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@ak-spra
Independant role-play blog for S’Chn T’Gai Spock Grayson. Drawing primarily from the Kelvin timeline, with flavours incorporated from TOS, Discovery, Strange New Worlds and the printed works. OCs welcome, crossovers encouraged. Written by Lorcan, who is 25 and uses ze/zir pronouns. Na’shaya.
For an overview of rules and verses, please click here.
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 . there is no death . 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 . it ’ s 𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇 . made again and again and again and 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 and again and 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 . . ╱ 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 , 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚌 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚗
@ak-spra appealed to my desire for actual autumn weather.
Leonard’s no stranger to a good, cleansing rain. He’d grown up knowing just by looking at the sky whether or not they’d be getting a storm that particular day, and by adulthood could estimate the hour it would start coming down. Home is lush and green, smelling of perpetually damp earth.
San Francisco, not so much.
It’s a beautiful, bustling city, but refuge is to be found inside rather than out, and today is certainly meant for escape the thick, heavy clouds that have rolled in over the city, and torrential downpour that had accompanied them. Keeping warm enough for his liking is a challenge, not least of all owing to his distinct lack of extensive wardrobe. Everything he’d still owned upon leaving the wreckage of his life behind had fit tidily into one duffel bag. Being pressed into a uniform all week long is almost a blessing, seeing as he is not a man with an extensive wardrobe; the lone sweater he does own, thick and slightly frayed with age, does its damndest to protect him from the elements.
The coffee shop, when he pushes into it with a faint chime of the bell attached to the top of the door, is delightfully toasty by comparison. It’s crowded, several baristas bustling behind the counter to tend to the long line and the many patrons clustered around nearby, awaiting drinks they have already ordered. Leonard joins the queue, chilly hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, and settles in to wait. By the smell of it, someone has just baked a fresh batch of something sweet.
Fall is a confusing season. Visually, the colours of San Francisco become closer to those of Vulcan as dry leaves cover paths in earthy browns and reds. But physically, here begins the steady descent into what Spock personally considers to be the worst time of year. The visual homesickness is beaten by discomfort from the temperature dip in a combination that Spock knows a psychologist would raise some questions about if given the chance.
Fortunately, it also means that Spock can finally dress warmly without standing out. Everybody bundles up in scarves and layers, allowing Spock to do the same, stemming the constant shiver that threatens to ripple through him any time he leaves his rooms.
But there is something about this particular coffee shop — Spock resists the urge to shake off the water soaked into his coat as he enters — that takes away the chill. The customers are a perfect level of ambient noise, present but not overwhelming. The temperature is always acceptable, and the tea is never burned.
The non-human cadets and staff at Starfleet don’t often venture beyond campus grounds, but Spock appreciates that distance. Usually, he doesn’t gain too much attention, but a glimpse at his reflection on the back of the coffee machine reminds him that the cold weather has brought out an emerald flush across his cheeks. Hopefully it passes, and he is left alone.
Spock’s order is always the same, mostly to eliminate the anxiety of forgetting what to say. It means he can take in the room instead, picking up snippets of conversations around him, adjusting to the jostling emotions filling the room. Mostly, people here are happy.
The man in front of him makes his order, voice betraying him as decidedly not local. He looks familiar, as Spock chances a glance on his own approach to the till, but no name comes to mind. He must be from the academy too, presumably a student given his wardrobe and dishevelled state.
It isn’t until Spock retrieves his tea and turns to the seating area that he realises there is only one table left, and that he and the other man are the only two patrons remaining.
( @aviophobic )
1. What is your favorite trope to rp? 2. Name 3 things you admire about OCs. 3. Who are your longest rp friends? 4. What old character would you love to bring back? 5. What is a character you love, but don’t think you can write? 6. Name 3 things you love most about your muse/muses. 7. What is one overrated roleplay trend? 8. Do your friends outside the internet know your roleplay? 9. Have you ever written fanfictions? 10. Why do you write? 11. Do you welcome duplicates of your character or stay away from them? 12. Do you prefer writing main or minor canon characters? 13. Is there one trope you can’t stand? 14. What is your opinion on writing smut? 15. What is your opinion on tagging triggers? 16. Do you prefer long or short replies and why? 17. What makes you insecure about your own writing? 18. What is one thing you’d wish to see more in the rp community? 19. Who is an author that inspires you? 20. Do you need music/noise to write or do you prefer silence? 21. What time of the day is your favorite to write? 22. Are there any red roleplay flags for you that make you back off immedately? 23. Your favorite fandom to write in? 24. Have you ever left a fandom because of negativity? 25. One thing you’d like new roleplayers to know?
oftomorrow:
“I know the shelter on Third on Washington usually has room,” Clark tells him softly. “And there’s another on Sixteenth.” He tilts his head for a moment, listening across the city to confirm that they had room. “Yes, they’re still taking people in. I’d be happy to fly you there.”
But he hesitates. He’s never needed to go to a shelter, having always had somewhere safe to go. But he imagines it’s somewhat dehumanizing – for lack of a better word. There’s no shame in needing help, but it could still feel that way to stand in line and have to ask for basic necessities like food and shelter.
“If you need anything else, sir, I have some friends I can put you in touch with. They’re good people, with good connections. Happy to help.” A bit awkwardly, he pats down his suit. Mom hadn’t thought of pockets when she’d made it. “One moment.” He holds up a finger, whooshes away, then returns a few seconds later, a slip of paper in hand. Two phone numbers are written there, with names beside each – Clark Kent and Lois Lane.
Maybe, to see the city from above, Spock might understand the charm and appeal of it, gain appreciation for how everything is connected. He nods, wrapping his coat tighter around himself in the moments between Superman taking off and returning with the paper.
The information is taken carefully, with Spock avoiding any chance at skin contact before he examines the names. As with many things at the moment, he’s got little choice but to believe that these are safe contacts, should he need them. Trustworthy enough to know Superman, and be considered an ally by him.
The card gets slipped carefully into a thin wallet, alongside some identification and all the money he has - which is not much. It’s difficult to set up a bank account when he hasn’t been able to keep an address. There is support, of course, but so many people are more vulnerable, families that need to access the services more than he does. The needs of the many.
“Thank you. I will try not to call.” Spock tells him, looking up at the sky glimpsed between the buildings and then back at the stranger. “How does this work?” ( @oftomorrow )
Hello hello!
i’ve had such a long week. while i technically just had a holiday, it was to a theme park so my body doesn’t feel rested in the slightest. i’m hoping to power through my work today and just take the whole weekend to recover.
i owe several replies, and i look at them every day trying to chip away at them. they’re coming soon!
alongside those, if anyone doesn’t yet have something going with me but would like to, come at me! i’m really looking forward to writing again this weekend so the more the merrier!
Everyone keep close watch on the capsule to see if a second Shatner wearing heavy eyeliner comes out on a time delay
more prompts for your feels
“ what am i supposed to do when i can’t even trust my own mind? ” “ i have to believe death is the end. because all that waits for me in the afterlife is a debt of sin i don’t think could ever be paid off. ” “ what do you see when you look into my eyes? ” “ it doesn’t always have to be you, you know? your shoulders aren’t the only ones that can bear the weight of the world. ” “ i don’t think hearts break. shattered things can only be broken once. but torn things can be mended again and again until it’s all scars and stitching. ” “ i can’t remember what it’s like to be truly wanted. ” “ every time you look at me i feel invisible. ” “ loneliness is a slow and cruel poison. ” “ i’m afraid that if i let you see every side of me, you should shrink back in fear or disgust. ” “ for once in your life, what is it that you want. ” “ i’ve been wrapped in my sorrow for so long, i’m afraid i’ll feel too cold without it. ” “ i just want to see you smile again. ” “ can’t you stop running for one second? ” “ i’ll be here. when you’re ready to talk. ” “ being strong doesn’t mean never asking for help or admitting you’re in pain. ” “ don’t shut me out. please. ” “ don’t look at me like that. ” “ the world isn’t made up of heroes and monsters. just broken people balancing between the two. ” “ i just wanted to do something good for once. ” “ why can’t you tell me what’s wrong? ” “ just trust me. please. ” “ why can’t you let me in? what are you so afraid of? ” “ you’re so worried about losing me/them you’re missing everything in front of you. ” “ i’m not leaving you. ” “ you’re not alone. i’m here. ” “ you see everyone so clearly except yourself. ” “ don’t you understand? i love you. and nothing you’ve done, no matter how much of a monster you think you are, is gonna change that. ” “ i find broken things interesting. maybe that’s why i like you so much. ” “ i want to be whatever it is you think i am. ” “ you see the good in everything. that’s why i like it when you look at me. ” “ i’ll still be here when you wake. ” “ i promise i’ll never hurt you again. ” “ as long as i have you, the rest doesn’t matter. ” “ what did they do to you? ” “ i’m not sure i should leave you alone. ” “ i won’t hate you. i know you think that’s what you deserve but it’s not. ” “ i want to love the parts of you that you hate. ” “ i’m scared of what you’re becoming. ” “ i’m sorry, i’m not what you think i am. ” “ you’ll always have a home with me. ” “ what happened to you? ” “ i thought i’d never see you again. ” “ you’re such a fucking coward. ” “ i envy anyone who has the privilege of being loved by you. ” “ you scared me. ” “ please, don’t ever give up on me. ” “ i’m not giving up on you. not ever. ” “ i know you love me. but it’s not the way i want to be loved. ”
Leonard Nimoy joins the picket line for striking members of the Writer’s Guild outside CBS Television City in Hollywood (more)
[ This is a quiet request!
Every time Autumn rolls around, I get such strong urges for an Earth AU in a nondescript city, with the main theme just being cosy clothes, green tinged cheeks from cold air, and busy coffee shops with steamed windows from all the people sheltering inside.
Plot optional, vibes neccessary.
That’s it, that’s what I want and need. If anyone fancies playing with me in this space, please meet me in the DMs.
We can do humans of course, but it might be more fun to do academy era, or that Spock moved to earth with Amanda when it became immediately apparent that Vulcan wasn’t going to be the best upbringing location. Spock’s job? Professor if an adult, student if a little younger, or a barista if I finally get to flex my barista knowledge. I know that makes less sense, but that sweet sweet coffee shop AU calls to me. Let me do something with my old job, let the baristas flirt with each other or a consenting customer.
Happy Autumn, everyone! Welcome to the season of layers and cosy and curling up with a movie or a book!]
from my poem, another life. subscribe to my patreon to read the whole thing, xox han hyland
‘ it was just a dream. ’
[ sleep starters | accepting! ]
How traitorous, not only for his mind to bring forth unpleasant imaged scenarios, but also to have them affect him physically.
Spock had woken to Amelia making soothing sounds, having slipped under the covers and bundled him up in her arms even as he gasped through the shock of waking mid-cry. This, he decided mutely as his hands twisted into the fabric of her nightgown, was a decidedly un-Vulcan thing to do.
His father would regard him with barely concealed concern, while his mother would likely fuss and cause him to cry again out of shame and something more profound, should they be made aware.
“Don’t tell,” Spock whispered, once he regained a little more of his senses, clinging in case she tried to leave and alert his parents. What had the dream been about? Vulcans were not supposed to dream. His eyes caught on the window, overlooking dark desert landscape, and he remembered.
It had been about being sent into the Forge to undertake the kahs-wan trial, becoming injured on the first night and abandoned by all passing Vulcan youth due to the rules not allowing them to help each other. Spock highly doubted that he was going to survive, but it was illogical to fear the inevitable. Why, then, did he imagine such terrible things?
* phone call prompts
[ 📞 ] ‘ say something.’
[ 📞 ] ‘ it’s good to hear your voice. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ are you still there? ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ you’re lying. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ wait, don’t hang up. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i need your help. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ are you crying? ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i love you. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i’m scared. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i worry about you. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ where are you? are you okay? ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ don’t beat yourself up about it. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ hang on, i’m coming to get you. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ are you in trouble? ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ something happened. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ it’s me. can we talk? ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i’m glad you called. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i’m sorry about earlier. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ tell me you’re not planning on doing anything stupid. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ you have to promise. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i have to go now. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ stop disappearing. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i’m always here for you. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ you’re important. don’t forget that. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i had a nightmare. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ leave me alone. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i trust you.’
[ 📞 ] ‘ i hate you. ’
[ 📞 ] ‘ it wasn’t your fault. ’
oftomorrow:
It’s a difficult question, one that Clark has been forced to wrestle with on more than one occasion. Why does he bother with any of this? Why does he feel these people are worth it?
“I’ve always believed that every life is worth saving,” he finally answers. “And… this is my home. It’s our responsibility to make it a better place. And I have to believe that most people are inherently good. Any that might be struggling with that… I want to show them that there’s a better way. If we don’t have hope, we have nothing.”
The man doesn’t seem quite well. Clark steps a bit closer. “Do you have somewhere safe to go, sir? I know of several alien support groups that can offer you medical assistance, if you prefer not to go to the hospital. Or I can put you in touch with some friends of mine.”
Surak would be impressed with this man’s ideals, Spock thinks as he listens to Superman’s justifications. Ufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya. Offer them peace, then you shall have peace. But hope is a brittle thing, and Spock’s grip is too tight to hold it, his anger too volatile.
The question cuts deeper than any damage his attackers had inflicted, with extra weight behind it from the concerned tone. True, he never felt completely safe on Vulcan around logic extremists, but at least he had a stable home as the child of an ambassador, and was dependant on nobody else.
It had been several days since he’d made eye contact with another Vulcan for the first time since reaching Earth. Both of them had stiffened, wrestling with the desperate need to grieve together versus the shame of being seen in such a weak social position. Spock had forgotten what it felt like to see someone like him, sharing his features and experiences, and he’d ached to get closer, to speak his native tongue. Ultimately, the other Vulcan had inclined their head, and made a swift exit from the hostel. He hadn’t gone back since.
Spock had straightened his back again at the approach, wariness in his expression and skin flushing with embarrassment at being asked a question he has no good answer to. “Your first suggestion is acceptable,” he allows, swallowing his pride. It tastes like copper. “I merely need somewhere to rest. I — If you know of any shelters that may be quieter than others...”
( @oftomorrow )
