obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2009-09-07 05:19 am
obstinatrix) wrote2009-09-07 05:19 am
Fic: Where Angels Fear To Tread (PG-13)
Title: Where Angels Fear To Tread
Pairing: Shatnoy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Obviously a massive lie.
Notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
my_daroga, for Round 1 of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
trekrpfexchange. I wrote this as a pinch-hit, and I must say that, on glancing at it now, I'm not sure how exactly I thought it answered the prompt when I began it. *coughs delicately* It is intended to be a response to the second of my_daroga's prompts, which was long and multifaceted and fairly open-ended, and focused largely on Bill's ideas about sex and any dichotomy between his views and Leonard's, which this sort of does; but the prompt also honed in on things to do with Bill's sensuality and (possibly) food, which this really doesn't venture near. So I hope this is...adequate? I also wrote it very fast because that is what pinch-hitting requires, so I may come back to this later and attack it. This also got a bit influenced by Shatner being all needy during the recent Dragon*Con panel. Oh, Bill.
Warnings: It's the 60's, so I felt the need to bring in weed. God knows why. Subsequently, much of the rating is for language and drunken/stoned rambling.
Summary: No subject is out of bounds, somehow, when you're under enough influences. Even subjects like sex. And, potentially, gay sex.
They're lying on Leonard's living room floor when it begins, the two of them a little the worse for wear, the carpet strewn with empty beer-cans and spliffs burned down to their stubs. Bill's eating something out of a can, something that's white and gloopy and purports to be made of mushrooms. He wrinkles his nose, and holds it out to Leonard. "The hell is this shit?"
Leonard takes the can from him and peers inside. He can't remember the last time anything looked so unappealing, particularly after this many mind-altering substances. "God knows. What's it meant to be?"
Bill shrugs, and leans back on his elbows, crossing his ankles lazily. "Fucked if I know. It tastes like come."
Leonard snorts. "Yeah, it smells like - you know that nasty after-sex smell - "
Bill makes a rumble of agreement low in his throat, and nods. "Urgh. Seriously, reminds me of being a kid, when someone would come in your mouth with no warning." He shuddered. "Vile."
Leonard blinks at him, confused. "...wait. You mean it tastes like girl-come?"
Bill laughs, and uncrosses his legs again. "Um, no, Len. Girls don't have come like that. That's an urban legend." He stubs out what remains of his spliff and puts his hands behind his head. "Tastes like good old-fashioned, proteinous, dirty man-come." And he laughs, rich-throaty-sudden in the fuggy air. "You know."
Leonard's head feels suddenly much clearer than before. He's looking at Bill with new eyes. Either that, or he's hearing all this wrong. He doesn't know. And he sure as hell doesn't understand how Bill knows, either, because it can't be from -
"You're not gonna tell me you never sucked a guy's dick, are you, Len?"
Leonard blinks a bit more. He's beginning to feel like a goddamn owl, except for the part where he can't even summon a hoot, derisive or critical or otherwise. Bill - and - men - ?
His weed-addled brain contemplates computing this new information, gets as far as calculating the enormous effort that would be involved, and decides not to make the attempt. He stares at Bill blankly. He's aware that his jaw is probably doing something undignified which might best be described as 'sagging', but he isn't sure how to rectify that, just at the moment. He says, "You're gonna tell me you have?"
Stupid question, of course, since Bill's previous comments have made the answer - Leonard's pretty sure, anyway - mind-bogglingly clear. But at least it's a properly formulated sentence, not consisting of 'but Bill, you're the most notorious skirt-chaser I know; how can you possibly have done faggot stuff?' And Bill doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he grins a little and rolls the spliff idly between his forefinger and thumb, so the end of it drags on his lower lip as it wheels to and fro across it.
"Sure," he says, easily. "It's just sex. Don't be such a prude, Len. Just because you give a guy head doesn't make you a fag or anything."
Blinking, Leonard thinks, is good. Blinking is a viable reaction to things that come out of Bill's mouth unexpectedly.
Len finds himself suddenly blinking rather harder, in an attempt to clear away an unwanted image that has abruptly superimposed itself on the inside of his mind's eyelid. The attempt fails. Leonard decides to attempt eradication by expiation.
"Bill," he says, "forgive me, but I think I'm missing something here. Why exactly were you giving a guy head to begin with?"
Bill raises an eyebrow. And, Leonard thinks, this has, to an extent, worked - his mind is, at least, drifting away from the image of Bill on his knees, with something white - possibly the faux-mushroom gloop - leaking from the corners of his mouth. Now he is only looking at that quirked eyebrow, and its accompanying quirked mouth. And sort of wanting to kiss both, and then fill the intervening space with further tiny kisses that become increasingly heated on the fine skin.
Admittedly, these are not the thoughts that ought to have been going through the head of a man who was professing outrage, confusion and bemusement at the idea of a straight guy sucking another guy off. Leonard holds Bill's eyes, and tries to look interested in hearing an answer, without being interested enough to prompt questions of Bill's own.
"Well?" he says, when Bill only goes on looking at him like that, all wry and amused at the edges. Leonard hates it when Bill looks at him like he's amused. It never bodes well.
Bill shrugs. "I like sex," he says. "Sometimes it's easier to get it from a guy than from a chick. Certainly it was before I got married." He grins at Leonard. "Girls kept a tighter grip on their skirts in those days. I'm sure you remember."
Leonard thinks briefly about Sandi, kissing him chastely in his car after he'd taken her to the cinema. "Well, sure," he admits. "But I didn't - I mean, I never - "
"Lack of imagination on your part," Bill tells him curtly, before he can even finish the thought. He leans across Leonard to deposit the frazzled end of his spliff in the ashtray, which is halfway under Leonard's left knee.
There is another ashtray on the coffee table, which is on Bill's right and which, although further away, is separated from him by no obstacle. Leonard's mind remarks upon this fact. He isn't sure what it is saying. He says, "I guess..."
He speaks dubiously, slowly. Bill is still smirking at him, so he continues, "But you still have to be interested. Don't you?"
Bill laughs. He stretches as he leans back, rubbing one hand idly in the mussed hair at the nape of his neck as the pull of his muscles reaches its natural end. "Well, sure," he echoes, in a way that leaves Leonard uncertain as to whether he's playing around, or just unconscious of the repetition. "I was interested. Like I said, I like sex. It's good. The more you can get, the better." He reaches for a paper, scoops up some more weed, and proceeds to roll himself another joint.
Leonard watches his fingers. Clever fingers, quick. Competent. Not pretty, not like his mouth, but interesting to watch, all the same. After a second he says, "But isn't it weird, kissing a guy?"
Bill's fingers pause. The joint is still half-rolled. Leonard watches the fingers, and not the face; watches the pause endure and endure, and then suddenly cease and dissolve into a continuance of the earlier motion. "It's not really about kissing, is it?"
"So you never kissed, when you did it?"
Leonard's not sure why he's persisting. It's embarrassing, really; or it should be. This kind of doggedness in the face of certain shame is Bill's territory. But this insistence isn't stopping him from stumbling on into it.
Bill seems to appreciate the honesty, the uncharacteristic openness of his curiosity. There's a smile in his response: "I didn't say that." He raises the joint to his mouth; licks the seam of the paper and seals it down. Leonard watches his tongue; catches the brief touch of pretty mouth to unshapely fingers. "It's...stubbly."
Leonard laughs. It seems the only appropriate response. "Stubbly?"
"Stubbly," Bill repeats stolidly.
"Huh."
For a minute or so, they smoke in silence. At least, in retrospect, Leonard decides it must have been about a minute, sixty seconds of silence. At the time, it seems a lot longer than that. There's another question in his head, and he's very busy trying not to ask it.
This is fairly difficult.
He wonders if Bill will clue in. He wonders this lazily, languidly, as he watches the smoke drift out of Bill's half-open mouth in clouds. But Bill says nothing, and then Leonard hears himself saying, effectively without his conscious mind's permission: "Do you still do that stuff?"
Bill looks at him, quick and grinning with his eyes gone dark. He's still amused. Leonard's stomach is still twisting in the ominous way it always does at that look on Bill's face.
"I could be persuaded," says Bill. He widens his eyes and smirks, the light catching in his pupils, distorting in flashes, in invitation. "Why - you thinking of persuading me?"
He sneaks the tip of a finger between his teeth, in a gesture that could easily have been interpreted as casual, unthinking; it might have been Bill chewing at a ragged edge of fingernail, or biting down on one of those strange pulses Leonard feels throbbing in his fingertips sometimes. But Leonard's not subscribing to any of these interpretations. As far as Leonard is concerned, Bill is teasing him; and that, like his amused glances, like his knowing smile, makes Leonard angry and aroused together, in a curious melée that's churning inside him. Then Bill smirks again, around his fingertip. The volatile mixture flares up like fire, a jarring rush that chases itself up Leonard's spine to take root at the base of his jaw, sour and simmering. Furiously, suddenly, he thinks: Fuck persuasion.
"No," he says, in a voice pitched low, and the sudden flicker of concern in Bill's eyes is deeply gratifying. The spread of that look as Leonard leans close is more pleasing still; the way it intensifies as Leonard grips the back of Bill's skull jolts him hot between the legs. Bill's lips are slightly parted, his breath a warm half-pressure on Leonard's mouth.
He says, "Len - "
Leonard tightens his fingers, firm in Bill's hair, holding him still. "Convince me," he says, his own voice rough like gravel to his ears, "that I'm interested."
Bill hesitates. It is unlike him, in many ways, to hesitate like this; Bill Shatner, this helter-skelter rush of highly coloured human energy, rushing in where Leonard fears to tread. But the uncertainty there, suddenly unvarnished and so plain upon his face, is familiar, although Leonard cannot say from when; he sees it, and realises slowly that it's always there, half-concealed, invisible, but palpable somewhere under Leonard's skin. He's worried. Bill does worry, about this; about him. About...them.
Leonard had meant to wait; had intended to stand here like this, at half an inch's distance, until Bill closed the gap between their mouths, swallowing his cocky certainty, his own levelled challenge. But that certainty is melting under Leonard's hands, and suddenly there is nothing left to wait for. Bill's lips are gently parted, his face like a door left half-open, whether by accident or design, Leonard cannot tell. But he doesn't need to be convinced by Bill. He doesn't know that the reverse is true.
When Leonard presses their mouths together, Bill falls immediately against him, his body going slack with reaction in Leonard's arms. But his mouth is sure, after a moment's startled stillness, kissing him warm and gentle and pleading, and Leonard doesn't care that it's stubbly, if there's any chance that this is what Bill's been asking for so quietly, so softly all these months behind his brashness.
It is stubbly, and swiftly slick, but Leonard cannot say he's learning anything about what it's like to kiss men for entertainment purposes. This is Bill he's kissing - this is Bill, who needs him - and he can't find anything comparable to the way that his heart clenches at that knowledge, the heat that scuffs the surface of his skin.
It isn't about kissing, Bill said. Leonard hears him saying it, but the pressure of Bill's lips give the lie to the argument, the way he is licking into Leonard's mouth, the murmur of his pleading in his throat. The contact of their tongues burns Leonard all over, in a way that makes him want to kiss forever. He doesn't anticipate a lot of protest from Bill, on that score. Unless - well.
It's just sex. Bill had said that, too, scoffingly, offhandedly, and if Leonard had difficulty in believing it then, he has even more of a difficulty now, with Bill in his arms, consuming him. Sex is never just sex, with Bill. It's something else; even earlier, the suggestion of it was a power play; it's love or aggression or arrogance or pride; friendship or joy or jealousy or agreement; desperation, or reassurance, or surrender. And Leonard - to whom sex can be anything from poetry to pornography; death and resurrection and a Friday night activity - could live with that. Whatever Bill wants, he realises, as Bill's fingers insinuate their way between his shirt buttons, he could live with.
He pushes Bill back against the front of the couch, catching Bill's fierce little sound in the heat of his mouth. "You've got me," he breathes, against Bill's lips; and it could have meant a thousand things; and it does, it does. Bill's eyes are soft and endless, and Leonard strokes his hair, kisses his cheek, rubs their faces together, hot and smooth and dry. "You've got me, Billy," he tells him again, and pulls Bill's mouth back to his, swallowing his silence while it lasts.
**
Ironically, I notice that this Bill is, experience-wise, kind of the polar opposite ofmy_daroga's Bill from the truly, stunningly excellent Wet Hot American Summer, which she wrote for me in this exchange and which I love like burning and have read more times than I can count, now. As you should all do.
Pairing: Shatnoy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Obviously a massive lie.
Notes: This is for
my_daroga, for Round 1 of trekrpfexchange. I wrote this as a pinch-hit, and I must say that, on glancing at it now, I'm not sure how exactly I thought it answered the prompt when I began it. *coughs delicately* It is intended to be a response to the second of my_daroga's prompts, which was long and multifaceted and fairly open-ended, and focused largely on Bill's ideas about sex and any dichotomy between his views and Leonard's, which this sort of does; but the prompt also honed in on things to do with Bill's sensuality and (possibly) food, which this really doesn't venture near. So I hope this is...adequate? I also wrote it very fast because that is what pinch-hitting requires, so I may come back to this later and attack it. This also got a bit influenced by Shatner being all needy during the recent Dragon*Con panel. Oh, Bill. Warnings: It's the 60's, so I felt the need to bring in weed. God knows why. Subsequently, much of the rating is for language and drunken/stoned rambling.
Summary: No subject is out of bounds, somehow, when you're under enough influences. Even subjects like sex. And, potentially, gay sex.
They're lying on Leonard's living room floor when it begins, the two of them a little the worse for wear, the carpet strewn with empty beer-cans and spliffs burned down to their stubs. Bill's eating something out of a can, something that's white and gloopy and purports to be made of mushrooms. He wrinkles his nose, and holds it out to Leonard. "The hell is this shit?"
Leonard takes the can from him and peers inside. He can't remember the last time anything looked so unappealing, particularly after this many mind-altering substances. "God knows. What's it meant to be?"
Bill shrugs, and leans back on his elbows, crossing his ankles lazily. "Fucked if I know. It tastes like come."
Leonard snorts. "Yeah, it smells like - you know that nasty after-sex smell - "
Bill makes a rumble of agreement low in his throat, and nods. "Urgh. Seriously, reminds me of being a kid, when someone would come in your mouth with no warning." He shuddered. "Vile."
Leonard blinks at him, confused. "...wait. You mean it tastes like girl-come?"
Bill laughs, and uncrosses his legs again. "Um, no, Len. Girls don't have come like that. That's an urban legend." He stubs out what remains of his spliff and puts his hands behind his head. "Tastes like good old-fashioned, proteinous, dirty man-come." And he laughs, rich-throaty-sudden in the fuggy air. "You know."
Leonard's head feels suddenly much clearer than before. He's looking at Bill with new eyes. Either that, or he's hearing all this wrong. He doesn't know. And he sure as hell doesn't understand how Bill knows, either, because it can't be from -
"You're not gonna tell me you never sucked a guy's dick, are you, Len?"
Leonard blinks a bit more. He's beginning to feel like a goddamn owl, except for the part where he can't even summon a hoot, derisive or critical or otherwise. Bill - and - men - ?
His weed-addled brain contemplates computing this new information, gets as far as calculating the enormous effort that would be involved, and decides not to make the attempt. He stares at Bill blankly. He's aware that his jaw is probably doing something undignified which might best be described as 'sagging', but he isn't sure how to rectify that, just at the moment. He says, "You're gonna tell me you have?"
Stupid question, of course, since Bill's previous comments have made the answer - Leonard's pretty sure, anyway - mind-bogglingly clear. But at least it's a properly formulated sentence, not consisting of 'but Bill, you're the most notorious skirt-chaser I know; how can you possibly have done faggot stuff?' And Bill doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he grins a little and rolls the spliff idly between his forefinger and thumb, so the end of it drags on his lower lip as it wheels to and fro across it.
"Sure," he says, easily. "It's just sex. Don't be such a prude, Len. Just because you give a guy head doesn't make you a fag or anything."
Blinking, Leonard thinks, is good. Blinking is a viable reaction to things that come out of Bill's mouth unexpectedly.
Len finds himself suddenly blinking rather harder, in an attempt to clear away an unwanted image that has abruptly superimposed itself on the inside of his mind's eyelid. The attempt fails. Leonard decides to attempt eradication by expiation.
"Bill," he says, "forgive me, but I think I'm missing something here. Why exactly were you giving a guy head to begin with?"
Bill raises an eyebrow. And, Leonard thinks, this has, to an extent, worked - his mind is, at least, drifting away from the image of Bill on his knees, with something white - possibly the faux-mushroom gloop - leaking from the corners of his mouth. Now he is only looking at that quirked eyebrow, and its accompanying quirked mouth. And sort of wanting to kiss both, and then fill the intervening space with further tiny kisses that become increasingly heated on the fine skin.
Admittedly, these are not the thoughts that ought to have been going through the head of a man who was professing outrage, confusion and bemusement at the idea of a straight guy sucking another guy off. Leonard holds Bill's eyes, and tries to look interested in hearing an answer, without being interested enough to prompt questions of Bill's own.
"Well?" he says, when Bill only goes on looking at him like that, all wry and amused at the edges. Leonard hates it when Bill looks at him like he's amused. It never bodes well.
Bill shrugs. "I like sex," he says. "Sometimes it's easier to get it from a guy than from a chick. Certainly it was before I got married." He grins at Leonard. "Girls kept a tighter grip on their skirts in those days. I'm sure you remember."
Leonard thinks briefly about Sandi, kissing him chastely in his car after he'd taken her to the cinema. "Well, sure," he admits. "But I didn't - I mean, I never - "
"Lack of imagination on your part," Bill tells him curtly, before he can even finish the thought. He leans across Leonard to deposit the frazzled end of his spliff in the ashtray, which is halfway under Leonard's left knee.
There is another ashtray on the coffee table, which is on Bill's right and which, although further away, is separated from him by no obstacle. Leonard's mind remarks upon this fact. He isn't sure what it is saying. He says, "I guess..."
He speaks dubiously, slowly. Bill is still smirking at him, so he continues, "But you still have to be interested. Don't you?"
Bill laughs. He stretches as he leans back, rubbing one hand idly in the mussed hair at the nape of his neck as the pull of his muscles reaches its natural end. "Well, sure," he echoes, in a way that leaves Leonard uncertain as to whether he's playing around, or just unconscious of the repetition. "I was interested. Like I said, I like sex. It's good. The more you can get, the better." He reaches for a paper, scoops up some more weed, and proceeds to roll himself another joint.
Leonard watches his fingers. Clever fingers, quick. Competent. Not pretty, not like his mouth, but interesting to watch, all the same. After a second he says, "But isn't it weird, kissing a guy?"
Bill's fingers pause. The joint is still half-rolled. Leonard watches the fingers, and not the face; watches the pause endure and endure, and then suddenly cease and dissolve into a continuance of the earlier motion. "It's not really about kissing, is it?"
"So you never kissed, when you did it?"
Leonard's not sure why he's persisting. It's embarrassing, really; or it should be. This kind of doggedness in the face of certain shame is Bill's territory. But this insistence isn't stopping him from stumbling on into it.
Bill seems to appreciate the honesty, the uncharacteristic openness of his curiosity. There's a smile in his response: "I didn't say that." He raises the joint to his mouth; licks the seam of the paper and seals it down. Leonard watches his tongue; catches the brief touch of pretty mouth to unshapely fingers. "It's...stubbly."
Leonard laughs. It seems the only appropriate response. "Stubbly?"
"Stubbly," Bill repeats stolidly.
"Huh."
For a minute or so, they smoke in silence. At least, in retrospect, Leonard decides it must have been about a minute, sixty seconds of silence. At the time, it seems a lot longer than that. There's another question in his head, and he's very busy trying not to ask it.
This is fairly difficult.
He wonders if Bill will clue in. He wonders this lazily, languidly, as he watches the smoke drift out of Bill's half-open mouth in clouds. But Bill says nothing, and then Leonard hears himself saying, effectively without his conscious mind's permission: "Do you still do that stuff?"
Bill looks at him, quick and grinning with his eyes gone dark. He's still amused. Leonard's stomach is still twisting in the ominous way it always does at that look on Bill's face.
"I could be persuaded," says Bill. He widens his eyes and smirks, the light catching in his pupils, distorting in flashes, in invitation. "Why - you thinking of persuading me?"
He sneaks the tip of a finger between his teeth, in a gesture that could easily have been interpreted as casual, unthinking; it might have been Bill chewing at a ragged edge of fingernail, or biting down on one of those strange pulses Leonard feels throbbing in his fingertips sometimes. But Leonard's not subscribing to any of these interpretations. As far as Leonard is concerned, Bill is teasing him; and that, like his amused glances, like his knowing smile, makes Leonard angry and aroused together, in a curious melée that's churning inside him. Then Bill smirks again, around his fingertip. The volatile mixture flares up like fire, a jarring rush that chases itself up Leonard's spine to take root at the base of his jaw, sour and simmering. Furiously, suddenly, he thinks: Fuck persuasion.
"No," he says, in a voice pitched low, and the sudden flicker of concern in Bill's eyes is deeply gratifying. The spread of that look as Leonard leans close is more pleasing still; the way it intensifies as Leonard grips the back of Bill's skull jolts him hot between the legs. Bill's lips are slightly parted, his breath a warm half-pressure on Leonard's mouth.
He says, "Len - "
Leonard tightens his fingers, firm in Bill's hair, holding him still. "Convince me," he says, his own voice rough like gravel to his ears, "that I'm interested."
Bill hesitates. It is unlike him, in many ways, to hesitate like this; Bill Shatner, this helter-skelter rush of highly coloured human energy, rushing in where Leonard fears to tread. But the uncertainty there, suddenly unvarnished and so plain upon his face, is familiar, although Leonard cannot say from when; he sees it, and realises slowly that it's always there, half-concealed, invisible, but palpable somewhere under Leonard's skin. He's worried. Bill does worry, about this; about him. About...them.
Leonard had meant to wait; had intended to stand here like this, at half an inch's distance, until Bill closed the gap between their mouths, swallowing his cocky certainty, his own levelled challenge. But that certainty is melting under Leonard's hands, and suddenly there is nothing left to wait for. Bill's lips are gently parted, his face like a door left half-open, whether by accident or design, Leonard cannot tell. But he doesn't need to be convinced by Bill. He doesn't know that the reverse is true.
When Leonard presses their mouths together, Bill falls immediately against him, his body going slack with reaction in Leonard's arms. But his mouth is sure, after a moment's startled stillness, kissing him warm and gentle and pleading, and Leonard doesn't care that it's stubbly, if there's any chance that this is what Bill's been asking for so quietly, so softly all these months behind his brashness.
It is stubbly, and swiftly slick, but Leonard cannot say he's learning anything about what it's like to kiss men for entertainment purposes. This is Bill he's kissing - this is Bill, who needs him - and he can't find anything comparable to the way that his heart clenches at that knowledge, the heat that scuffs the surface of his skin.
It isn't about kissing, Bill said. Leonard hears him saying it, but the pressure of Bill's lips give the lie to the argument, the way he is licking into Leonard's mouth, the murmur of his pleading in his throat. The contact of their tongues burns Leonard all over, in a way that makes him want to kiss forever. He doesn't anticipate a lot of protest from Bill, on that score. Unless - well.
It's just sex. Bill had said that, too, scoffingly, offhandedly, and if Leonard had difficulty in believing it then, he has even more of a difficulty now, with Bill in his arms, consuming him. Sex is never just sex, with Bill. It's something else; even earlier, the suggestion of it was a power play; it's love or aggression or arrogance or pride; friendship or joy or jealousy or agreement; desperation, or reassurance, or surrender. And Leonard - to whom sex can be anything from poetry to pornography; death and resurrection and a Friday night activity - could live with that. Whatever Bill wants, he realises, as Bill's fingers insinuate their way between his shirt buttons, he could live with.
He pushes Bill back against the front of the couch, catching Bill's fierce little sound in the heat of his mouth. "You've got me," he breathes, against Bill's lips; and it could have meant a thousand things; and it does, it does. Bill's eyes are soft and endless, and Leonard strokes his hair, kisses his cheek, rubs their faces together, hot and smooth and dry. "You've got me, Billy," he tells him again, and pulls Bill's mouth back to his, swallowing his silence while it lasts.
**
Ironically, I notice that this Bill is, experience-wise, kind of the polar opposite of
my_daroga's Bill from the truly, stunningly excellent Wet Hot American Summer, which she wrote for me in this exchange and which I love like burning and have read more times than I can count, now. As you should all do.
no subject
http://www.memory-prime.de/trekworlds/tvpicturelife1968_shatner.pdf
Guess you probably have things like that but if you want more, I could look up some of my links (can't quite remember them all right now *palms face*
no subject
Someone kill me now before they die and I have a nervous breakdown. *is totally besotted idiot*