Apologies, cracklings.
Today, there would have been an update. It would have been FUCKING LOVELY.
But NOO. Photoshop is all "arghblargh I freeze now" and so I cannot clean or crop or collate ANY IMAGES and it is LATE and I am ANGRY NOW.
Short story shorter, tomorrow I shall edit this post and there will be images instead of late-night rantings.
In recompense, you may have a sneaky sneak preview of what has been tentatively titled "THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE", a trek_crack fanfic. There'll be pictures, it'll be magical, I just need to actually finish writing the damn thing.
It was at this point Chekov heard a knock at his door. He flung down the journal, full of scrawled Cyrillic and numerous crossings-out, and opened the door to find himself face-to-face with the Captain.
The well-oiled Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked and very very naked Captain, who stood with hands on hips, the light reflected off his gleaming chest blinding nearby redshirts. Chekov averted his eyes, feeling certain parts of his sanity slip away irrevocably.
"Eh, Keptain? Is there an emergency?"
"Oh yeah. There's an emergency. In my pants."
Chekov decided not to point out the obvious error in the Captain's logic.
It was then that a very irate Bones ran down the corridor, stabbing Kirk in the neck with a hypo and a "Dammit, Jim, what have I told you about chasing jailbait?".
Kirk grinned the grin of the heavily tranquilised, and promplty collapsed onto the floor. McCoy attempted to drag the Captain away, but he had been rendered far too slippery. He eventually grabbed Kirk's hair and dragged him away by it, his frictionless body leaving trails of baby oil in its wake. Chekov was sure he heard the Captain murmur, "Hey baby, how'd you know I was into the rough stuff?"
But NOO. Photoshop is all "arghblargh I freeze now" and so I cannot clean or crop or collate ANY IMAGES and it is LATE and I am ANGRY NOW.
Short story shorter, tomorrow I shall edit this post and there will be images instead of late-night rantings.
In recompense, you may have a sneaky sneak preview of what has been tentatively titled "THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE", a trek_crack fanfic. There'll be pictures, it'll be magical, I just need to actually finish writing the damn thing.
It was at this point Chekov heard a knock at his door. He flung down the journal, full of scrawled Cyrillic and numerous crossings-out, and opened the door to find himself face-to-face with the Captain.
The well-oiled Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked Captain.
The well-oiled and plucked and very very naked Captain, who stood with hands on hips, the light reflected off his gleaming chest blinding nearby redshirts. Chekov averted his eyes, feeling certain parts of his sanity slip away irrevocably.
"Eh, Keptain? Is there an emergency?"
"Oh yeah. There's an emergency. In my pants."
Chekov decided not to point out the obvious error in the Captain's logic.
It was then that a very irate Bones ran down the corridor, stabbing Kirk in the neck with a hypo and a "Dammit, Jim, what have I told you about chasing jailbait?".
Kirk grinned the grin of the heavily tranquilised, and promplty collapsed onto the floor. McCoy attempted to drag the Captain away, but he had been rendered far too slippery. He eventually grabbed Kirk's hair and dragged him away by it, his frictionless body leaving trails of baby oil in its wake. Chekov was sure he heard the Captain murmur, "Hey baby, how'd you know I was into the rough stuff?"