Thematic Headcanons. A Series Of Subject-specific Headcanons You Can Ask Your Favorite Blog And Muse.

the idea behind the japanese art of kintsugi is that cracks in an object are part of its history. you know, those bowls that break & then the cracks get filled with gold so then they're even more beautiful ? we've all been damaged, but it's good damage because it makes us more who we are.

DIVIDING THE SELF INTO CONTRARY PARTS can very easily tempt the elasticity of the mind into snapping; only those with the right mental dexterity and constitution can withstand conditions of such deep social and behavioral shock. In the methodology of a daily routine that consisted of combing through her procedural and implicit memories, Nyota, as best she could, established some kind of inward touchstone - a method on which to rely that would remain even amongst the tumult of their situation. In doing so it allowed her to also suss out the underlying emotions that would betray their identities, risk their lives. To take those memories and carefully place them in the sacred and secret places of the mind and heart. The memories shaped like people she longed for, that she dreamt of in the night - only to wake with that familiar feeling of a weight sitting on her chest, compressing the air from her lungs; reaching out across the bed for someone who was light years and light years away.

The hollow aches of home filled by further retention of data, schematics, all things that would have to be recorded down to be deliberated with the Federation after the fact. All a part of a stringent order and application so as not to be discovered while gleaning the necessary intelligence they were sent for; operating like the spies of old fallen regimes like the Soviet Union and United States.

And through it all she had Pavel - her comrade, her brother in arms. Her dearest of friends.

Her last hope at this seeming edge of darkness.

[ Or so it had the bitter way of feeling like. ]

Uhura had been sitting on the edge of her bunk, wide legged, forearms on her knees, while she inspected her hands. They were chartreuse, as they had been for these long months, posing as Orion Arms Dealers. Though the color, on this dreary and aimless night in space, struck a different chord - one that plucked a bittersweet note from the stretched out sinew of her heart.

The thought that was lending itself to the painful sting of welling emotion in her throat was mercifully cut short and snuffed out by Pav’s harried return, but before her questions could be asked, her friend was already answering them and swiftly pulling out a cloth - on it all Pavel could scribe. Uhura and Chekov knew better than to recite aloud their intel while still aboard the Chonnaq; leaving them often to simply scribe things down, speak in code, or simple vagaries. So the clever Lieutenant naturally made use of anything and everything available to him; she often considered herself immeasurably lucky to have had Pavel Chekov with her on this mission. For reasons that seemed beyond counting, but presently he was demonstrating one of those many brilliant points of why right then.

This information was invaluable.

“You know what this means though? When we dock at the next outpost - we can make our way back, finally. This pattern proves what you’ve been saying, Pav,” Nyota, fully in agreement with her cohort that even in what was supposed to be their sleeping quarters, they couldn’t be entirely direct in what they said. “One of the moons of XurXur is the next Outpost,” her voice was low, rushed “ – this isn’t just all that the captain needs, but … ” Uhura lowered her voice even further, “Pav, this is what the Federation needs to try the The Orphan for – everything.”

@ensnchekov

While each day onboard the Chonnaq grinds away at his already fraying nerves, Pavel is still mildly surprised to find that every day he wakes up, the interior of the ship has not morphed around them into the abysmal dungeon he'd always imagined a Klingon Bird-of-Prey to look like on the inside.

It doesn't make their mission any easier, but he will take whatever small comforts where he can find them when surrounded by enemies who would not bat an eyelash at stringing them up and using them as leverage.

The reports about the Orphan have not been exaggerated.

Pavel waits until the door is fully shut behind him, double-checking for good measure, before walking up to Nyota, voice conspiratorially low. He still does not trust the Orphan is not yet on to them, that he does not have eyes and ears in the walls even he couldn't find.

"Normally I am not the one to say this, but I think the captain is wrong. You know as well as I do that for someone to change, they have to want to, and the Orphan does not. I've been digging through some of the ship's files, and—" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded up scrap of cloth which has been repurposed as paper.

"I was not going to risk the chance he finds out I downloaded information. But look at this."

@haiiling, sc.

A FUNNY THING TO COMMIT one’s life to adventure amongst the stars, and yet still be overwhelmed in awe of the infinite splendor of the universe. For a long while she fell into an absorbed gaze with the slow dying star that Starbase 12 had orbited. Then all at once she had been vividly aware of the faintest of warmth from an even fainter touch of fingers to hers. Scotty. A surge of something that teetered on thrill rushed up from her belly, heated by her heart where it left a flush of deep tawny in her cheeks. There was still the giddy sort of excitement that comes with the blush of new love; the kind of newness where the moments come and do so with a flagrant disregard to the laws of time’s passing. Nyota liked when the moments moved very slowly between them, as they did now; where she felt just breathing each other’s air would sew them to a fixed point in time - like the universe reaching through it’s own vast abyss to present to them something infinitely precious. A moment that they may claim, a rooted plot on the cosmic timeline - to exist always until its radiance burned through until the last stars. Then she says a silly thing. He smiles when she does. He already had a coin. For a moment she thinks he’s magic. Then he says a soft thing. Nyota’s hand entangles with his that holds the coin, it’s metal cool against her palm. Their touch was new, tapered, and discreet. Existing in that space where a kiss shared between them numbers a vanishingly thin amount, but each one committed to her memory as though they’d been with her always. She feels the impulse to commit another entry to those memories and rises slowly from her feet so that her mouth might meet his where finally she kisses him. Nyota kisses Scotty and there’s a beat of swirling silence; like the silence that lives between the death of the star and the birth of the supernova. And here is where they’ll crack open the fabric of the cosmos.  Hands moving up and away from his so they could creep featherlight along the avenue of his arms, splaying out flat against his chest, and smoothing the material of his shirt below her fingers. Higher her feet lifted her, deeper her kiss went, and followed by the ascent of her hands to his shoulders; resting finally against either side of his jaw.

The moments between them began disregarding time again, as she was sure she had only just kissed him, yet the swollen ache in her lips suggested otherwise. Just as slowly as she’d risen to meet his mouth did she descend away from it, but held his eyes with hers so she could say, with great conviction in her heart, she answered his question with a much weightier meaning then either might have expected — “Both. Not me. Not you. Us. Both.” She touches her fingers lightly to her mouth feeling that dull ache there, the place where he had been and she could still feel him there; it had struck her why some had described kissing like a kind of fusion. “Both,” she said softer, but committed wholly to what it meant. To Scotty.

"Let's flip coins. Heads, I'm yours. Tails, you're mine."

FACE BREASK INTO A WIDE GRIN. No matter how they flip the coin, it works out in Monty's favor. And Nyota's.

The skin around his eyes crinkle, hues dancing in the pulsing lights of the starbase. Someone thought it was a good idea to have neon light to draw attention to store fronts and galleries.

The station hums under their feet, maintaining its orbit around a dying star. A sight in and of itself but Scotty is trapped by the mischief lining Nyota's mouth.

"Sounds good to me lass. Now, who is doing the flipping?" A hand slips into his pocket as he produces a coin. "You or me?" @haiiling

“I’m thirty years old, and I’ve peed in every pool I’ve been into. Every single one.”

@endeavvor

⸻ 𝐻𝐴𝐼𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑄𝑈𝐸𝑁𝐶𝐼𝐸𝑆 𝑂𝑃𝐸𝑁.

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

❛ i wish i could say i’m making a difference, but i don’t know. ❜ - from mccoy

𝑈𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑃𝑈𝑅𝑃𝑂𝑆𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑂𝑁𝐸’𝑆 𝑆𝐸𝐿𝐹 and stacking it against the great and varied needs of which that purpose serves is, at its very best, a lesson in futility; then compounded by the fact that the type of individual Lenoard McCoy was, choosing to serve inside the field he did – there is the potential to habitually feel every effort was not enough. Though, in the very humble opinion of this Comms Officer, was that so many of them [ herself included ] had McCoy to thank for the very air in their lungs, because without him nearly half the crew of the Enterprise wouldn’t be alive to draw breath. The varying instances when it was McCoy alone, whose knowledge in xenobiology - she felt - often surpassed her own knowledge in xenolinguistics [ a point of pride she did not relinquish easily or to just anyone ], was the very difference between Commander Spock being amongst the living and amongst the – not.

It was late evening, both of them having come off the end of their Beta shifts, and the mess hall was thinly populated; a few late diners from Alpha shift finishing their meals, a table of cadets consumed in some deep gossip circulating the lower decks, and then McCoy and Uhura at their happily removed little table; present enough to seem normalized to the cadet class, but a area small enough to deter more company. Nyota’s hand cradled overtop of McCoy’s, and a smile ripped the seam of her mouth;

“Bones — ” her voice, warm like a smooth whisky, said the nickname most favored by their Captain; rarely did Uhura use the moniker unless very specifically trying to convey the gentle and intentional place she spoke from, “ — the difference you’ve made for some of these people is the difference between having their lives or being memory in an eulogy. At the end of it all, the only thing we can give is all that we have, and of anyone on this ship Lenoard ; I have seen you give everything when you didn’t have anything else left but those goddamn brilliant hands of yours.”

Fondly, Nyota’s hand squeezed his, “ — best in the fleet, am I right?”

"I don't think the badger is actually rabid; I think he's just kind of a dick."

@he1msman

   Weep, little lion man

                         You're not as brave as you were at the start

                        selective. kelvin timeline focused. crossover friendly. dash only

@wcrpbubble [ also tagging brandy! ] AHHHHHH, MY GUY, MY LOVE, JL

Happy Pi(card) Day!

Thank you @frogayyyy for the inspiration :') he's glorious

ENSNCHEKOV — Indie roleplay blog for Pavel A. Chekov of the Abrams reboot films (Alternate Original Series). Multiverse/crossover & AU friendly, multi-para to novella length writer with a bias towards plotting. Heavily headcanon based with inspirations drawn from films, comics, novels, and the prime timeline. Written / loved immensely by Red, 25+.