#onto tomorrow!

[kj-yikes]

6. Embers

(on ao3 here)

The campfire they built in the backyard of Eliza's home in Midvale is fading, red embers glowing and crackling in the night.

"You know, I can still see Krypton up there." Kara voice breaks through the silence. Lena turns her head where she's laying on the blanket next to the blonde.

"I guess it's far enough away that we still see it on Earth?" Lena asks. Her eyes rove over Kara's face. The moonlight casts shadows on her face, and her brow is furrowed. Lena can detect the hidden sadness underneath.

"Yeah. For now," Kara says. "I don't know for how much longer. I've never done the math." Lena knows that Kara is completely capable of doing the math if she wanted to, but she understands why Kara doesn't.

"Can you show me?" Lena asks, shifting so her head is pressed next to Kara's so they can see from the same vantage point. Kara takes Lena's hand and points it over her face into the sky. Lena's arms erupt in goosebumps at her touch.

"You might have a hard time seeing it without a telescope. Alex used to say she did, when I showed her, but I think she was just saying that. Eliza could never see it." Lena looks over at Kara again, watches as she stares up into the sky.

Lena had always known that Kara held great sadness in her depths, even when they first met. She knew Kara was adopted by the Danvers as a teen, but Kara had rarely spoken specifically about her childhood. She would often mention offhandedly about loss, grief, loneliness, and Lena had never pressed

Now that she knows Kara's full story, Lena understands, and it expands the depths of Lena's love for her. It was the same reason that Lena had always felt a certain affinity towards Supergirl in the first place. They shared many similarities in their pasts, but still perservered, still wanted to bring goodness to the world.

Lena wishes more people would ask her about her mother, so she always makes sure to ask Kara about Krypton. "What do you miss most?" she whispers, rolling over to face Kara. Kara rolls onto her side, tucking her arm beneath her long blonde locks.

"I don't know, to be honest. I've been on Earth now longer than I was on Krypton." Kara's eyes swim with emotion. "Sometimes, it just hits me out of nowhere — a smell, a sound that reminds me of a memory. But my life is so different now, and it couldn't be the way that it is now if all of that hadn't happened."

Lena reaches out and gently wipes the lone tear that's escaped from the corner of Kara's eye. "What's your earliest memory of Krypton?"

Kara smiles and chuckles. "It's going to sound silly, but the earliest memory I have is when I was maybe three? Earth years are different than Krypton's," Kara explains. "My mother had made dessert for later. They were like a kind of sweet bun, though not as sweet as what we have here on Earth. I got caught stealing one while they were cooling. My father generally would have reprimanded me, but my mother just winked and told me that it was our little secret."

"I love that story. I guess it doesn't matter whether it's Krypton or Earth — you're always hungry," Lena giggles and finds her friend's hand, clasping it and bringing it up to her chest.

"That's…actually kind of comforting," Kara says, squeezing Lena's hand and snuggling a little closer. "What's your earliest memory of your mother?" Lena's heart squeezes with emotions — some painful at thinking about her mother, some warm and comforting at Kara thinking to ask.

"They're less memories and more snapshots, since I was so young," Lena whispers. Kara reaches out with her free hand and brushes a piece of Lena's hair out of her face where the wind has blown it out of her ponytail. "I remember warmth from her hugs. I remember playing on the floor while she cooked. I remember she smelled like lavender and sage. Or, at least, those are the scents I associate her with."

Lena trails off. Kara's looking at her with those bright blue eyes, shining despite the darkness surrounding them. Like stars in the sky.

Kara opens her mouth, then closes it again. A few moments pass, the remains of the fire crackling beside them.

"On Krypton, we experienced a lot of different kinds of love, like humans do here. Familial love, love between friends, love of your favorite dessert," Kara smiles. "Marriages were arranged, though. Some people found romantic love through that, but it was uncommon. I think my parents loved each other, but it was…different."

Lena waits patiently for Kara to continue. Her heart feels like it's about to beat out of her chest.

Kara moves to cup Lena's cheek in her hand. "One of the best things about Earth is I got the chance to experience romantic love."

"With Mon-El?" Lena asks. Kara shoots her a funny look.

"No, Lena. With you."

Oh. Oh.

Lena's heart is certainly going to explode out of her chest. "Kara, are you telling me that you love me?" she asks, a smile splitting over her face.

Kara rolls over and brackets her hands on either side of Lena's shoulders, hovering above her. "Yeah, I guess I am," she says simply. "I love you, Lena."

Lena can't help herself when she grasps at the front of Kara's shirt and pulls her down on top of her, joining their lips in a kiss that feels like it's been written in the stars for centuries.

"I love you too, Kara."

[fractangle]

Pride month vest project, a patch a day #29: Wheat But Not Bread, Fruit But Not Wine

[hellenhighwater]

A relief-- they're not making people vote in an app. What a mercy to us artists! It's bad enough to be asking for votes; the shame of asking people to download an app to do it...unlivable.

They're still likely to ask for an email to log in with, because the world is never truly kind.

[heartorbit]

i want to know everything that makes you happy! 💫🪐🎇

[yeyinde]

i'm on a virgin reader kick which somehow led me to coupling that w former chief conservation officer/retired alpha John Price. so. you know. shoot me. or something.

It's an accident, of course.��

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error. 

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes. 

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but to wonder how could you be so stupid? 

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

rough day...

[awkward-fink]

Sleep Positions with Them. (I)

Price: - He lays on his back, one arm around your body, holding you securely to his side in a gentle but firm hold. - only wears sleep shorts and his dogtags to bed. His thighs are too thick for normal sleeping pants and he gets way too warm in those anyway. Also he loves that he can feel your skin on his when you tangle your legs with his own. - loves when you are draped half over him, your fingers curled into his chest hair, one hand of his covering yours. One of his fingers is laying on your pulse point, feeling the steady thrumm while his thumb lazily traces over your knuckles. - he doesnt need a blanket. And you dont either. He is a living furnace, even in winter you are always cosy warm.

Ghost: - curled around you, holding onto you tightly. - always sleeps closest to the door, its instinct, dont question it. - on bad nights he will sleep on top of you, his head firmly positioned on top of your chest, ear firmly pressed against the spot where your heart beats underneath layers of skin and flesh. Its his most favorite lullaby. - would sleep in his tactical gear if you hadnt forbidden it, so he wears a long shirt and long sleeping pants to bed. - will wake when you move or twitch and check if everything is alright before falling back to sleep - forget going to the loo in the middle of the night alone. What if you fall? Or stub your toe? And he isnt there to protect you from the corner of the shower? No way. He is sleepily stumbling right after you, only alert enough to fall into bed after you and curl around you, again. - only needs a light blanket when sleeping with you, because you are clingy (as if he is not!). And needs a weighted blanket on nights when you are away on business.

Soap: - no fixed sleeping position. He starfishes, noodles around, and planks on the bed. All at once. Though, he never pushes you out of the bed, again. Once was one time too many and the *Look* you gave him after that scared him for life. - falls asleep with you in his arms as the big spoon. wakes up in a double spiral, flat salto mortale with you on top of him, his legs wrapped around you like a monkey. And no one knows where the blankets have gone to! - would sleep naked but you wont allow it, on every night. He starts with a boxershort and a shirt and wakes up with one article of clothing missing. - is a sleep kisser. Kisses your fingers, your shoulders, your chest and if he is lucky, your mouth in his sleep. Also cant get enough contact. - loves when you card your hands through his hair when he had a bad day, or a nightmare. Calms him down real quick. If you speak gaelic, he will literally start drooling in his sleep - all the blankets and then no blankets - nights with Soap are wild. In more ways than one.

Gaz: - has a strict routine before coming to bed - loves to have you at his side when falling asleep, your head on his shoulder and his nose buried in your hair. Its calming for him. - sleeps like the dead. Or a stone. Or a field of stones. You could play hardcore metal with screeching violins and that man will only twitch a finger. - *has* to have contact with you while sleeping. Doesnt matter if its a hand, a foot, a leg or even your head, NEEDS contact. If there is no contact, he will wiggle in the bed to search for you, and he will be asleep while doing that - has a whoe ass pyjama, which looks like a suite or at least fitting together like those checkered Ones made out of cotton. Filthily comfy and wont let you burrow them. - Needs at least two blankets and you to rest in comfort. - Listen! Has the most wild dreams and will talk to you in his sleep, wont remember anything in the morning though

Bonus! Roach: - loves to sleep with you in the bed - has a blanket only for you, and a pillow and even wants you to sleep in his shirt. - you understand, that he can fall asleep better if he can have something smelling of you, when you are not with him - loves to curl his fingers around yours, watching you sleep, your legs tangled and your foreheads touching. - lazily signs one handed against the palm of your hand, silly little things, his feelings, sweet nothings, just wants to feel you. - has the best sleep when your breaths mingle, your hands intertwined, his leg hooked around yours. - loves to wake up and the first thing he sees is you. (has literal heart eyes!) - has one oversized blanket for you both to share - loves to kiss you lazily, lips just brushing over yours chastely until you both fall asleep. Holds one of your hands to his heart if he can get away with it - wears a very ol shirt and some old shorts to bed

[sgt-tombstone]

headcanon that Ghost doesn’t know how to drive a manual transmission. Military vehicles are all automatic, and he’d never had a reason or opportunity to learn, so he just… hadn’t. At least, not well. He’d driven stick shifts enough to understand the basics and not stall every time he got behind the wheel, but it’s not something he’s super comfortable with

When he retires (or is forced to retire), the car that Price sets him up with is a manual. He makes it back to the flat (that Price also set him up with) with no small amount of frustration, and he spends the rest of the following week in a state of near-paralysis

If it were just the car, it would be fine. He’s not afraid of learning new things, and he’s definitely not one to let his own pride get in the way of being a functional adult human being. But it’s not just the car. It’s the disruption to his whole routine, the stark unfamiliarity of civilian life, the fundamental alteration of his entire life being uprooted and hastily replanted. The car is just the physical embodiment of it

He’s avoids driving as much as possible, because he hates the reminder that things are different. If he just stays in his flat, he can almost pretend that he’s just on leave. So he lives on take-out, he doesn’t furnish his flat past the bare essentials, he doesn’t let himself settle in

It all comes to a head when Johnny tries to visit on his leave. He asks Simon to pick him up at the airport, and Simon… can’t. He’s built such a mental barrier around his car, the physical manifestation of everything slipping out of control in his life, and he just… can’t

He calls Johnny, who’s obviously still at the airport if the background noise is any indication, and he pours it all out. The empty flat, the constant take-out, the unmoored feeling, and above all, the fucking car. He’s scared, he’s alone, he’s in over his head, and it’s the first time he’s admitted any of it. When he finishes his outpouring of uncharacteristic emotion, Johnny just says, “I’ll help you buy a new car,” like it’s that easy, like that will solve everything

And it does, because the car was never just a car. Johnny cashes in all of his built-up leave time and helps Simon pick out a new (automatic transmission) car. He helps Simon shop for furniture, even if it takes all day and they both leave the store frustrated with nothing to show for it. He helps Simon stock his pantry with ingredients, snacks, and pre-prepared meals, because some days are worse than others. He helps Simon get his feet underneath him, because it’s something he’s never had to do before

He never drives a manual transmission again and he thinks that maybe that’s okay

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[somegrumpynerd]

Sssshhhh the stars are eepy

[wejustvibing]

I’ve known for ages (about Kimi), so… I knew it would be announced this morning. I definitely woke up and it was very, very, very surreal to just have, at least officially confirmed, my seat is going that I held onto for so long. So it was quite emotional this morning, but I’m really, really happy for Kimi and for this team – I know Kimi is gonna do a great job.

It’s been there all year (emotions). Every single race you turn up, I love my team so much. We have been through a hell of a lot together so it will be emotional every single race. Because every race we do is the last time at that particular place. Every race we get closer and closer to the last time I’ll be in that Mercedes. It’s going to be tough, but my focus is just to do my best job for the team and to finish on a high. - Lewis Hamilton

[xxplastic-cubexx]

chat i think im gonna be sick

(Powers of X #6)

[wigglebox]

Suptober [Extended] - Day 30 || Home

[general-cyno]

today in more zolu thoughts: yet another thing I find fascinating about zoro and luffy's relationship, which I believe the LA managed to capture pretty well despite the differences between it and the og source material, is that while zoro's capacity for loyalty and devotion where luffy's concerned are insane (the all-encompassing, heartfelt, lay down my life and dreams for you, follow you until death or the very end of everything kind of crazy), they're not entirely unconditional per se. the condition here being that he has to measure up to zoro's standards - that luffy has to prove himself a man worthy of following.

there are plenty examples of this in the manga, but I'll stick to where it and opla intersect. so manga!zoro pretty much stands firm with this condition when he agrees to follow luffy, warning him about not getting in the way of zoro's dream right away. opla zoro is a lot more reluctant to join in comparison, and he just seemingly goes along with the whole thing in a more "might as well" manner; even so, there's these few subtle moments where you can see him being struck awe by luffy's faith in himself/his dream (the dinner at kaya's) and showing exactly why he's a "different" kind of pirate (ie freeing the folks from orange town).

still, the most pivotal moment is zoro's fight with mihawk in both cases. this is where luffy has to really prove himself to zoro, for the first time. because talk of dreams and promises and not hindering them is nice and all, but can luffy really stand by what he says when push comes to shove? when the life of someone he cares about is on the line? and man. the answer is yes.

in the manga, by stopping johnny and yosaku from intervening and refusing to do so himself as well, even though he was deeply upset by zoro getting hurt, luffy proved he wouldn't go back on his word nor betray zoro's trust and the faith he had placed in him. in a similar fashion, opla luffy letting zoro go ahead with the duel despite his own apprehension/doubts and nami questioning both of their choices, is what finally led to zoro recognizing him as his captain out loud and accepting his role as a first mate.

I just think it's interesting that these two kind of make each other walk on a tightrope. only the world's greatest swordsman can stand by the pirate king's side. the pirate king can have the world's greatest swordsman by his side, if he proves himself worthy of it. but the best part? for me, it's that zoro and luffy are able to challenge one another this way (or set the bar that high) because they absolutely believe the other can rise up to it and beyond.

[amugoffandoms]

"Just me alone, the warmth starts fading away."

(happy birthday, yuno.)

[courfee]

James regularly forgot he wears glasses and got stuck taking off his jumper send tweet