komihn-blog

[komihn-blog]

hey my name is alecto ( previously kylo / zam ) and im back on spock. spread the word your fav is back.

[komihn-blog]

THERE IS TOO MUCH OF YOUR MOTHER IN YOU. // selective s’chn t’gai spock. written by kylo.

[komihn-blog]

HOLY SHIT AM I BACK ON SPOCK

[komihn-blog]

strong voice, teeth bared.   ‘   HOW COULD A MONSTER LIKE YOU EVER BE A VOLTRON PALADIN?   ‘   //    chin raised, mind set. you see the truth.   ‘   YOU CAN NEVER LEAD VOLTRON AGAIN.   ‘   pause, breathe, FIGHT BACK !   ‘   YOU ARE NO PALADIN !   ‘   // shiro, leader of voltron. written by alecto. previously legendcadet.

[komihn-blog]

ALRIGHT SO. i hope you guys know that i am going to be auditioning for phantom of the opera !! this is a really, really rare opportunity but i’m going for it anyway. if i get in, i’ll be very scarce as this requires a long, long schedule of blocking and depending on what part i get, it may be me going to block every few days, every day, or once a week. wish me luck !!

[komihn-blog]

[komihn-blog]

reminder that @punchit is a sweet bab worthy of everything and anything

[komihn-blog]

hey so even though i may not be here all the often because college is riding me hard but i hope you all know that i wish you the best. i know shit’s hard sometimes but i firmly believe something will change that, even yourself. i know that darkness seems consuming but in reality it’s only our perception of the shadows. you are all so brave and amazing and i want nothing but good times for you ahead. if you’re struggling with school, keep trying. if you’re tired of working, think of the things you can do with the money you earn! and if you haven’t eaten, try to eat something small. snuggle a warm blanket and play some video games or read a book. blows a kiss. stay safe.

[komihn-blog]

by  coleito

[komihn-blog]

sometimes i forget this is a cap.

[komihn-blog]

sheba: surface of mars, photographed by mars express, 17th march 2007.

details of terra sabaea, north west of the hellas basin; between 23 and 33°s around 50°e. the image at centre (dark blue) is inside schaeberle crater.

monochrome image coloured with a composite of visible light images; the colour balance is not naturalistic.

image credit: esa. composite: ageofdestruction.

[komihn-blog]

Jenny Holzer’s marquees, a solid reminder to be good.

[komihn-blog]

cons of writing with me: i'm trash

pros of writing with me: i'm YOUR trash

[komihn-blog]

late, yes, but still on the mind. jim prefers quiet and so does spock, fortunately. privacy utilized, he lays a soft, open palm over his counterpart's resting hand. 'happy birthday, ashayam,' in his other is a gift. it's a holotape : recorded sounds and noises of old vulcan, traditional music, some personal picks, and an intergalactic orchestra courtesy of the noises emitted by past planets visited. he kneels to spock's side, and in endearing fashion presses his mouth to the other's palm.

time dwindles   ;   a concept forged even whilst time is unidentifiable, the darkness of foreign stars and mapped sectors existing without a set start or end. another day begins in their falsified calenderic construction, another day ends. and so he exists again and again, even within the space of time he has come to shy from. this day holds little to him in the face of all that has transpired, of all that had been destroyed. time dims this day’s life, and as he sits in meditation, he cannot help but reflect upon his own.gaze breaks from his inner speculation, eyes opening to the stillness of a familiar room. time commands him, and so he follows   ;   a creature bound to the whims of the universe, head down and solemn as legs unfurl and soul is once more confined to physicality. there is little noise here in this relative sanctum, the soft hum of the ship, at times, complementing the beat of his heart. he disrobes, shedding the last of his defenses as he falls beneath the covers of his half emptied bed, eyes closing as the soft scent of his incense fades, taking the concept of time with it.he’s awoken shortly after, a warmth pressing against his skin. eyes flutter open in the dark of their room, fingers twitching as he revels in the affection felt through touch. even in the ashen atmosphere, he can make out the details of jim’s face, beautiful even now. time continues to move forward as he stares openly, free hand moving to touch. he lets pads of fingers land across the other’s face, sliding down gently until a huff of air is released          a symbol of jim’s amusement   /   love   /   kindness. ( TIME MAY TAKE AWAY HIS PAST, BUT IT CANNOT TAKE AWAY THE FUTURE HE SEES STANDING BEFORE HIM. )he moves to sit, letting covers pool across his abdomen as he turns, watching with fondness as his lover mumbles beneath his breath, lights rising to create an atmosphere as a mix between light and dark   ;   an equilibrium fitting for the wave of nostalgia   /   introspection he feels deep within chest. lids are heavy as the word   ashayam   strikes him harder than any weapon ever could. he imagines it akin to how a spearhead may feel         piercing, sharp, yet inspires warmth not from the blood being spilt, but drawing it from souls destined to entwine.he forgoes shifting focus to gift, though he makes a note to use it when time is not pressing onwards, when knees of the other are not pressed to floor and when soft lips are not at his palm.there is so little hesitation now. hands pull away only to return, gentle as they cup the face of his captain. shock   /   awe   /   reverence. fingers move slowly as if in worship, trailing down neck and stopping where fabric begins. there is no sound as he urges him upwards, urges him to fall forwards into his embrace as lips meet, softly in a means to convey all that he feels. ( ALL THAT WORDS CANNOT. ) passion is dangerous, destructive. yet he lets it consume him, lets it drive actions faster, one hand holding this precious thing of fire   /   light   /   care, the other moving to run two fingers down the expanse of clothed arm, ending at wrist and holding as if time did not exist. ( THEY HAVE SO MUCH TIME AHEAD OF THEM. THEY HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR. )

              ‘   thank you, jim.   ‘   breathed into the space between them, even as lips return quickly after, needing the grounding touch. he doesn’t wish to use words, doesn’t wish for barriers or misconstruction of meaning. instead he pulls tighter, closer, shifting hand previously stationed against jaw to slide downwards and away, reaching for the zipper at the back of uniform.

            ‘   lay with me. sanu, t’hy’la. i have missed you.   ‘

[komihn-blog]

lightabandoned:

           ❛ i didn’t steal it,  before you ask. ❜   he absolutely did,  but spock needs not know the origins of the neatly wrapped vulcan relic now sitting in front of him.  ❛ happy birthday. ❜ 

@komihn

BROW RISES AS A FORM OF ADMISSION LEAVES LIPS. it may not be on of guilt or easily straight forward, yet it remains one nonetheless. gaze is drawn towards wrapped offering, hand extending to reverently smooth fingers down its surface.

         ‘ ... while i have reason to suspect you of deceit, i am humbled by your gift.   ‘   a solemn pause, pads of fingers still brushing softly. nails scrape gently against wrapping, pulling bits and pieces away until calligraphy begins to arise, elegant swirls and sharp lines creating a warmth within his chest he has not felt for so long.   ‘   however, i believe it of great import to know how, exactly, you had retrieved such an item?   ‘

[komihn-blog]

erupt

[komihn-blog]

it takes time to prepare meals by hand, a step most officers do not need to take in the day thanks to synthesizers ... but gestures should be made when a birthday comes around. t'palia has prepared a platter - foods as close as possible to those from their home ( the plomeek soup is her mother's recipe ). " happy birthday, spock. "

home has variable meanings when you reside upon a starship set to scale the stars. home doesn’t resonate when the planet you once knew is destroyed, its death an act of sanctified retribution by a man forsaken in his own time. home is no longer tangible   ;   a concept in an existence focused solely for comfort, for peace, for sanity. there is no home to return to. the sands he has scaled in youth are gone. the house he grew and learnt and aged in is only a memory coveted as if sacred. the vulcan people have little, yet they set to gain so much more in the years to come. he should be thankful as much had survived as it had. ( HE DOESN’T FEEL THANKFUL FOR FEELING THE PHANTOM ARMS OF HIS MOTHER WRAP AROUND HIM. HE DOESN’T FEEL THANKFUL FOR THE MOURNING HE HAD DONE. HE DOESN’T FEEL THANKFUL FOR THE EMPTINESS WHERE ONCE WERE HYMNS AND PRAYERS THAT UPLIFTED THE KATRAS OF SO MANY. ) he should be thankful. he should.he isn’t. yet time and energy, focus and resolve, are pushed to other things. there are monumental achievements ready to be completed, praised. there are new discoveries to document, find. there are new experiments to be done, explored. where there is death there is always life. ( A CONCEPT FORGED IN THE STARS THEMSELVES, IN THE VERY CREW WHO CONTINUE TO SACRIFICE FOR THE GREATER GOOD. ) vulcan’s demise took with it so much, letting ancients crumble and homilies go unanswered. even with their historical, religious sites gone   ;    the lives of their ancestors lost   ;   the lives of children fated to never grow old locked within memory, they rise. they rise and they rise and they forge themselves a path from endurance and strength and the resolve in knowing this is not their end. ( THIS IS NOT A MOMENT OF SORROW, BUT ONE OF ACCEPTANCE. ) they are a people burdened with a death that should never have been. he forgets that. he forgets that he and t’palia are two souls whom each carry their own weights. be it upon their shoulders, chests, hearts. he forgets that. he forgets she has suffered just as he.he forgets that she, perhaps, is thankful. he forgets that not all have lost hope. perhaps it is the loss of his mother, the woman who encouraged without haste, that hastens his own attitude of feigned indifference. ( OF REPRESSING THE SORROW HE STILL HEARS ECHO WITHIN THE MINDS OF THOUSANDS, MILLIONS. )forgive him, he thinks as eyes light upon the gift. forgive him, his lips almost say as he looks to her with astonished gaze, open with not only wonder, but with a thankfulness he had supposed too precious for a child such as he to hold. 

         ‘   my birthday is hardly a means for celebration.   ‘   so cynical, yet voice is softened, rough as it were in his moments close to death. this intimacy remains hard to navigate, yet there is an obstruction in throat as he gazes, lost and lost and lost and he swears, he swears, there’s no coming back from this.this is what finding home feels like. ( THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO FIND SOLACE. )lips quiver in slight, hardly noticeable yet present all the same. there is so much emotion, so many elements warring inside, swirling into some tidalic wave he doesn’t truly know how to control. he cannot cry, yet voice is thicker now, damaged by her kindness, her unrelenting understanding. he knows, then, that t’palia will be a woman he respects and admires for the rest of his life. he knows, then, that she will be known as the one who led the people to their salvation, who saved the lambs from slaughter. ( PROVERBIAL, YET PROFOUND. ) she will always hold a place in his heart. she will always be more than subordinate. and he is thankful. he is content. itar-bosh.                                                       ‘   th'i-oxalra, t’hai’lu. would you ... be interested in dining with me?   ‘