"I Don't Think The Badger Is Actually Rabid; I Think He's Just Kind Of A Dick."

It wasn’t uncommon for Nyota to scrape up a gamma shift, she liked the quiet din of the ship, the soft hum of the instruments on the bridge. There was simply this comforting strangeness she felt, as though she were more intimately connected with the vastness of space.

Though space had very little to say back to her on this gamma round, and in a lull of focus she turned to her left, toward Spock’s station, but before the words can bloom in her mouth Uhura’s noticed the tinge at the very tip of his ears.

“And where are the deep mysteries of logic concerning this futile fight against whatever sickness has your ears green?”

@vulku

if there is a faint green flush to the tips of his ears, dusting across the highs of his cheeks and along his nose -- he says nothing. in fact, he is dutifully ignoring these symptoms of an obvious ( if mild ) illness, in favor of working diligently.

am i my father's son? more like your grandfather's.

book based paul atreides . 20+ only . oc and crossover friendly . written by aj

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

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

But now . . .

Now it was — organized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

@fasciinating

“The very fact that socks exist is proof shoes don’t work.

@wcrpbubble for Bev!

I’M SCREAMING 🩵♥️✨☀️

@galaeus, @mutiineer, @ensnchekov, @noblehcart, @haiiling, @juramentum, @endeavvor, @dimensionalspades

if you are tagged, feel free to snag it for whatever you choose to do with it! <3

“You Treat an Outside Wound with Rubbing Alcohol; You Treat an Inside Wound with Drinking Alcohol. It’s Science."

@silverjetsystm for steven!

                      ⸻ LIVE LONG & PROSPER.

⸻ 𝐻𝐴𝐼𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑄𝑈𝐸𝑁𝐶𝐼𝐸𝑆 𝑂𝑃𝐸𝑁.

𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 ／ 𝘰𝘤 ＆ 𝘥𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 ／ 𝘢𝘶 ＆ 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 ／ 21+