mirror with a memory

anonymous asked:

I like to headcanon that my Lavellan has a child from a previous marriage that she writes to frequently. Once she asks Solas for a tale she could write down to send to her daughter to help her sleep and he tells her of an encounter in the fade with a memory of two dalish finding a magic mirror in an odd cave... Only the ending is happier and the scary parts are downplayed just for her.

Okay anon i didn’t want to cry abt tamlen today and yet,, but no fr this is so cute though i honestly love this?? I feel like this also works for dalish inquisitors who are close to morrigan, in a timeline where the warden was dalish and IS keirans father, but didnt romance morrigan (“he knows his father was a good man”).
-mod wolf

**Edited and added, since now I can say it without crying.*

My Dad committed suicide on January 13, 2013. He suffered from depression for 10 years, and I was lucky to have him around as long as I did. In his honor I got the last thing he wrote to me on my bicep in his handwriting in blue ink, his favorite color. I’ll miss him forever, and now I’ll have a reminder that he loves me every time I look in the mirror. 

okay, but angels

angels seeking their siblings, both heavenly and fallen, in the face of every stranger

angels avoiding eye contact at all costs, because they just don’t want to be found

angels reverently walking into churches and being overwhelmed with home

angels shaking furiously as they pass churches, because they are overwhelmed with memories

angels staring into the mirror, counting flaws like stars and crying because they were glorious once

angels smirking into their reflection, because they could get used to this

angels smiling as they watch their loved ones just live, knowing they were brought here to protect them

angels snarling at strangers, angry because they can’t even begin to fathom

angels in country fields, weeping at night, begging to come home

angels walking city sidewalks, more in love with this home than they ever were in heaven

angels, who clutch at memories of souls of gold and bones of eternity

angels, who live by iron, dirt, and sheer force of will

angels, who walk the line of mortal and divine, who see no need to make the choice

angels seeking divinity

angels running from divinity

angels who just don’t care about divinity

angels

I just think it’s beyond beautiful that

Emma spent the first 28 years of her life completely alone. She spent it being cared about by no one, being looked after by no one, being put first by no one. She was always picked last, never prioritized, never the centre of anybody’s thoughts. 

In comes: Captain Killian Jones.

Who, literally from the moment he met her, made Emma Swan his Most Important Thing™. Never did he just like her, or just care for her, or just love her, no, no. He put her right at the very tippy tippy top of his list of Reasons To Carry On™. Like think of what that must’ve felt like to her, man. Like I feel like every single day she looked at him staring at her with his I Love You More Than The Jolly Roger™ gaze and she was just like, “Wow…really? Me? But I’ve never… Oh. Woah. Wow. I don’t even know how to…” and like he’s so growly when it comes to Emma Swan’s Wellbeing™. Like she’s stuck behind a cold wall? He’s Panicking™. Gold’s gunna trap her in a hat? He’s mega Panicking™. Her heart darkened by the efforts of Rumple feat. Queens of Darkness? Panicking™. She’s the Dark One and trapped in another realm? Holy shit is he ever Panicking™. She gets sucked into Wish!Realm? Panicking™ to the max. She’s dealing with hand tremors and battling a hooded figure? The Panicking™ is skyrocketing out of control. And then suddenly she’s his WIFE. And then suddenly his wife is not in his grasp and she is far away and look there she is in a mirror with no memories of him and holy sHIT HE IS Panicking™, Panicking™, Panicking™ CAUSE ALL HE CARES ABOUT IS EMMA SWAN(-JONES) AND IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL AND I’M RAMBLING BUT LIKE GUYS I’M NOT READY TO LET GO OF THIS SHIP PLS PROMISE ME WE CAN TALK ABOUT THEIR BEAUTY UNTIL THE END OF TIME ITSELF? 

You Bring Out the Mexican in Me

by Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me.
The hunkered thick dark spiral.
The core of a heart howl.
The bitter bile.
The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all
through next weekend Sunday.
You are the one I’d let go the other loves for,
surrender my one-woman house.
Allow you red wine in bed,
even with my vintage lace linens.
Maybe. Maybe.

For You.

You bring out the Dolores del Rio in me.
The Mexican spitfire in me.
The raw navajas, glint and passion in me.
The raise Caine and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me.
The spangled sequin in me.
The eagle and serpent in me.
The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me.
The Aztec love of war in me.
The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me.
The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me.
The Pandora’s curiosity in me.
The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me.
The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me.
The fear of fascists in me.
Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

You bring out the colonizer in me.
The holocaust of desire in me.
The Mexico City ’85 earthquake in me.
The Popocatepetl Ixtaccíhuatl in me.
The tidal wave of recession in me.
The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me.
The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me.
The cover the mirrors with cloth in me.

Sweet twin. My wicked other,
I am the memory that circles your bed nights,
that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean.
I claim you all mine,
arrogant as Manifest Destiny.
I want to rattle and rent you in two.
I want to defile you and raise hell.
I want to pull out the kitchen knives,
dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses.
Me sacas lo mexicana en mi,
like it or not, honey.

You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me.
The stand-back-white-bitch in me.
The switchblade in the boot in me.
The Acapulco cliff diver in me.
The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me.
The dengue fever in me.
The !alarma¡ murderess in me.
I could kill in the name of you and think
it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals,
female and male, who loiter and look at you,
languid in your light. Oh,

I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl.
I am the swallower of sins.
The lust goddess without guilt.
The delicious debauchery. You bring out
the primordial exquisiteness in me.
The nasty obsession in me.
The corporal and venial sin in me.
The original transgression in me.

Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal.
Piñón. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrhh.
All you saints, blessed and terrible,
Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue,
I invoke you.

Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you.
Quiero amarte. Atarte. Amarrarte.
Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let
me show you. Love the only way I know how.


Shakespeare Aesthetics
  • Macbeth: the howl of wolves, moonless nights, dirt under fingernails, stained silk, chattering teeth, voices hoarse and cracked, rotting fruit, echoing drums, dry heaving, hanging cobwebs, stifling humidity, bloodshot eyes, the roughness of rusted steel, wild rosebushes, muscle cramps, the sound of splintering wood
  • A Midsummer's Night Dream: Crackling fires, ivy crawling on stone, the faint music of running water, petrichor, dirty, bare feet, tattered clothing, thistledown, wilted wildflower crowns, late evening birdsong, curling leaves, a symphony of croaking frogs, drifting feathers, the eerie sound of windchimes at night, humming bees, beds of clover
  • Romeo and Juliet: Warm golden lamplight, worn shoes, crumbling brick walls, whispered poetry, embroidered satin, cool, hazy mornings, tousled hair, rosewater, flushed cheeks, distant orchestras, unfinished marble statues, cobblestoned streets, loose threads, ink smudged on parchment, tapping fingers, dust illuminated by sunlight
  • Hamlet: Shattered glass, a cluster of fraying ribbons, unanswered knocks on doors, lingering dampness, white noise, inexplicable drafts, migraines, bleeding ears, the taste of metal, reflected mirrors, dry, cracked lips, the sound of tearing paper, fogged windows, memories of dreams, tarnished silver, protruding veins
A Fine Line

@rhysand-darling based on her post requesting that someone, anyone write a post acowar fanfic where Feyre and Tamlin talk. He apologizes to her and all this stuff. I hope that it meets a few of your needs.

- - - - - - -

He was ashamed to admit that it took him a better part of a decade to stop being angry with her. One night and many bottles of wine later, his ever loyal sentry Bron had shared with him what those few years were like. In the haze of his intoxication he remembered something his mother once told him. Hate and love were a fine line, you chose which side of the line your heart resides. The next morning he went to her old room, he expected the thorns, what he did not expect were the paintings.  

He knew deep down that she did not paint these before or during the war. Five paintings sat as roses amongst the thorns.

An enchanted willow tree. Lucien laughing while sitting on a blanket with a bottle of wine. A pool of stars. Two beings dancing to the song of will-o’-the-wisps. A beautiful male playing the fiddle.  No, not a nameless beautiful male, him. Not the monster he saw in the mirror, had seen for decades, centuries. The memories came cascading down upon his soul and that is when he cracked. He fell to his knees, he did this, he had chosen hate. Even before her, he let the monster within rule his life.

- - - - - - -

Every solstice after he found those paintings, he told himself that he would talk with Feyre. Every year he said he would apologize. And every year he made up an excuse not to reach out to her. In the end he always told himself that he was the one that needed closure, not her. She was happy. 

She had no idea that he had moved the paintings to various places around the manor. They helped remind him that he was not his father, he was not the beast that prowled beneath his skin. The paintings reminded him that he had a musician’s soul.

- - - - - - -

It had taken decades, but his court and his soul were healing from his father’s reign, a reign he had allowed to continue in the name of tradition.  Since the day he leashed the beast, each tradition was evaluated for what it brought to his people, to his court. He was about to cancel the upcoming centenary Jubilee, another pointless tradition of the Spring Court, when his advisers told him that the people needed a celebration. More importantly the Jubilee was a chance for other courts to visit.

- - - - - - -

The night of the Jubilee ball came, as he descended the stairs his breath caught. She was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her gold brown hair cascaded down her back in waves. She wore a fitting dress of midnight blue that complimented her skin tone and her tattoos. 

Her attention was on the painting he had hung in the foyer, her painting of two souls dancing to the song of will-o’-the-wisps.

“I was wondering if you ever found them.”

He swallowed the knot forming in his throat, “I found them a decade after the war. Thank you.”

It had been too long since her voice echoed off the walls of this manor, “I was so angry with you. I felt like I had given everything for our love and you never saw it. Never valued what I gave.”

He couldn’t look into the eyes of the girl he had abused, he instead looked at his toes, “you had every right to be angry with me. You gave your life for me, for this court, for Prythian. I repaid you by locking you within this manor, letting the grief and despair eat you alive. I did not see you and I will always regret that I didn’t find a way to help you. That is why I hung this painting here, as a reminder.”

He finally looked up and saw silver lining her blue-grey eyes. He only then realized that they had both needed this. They both needed closure. And for all the things he had never given her, the one thing he could give her was closure.

“When I came back I wanted to burn this place to the ground for what you had done to me, for taking me away from my mate and my family. I am sorry for the part I played, for the destruction I caused.”

He nodded, “I was angry at you for a long time for that, but you have nothing to apologize for.”

She looked at him, and for a briefest moment he saw the shock at his words.

“During that month, you gave me choices. If I would have chosen my sentries over a high priestess, my court would not have fallen as easily as it did. If I would have choose to listen to Lucien instead of Ianthe,” he spit out her name with a level of venom that had not passed his lips in decades, “my court would not have been starving.”

He took a deep breath, “I made many bad choices, the moment I made that deal with Hybern, I should have evacuated most of my court, instead of letting countless souls die at the hand of that monster. After I received your letter, instead of running to Hybern, I could have requested a meeting with you. After Lucien came back from the Illyrian steppes and said that you were healthy and you made the choice to stay, I could have listened to him.”

They looked at each other for what felt like an eternity. Each of them trying to silently convey everything that they had ever felt for one another, happiness, love, regret, loss, anger, forgiveness.

“I’m sorry. I am sorry for every painful moment you felt because of me, either from my inaction or from my actions. No matter what I did, it always seemed to hurt you and that will always be one of my greatest regrets in this life.”

Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, “There will always be a part of me that loves you and I will always be grateful for what you have given me.”

“Thank you, Feyre,” he swallowed the sob that wanted to leave his throat, “thank you for seeing the male behind the beast and loving me.”

She didn’t need to hear that there would always be a part of him that loved her as well. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a silent goodbye to the girl he loved. With a smile, he left her in the foyer.  

Before he entered the ballroom he turned around for one last look at the girl who changed him. In that moment he knew the monster that had once ruled his heart was gone. Instead of feeling jealousy and anger, he felt awed by the sight before him of the High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court.

He knew there would be another time for the apology that he owed to a male that had given him friendship when no one else had. He would need to tell him a story and beg his forgiveness for his inaction.

Follow the Light ~ Season 13 coda

After the season 12 finale, I got the urge to write. So I wrote this coda. I needed to get my feels out! So here’s some sadness with a bitter sweet ending :) Hope y'all like it.

Read here on Ao3


It’s not what he expected at first. The pain. Dean had always known death was painful, but this was different.


It wasn’t like Sam’s or Bobby’s or anyone else’s. It was empty, hollow and utterly numb.


The first week was a blur. No, more like a buzz. The buzz of alcohol, the buzz of voices around him, the buzz of his mind as it tried to handle the situation.


He knew Cas needed to be buried. Sam insisted on a pyre but Dean reeled at the thought. Cas, burning. He’d already seen that once.


Dean remembered crying silently, in the darkness of his room. He didn’t want Sam to see — to see how not okay he was. He’d finally cracked one night when, at Dean’s insistence, they cast a preservation spell on Cas’s body. The tears had flowed then, endlessly streaking his face and reddening his already tired eyes. And sleep didn’t help, and neither did drinking. Nothing would.


Cas was dead.

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oh my god Baze and Chirrut magical Force bodyswap

Chirrut seeing the world, seeing HIMSELF from Baze’s eyes (”darling you don’t suit my face, you need to smile more”), seeing Jedha City, so different from his fuzzy memories, seeing the Empire’s flags and having a face to direct his contained fury towards. seeing the Temple ruins and the beautiful sunset. seeing his own bruised knuckles and the pendant Baze gave him. it’s overwhelming, it’s his world unfolding again like the sun hitting a long-dormant flower

seeing Baze. staring at Baze’s face in a mirror for a long, long time, committing it to memory with fervent desperation. the crinkles at his kind eyes and the smile he’s felt countless times with his hands and his mouth

and BAZE. Baze who’s in Chirrut’s body, thanks to this mishap Chirrut assures him will correct itself. seeing nothing but darkness and light, fumbling and tripping from the centre of gravity shift as much from the blindness. gains, if possible, an even deeper sense of respect and fucking adoration for Chirrut for navigating their life with such wild grace. he’s panicking and doesn’t know how to school his face away from it, he’s not used to having a sighted audience for his rawest moments, even though Chirrut can always feel his way around his pain

when they’re swapped back, Baze tries not to let his relief show, tries not to let Chirrut feel it. the idea of never seeing Chirrut’s face again is devastating, and now Chirrut will never see him again. Baze couldn’t stand it. as always though, those fighting hands he loves map him out with new knowledge, and find the hidden places where the hurt rests. I see how you look at me, says Chirrut, because I looked at you the exact same way in that mirror, and Baze thinks maybe the Force had the right idea this time

Conversation Hearts

Valentine’s Day fluff masquerading as 12.11 coda fic. Enjoy!

3.8k, ao3

They stop in Salina on their way home from Eureka Springs. It’s still too far from the bunker to bother picking up groceries. Ice cream would be a lost cause by the time they got it into a freezer, but for the sheer sake of variety some of the big box stores in Salina offers both novelty and a conveniently timed pit stop in the seven hour drive home. The traumatic loss of and subsequent regaining of his memories over the last couple of days has left Dean feeling a little too shaky to drive straight through.

Not to mention he really needs to get a new phone. It sucks to keep borrowing Sam’s just to check in with Cas, who insisted on regular updates once Dean had finally told him what had happened. Just in case he suffered a relapse, or any other side effects of being both cursed and cured by witchcraft in the span of twenty-four hours. If he can’t be home already, replacing his phone feels like a good start. He hopes has hasn’t lost all the pictures on his crushed phone, the ones he hasn’t had a chance to back up on his laptop back at the bunker. He should really do that more often, he thinks. Losing his memories has given him an entirely new perspective on things like that.

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“Well, it may have escaped your notice, but life isn’t fair.”

Snape said to the boy who’s parents died when he was just one.
Snape said to the boy who was kept in a cupboard under the stairs, along with spiders.
Snape said to the boy who had to eat food thrown away by his cousin.
Snape said to the boy who knew nothing of his loving parents for years.
Snape said to the boy who had to sneak out of his cupboard at night to have food because he wasn’t fed.
Snape said to the boy who was surprised someone would send him Christmas presents.
Snape said to the boy who tried to reach out to his deceased mother through a mirror because he had no memory of being loved. Snape said to the boy who was confused by why everyone in the Burrow loved him.
Snape said to the boy who wouldn’t eat a chocolate because he assumed it was poisoned.
Snape said to the boy who had to hear his mother pleading to leave her son and kill her instead.
Snape said to the boy who secretly wanted to keep hearing his mother’s cries because it’s the only way he could hear her.
Snape said to the boy who never asked to be enrolled into a competition that would kill a boy in front of him.
Snape said to the boy who’s blood was taken against his will by a man his parents trusted.
Snape said to the boy who had no experience with dueling whatsover, but had to duel a monster and barely escaped, but took Cedric’s body to his father.
Snape said to the boy who had to watch his Godfather die, his Godfather who was his only hope for a loving family.
Snape said to Harry who didn’t ask to be the chosen one.
Snape said to Harry who was used by Dumbledore as a weapon in the war.
Snape said to the boy who had to see the death of his parents through their murderer’s eyes.
Snape said to the boy who had to watch everyone he loved die, one by one, but couldn’t grieve because he had to fight a war.
Snape said to the boy who had to duel the most powerful wizard all by himself.

He knows better than anyone how unfair life is.

2

Why Me


I sat there on the edge of the bathtub after Sam had left. He had explained everything to Dean, and I don’t think that I had ever seen Dean so broken and defeated.

I was wrong. 

I watched as he stared himself down in the mirror, grappling at the memories and people that were rapidly fleeing his brain. I cried. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling down my face. 

How soon before he forgot me too?

“I don’t know,” Dean mumbled, his eyes flashing desperately side to side before he looked at himself in the mirror. It was almost as if he had read my mind. 

I saw pain and desperation in his eyes, and it broke my heart beyond belief. 

His eyes met mine in the mirror and recognition flashed across his face. “Y/N,” he sighed, clearly relieved. “Y/N Y/L/N,” he reiterated. I watched him, dumbfounded. For whatever reason, even as everyone including Sam slowly slipped from Dean’s mind, the memory of me stayed firmly rooted in his mind.

“How?” I whispered, standing to face him as he turned around. 

Dean didn’t answer my question, instead he kept talking. “Y/N. The girl I saved ten years ago. You were only twenty back then. Your parents had been killed by Demons, and you were on a mission.  A suicide mission. You would have succeeded too if I hadn’t been there to save you,” Dean continued, his hand reaching up to caress my face. “The woman I can’t forget even when my brother is slipping out of my mind. The woman that has always been by my side even when I try so hard to push her away,” he whispered, his thumb caressing my jawline, his long, calloused fingers settling at the nape of my neck. 

“Why me?” I barely whispered, swallowing thickly as Dean’s hand pulled my face closer to his, his lips settling in front of mine, my breath mixing with his. 

He reached out, his lips barely brushing mine before his spoke. 

“I love you.”

My eyes darted to his, and he held my gaze. I raised my eyebrows in a question, and he continued. 

“You asked why you, and frankly, I’ve been wondering the same thing. Why are you the only person I can remember? Why does my heart race at that thought? Why does my throat go dry when I look into your eyes? Why am I so relieved that I haven’t forgotten you?” he rattled on. 

When I swallowed again, my eyes darting back and forth between his, he spoke again. 

“Because I love you. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

A tear slid from my eye as Dean closed the tiny gap between us, his lips meeting mine for the first time. My hands found their way to his neck, holding him desperately to me. I was afraid the minute I let him go, the minute his lips separated from mine, he would forget, and by the way Dean clung to me, he had the same fear. 

Eventually the need for oxygen overpowered our hunger for each other, and we both pulled away gasping. 

“Y/N,” Dean sighed in relief, his forehead falling against mine, his chest heaving. 

“I love you too, Dean,” I confessed. “From the minute you saved me. It’s always been you. You’ll never push me away. I’ll always be right there by your side. No matter what. Even if you do forget me,” I whispered, tears falling freely at this point. 

Dean’s eyes snapped up to meet mine at my last words. 

“I can’t forget you. I need you. You’re all I have,” Dean said, a hint of panic rising in his voice as his eyes searched mine. 

“I’m right here, Dean. We’re gonna figure this out,” I said, pressing my lips firmly to his once more. “You’re gonna remember everyone. I’m going to make sure,” I emphasized. “And I hope when you do remember, you still remember you love me,” I whispered, almost to myself. 

Dean grabbed my chin and forced my eyes to meet his. “I’ll remember sweetheart,” he promised, kissing me breathless.  As his lips moved against mine, I prayed desperately that Rowena could fix all of this and maybe something good would come out of it after all. 


I “submitted” my own gif blurb. This story started plaguing me this afternoon and was begging to be written. Hope you enjoyed it. 

I’m afraid Regarding Dean has inspired me greatly. I hope to have Erased (A sequel to Forgotten) ready for you this weekend.

not afraid to keep on living

you okay freddie?”
“yeah.”
me too.”

famous last words.

and haunting george weasley since that very day until today. the last thing he said to his brother before the battle, and therefore, the last words he said to him before he died, were “me too”.

bloody hell, there was a million things he could have said instead, if only he had known.

much more  hilarious things. memories of pranks, and jokes and the hogwarts corridors echoing with their laughter after yet another mischief managed. or embarrassing ones, he could have teased freddie about that time he caught him snogging with lee jordan after a quidditch match, when both of their faces were as dark red as the colours of fred’s sweater.

and fred could have teased back, you know? he so would have. fred would have mentioned that time at the yule ball when angelina appeared wearing that long and sheer blue dress, that made george speechless (‘that only time you ran out of something to say, georgie, it was brilliant!’) and then he would fake a stupid besotted face expression and george would have punched him in the arm, the both of them doubling with laughter.

he could have said a million things but 'me too’, but that’s all what he said.
such a simple, stupid, casual and trivial conversation, unaware of the fact it was going to be the last words they were going to say to each other, ever.

and it just left him with a lot of silence instead.
of all the things left unsaid, the pranks unfold, the jokes untold, the gadgets undeveloped.
losing freddie was worse than losing a limb, for george had lived all his life with words and laughter, with a companion, a mirror, a supporter, a friend, a brother.

time helped, but the wounds ran too deep, and just a simple glance of himself in the mirror was enough for george to be assaulted with unwelcoming memories and heart breaking flashbacks.

but he knew he wasn’t the only one in pain, either, that his looks and his physical appearance weren’t only saddening to him, when he saw the mist in his mother’s eyes after a kiss on his cheek, and the solemnity of his father’s expression when his voice faltered to call his name. when lee was so tense, so awfully nervous when angelina and him met to catch up with him.

and he wasn’t the only one struggling with mourning, either. with percy overworking, same with bill. when charlie travelled more than he used to. when ron tried to come with bright and useful ideas, when ginny practiced harder, and longer than ever. when he felt angelina’s warm hands running down his spine after a nightmare, her lips mouthing soothing words on his freckled shoulder, her lashes damp with unshed tears.

because he knew better than everyone, that there was so much of fred in him, in the same way there was a lot of him in freddie.

dying his hair was a whim, maybe, a palliative, a placebo. but when he stood in front of the mirror with darker hair and looked at himself, it was the first time in years he wasn’t automatically attacked with reminders of what was lost, and a grin made it to george weasley’s mouth.

i am okay, freddie.”
“and i hope you’re okay too.”

the-moon-loves-the-sea  asked:

t'pura or mcspirk :)

Oh, I am so glad you asked for this one, my dear. TOS McSpirk is the ship that is nearest and dearest to my heart. I have so many feels, and so many headcanons, but I’ve always been a little intimidated of voicing them, because these three are just so damn important. Bear with me as I try my very best to do the triumvirate justice. @gracieminabox, I’m tagging you, too, solely because we’ve talked about some of this (or you’ve listened to me ramble at length, you wonderful person, you) and I am just drowning in my feels - throw me a life preserver, will ya?


Who said “I love you” first

None of them use the words.

It’s not something that needs to be spoken. 

Carrying another’s soul changes a man. Everything, everything Spock’s ever seen and known and done, Len’s right in the thick of it all. 

It’s as horrifying as it is mind-boggling. Len’s a deeply private person, and having someone else in his head, a rival, a friend, giving him a front row seat to all of his flaws and doubts and failings, well, that’s almost more than Len can bear.

Turns out, their minds are remarkably compatible. The man Len had sparred with, served with, depended on, fought against, and trusted with his very life becomes so deeply intertwined in Len’s consciousness that he can hardly separate where Leonard H. McCoy ends and S’chn T’gai Spock begins. They are one and the same, a duality housed in a single vessel, twin souls sharing a fragile human body.

Len’s shocked to find that Spock… still is, for lack of a better term. The living soul of another - katra, Spock corrects him pointedly - is just that, living. Spock is in the present; he reacts, and he thinks - boy, does he think, Len realizes - and Len very quickly has a hard time distinguishing between the thoughts that arise from his own mind, and those that are of Spock.

There’s no way to block it, either. 

 Len learns a very many things, seeing the world through Spock’s eyes. 

He learns that Jim is Spock’s t’hy’la (he’s not surprised at this, not a bit, he just hadn’t realized that “bromance” was an official Vulcan relationship with an official Vulcan name).

He learns that Vulcans feel emotions. Vulcans feel emotions very strongly, in fact. 

He learns about Spock’s past. About his childhood, about his home.

And he learns about himself.

It’s harder with Jim. Len catches the shadow of Jim’s essence through the fragile t’hy’la bond, like echoes in an empty room, but it’s dimmed, somehow, and Len can never be quite sure if the snatches of emotion and bleeding of thoughts that seem to emanate from Jim come from Jim-of-the-moment or memories of past-Jim supplied by the Spock who lives only in his head. Time seems to shift and bend, swirls of before looping over glints of today, Spock’s unfettered desire for Jim Kirk mingling and compounding with Len’s own until Len can hardly hold himself back (but he must, he must), and the whole situation is enough to give him a pounding migraine that lasts for months.

Later, when Len wakes up on a stone slab with a throbbing head and a clawing emptiness in his soul, he realizes that he can still feel Spock.

Or rather, he can feel where Spock’s not

There’s a gaping hole in Len’s mind, where there should be the swirling thoughts of another. It’s a devastating, godawful feeling. Len’s known heartbreak before, countless times in countless ways, but this is different, starker, more absolute. There’s a piece of him missing, a whole other side of him gone, and Len feels as if he’s slowly breaking apart, as if everything that’s ever made him the man he is is slowly crumbling around him.

He hardly even recognizes himself.

Spock seems to be shutting him out. 

Spock, for his part, doesn’t know what to make of it. There is t’hy’la, his face so well-known and well-loved, the face that colors so many of his memories - “Your name is Jim,” - but there is the other, too. He has a bond with the other, the other whose face is so familiar and so beloved, the other who evokes such strange and bewildering emotions from his vulnerable heart. Their bond is wide open and blazing, like fire, like the sun, blinding in its brilliance. His memories are muddled and unexpected, colored by a lens that is not his, and Spock has a deeper understanding of the world and all that is in it than he’s ever remembered knowing before, a new, strange, human perspective. His knows a grief that is not his own, failures and triumphs and fierce pride and love, love, love, and a heartbreak, a loneliness that keens and blends with his own loneliness, thoughts that pulse and thrum and churn and break against his own thoughts.

“Remember.”

Spock snaps his barriers up with a force that very nearly sends him reeling.

It takes him time to sort it out, to tease apart the trappings of his own mind and to separate his own experiences from those of Leonard McCoy. 

“I’m gonna tell you something that I never thought I’d ever hear myself say. But it seems I’ve missed you. And I don’t know if I could stand to lose you again.”

It is only later, treading water in the tiny whale-tank on a centuries-old Earth, that Spock comes back to himself. 

“I am Spock,” he tells her. 

And he knows, then, that he is Spock, and that Jim is Jim, and that Leonard is Leonard, and that together, they are something new.

He waits for the opportune moment. 

It’s a… surprisingly difficult discipline, the waiting.

He manages it until the council hearing, and then he can resist it no longer, moving to stand next to Jim and dropping his barriers just for an instant, hardly even glancing up to meet Leonard’s gaze.

He doesn’t have to - Leonard’s answering thrill of wonder and anticipation is like the rising of the sun, blazing and blinding in its brilliance, and its all there, magnified exponentially between them, joy, joy, joy, and love, love, love.

He finds them together that night, waiting for him in his own cabin.


Who would have the others’ picture as their phone background

There aren’t many photographs of just the three of them.

The background of Jim’s PADD is a picture of David.

The background of Len’s PADD is solid black. Spock and Len are remarkably similar in that (and in many other) regard. Len, in any universe, prefers not to let anything distract him from his work, and it never occurs to Spock to personalize an object that is so clearly intended for his professional use.  

Spock, though, is the one who collects objects of sentimental value.

It is only logical to do so. Jim and Leonard are human; he will likely outlive them both by at least a century. A broken marriage bond can easily drive an otherwise healthy Vulcan into insanity, and once failed, the Kohlinar is no longer an option - Spock knows, deep in his most secret thoughts, that he would not make another attempt at purging his emotions, even if he could.

It is far, far too late for that.

So he stores away small things, a photo of the bridge crew, a scrap of napkin that Jim has scrawled on, a snapshot of Len smiling under the Georgia sun, mementos, moments, little glimpses of a life well-lived. He keeps them all carefully hidden in a tiny box - “This is my logic,” -  saving them for the day when memories are all he will have left of Leonard and Jim, these two extraordinary human men who have captured his heart so completely.

It is but a small price to pay, or so Spock tells himself.


Who leaves notes written in fog on the bathroom mirror

Len scrawls their names in the traditional vanu-tanaf-kitaunin, fingers tracing the elaborate loops and curves with a muscle memory that is not his own, the mirror squeaking softly as he writes.

Spock stands at his shoulder as if to correct him, never speaking, only watching. 

At length, Len pulls back. “Well, what do you think, Spock?” he asks, and Jim can see by the glint in his eye that he’s pleased with himself. “Not too bad, for a first try.”

Spock leans over him without a word, trailing one long finger at the edge of Len’s handiwork. “A satisfactory attempt,” he murmurs, flicking deftly to adjust the curve of serif that Len had neglected. “For a human.”

“Very pretty, Bones,” Jim reaches around them both, making his own mark on the glass. 

JTK was here.

Len lifts his eyes heavenward and sighs. 


Who buys the others cheesy gifts

Jim Kirk buys the cheesy gifts.

An “I <3 NY” shirt for Spock.

Red suede cowboy boots for Len (who wears them proudly).

“World’s Best Husband” mugs for all three of them.


Who initiated the first kiss

Len and Jim have kissed several times before the initiation of their relationship. 

Len and Jim have been each others’ best friend, drinking buddy, and wing man for years. They’ve participated in more than a few wild nights - most notably that one exceptional shore leave on Argelius - and neither of them are adverse to a little inebriated physical affection.

After all, what’s a kiss between friends?

Spock and Jim, at the time of Spock’s death, were only beginning to explore their physical relationship. Spock had initiated a few superficial melds, but Jim, for the most part, remained aware of the t’hy’la bond only in passing, and Spock had only briefly introduced him to the Vulcan ozh’esta. 

Never a full, proper, human, lips on lips kiss.

Later, after the fal-tor-pan and the awful excursion to the 20th century - whales, really? - and the revelation of Jim’s council meeting - “Mr. President, I stand with my shipmates,” - Len knows it’s time.

He doesn’t need to approach Spock. For one glorious moment, Spock had dropped the barriers between them, and the bond had flared to life, singing in Len’s mind, an all-consuming joy so sudden and fierce that it had very nearly brought Len to his knees.

He manages to keep himself upright, but only just, basking in the glow of Spock’s presence against his, so long-missed, so absolutely vital. They share the moment, both an instant and an eternity, and when Spock pulls back, Len has the sensation of falling into himself. He’s left with a new understanding and a contentment like he’s never known, save for the dull ache of desire in his deep in his chest.

He finds Jim, and he lays it all on the table.

Jim’s intake of breath, after Len finally runs out of words, is sharp, harsh, and Len is afraid, for one terrible moment, that he’s misjudged things horribly.

“Oh, Bones,” Jim breathes, and then he’s kissing Len for all he’s worth, taking Len by the upper arms and pulling him onto his toes.

Jim’s lips are warm and soft and familiar and right on his, and Len realizes, suddenly, that this is only the beginning. 

It’s the most joyful thing he’s ever known.


Who kisses the others awake in the morning

Not Jim.

Otherwise, it depends on who wakes first.

Typically, this is Spock. Vulcans require less sleep than humans, so its typically Spock tracing the curve of Jim’s jaw or the edge of Leonard brow, with his lips, with his fingers, with his tongue.

Sometimes, though, it’s Len. Len is a nuzzler. Len likes to bury his face in the crook of Spock’s neck and to curl his body protectively around Jim’s. Len kisses the hollow of Jim’s throat, the soft patch of skin behind Spock’s ears, running his fingers down their chests and shoulders, paying special attention to the sensitive spots on the inside of Spock’s elbows.

Jim’s a little more passive. On the rare occasion that he’s up first, he likes to lay beside his husbands and watch them. Len, early bird though he is, is a total bear when he’s woken from a dead sleep, and it is so rare to catch Spock unawares that Jim feels as if he’s obligated to savor the moment. Spock’s face is relaxed, the tension and sharp lines fallen away, and Bones, though he’ll deny it to his dying day, snores softly and smacks his lips in his sleep. 

Jim wouldn’t wake them for the world.


Who starts tickle fights

Jim is typically the instigator of the tickle fight.

Len’s got a tiny spot just at his inner thigh that sets him giggling until he can hardly breathe, red-faced and panting, tears running down his cheeks.

Jim lives for these moments.

Len’s retribution, when he can finally manage it, is swift and brutal. Jim may be bigger and stronger, but Len is fast. He sprawls on top of Jim, long fingers extracting their revenge with all the precision and finesse of a highly skilled surgeon. 

Jim Kirk begs for mercy.

Spock watches it all impassively from the corner of the bed, the gentle thrum of satisfaction that filters through their bond the only evidence of his amusement.

Until Len exploits his superior knowledge of Vulcan physiology, that is.


Who asks who if they can join the other in the shower

Surprisingly, this is Spock.

Jim doesn’t ask if he can join Len, not that Len expects it. He pushes his way through the sliding glass door, and automatically Len shifts to accommodate him, without a word.

Jim, though, is remarkably efficient with their shared time in the shower. He hops in, does his business, and hops out, dripping little puddles all over the bathroom floor and humming softly under his breath.

Len takes his sweet time. There’s something wonderful about the thrum of real water on his bare skin, and despite the environmental control systems on board the Enterprise, the vastness of space leaves him feeling cold and hollow. A hot shower is a comfort, and he savors it.

Spock is strangely drawn to Leonard during these moments. It’s as if something in the water melts whatever subtle barriers remain between them, and Spock finds himself dumbstruck by Leonard, Leonard with his eyes closed and his face upturned, lips parted just slightly, Leonard who’s completely oblivious of Spock’s presence, just standing utterly still and letting the water fall over him like rain.

The words, May I join you, are hardly out of Spock’s mouth before Len’s breathing a harsh, “Yeah,” and Spock is shedding his cloak and climbing deftly into the shower with his bondmate.

Jim finds them a long time later. “Well, thanks for the invitation,” he manages just before Spock yanks him into the downpour, shirt and all.


Who surprises the others at work with lunch

They all eat lunch together, when they can.

It’s actually an old habit. During the five year mission, Jim would often have his lunch with Bones in the sickbay, or with Spock, when they could both leave the bridge. Occasionally, when their schedules allowed it, they’d all take their lunch breaks together in the mess hall, Bones sassing at Spock, Spock snarking at Bones, Jim indulgently running interference between them (and often subtly egging them on).

Now, years later, the pattern hasn’t changed. Bones still sasses Spock, Spock still snarks Bones, Jim still looks on in besotted amusement.

Some things never change.


Who was nervous and shy on the first date

There’s not a first date, necessarily. 

After the kiss - it’s a particularly long kiss - Jim can hardly find words. 

“Bones,” he breathes, eyes wide and a little bit desperate. “Are you sure? He’s -”

“Jim,” Len takes Jim’s hand in his own. “I’m sure.”

They wait for Spock together.

Len’s certain, this time. The look Spock had given him across the council chamber had said enough.

The bond had said everything.

The door opens, and there’s a beat of silence.

It all hangs in the balance. The past, the future, literal lifetimes shared between them.

“Spock,” Jim bursts. He takes half a step forward, then stops suddenly, as if reminding himself, “Be gentle, don’t press.”

“Jim. Leonard.” Spock nods toward them, utterly serene, his dark eyes giving nothing away.

Len feels as if his heart’s about to burst.

Enough, enough.

“Oh, god, c’mere,” he chokes, throwing his arms open wide and shoving all of his love, his wonder, all of himself toward the Spock-shaped hole in his heart.

Spock moves, the barriers fall, and the bond sings.


Who kills/takes out the spiders

Spock is the best at catching the spiders. 

Len’s too busy harassing Jim. “Haven’t seen you jump so high in years,” he laughs.

“Could be poisonous,” Jim informs him primly, stepping lithely down from the dresser only after Spock has relocated the offending critter outside. “Better safe than sorry, you know, Bones.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” Len tells him pointedly, “the next time you decide to scale a goddamn cliff face with no safety gear!”

Jim does not honor this with a response.


Who loudly proclaims their love when they’re drunk

Len is the tactile one of the three, and this is only exaggerated when he’s drunk. He worships his lovers with his hands and with his body, litany of murmured praises falling like honey from his lips.

Spock is seldom inebriated. In fact, he’s far more likely to act as a keeper to Len and Jim, silly humans with their silly love of recreational cognitive impairment. He keeps a watchful eye on the two of them, carefully concealing his indulgent amusement at their drunken antics.

Rarely, though, Spock will have a piece of Jim’s chocolate pie, or accept Len’s offer of a drink (Len never fails to offer).

Then, Spock becomes a wild thing, a Vulcan of the days of old, a physical being in the most inherent sense. Making love is an art and a science, and Spock, particularly when he loses his inhibitions, excels at it. The somatosensory cortex of a Vulcan brain is exquisitely complex, and that, coupled with the ingenuity and innate intensity of the human experience, renders Spock completely powerless to his own desires. He throws himself into his task, flooding the bond wide open and laying waste to his mates’ bodies with a fervor and ferocity that borders on primal, delighting in the heat of their skin under his.

Len, for his part, can never quite contain his thrill of anticipation when Spock’s fingers subtly brush his as he passes Spock the bottle of Saurian brandy.

Jim is the romantic. 

Jim, when he’s drunk, serenades his husbands with classical literature, and sometimes, with old-earth love songs.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you

Len joins him occasionally, when he’s had enough that the long forgotten lyrics come easily and he forgets the warble in his voice. 

Like a river flows 

Surely to the sea

Darling so it goes

Some things are meant to be

They join hands, swaying a little with the rhythm of the music and the alcohol. Jim reaches toward Spock, drawing him in, holding him close, and Spock allows it, allows his free fingers to slip into Leonard’s, allows the glow of the moment to wash over him, allows himself the simple joy of just being here, with them, together, these two humans who he loves more than life itself.

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

For I can’t help

Falling in love with you


Link to Anna’s Masterlist here

shallura analysis :: 1x10 “collection and extraction”

Previous analysis: episode one, episode two, episode three, episode four, [no episode five], episode six, episode seven, episode eight, episode nine

Behold the most shallura heavy episode in the series, and the one that made most of us start shipping these cuties. Since there’s so much interaction and so much to go over, it kind of goes without saying that this analysis gonna be pretty long - so I’m putting most of it under a read more. Now, without further ado, let’s begin.

The team is currently trying to access Sendak’s memories, something that deeply disrupted Shiro’s emotional state in the previous episode - similarly to Allura having to let go of her father - yet was the most dedicated to using Sendak’s memories. Allura mirrors this dedication, while simultaneously continuing the break against her father and what he would have approved of, shown in this exchange with Coran.

Allura: Somewhere inside Sendak’s memories we should be able to find the inside information that gives us the key to take down Zarkon.
Coran: I don’t think your father would approve of searching through an enemy’s memories.
Allura: I know, but we have to do everything we can to defeat Zarkon.

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