how about…. janeway/seven, handcuffed together? 8D
"Is this often the result of your attempts at… diplomacy?"
It was the pause, Kathryn thought, that made her blood pressure steadily rise. It was the inflection. It was something, and damned if she knew how someone who’d spent her life speaking in the monotone of the Borg had stumbled so easily onto irony, sarcasm and disdain.
Seven, it appeared, had a natural talent.
They were currently sitting on the floor of what the i’iAa (species 4388, of little interest) had called the ‘Chamber of the Judged.’ They were also bound together, each having one of their wrists in a wraparound biosynthetic linking device that resembled old Earth handcuffs. It also happened that Lieutenant Nicoletti and Crewman Evis, similarly bound, were out of sight in an identical chamber to their left. None of these things, shockingly, was a balm for Kathryn’s mood.
"Less often than you seem to be implying," she managed, only grumbling a little. "More often than I’d hope."
Seven merely quirked an eyebrow at her, but Kathryn ignored it.
"I just don’t understand which of their rules we broke," she went on instead. "We brought an all-female landing party, no tricorders, dressed like this," Kathryn waved a hand to indicate the long, light, robe-like dresses that had been replicated directly from a pattern the i’iAa provided to Voyager. "I hadn’t even gotten a chance to send my first report back to Chakotay, so I don’t see how— sorry," she said, lowering their joined wrists from where she’d just yanked Seven’s arm into the air. "I tend to talk with my hands."
"So I’ve noticed," said Seven, and despite her desert-dry tone Kathryn could have sworn she saw just a hint of amusement — warmth, even — lurking in her eyes. And if Kathryn looked away, averted her gaze to the obnoxiously beige chamber floor for a moment, well, it was really no one’s business.
"Any ideas, Seven?" she asked after only the slightest of pauses.
"Intimidation," Seven replied with no hesitation at all. "They are a petty, unsophisticated species, likely to bend under pressure. If Voyager presents an ultimatum to their leaders, the i’iAa are sure to surrender."
"Well, I appreciate the insight," Kathryn told her when she was sure she could speak without smiling. "But I admit, I was hoping for something that won’t drag us into yet another conflict."
"Perhaps groveling, then," Seven said, flatly unimpressed.
Kathryn threw up her hands and didn’t bother to apologize when Seven’s arm was jerked along.
Posts tagged fic.
beestark asked: top six things jim loves about bones
- his stupidly broad shoulders (seriously, jim knows the guy is no slouch, but the fact that bones can spend half as much time at the gym as he does and still look like that is either a cruel galactic joke or the best thing that’s ever happened.)
- the way his accent slips when he’s buzzed or relaxed or both (actually that’s not strictly true - what jim really loves is helping bones get to that point, where the furrow in his brow melts away and he doesn’t really care if he’s drawling ‘cause he’s too busy curling his mouth in a smile.)
- how much he loves his job (yeah, okay, bones will be bones and a bones will bitch about e v e r y t h i n g but as much as he complains about the reckless idiots that come across his biobed every day, jim has never met a guy so utterly enthralled and devoted to his work as bones. and he gets it, you know - leonard mccoy is to medicine as jim kirk is to space. he’s just glad that, somehow, the two have managed to match up.)
- his hands (jim kirk generally hesitates to objectify anyone who isn’t jim kirk, but goddamn, he could watch bones twirl a hypo between his fingers for hours on end. of course, that scenario would probably end with said hypo being jammed into jim’s neck at some point. as it should be.)
- how he knows when to shut up (let’s be clear - jim loves it when bones doesn’t shut up, considers a steady stream of cursing and complaining to be the backing track to his whole life these days, but somehow bones has always known when it’s enough to pass a flask into his hand and let him be, would be there and ready for whenever it feels right to talk again. he doesn’t even know if he’d be able to return such comfort. but he’d try, for bones, he really would.)
- what jim loves best about bones, though, is that he stays. (still. despite everything. because of everything.)
Happy (belated) birthday, radiophile <3
In their haphazardly joined skull-space Newt draws a breath and Hermann excises it, pushing it out with a violence that Newt tracks carefully; the precision converts him, however briefly, into a spirometer. You and me and the squalling infant makes three, the barely-born with thoughts that glisten like viscera but stab like shatter-shards — glass, shrapnel, who cares. Newt feels more or less Frankenstein’s monster, the seams of this latest connection stitched with reckless abandon into the holes the last try left, and every nerve ending he’s got is sobbing a fucking exhausting song. Somebody’s childhood is screaming his name. Somebody’s future is writing his obituary. You are not a spirometer, somebody’s thinking, and it’s almost definitely not the kaiju baby; about that, at least, Newt is pretty fucking sure.
It’s weird, drifting, The Drift with its capital letters, the brain with all its hairpin turns. After, Newt’ll remember pieces of lives that were never his, will tremble himself awake and asleep riding the crest of borrowed doubts, losses. With five, god, with fucking ten seconds to process, this whole thing’ll be a different story, and he won’t remember this piece of it, this part that’s happening right now. He’s three people — he’s two people and one not-person — he’s tracking the way he keeps pulling in air and Hermann keeps shoving it out again, keeps batting it away, because everything else is so goddamn loud.
I’m not going to fucking hold my breath for you, Newt wants to say, and the funny thing is that he’s been wanting to say that for years but he’s never meant it literally before, never meant, Would you stop fucking doing that, stop shutting it out, we need that, dude, we need it to live.
Except that he has meant that, and he’s meant it every time. Somebody’s stomach is turning against them. Somebody’s glands are learning to secrete their momma’s poisons.
Pairing: Newt Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary: “You don’t wanna hurt me,” he repeats, and steps forward, holding out his hand.
Ao3 link: here
Sci-fi often starts rambling at the dinner table and gets these really weird, convoluted ideas about something and Science really wants to reach out and squeeze its hand and explain where its logic is flawed, but Science does so love to listen to Sci-fi talk. Even if much of it is complete nonsense, it often articulates it so beautifully and then, occasionally, it will say something absolutely brilliant and Science will be struck speechless, standing up abruptly and wandering off to spend the rest of the night thinking. Sometimes, in the morning, Sci-fi will wake to Science pacing across the bedroom floor, breathlessly excited to show off what it has created - an astonishing approximation/translation of what Sci-fi had been rambling about the night before.
Often, Science will work really hard and fruitlessly at something for no real reason other than because Sci-fi thought it was cool - and Science loves making Sci-fi happy. In return, Science will sit down in the evening and discover that Sci-fi was paying attention to it and has done it homage in its latest paperback - something that delights and flatters Science so much that they have steamy sex all night long and produce thousands of inspired scientists and writers as offspring.
#science can sometimes be a real asshole and everyone keeps telling sci-fi to leave; that science is too cold and remote#but nobody understands science like sci-fi; that science is so rigorous and brutal; keeps aloof and away from most#because nobody feels as deeply as science; nobody moves through the universe with such wide-open heart and soul as science#and so science has to be careful with themself; has to build defences and walls and tread carefully#lest they be overwhelmed with it all; lose their focus; what makes them effective; gives them purpose#and sci-fi sees that; even if nobody else can#sci-fi sees through the rules and the rational and the cut-throat pragmatism#to the shining burning heart of desire#and draws it out; winds the math and the straight lines and the strings and the dimensions into stories that remind science#why science ever even came into existence as it is in the first place#and sci-fi knows science is not just a lover; not just a partner; but also a progentor and a progeny all rolled into one#so they might laugh and bicker and tear up the scribbled frantic calculations or plotting of each other out of spite#but when it gets right down to it #they will never leave each other#because to them; the other is holy #and that’s that#(and science still smokes even tho sci-fi hates it; thinks science should be *better* than that#that science should always follow the future; but science knows sci-fi thinks it’s pretty hot; even if scfi-fi would never admit it)#*** (-okayophelia)
He likes the pain. There’s no point in denying it. The needle touches his skin and he likes the way it feels, the scratch and burn of it - he even likes the humming noise of the Stigma Rotary. Six hours later, Trespasser is staring at him from his left thigh.
THE JIM/BONES INITIATION KIT
So you’re kinda curious about this pairing but not really sure if it’s your thing, you’re looking for something to convince you and don’t know where to look. Worry not! For i have put together a pretty neat INITIATION SHIPPING KIT so you can dip your toes in these charming, cantankerous waters, my lens flare loving friend. These are some of my all time favorites but there are a lot of other awesome things out there that have sadly escaped this list for one reason or another (dammit Jim, i’m one fan, not an encyclopedia), so if you dig what you see here, go and look for them!
F I C
M I X E S
A R T
so look, there’s this little second-hand shop down the road from where i live — used to live — whatever. it’s lit like the inside of the sort of photograph you might find tucked into a forgotten shoebox in a forgotten attic in a forgotten town west of where you intended to end up; all yellowed and browned, you know? like the whole shop’s the aftermath of a place, a ghost too wheezing tired to fix itself up, so even the light seems slower and older than it’s meant to except for in this one corner, just opposite the window over the door where the only plate of clean glass sits. i don’t know how that plate got there, maybe the owner’s got a kid or something, but the beam of light that comes through there is the sole spot of color in the whole place — well, except for the yellow and brown — and the items for sale, i guess — oh, you know what i mean.
anyway, i bought this scarf for you.
the thing is, i’m not sure that you’ll wear it — i’m sure you won’t wear it — it’s not really your size or your color — well, colors — and it’s uglier than the last thing i said to you, is the truth, the real truth. it looks like it belongs in that secondhand shop and not wrapped around the really, if you think about it, the shockingly fragile combination of skin and tendons that someone — god, whomever — saw fit to sit your head upon. that’s the kind of thing you would say and i think about it — fragility, i mean — sometimes when i can’t sleep and the brown and yellow gets to me and i hunch my shoulders in a forgotten attic, town, photograph buried too young inside a shoebox nobody ever opens. i just sit at the bus stop with the wind howling yesterday’s slow dirges and the wool tassels of your scarf rough underneath the pads of my fingers while i keep rolling them and rolling them, trying to work the itch out. i’m not going to work it out — the itch, that is — you and me, it’s hard to know, that’s what i’m saying. not saying. forget it, anyway.
"Christ, how do you do this all the time?” McCoy snarls. His hands tighten on the edge of the table, and Spock opens his mouth to remind him of his increased strength, but McCoy remembers first. He peels his fingers away from the dents they have left and scoffs, a bitter noise. He does not raise his head to look at Spock.
"I feel—everything’s so much more, it’s driving me crazy," he says, more quietly. “You’re so good at pretending, I always thought you had no heart at all, but it’s just the opposite, ain’t it?"
Pairing: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto
Chris has never met anyone who uses sheer viciousness as a language the way Zach does, anyone who makes “unflinching, uncompromising dick” look so endearing; that’s probably why Chris likes it so much, because it’s new, different. Because it keeps him on his toes. Because some days it seems like everyone Chris knows is air-kisses and warm smiles and unkindnesses traded in the cover of darkness, and watching Zach apply his equal-opportunity superiority complex to everyone on earth except a dog he ensures lives better than most humans feels a little like finding water in a desert.
Really fucking mean water, but still.