𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚁 .

Independant role-play blog for S’Chn T’Gai Spock Grayson. Drawing primarily from the Kelvin timeline, with flavours incorporated from TOS, Discovery, Strange New Worlds and the printed works. OCs welcome, crossovers encouraged. Written by Lorcan, who is 25 and uses ze/zir pronouns. Na’shaya.

“I know the shelter on Third on Washington usually has room,” Clark tells him softly. “And there’s another on Sixteenth.” He tilts his head for a moment, listening across the city to confirm that they had room. “Yes, they’re still taking people in. I’d be happy to fly you there.”

But he hesitates. He’s never needed to go to a shelter, having always had somewhere safe to go. But he imagines it’s somewhat dehumanizing – for lack of a better word. There’s no shame in needing help, but it could still feel that way to stand in line and have to ask for basic necessities like food and shelter.

“If you need anything else, sir, I have some friends I can put you in touch with. They’re good people, with good connections. Happy to help.” A bit awkwardly, he pats down his suit. Mom hadn’t thought of pockets when she’d made it. “One moment.” He holds up a finger, whooshes away, then returns a few seconds later, a slip of paper in hand. Two phone numbers are written there, with names beside each – Clark Kent and Lois Lane.

Maybe, to see the city from above, Spock might understand the charm and appeal of it, gain appreciation for how everything is connected. He nods, wrapping his coat tighter around himself in the moments between Superman taking off and returning with the paper.

The information is taken carefully, with Spock avoiding any chance at skin contact before he examines the names. As with many things at the moment, he’s got little choice but to believe that these are safe contacts, should he need them. Trustworthy enough to know Superman, and be considered an ally by him.

The card gets slipped carefully into a thin wallet, alongside some identification and all the money he has - which is not much. It’s difficult to set up a bank account when he hasn’t been able to keep an address. There is support, of course, but so many people are more vulnerable, families that need to access the services more than he does. The needs of the many.

Hello hello!

i’ve had such a long week. while i technically just had a holiday, it was to a theme park so my body doesn’t feel rested in the slightest. i’m hoping to power through my work today and just take the whole weekend to recover.

i owe several replies, and i look at them every day trying to chip away at them. they’re coming soon!

Every time Autumn rolls around, I get such strong urges for an Earth AU in a nondescript city, with the main theme just being cosy clothes, green tinged cheeks from cold air, and busy coffee shops with steamed windows from all the people sheltering inside.

Plot optional, vibes neccessary.

That’s it, that’s what I want and need. If anyone fancies playing with me in this space, please meet me in the DMs.

We can do humans of course, but it might be more fun to do academy era, or that Spock moved to earth with Amanda when it became immediately apparent that Vulcan wasn’t going to be the best upbringing location. Spock’s job? Professor if an adult, student if a little younger, or a barista if I finally get to flex my barista knowledge. I know that makes less sense, but that sweet sweet coffee shop AU calls to me. Let me do something with my old job, let the baristas flirt with each other or a consenting customer.

[ sleep starters | accepting! ]

How traitorous, not only for his mind to bring forth unpleasant imaged scenarios, but also to have them affect him physically.

Spock had woken to Amelia making soothing sounds, having slipped under the covers and bundled him up in her arms even as he gasped through the shock of waking mid-cry. This, he decided mutely as his hands twisted into the fabric of her nightgown, was a decidedly un-Vulcan thing to do.

His father would regard him with barely concealed concern, while his mother would likely fuss and cause him to cry again out of shame and something more profound, should they be made aware.

“Don’t tell,” Spock whispered, once he regained a little more of his senses, clinging in case she tried to leave and alert his parents. What had the dream been about? Vulcans were not supposed to dream. His eyes caught on the window, overlooking dark desert landscape, and he remembered. 

It’s a difficult question, one that Clark has been forced to wrestle with on more than one occasion. Why does he bother with any of this? Why does he feel these people are worth it?

“I’ve always believed that every life is worth saving,” he finally answers. “And… this is my home. It’s our responsibility to make it a better place. And I have to believe that most people are inherently good. Any that might be struggling with that… I want to show them that there’s a better way. If we don’t have hope, we have nothing.”

The man doesn’t seem quite well. Clark steps a bit closer. “Do you have somewhere safe to go, sir? I know of several alien support groups that can offer you medical assistance, if you prefer not to go to the hospital. Or I can put you in touch with some friends of mine.”

Surak would be impressed with this man’s ideals, Spock thinks as he listens to Superman’s justifications. Ufau au sochya - yi dungi ma tu sochya. Offer them peace, then you shall have peace. But hope is a brittle thing, and Spock’s grip is too tight to hold it, his anger too volatile.

The question cuts deeper than any damage his attackers had inflicted, with extra weight behind it from the concerned tone. True, he never felt completely safe on Vulcan around logic extremists, but at least he had a stable home as the child of an ambassador, and was dependant on nobody else.

It had been several days since he’d made eye contact with another Vulcan for the first time since reaching Earth. Both of them had stiffened, wrestling with the desperate need to grieve together versus the shame of being seen in such a weak social position. Spock had forgotten what it felt like to see someone like him, sharing his features and experiences, and he’d ached to get closer, to speak his native tongue. Ultimately, the other Vulcan had inclined their head, and made a swift exit from the hostel. He hadn’t gone back since.

Spock had straightened his back again at the approach, wariness in his expression and skin flushing with embarrassment at being asked a question he has no good answer to. “Your first suggestion is acceptable,” he allows, swallowing his pride. It tastes like copper. “I merely need somewhere to rest. I — If you know of any shelters that may be quieter than others...”