sun having melted into the horizon hours ago, where Uhura held his hand in hers, like some delicate, invaluable treasure unearthed from the deep desert, idling together in contented silence - broken by the onset of a sudden thought-turned-spoken query. “ Hayalit, ” she began, though the scathing she once married to this term had dissolved bit-by-bit, leaving behind the suggestions of deep affection she had yet to speak aloud between them. An affection that still only lived by touch and sight; in dreams.  “ – I once heard a man in Arrakeen say that long ago dragons ruled your distant, red deserts. Is that true ? ” Uhura’s fingers idly remained against the underside of his, with a slow and steady back and forth as she moved her own. “Could you find them, Mahdi ? ” But a smirk pushed itself in the corner of her mouth. She didn’t necessarily believe Spock to be the Lisan al-Gaib, and from time to time she reminded him of that but the cavalier way she would use all those holy names her people had assigned him.

HE RESISTS A SHUDDER ON THE plains of Arrakis. The sun is gone, bright gold away from the sea of red flecks and shimmering heat. Spock can still see it as it rises from the sands, a contradiction to the sensations she gives him, the cool touch of her fingertips. It is almost reverent, the hiss and curl of a slow-burning fire. But Spock is not so foolish as to consider what she does, the things she says to him, with anything else but teasing. He watches them nonetheless, partially distracted until Uhura calls him by the name given to him by the desert and its people. Hayalit, followed by others, other words that skitter, demanding things, against his skin and the curves of his ears.

It means to change, creature of the deep crimson sand with mutating scales. Spock stares nowhere, everywhere all at once, eyes dark when they pin somewhere between the ravines of her fingers. How can he change for the good of the many, never the few?

Never the one.

Spock cannot pretend to know; he loathes the answer. It seeks him regardless.

—fire and glass, a red flag streaming across a battlefield with the symbol of his father's house.

" Dragons? " Spock raises a brow. " D'rachanya, " he explains, Vuhlkansu knife-like where it sears off his tongue and he twitches his chin, sharp and an observant like a bird, " So they say. "

His hand fists, gripping hers, flexing and immediately stilling, as though aghast of its own involuntary movement. Spock shakes his head, " I have no wish to. " He cannot, calculating; despite its strangeness, there are greater possibilities than such a discovery. He leans, mouth quirking slightly above hers. " It would be more likely to become one. "

@haiiling

This one's for the dreamers.

DOCTORBROWN — an independent, semi-selective roleplay blog for Back to the Future's Doctor Emmett L. Brown. Headcanon based with inspiration being drawn from the trilogy, the comics, the novelisations, the musical, and BTTF: The Game. Written by Red, 30+, multi-para to novella length writer and crossover/AU/OC friendly!

“ 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 ? ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@fasciinating

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

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

Blinking slowly, he looks down at her.

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

“ What do you need? ”

@haiiling

HOW BORG IS YOUR BORG WHEN YOU BORG?

What is your Borg name?: The Borg Ultimatum

Do you appear in the dreams of the Borg Queen?: I hope so, that bitch is sure in mine. Yowza

What is the best thing about the Borg?: All the shit we stole from y’all

What is your dream planet to assimilate?: The Moon

How many of your character arch’s tie into Captains Picard and Janeway?: Too many

Are you that fucking traitor Hugh?: Fuck no

What y’all did to Guinan was messed tf up: Yeah? Well do sumn about it, Chief

Have you ever met Q?: No, and I hope I never do. That weird, theatrical, attention seeking cooze

If you could assimilate anyone - who would it be?: Jay

Do you mind the constant clammy flesh?: Not at all, I’m 97 and have no wrinkles

Have you ever quietly not added someone biological distinctiveness to your own?: All the time. It happens more than you think

Did you kind of hate Locutus?: Only because he just showed up and suddenly he’s the favorite? Nah, fuck that

Easiest assimilation?: Your Mom

tagged by: god & destiny

tagging: @fasciinating , @ahtlus , @hiippocrates , @spokh , @pointyxearedbastard-a , @antiivenom

                      ⸻ LIVE LONG & PROSPER.

chasing the stars

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i feel like people keep interchanging MAINS, EXCLUSIVES, and AFFILIATES and haphazardly using them without really recognizing what they mean, so here's a brief description of the differences.

MAINS are the primary group of roleplay blogs you interact with on a regular basis. you might choose to prioritize them in terms of replies or ask memes, or focus on their dynamics more often than you do others.

EXCLUSIVES are the only version of that character you will write with. as an example, if you add a canon superman or a princess jasmine to your exclusives, it means you will not write with or follow any duplicates of those characters.

** this can also include FACECLAIM EXCLUSIVES, where you won't follow duplicate faceclaims of your favorite blogs. weird example, but if you're writing with a blog using tom hanks as their faceclaim, you might say you're faceclaim exclusive with that blog and refuse to write with or follow any other blogs using tom hanks.

AFFILIATES are blogs with extensive ties to your blog's canon. their characters are weaved into your storyline to such a degree that you cannot separate them from one another. maybe they're your primary or single ship partner. maybe you created the characters together. maybe they're from the same piece of media and you want to establish their significant ties to your muse and their story. this is a step up from exclusives, and their url is often linked in your pinned or placed on your rules page.

Nyota Uhura stood over a drawer, her face twisted into an expression that settled between annoyed and a general readying for war.

The drawer in question was normally filled with random odds and ends, bits and baubles, scissors that were missing a handle but were entirely adequate for curling ribbons on gifts, blank thank you cards, three broke styluses, hair ties, bobby pins, clips, bands, papers; it was a junk drawer as beautiful as it was random with it’s contents.

But now . . .

Now it was — organized.

The styluses and single handed scissors were gone, her hair ties neatly bound together with some of the loose string (loose strings that had no business holding hair ties together) and a lot of hallmark clues that someone was in here with their goddamn Vulcan fingers that shouldn’t have been.

Nyota swept the long, silvery white main of hair over her shoulder, eyes narrowing and drawing together fine lines of crow’s feet at their orbital corners. Pensively she sipped her tea and the drawer slammed shut.

Her steps were barefooted and silent as she could hear the gentle conversation between Jim and the Old Man. She didn’t care what they were talking about as Uhura stood in the doorway of Jim’s study, a game of chess setting between them.

It was subtle the way she crept over to him, almost affectionate the way her arm slinked around his shoulders, idly smoothing down gun metal silver hair that was already smoother than the surface of still water.

Gracefully, one could say, was the way she leaned over and at random plucked four pieces from the game set, standing back upright and looking down at her Vulcan husband;

“Why,” Nyota tossed a knight at his right shoulder, “— is all my junk,” then cast a rook at his chest, “— out of,” another thrown at the left shoulder, “ — the JUNK drawer?” And the last she lobbed (though to be fair, her softest) against his left cheek.

@fasciinating

If you use an AI program to write your replies why the fuck are you even in the PRC?

The vastness of space was harrowing as it was inviting. She stood there, not more than four foot two, her small button-nose pressed against the window, where she took a great deep breath as the two amber eyes setting behind thick glasses invited in the abyssal darkness running endlessly to forever-and-a-day and beyond. That darkness, however, was also consuming. Consuming in a way that it became a vivid awareness starting as a cold feeling in her toes, that crept up her legs and knobby-knees like a spindly legged spider. An awareness that told her something very old and very slow moved out in that sprawling void. She dearly loved space; but this was ancient space where strange things lurked in the bones and dust of long dead stars and systems. Pushing back from the window, she looked down the long narrow white hallways, the calm blinking lights on the panels of the wall split a joyful grin across her face, following a dreamy kind of impulse to idle left down the corridor – occasionally giving her high-top, cherry red sneakers an intentional squeak for the sake of the sound alone. After a seemingly arbitrary wander, she had arrived at a rather large arch. Each door panel had a frosted window, with a very long and important looking panel next to it with a constant stream of information, leaving her with a keen feeling she should go inside. 

The doors opened with the pleasant sound that reminded her of paper sliding against paper; revealing behind them a room that did not disappoint her expectations. All manner of soft white light illuminating even brighter floors, walls and counters. Instruments with great silver knobs and dials, glass jars and beakers of every shape and size containing materials and liquids of every color in the rainbow, and some colors she was certain she had never seen up close with her own eyes. It was perhaps one of the most magnificent rooms she had ever seen or at the very least was certainly amongst her top ten favorite rooms she had ever been in.

An interesting thread of thought of favorite rooms entertained her while she peered closely at what had appeared to be a sentient kind of liquid, undulating in a closed jar, when she noticed two great, earthy brown eyes peering through the same jar on it’s opposite side.

She did not scream (she was, afterall, very brave – which she knew to be true, because everyone in her family had said so), but rather gasped sharply and covered her mouth to avoid more sounds coming out of it, and stepped to the side so she could see clearly to whom the eyes belonged. A boy.

A Vulcan boy.

She almost stated this very fact. She had the impulse to state a great many facts just then, because she knew more about the planet Vulcan than anyone in her class.

Even Junior Thomas, who claimed he knew everything and he didn’t even know the difference between the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, Sarek, and Surak the Vulcan who (as she believed) invented logic. He was so stupid. And she was right. And she should say it. And she did. And then sometimes her teacher had to write a letter home to her mother for being unkind.

She resisted sharing any of this information with him with a tremendous effort on her part, for she was profoundly curious and fascinated by a great many and all things Vulcan, as it was one of her most favorite subjects in the whole galaxy to discuss with anyone willing to listen (and very occasionally the unwilling). She had only ever even seen, in person, a very few Vulcans and normally they were there to have very serious and grown-up conversations with her parents.

Vulcans were very grown up.

The boy hadn’t even spoken and she could tell that he was very grown up.

“Hi!” She winced, noting the over excitement in her own voice.

“Hello,” she began again, a little more seriously, in an attempt to try and sound more adult.

“My name is Nyota Uhura and three facts about me are that I really love space, Carl Sagan is my favorite scientist, and I just turned nine years old.”

Gingerly, Nyota rocked on the balls of her feet hoping with a great tremendous leap of her heart that he would be interested in looking at the Carl Sagan hardcover book in her backpack, complete with full color pages of planets. It was a very old book that her grandfather gave her for her birthday and it was currently her third most favorite thing she owned.

@fasciinating