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enterprisetrampstamp · 3 years

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General #42 t'pura plssss <3

I have written so many "bustling marketplaces" lately. I think it's projection; deep in my subconscious my ideal self is at a weird little booth on King St in Charleston poking through sterling silver jewelry and touching the pavement every thirty seconds to make sure the dogs' paws are okay.

(AO3 Link)

***

The market was bustling and vibrant, a cacophony of sounds and sights and scents as vendors hawked their wares and the savvy populace argued back. The streets were wider and less claustrophobic than Nyota was used to, the sky above lit brightly by pale binary suns instead of the singular pulse of Sol, but it still put her in mind of the market her family had frequented when she was younger. For their everyday needs, her parents had shopped at the usual grocery stores and department stores and corner markets among the glittering skyscrapers and bustling streets of Nairobi, but once a month her mother would pack Nyota and her sisters into the car and take them down to the open air market that sprawled across several city blocks on the outskirts of the city, where fresher produce and more unique items could be found.

Besides, it was fun.

Nyota and her sisters would buy fruity popsicles and play tag; as they grew older, they might haggle over jewelry and scarves and that perfect trinket for their father's birthday or a sister's graduation. Her fascination with language could be traced back to those afternoons in the market as much as anything else, listening to hundreds of voices arguing in nearly as many dialects-- Swahili, English, and Standard, of course, but Dholuo and Kamba and Somali and the voices of all of Kenya's other indigenous peoples, too. Hundreds of voices, loud and unapologetic and alive as they pushed and shoved their way through life. Nyota had had her first date at that market, with a boy who lived down the hall-- and, later, she'd shared her first kiss there... with his older sister.

Oops.

Nyota grinned at the memory, hitching her bag higher into the crook of her elbow, and trailed her hand through a selection of beautifully intricate scarves hanging from a delicate display made of thin, curving pieces of brass. Janice's birthday was coming up, she noted thoughtfully. The bright purple one was very much the yeoman's speed, embroidered with silver thread in a dizzying geometric pattern. She pulled it from the rack, running it thoughtfully between her fingers as the sun-- the suns, she corrected herself with a snort-- beat down on the back of her neck.

"This one will better highlight the undertones of your skin," a woman said, her voice light and warm and catching on the soft Standard consonants.

It was the accent that caught Nyota's attention; that unmistakable curl of a native Vulcan speaker in the way she pronounced the thorn at the start of "this." She looked up as the woman draped a scarf-- silky and deep red, decorated in a delicate swirl of tiny golden beads-- about Nyota's neck and trailed one end back over her shoulder, her long, gloved fingers carefully avoiding the brush of bare skin.

(Somehow, that half-centimeter's implication of a touch was more sensual than if she'd truly trailed her fingertips along the line of Nyota's shoulder.)

"It's beautiful," Nyota agreed honestly, because it was. She raked her gaze over her new friend, resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow. The Vulcan woman was tall, dressed in a romper with loose, flowing pants that tapered back to her ankles to tuck into simple leather (faux, presumably) boots and a stiff vest that shimmered subtly beneath the sunlight, reaching high up her throat but leaving her lightly freckled shoulders bare. All of it, from head to toe and including her gloves, was rendered in a deep, eyecatching purple. Her hair was braided simply and fell heavily over her right shoulder, thick and so darkly black that the sunlight turned it faintly blue. The leather tie at its end was that same, vibrant purple.

(A cosmopolitan Vulcan woman, Nyota supposed. It was a far cry from the robes and elaborate hairstyles Nyota was used to seeing, but then she usually saw the diplomats and the Council members-- women dressed formally and in pointed representation of their culture.)

"But," Nyota added, placing a delicate emphasis on the word as she unwound the scarf and returned it to its place on the rack, "I'm not shopping for myself."

"Pity," the woman said, her dark eyes likewise sweeping over Nyota. (She, for the record, was dressed comparatively simply in a blue dress and ankle boots.) "It did look good on you."

Nyota leaned towards her as if confessing a secret, a smile pulling teasingly at one corner of her lips. "Everything looks good on me." One slanted eyebrow twitched high on the Vulcan's forehead, and Nyota laughed, straightening, and lifted her hand in the ta'al. "Dif-tor heh smusma, my new friend."

"Peace and long life," the woman returned in Standard, flashing her own-- purple gloved-- ta'al and lifting her other eyebrow to join the first. "Your accent is very good."

"Well, if it wasn't I'd probably be out of a job," Nyota replied easily. She watched the Vulcan in her periphery as she decided against the purple scarf for Janice-- the yeoman could be finicky about clothing and would probably rather Nyota pick her up some tourist-y magnet that would be wildly embarrassing to have to purchase-- and debated an emerald green for Christine instead. (Her birthday wasn't coming up, but it never hurt to be thinking ahead.)

"You are employed as a translator?" the Vulcan guessed, picking at the scarves herself. The motion seemed less like she was interested in them, and more as if it was an excuse to keep talking to Nyota.

"Sometimes." Chris would love it, she decided. She half-turned towards the vendor, lifting the scarf, and had started to ask "How much--?" when she caught a glimpse of the scarf that had been hidden underneath it. With a laugh, she traded the green scarf for the new one and turned back to the Vulcan, holding it up consideringly.

"It's your favorite color," she said, too many teeth in her grin.

"Having a preference for a particular color would be illogical," the Vulcan returned archly, but there was something in her voice, some teasing irreverence hiding beneath the lack of inflection, as she plucked the scarf from Nyota's hand and held it against her chest to compare the shades of purple.

"Too red," she said, her gaze flicking up to meet Nyota's as she raised an eyebrow.

Nyota scoffed. "Oh, please."

A tiny, almost imperceptible corner of the woman's mouth twitched in a smirk. "Your disbelief will not change the fact that the scarf is too red."

"Those Vulcan eyes of yours must be missing some rods and cones. It's a perfect match," Nyota insisted, reaching out to drape the scarf about the woman's shoulders-- the motion pulled them close, each of her hands wrapped loosely in silky fabric, and she smirked up at the Vulcan as she took another, deliberate step forward.

"Are you flirting with me?" the Vulcan asked, amusement smoldering in her dark eyes. They stood so near that, had they each taken a deep breath in, Nyota's hands would be trapped between them.

"You started it," Nyota pointed out, teasing, as she unwound her hands from the scarf. "And I'm feeling nostalgic this morning," she declared, fondness curving her lips into a smile, "for a different dark haired beauty I flirted with in a market not so different from this one, once upon a time."

"Vulcans do not flirt."

Nyota's grin spread wider. "Now that I know from experience is a lie."

"Vulcans do not lie either," the woman said, and there was that self-aware edge of irony once again-- Nyota didn't even feel like she was insulting her when she tipped her head back and laughed.

"Oh, sure," she said, flashing a few credits at the vendor and receiving a word of confirmation as she plucked the green scarf back off of the rack. "Vulcans don't lie, as a generality." She handed the credits to the vendor, glancing over her shoulder to add, tartly, "That doesn't mean they can't, or that Vulcans in the individual won't."

There was that little twitch of a smirk again.

"A wise woman," the Vulcan observed, falling into step next to her as she tucked Christine's present into her bag and walked away from the booth. "I hope, when you are not engaged as a translator, that you make use of your skills as a counselor-- or perhaps a bartender."

Nyota barked another laugh, shooting her a grin. "I do mix a mean martini," she agreed.

"Metaphors," the Vulcan sighed. She spread her hands in a shrug, the movement loose and fluid. "I have never understood what qualifies a drink as 'mean.'"

"Usually it's because it insulted your mother," Nyota told her, straight-faced, and was rewarded with a rise and fall of the Vulcan's chest that she chose to interpret as a silent sigh of exasperation.

"So what do you do?" Nyota asked, as she paused to peer at a display of sterling silver jewelry, bedazzled with a variety of inexpensive-- but beautiful-- gemstones, most of them imported from the other side of the galaxy. Spock probably could have told her exactly where with a single glance, and the thought made a smile tug at the corner of her lips. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, falling in a soft brown wave, and she reached up to brush it back as she looked.

The Vulcan spun a rack of earrings, sharp enough to make it rattle, and the artisan behind the booth barked out a remonstration in her own native tongue. Then, she repeated it under her breath in Vulcan-- pointedly, loud enough for both Nyota and the Vulcan to hear it-- as she returned to her soldering.

With a slow blink, like a cat reaching out to shove a mug off of a coffee table, the Vulcan spun the rack a second time. "I am employed as a record keeper aboard a small civilian spacecraft," she said, staring down the scowling artisan.

Nyota looked up, her interest piqued. "You mean you live out here in the black?" she asked, surprise sharpening her tone. So few Vulcans lived or even worked away from New Vulcan for any extensive period these days, in deference to their ongoing efforts of cultural revival.

She hadn't realized quite how open the woman's expression was-- for a Vulcan-- until it shuttered. "I do," she said, neither her tone nor her body language inviting further questions.

Nyota thought of the way Spock still, all these years later, could not think of New Vulcan as anything more than a pale imitation of a home he would never replace, and she gently eased off. It had been an intrusive line of questioning, anyway.

"What do you think?" she asked instead, pointing to a necklace with a delicate silver charm with a soft pink stone at its center.

The Vulcan leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against Nyota's, warm and solidly muscled. Her hair smelled faintly of orange blossoms and incense, and there was a hint of that prior teasing tone in her voice as she observed, "I have been told that everything looks good on you."

Nyota smiled, turning to look at her. "And how," she agreed. "But I told you, I'm not shopping for me."

"Of course." The Vulcan looked over as well, her dark eyes studying her with a heady intensity and the strong curve of her nose nearly brushing Nyota's. "May I?" she asked, and the slight tilt of her head, the imperceptible lean forward indicated the meaning of the question.

The artisan made an inarticulate noise of fury, but they both ignored her.

"I don't even know your name," Nyota teased, even as she closed the distance between them to press a featherlight kiss to the other woman's lips.

(Oh, don't look at her like that; like you wouldn't kiss the mysterious, clever stranger who's been flirting with you all morning. There was something a little fun and a little daring about it, and in a few hours she'd say goodbye and head back to the ship. Maybe they'd exchange comm frequencies; maybe not. They call them whirlwind romances for a reason, you know.)

"T'Pring," the Vulcan murmured, their lips still brushing.

"Nyota." She returned to the array of jewelry, a crooked grin turning up one corner of her lips. "Dated humans before, have you? That was no first kiss, darling."

"Well, there are just so many of you," T'Pring returned, with that remarkable Vulcan ability to both maintain perfect stoicism and also come across dryly sarcastic. "And you have dated a Vulcan before, have you not? Your ability to maintain a mental shield against touch telepathy is impressive for a human." A beat. "'Darling.'"

Nyota barked a laugh. "Yes, I have." She patted T'Pring's cheek, winking. "Don't worry; you're prettier than he is."

T'Pring raised one slanted eyebrow, conveying amusement without ostensibly altering her expression. "I find myself much assured."

Nyota caught her wrist-- careful to stay below the edge of her glove, avoiding skin-to-skin contact so she wouldn't need to maintain that mental shield-- to tug her back into motion. "Lunch," she suggested.

T'Pring allowed herself to be pulled along in Nyota's wake without complaint. "One of my crewmates tells me there is a bakery with excellent savory pastries on the next street over."

"Mm, I heard about that place, too." Her smile was pleased as she looked over her shoulder at T'Pring. One of Hikaru's husband's friends had raved about it; the whole bridge crew had been looking forward to it for weeks.

"A satisfactory choice, then?" T'Pring asked, with a raised eyebrow, and Nyota laughed.

"Most satisfactory," she agreed, tone teasing.

Once their pastries were in hand-- a spicy, aromatic beef filling in Nyota's, and a potato and vegetable one in T'Pring's-- they ignored the tables arranged outside of the bakery in favor of tucking themselves into a semi-private alcove. Nyota hopped up onto the low stone wall separating an earthy, plant-filled garden space from the rest of the market, and T'Pring propped her hip against it. She removed one of her gloves, tucking it into a pocket of her pants, and picked thoughtfully at the pastry with dark-eyed curiosity.

"Reminds me of an empanada," Nyota said, inhaling the fragrant steam rising off of her choice, and T'Pring huffed, ever so slightly.

"'The closest you will get to decent food in this corner of the galaxy,'" she said, pitching her voice to a deeper octave in a way which implied it was an impression. "My crewmate hails from Chile," she added, as an explanation. "As the pilot of our ship, I do not believe he intended to allow us to skip this planet once our path turned us in this direction, regardless of our captain's acquiescence."

Nyota laughed, tipping her head back. She didn't miss T'Pring's thoughtful, appreciative glance. "A man after my own heart," she declared. "Food is a unifying experience. There's nothing quite like it--" she gestured, a piece of pastry in hand, between herself and T'Pring. "It says, 'I care about you,' and it says, 'I want you to survive,' and it says, 'I want you to enjoy it, too. Share this with me.'"

"The exchange of fruit is an inherently romantic gesture within Vulcan culture," T'Pring agreed. "And the act of sharing a meal has proven an invaluable ritual in building a rapport with my human crewmates."

"Is that what we're doing?" Nyota asked. She set one hand on the stone between them, leaning towards T'Pring as she is watched by dark eyes that glitter with the barest hint of amusement. "'Building a rapport?'"

"How would you describe it?" T'Pring challenged in turn.

A smile spread, slowly, across Nyota's face. "A date," she said.

"And how would you describe what happens between two people on a date?" T'Pring raised an eyebrow.

"Which part of the date are we talking about?" Nyota asked, her smile impish, and T'Pring's other eyebrow raised in turn.

"That was an innuendo," she observed.

"And not a subtle one." Nyota patted her cheek, forgoing any attempt at mental shielding in favor of letting T'Pring feel the full brunt of her amusement. She sensed more than felt the moment that T'Pring tensed, attempting to subjugate whatever emotional response-- laughter, lust-- she was experiencing, and she backed off politely, both physically and conversationally.

They lapsed into a companionable silence as they finished their meal. The spices were certainly alien, unfamiliar and sharp but not at all unpleasant, and there was a buttery quality to the bread itself that was-- in a word-- heavenly. Nyota crumpled the waxy paper her pastry had been wrapped in, sighing with satisfaction, and accepted the napkin that T'Pring passed her to wipe off her fingers.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said, glancing up from the slick buttery feeling between her fingers, and promptly rolled her eyes at the tiny smirk T'Pring had turned in her direction. "Yes, I am aware I have just asked one. Spare me."

"As long as you are aware," T'Pring said.

"Spare me."

After a moment in which she somehow broadcast her amusement in just the slightest smirk and the tightness of the muscles at the corners of her eyes, T'Pring requested, "Make your inquiry, by all means." She pulled her glove back on, her own fingers wiped clean, and then turned to face Nyota more directly. Her expression was polite, inquisitive.

"Why did you approach me in the first place?" Nyota asked. She dropped her legs from their folded position, sliding down to stand beside T'Pring and brushing off the back of her skirt. This put her a head lower, once more, but she didn't mind the way she had to tip her head back to meet the Vulcan's heavy lidded eyes. "You don't need to tell me that it's unusual for one of your people to make such an overt overture."

T'Pring tipped her head lightly to the side in acknowledgement of the point. "I wanted to. You are beautiful," she said, and the simple, matter-of-fact manner of the statement was more flattering than any purple prose. Nyota ghosted her fingertips down the inside of T'Pring's forearm, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and T'Pring's dark eyes flicked, briefly down to her lips. "I saw no need to deprive myself of the opportunity to speak with you; it is not as if I seek a sustained liaison. My ship departs later this afternoon."

"Mine, too," Nyota agreed.

T'Pring blinked. She had probably assumed Nyota was employed on-planet, as few ships bothered to employ a living translator, when universal translation technology is so ubiquitous. Only diplomatic ships-- seeking to impress and flatter-- or Starfleet exploratory vessels-- likely to come across unknown species-- had enough need for a xenolinguist. But she evidently decided to file the information for later discussion, blinking again and then returning to their current topic.

"That I stayed to talk further is a factor of your intelligence and humor," she said. "You are... intriguing."

"Some have said, 'Fascinating,'" Nyota said, with no small hint of irony, and then she offered, "You are a distinctly interesting woman yourself, T'Pring of Vulcan."

T'Pring inclined her head in a nod. "High praise."

"For a deserving specimen," Nyota quipped, reaching out to tap her index finger against the tip of T'Pring's nose-- and promptly threw her head back, laughing, at the disgruntled expression of shock which the action earns her.

"Most illogical," T'Pring said, obviously fumbling for a response as she took a hasty step backwards, and Nyota gathered their trash to dump in a nearby wastebin as she hooked her bag up onto her shoulder.

"Well, I am a human, after all." She shot T'Pring a look over her shoulder, grinning. "Are you coming?"

"One moment--"

T'Pring caught her wrist, pulling her back into the relative privacy behind the corner of the building. When Nyota shifted to face her, T'Pring's fingertips-- the leather of her gloves supple and warm-- tipped her chin back and leaned down to kiss her again. This one was deeper, longer; Nyota hooked her elbow about T'Pring's neck for leverage and pushed herself onto her toes.

"Wow," she said, dazed, as T'Pring drew away.

"Mm." There was self-satisfied amusement in those dark eyes. One of T'Pring's hands had found its way to Nyota's hips, and it was warm and strong.

"You're a weird Vulcan," Nyota told her, still slightly breathless, and T'Pring shrugged. Somehow, that simple motion carried a great deal of the unspoken.

"I consider myself a singularly driven individual," she said, dry like desert sands.

"You see what you want; you go after it."

"It can be difficult not to gain a certain perspective." It wasn't a complete thought, though T'Pring voiced it as if it was.

Unfortunately, Nyota could fill in the rest. Trauma changed things; the trauma of losing nearly your entire people could change a lot of things. (Not to mention, she'd clearly spent much of the intervening years processing that trauma amongst humans.) She brushed a thumb over T'Pring's cheek, fighting down the sympathetic words that she could tell the Vulcan didn't want to hear, and settled down off of her toes. "Coming?" she asked, again.

T'Pring tucked her hands into her pockets, posture loose and casual as she fell into step next to her. "Where do you wish to go?"

"I-- Oh!" Nyota caught a glimpse of blonde through the crowd, taking a winding path towards the bakery, and quickly waved a hand. "Jim!" she called.

He spotted her, too, and his face broke out in a wide smile. He held up a finger, turning to smack the arm of a dark-haired man next to him, and Nyota may not have been able to hear Dr. McCoy's response, but she could guess at it by the scowl he turned towards their captain, gesturing to the stain of water down his jeans where Jim's attempt to get his attention had made him nearly drop his water bottle.

"Friends of mine," Nyota told T'Pring as she pushed through the crowd towards her crewmates and Jim led the way to meet her in the middle.

"Nyota!" Jim cried, throwing his arms wide.

"Oh," Leonard said, "finally, some sanity on this damn shore leave--"

"What, is Spock not enough for you?" Nyota demanded, as she let Jim sweep her up and spin her around in a hug-- thereby missing the way T'Pring snapped straight, her eyes widening.

"Spock?" she repeated, loudly, and the man in question looked up from a booth of antique astronomical devices which had previously held his attention.

"T'Pring," he said, with similar wide-eyed shock, nearly fumbling the astrolabe in his hands.

"You know each other?" Nyota asked, her eyebrows shooting high as she takes in the uncharacteristic uncertainty in Spock's movements, and she exchanges a look with Leonard.

The Vulcans both ignored her--or, perhaps more accurately, neither of them heard her.

T'Pring recovered first. "You look well," she said, somehow awkward with her impossibly straight posture.

"As do you," Spock said, something indefinable in his tone, "considering I was under the impression you were dead."

Leonard choked on an ill-timed sip of water, and Nyota had a sudden, horrible thought about the childhood friend turned betrothed who Spock had broken his Bond with just prior to absconding to Starfleet. "Oh, god," she said, covering her eyes with one hand.

T'Pring considered Spock's statement for a moment. "My apologies," she said, finally, and Spock's stoic expression broke in favor of something murderous.

He took several stiff-legged steps towards her, catching her elbow and drawing her off to the side so that they could engage in a hushed, incredibly blank-faced argument. Jim watched with bright, delighted eyes, and Leonard squinted over towards Nyota.

"You know who she is?" he asked, gesturing towards them with the hand holding his water bottle.

"I have a guess," Nyota hedged. She folded one arm over her chest, tucking one hand into her elbow as she pressed her mouth against the knuckles of the other. "He never mentioned her name, so it's difficult to say."

"Exes," Jim said. He tilted his head towards them, clearly trying to catch what they were saying beneath the din of the marketplace. "Gotta be exes."

Leonard was still giving her that side-eye. "Nyota," he said, slowly, studying the expression on her face as she watched Spock say something that made T'Pring close her eyes and reach up to rest her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Were you on a date with your ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend?"

She breathed in. She breathed out. "Worse," she told him, grimly. "I'm pretty sure I'm on a date with my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife."

"Spock was married?!" Jim yelped, as Leonard did an actual, literal spit take.

Spock and T'Pring both snapped up to look over at them; Spock looked pained and T'Pring simply raised her eyebrows. She looked back at Spock. "You did not tell them?"

"I told Nyota," he said, voice tight.

"A name would have been great, though," Nyota muttered, and T'Pring looked back and forth between them.

"I see," she said, clearly making a swift, accurate leap of logic. "Your taste in women remains impeccable."

Nyota burst into hysterical laughter, for lack of anything better to say. She buried her face into her hands and felt Jim's shoulders shaking with his own sublimated laughter as he slung his arm over her shoulders. "Now, his taste in men," he said, joking, and Leonard snorted.

"Speak for yourself," he declared. He laid the Southern charm on thick as he stepped towards T'Pring, extending his hand for her to shake. "Leonard McCoy, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet an old friend of Spock's."

"Experience with humans tells me you're simply hoping for embarrassing stories from our youth," T'Pring observed, but she shook his hand with the slightest hint of a smile hiding in the corners of her eyes.

"Who wouldn't?" Leonard countered, grinning, as Spock looked at him, drawing an air of exasperation about himself with just a twitch of his mouth.

"Perhaps another time," T'Pring said, with impeccable grace. She glanced, briefly, towards Spock, but after a moment of hesitation she stepped away and turned her attention towards Jim. "And you are..."

"James Tiberius Kirk," he declared. He extended a hand, but when T'Pring reached out to shake it like she had Leonard's, he switched his grip and dipped into a bow to brush his lips against her gloved knuckles.

T'Pring looked at Spock, who shrugged.

"Ignore him," Leonard said, dryly.

"I intended to," T'Pring informed him, and Leonard barked a laugh as Jim staggered with faux insult.

"Why do Vulcans always dislike me when we first meet?" he complained, throwing himself against Spock's side and draping an arm over his eyes dramatically.

Spock clearly made the decision to let the theatrics break the tension of the moment the way Jim had calculated them to. "Your personality," he said, quite frankly.

"It's why most humans dislike you, too," Leonard added, and he caught both Jim and Spock by the elbow, jerking his head towards the bakery. "C'mon, morons; lunch. Let's let the ladies get on with things, shall we?" He winked at Nyota as he nudged his partners into motion.

T'Pring watched them, quiet with her hands folded tightly behind her back, and Nyota drifted back towards her. "I can give you the necessary information to contact him later," she offered softly. "I'm sure you didn't cover everything in just a couple of minutes."

"That would be..." T'Pring breathed out. "Appreciated."

"Sure," Nyota said. She cleared her throat, glancing aside. "I could also give you the necessary information to contact me."

T'Pring looked at her, her eyes dark and thoughtful. "That would also be appreciated," she said.

"Yeah?" Nyota asked, a smirk curving her lips as she tipped her chin back to meet those heavy-lidded eyes. "Intriguing enough to speak with again, am I?"

"Perhaps I am just hoping for more recent embarrassing stories of Spock."

Nyota laughed, ducking her head. "Well, I certainly have plenty of those," she said, dryly, and caught T'Pring's wrist once more. "Want to keep developing our rapport?" she asked, with a twitch of her lips.

T'Pring hummed. "I believe there is a booth nearby selling citrus fruit," she said thoughtfully.

"The inherent romanticism of sharing an orange," Nyota agreed, letting herself be drawn into motion, and T'Pring smirked but did not disagree.

#a tramp stamp original #nyota uhura #t'pring #t'pura #femslash #I wrote this #and less importantly:#spock #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #this is like. an au meeting for them from a longfic I'm working on #but I think I've done enough to make it accessible and explain my thoughts about AOS t'pring regardless #and I have. a lot of thoughts about t'pring in general and aos t'pring in specific.#I really really like the idea of her and spock having also been friends as kids #anyway she gets back to her ship and her captain is just like ''what trouble did you get into this time :/''#''made out with my ex-husband's ex-girlfriend.''#''..........well at least nobody almost died for once''#yes I couldn't resist throwing in some background mcspirk

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adenil-umano · 3 years

Text

12 Days of Spones Day 2: Blue

[Read on AO3]

Spock stepped off the bus gingerly to avoid the grey slush coating the street. He knew that just two hundred years ago the Georgia air would still be warm from the day, but Earth’s climate change had not been kind to the southern United States. It was a frigid and dirty snow which clung to every surface. Salt crystals cracked beneath his boots as he walked. The sidewalk was near-deserted--it was, after all, nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, and Spock was in a town with a population of just six-hundred.

If Spock had any doubts over whether or not the humans here celebrated the holiday they were easily laid to rest by the sight of raggedy wreaths and dingy tinsel wrapped around the light poles. It may have been silver, once, but now it was a faded grey. Occasionally the wind plucked free a single leaf of tinsel and carried it away. Ahead of him, the fuzzy gleam of a red neon light declared the bar OPEN.

He tugged his knit cap tighter around his ears and pushed his way in. Immediately, his senses were assailed by the scent of stale beer and the not-so-dulcet tones of canned Christmas music trickling out of the staticy speakers. Spock scanned the bar and a rumpled man with wavy brown hair and a wrinkled blue shirt caught his eye.

He slid onto the stool two seats away from the man. It was best not to seem too eager, at least not before he had found out whether this was the man he sought. He ordered a whisky, neat, because that seemed like the sort of thing one drunk in a bar like this.

Spock sat nursing his drink for a few minutes with his ears perked for any sound. Even through the wool covering them and the grating sounds of holiday music he could hear the man muttering to himself.

“Damned thing...was just a little late...Needs to get that stick removed.” He took a long swig and slammed his empty glass down. “That man will never be father to my daughter.”

While no one was looking Spock leaned over the bar and dumped out his drink into the sink. With his glass empty he slid one seat closer to the man and said, “May I buy you a drink? You appear to need one.”

The man squinted up at him, pale blue eyes hazy, his mouth pursed in a sour line. “What’s it to you?”

“We are both here suffering alone tonight,” Spock said. “Perhaps we could suffer together?”

The man grunted. He waved over the bartender and indicated Spock with his hand. “He’s buying.”

Spock ordered two whiskeys. He took a sip of his, watching the man carefully. Was this really the man he sought? “You may call me Grayson.”

“McCoy. Leonard McCoy. Friends call me Blue.”

“Blue?”

Perhaps he had allowed too much of his incredulity to become evident in his voice, because the man turned a piercing glare towards him. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, it is only…” He should have been Bones. “You are not a doctor?”

“What? What the hell?” He pushed away from the bar, standing on unsteady feet as if ready to fight. “Who the hell are you?”

“I apologize,” Spock said quickly. “It is only--I had heard of a Doctor McCoy in this town.”

He held very, very still, blinking at Spock with drunken anger. After a tense moment his shoulders slumped and he crawled back onto the barstool. “That was my father. I’m no doctor.”

“I see.” He waited until the man had calmed down to ask, “Then, may I call you Blue?”

“We ain’t friends.”

Spock nodded and went back to nursing his whiskey. He should leave now that it was clear this wasn’t who he sought, but something enticed him to say. Perhaps it was the smoky haze that permeated the room, or the waves of despair rolling off of the man beside him. They drank together in silence and Spock ordered another round. He was human enough to begin feeling the effects of the first drink, and judging by his companion’s slump the other man was well on his way to passing out.

“Perhaps you should have a glass of water?”

“Shut up,” he said, knocking back the rest of his whisky with nary a wince. “We ain’t friends, and you ain’t my wife, either.”

“Then perhaps you can consider me a concerned stranger.” He waved over the bartender and ordered two waters.

The man grumbled but took a gulp, crunching loudly on ice. He slid his gaze over to Spock and seemed to be looking at him for the first time. His eyes roamed unsteadily up Spock’s lanky form, paused for a moment near his neck, and then fixated on his knit hat.

“Your momma never teach you not to wear a hat indoors?”

“Indeed, she did not.”

He harrumphed. “Explains why you’re so damned impolite.”

“It is colder here than I expected.”

“Always cold this time of year. Our own personal micro-climate.” His blue eyes dropped to meet Spock’s gaze. They held there a moment, suspended, and for a moment Spock saw clarity in his gaze. Perhaps he was the man Spock sought? Then he looked away, back to his water. “Guess you don’t have anyone to celebrate the night with.”

“I do not celebrate Christmas. But as a general point you are correct. I am alone here.”

“Figured. No one who ends up here has any other place to be.” He was slumping further into his seat. “Only people here are the folks who’ve had everything taken from them. It’s just one damned thing after another. Can’t go out the front door without someone taking your shoes.”

Spock glanced down. “Your shoes do appear to be intact.”

“Yeah, well. I had to fight for them.” He finished the last of his water and stood, listing heavily to one side. He moved to pat Spock’s shoulder and missed, making contact on the second try. “Thanks for the drink, stranger.”

Spock watched the man wobble from the bar, worry forming at the sight of him going off into the cold night. He considered his options and covertly checked his watch. He still had a few hours before he needed to check in, so Spock paid his tab and followed Blue outside.

It had started to snow light, dry flakes that squeaked when he walked. He spotted the man a block away stumbling down the street, his hair gleaming under the artificial yellow glow of the street lamps. He didn’t even have a jacket, Spock realized, and he hastened to catch up.

The man glanced at him as he came alongside. “You following me or somethin’?”

“I was concerned for your safety. You are not in possession of all your faculties at the moment.”

“When am I ever?” he grumbled. He turned away again and stumbled. Spock shot out a hand to catch him, holding fast to his arm and keeping him steady. The man squinted at him again. “You are a strange one.”

He found himself lost in Blue’s eyes, searching near-frantically for some sign, some faint hint that this could be the one he needed. “...You are also strange,” he said after far too much silence.

Blue frowned but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into Spock’s grasp. “If you’re gonna be weird at least be a gentleman and walk me home. It’s that way.”

Spock followed his point and began walking into the darkness with Blue leaning heavily against him. He could feel Blue’s lightness, all the places where he was too thin and too broken. Blue turned his head and breathed out warm air against Spock’s neck and Spock felt his skin pebble in response. He had a sense-memory, then, of carrying Leonard over some alien landscape. What planet had that been? How long ago was that? Leonard had been injured and bleeding, and Spock had felt that tight knot of fear in his side.

The house was just outside of town, ramshackle and lopsided. It had come off its foundation by nearly a foot. The porch light was burnt out but Blue led him up the front stops with relative ease, stopping in front of the door to fish his keys out of his pocket.

Spock hung back, uncertain, as Blue unlocked the door and pushed it open. He didn’t go inside right away. Instead, he reached back with one hand, groping towards Spock without looking at him.

“Grayson?”

“I am here.”

He reached out and their hands met. Blue’s shoulders slumped. “...You wanna come in for a cup of coffee?”

Spock hesitated, knowing enough about Earth culture to understand a euphemism when he heard one. “I do not wish to take advantage of you.”

“You could. If you wanted.” The man turned to face him then, his gaze matter-of-fact. “But if you don’t want to, you don’t want to. Just keep me company, stranger.”

Spock followed him inside.

He stood in the small kitchen with its cracked tile floor and watched the man brew a pot of coffee. It was late--or rather, early now--but Spock’s body wouldn’t react to the caffeine regardless. They sat together on the couch, and Spock enjoyed the warmth of the coffee. The house was cool and drafty. It was an excuse, at least, to keep his hat on.

“Why’re you here?” the man asked after a while of silence.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean, here. In this podunk little town drinking whiskey at the worst bar in available. You’re clearly not from around here.”

“No. I am from...far away from here.”

“So? Why here?”

“I was looking for something. For someone.”

He sipped his coffee. “For Doctor McCoy.”

“...Yes.”

“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but my Dad’s been dead for years.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, his blue eyes slipping shut. “You one of his old patients?”

“No. I am...merely an admirer of Doctor McCoy’s work.”

He hummed.

They sat in silence for a while, finishing their coffees. When they were done Blue set aside his mug. He slid closer to Spock and pulled the mug from his fingers, setting it aside as well. Spock watched curiously as the man slid a little closer still, his head tipping to one side. Spock’s heart beat against his side. How long had it been?

Leonard--Blue tasted of coffee and whisky. His lips were rough and chapped, but warm. The contact ripped a terrible sound from Spock, deep and animalistic, and he grabbed Blue’s shoulders to hold him close. It was the same; it was the same.

Blue climbed into his lap and Spock opened up beneath him. He let Blue kiss him senseless, lick into his mouth and trace his teeth. He let Blue tug his shirt up to untuck it, found himself arching into the contact of those skilled hands against his stomach. This man should have been a surgeon, in this world and every other.

Spock felt a hand on his neck, a single finger tracing the edge of his knit cap and treading dangerously close to his ears. He pulled away and stilled Blue’s hands.

“I am sorry,” Spock said thickly.

“C’mon,” Blue murmured, his voice all southern-charm and unkept promises. “I’m not that drunk. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

Spock gulped. “I-I cannot.”

Blue sighed and slid off Spock’s lap, landing in a rumpled heap on the far end of the couch. Spock wanted him back immediately. It was selfish, he knew, to desire that warmth and that familiarity from a man who was nothing like the one he’d lost.

“You got a place to stay?” Blue asked after right himself.

“No. I was merely passing through. I’ll be gone before morning.”

Blue didn’t seem to find that odd. He picked at the hem of his shirt, looked sideways at their empty coffee mugs. “I got a bed. I won’t try any funny business, just...These winter nights are cold.”

“Yes,” Spock breathed, falling in love again despite himself. “They are. Quite cold.”

He let Blue pull him to his feet. Followed him down the narrow hallway to the single room where an unmade bed greeted them. Blue struggled out of his shoes and Spock slipped off his boots. He followed the man under the covers, let those arms encase him. He pulled Blue close and shivered as Blue’s cold nose pressed against his neck.

“Mm,” Blue murmured. “Knew you’d be warm…”

Spock held him tightly. “I would not want you to catch a chill.”

He chuckled, low and sweet. “How kind of you.

Blue relaxed in slow increments. He was nearly asleep when he spoke again. “That name…”

“Yes?”

“Grayson. That ain’t your real name, is it?”

“No. It is not.”

Blue hummed. “That’s okay,” he murmured. “Sometimes I feel like my name ain’t right either.”

Spock hugged him as he fell asleep, absorbing the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Around them, the Earth continued to spin, but for a few moments all Spock knew was the weight of this man against him, the pleasure of this transient closeness.

As the clock passed four a.m., Spock disentangled himself. Quietly, he slipped on his boots and made his way back into the living room. He held up his watch and fiddled with the buttons, inputting the “all clear” code.

“Mr. Spock to Mr. Scott. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Spock.” Mr. Scott’s voice was small and tinny through the watch’s speakers.

“This is my 24-hour check in. No unusual circumstances to report. No side effects felt from travel.”

“Did you locate the anomaly?”

Spock looked back down the hallway. He’d left the door ajar and he could see just the tips of Blue’s fingers hanging over the edge of the bed.

“I did, yes.”

“Is he our man?” Mr. Scott asked hopefully.

“No,” Spock said. “I’m afraid he is not what we’re looking for.”

“Ah, a shame. Well, I’ve got the coordinates for the next jump already calculated if you’re ready to come back.”

He wasn’t ready, probably would never be ready. But duty called. “Yes. I am prepared for transport.”

As the transporter whine took him he saw Blue’s hand shift against the bedspread searchingly, as if looking for something. Or someone. There was a faint sound, barely perceptible over the transporter beam, and he could almost trick himself into believing it was Leonard calling to him.

“Spock?”

Spock closed his eyes tightly and felt the cold melt away.

#spones #12DaysofSpones #spock #leonard mccoy #adenil writes

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unimpressedperson · 5 years

Text

Jackpot | pt. 3 [FINAL]

(Found this picture in @youthstuffs , thank you for posting it)

Genre: Fluff and Crack, I guess…

Warnings: None

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x @taesbetch , Kim Namjoon x Reader

Word Counting: 8.5k

Synopsis: Nya spent her whole life in Las Vegas, she would never imagine that local knowledge would ever be useful. However, her vision changed when Kim Seokjin appeared and introduced her to a few friends, film producers, whose needed guidance through Las Vegas underrated places for a movie. She agreed in working for them, and in that moment none of their lives would ever be the same. What happens in Vegas, not always has to be kept in Vegas.

A/N: Heeeeeeeey Nya!! Finally the last chapter! The oneshot has originally 20.958 words, so I decided to split it in three chapters. It’s the final one. The closure of this rhapsody (am I cocky, lol?), yeah. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing, ‘cuz it was fun talking about RPDR, movies, Vhope, Jeon Seagull, Namjoon, you, Dragon! Yoongi au spitting fiiire oooh, Star Trek references, etc :) Forgive any grammar mistakes.

- x - x - x - x -

Yoongi knew it. He fucking knew it in the moment Namjoon began contending about some girl willing to guide them through Las Vegas. He saw back in then that something would rotten up during the process. Nothing could ever go soft and swift, every damn time, Kim Namjoon would come up with some drama, or Hoseok and Taehyung would fight, or the pipes from their filming location would BUST IN GEYSERS FROM EVERY WALL AND FLOOR.

He could gain money by showing off his auguring powers. At least from some dumb folk like Namjoon.

They worked together for 10 years. A decade living through ups and downs, but what kept their Cinematography Company moving and succeeding was the timing. Namjoon directs a successful movie, then gets involved with someone, breaks up and directs a shitty movie. It was a cycle in which Yoongi never complained and watched happening time after time. In 10 years, Kim Namjoon proved to be a genius and that he acknowledge the romantic vicious cycle, never defying it by getting involved with someone after almost breaking their business.

In situations of risk like these, Yoongi takes over his Spock role and always gives good advices to Captain Namjoon. It was his Vulcan power, after all. The Enterprise never bankrupted precisely because everytime one of the bosses made a bold move or a bad decision, someone would soothe it with a better idea or stopping before happening.

This time, though, Namjoon was being a stubborn bitch. Yoongi considered the idea of poisoning him and keeping the whole company under his name and charge.

Oh, he really pondered and even searched for undetectable poisons, but their 10 years story spoke louder than the homicidal side of Min Yoongi.

Kim Namjoon and Min Yoongi met whilst working. They were producing the songs from a soundtrack, after so many nights of writing and playing instruments, sometimes all by themselves, their similarities brought them closer. A beautiful and honest friendship blossomed, nurtured with honest, curses, talent, humor, sarcasm and a lot of partnership.

Eventually, their dreams became way too big and only working for a company wasn't satisfying them. With their savings combined, Namjoon and Yoongi registered a firm called “Enterprise Inc.”. They had the name and ideas, but only when Taehyung and Hoseok appeared that their machine began working.

Independent movies were becoming a trend, so their company grew and more people got hired to different task. Jimin, Jungkook, Emerson, Jade, Taylor, Shmaillah, Zariah and Robin were now part of their big family. They treated each other like relatives.

However, since not everything happened smoothly, Namjoon also had his flaws. Unfortunately, his passion and volatility affected financially their business and finances. Kim Namjoon loved loving, but his kind of love changes fast and finishing a relationship always turned him into a grumpy man.

His longest relationship lasted 1 year and a half, with an author and professor of Creative Writing at London Institute of Art, Barbara. Unfortunately, their break up made Namjoon extra unbearable, to a point where the actors hired would quit and the filming had to be stopped. His mood swings almost led Enterprise to declare bankrupt.

Of course Yoongi dated, actually he's been officially living with Emerson for over five months, but his personal life never affected the professional. Home feuds stayed at home, even because his girlfriend worked as head from the Enterprise's Marketing and Advertising department.

After discussing, they slept for four hours. Yoongi always valued his sleep and would rest whenever (and wherever) possible, but their argue made the atmosphere inside the room unbearable. Namjoon couldn't sleep as well, he knew Min was right, but and if he allowed himself getting closer to Nya, then doubtlessly at some point would end up falling for her. Namjoon was an assumed romantic mushy, but with a volatile heart.

They went to the buffet, dragging a sleepy Jungkook and an awaken Hoseok jogging, dancing, humming and texting his boyfriend, also animated and sending copious audios thrilled with the last night events. Even though it was already noon, people having breakfast could be seen all around.

— I can see a whole bunch of people with last night’s makeup smudged. Walk of shame, guys. - Jungkook murmured after drinking a whole mug of coffee.

— You walked in the hotel with someone else’s skirt, smudged makeup and cummed pants in a brown paper bag. Walk of shame, bro. - Yoongi grinned and stared at Jungkook.

— Last night was nuts, wasn’t it? - The younger one asked, sipping from his second mug. - We started in a bar and end up in a Ball. What the fuck, I love my life.

— Yeah. Crazy night. - Namjoon disassembled himself from the conversation with a sweep of hand.

Jungkook could feel the tension around. Namjoon and Yoongi were clearly pissed at each other, and it was palpable around. The air was borderline toxic with so much electricity. However, Jeon could rightfully guess why. In his time working for Enterprise Inc., that same negative energy surrounded them plenty of times before. Currently, everyone knew their financial situation, since two actors decided to leave the project in order to get away from Namjoon and his bad temper, and one actress who broke contract after being casted to a bigger production.

Min Yoongi and Kim Namjoon were great egos and minds. Working together represented war and success. They bickered, yet found ways to reconcile and respect each other’s differences, at least during toil days of finishing every detail, since both were also meticulous with lighting, angles, planning thoroughly even colours and shades. In fact, Jungkook graduated in cinema, but most of his practical knowledge was obtained by watching his bosses.

For a matter of fact, Jungkook could have chosen to remain in Korea and work with K-Dramas, movies or even MVs. Their cinematography industry was in constant growth, Jeon would never actually be unemployed, mainly with his fame as an idol. Even though his payment wasn’t the highest one, residing in London wasn’t impossible or uncomfortable, he could be classified as a wealthy lad, since the fame acquired during his boygroup years still paid him for image copyright licensing.

Jungkook was so famous in Korea, that every film produced by Enterprise Inc. sold like water on desert. Their film grossing came 6% from Seoul only. His stardom reached such a level that Jeon Seagull was mentioned beside great names like BIGBANG and Super Junior.

When Jungkook became 25 years old, his biggest fan club in England during a whole month sent 25 roses to the Enterprise Inc. building daily.

Although, even with fame and constant proofs of how influential he still was, Jungkook felt good by being treated like a younger brother. No one gave him a special treatment or rolled out a red carpet whenever he walked around. Once, after having a small party at Yoongi’s place, he vented with his hyungs about fame and all, Min Yoongi stared at him blankly and said placid:

— I couldn’t care less about your idol life and shit. For me, you are Jeon Jungkook and works with film editing, you can even sing whilst doing your job, but it will never earn you a golden star.

It worried him watching his hyungs and main inspirations brawling, probably over Namjoon’s love interest in Nya and how it would affect his work. Also, Jungkook knew about money problems and thought about offering some cash to help and stabilize their finances, however everyone knew Yoongi would rather sell a kidney before accepting any loan.

— NOO!! - Hoseok yelled and punched the table, cell phone still on his other hand and eyes furiously staring at the screen. That unexpected behavior startled everyone.

— What happened? Did someone die? - Namjoon questioned, genuinely worried.

— No! But someone is about to! Taehyung finished watching The Umbrella Academy without me! I'm going to kill my boyfriend! - Hoseok declared and began typing furiously.

- x - x - x - x -

Nya felt an apprehension in the air, like something was off. Namjoon and Yoongi barely looked at each other, definitely not a subtle change from their past behavior. It could be only a hangover, or not. Well, she wasn’t in such position to question them.

Whilst Namjoon and Yoongi were silent, Hoseok and Jungkook were jamming to whatever played on the radio, creating choreographies out of blue and pulling the grumpy men. Maybe in a common day things were like that, very balanced: two neutrons and two protons.

Their last demand was going to thrift shops, and places selling wigs. Their desire was an order, so Nya chose “Opportunity Village Thrift Store” and Honey’s favourite place to buy wigs.

The ride to Opportunity Village seemed to last forever. Namjoon wanted to talk and have fun along with Nya, Hoseok and Jungkook, but Yoongi could consider it flirting and throw a homeric tantrum. Oh, he would die out of embarrassment.

Arriving was a relief. Yoongi stretched his legs and stared at Jeon. Before leaving the hotel, they decided that having Yoongi always sitting on Hoseok’s lap wasn’t fair, so using their best tool of democracy (a.k.a rock, scissor, paper) the last ones would play to decide who would flump and who would be flumped. In conclusion, maintaining a Jungkook steady during a car ride isn’t comfortable.

Opportunity Village Thrift Store looked huge. Garment tracks, clothing rails, huge baskets and hampers with colourful fabrics and shoes. It felt like a paradise and a warzone. Namjoon seriously considered the idea of diving in one of them, only to test how it feels like, but kept a composed behavior.

Nya got in and pulled a huge pink coat from one of the baskets, throwing it in Yoongi’s direction, whose first reflex was to deviate, watching the fabric becoming a puddle on his feet. He picked it up and dressed. Understanding it as an ice-breaker, everyone else decided to have their fun exploring what the store had to offer.

— I’m gonna pop some tags. Only got 20 dollars in my pocket. - Hoseok began singing happily, getting out from the fitting room with a huge ass fur coat covering down his knees, pink glasses and platform shoes.

Jungkook was with his body halfway in one of the baskets, but after listening the fitting room’s door opening, he stood up using a baseball cap, a t-shirt made of black tulle with Xs covering the nipples. Hoseok never behaved discreetly, but seeing him all dressed up and singing Macklemore, it made Jeon cackle and sit on the ground.

— You look like an asian version of Elton John on a budget! - Jungkook managed to utter between guffaws.

Before Jungkook died out of laughter, Namjoon showed up with a brown ushanka covering his lilac hair, white jacket with voluptuous shoulder pads and a brown clutch. Jung was about to pronounce something, when Kim opened a huge and glittery fan that was hidden inside the jacket’s pocket.

— You look like a cheap version of Adam Lambert, Jeon. - Namjoon sounded serious, but a quirk dimpley smile took over his features.

Everyone laughed and looked around for Nya, since Yoongi was anything but undercover with his bright pink coat, sitting on one wooden bench close to the fitting rooms, he typed something on the cellphone, a deadly serious face, not even paying attention to all foolery.

The woman emerged from the third and last fitting room. She was using a dress made of golden sequins, her cleavage in evidence and left leg standing out of a opening. Namjoon, Jungkook and Hoseok shut up and stared at her in awe.

— Can someone please make a joke so I will feel less embarrassed? - She muttered, cheeks getting warmer and redder with their eyes laying on her stunning figure.

— Nya, Big Bird from Sesame Street called. - Yoongi pronounced without looking at her, still typing and unfazed. - He wants his drag queen dress back.

They got back to laugh until tears were streaming down their faces, even Yoongi giggled a little. Everyone went back inside a fitting room, dressing back their own clothes and going out, looking for more funny outfits.

…

Namjoon and Nya would never understand or feel able to explain how, but somewhere between laughing at a pair of ugly ass shoes and grabbing more stuff to try on, they found themselves making out inside one fitting room. Sitting on the ground, her legs straddling him and his hands cupping her ass, their mouths connected and only separated looking for air (or taking turns in kissing necks), lips moving in sync and desperately grinding against each other.

After a few minutes swirling tongues and trading saliva, they stopped gasping for air, foreheads touching and now fingers intertwined, laying on Namjoon’s lap. Nya smiled and gave him a quick peck, without saying a word. They agreed in making out without pronouncing syllables, got there and began smooching, not a single sound needed.

Namjoon moved his hands and posed them on her waist, smiling whilst staring and decorating every feature from Nya’s attractive face. The dimples, oh those dimples, she held his face and began kissing those goddamn cute details. Namjoon moved his face a bit, getting back to peck her lips passionately.

— I don’t want to leave this fitting room ever again. - Namjoon whispered watching Nya hop off his lap and sit beside him, laying her head on his shoulder, a long arm enveloping around hers.

— If we are going to do something else, then we gotta leave. - Nya murmured and caressed his clothed knee, making small heart shapes there.

— I like the way you think. - His free hand lifted her chin leaning a little to kiss there again.

Before they could even think about continuing the make out session, a loud knock on the door was heard, startling them. Namjoon froze on his spot when a deep voice was heard, most specifically Yoongi’s voice.

— Kim Namjoon, why is Nya inside a fucking stall with you? - He sounded pissed off and it scared even the woman.

— W-who told something about Nya being here? - Namjoon questioned, trying to keep his cool.

— Who told me? A blue bird appeared to tell me. - His sarcasm sharp and killer like a knife, as always. - I COULD HEAR SOMEONE WHIMPERING FROM THE FRONT DOOR! AND IT WAS YOUR WHIMPERINGS!

Looking around, Namjoon tried to find another exit other than the door, in vain of course. Nya noticed Yoongi’s frown when he saw they kissing the day before, but would never imagine how against making out with her. By the way, why did Min even cared about it? Well, she didn’t understand, but Kim’s reaction surprised her: Glancing around desperately, fidgeting and anxious.

Did Yoongi carry a gun with him after all?

— Namjoon, you know I wouldn’t care about your romantic life, if you were capable of dicking down someone without falling in love and ruining our business! - Yoongi scolded profusely, words spitted like fire. The small man had flames inside his belly, always keen to burn whoever dared to cross his path and stumble. When their partnership became real and moneymaking, Namjoon’s creativity and intellect lost ground to Yoongi’s audacity, geniality and incredible honesty. Everyone in a meeting could witness how Min grows talking about money, market and tactics on getting attention, the same way Kim shrinks. 148 IQ points, tall and intimidating, but the business head looked like a human Hamtaro.

Indeed, Namjoon felt rickety closer to Yoongi. Who wouldn’t? Although their partnership equally shared in 50% of profit between them, who always controlled their accounts and hired people was Yoongi. Kim Namjoon was creative and smart, but Min Yoongi was ferocious, visionary, not afraid of facing bigger companies and calling attention to their work. Success depends on many more aspects than a well produced movie, knowing how to speak with business man, sell their product and spread their name. The universe knows Enterprise Inc., Mr. Spock always the mind, Captain Kirk their face and voice.

Namjoon wholeheartedly respected Yoongi, which was a mutual feeling.

It’s not like Yoongi was perfect and never made mistakes during their ten years career, running a filming company and producing polemical content.

Seven years ago, Min Yoongi dived from head to toe in a project about korean idols selling girls around the world, promoting prostitution and drug dealing. The movie was a mixture of documentary and fiction. Purposely or not, apparently the villain portrayed resembled a lot a certain manager from some big entertainment company and they were sued. Back in then, drowning in debts, Namjoon sat down and studied similar cases, learning with someone else’s past equivocation, he based their marketing on that judicial situation.

In the same way his sharp tongue and bold behavior made them big, Yoongi also caused a lot of trouble by saying something offensive. Once, Min Yoongi argued with a group of australian entrepreneurs, owners from a huge farm with mines around, a collaboration organised with Seokjin’s help was being discussed. Maybe joking about their political bias wasn’t the best choice of icebreaker, ‘cuz when they found themselves, Mr.Smith was red in anger and punching the table stopping himself from whacking Yoongi’s face.

However, Yoongi was right, Namjoon falls in love way too easily. Perhaps it was loneliness, or his massive levels of empathy. Fearing the loss of his company, Min Yoongi felt the grip and patience held along their trip fly away in the moment Jungkook and Hoseok appeared, but Kim and Nya were nowhere to be seen. Whimperings inside one stall, it was the last straw.

Nya and Namjoon got out the fitting room, red as beets. Yoongi had a hand covering his face, pissed off and trying to control his voice volume, not wanting to cause a stir.

— Why do you care? What happened of so serious? - Nya raised one eyebrow, still confused about Yoongi’s reaction about them making out. He would be sane to complain about public display of affection, but not the whole idea of someone kissing another human being.

— Namjoon is a workaholic, but also has a huge problem with loneliness. - Yoongi slid the hand down his face and stared at her, dead opaque eyes. - Every single time he gets attached to someone and breaks up, who deals with his tantrums and childish behavior, grumpy face and irascible humour, believe me, wouldn’t be you, it would be me, our hired actors, and of course our ring of friends. He gets unbearable.

— But we are not dating or in love, if anything ever happened, it wouldn’t leave Vegas. You are overreacting. - She was clearly embarrassed with the whole situation, when did she expressed any feeling of passion? Nya flirted with Namjoon and mentioned sex, but never said anything about dating, falling in love, or whatever.

— Yoongi, you are being irrational. I’m not in love, we are just young, horny and getting along. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. - Namjoon backed up Nya, pissing the hell off of Min, who took a long and deep breathe.

— Exactly! What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, but you know who else will be staying in Vegas? Us. We’re coming back in a month and if you dick her down now, you will probably want to get another dose after. I want you fully focused on working in ‘Fierce’, not splitting your thoughts between tortuous falling in love and doing your job properly. - The shorter man spat, again fire coming off his mouth.

— I’m focused! I’m having fun, but also analyzing every place we’ve been to!

— Oh, you are focused, right? Focused like a fucking cannon under a drunk man’s watch! - Min Yoongi snapped, if he ever worried about not causing a stir, then it disappeared like Namjoon’s rationality. - Do you know what I was doing whilst everyone tried on clothes? I was trying to resolve some of our location renting problems and checking how the filming for our other projects are going. - He got closer to Kim, poking one of his long fingers against the taller one chest. - By the way, did you make any contact with Enterprise every since we landed in Vegas? Did you check your phone? Did you worry about anything other than inserting your dick in somewhere or someone?

— No, but… - Namjoon suddenly felt small and shrinking more and more.

— That’s what I thought! Your whole focused ass is whipped and willing to lose everything we fought for, all for one night stand with some random one!

— Shut up! - Nya yelled, flustered and vexed, stepping closer to Yoongi. - Don’t you dare referring to me as if I’m not here. Don’t you ever treat me like someone random, trivial. I’m not a random someone, I’m the one guiding you around Las Vegas for free. It may not be something as big as filming a movie, but it’s also helpful. - She poked Yoongi’s chest, he gave one step back, their discussion drawing attention from people looking around, Hoseok and Jungkook showed up. - Your posh ass can be rich, or the owner from a company, but don’t you dare talking about me like a brainless person, someone incapable of fucking with someone without growing fond of that person! Your friend can be sappy and weak minded, but I am not. You don’t know me, Min Yoongi.

— We better leave before anything else is said, right Joon? - Jungkook asked, pulling Yoongi by one arm in the door’s direction.

— Yes, please, I don’t think I can keep on guiding you guys, I would say I’m sorry, but it is not true at all. - Nya seemed gloomy, but also frustrated. They were discussing sexism and pre-concepts in a movie, but Yoongi’s opinion about her seemed far from awaken. Maybe it was more about Namjoon and his past relationships, but why couldn’t Min consider her vision? A relationship necessarily has to have two sides, and both agreeing with their terms. Even if Kim fell in love, nothing would ever happen again if Nya did not fancy it.

Women do have voices and their standpoint should be taken seriously.

Maybe Yoongi wanted to protect both parts from heartbreak or unhealthy obsession, but what a problematic way of showing his worries. Why couldn’t he just ask for Nya’s opinion? It’s not fair or right.

Nya watched them leaving, Yoongi frowning and Namjoon in shock, both being dragged down by Hoseok and Jungkook. Everyone inside the thrift shop staring at them, dividing their glances between Nya and the group.

- x - x - x - x -

Whilst packing their bags again, Yoongi checked his pocket list of goals for the travel. He concluded that everything needed was basically sorted, places chosen and their owners actually liked them, which would make it easier to bargain better renting prices. Their casting situation and debt with Nya could be solved within days and a few phone calls, since while Namjoon was flirting, Jungkook and Hoseok were doing some bullshitery, Min gave his cellphone number to a no number of people.

Staring at Namjoon and his gloomy eyes felt heartbreaking, but Yoongi knew that it was the right thing to be done. Kim needed to keep his head on the game. They only had one chance, and oh boy, Min Yoongi would hold it with claws and teeth.

Nya was a bewildering creature and, after filming everything, Yoongi would totally invite her to their premiere, however in order to actually having a Premiere, they first had to rent places, cast people, transport their shit, direct, film, edit, and first of all, not declare bankruptcy. Namjoon should’ve know better, acting like a horny teenager would be the death of them.

The lilac-haired man wished things could be different, but Yoongi was correct and sane: Kim Namjoon would never know how to balance a relationship with work, at least not without slipping at some point and getting hurt.

Namjoon was aware of his workaholic condition. All of his relationships got to dramatic endings after spending hours in a row inside his office, studio or even at home, but with a notebook almost morphing into his lap. Every single one of his past girlfriends were very understanding, and accepted that working represented over 80% of his life, routine and thoughts, but being pushed into the background felt tiring. Namjoon hurted himself so many times with that and promised to change, which never happened.

Let’s face it, his fate had nothing to do with a successful love life.

Truth be told, but never convinced. Namjoon thanked mentally Yoongi, he saved Nya from a very frustrating life beside him.

Hoseok and Jungkook didn’t dare to say a word from hotel to airport. No one felt the need. Silence seemed adequate and anything else would only trigger into bickerings. There was no energy or disposition to raise voices and argue.

Silence and rain, those words defined their travel back to England.

- x - x - x - x -

— Zariah finished the filming of “Beast”. She sent the files to Jimin and Jungkook, but I think they will need my help, since Jeon is stuck with all those sequential cuts Yoongi made during “Je M’appelle Carinè”, and Park is simultaneously working on the sound effects for our first animated short-film “Poundcake”, and in… Oh Jimin is recording the soundtrack to “Fierce”? I’m proud of him. - Taylor, a short, chubby young lady, with short brown hair and sparkling eyes, was standing in front of Namjoon’s office table, staring at her iPad and checking every information, whilst he stared blankly outside the window. - Should I keep on working as your secretary? Or can I help Kook and Chim Chim on editing “Beast”?

— What? What did you just say? - Namjoon looked at her, blinking fast and slowly getting back to reality. - Sorry, Tay. I lost myself in my mind again. It’s been happening more often than I would like to assume.

— That’s alright. - She pulled a chair and sat in front of him, placing the iPad on her lap. - What’s bugging you, Joon?

Namjoon gazed again outside, eyes oscillating between shining and getting opaque again. Where should he even begin with? His mind was hopping from thought to thought, concern to concern, and somehow, even filled with preoccupations, Nya always danced between daydreams and awaken nightmares. Despite trying his best to forget and move on, the lady with a contagious smile, beautiful eyes and the smoothest skin ever seen found her way back to divagations.

Enterprise Inc. wasn’t placed in a huge building, actually, they placed had to place a billboard outside to indicate where the firm resided. An ancient building about to be demolished, that’s why Namjoon and Yoongi could bid a whole four floor building for such a bargain. With its structure, the duo fixed some details and reformed every flat, turning into different studios. Every deck had a specific department: first video editing and animation (recently inaugurated by Taehyung and Hoseok after finishing their online animating course), second reserved to audio (both recording and editing, Yoongi built his office there) and characterization accessories, third filming studios, last everything related to managing (marketing, advertisement, Human Resources, Management, and of course, Namjoon’s office). No one would ever imagine how proud Kim and Min were of their achievements, every award and nomination resulted in motivation. They were succeeding, from the bottom and going higher.

Imagining himself waking up and heading to somewhere else, other than the building made of red bricks and black doors, that thought scared the shit out of Namjoon. He would never cooperate or live happily after declaring bankrupt and having to shut down his business, at least not after conquering so many prizes, awards, incredible movies under his name. No, closing doors would never be an option.

— Taylor, I know everyone is aware of how ramshackle is our financial situation. Those projects, “Beast”, “Je M’Appelle Carinè”, “Poundcake” and “Fierce”, are our last string of hope. That’s why we are rushing to finish and release them. - Taylor nodded, in fact, everytime Namjoon and Yoongi argued behind closed doors, rumours around the office were spread. - Specially “Fierce”, we are investing every dime left in that. It’s probably our most expensive and laborious movie, but we count on it to keep us working for a few more months. Two weeks ago me, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook went to Las Vegas and rented places to film, but something happened there.”

“See, our guide, Nya, is the most dazzling creature alive. Not a single soul ever made me feel so impressed in my whole life, yet I can’t get attached to her. Not before finishing the filmings for “Fierce”, it would make me lose focus and possibly fuck everything up. It’s not my intention, but I can’t get her out of my head. Whenever I stop and think, she is there, dancing through my worries and thoughts.”

— Joon, why can’t you talk to her? - Taylor pushed her glasses down the nose bridge and raised one eyebrow. - It seems like by avoiding Nya, you are focusing in nothing else but her. Maybe this time your romantic curse was casted differently. You are not dating her, perhaps the vicious cycle is broken. Also, being unable to think about anything else won’t help you directing.

— I don’t know… - Namjoon pouted and laid his head against the wooden table, leaning the forehead there.

— When the filming to “Fierce” will begin?

— In two weeks. - Namjoon mumbled without raising his head, but now facing his brown walls. - We casted some american actors and actresses, our luggage is being packed, Yoongi made deals with every place to film, rented a house for the crew and us.

— You have two weeks to decide whether you want to invest in something with Nya, or not. It’s up to you. - Taylor made a flourishing movement with one of her hands, whilst standing up and staring again at the iPad. - Now about the “Beast” video editing...

— Go help Jimin and Jungkook. - Namjoon dismissed her and got back to his thoughts.

- x - x - x - x -

— Namjoon, you know I hate to accept when I’m wrong, huh? - Yoongi had an U shaped pillow around his neck, resting peacefully on a comfortable seat, whilst Kim typed on the notebook, adding some reminders on the script to himself. - But I think you should call Nya and ask her out.

— What? Why? - Namjoon turned his head and stared at Yoongi's unfazed face.

— You never had to take notes on scripts in order to work right. You are way a fucking genius, with 148 IQ points, had written masterpieces and composed glorious songs. - Min said without looking at his friend, but placing a hand on his knee. - In the past month you barely talked during reunions, you've been unfocused and divagating, also I spoke to Emerson, and she mentioned a certain talk you had with Taylor. Man, you need Nya and it's insane. You spent less than 24 hours by her side and now living without talking to her seems like a punishment. I don't understand how and why, but if contacting her during our permanence in Vegas will cheer you up, then I'm 100% supporting you. We need our leader, our main director.

Namjoon got back to typing without delivering a single sentence, Min’s hand still on his knee. Suddenly the space between their seats felt tinier, they were way too close and He needed to absorb Yoongi’s new position on Nya’s awe. Indeed, having his approval on looking for her was amazing, but how? During their trip to Las Vegas Min Yoongi said harsh things, leaving right after. Upon weeks of silence, even having Nya’s phone number saved, Namjoon never made effort to apologize, keep in touch or whatever. He respected Yoongi’s opinion, but his spitted phrases and dark tone made both parts highly uncomfortable.

He wanted and decided that looking for Nya was part of his plans whilst filming in Las Vegas, but embarrassment spoke louder and clearer. Namjoon wanted, but had no balls to accomplish it. At least not after remaining mute whilst Yoongi spat mean words at her, he could’ve defended their situation, stand up and put Min on his place. Well, what happened was far from ideal.

All Namjoon could think about, even before hearing Yoongi’s concerned and caring words about his mental state, was Nya, and what were the chances of her accepting to go on a date with him. Namjoon despised the idea of Nya evicting him.

Unlike Yoongi thought, Namjoon wasn’t in love before. It took him an array of nights stalking Nya’s Facebook page, checking her Instagram and reading how passionate her friends seemed to feel. Now, he felt obsessed and slightly uncomfortable with the idea of being dumped.

Nonetheless, Namjoon decided to pull himself together, grow a pair of balls and try. ‘No’ is a possibility, risking won’t harm.

Trying to gather some courage, the lilac haired man opened a new Word file and named “Captain’s Log”, getting in full Star Trek mode, he was Captain Kirk afterall.

“Captain’s log. Stardate -303753.640. We are arriving in the dusty and hot atmosphere of Las Vegas, a city located in the middle of Nevada, a state from United States of America, North America, one of the seven continents from planet Earth. My Vulcan friend, Mr.Yoongi, possessor of a great logical intellect is encouraging me to look for a human partner in our new location, specifically someone already acknowledged by Enterprise as homo sapien sapien, formed by carbon and XX chromosomes, turning it into a fascinating woman named Nya by her genitors. After our last expedition through Las Vegas, the relationship development between Enterprise’s Captain, yours truly, and terrestrial local resident Nya were harmed by Mr.Yoongi’s behavior towards her. Nevertheless, I’m willing to change our perspectives and get another chance.”

- x - x - x - x -

Saturday. A boring afternoon ghosting over Nya’s body, sitting on her couch along with Alexa. They were watching something about wildlife in Taiwan forests on National Geographics, a bowl with caramel popcorn between them and cups of mint tea. The curly-haired woman stared around her living room, noticing how the yellowish painting was peeling and slowly showing stripes of the white paint under it. Basically, her walls looked like an albino zebra. The purple sofa comfortable and everything else seemed pretty fitting, not needing to be replaced or moved. Oh, she was proud about her good taste in decoration.

Boredom hit Alexa like a truck and a deep grunt left her throat, almost scratching its way out. She grabbed the remote control and began zapping through channels, looking for something more interesting than animals mating or bullying each other.

— We should go out. You look like a mushy potato in that set of sweats. Is it yellow because you’ve been copiously using that for the past four weekends, or is it the original colour? - Alexa snorted, trying to combat boredom with jokes. - Honestly Nya, what the fuck happened? You explained something about Korean entrepreneurs, but as far as I know you’re not eager in investing on stock market, so I don’t know why their business would affect you. Did you get involved with one of them?

— No shit, Sherlock. - Nya mumbled and took a sip from her tea, trying to gather some words without sounding grumpy. - I have nothing to do with their business, but see, they hired me to guide them through Las Vegas. I’ve done that once before for one of their friends, the Seokjin guy I told you. Remember?

— Seokjin? The cocky and rich film producer? I remember him, he was funny and immensely confident, literally, I’ve never seen someone so sure about his looks. - Alexa kept her glance on the television. - Big dick energy at its finest.

— Yeah, him. - Nya avoided talking about Namjoon and cia, but now, completely alone with her best friend, it seemed like a good moment to vent. - One of the film producers I accepted to guide, he was funny, interesting, smart and a very good kisser, although, apparently someone deeply confusing. Like, I felt interest on him, but never said shit about being in love, unlikely what Yoongi understood and took as the gospel truth, his friend could cherish me with a thousand roses, but I would never date him and then break up, even because it takes more than 24 hours wandering around sin city and a good fuck for me to enamor someone.

“I don’t know how are the girls they know and usually go out with, but I’m not innocent. We don’t live in a book from Jane Austen. They claim to be so woke and liberal, discussing pre-concepts, sexism and homophobia on their scripts, but behaving and thinking like Mr.Darcy. Did they ever consider a scenario where women have voices and opinions? A scenario where I can easily say no and continue my life? See, I’m not hurt because I’m fancying Namjoon, but because from the moment they introduced themselves and their ideas, they seemed like progressivists, looking for equality, open-minded guys, willing to fight our biased society with their movies. However, Yoongi insinuating that Namjoon and I would ever date or engage in a long-lasting romantic relationship, without even considering my perception on it all, the possibility of the woman only looking for a good fuck. He literally throw a tantrum in a thrift shop about it, calling me some random one. The delusion hurt me.”

— Uh girl, I’m sorry about it. That Yoongi guy really assumed some fucked up things about you. - Alexa turned to stare at her friend, who didn’t spare a look from the television, even though she wasn’t actually watching it, only avoiding eye contact. - But you went through several deceptions along life, why is that different? What happened lately that you remain thinking about them? Or him?

Nya got tired of staring at nothing and met Alexa’s brown eyes, thick and beautiful eyebrows. She took her cell phone and found the long text Namjoon sent a few hours before, throwing it to the friend, keen to understand everything surrounding her grumpy aspect.

“Kim Namjoon [03/31/2019, 8h34min]: Hey Nya.

Sorry taking so long to contact you. I couldn’t find words apologizing my behavior four weeks ago. Unfortunately, there is nothing I can say now. I could’ve defended you, Yoongi acted like a jerk and said some hurtful things, which I don’t agree 100% with. I wasn’t in love back in then, but I understand his side from this story. Yoongi is worried about our finances, which I was the responsible for fucking up. Let me explain it all, expose the situation we unintentionally inserted you in.

A few months ago I broke up with an incredible woman who taught me a lot, but also couldn’t bear my working schedule and how I always set her aside. The career I built along with Yoongi always goes first, it’s my main priority, and I never learned how to balance ‘working Namjoon’ with ‘dating Namjoon’. The result of that break up was a moody me, who brought hell to surface and made two of our casted actors quit, they couldn’t deal with my humour (beside one who quit after receiving a better role somewhere else). It really cost us way too much, since they received for working day and we couldn’t ask their payment back. Also, when the infamous movie was released, the numbers were low and barely covered our bills and paychecks, media and critics criticized it harshly.

However, what happened is a vicious cycle which I’m stuck in. It’s one of the certainties from life: death, the ones most adaptable to change will survive and that I’m fucking up a relationship and then ruining a movie. Yoongi always found a way to contort it and put us back, saving our finances, but this time the loss was gigantic. Our company is solely relying on the success of ‘Fierce’, and a few other projects we will be releasing.

I’m not trying to find excuses for everything Yoongi spat to your face, he was rude and unnecessarily loud, but I’m begging you to consider his side as well. We are not up to losing our company, it’s our deepest fear. Min Yoongi and his stone cold heart is trying his hardest to get our butt off bankruptcy. I guess inside his head, he is willing to drag me away from anything considered as a distraction.

Now, enough of Yoongi and our financial trouble. Let's talk about feelings.

Yeah, I'm a lonely man and tend to get attached pretty easily. However, I wasn't in love with you. Nya, you seemed like someone really interesting and attractive, I'd rather chew my feet off than leave Las Vegas without kissing you. You are smart, independent, proactive, empathetic and friendly. Within hours being guided by you through Vegas, we saw how passionate you are about people you grew surrounded by, how you care deeply about them all and are willing to give up on money in order to help them.

By the way, our deal is still up and we casted your friends (Carol even gained a solo scene where she dances and Sasha got lines). Hopefully they already told you, but if they didn't and you are suspicious of my word, get in touch with everyone you introduced to us.

Continuing…

I wasn't in love with your back in then, but after two weeks thinking about it all and checking your social media (sorry about it :S), I grew fond of you. Everyone seems to love you so much and your heart is so big, couldn't help and now I, Kim Namjoon, am fancying you as well.

I'm not hoping to gain your mercy, but am willing to try and get your sympathy back. Would you go out with me sometime? Not in a romantic way, if you don't feel comfortable.

Again, I'm sorry about how it all began and hope we can fix it.

I'll be staying in Vegas for a while.

Thank you. Bye :) “

— First of all. Did he deadass structured the text like an e-mail? - Alexa looked up from the cellphone in time to see Nya grinning. - You are considering the idea of accepting his invitation? Girl, I ain't gonna tell you what to do, but that Namjoon doesn't seen to be a jerk, he could've just gave up, but he insisted and apologized. Did he actually casted everyone you asked to?

— Yes. Two weeks ago I received a text from Carol and Sasha, they thanked me and all. Tio Diego is also renting his bar for their movie. They also chose Paris as the main filming place, casting Honey too. - Nya felt divided, hoping on Alexa's opinion to define what should be done. - I'm still a bit hurt for what happened, but they proved their integrity by casting and renting everything and everyone I suggested. Namjoon apologized, gave me Yoongi's point of view and invited me to a date, giving me the option of saying no or defining if it's romantic or not.

— Nya, I don't see a plausible reason why you would say no. - Alexa’s hand snaked between them and landed on the other woman thigh. - You are only trying to find excuses because you are stubborn. If you want to, then go, get dicked down and you don't necessarily have to head back to him ever again. Even though he assuredly grew fond of you, it doesn't mean you obligatory have to engage in an actual relationship.

Nya huffed and slapped Alexa’s hand off her thigh. She hated when the girl with wavy black hair was right, and unfortunately Alexa seemed to never be wrong.

- x - x - x - x -

The night sky was clear and the air cool, wind making leaves from trees huff against each other and a chill run through everyone's spine. However, Namjoon felt sweat bidding down his forehead, anxiously shifting from one foot to another and resisting the urge to bite his nails.

The lilac-haired man was standing alone in front of Devito’s, same dining Nya took them the first night. His white t-shirt covered by a thin plaid shirt, jeans and white Converse, outfit plained specifically to seen laidback, since Nya chose the place and said it wasn't a fancy date. She was a ten minutes late and Kim had this crazy thought culminating in his mind, where she probably gave up and would call at any moment to dump him.

With 15 minutes of delay, Nya showed up dressed casually with a black Iron Maiden t-shirt, brown corduroy coat, skinny jeans and Vans. Her curly hair free and adorning the whole picture, no makeup, except for a cherry coloured lipstick. Flawless, Namjoon felt like his legs were made out of jelly and would collapse. His guts contracted in the same moment butterflies attacked his stomach. His mind hazing and suddenly his vocabulary vanished, being resumed by the extensive plethora of words pronounced by someone 2 years old, basically “bluh”.

The first half hour from their date felt weird. No one knew what to say, so small talk almost defeated them, but Namjoon decided to insist. Between eating burgers for dinner and dying out of embarrassment from going out in such situation, Kim decided to thank Nya.

His grateful words somehow touched Nya's heart. He sounded so sincere and whipped by her presence, that keeping the attitude of someone offended seemed pointless. Alexa was right, Namjoon liked Nya.

Goddamnit, Alexa.

Like a chain of gratitude, Nya thanked Namjoon for remaining faithful to his promise of casting her friends. He blushed and sipped on his fizzy cherry drink, grinning slightly, dimples marking their presence and reminding the woman why she thought Kim Namjoon was such a heartthrob beforehand.

Those dimples. Goddamnit, dimples. How can you be mad at someone desperately fluff with such a cute face? Nya wanted to stay loyal to her belief and hard feelings, but Namjoon's polite behavior, lovely face and insistence made it specially complicate.

Goddamnit, Namjoon.

Their body language clearly showed how the unsolved business led to a huge amount of sexual tension, Nya could bear it masterly though. Talking about everything and nothing at all, that's how Namjoon decided to speak his mind. What's the point of sitting and awkwardly pretend there is not an elephant in the room? Well, let's excuse it and set the pachyderm free then.

— Nya, I don't know if you are ever going to forgive me for not standing up for you, or whatever… - Namjoon's hand slipped swiftly closer to Nya's, touching her pinky but not holding it, avoiding more of an intimate contact.

— It's not that you didn't stood up or defended me, see there is so much more. Did you guys ever consider the idea that, I don't know, I could easily not want something serious with you? - She allowed his pinky to snake from her side and lightly take a hold of it. - I'm not mainly mad at you, disappointed with both Yoongi and you, though. For guys claiming to be so open-minded, then why is it so hard to assume I don't want a relationship? That I'm glad having something unofficial and leaving? Fuck, you make it so hard to believe you are an hypocrite.

— I'm not an hypocrite. I do believe in women's sexual freedom and ability to choose partners without necessity of commitment. I'm shitty at not getting attached, it doesn't mean that everyone else is also suckers for love. - His gaze was no longer on her eyes, but staring down to his own lap. - Indeed, we discussed my side, claiming I’d fall for you and ruin our project, but never considered your opinion, the possibility of you wanting nothing related to me. We behaved in such a sexist way, I’m profoundly sorry.

Their order arrived, someone almost spinning on her calves. Burgers and fries, so much cheese melting down the seeded bread. What a vision. If the conversation wasn’t in such an uncomfortable place, Namjoon would probably declare his passion for the juicy and greasy food in front of them.

The chit-chatting kept its slow pace. If National Geographics decided to make a parallel between their behavior and animals socializing, then they were trying to mingle, like Taiwan birds, Nya and Namjoon were singing in order to attract each other, hoping to link and connect. They got along once, why was it so hard to do it again? What wasn’t being said? Who was holding the cat inside the bag?

— I think I’m fancying you. - Namjoon finally took the cat out of the bag, or it could be a mice, ‘cause within seconds the elephant sitting on their conversation got up and left. Gone late, pachyderm.

— What? - Nya lifted an eyebrow. - I don’t know why I’m surprised, you said it in the message. Sorry, keep talking.

— When I closed all deals and rented everything we needed for the filming here in Vegas, my friends and my crew was all like ‘Heck yes, Vegas! Strippers, gambling, money, casinos, yaay!’, and even trying my best, the hardest, to focus on working and directing a masterpiece this script deserves to originate, all I could think about was you. - Namjoon decided it would be appropriate to look at Nya, she seemed unfazed, which made him nervous. - Travelling hours in a flying sardine can to see Nya! No one, except for the boys and Jin knew who you are, and kept on questioning me why so much anxiety and excitement over seeing you. And not even I understood. Working and wondering about what you could be doing really messed with my head. Nya, you messed with my head!

— Ok, Namjoon, it’s a lot of information. - She didn’t spare a look, he felt intimidated, but Nya’s behavior never showed any insecurity. - I don’t fancy you, but it doesn’t mean I cannot grow fond of you at any moment. However, in order to see it happening, you’ve got to insist. If you really want to be with me, then you’ll need to stick along, we’ve got to go out more, in different places. We can totally link up and have great sex today, but it won’t guarantee another row. Got it?

Well, Namjoon felt relieved. Nya was far from being mad at him. Oh, he remained willing to go out, as long as she was there.

In the end, if Nya and Namjoon’s story was something elaborated by Jane Austen, then it would be Sense & Sensibility. Nya and her sense changed how Namjoon dealt with his sensibility, breaking a vicious cycle, where engaging in a romantic relationship without previous thinking ruined all logical thoughts and mature behavior.

The end.

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hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger · 6 years

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Also, let me emphasize something... SpOck will never be a hero. Believe all you want. It AIN'T happening. Put SpOck in a spider-suit or showing off his stupid Spider-bots in EVERY message board avatar in the world. Still never happening. Ever. Ever. Ever. I'm sure I'll be here next year telling you the same thing. Not happening. Over a quarter of a century has been spent by Marvel to define what a true hero is. It ain't happening. Sorry. Ever. This isn't a "let's argue about it" or "let's debate about it". This is fact. This is in stone. There is no administration in the near or distant future that will ever reinstate SpOck as a true hero in Superior Spider-Man EVER. Could he be redeemed by other writers in the future? Yes. That could happen. Could there be an alternate continuity where Doc Ock was never a villain and merely helped humanity with his intellect? You bet. And I wouldn't mind paying to see that. Will his actions in SSM be considered heroic? Never. Is there some future person out there who loves SpOck and will someday wind up a creator or editor at Marvel? Could happen. Will he be able to reinstate SpOck as a hero? No. A person who believes that's a scenario that could happen does not have a proper grasp on what the definition of "hero" means. That's the reality of the situation. It's not happening. Ever. It's never, ever going to happen. There is no person, no matter how passionately they cared about the SSM setup who could ever make it through all the steps and paces to get to a position of editorial power AND change the foundation of what Spider-Man and true heroism really mean. There is no lottery ticket BIG enough that anyone could win it, buy Marvel, and make this ludicrous notion happen. It's NEVER, EVER, EVER coming about. No matter how much Slott wants it. It ain't happening. There is NO possible path to this. Still not clear enough? To quote someone truly heroic... I've seen his "heroism." The only thing he really fights for is himself. He's not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over him. If there's a fire, he would just phone for the firemen, risking the possibility that they might not be able to save everyone. That's somehow more "superior" than what Peter did, naively trying to save everyone trapped in that burning building. If there's a mugging, he would just phone for the cops, risking the possibility of another Ben Parker dead on the streets. SpOck might not have been a threat, but Slott better stop pretending he's a hero.

#Spider-Man #Peter Parker #Superior Spider-Man #otto octavius #doc ock #Doctor Octopus

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iatrcs-blog · 6 years

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SCORPIUS MALFOY really is the spitting image of LUCKY BLUE SMITH, right? Only TWENTY TWO years old, HE (CISMALE) is so young to be fighting so many. Yes, a little bird told me that they’re siding with THE SENTINELS in the imminent war, which is an intriguing stance for a PUREBLOOD. I’d watch out for them though – they might be RESOURCEFUL and CONSCIENTIOUS, but they’re also RETICENT and FACETIOUS. [ he adopted ]

CHARACTER PARALLELS: Amy Santiago (B99), Claire Temple (Daredevil), Chidi Anagonye (The Good Place), Giles (Buffy TVS), Michelle Jones (Spiderman: Homecoming), Elizabeth Swan (PoTC), Spock (Star Trek), Clarke Griffin (The 100), Gregory House (House) suggested honorable mention Gizmo (Gremlins)

he’s really a sarcastic piece of shit, it’s 90% bravado and though he’s kind of posh? he has a tendency to feign proper mad poshness for comedic value. mostly just hiding a core of overwhelming anxiety.

very very aware of many people’s distrust of him and his family, he will sneer and play it up if anyone tries to bring up his dad and go on the offensive but he’s genuinely affected quite deeply by it all. he constantly had his sleeves rolled up while at hogwarts so that his blank forearm was bared as a statement to just about everyone. i am not marked, i never will be.

thoroughly enjoys learning and gets twitchy if his mind is not occupied.

scor has never entertained purist values and finds the entire concept pathetic and unfounded. the sentinels are a logical step for him but he has his doubts about the possibility of a true integration considering the nature of muggles’ discovery. he thinks it will be almost impossible to quell the panic.

can ream off information from muggle studies, he got an O, but his actual understanding of muggles and muggle culture is just... very weak. he has no more unfavourable opinions of muggles than of wix kind but he’s a bit ignorant and has only everyday interaction with people who come from muggles or know muggles well. eager to learn tho.

skinny and kind of sickly, he never had the best health as a kid. he scars very easily and bruises like a gd peach. pretty alright on a broom but he had no real interest in playing quidditch. he’s always cold, he’ll be sitting in direct sunlight and complaining about needing a scarf. yh hes THAT DUDE.

terrible posture, chews quills, never wears matching pairs of socks. your problematic fave. astoria despairs of him (fondly).

he has a pet crested toad named jarvis the second, an unfortunate incident involving a certain person’s owl and the ORIGINAL jarvis in his fourth year saw his dad try to buy him a replacement. resentful at first at the idea of just replacing his lil bud he was won round and in fact likes jarvis ii just as much as his predecessor. he will often be perched on scor’s shoulder while he writes or sat upon his desk. YEP the name was borne from watching iron man with the wotters when he was smol.

kind of craves attention? while being an introvert sometimes he just wants someone to pay attention to him until he gets annoyed by it and tells them to piss off. fickle.

kind of the i told you so friend. will go along with harebrained schemes but with an eye-roll and general cynicism.

scorpius lives in a tiny studio flat along diagon alley, flooing in to saint mungos for his healing apprenticeship monday to friday. he adores it.

his url is iatros which just means physician in greek because im running out of ideas quite frankly lmao

the stillness of the world the moment you take the first step into fresh snow, cashmere and fine wool, the pearlescence of dreamless sleep draught, the scratch of a quill on parchment, a massive mug of tea with a splash of milk and one sugar, faintly tremoring fingers, a shiver up your spine in a warm room, the exhilaration of a problem solved, a thunderous grey overcast sky, laughing until you ache, the bite of a stitching charm, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, petrichor, the burn in your eyes before a well of tears.

i’d can’t wait to plot with you all!! if you’re feeling a bit shy you can like this post and i’ll come to you but my dms are always open.

#revelio intro #this is terrible but i honestly dont have it in me to do anything about it lmfao

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frangipanidownunder · 7 years

Note

Cause I like your style, so maybe you can write a story where M&S are working undercover at a Star Trek Con... something silly please *grin*

This is pure fluff fun. I cheated and used Star Wars - my knowledge of Star Trek is limited to an early crush on Captain Kirk (!) and wobbly sets. Anyway, sorry it took so long to get this out. But I hope you enjoy it, kind anon. Tagging @today-in-fic and @fictober

Mulder and Scully and the Third Leia

She stares at herselfin the mirror. Despite her misgivings, she actually feels pretty damned cool.She pulls the jacket off the chair, shrugs it on and heads out to the venue.She knows Mulder is pumped for this assignment. After the Rob and Laura Petrie adventure,he’s been angling for more undercover work. She knows why. He’s the kid who wasforced to go to the dress-up parties in costumes not of his own choosing. Asshe walks through the car park she pictures him as Kirk when he would havepreferred to be the Spock, as Superman when he would have preferred The Spirit,as white spangly Elvis when he would have preferred the black leather version.Pushing through the crowds, she thought about black leather a little longer.And then she saw him.

The convention manager flexed hisknuckles and explained once again how this was an inconvenience. “My people payhuge money for photos with their heroes. They stand in line for hours forautographs. They buy tee-shirts…”

“At incredible mark-ups and sleep inthem for a year without washing them,” Mulder grins and walks to the window.“Believe me, I know. I have a stack of early Doctor Who memorabilia…”

“Anyhow, Mr Melis,” Scully cuts in, “wereally do need to surveil the full expo hall and the best way to do that is toblend in.” She eyes Mulder as he checks out his own reflection in the glass.

Melis raises his eyebrows at her andtuts. “We have our biggest star due to arrive. I have to head out back.”

“Biggest star?” Scully asks, as themanager hangs an ID badge around his neck and slips a plastic weapon into hisholster.

Mulder stands by her side. “WilliamHootkins, Scully. Didn’t you read the press? Is that the E-11 blaster or theDC-15A?” He points to the weapon and Melis pulls it back out.

“William who?”

Swinging round, blaster in hand,Mulder sighs. “Hootkins. He played Jek Porkins, in A New Hope. And Major Eaton in Raidersof the Lost Ark. I’m going to get him to sign my rebel pilot overalls.”

“You brought overalls?” Scully asks,letting her exasperation out in a delicious crick of her neck. Mulder looks ather and his lips quirk into that ‘why are you even asking me’ smile. “Of courseyou did.”

The convention isheaving with Wookiees, droids, Stormtroopers, Ewoks and yetis that Mulder tellsher are Wampas. There are Lukes, Hans, Darths, Landos and Leias. Mulder seemsparticularly taken with a trio of gold bikini-clad versions who walk past andshimmy at him. He turns to her, smirking.

“Don’t say it,” she lays a hand on his arm. “Rebel Alliance Leader LeiaOrgana is more my style.” She taps her padded white jacket and lets him sigh.

“I could have dressed as Jabba the Hutt and kept you on a chain, Scully.”

“And I would have taken great pleasure in garrotting you, Mulder.”

His eyes widen and his smile is insufferable. She walks off.

The Bureau was on thetail of Rita Barilla, wanted for theft, deception and credit card fraud. Her MOwas to advertise her ‘services’ which included an eye-opening, and sometimes eye-watering,variety of unusual role-play scenarios and then make off with the goods beforethe act was finished. She would often meet her clients – always powerful businessmenwho would find it difficult to go public - at fan expos, dressed as Leia. WhenSkinner suggested they attend this small town convention where the Bureau hadarranged a sting, she’d automatically said no. Mulder let her talk for a while,outlining all the – very valid – reasons why it was a bad idea. Skinner satwith his customary two fingers pressed against his mouth and remained silent.When she’d finished, she sat back against the chair and held her chin up.

“Scully, the only way we’re going tostop this woman from embezzling any further funding from the vulnerable in oursociety is to go where she goes. Do as she does.”

“I hardly think that wealthybusiness men who enjoy dressing up as science fiction characters during sexplay are the vulnerable in our society,” she said. “They pay a ridiculousamount of money to be whipped with light sabers or handcuffed to giant furrycreatures.”

“Wookiees, Scully. They’re calledWookiees. And these men are unable to speak out about the crimes that have beencommitted against them because of their position in society. You may not seethem as vulnerable, but believe me, they are in a delicate position.”

She opened the casefile. “Well, yougot that bit right. This one, a high court judge, was released after sevenhours tied face down across a replica of the Death Star. He was naked exceptfor a Darth Vader mask, complete with voice changer, so that when he was foundthe paramedics thought he was being asphyxiated.” She looked at Skinner. “Delicate.”

The AD took off his glasses andrubbed his face. “Agents, you are the only ones with the undercover experienceto pull off this assignment.”

“Sir, with all due respect, thereare many other agents with the same, if not more experience. And this isn’t anX-File.”

“Agent Scully, there are elements tothis case that are unusual. The setting affords you and Agent Mulder the bestpossible in. You’ll leave in the morning.”

“The best possible in?” She knew hervoice was squeaky but she was furious. She stood up and stepped towards Skinner’sdesk. “What does that mean?”

“It means, Scully,” Mulder said,placing a hand on the small of her back, “that my many hours of studying theworld of Star Wars will not have gone to waste.”

“Studying? Is that what you call it?”

She swung round andreached the door before Skinner called out.

“Agents.”

She turned, trying tocontain her anger. Skinner was smiling. Sort of.

“May the force be with you.”

She’s browsing the stalls, flicking through stacks ofautograph books, framed photos of people she doesn’t recognise, movie posters,tee-shirts and buttons and pins and mugs and toothbrushes and other assortedparaphernalia, when she hears the buzz of static. She thinks, with someamusement, that this is the only place in the world where nobody would bat aneye at a woman in a snow suit talking on a walkie-talkie while holding up anegg cup in the shape of R2D2.

“I’m onher tail, Scully. She’s heading to the side doors, arm in arm with Han Solo.”

“Can yougive me a better description?” she says, looking around at the dozens of Leiasand Hans wandering around. She heads out in the general direction, studyingfaces and eye colour and chin shape. She thinks she sees a likely couple andfingers her weapon when Han turns and she realises they are both women.

A few metres ahead, she seesMulder. Beyond him, she spies the real Rita Barilla, plaits wound around herears and white robe flowing, chatting to a man wearing brown pants, brown vestover a cream shirt, she thinks about how Mulder hadn’t really thought hiscostume through. Typical, impulsive Mulder. She races to the exit, feelingpowerful in her own outfit. Rebel Leader was an apt description for her job.

“FBI! Rita Barilla, put yourhands up.”

The woman drops the arm of hercompanion who sidesteps away with an expression of confusion and surprise onhis face. Mulder is still catching up. She can hear him cursing through thewalkie-talkie. Rita Barilla ducks down rolls into a crowd of people. Scullyruns towards her and yells at Mulder to follow. He raises an arm inacknowledgement. She sees the white robe flitting through the crowds, towards alarge gathering of other white robes. Shit. Scully pushes through the people,twisting them round to look at them. Mulder is finally with her.

“Rita Barilla, stop right there,”he yells.

“Where’s your weapon?” Scullyasks, desperately scanning faces for the right Leia.

“It got stuck,” he whispers.

“Stuck?” She looks down at him.

“Don’t, Scully,” he says. “Justdon’t.”

She can see the gun wedged downhis thigh pad.

“She’s the third Leia on theright. She’s the one with the really big…”

“Plaits,” she finishes.

She rushes forward, barrellinginto her target until she’s astride her on the floor. The crowd parts andMulder arrives. Squeaking. And trying to unstick his weapon.

“Curse my metal body,” he says,finally pulling the gun out. “Rita Barilla, you’re under arrest…”

They watch as Barilla is taken away in handcuffs, wedgedbetween two police officers. It’s eerily similar to a scene from the movie.

“May Icongratulate the Princess on her good work. The odds of intercepting thecorrect suspect in a room full of…”

She digshim in the ribs and regrets it as it bounces off his gold plate. “Shut up or I’lldisconnect your circuit board.”

He holdsup his hands, bent at the elbows. His mask is off, his head is quirked at anangle and he’s wearing that silly grin again. “I love it when you talk dirty,Scully.”

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #fictober #todayinfic #star wars #fluff and nonsense

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jamest-kirk · 7 years

Note

Hi! I've been binge reading your AUs and they're so delightful. I wanted to suggest a Spones AU where Spock is a cop or federal agent and is married to civilian doctor Bones. Someone kidnaps Bones in order to get back at Spock for a past arrest.

“It’s 7AM, Leonard,” Spock’s voice rings soft in Bones’ ears, but he doesn’t do much more than stir in protest. “Leonard,” Spock repeats, a hand sliding over Bones’ arm slowly. Leonard huffs, leaning back against Spock’s chest. “Coffee,” Leonard finally says, and Spock chuckles. “Okay,” he says, slowly pulling away and ignoring the sounds of protest from Bones when he leaves the bed.

Bones isn’t exactly a morning person, but the easiest way to get him out of bed is to make a coffee. Freshly ground in a ridiculously expensive coffee machine. Something Spock didn’t exactly agree to buying, but it’s a blessing to be able to get Bones out of bed before noon. And sure enough, Bones strolls out of bed when Spock sips his own cup of coffee carefully. Bones takes it from his hands, folding his fingers around the warm cup. Spock reaches out, fixing Leonard’s hair a little. “Sleep well?” Spock asks and Leonard shrugs, smile faint and tired. “No thanks to you, coming home at 2AM,” Leonard replies, raising his eyebrows, before sipping the mug slowly. “Spent most of the night chasing someone,” Spock says, “didn’t even catch him.” “You’ll catch him,” Leonard says, gently patting Spock’s cheek and turning his back to the other when Spock reaches out to grab that coffee mug from his hands. “Mine,” Leonard says, though smiling when the other’s arms wrap around his waist, and Spock kisses his cheek. “What time are you home tonight?” Spock asks. “Around seven,” Leonard replies. “Good,” Spock says, “I’ll make dinner.”

He does. Spock spends most of his day in the office, doing paperwork and researching the guy he’s tried to capture. He does groceries after, and spends at least an hour in the kitchen trying to put together a fancy noodle dish for the two of them. It’s done close to eight, but Bones isn’t home yet. Spock calls, to no avail, and leaves him a few text messages. It isn’t unlike Leonard to work overtime for patients, nor is it entirely unlike him to just fall asleep in his office. So when Bones isn’t home yet at 9PM, Spock heads down to the GP’s office. “James,” he greets Jim at the reception desk. “What’s up, pointy?” Jim asks, leaning back in his seat, “watcha doin’ here?” “I’m looking for Leonard,” Spock says. "Oh, I thought he left hours ago,“ Jim says, “I figured he was home already. Bones has been doing house visits all day. Maybe he’s stuck with one of the families.” “Give me a list of the people he visited,” Spock says, but Jim shakes his head. “That’s classified,” Jim says. Spock reaches out in his jacket, slamming his badge on the counter. “Give me the list.” “Okay. Overprotective boyfriend alert,” Jim replies, though with a small smile, and he pulls a paper out of the printer. “Here you go,” Jim says, “let me know when you find him.”

Spock goes through the entire list. The first few families have been visited by Leonard. But then, there are a bunch of them who haven’t, and Spock promises to log a complaint when he finds him. He comes home afterwards, kind of hoping for Bones to be there. He’s not. But when he gets home, he does get a text. It’s just an address, and a quick search leads him straight to the docks. Spock just instantly knows something’s wrong, and he makes sure to stock up on enough gadgets to last him if he needs it. He makes it there, and a quick look around shows a couple of armed guys hiding and patrolling around. Spock is skilled enough to take out a few silently, so he doesn’t have to deal with them later.

He finds Bones in the center of a warehouse on the docks. He’s tied to a chair, clearly unconscious. Spock runs towards him, kneeling down in front of him to check his pulse. “Leonard,” Spock breathes quietly, cupping his cheeks and gently trying to wake him up. When Leonard doesn’t respond, Spock tugs at the ties to get him free. He yanks Leonard’s hands free, then stops because he feels a gun press against the back of his head. “Spock,” a familiar voice rings, and Spock sighs, gritting his teeth in annoyance. “Khan,” he says, raising his hands in defeat and turning around to face his opponent.

Khan smiles, confident and eerily calm like a villain would. “Did you really think that I would sit and wait for you to find me, after you couldn’t even catch me last night? No, I took matters into my own hands,” Khan explains. Spock raises an eyebrow, ever so lightly, refusing to look in any way intimidated by the situation. “I found you,” Spock says, and Khan chuckles. “I texted you the address.” “And now it’s just you and me,” Spock says, “leave Leonard out of this. You and me. I took out your backup.” And the moment Khan looks up to see if his backup is still behind him, Spock pushes the arm pointing the gun at him out of the way and he kicks the gun out of his hand. He struggles Khan to the ground, but Khan is strong. Physically, stronger than Spock. Khan turns it around. He forces Spock on his back on the ground, and Spock tries to stop Khan from hitting him in the face too hard. Khan’s hand closes around Spock’s throat and presses down hard enough for Spock to almost pass out. He claws at Khan’s arm, trying to get it away from him. And it’s only when he nearly passes out, Khan is hit in the back of his head hard enough to fall off Spock. Bones stands behind him, broken chair in his hands. “Leonard,” Spock sighs, taking Bones’ hand and getting back up on his feet. “Are you alright?” Leonard asks, and Spock nods. “Yes,” he replies, then ceases their talk to turn Khan to his stomach tie his hands to his back. Then, they wait for backup.

“You know, when I said you brought your work home, I didn’t mean it like that,” Leonard says when they get home. Holding a cup of coffee in his hands, Spock curls up against Leonard on the couch, and then lets Leonard take it from his hands, as always. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” Spock replies, and Leonard shrugs. “Rather me than an innocent civilian. I can take a punch,” Leonard says, “I mean, I’ve been out drinking with Jim before.” “I rather you didn’t take a punch, ever,” Spock says, smiling just lightly when Leonard reaches out to run his fingers through Spock’s hair. “Well,” Leonard eventually sighs, putting his coffee on the saloon table, and he pulls his boyfriend in closer, “I’m not going to be able to sleep for weeks now, how ‘bout we take advantage of that?”

#drmcbones #spones #otp: of course I care #spock #leonard mccoy #bones #headcanons #modern au #cop au #other-cop-au #other-modern-au

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jshoulson · 7 years

Text

Today’s Poem

Letters to America (An Abecedary) --Fred D'Aguiar

For Yogita and Anish�

“Ah neva seen this before in all ma years.” Testify, Sis. How we grew accustomed, Spoiled almost, by decorum, now try Mosquito larvae cultivating at speed In standing bodies of water. Pigeons Flock rooftops, twist, launch, shout As one, spin sky, turn skulls porous.

Car repair shop drills sing industry. Tires feel out parking, meters freed. First horn blare triggers this chorus. Step up pistons, fire motor mouths, Say our only worry is our worst fears Come true. Mosquito straw proboscis Drinks from my arm, bam! Adios asterisk.

•

But, really, am I eyeballing an armored truck? Says one dung beetle to half earthworm, Who replies, as Gloucester, I see it feelingly.

Who gave those uniforms permission to storm School car parks, automatics drawn? Finches ask Robins, who, channeling Auden, whistle —

Bang! WTF!

Bang, bang, Lulu, Lulu gone ...

The calypso worked its juju On my digital radio.

Flags at half-mast for this Union. Taps on trumpets dawn till dusk. Guides, Scouts, look out for rainbows

Projected on a disused warehouse in LA County. Clocks throughout the land tell one contiguous time. Rain and shine stop dead in tracks on borderlines.

•

Cat asks me if dogs can ever be cool. After two of my kind pin down one of his On a front porch until chased off by our rulers.

I open my mouth to spit some piety about Lions lying down with lambs but only bark What my genes say I should, ears pulled back.

Do you remember Judas Iscariot? Thirty silver Pieces and a certain last supper just for this. A taser for every problem warns the bee

With an empty bonnet, sting for emphasis, About why one plus one never makes two, After voting from sea to oil-slicked sea.

Look at her, look at him, hold, kiss babies In photo ops, all gaga, minus bathtub Never mind water, in this national soap,

This wait for the next sentence whose weight “Illegals” carry on shoulders they look over Nonstop, even in sleep, one eye open,

Breath held when police cruise by, Car backfire skin jump heartbeat skip, Day in, day out, glory hallelujah, do I have

A witness as empire zips into bonfire. For what? To dip wrists in fresh water From an inverted fountain in a square.

•

Black lives matter but blue lives matter more. Duh. Veins, blue, blood, plus or minus, B this or A that. Epicurus, I find your coin staring up at me From the bottom of my beer mug, too late For Troy, for Trayvon. I need a flotation device, A buoy, Woolf’s lighthouse and single room Garvey’s Star Line to beam me up Scotty.

Where is yesteryear’s full moon that silvered Towers and made a midnight lake of the city Where lovers strolled, hand in hand, one black, One white, with no mind for anyone and no two Minds in their business? Gone the way of drones Whose shadows crossed the moon without trace On GPS to sow grief in the name of cod, liver, oil.

Spell it out or risk talk stuck in ecofriendly caves. Black and blue, both, why can’t we, intoned, Rodney (not Walter), get along? Because, Because, because (fill in the dots) with your Trotsky (or Brodsky) and your Marx (Groucho). Laugh therapy narrows eyes, blocks ears, Hurts jaws, ribs, merrily, merrily, cha-cha. Cha.

•

Eek-A-Mouse blasts my buds, as I read The instruction manual, which says One thing but leads to another When I piece it together, finally. It being the thing I refuse to name.

My nerves, porous as that strainer I hold over a tilted pot full of spaghetti In hot water. Pavarotti in the shower, Malcolm before a cracked mirror, Gaga at each news item competing

For part Fool. Ornate, abandoned nest Left in place, in my suburban rafter, Squirreled from without a note, Unless feathers could ever be a sign Of things to come, of what once was.

•

Face Beckett’s door, imperceptibly ajar.

His stage direction, for how things Turn out here if this show goes on.

Sir Ian, why reserve your last check For your flies, before you take the stage?

Because all eyes alight there first.

Mr. Spock, where is the logic in this?

I marvel at comics from my youth In 4K, LED. Captain, put me ashore.

By which I mean at sea with sirens, Ears unwaxed, sternum lashed to bow.

What is your name? Kunta. Whip.

Am I not a ... asked Sizwe in Fugard.

You are trans, on loan from genes, Dust, waves, particles, here, today.

•

Go-go in la-la land whines craft for art’s saké. See that chrysalis hanging like a mural. Should it stop unfolding, hold back Dues, suspend when wings peel gloves, Snake free, take flight, remind the greed In our chi, Che, cha, what turns without Turning? If you must know, but first,

Shush, write milk in lemon juice on foolscap, Read by passing over Bunsen. Mercurial Chemists, we were all Curie. Cooked crack Ready to pay any price, to find out if love Could ever be a portion, all you would need, To spin Mercator a tad faster on whiteout Poles, match our heart, tap, rat-a-tat burst.

•

1. Hummingbird feeder needs refill 2. Peel sticker, off window, that says glass 3. Buy T-shirt with directive, mind the gap 4. Sip tea from mug, of civil rights dead 5. Breathe in, sure, but really exhale 6. Note how breeze lifts a whole branch 7. Whose green skirt shows white undies

•

I mean certain legends about flight that grow up with right minds to help them come to terms with change that may be out of their control.

Lone branch ranges from a curved palm 90 feet over LA’s 1914 craftsman in historic Adams. How flayed branch cruises broadcasts a specific gravity geared to flight of the right kind, slow, bracing, reluctant, noncommittal, inevitable, and resigned to its fate.

Through double-glazing I hear, so I believe, that swoosh of storied capital decline, swish perhaps, almost a whistle, as you wish, much like us as kids with a clasped blade of grass held to our pursed lips for that didgeridoo that was elevator music to us atonal types.

But how can a branch sing if made to move on by wind and rain from where it began, and thought it would end, even if a philosophy spread among shoots of a final sail set for another dimension?

As word of government raids spread through town and university we forwarded emails, Instagrams, and stopped with neighbors in streets to exchange the latest.

Is this time for emergency measures or are we too blind to know what we can feel coming a mile away, where someone who knows someone we know stops for bread, milk, eggs and is grabbed, handcuffed, and carted off to detention? Imagine us as branches dislodged in a sea change helped by soft water. We cling, not to give up on all we know. What for? That fall, we must accept as fate.

•

Juggernaut ancestors shape-shift cumulus, March across dull blue grass to bagpipes.

Change bandages on Grandmother. Amputated right hand she says she feels

Rainy days in Georgetown as a firm handshake That rattles all 27 phantom bones, makes her shiver.

Grandfather never averts his bifurcated lens From his Golden Treasury, unless his hanky readies

To catch eyewater at the blurred sight of her. In a time of airships, of toothpicks operated

Behind hand cover. Whoever you vote for, (Runs the calypso) the government gets in,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Doan tek serious thing Mek joke, bannoh. WTF. Twin towers got us

Here. Nah, Reagan. Nope, slavery. Try again. Irony, that republic of deferred action.

Hummingbird smashes into that glass door, My mother walks absently into it too.

I glance just in time, brake and catch a face That I look through to my final destination.

•

K Street in South London? Now? How? One morning at 6:30 I crossed Blackheath Hill.

On my paper round Met a scrawny fox halfway Uphill, down, not sure.

We paused, inhaled each Other, fox-trotted away, In a slight panic,

Me thinking tabloid Headlines, rabid animal Chases paper kid

On delivery route. Follow as I buzz myself Into a tower,

Board elevator, a man In a suit exits, With the merest nod.

Climb 8 floors, carry That fox, and just as I plunge The folded Mirror

Into letter box, Door, ajar, flies open, wham!

A very pregnant Woman, naked, swollen breasts Blazing redhead, small

Burning bush at crotch, Fills doorframe, scrambles my head. She takes one moment

To compute I am Not her partner, slams door, smack, In my wide-eyed face.

That moment, as she Processes me and I her, Stretches out enough

For me to see her Shoulder-length, red, flaming curls And inverted red

Triangle tuft at her crotch, Bright stretched skin at her Distended navel,

An outie, as though I crashed at high speed and could Recall the lead up

Frame by stark frame for Posterity, mine and hers, Her child near its term.

The rest of my round I peer left, right, near distance, Round bends, for said fox.

I conjure woman, Pregnant, framed by her threshold, Here, now, with only

Me, you, these measures, This emergency, all three, To foster, connect all.

•

Lap up 70s Airy Hall, Guyana. One road in and one road out, One of everything village, Caiman, donkey, peacock, And mad expat Englishman Footloose and fancy-free Who we stone with red sand That crumbles on contact Grabbed from the roadside That acts as giant bow, Strung with two-story house, Whose Greenheart frame, Tensed, held all this time. English pelted for saying, Down his big burnt nose, That he was sent here To rule us half-clad children That he in his better days Seeing better times before Guyana’s famous red rum Got the better of him, Helped sow high and low, And everything between Our town and country.

•

Maestro, we played shoots Planted in one place Sprouts in disorderly rows, Up whole feet if you look away For a spell, all loaded In one hammock strung Between rafters in a back room Empty until harvest Stuffed paddy from roof To pillar to post. Rice husk smell for days. Rocking chair song and dance On full moons, donkey-bray At midday, peacock-scream Various most afternoons.

•

Now help bring barefoot Pale instep, cracked heel, stamping Englishman back, not to curse, Stone or ridicule, but to hear How he would remedy this now So out of sync with then.

•

Once more help us

•

Parse wheat from chaff,

•

Quantify this voting

•

Result that tests our gall.

•

Stepped-on alligator, Uncle

•

Takes for a log bridge

•

Until it lifts, shakes, yawns.

•

Velocity of legs cycling air, Caiman, not alligator, Lassoed between two poles, Fetched back to the house, Cut loose in a fenced field For sport for that day, Lost to me every day since. I bring it back, steady Its shine, against this time,

•

Where I am told one past Counts most, all others Must be put down to what That alligator, jaws open, Head reared, presents, Ready to lash with tail, Charge at anyone Who takes it for a log.

•

X marks the spot where Englishman walks in half Circles, pumps his bent Arms as if to fly, cackles Like a peacock, only to get The real thing started, The two in a quarrel thrice Removed from that magic Flower duet from Lakmé By Léo Delibes. Peacock, Donkey, caiman, village fool, Be my ally, bring it all, Cow, moon, dish, spoon.

•

Yo-Yo Ma follows Eek On democracy’s Shuffle Play.

•

Zebra asks me in Queen’s English peppered with Esperanto If he be black whiff white stripes Or white wid black stripes. I wake with this atonal pair On the edge of my edginess:

“I do not care, I do not care, If the Don has on underwear.”

“But don’t you think or worry some, That his nudity is zero sum?”

“I cannot see for the life of me, Why that should concern anybody.”

“I fret when all’s said and done, We leave him be, he has his fun.”

#Today's Poem #Fred D'Aguiar

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