nostalgic for the good times

I’ll still post all the parts here but I’m excited to have a new place to post em!!! The communities are still relatively small which means we could make malevolent The most populated fandom on the site- I think that would be a jolly good time. Check it out and let me know what y’all think!!

I’ve never been so attached to literal trash before

I am similarly attached to the sentient trash. Can't wait to take him on little adventures

okay so spock (the alien in blue) essentially goes into heat. like literal heat like an animal. Anyway, spock’s in bloodlust in this episode and must go back to vulcan to have sex with his finace (or someone. but its supposed to be his fiance) or he’ll literally die. this is called pon farr and some backstory spock is half human and thought he wouldnt go through pon farr so he abandoned his HOT fiance to fuck around in space except oops pon farr happens so. he and kirk (in yellow getting his tits cut open, he’s also spocks captain and best friend) and their other friend mccoy go to vulcan so he can have sex with his fiance or get married or whatever so he doesn’t die. but then spock’s fiance (t’pring) is like no i dont want to marry spock i want to have him fight someone to death (which she can do) and spock at this point is fully in the ‘blood lust’ and is basically not in his right mind and doesnt get what’s happening. and t’pring picks kirk to be her ‘champion’ in the fight (her logic is that if spock dies in the fight she doesnt have to marry him and if kirk dies, spock will be so upset with her he won’t marry her anymore anyway). anyway kirk doesnt know that its a fight to the death and so he’s like of course i’ll do this fight if it’ll help spock and then he gets told it’s a fight to the death and he goes WHAT and right afterwards spock slices his titties open like in the gif. also eventually spock and kirk roll around in the sand and kirk fakes his death and THIS somehow knocks spock out of his blood lust and he goes back to the ship super sad bc he’s killed his ‘best friend’ only to discover kirk’s alive and we see one of his biggest smiles of the series (a big deal bc spock is vulcan and they dont show emotion). anyway this aired as the season opener in 1967. know your history and all that happy pride

He’s so unserious. 😂

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He is my princess diana

I’m actually fucking dying

He’s standing in front of the whiteboard, muttering to himself as he solves the equation, when suddenly he freezes, his animal brain sensing the danger of a predator standing right behind him. His skin pebbles in goosebumps, the hand holding the chalk frozen in mid-air. His heart rate spikes in pure fear and certitude that there is something keeping him in his sight that wants to eat him alive. A moment later, there’s a voice in his ear. “You’re having trouble finding the solutions?” Sherlock forces himself to gulp, and he turns. He takes stock of him at a glance, his brain flitting fast on adrenaline. Student, Irish from the lilt of his voice, well-dressed under his robes, his three-piece well-kept if a bit flamboyant. Curly hair, thin mouth, eyes dark brown and intense under a strong set of eyebrows, he is coming close with a slow and assured pace that speaks of a man who feels comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock offers him the chalk without saying a word — can’t bring himself, the feeling of being prey still coiling at his nape. His brain demands that he not let this man out of his sight, and doesn’t understand why — Sherlock observes him as he solves the quintic, and there is nothing off about him that Sherlock can see, nothing that would explain this feeling. It’s not until he turns to look Sherlock in the eye — dark and deep and unfathomable and Sherlock can’t help the frisson-feeling of danger that runs down his spine — and says the word ‘kleptomaniac’ that Sherlock starts to understand: this man has been watching, and he has noticed. He has noticed the pick-pocketing, and he notices when Sherlock quotes the Art of War, the white-flash of his sharp teeth as he laughs sending another thrill down Sherlock’s spine. And so James Moriarty — strong hands, solid grip, if a bit cold — drags Sherlock into his orbit, and Sherlock is powerless to stop him, the feeling of danger pooling behind his teeth too addictive to refuse. James clasps his arm and pulls him along, drags Sherlock to his room so he can get out of his school robes, murmurs “follow my lead” in front of a student club and Sherlock can’t help himself — follow he does, and with a smile, because it would be unfathomable doing anything else, the danger turning to excitement and then to exhilaration when James keeps noticing. James keeps looking at him with those dark eyes of his even in a room full of other people, sees through Sherlock until it feels like he could see down to his very soul if he looked at him for too long. It’s more than exhilarating — it’s electrifying.

He’s standing in front of the whiteboard, muttering to himself as he solves the equation, when suddenly he freezes, his animal brain sensing the danger of a predator standing right behind him. His skin pebbles in goosebumps, the hand holding the chalk frozen in mid-air. His heart rate spikes in pure fear and certitude that there is something keeping him in his sight that wants to eat him alive. A moment later, there’s a voice in his ear. “You’re having trouble finding the solutions?” Sherlock forces himself to gulp, and he turns. He takes stock of him at a glance, his brain flitting fast on adrenaline. Student, Irish from the lilt of his voice, well-dressed under his robes, his three-piece well-kept if a bit flamboyant. Curly hair, thin mouth, eyes dark brown and intense under a strong set of eyebrows, he is coming close with a slow and assured pace that speaks of a man who feels comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock offers him the chalk without saying a word — can’t bring himself, the feeling of being prey still coiling at his nape. His brain demands that he not let this man out of his sight, and doesn’t understand why — Sherlock observes him as he solves the quintic, and there is nothing off about him that Sherlock can see, nothing that would explain this feeling. It’s not until he turns to look Sherlock in the eye — dark and deep and unfathomable and Sherlock can’t help the frisson-feeling of danger that runs down his spine — and says the word ‘kleptomaniac’ that Sherlock starts to understand: this man has been watching, and he has noticed. He has noticed the pick-pocketing, and he notices when Sherlock quotes the Art of War, the white-flash of his sharp teeth as he laughs sending another thrill down Sherlock’s spine. And so James Moriarty — strong hands, solid grip, if a bit cold — drags Sherlock into his orbit, and Sherlock is powerless to stop him, the feeling of danger pooling behind his teeth too addictive to refuse. James clasps his arm and pulls him along, drags Sherlock to his room so he can get out of his school robes, murmurs “follow my lead” in front of a student club and Sherlock can’t help himself — follow he does, and with a smile, because it would be unfathomable doing anything else, the danger turning to excitement and then to exhilaration when James keeps noticing. James keeps looking at him with those dark eyes of his even in a room full of other people, sees through Sherlock until it feels like he could see down to his very soul if he looked at him for too long. It’s more than exhilarating — it’s electrifying.