Play with me!
So, to make up for the hysterics of two nights before to those who saw it and also to cure the 'I just finished something, I'm restless, and can't come down' anxiety attack, let's play our old game, yeah? Word prompts and pairings, yeah? You'll get drabbles. Probably not for every prompt left, but definitely some.
Come play with me!
( Read more... )
Come play with me!
( Read more... )
The gush on Pike’s temple is bleeding profusely, but Spock tries to keep his fear at bay. Head wounds always bleed a lot. Doesn’t necessarily mean - doesn’t mean, period. Spock must get him back to the ship and it will be fine. Spock must.
They approach slowly, sneering and shouting in a language Spock doesn’t know - will never learn. Barbarians. Bear skins and primitive weapons, deadly nonetheless. A weapon doesn’t have to be clever. It simply has to be there.
They are afraid of him, even now. Broken bones don’t seem to stop them, and their numbers only grow. The air is thick with bloodlust, with that instinctive urge to hit what frightens you. To destroy what you don’t understand. They have not yet outgrown it.
Spock stares in their faces, contorted with hatred. He hopes they never will.
A strong, broad-shouldered female steps forward, a barbed club in her hand. The chieftain? Her eyes hold no fear; they burn with passion and death.
“Spock, no…” Pike mutters weakly, trying to pull at his sleeve, feeble fingers unable to grip. “The Prime Directive…”
Spock lowers his hand to Pike’s neck and presses softly. The captain sighs and goes quiet.
The chieftain steps forward; sneers.
Spock pulls out his phaser.
His hands don’t shake.
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