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mister-tom-a-dildo-lover · 7 years

Text

Strive Pt. 14

{PART 1} {PART 2} {PART 3} {PART 4} {PART 5} {PART 6} {PART 7} {PART 8} {PART 9} {PART 10} {PART 11} {PART 12} {PART 13}

Pair: Tomarry

Rating: M-E(depends)

Tags: Mild Language, Homosexuality, Sexism, Obsessed Tom, Time-Travel/Dimension-Travel, Teacher/Student, Eventual Romance, Teacher-Harry, Grey!Harry, MoD(sort of), Death!being,

NOTE: One of my many headcanons is that the Diary Horcrux was improperly made. Since the Basilisk was the one that killed Myrtle, as she doesn’t understand Parseltongue and can’t actually know what was said, there is no proof that Tom Riddle actually told the snake to kill her. He took credit for it and used it as a murder requirement for the Horcrux ritual, but there was no dialogue or order given to our knowledge.

So, Tom did the ritual without a fractured soul(because he didn’t personally murder Myrtle) and ended up ripping his soul in half which caused immense damage to his sanity. It would then explain why he went crazy so fast if the very first one was done incorrectly. And that’s the plot used in this fic.

Professor Potter sighed and removed his glasses, setting them on the desk and folding his fingers beneath his chin. He proceeded to stare Tom down evenly, green eyes flashing ominously. "Albus decided to inform me, 'for my protection' apparently, that you are a Parselmouth. He heavily implied that you are the Heir of Slytherin and that you are the cause for what happened a couple of years ago with the Chamber of Secrets."

Tom would never admit to stiffening. He liked to pretend that he was not worried or scared of what Professor Potter thought of him. He didn't care, even though he really did in a way. And it was so pathetic, that he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, would be so fixated on a single person's opinion of him. He didn't give a bleeding damn what Dumbledore thought, so why was Potter any different?

Because he treats you fairly, came a whispered voice in his mind. Because he doesn't single students out and actually treats everyone the same. Because he doesn't pity you. Because he is different than everyone else in your life.

"Just because Albus is right, doesn't mean there is proof against you, and trying to manipulate someone's view of you was foolish of him. I haven't let myself be tricked like that in a long time and I refuse to let it happen again. I can determine for myself what you are like, through my own experiences with you."

His left eye twitched only just a little bit. He kept a straight face though it was like his body was caught between the need to either frown or smile. Potter wanted to judge based on their interactions and not by Dumbledore's bias. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Admit nothing. That was usually the Slytherin mentality.

Potter shrugged, his unearthly green eyes flashing with hidden knowledge. "It's obvious that an Acromantula didn't kill Myrtle Warren. They consume their prey differently, and there was not one mark on the girl that came from a creature. Besides, anyone with a brain knows that only one creature can petrify its prey, and that is a Basilisk. Had she been lucky enough to look into it's 'great big yellow eyes' as she described to me, through another object like a mirror or a puddle, she wouldn't have died and would have just been frozen."

Professor Potter had actually spoken to Myrtle Warren's ghost. He asked her what had killed her and she described the Basilisk's eyes perfectly. A sinking feeling was settling in Tom's stomach. He didn't like how familiar he was becoming with it.

The professor leaned back in his seat and waved his hand twice. A dark book levitated off his bookshelf and opened for him, hovering in front of his almost disinterested face. His eyes roved over the page. "A Basilisk in the school wouldn't make sense normally, if one of the Founders wasn't a Parselmouth. However, each of the Founders placed a creature of their choosing to protect the school. Godric had a dragon that some fool in the 1200s killed for its hide, Rowena had a Sphinx that was sent back to Egypt in the 1600s, and Helga had a Phoenix that seems to have befriended Albus, and goes by the name of Fawkes.

"Anyway, only those of Slytherin's blood can control the Basilisk, as the book states. Which would mean you as you are a descendant of the line through the Gaunts."

Tom's eyes stared intently at the book that he did not know the name of. He had never see any book like it before, so he knew it wasn't from the Hogwarts Library. He never knew that any of the other Founders had creatures in the castle at some point. Perhaps it was a Potter Family artifact? And how had Potter known that he was related to the Gaunt Family? After all, Tom could have just been an unexpected relation that came from a splintered off line of Salazar's.

"Sir, where did you get that book? I've never seen such information in any books about Hogwarts and I made sure to extensively study the history of the school as well as our community." For my own gain, he neglected to add. It was obvious enough for him to not have to mention it.

Potter smiled, and the book slowly floated toward Tom, until he could literally pluck it out of the air. It was strangely soft, and the covering on it was unfamiliar to him. The size was larger than any tome he had ever encountered, and much heavier. Even the parchment was foreign to him. It was so… strangely brittle and solid all at once.

"My friend Mortimer helped me acquire that book. He had the knowledge of its existence and we went and fetched it from its old holding place. Normal magicals wouldn't even be able to read it however, because its author held knowledge of a specific language that is rare in this side of the world and is only connected to one family over here."

Tom turned the book over, opening up to the very first page. All of a sudden, the odd squiggles on the page righted themselves and the words SALAZAR SLYTHERIN stood out in large blocky calligraphy. His ancestor had written the book in his hands. He's written it in Parseltongue?

"Parselscript," clarified Potter, as if knowing exactly what Tom was thinking.

Parseltongue had a written form.

He frowned when he realised. "Professor, you speak Parseltongue as well?" Were they related? Was that why the man knew of his mother and knew that he was a Gaunt? Was he a cousin or something? He didn't look anything like Morfin did. And his surname was Potter.

Were they perhaps brothers and Tom's mother had a relationship with a Potter who then took Harry away? From what he'd learned of the Gaunts, they weren't a family anyone wanted to align themselves with. It would be social suicide, especially for a Potter who was of the Light side.

"Tom, what do you know of the Gaunt Family?" asked Professor Potter, sitting back in his chair as if this was not the most confusing and revealing conversation of Tom's life. "Do you know anything beyond you being Salazar's possible second to last descendant?"

'Possible'?

Knowing it was pointless to lie when he would get nothing from it in this situation, Tom shook his head. "There isn't much about the Gaunt Family beyond them squandering their former wealth and inbreeding too much just to keep themselves 'pure'." He sneered the last word, disgusted at the thought of performing any type of sexual acts with relatives. Especially with how their looks apparently degenerated overs the centuries. He couldn't understand the desire.

The Defence professor nodded and leaned forward until his elbows could rest on the desk. "In the 1600s, Rionach Gaunt broke off from the family and married William Sayre, who shared her ideals about being kind to Muggles."

Tom's upper lip rose in a sneer, but Potter ignored it.

"Their daughter Isolt, was a brilliant little witch, but ended up losing her parents to a fire. Her mother's estranged sister Gormlaith Gaunt 'found her' and 'raised her' with dubious teachings and under Dark Magic to force her compliance and isolation for years. Isolt eventually learned that Gormlaith murdered her parents and had kidnapped her, and came to resent her. She was refused any chance to attend Hogwarts, because Gormlaith didn't like it, and spun tales of why it was supposedly terrible. She decided to teach Isolt all the Dark Arts she knew instead."

Was everyone that Tom was related to, somehow a bloody moron? How could Hogwarts be horrible in any way? Sure, there were some fools here and there and Dumbledore surely tainted the air with his existence, but he would not be around always, and Tom had growing plans to make things follow his way of thinking in the future.

"Isolt learned enough magic by the time she was twelve, to successfully steal her aunt's wand and escape. She fled to England and disguised herself as a Muggle boy, who then sneaked onto the Mayflower that was headed for the New World. Long story short, she met the natives of the land, befriended some magical creatures, and ended up creating the first magical school in the states, which is called Ilvermorny."

Tom's jaw actually dropped. A descendent of Salazar Slytherin founded one of the other large magical schools in the world? And no one thought that the Founder of said school was evil or bent on world domination?

"If you want more information, I have a book that is a copy of her own bibliography. I had to go directly to Ilvermorny and be put through many tests to get it, but I do have it. It'll tell you more about Gormlaith and the Gaunts. You'll be interested to know that the wand that she stole from her aunt was once Salazar's wand. And in the end, she buried it in the ground within Ilvermorny, and it sprouted a large Snakewood tree that has magical properties that are said to heal anything if any part of it is consumed."

Isolt Sayre was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. She never received a Hogwarts education and was only taught the Dark Arts. She went on to build the most powerful magical school in North America. And no one thought terribly of her? They didn't think she was a Dark Lady? And Salazar Slytherin, who was considered evil by most of Hogwarts for the past several centuries, had a wand that would basically be a Healer's dream come true?

"Isolt is recognised as a heroine in magical America, Tom. And her descendants are spread across the world due to traveling. I'm even distantly related to her through my mother, oddly enough. And through my father, I am distantly related to you because the Potters and Gaunts came from the same line, which are the Peverells, and many Gaunts married into the Potters way back when."

The Necromancer Three. Tom knew about them as much as anyone in Britain would. The family itself wasn't important until the three brothers supposedly created some of the most powerful magical artifacts in history. Then they drew enough attention to themselves and their craft. And they became history. Their rise and fall was described in many children's books.

Potter was nodding. "Cadmus, the middle brother, sired an unwanted daughter who changed her name when she fled his old village. She didn't want to be found and have the stain of her being a bastard following her everywhere. She became the first Gaunt, and settled down with a young and impressionable wizard from the Slytherin Line, who was angry for not being the first born and not getting the privileges of the first born. When the Slytherin Family died out a century later, the Gaunts were glad to let people know of their connection to Salazar."

"And which brother are you directly related to, professor?" asked Tom. Nothing ever said Antioch had sired children, but since he hadn't known Cadmus had any, how would he know?

"Ignotus, and even more distantly, Cadmus. Ignotus moved away from the bad reputations of his brothers and started his own family, passing down secrets and slowly changing the family name over the centuries. Peverell, Povrell, Povell, Potell, Pottel, Potter. Ironically, there are some Gaunts who married into my direct Potter branch and one of Isolt Sayer's children was my mother's some form of great-grandmother from the 1800s, which would explain the Parseltongue."

He had a distant relation who wasn't a bumbling fool. It was like a breath of fresh air in some ways, while in others, it made him a little annoyed. Why wait until now to say anything to Tom about it?

Also…

"How did you know my mother sold the Slytherin Locket?" He still couldn't understand that. That had not been explained yet. Potter had given answers to things he didn't even ask, but neglected to answer the one thing he wanted to know the most.

Potter sighed for the umpteenth time. "Mr. Borgin isn't very good at keeping secrets and it only took some persuasion when I inquired about it. Add on the fact that only one Marvolo ever attended Hogwarts, and it was Marvolo Gaunt, who had only one daughter and one son. Marvolo and Morfin had made a reputation in the magical papers as 'Possible Threats to the Statute of Secrecy' since both had been fined multiple times for casting magic on the Muggles in Little Hangleton. The daughter Merope, was the only one with a clean slate and according to the dwellers of said village, she disappeared around the time you were born, with a muggle aristocrat sharing your exact name. He returned months later, without her, and was screaming about witchcraft and love potions. It really wasn't hard to put together once everything was listed."

Tom's breathing calmed slowly. His professor had actually done some studying instead of being like Dumbledore and just accusing him of unfounded things. He researched and compiled all the evidence he had. And he wasn't treating Tom like a monster despite Tom basically admitting that yes, he was behind the Chamber fiasco.

He didn't come out and directly say it, but his questions and answers gave it away. And still Potter was being fair.

"Myrtle was a mistake," he found himself explaining, and wanting to be consumed by Fiendfyre on the spot. The look on Potter's face was of obvious surprise, but it didn't make him feel any better.

Tom bit his bottom lip for a second, before continuing. "Her death wasn't deliberate. I was simply trying to scare the students. No one actually got hurt or died, despite the bloody messages on the walls. Myrtle was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was the one who found her and it was only because the Basilisk called out to me from the lavatory. I then had to skillfully redirect some students in hopes of them finding her instead, which one of them finally did. Said student was even Myrtle's frequent bully, so it only seemed right."

He didn't send the Basilisk to kill her. He hadn't even been there when the death occurred.

"I did find it strange how they actually carried her body off," said Professor Potter, a look of confusion on his face. "Basilisks consume their prey whole, unlike Acromantula who like to draw out their feasting time so the innards can deliquesce. There shouldn't have been a body, and if you had murdered her, you would have hidden the evidence so as not to have any leads that could trace back to you."

Exactly. Tom was much better at plotting. He'd killed Tom Riddle Sr. and his parents, with Morfin's wand. And he worked some incredible magic to implicate Morfin in the scenario. He would never leave such proof behind, no matter what.

But… just because Tom didn't order it specifically, didn't mean he wasn't partially responsible. After all, he had reworked the wards on the Chamber and the lavatory, which allowed the Basilisk to open the entrances and exits with its own Parseltongue. So the Basilisk came out for another chance to explore the castle under Tom's watch, only to literally kill a student the moment it slithered from the hole beneath the sinks.

As the serpent was under Tom's orders to make such rounds about the castle, he was to blame in a sense. And when he finally learned of the ritual required to make a Horcrux a week later, he used that as his 'murder' requirement to complete the ritual. And now Tom had two Horcruxes.

So yes, it was his fault in a way, but Myrtle would not have been his choice. He would have much preferred Eldrid Avery. Because what good would it do him to pick on the pathetic and weak? Myrtle had nothing when she was alive, but seeing Avery dead and unable to bother him any longer, would have been ideal. After all, Tom targeted those who wronged him in some way, and there was no satisfaction in proving how great he was over a trampled mouse.

Eldrid acted as if he was Merlin's gift to Slytherin, and Tom would have gladly put the other in his place. In fact, he was considering using him as his next Horcrux sacrifice.

While none too fond of Muggles nor how he'd been treated for everyone assuming he was a Muggleborn, he didn't care too much. Those unworthy to be in Hogwarts would have fled upon the opening of the Chamber, and since several had actually transferred out, the school was in fact free of their taint. And no, not all were Muggleborn. Tom simply hated those who worked against him. They were removed first and foremost.

"In conclusion to this hour long discussion," said Professor Potter as he glanced up at the clock on the wall, "let's put it all out there. You are the Heir of Slytherin. We both are Parselmouths thanks to Gaunt ancestry in our lines. We're both Halfbloods who are related to the Peverells. Your mother was named Merope and she was wandering about London on her own in December of 1925 and only got ten Galleons for the Slytherin Locket. You were born at Wools' Orphanage at the end of the month and grew up there. Albus was the one to visit you. Albus doesn't like you at all and is trying very hard to ruin your reputation among others. And it would behoove to refrain from using anything but Light magic in the coming weeks."

At Tom's frown, the man shrugged. "We're dealing with Albus Dumbledore, who has many awards already and a good portion of the Light people in his pocket, no matter what the papers say of his actions. He can and will convince someone to investigate you or me if he feels threatened. A proper diagnostic scan on a wand - that is taught to the Aurors - only shows the last one hundred castings. Practice the Patronus Charm a lot just to cover yourself even further."

And just as some of his questions had been answered, he was left with dozens more. How did his professor know about the training that Aurors went through? Was he formerly an Auror? And why was he so against Albus Dumbledore when half of Britain worshiped the man? Other than gossip, Dumbledore didn't come across as an annoying person upon first meeting, so what could have put Potter off to the man?

"You may borrow that book, though I would see it returned in the state it is currently in," said Potter, drawing his attention back to the present. Yes, the book that Tom was holding was still open. The book written by Salazar Slytherin.

Realising that this was the time for him to depart, Tom stood and closed the book gently. He then slipped it into his expanded bag and gave a small bow.

"Thank you, sir." An expression that was directed at more situations than just the book lending.

The green-eyed man waved his gratitude away. "It's only right that you learn about Salazar from his own writing. Take care of the locket. Perhaps you can get a portrait of yourself put in there."

Potter would not give him away. The man had already known everything and hadn't said a word to anybody. It was strangely comforting to know that. To know that there was an adult - and he used the term lightly since they were near each other in age - who was decent and could actually be trusted to be honest and relatively impartial.

He knew that Professor Potter would do his job, and that was good enough. And when he admitted to having a hand in Myrtle's death, the man hadn't glared at him. He didn't regard Tom with disgust. He simply accepted the answer for what it was and moved on.

It was nice… to have someone that didn't fear him. It was nice to not feel that telltale sign of nausea around someone. Potter was someone that treated him well, not because Tom threatened him into compliance, or because he wanted to get on Tom's good side. The man was just genuinely kind to everyone. Except perhaps Dumbledore, though the old fool deserved if it he kept trying to enforce his opinions and views on everyone he met.

It was halfway back to his dorm that Tom realised something else. Potter's Dueling Club was starting soon. He had to work on his Patronus even more if he wanted to impress the man and the class. A happy thought or memory strong enough to power such a spell.

He blinked for a moment, and in a moment of intense thought, he lifted his wand. "Expecto Patronum."

In the darkness of the dungeon corridor, Tom Marvolo Riddle was witness to the brightness of the very first corporeal Patronus he'd ever summon. It was a large, writhing serpent covered in odd markings. It reminded him very much of Professor Potter's Patronus, which shouldn't surprise him, since it was a thought of the man himself that had fueled the charm.

Tom smiled, enjoying the sight and the proof of his own ability. He felt a little giddy actually.

It was… nice.

A/N: I’m glad to see this chapter finished. 3500+words. Tom did the charm! Harry’s POV is coming in chapter 16, so be prepared.

#Tomarry #Tom Riddle #HP #fanfiction #Watermelonsmellinfellon

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soap-brain · 7 years

Note

My prompt isn't part of the hug list and is kind of really angsty so feel free to ignore it if you want! XD I've read a lot of stories where the authors had Spock act like an asshole to make Jim run into Spock Prime's arms and it always makes me sad because I feel that it's unfair to expect Spock to act like his counterpart when SP had decades to accept his human side (1)

(2) so here's my prompt. Spock catches SP and Jim in a intimate situation (kissing or acting intimately or other situations) for whatever reason of your choosing (Spock and Jim had a fight, SP melded with Jim and the emotional transfer made them both act strangely...). The rest is completely up to you :)

it’s finally done!! this was a trip, man. at first i had /no/ idea what to write, how to write it, what you wanted exactly. then i started and it was slow and odd and then it began feeling good as long as i was careful, and now i’m SO PROUD OF THIS!! it’s my new favorite fic (sorry @ His Silver Lady)

i hope you like it though, it’s completely different from what and how i usually write, and i researched some interesting stuff (hey did you know they finished the golden gate bridge in 1937? and did you know there’s already a concept for roads to be replaced with solar panels?? the more you mcfreaking know i guess)

so, without any further ado:AOS Spirk, mentions of AOS Jim Kirk/Spock Prime, mentions of sex, established TOS Spirkwarnings for: a metric ton of sadness and Spock Prime whump, also references to suicide ideation; misuse of Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, ABBA, Pacrim 2, The One With The Whales and a fuckton of odd metaphors

Rating: probably T??Wordcount: 4742

(it’s under a cut because it’s so damn long)

How can I then return in happy plightThat am debarred the benefit of rest,When day’s oppression is not eased by night,But day by night and night by day oppressed,And each, though enemies to either’s reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee?I tell the day, to please him, thou art brightAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

How do you know something is missing? Something you never had - how do you know you’re missing it? You feel displaced, a bit empty, searching, maybe. It’s certainly not the best feeling there is, but it’s also far from the worst.

Because the worst is having been searching for all your life, and then you find what you were looking for - love and acceptance, given completely unconditionally. And then you lose it.

Of course, you had it. For a while, you were happy. You had everything you could wish for - and more.

And then you lose it.

You lose it and there’s no replacement, because that thing is gone. Forever. It’s not coming back, you can’t get a second one, no second chances, no winning in life.

You’re alone, lost and broken. Forever.

*∞*∞*

Blue. It’s the first thing he notices. Blue, like … like a summer sky. Like a warp trail. Like a science uniform, like the eyes of a dear friend. On the wrong person maybe, but still … still …

Well. He doesn’t quite know what to say. Not … right, certainly not, more like jarringly wrong, like an atrocious deformity. Everything is wrong about the stranger. He’s too tall, too slim, too different, too wrong, not sunshine-and-honey, more starlight-and-ice.

Perfectly wrong, perfectly right.

He’d thought he’d die here, alone, in the cold, finally, maybe, because he’s not entirely sure he wants to see what this universe becomes, out of time out of space out of order infinite entropy in infinite combinations different and wrong and perfectly, perfectly right after such a long time. Like coming home to a new place.

A difficult concept to explain or grasp, without a doubt.

“James T. Kirk.”

The confusion on his face is all wrong, epidermis scrunching up in the wrong places. It’s perfect.

“Excuse me?”

He found him.

“How’d you find me?”

Not that he’s surprised, exactly. This is a Kirk, after all.

“Whoa, whoa. How’d you know my name?” Confusion, worn so beautifully. Not what he wants to see, of course - not how he’d like to see it, certainly! - but … he’s grateful for everything by now.

“I have been, and always shall be, your friend.” It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t break. Or maybe it does, but can you blame him? Miracles like this don’t happen.

He’s not alone anymore, not lost, not broken. Not anymore.

*∞*∞*

My glass shall not persuade me I am old; // So long as youth and thou are of one date.

They have no place in this universe. Or, well, he doesn’t. Jim, Jim, beautiful Jim - he does. He deserves so much. He’s so young, so bright, so fearless, so, so beautiful.

Spock found his missing half again. His t’hy’la, his sun, his everything. Like the universe falling back into alignment, a pendulum with unending weight and no mass.

And then it swings past.

There’s a marvelous ship launching, a goddess in her own right, and her crew is beaming sparkling smiles, turning their backs on Earth with no regrets.

Is this what an abandoned pet must feel like? Watch those it loves and admires turn their backs and walk away, not a glance spared?

His knees want to buckle under the merciless weight of the stars, of years and years lived and forgotten and never happening. Because - because they never were.

Six sets of eyes, blue, brown, golden-sunshine-and-laughter. They never were. And nobody remembers, because they never lived.

Now, they are brown, they are green, they are grey, and a bright, burning blue. Like a shooting star: can’t touch, can’t feel, but all you want to do is latch on. It won’t let you.

What is there to do, when you have nothing? Nothing left, everything taken. Nothing ventured and nothing gained - but. What to venture for? What is there left to fight for?

For the first time in his life it seems like maybe giving up is the right way to go. Maybe - maybe it was enough.

The thoughts don’t come at night, under glittering stars, so far away, held dear in memory. The thoughts don’t come at day, under burning sun, merciless. The thoughts are already here and they won’t leave.

You become used to it.

Have you ever tried reaching out to the stars? Even if they aren’t yours, all wrong because they are exactly the same - have you tried touching them? Fingers stroking over a cheekbone. The eyes should be phoenix-gold, but they’re a morning sky. And the memory is but a dream.

“‘Let me help.’ A hundred years or so from now, I believe, a famous novelist will write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words even over ‘I love you.’”

So he will help. If nobody ever knows who for, then so be it. He can’t chase after a lover that was never his to have.

*∞*∞*

“Do you genuinely believe he likes me?”

Sigh. “He is me, and I do know myself. Yes, Jim. Spock likes you.”

“He doesn’t act like it though.”

So different. So much less calm. Exactly the same.

A smile the other man surely doesn’t see often from him - or his counterpart.

“Vulcan education doesn’t make it easy to act on our feelings, if we even admit we have them.”

“But - he doesn’t even use contractions when speaking! Hell, he told me off for using them in official reports! And you - I’ve heard you parody Bones’ accent!”

“Jim, all I can ask of you is to give my counterpart time and ample supply of possibilities to change. I am over a hundred and ninety years old, and the majority of that time was spent in Human company. It … wears you down, eventually.”

Jim flips the stylus he’d been fiddling with. “I did everything you said though! We’re playing a lot of chess, we have dinner together, I ask to hear him play the lute, I get him little trinkets, I’m trying to be as respectful as I can be, I’m practically flirting with him non-stop - how many more situations should I needlessly and weirdly bend over something? How dense can a guy be!”

“Always so impatient - ack!”

He’s so close all of a sudden, invading a personal bubble that hasn’t been invaded in a long, long time (actually, never. Because it never happened), smelling and feeling wrong, and exactly right.

Feelings are a confusing thing, but is there anything that’s quite as good?

“What’s wrong?”

A hand on his elbow, and bright blues looking worried. A momentary lapse of control, and suddenly it’s so much harder to regain his balance, externally, internally, eternally. Of course it’s his presence that set the timer off, tick-tocking towards doom, the shallow contact on Delta Vega, the most intimate connection, a mind recognizing its counterpart, no matter how distorted.

“Spock. Talk to me!”

“Selek.”

“No, you’re - you’re Spock!”

He sits up again.

“Jim …”

“Is it a medical condition? Do you need a doctor? Oh god, I’ll call Bones right-”

“Jim.”

“Yes?”

“It is, in fact, a medical condition of sorts, but nothing modern medicine can help me with. Or you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sigh. He doesn’t want to lie - his body craves the relief, the closeness, like a starving man craves food, the most delicious buffet laid out right in front of him.

If he touches it, it will wither away, leave, run, snarl in disgust. He won’t be able to survive that. The other alternative - abstinence, depriving himself - seems almost better.

Selek - Spock has never been strong. His mental restraints are mainly born from self-hatred, indoctrinated into him at a very young age. It makes it easier to deny himself.

But it has been so, so very long that he almost wants to give in.

Weariness goes deep - to your skin, after a long day. To your bones, after years. To your soul, after a lifetime of almost only mourning.

“Tell me what’s wrong, so I can fix it.”

Let me help.

‘The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself’, after all.

“I can’t let you. This is something I have to bear myself.”

“No. Nobody is ever alone. Let. Me. Help.”

*∞*∞*

To have known him, to have loved himAfter loneness long;And then to be estranged in life,And neither in the wrong;And now for death to set his seal—Ease me, a little ease, my song!By wintry hills his hermit-moundThe sheeted snow-drifts drape,And houseless there the snow-bird flitsBeneath the fir-trees’ crape: Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine That hid the shyest grape.

Giving in is, in a way, always harder than abstaining. It opens up places inside of you - deep, dark, horribly twisted places. Of why you shouldn’t have given in, ever. Of why you shouldn’t have abstained, ever.

Sensorimotor memory is another fascinating thing. It digs deep and leaves grotesque scars, and touching them again shakes you to your very foundations.

*∞*∞*

The first day feels like happiness. Pure, unadulterated happiness. Like seeing the sun for the very first time in your life.

The second day is bittersweet. You can already feel it ending, a bit, even though you’re just cresting the highest peak.

The third day is regret and lack. It’s already over, almost. Sanity is returning.

Hour zero, day zero, ground zero afterwards is disgust. Not normally, no. But in this case - golden head on a pillow, bare shoulders and back covered in marks, a picture of utter exhaustion - it was wrong.

When you’re very young, and your mother tells you off for stealing your sister’s treats, and you’re unhappy and angry with yourself that you did something, took something you had no right to, already loathing the bliss you found in it.

This Jim, with this blue eyes and bright smile - that one hadn’t been meant for Spock. And he took him anyways.

He stands there, in the open bedroom/living space, mug of tea in his hand, looking down at the sleeper, and he resents every mark on the pale skin, every memory revolving around those marks.

There’s a chime at his door and he knows, instinctively, who it is. He allows admittance. There’s nothing to hide. Like a thief caught red-handed.

His counterpart barges in, chock-full with questions, and he stops dead in his tracks.

There’s shock, then there’s realization, and then there’s anger.

Selek watches him. He doesn’t have anything to hide, all his crimes out here in the open for Spock to judge.

“You - you - he.”

Is there anything quite like fury choking your every word? Spock has every right to feel cheated, betrayed, stolen from.

And then his features fall.

“It was you. Not me. You. He wanted you.”

Selek shook his head. “No, Spock. He wanted you. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Why I did what I did? I’m old, Spock. I’m old and foolish and I’m alone. I don’t belong here. I’m weary. I don’t know whether giving in made it worse or better; it doesn’t matter. He’s not meant for me. And he only wanted to help. He doesn’t want me.”

“But … you are more than me. Why - why wouldn’t he choose you?”

“The simplest explanation I can give you is that he’s not my Jim, and I’m not his Spock. There’s a Jim and a Spock in every universe, and they belong together. But … this isn’t my universe, Spock. This isn’t my Jim. My Jim … was different. I’m sorry.”

Spock stares down at the golden head on the pillow, fighting emotions that remain unseen. Selek knows them all.

“I need you to leave,” he chokes out, and Selek nods. Of course.

He dresses himself, puts on shoes, makes for the door.

“There’s a dermal regenerator in the bathroom,” he says. There’s no answer. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

*∞*∞*

Spock sits down, hands shaking, knees suddenly unable to bear his weight. Jim is still motionless, deeply exhausted from -

Something ugly rears its head in Spock, dark and snarling. From servicing his counterpart, taken like some kind of whore. Jim is his, his, his alone, and he wants to hurt Selek, make sure he never lays a hand on Jim again. Illogical? Yes. But justified. Jim is his! Selek should have taken better care of his own Jim, then he would not be alone.

He trails a hand over Jim’s shoulder, fighting the urge to dig his nails in and mark Jim. The Human moves under his touch, pressing against it. Yes. Jim knows who his Spock is.

It is terrifying, if Spock is honest with himself. This urge to mark Jim, claim Jim, like his consent is of no importance.

“Sp’ck?” He’s turned his head, lashes fluttering open and revealing crystalline blues.

“I am here, Jim.”

Jim rolls around more, until he’s on his side. He stares, and then his eyes widen.

“Spock! I - I can explain!” He scrambles to sit, bedsheet pooling around his waist.

“There is no need.” It comes out colder than Spock wanted.

“No, listen, I need to explain. Please!” Jim rubs a wild hand over his face and through his hair. “I - I - I don’t know how to say this, but please listen to me!”

Spock cocks his head.

“I - oh god - I didn’t mean to - look, I had no idea how to interpret the signals I was getting from you, and Selek needed help. Spock, I couldn’t just - I couldn’t just let him die. But … I - Whatever we had, I -” He swallows harshly. “I destroyed it, didn’t I? Everything we could’ve had.”

“I didn’t know you wanted - anything.” Spock exhales. There’s something in his chest, tight and loose at the same time. “I didn’t think you’d want … me.”

“I did. I do. If you still do then I’m, I’ll.”

Spock closes his eyes. He had always tried to quench optimism with realism, or pessimism if his heart grew too bold. He had not dared hope - but he had thought. Had thought of Jim, just Jim, with him. As if nothing else mattered. (It didn’t.)

“I do.” Said quietly, screamed across the rapidly shrinking distance between them.

Jim is smiling. Their foreheads touch without either of them consciously allowing it, so close together.

“I do,” Spock repeats, watching the tentative smile on the Human’s face turn brilliant.

*∞*∞*

It’s an interesting trait, Human sentimentality. Certainly one of the greatest flaws and greatest strengths of their race, decidedly not to underestimate. Take this bridge, for example. 323 years old, it would be considered a waste of space and resources, logically, and would be set for destruction. Maintenance and continued safety checks cost a fortune that could well be invested elsewhere.

If you would propose that same course of action to any of the locals, you would decidedly not endear yourself to them, but the fact remains that the upkeep of the bridge doesn’t follow any kind of logical way of thought.

The paint alone, specially synthesized to protect the ancient materials, costs a fortune. A colorful metaphor for Human sentimentality.

If Selek were another man, one and a half centuries younger, not yet worn down, he would surely have chuckled. A joke. He doesn’t make those very often, the references he makes with his punchlines far too obscure for anyone to understand, and, as in this case, they never happened in the first place.

The sidewalk isn’t made from concrete and stones anymore - a series of large remodeling projects allow all of San Francisco to be powered exclusively by solar panels that have been integrated everywhere. Roads now have a dull shine to them, looking far more finely fashioned than cracked concrete.

Selek wishes for the concrete. Watching where to step, careful to not bump into the man beside him, no matter how much he may want to, yearning for something half-remembered, half-forgotten.

‘Admiral.’ - ‘You used to call me Jim.’

He used to, yes. In another time.

Now, it doesn’t hold the same meaning. Now, it’s a hollow ache, desperation, a void refusing to be filled except with unjust, unhealthy appropriation.

It used to be the warm glow of belonging.

And the yearning for it is a Human feeling, through and through. Sentimentality.

The pier is more or less deserted - it’s hardly the weather for a nice stroll. There’s only one person, ahead of Selek. They’re leaning over the little wall between the walkway and the stony shore, robes flying in the wind.

It’s for the better. As though less people would see Selek’s shame.

It was a selfish act, meant to resurrect whatever he once was and making it about himself. Selek has lived for other people. It used to be his primary enjoyment, fulfilling him.

A life, devoid of meaning now. And for how much longer? Physically, Selek doesn’t feel that old yet, and his luck has been bad. How much longer? Twenty years? How do you live twenty more years after almost a lifetime without your heart, briefest glimpse of happiness, those few years, so long gone?

“And Quoth the Raven “Nevermore”!” the stranger exclaims, pushing away from the little wall. “Oh, you Humans. Always so doomy and gloomy. Find some enjoyment in life! Live a little!” He clasps Selek’s shoulder. “Oh, apologies. You are half Vulcan, after all. But do you hear yourself think? There’s more humanity in you than anything else.”

“Can I help you?”

The stranger winks. “Oh, maybe, yes. Do you happen to know a man by the name of … Admiral James T Kirk?”

Selek stops dead in his tracks.

“How -” His voice fails. “How do you know that name?”

“About 5’10’’, brown eyes, brown hair, a bit curly … used to be blond! He likes horses, Shakespeare, flowers, astronomy … Do you know him?”

“Who are you?!” There’s an age-old anger shaking in his chest, at the name seemingly used in vain by this stranger.

The stranger smiles like a cat that got the cream. “I am one of the Q.”

“What’s your name? Who are you?”

“Q.”

“How do you know - how do you know that? Him.”

“Mmmmmh, let’s just say I have my sources. But if I may: You two were fantastic for each other. A perfect fit.”

I know.

“But then, he had to step on the, what was it, Enterprise-B and, well, the rest is, as they say, history. What a sad story. Such a bright, bright man, and he gets himself killed before his time. Pity.” The stranger grins, entirely too off.

And then he leans close to Selek. “Or did he? He was presumed dead. Did he die, Spock? Did you ever see a body? How do you know that he’s really dead? The bond? What if it broke because he’s inside a singularity that transcends dimensions?”

“What do you want?” Selek is shaking by now.

“It’s called the Nexus. I’m pretty sure he’s still alive in there!”

Selek starts walking again, trying not to shake, not to stumble, keep his lips pressed thinly together and blinking away the overboarding emotions, throat weighed down with ‘Ambassador Spock, sir, apologies for interrupting, but there has been a message from the USS Enterprise-B.’ on top of the scalding emptiness of knives in his heart, memories, memories, loss, over and over.

The hand on his shoulder almost makes him buckle; the bridge offset in dark, garish red against gray skies bleeds away into lush green, a garden, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

“Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

It’s a voice Selek would have recognized anywhere. His heart stops, free-falling; whether it’s relief or breaking, hollow sadness he couldn’t say, nostalgia and fear and yearning and ecstasy mixed together.

The caller comes into focus and Selek can’t help himself but reach out. Just one touch. One fleeting press of fingertips against fabric, against skin, against hair, and he would be content for eternity.

The vision fizzles and fades, replaced instead by the heavy gray around. It’s started to rain. Q is nowhere to be found.

*∞*∞*

“They were thigh-la,” Jim says absent-mindedly, running his fingers over the fabric of Spock’s robe. It is not as though Spock minds - he has waited far too long for this. But Jim’s statement is perplexing.

“They were what?”

“Thigh- Thigh-la? It’s a term Selek used, I think it’s Vulcan.”

“There is no such term. Perhaps you misheard.” “No, no, it’s a thing! Um, they were like … it’s going to sound stupid, but they were - soulmates, so to speak.”

“Oh. You are referring to the bond of t’hy’la.”

“Yeah! Exactly!” Jim sits up to face Spock, excitement sparking from his eyes. Spock finds he misses the warm weight of the Human’s torso against his. “What does it mean, exactly?”

“Like you said. Soulmates.”

“Oh.” Jim leans against Spock again, tethering him back to the universe that is wide open and, for the first time, welcoming. Smiling. Like coming home to a new place.

Then: “Are you angry at him? Selek, I mean.”

Spock allows himself a deep exhale, Jim’s pulse loud in his fingertips on his neck.

“I think … I think I am lucky to be unable to understand his motivation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Selek is … broken, beyond words. I cannot imagine - such a life, only so few years with your counterpart, and then all the time spent alone. I cannot be angry at him for - for being desperate. For wanting.”

“I wanted to help him. I really did. I still do. But … unless we find my counterpart, there’s no helping him, is there?”

“I am afraid not.”

“So he’ll never know love again.”

“No. And not even - what you gave him, Jim, though well-meant - it was not the love he needs. You are not what he needs, even though it is of course easier for him to delude himself to think that you are. I do not blame him.”

*∞*∞*

They see Selek again for their departure, the first time since, well, since. The Enterprise is set to a set of coordinates that presumably hold a singularity, and Selek will be coming with them. Presumably. Dear Creator, Humans certainly are one of the most delightful species.

Command hadn’t given them a reason for any of this, and it hadn’t seemed like any of them even know why the Enterprise needed to go there. The Humans find it odd, but have decided not to argue.

Jim’s only barely keeping himself from touching Spock. They’re not exactly out - Spock had felt the need to inform Nyota, and Jim had of course told Leo, but to everyone else they were still Captain Kirk and Commander Spock, nothing more. Delightful in their insecurity.

Selek holds himself differently, even more of a paradox than he’d been before, more straight, more lively, but like someone else was pulling the strings. Hm. As easy as all these little beings are, they certainly are fascinating. You can never really know how they’ll react.

“I’m happy to have you on board,” Jim ventures. He’d been worried about the old half-Vulcan, but then pre-departure-preps had hit him and he hadn’t found the time to check up on him, and in true Human fashion he had resigned himself to hoping that he was alright.

Selek reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Spock steps closer to Jim, warning, threatening.

“I learned my lesson, Spock. And I’m grateful you didn’t take it amiss. Learn from my mistakes, Spock.”

Selek keeps to himself. The Enterprise shoots through the stars, brimming with eagerness as she always does, always did, in every universe, in every dimension, a beating heart bright like the sun, a beacon of hope. They all hope, each for their own sake, and the ship carries the hope out into the void, a cheerful resistance against inevitability.

Oh, they have no idea.

A flick, a flimmer of thought, and the Enterprise stops, dead, out of power, shining brightly among the eternal night.

Inside, there is mayhem.

They can’t see it of course, but the Nexus is there, waiting. Not an entity that had endeared itself with kindness usually - it’s a grotesque, ugly thing, devouring, feeding off life energy, the immortal souls trapped within. Paradisical for lower lifeforms, no doubt - that was, after all, the Nexus’ spiel - but for anyone with a bit of a mind to see beyond the veil, it appeared more of a parasite.

Its maw was gaping, tongue trying to reach out to the tiny silver ship braving its edges, like a predator in waiting. Thank the Creator for chaining it at the Junction; otherwise, it would’ve been unstoppable.

The old half-Vulcan doesn’t seem to be interested in the when’s and if’s and but’s presented in increasing desperation by the Enterprise’s crew.

“It’s where I have to go. Please, let me. Allow me this one last thing.”

Ah. So he can feel it then. Splendid.

Jim Kirk doesn’t cry as he allows Selek a shuttle and wishes him farewell. Maybe there’s a part of him that understands.

And then the shuttle takes off, a tiny speck of silver, a shooting star, falling right into the abyss, the beast’s open maw. The Enterprise crew doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear it, only the shuttle’s life signals cutting off as though it never was. In a way, it wasn’t. The nonexistent prime timeline dies with Selek - Spock. This one will be different. Far, far different, except for the constants that vein every timeline, every universe, every dimension, a tether to the greater order.

Perhaps it is only merciful to give the Enterprise something to explore here. The Nexus can’t touch them anyways. Their time hasn’t come yet.

So, an oddly colored nebula sparkles into existence, flickering in and out, a proper scientific problem. It will let them discover several properties of dark matter instability years before they should have that knowledge, but then again it’s nothing but a drop in the ocean.

*∞*∞*

The shuttle begins gradually fading away, mattering less and less in this - wherever, whatever. Then, there’s only the forest. Trees rushing in the wind, birds singing, golden sunshine and bright green, stones and leaves crunching underfoot.

The path is narrow but worn, boot prints and hoof prints engraved deep into the ochre soil. Around a bend and over a wooden bridge crossing a stream, until there is a small artfully rusted gate. It swings open easily.

The garden is lush green, wild, but beautifully maintained, with crops and flowers; a chestnut horse nibbling on some grass, a black cat with a red spotted cravat prancing after butterflies.

“Spock? Spock! There you are! What a feisty kitten! Come here!”

There’s the call again.

The rusted metal is real under his fingers; the roses smell lovely and the leaves are green. It’s like coming home to a new place. Different, but home.

*∞*∞*

Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no! it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

there we go that was it!!! i really, really hope you enjoyed it, and i’m sorry for the super duper long wait. i’ll post it to ao3 some day, i think, as soon as i manage to come up with a title

thank you for that wonderful prompt, anon!!

if you found every reference and stolen quote, let me know :D

also, disclaimer: i’ve seen the first four eps of tng, that’s how well i know q. i’ve never seen generations, of the poems i used i only ever analyzed one (the last one, aka my favorite). AND ofc it’s not beta read at all or anything, yikes!!! :DD

i think @gumballgladiator wanted to be tagged in this when it’s done? if anyone else wants to be tagged in stuff lmk!!

bye i’ll go to the gym now, i’m mentally exhausted :p

#spirk #aos spirk #spock #jim kirk #spock prime #star trek #star trek aos #fanfic #my writing #this is my non plus ultra i think. wow i love this fic. please be nice to it it's my child #my post #anonymous

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