#(i had a dream about watching star trek)

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[koalbent]

been watching star trek tos

captain kirk has enchanted me. big fan of his boobs.

(bonus traditional art of spock and data. a funny guys)

[duhragonball]

I COULDNT thiNK Of how to properly thank you for the birthday gift, like, genuinely speechless, SO here’s a LUFFA!!! thank you so so much again!!! AND KEEP ON BEING YOU 💕💕💕😭💕💕🗣️🔥🔥

AAAAAA THANK YOU COZY!

And happy birthday again (give or take a few days)! I hope you're doing well!

[mortalfollies]

just finished my very first full watch of tng. 7 seasons in 8 weeks, 3 eps per night on average. how shall i live without worf???

[attiredpan]

Overalnalyzing why I added the following Ghost songs to my Nog playlist:

We Don’t Need Another Hero - Generational trauma stuff. Very much leaning into Heart of Stone/Paper Moon/Post Paper Moon/his Starfleet Career.

Kiss The Go-Goat - ✨Emotionally Absent Father Figures✨ (heavily leans on S1-3)

Mary On A Cross - More of a personal choice as it heavily reminds me of him.

Square Hammer - Heart of Stone Vibes, feels like that moment when Sisko gets up in his face demanding why it’s so important for him to go into Starfleet.

Witch Image - It’s mommy issues time, also more generational trauma/trauma in general.

Spirit - And topping it off with more Heart Of Stone vibes.

[gildedsunshine]

do you guys ever dream about a star trek episode but you dont remember it being from star trek and think it's just some weird plot you made up until you go to rewatch star trek and are suddenly confronted with your dream

[talaok]

Late night

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

summary: Derek asks spencer about a late night he had.

warnings: mentions of smut, but just fluff

a/n:(obviously) I'm rewatching, and I got to episode 1x10 and I had to write about this scene(please tell me someone remembers it)

"Easy there tough guy, have some coffee with your sugar, "Derek said, a smirk appearing on his face as soon as he got a glimpse of the obscene amount of sweetener Spencer was putting in his coffee.

"I need something to wake me up" Spence explained, not showing signs of stopping.

He was tired,

God, he was tired,

He wasn't used to this, no, not at all,

and it wasn't like he was complaining, he had the time of his life last night,

He felt like he was dreaming, or hallucinating really,

it just didn't make any sense.

You didn't make any sense.

He was a nerd, a weirdo, a robot, things that until now, he had learned weren't appealing to the ladies,

but still,

there you were,

somehow interested in him,

enough to spend the night with him,

enough to let him get a mere 3 hours of sleep last night.

"late night?" Derek asked, grinning widely.

"very" Spencer couldn't help but smile, as flashbacks invaded his mind.

his mouth on yours, the taste of your tongue, the feel of his hands on you, of your soft skin, of your curves, the feel of you, and then finally of your voice, your sweet sweet voice murmuring his name, and moaning loudly into the thick air.

"my man" Derek said proudly, making Spencer cuss himself internally.

shit, that's right,

he wasn't supposed to know about it,

nobody was,

not until you knew what it was,

not until you were ready.

"not that kind of late night" he lied, and surprisingly, it was convincing, no pitching of the voice, or weird hand ticks, nothing, just his usual self.

"ok so tell me" Derek walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and right at that moment, you entered the kitchen "what does keep young dr. Reid awake at night?"

You stopped in your tracks, your lips involuntarily twitching into a smile as you heard those words.

Spencer glanced at you, his cheeks immediately turning a brighter shade of pink,

"wait let me guess" Derek started, thankfully too deep into his thoughts to notice the not-so-subtle looks just exchanged "memorizing some obscure textbook?"

You bit down a grin, going to pour some coffee for yourself.

sure,

if by memorizing a textbook he meant every single inch of your body,

"no, no, no." Morgan waved his hands, correcting himself " working on cold fusion" he tried again

You had to bring the mug up to your mouth to cover the wide smile on your lips, as you looked at the scene, Spencer's cheeks continued to redden as he felt your eyes on him.

"no, I got it, I got it, I got it" Derek tried to guess again

"watching star trek and laughing at the physics mistakes"

You couldn't help it this time,

a small laugh escaped your throat, and you opened your mouth to justify yourself once both the men turned to look at you, but Spencer interrupted you "Actually, there aren't that many scientific errors in star trek, especially considering how long ago it was made. there are certain improbabilities, but not that many outright errors."

Morgan raised his eyebrows at you, his eyes expressing very clearly -this guy huh?-, and you smiled knowingly, your eyes, in turn, saying -I know, trust me I know-

Derek smiled at your expression before going back to Spence "Right" he said, patting his shoulder before leaving quickly, not wanting to hear one more second of his rambling.

You smiled, walking closer to the now-beaming man.

"so, late night huh?" you asked

"the best of my life"

[one-time-i-dreamt]

My parents texted me about something that had happened in the episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine that they watched, but what they described never happened in any episode so I realized that it was a dream and woke myself up.

[enterprise-bee]

so i'm watching TNG (and any star trek at all!) for the first time and the thing i'm most surprised about so far is just how much i like commander riker. of course, this may be influenced by several conclusions i have come to about the man that are, perhaps, supported by canon, but maybe aren't entirely canon:

he's very obviously trans. just look at the difference between seasons 1 and 2. the T finally kicked in.

he's also bi. everything about his energy supports this you don't need me to tell you this.

also, he's a band kid. hear me out: plays trombone. kind of a tryhard. makes many corny jokes. comfortable under a chain of command. that is a BAND KID. he was in the starfleet academy marching band in my mind. i am simply waiting for the day the rest of the enterprise learns this. nothing else explains his personality so perfectly. (note: this is the one i don't think has any chance of ever actually happening, but i can dream.)

also like in general i love how competent and level-headed he is. he's written like he's kind of SUPPOSED to be the like, wildcard first officer to picard's more rules-following self, except picard once got stabbed in the heart in a barfight and riker is always reminding picard about regulations like "you're the captain of a star ship don't go. die???" so my headcanon about this is that before the enterprise riker WAS a little more of a loose canon and then he got assigned to picard and realized, oh no, someone in this command team had to be the well-adjusted one and the other options were his empath situationship, his clearly insane captain, a robot, a klingon, a child, the captain's situationship, and a traumatized security officer. he had no choice. he became the well-adjusted one by proxy.

sometimes he and geordi i think hang out and appreciate being the two people who are normally kind of just doing fine.

like it never stops being funny to me that the guy who seems like he SHOULD be the womanizing loose canon is somehow largely just a respectful, competent officer who largely has his shit fully together in basically every situation. like, the entire crew is competent mind you that is one of the appeals of this show but in general riker is an emotional rock who makes sensible, by-the-book choices.

once again: the only way to reconcile this with his everything else is that he must be a trans band kid ITS THE ONLY LOGICAL CONCLUSION,

[moth-mimic]

Hazy Memories

‣ pairing: Legolas x reader

‣ words: 950+

‣ content: fluff, human reader, gn!reader

──────────────────

summary: after the Fellowship settles down for the night, you find that the cold leaves you unable to fall asleep. A walk in the woods ends in a moment more touching than you could have imagined.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The terrain you— along with the rest of the Fellowship— trekked along was undeniably a difficult route to take. The temperature had plummeted significantly before the group had even reached the mountain of Caradhras, which led to the decision to make camp before nightfall would bring even deadlier weather.

Now you tossed and turned in your sleeping bag, your thoughts constantly lingering on the persistent, icy wind that was currently nipping at your skin. Most of your companions had somehow already found their way to hazy dreams: the hobbits were huddled together and sharing each other’s warmth; Aragorn, Gimli, and Boromir had each found their own place to rest; and Gandalf was off meditating somewhere, you were sure. The only one who was wide awake was Legolas, who was currently on watch due to his lack of need for sleep.

But through the fog the cold had brought upon your mind, you could still make out the memories of the past evening. Although the long stories of the mountain that Gandalf had told the group were already lost to you, the interactions you had with the blond elf were clear as a sunny day. The thought of him brought an unexplainable warmth throughout your chest before you urged it away. Your feelings for him were based purely on admiration, that was all.

You had always worried about him, which was why you had immediately offered him your cloak once the temperature had began to lower. You felt bad for him, seeing him in simple layers compared to the others. He had given you a curious look at first before a small, warm smile made its way to his face.

“I am alright, thank you.”

“But aren’t you cold?” You continued, the crease in your expression making it seem as if the mere thought of him being cold horrified you.

He shook his head softly, pressing your cloak back towards you. “Not necessarily, although I do appreciate your offer.”

And before you could protest he was already in front of the group again. You watched him gingerly step upon the snowy ground each time he moved, his grace leaving barely a trace. You sighed, the warmth of your breath drifting from your lips. Only when one of the hobbits pushed you forward did you snap out of your trance.

Tonight you were in that same trance again, your restlessness guiding you from your sleeping bag and towards the dense woodland. You weren’t sure where you were headed, if you were headed anywhere, but hopefully your movement would be enough to grant you a bit of warmth. You found your way to a relatively clear path between the trees before your eyes caught sight of a light trail of footsteps. You followed them, wishing for the elf to still be there, yet the trail stopped at a deep decline in the ground. You looked past the cliffside and to the star-speckled sky as if you were waiting for something. After a moment you eventually sighed and intended to turn back around, yet something stirred from the leaves overhead.

With one swift movement you grabbed the pocket knife on your waistband, ready to fight whatever was there— or rather, whoever. When your eyes opened again you were met with ones of sapphire-blue, paired with an amused grin framed by strands of smooth, delicate hair.

“Y/N.”

“I- Legolas!” You stammer, quickly withdrawing the weapon you had faced him with.

He looks you up and down with one swift glance, clearly not affected. “You’re awake. Why?”

“I just can’t sleep. Too cold, I guess.” You answer, not mentioning the fact that you were too busy thinking of how graceful he is. Or that you purposefully followed his footsteps here. He nods.

“Your cheeks are horribly red.” His response makes your eyes widen before you try to relax again, hoping the action was subtle enough that he didn’t notice. He continues as his gaze travels along your face, almost as if he’s analyzing each feature. As he does so, the back of his hands lift to lightly stroke your cheek. Heat blooms under his touch. “You’re not familiar with the cold, are you?”

“And I’m guessing you’re so warm with your… what, only two layers?” You scoff, taking a small step back and turning your head nervously. He looks as if he’s about to respond somehow, yet he cuts himself short. His line of sight travels down to his feet as if he’s nervous.

“Well, I suppose I haven’t been thinking about it. I am very cold, to tell the truth. Freezing, even.” As he confesses this, he glances at you from the corner of his eye as if he’s expecting something.

“I was right!” You exclaim with victory before settling down and providing your care. You join hands with him to share your warmth. “Here, take my cloak. I can do without a layer.”

“No, no, I can’t have you be even colder—“

“I insist! I’m sure you’ve been barely surviving with those mere layers.” You quickly take off your outermost layer, settling it onto his shoulders. You don’t notice the shade of soft pink on his cheeks. “There we go.”

You both stand there for a moment, Legolas looking like he’s still missing something. “I don’t think it’s enough.”

You raise your eyebrow. “Really? Well, if you want another—“

Before you can finish your sentence, the cloak envelopes your upper body, the elf using his arm to support you as he pulls you towards him. You instinctively stiffen before his voice washes over you, calm and easy like a stream. “I think this is perfect.” The tension leaves you at once, instead replaced with the warmth of his body, nurturing like rays of sun. For a moment you believe you’re back home.

Huddled within your cloak, the two of you settle down at the foot of a tree. Your hands wrap around to warm his back as his fingers run gently through your hair, lulling you to sleep. As you fade into unconsciousness, he speaks to you of the old forest at his own home: the towering trees, the soothing melodies of birds, the vibrant green of flora. Your dreams consist of a realm you have never set foot on.

When Aragorn finds the two of you next morning, he doesn’t dare tell you that elves do not get cold.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[cocodavie]

Last night my friend called to tell me about a dream she had of dukat in a white shirt, Black slacks pants in restaurants to me. She's never even watch Star Trek. And she blamed me for make her dream like this because I posted too much about dukat.😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[stitching-in-time]

Once again loving the art direction on Prodigy- the planet with the sea of clouds?? Yes please!!!! Putting a sail on a starship and flying it through the clouds like a flying pirate ship?? Heck yeah!!!! It's all so cool and so beautiful.

It's like they've taken every childhood daydream of fantasy worlds you imagine when you make up stories as a kid, and put them all up on the screen. So much variety! Such a grand scale! And it's all just gorgeous. There's not a frame of this show that isn't jaw-droppingly stunning.

One thing I always wished for on Star Trek was for the art direction to be less grey and beige, less military uniformed aliens with bumps on their foreheads, less every planet being a carbon copy of Starfleet design, less cookie cutter sameness- because they've got the whole galaxy as a canvas. Just look at the variety of scenery and cultures on Earth alone- how much more must there be out there on thousands of alien worlds? While Star Trek always had excellent design and world building with the major Star Trek planets and cultures like Vulcans, Klingons, Bajorans, etc, I feel like they missed a lot of opportunities with the one off planets and cultures to be bolder and more experimental and stranger and more beautiful, even taking into account the constraints the old shows had as far as technology and budget.

But Prodigy absolutely takes that challenge and runs with it. The colors! The sweeping vistas! The weird creatures! The beautiful lighting! It's all my wildest dreams come true!!! And it's not just beautiful to look at, it helps tell the story- a culture's aesthetic tells you something about who these people are, what they value. It grounds you in a specific time and place. That's what good design work does- it enriches the storytelling. And nothing on Prodigy feels like a throwaway, everything feels deliberately thought out to fit the mood of each story, with meticulous attention to detail. Gone are the days of reusing the same set or costume on three different planets like live action Trek. (I know, a lot of that was due to lack of time and budget, but still, when it's supposed to be different planets, you want things to look different.)

I love Star Trek first and foremost for it's storytelling, but there's so many times I've wanted to redesign sets and costumes to bring it up to the level of awesomeness these stories deserved. Prodigy is the first time I've watched Star Trek and just thought 'hell yes!!!' to all the visuals, the whole time. Animation is such a great medium for Star Trek, and we're honestly so blessed to have this show. <3

[inthemaelstrom]

So we're about six weeks out from another "most important election of my lifetime" and it's predictably making me literally sick to my stomach. When Trumpacabra got elected in 2016, I threw myself into politics in a way I never had in my lifetime and it almost wrecked me. I was one of those people who never voted for religious reasons (long, separate story) and I felt I had to make up for lost time. By the time 2020 rolled around, I was an unhealthy mess. I had stopped reading. Everything. When I wasn't watching MSNBC and political commentators obsessively, I started consuming absolute junk TV: home improvement shows, crack paranormal ghost hunter crap, etc. Things with no plot, no emotional investment, no danger. No fear.

Right before the 2020 election, old fanfic friends from my days in the Master and Apprentice Star Wars listserv found me and saved me.

They dragged me back into fandom, introduced me to Discord, and got me writing again. I updated a story I hadn't touched in 5 years. I made new friends online and in RL. I got some great fiction and fic recs from those friends and discovered a subgenre called Hopepunk—low stakes fiction with very little if any violence and fear and with happy endings. (Becky Chambers writes a lot of what I read, and Amy Crook has also become a favorite.)

One morning, I had one of those really vivid, realistic, linear plot dreams that literally dragged me out of bed to the keyboard. It was a meet-cute modern au of The Phantom Menace's characters, set in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I cranked out about 2000 words the first day. Then another 2000. Then another 2000. Then another 2000. And so on every damn day for the next four years until I had four novels, about 668k words, several timestamps written by three other collaborators who've come on board, some beautiful art I've been allowed to use, and now a fifth book in the works.

This is the Yooperverse.

It's not just The Fic That Saved Me, it's the place where I'm writing a vision of what the world could be like into being. A place where people with fucking obscene amounts of money don't spend it on themselves, or hoard it, or exploit other people to get more, but use it to help other people. It's a place where people who are bigoted dicks either get their comeuppance and crawl back under their rocks, or learn better and do better. It's a place where abused kids get rescued, everybody gets therapy and healthcare and is paid a living wage, people learn to value themselves and each other, and protect each other and defend each other. It's kinky and queer (although I'm neither) and above all, if not entirely safe to be both, I'm trying to write both things as just being another setting on the dryer. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It's not a utopia, by any means, because there are still assholes and the government is still ... the government, and capitalism is still a thing. There's some danger, especially in the first book, and there are accidents and illnesses and the vagaries of life. In the middle of the series, I had spinal surgery and was out of commission for a few months and that made me start thinking more about my main character dealing with aging and the limitations thereof. There's a LOT of mental health issues and the working through thereof, and a lot of ongoing process. Nobody's perfect. The world outside is still pretty much what it is. But in the little corners where my characters dwell, life is pretty dang good, sometimes great.

It's a vision of a life we all deserve. It's the thing I loved about Star Trek's universe, where people's basic needs are cared for and the obstacles to them developing their best selves removed. It's what I've loved about science fiction in general, especially Ursula LeGuin's: that opportunity to explore possibilities that are better than the present. It's modeled on the MacArthur Genius grants, but you don't have to prove your worthiness first. My main character invests in people's potential, young or old, with scholarships and grants and a steadying hand. His partner builds low or no-cost housing for people in need. There's an informal network of queer and straight kid rescuing going on under the noses of unfriendly governments and failed social service safety nets. The main characters build refuges, literal and emotional. They love each other fiercely and respectfully.

Right now, we're living in a country that is almost the antithesis of these ideas, for far too many of us. People are being manipulated by their fears, which are stoked by unscrupulous, lying shitbag politicians whose all too real evil would never make it past the pitch if you were going to try to sell it as a TV show or movie. They're consciously turning us on each other with lies about our common humanity, about the state of our country, about who and what's responsible for many of its faults, sewing suspicion and hate. And though the Yooperverse started as my personal comfort fic, I'm trying in my very small way to counteract what's happening in the world right now.

I've always believed in the power of story to change people's minds and lives, and I've experienced it myself. When I talk about story, I don't just mean fiction, though. I mean the narratives we tell ourselves and others about our own lives as a whole and day by day or moment by moment. I mean the stories we tell about each other when we're together, at the bar, at wakes, at a party. I mean the stories we invest in as fans in whatever kind of media we consume. I mean the stories we spin for ourselves and others to explain what the everloving fuck is wrong with the world.

Stories aren't separate from the world, they are the world. They tell it into being. They give it shape and purpose and meaning and a sense of possibility. Whatever stories we tell ourselves or each other about how things should be or how we should act as human beings (also called our "beliefs" or "morals" or "ethics"), they shape us, and we shape society. We are society, both together and as individuals. One person with a big voice and a story can tip a mass of people into either violence or solidarity.

I have no illusions that the Yooperverse will ever have that kind of power. It has a tiny audience on AO3 and Discord and it's mostly written for me to explore the things I feel deeply about, and wish I could do, and to teach myself to be a better person and live up to my own ideals. It's a world I'd like to manifest, to call into being, even in a small way. Even if it's just a story.

[trillscienceofficer]

Sometimes the Travelling Symphony thought that what they were doing was noble. There were moments around campfires when someone would say something invigorating about the importance of art, and everyone would find it easier to sleep that night. At other times it seemed a difficult and dangerous way to survive and hardly worth it, especially at times when they had to camp between towns, when they were turned away at gunpoint from hostile places, when they were travelling in snow or rain through dangerous territory, actors and musicians carrying guns and crossbows, the horses exhaling great clouds of steam, times when they were cold and afraid and their feet were wet. Or times like now when the heat was unrelenting, July pressing down upon them an the blank walls of the forest on either side, walking by the hour and wondering if an unhinged prophet or his men might be chasing them, arguing to distract themselves from their terrible fear. “All I'm saying,” Dieter said, twelve hours out of St. Deborah by the Water, “is that quote on the lead caravan would be way more profound if we hadn't lifted it from Star Trek.” He was walking near Kirsten and August. Survival is insufficient: Kirsten had had these words tattooed on her left forearm at the age of fifteen and had been arguing with Dieter about it almost ever since. Dieter harboured strong anti-tattoo sentiments. He said he'd seen a man die of an infected tattoo once. Kirsten also had two black knives tattooed on the back of her right wrist, but these were less troubling to Dieter, being much smaller and inked to mark specific events. “Yes,” Kirsten said, “I'm aware of your opinion on the subject, but it remains my favourite line of text in the world.” She considered Dieter one of her dearest friends. The tattoo argument had lost all of its sting over the years and had become something like a familiar room where they met. Midmorning, the sun not yet broken over the tops of the trees. The Symphony had walked through most of the night. Kirsten's feet hurt and she was delirious with exhaustion. It was strange, she kept thinking, that the prophet's dog had the same name as the dog in her comic books. She's never heard the name Luli before or since. “See, that illustrates the whole problem,” Dieter said. “The best Shakespearean actress in the territory, and her favourite line of text is from Star Trek.” “The whole problem with that?” Kirsten felt that she might actually be dreaming at this point, and she longed desperately for a cool bath. “It's got to be one of the best lines ever written for a TV show,” August said. “Did you see that episode?” “I can't say I recall,” Dieter said. “I was never a fan.” “Kirsten?” Kirsten shrugged. She wasn't sure if she actually remembered anything at all of Star Trek, or if it was just that August had told her about it so many times that she's started to picture his stories in her head. “Don't tell me you've never seen Star Trek: Voyager,” August said hopefully. “That episode with those lost Borg and Seven of Nine?” “Remind me,” Kirsten said, and he brightened visibly. While he talked she allowed herself to imagine that she remembered it. A television in a living room, a ship moving through the night silence of space, her brother watching beside her, her parents—if she could only remember their faces—somewhere near.

Emily St John Mandel, “Station Eleven”

[drapopia]

he ain't heavy (he's my brother)

primo + copia standalone

pairing: none

warnings: themes of anxiety, parental abandonment, nihil being a terrible parent

summary: And why should Copia have a spot in this church? Left at birth, he had watched on from the shadows. Why does it bother him so when he makes a single mistake if nobody is even watching?

word count: 2.5k

authors note: yet another fic of me babbling on about my thoughts about copia. while I do some have more spicy stuff on my back burner, i've been scared since starting a new semester and desperately needed to write out primo being sweet towards copia. (maybe i'm projecting shhhh)

also try to catch the subtle star trek reference i made hehe. enjoy!

----------------

A blight, a piece of rot that floats through the dust mote filled air of these unhallowed halls. He burrows his way into the small nooks and crannies, cloisters that let him finish his thoughts. When hasn’t he found his way here? He’s existed here for years, far longer than he had been introduced into this world. Proverbially speaking of course, his entrance into the world had been shrouded in indecision and shame. Copia often wonders if anybody had held him tightly to their chest when he was born, softly crooning to him, settling him to sleep before leaving him in the sterile newborns bassinet. Alone, no longer in the perfumed scent of his mother’s skin. 

Pushed into the harsh brick of the greenhouse to the side, he knows he should not be here. Class had gone as usual, his brain teeming with ideas as opposed to the other future Siblings of Sin clustered at his side. A bored yawn, a quashed snarl of bitterness at being stuck inside on such a gorgeous day. (It was not a gorgeous day, Copia had concluded, the sun would burn the freckles that adorned his cheeks. He loathed the aloe he had to smear on whenever he stepped outside for too long). 

Breathing, quashing the swell of anxiety that had burrowed its way into the soft meat of his stomach during the lesson. It had been nothing, truly not a thing to quarrel with his instincts over. But here he was, and the quickening of the air in his brain made him stop in this familiar corner. 

Matron had told him several times that he needed to calm down, and had reminded him in a biting tone. A woman of no nonsense, and this surely seemed like nonsense coming from his mouth. How could he explain it? The burst of emotion from his brain that made him shake at the knees, actual vomit was preferable to the way he stammered and stuttered when approached by someone. 

At this point Copia was certain he would never become a Sibling of Sin. Certainly a smart boy, Bishop Turner had commended him on his last paper he had turned in for History of Satanic Figures. There were no doubts he was capable of learning, yet commanding an audience? A foolish pipe dream in everyone’s eyes that was the most laughable inside joke for the Clergy. Sniggering to themselves, but rage had never bubbled up as he imagined. No, only shame. Blessed with a gift from the Olde One, and a disappointment through and through. 

Copia held his hand to his chest, his fingers bitten through with blood and hangnails he would surely be doctoring himself later in the blessed quiet of his room. The pulse underneath his palm shook, an unsettling cacophony of distress. He had only spoken up in class, given a surprising wrong answer to the question. Who the hell cared about Chaucer anyways? Apparently he did, and the reminder of the way the girl in front of him had sniggered, his face falling and his cheeks reddening in the chill of the lecture hall. 

(Deep down Copia did care about Chaucer, but he was certainly not going to like him anymore after his embarrassment. Nope, never again. Definitely not. Nuh uh). 

The sun’s warmth had soaked into the brick corners of the greenhouse, the plastic tops surely catching the most heat and warming the plants inside. Sweaty, humid. All things Copia detested, now even more with the amount he had started to sweat in the last year. Unfair, Copia thought, why do I get to sweat all the time and I still cannot grow a mustache? The sparse hairs on his lip were laughable, and he had finally taken the step and purchased a razer. Nobody certainly needed to be told, they could tell from the small cuts littering Copia’s cheeks. 

His heart rate still high, he turned to the door on his left. Stained with fertilizer, acrid and dark, dark smears of green against the inside from where moss had grown in the humid room. Primo never got rid of the moss, insisting that everything had a place in his greenhouse. In that same instance he had reassured Copia that just like the moss, everyone had a place in the Ministry. Copia was loath to agree, but he reluctantly accepted it. Verbally, not internally. How could such an odd boy have a space in this church? Odd, loathsome, awkward and vermin to everyone here- 

The door handle turned, Copia shuffling back and staring wide eyed at the door. He was reminded of his appearance, his black vestments no doubt skewed, his laps chapped and his chest sticky with sweat. (Seriously, he had never sweat this much in his life. Can you put a price on getting older? Because if so, Copia would stick himself on a slab as soon as pierce his ear with a price tag). 

The familiar haggard face of Primo peered around the door, his height towering over Copia as usual. The man in front of him was young, but the church weighed heavily on him. You pray so hard on bloody knees, Copia thought. Not from lack of belief, there were no doubts that this was the right path for Primo. But a man can only solve so many problems, attend confessionals every night, herd his flock with a kind hand. His face had begun to reflect the stress, the smile lines on either side growing deep. Ravines, rushing quickly by with tears and sweat to pray at the altar. 

“Copia?” Primo’s voice, etched with wear and tear that stretched into a wretched rasp, reached him through his reverie. “Are you out of class?” The door creaks, a thin hand reaching out to gently clasp his shoulder. Bony fingers, filed nails that bit into fabric, and into the pulpit during every sermon. They were gentle and comfortingly cold through Copia’s robes. 

“Si, I just finished.” Copia’s voice cracked in the jelly-like heat of the midday sun, a quick clear of his throat breaking through the thick air. 

“Ah, this is why you darken my doorstep?” The ravine widens, and Primo- no. He needed to call him Papa now, it had been this way for a few months now, and it still rang new on his tongue. But he would always be Primo to him, fratello. But he was brother, not mother, and not father. Copia preferred not to think about the foreign concept of a father. Papa, he could respect. A father wouldn’t whore himself out.

Copia nods, the lump in his throat returning with a vengeance. A honeyed hum, the hand gently squeezing the defined muscle collecting on his neck. Feet moving forward with no thought, he followed Primo into the crowded building. Red, forays into green, purple, splashes of blue that rounded out the corners of his blurred vision, colors changing hues. He tries not to think too intensely on the ugly rot still building in the cavern of his stomach, his brain pulsing and firing off where he felt he no longer had the right to. His feet blindly falling step by step in front of him, he vaguely felt Primo’s hand drift away from Copia’s shoulder and fall to his hand. Copia recalled when Terzo was younger, around Copia’s own age now. His frequent fits of fear, curled into Primo’s side with tears streaked down his cheeks in red rivulets. While Copia never witnessed Secondo’s own fits firsthand, he had woken up several times to the sounds of breaking glass, slammed doors, quick and sure footsteps following the clunks of the thick soled rubber boots Secondo had begged for. While he was just a child, he knew that it was better to drift off to sleep. How pitiful that he be so reclusive, so unobtrusive in his rage and fear? 

The room opened up as the two of them moved forward, a leering creature of woe and fear above a smaller rodent, perhaps of a similar design deep at heart. They settled at the worn table, strewn with trowels and rough hewn leather gloves. Primo sighed, reaching out to grab the faded blush pink pair that slipped on with familiar ease. Primo turned his gaze, his mismatched eyes latching onto Copia’s own with a feeling that made Copia’s stomach roil with guilt. “Grab a pair, piccolo topo.” Copia let his lips lift at the nickname, although only momentarily. His hands reached out, the freckles dotting his hands disappearing into the thick gloves. He let his hands fall limply to his side, a dramatic gesture that was not lost on Primo with a tiredly fond roll of his eyes. His hand reached out to grab Copia’s hand once again, directing him to the small array of pots on the table to their left. Primo’s hands pulled away, darting out to gingerly grab the pot. 

“Do you know what we are going to be planting?” He asked softly, eyes not meeting Copia’s. Copia’s gaze rose to look at the older man’s face. His papal paint had not yet smeared in the humid air, only dots of sweat along the ridge of his brow. His locks were tied in a hapless bun, small listless strands collecting along the line of his neck. He jumped, meeting Primo’s that had turned to look at him. He had not responded, Copia realized. 

“I’m not sure, Papa.” Copia responded softly. 

“Primo.” The older man corrected, his lips curling in affection and… something Copia could not quite place. He wouldn’t think too intensely, the stirring in his guts already a force to be reckoned with. Uncomfortable, wretched, foul and without any dignity-

“Eh, I don’t know what we are doing now.” He spat the sentence out, the words a bumbling rush of stuttering that was not lost on him. 

“We are re-potting this coriander..” A gesture to their left, and Copia spotted the small flowering plant to his left. 

“I thought coriander was a seasoning?” Copia asked a bit louder, looking with a small sort of curiosity at the small flowering plant in front of them. 

“Quite right. But, they flower in the heat.” The green stalks were long and spindly, though the thin white petals were sprouting proudly outwards. It makes sense that there are flowers then, Copia thought to himself, it was fucking sweltering in here. He decided to keep this crude thought to himself. 

“So why are we putting it into a new pot?” Copia questioned, his head craning upwards to look at Primo. The older man’s head turned, smiling down at him in a way that made Copia’s heart clench uncomfortably tight, the same way he felt when Primo would read him Frankenstein as a young boy. Usually a comfort, but all Copia could think of was shame. Shame at being stupid, never worthy of being the one in the right. 

Primo’s voice cut through the din. “Oh, this little one just needs room to grow. Just as we all do. We can never be too comfortable, or else we will never learn.” His hands reached for the bigger pot, scooting it closer and reaching his hand into the large bag of potting soil to his left. As he spoons in the potting soil, he gestures towards the coriander. “Could you grab our plant, per favore?” He speaks softly, gently. 

The pot is brought closer, Copia taking great care not to injure the small ivory blooms that seem intensely close to drifting off of the stalk. Primo’s hand falls on his own, a pointed squeeze on his freckled hand. “Gently, gently. We must be careful with this one. It has purposes beyond our sight.” A nod, and Primo leaned over him. His hands gently led Copias’ own, their gloved hands reaching into the dirt with precision (Perhaps Primo had precision, but Copia knew he would never have a green thumb, no matter how hard he tried). 

Their hands moved together, the soil falling away from the roots as the plant rose from the pot. “Be careful, Copia.” Primo chided, though there was no bite. There never was. Copia lessened his grip, his hands still cupping the plant with care. They moved as one, the plant gently nestled in the bigger pot. It looked almost pitiful, petite compared to the black paint on the outside of the planter. 

“Copia.” The voice above him said softly, and his gaze shot towards his brothers. Matching, green and white. A painted smile brightening, the younger smile lifting noticeably. “We must give ourselves room to grow, piccolino. If we are always right, how will we learn? Do you think I have always been right? That I have never made mistakes?” Yes, Copia thinks to himself. He knows this is wrong, but Primo is strong. He always knows what to do, what to say, how to dampen the heat that swells inside Copia when he thinks about his life for too long. 

“Copia.” The voice is commanding, kind. His gaze meets the others once more from where it had drifted away. 

“We all mess up. You are intelligent, and a handsome young man to boot. These are hard times, I realize this. And I know that you will grow quicker than you will know how to deal with. Do not doubt yourself.” The words are soft, and Copia tries to force away the stinging in his eyes as he feels tears hit the hot air of the greenhouse. Could Primo read him so easily? Of course he could. He sniffles, his head ducking downwards. Primo’s arms wrap around him, strong hands holding him close. Copia can smell incense, even though Primo was not wearing his papal robes. His cheek rests against the thin linen button down, soft with the passing of time. 

“Shush.” he registers Primo saying softly. A hand is close to Copia’s shoulder, a weight on him that makes him want to slink back to his bed. Back to a time when all he had to worry about was when Star Trek would come on, what he and Terzo would draw before their lessons, would his sandwiches have the crusts cut off again today? And by Satan, he knew his life would only get harder (It already had been). 

A sniffle, and a cut off sob echoes through the room. He pulls away, and Primo’s slightly calloused fingers delicately wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Do not worry.” He coos, and Copia feels the knot in his tummy begin to loosen. His eyes burn in the hazy light, and he blinks furiously. 

“Now, we have our plant in his home. What would you like to do?” Primo asks quietly, and Copia looks at him with sheepishness plainly written on his face. 

“Can we go to the cafeteria and get some treats? I am thinking that Christine wants something to snack on.” Primo laughs at that, drawing back and letting his arm rest over Copia’s shoulders in a subtle embrace. 

“We do not have to go all the way across the Abbey, would she like some raspberries? They are in season.” Copia nods, his heart quickening at the thought of teaching Christine more of her tricks. She had so far learned to go in a circle, her little whiskers twitching in excitement. 

And as they walked down the worn pathway through the foliage, Copia knew he couldn’t have cared less if he had known where Chaucer had written his poems. 

[cringelordofchaos]

random craig tucker headcanons

has level 1 low support needs autism

gay (not a hc bt whaever.)

special interest is star trek and space in general

watching red racer every day is a routine he mustn't under almost any imaginable circumstance break

got some peruvian ancestry (from which parent's side? heck if i know) + knows a bittt of spanish

his family mostly goes without saying a word to each other during meals

when hes waiting outside the counselor's office for flipping off someone again he sits and either thinks about space or looks at images of stripe on his phone to ease any tension that migth be there

barely ever smiles except when stripe, space or tweek exist

closer to thomas than to laura

his parents taught him everythin ghe knows <33 (emotional constipation and invlulnerability but breaking the ice every one in a while)

sometimes just randomly infodumps about random facts about star strek or space or guinea pigs at the most random of times (actually canon as briefly shown in TFBW)

likes to learn / memorize random facts abt red racer, space, star trek or guinea pigs

random fact i almost mispelled guinea pigs every single time wtmf is wrong with me

for birthdays he mostly gets space-themed stuff cuz everyone knows he loves it

if hes overwhelmed, instead of having a meltdown he'll usually have a shutdown instead

sometimes rants to stripe abt stuff like relationship drama w tweek lmao

he actually liked the clothes he wore during the metrosexual fad, (evident by keeping them in his closet as shown in TFBW)

most emotion he shows is anger/being pissed off

"sooooooo happy" is actually a stim of his and it feels satisfying for him to say it every time hes sooo happy

even when hes sooo happy the most emotion he'll show is a faint smile

doesn't really smile in any pictures unless hes forced to

flipping people off for him is kinda like pushing people away and making them pissed off at him so he wouldnt need to care abt what they think of him and that way he sorta protects himself (mostly saying this bc of one of his attacks in tfbw)(i swear im sane)

hes sometimes overwhelmed from his relationship w tweek but he fucking sucks at communicating (his kryptonite in TFBW is literally communication) he didnt communicate that to tweek just yet (this is mostly shown in buddha box)(NOT SAYING CRAIG DOESNT CARE ABOUT TWEEK HE LOVES HIM HES JUST OVERWHELMED SOMETIMES FROM FEELING LIKE HES COMPLETELY RESPONIBLE FOR HIM ANDN OIEAHDKKSH leave him alone) i like to imagine tweek and craig resolve this at one point cuz im pretty sure they get married in the future and they always push through their struggles together and they rly need each other so .

u can point to a star n hell name it

has space themed pajamas

(StOLEN HC IdK FroM whO) has those glow in the dark stars in his room

i googled it sometime ago n apparently he has blue eyes ? idrc

his childhood dream was to become an astronaut (I FORGOT HOW TO SPELL IT I LITERALLY HAD TO GOOGLE IT I HATE MYSELF) but when he grew up he probably settled for something less extreme. idk what though

either got diagnosed w autism at age 10, in his teens, in his young adult years, or far afterwards, or never at all. when he was told by someone that he migth be autistic he didnt rly even bother to look it up or anything but if he did he would go like "idk i dont really think im autistic i dont think i do (x symtom) all that much" and tweeks like "You do that literally all the time !!!!". but yeah even if he gets diagnosed he doesnt rly end up taking any medication or specializzed therapy but he does gain a larger understanding of himself and how to handle things like shutdowns.)

really picky eater (cuz sensory issues)

hates wearing jeans or similiar uncomfy clothing so he wears exclusively sweatpants (again cuz of sensory issues)

his whole family is autistic actually ive decided so when mr mackey brings up the possibility of him being autistic laura and thomas deny it cuz all the symptoms he shows are what they do as well, andthyere obviously not autistic so neither can craig be.

sometimes he goes over to tweeks house completely unannounced and so does tweek (actuallycanon as shown in put it down)

0verwhelmed by the concept of emotions in general but his relationship w tweek forces him to confront that part of him he tries to avoid and forces him to open up a bit which is actually rly important

since tweek is on meth, he heavily lacks appetite and sometimes skips meals or just doesnt take care of himself enough. craig learns abt this (not the meth part cuz tweek doesnt know that eithrer) so he helps him eat enough food throughout the day so he doesnt fucken starve to death

replies to tweeks texts instantly (actually canon)

tolkiens best friend (canon according to the official south park wiki). clydes a closee second

clyde annoys the fuck out of him but in a friend teasing way and they both care abt each other obvu

i actually dont rly have hcs for him n tolkien sryyyy

jimmy makes the best remarks abt creek (canon)(in put it down he asks craig (when craig doesnt know why tweek isnt in school) "uh oh. trouble in paradise?" and in TFBW during a battle tweek tells craig smth like "ill be right with you super craig!" and jimmy says "OK, i guess illbe the third wheel." anyway live laugh jimmy)

extremely blunt pessimist (canon)

despite his reputation as a troublemaker hes actually a decently polite kid (minus the constant flipping off)

barely goes out the house or does anything exciting. nice n boring. just the way he likes it.

hates changes or sudden surprises or his routine being broken

on the verge of being diagnosed w oppositional defiance disorder

sometimes wears black nail polish (again cuz in tfbw its kinda implied he liked the metrosexual fad n black nail polish migth be a more neutral form of such self expression)(mostly self projecting here)

tumblr user

during one pride month thomas went all out and bought craig a shitton of pride themed merch that he mostly doesnt use

he loves loves lovess seeing tweeks smile !!!1!! hes like omfg finally hes getting a fucking break (tweeks life is a fucking mess)

appears unphased by some stuff even when hes really uncomfortab;le

sometimes sleeps without pillow ehn he deems it more comfortable

deals w some form of small anxiety, not to a disordered amount thogh

maybee has depression ?!? idk

dated a girl in the past cuz he thought he was supposed to, but he felt like "she was holding him back". overall he didnt give a fuck abt their breakup cuz he didnt really care that much abt the relationship and when others questioned him abt it he was confused and didnt know most ppl were heartbroken after a breakup. (sorry i love early craig being a gay mess in denial)

sometimes cartman calls him a pocoyo rip off and each time he feels the strongest urge to either decapitate or defenestrate him

before he n tweek got together he would joke to tolkien abt how he was gonna propose to him when they grew up so he could live off his wealth and not have to work for any money. (SORRY i got this concept from a webcomic (the four of them))

he n tweek send heart emojis to each other (implied)

mostlyyy dry texter (he doesnt mean to)

at one point he n tweek buy a pair of guinea pigs for stripe to befriend and craig names them castor and pollux

he n tweek get married in the future

mostly likes dry, tasteless and cold food (There r obviously exceptions thats why i said mostly)

says and intreprerts things more literally than most

still sarcastic at times

hates huge social events with too many people and noiises

used to blend in well and fit in w mob mentality but doesnt really care anymore

it wont let me write anymo