#yes this post is extremely late

[uselesseaweedbrain]

Supercorptober - 11. Emerald

***************************

Emerald. The core of her home planet, her energy supply and the last thing she ever saw of her dying world. 

Until Lex Luthor found it and used it as a weapon against Kal, bringing Superman to his knees on national television.

The people closest to your heart are the ones most able to hurt you, Kara knew. But she didn’t know it applied to objects, too. 

She didn’t know how everything she had ever loved could suddenly turn into a weapon against her - her planet’s core, a torturous poison, her baby cousin, a grown-up stranger, her lovely aunt, a world conqueror, her noble parents, genocidal criminals, her adoptive sister, slayer of Astra. 

But for a while, things had settled and Kara had slipped into forgetful bliss.

And now- now Kara knew she was stupid to think the curse could have ever stopped.

***************************

“You’ve made Kryptonite?” No, not you, not you, too. Anyone but you.

“You will hand over the formula to the DEO, and destroy any remaining Kryptonite, and you will never make it again.”

Supergirl had overcome the Worldkillers, Lena had promised to tell her about any further Kryptonite synthesis, and the story had stopped there.

****************************

“J’onn? J’onn, this is Agent Danvers. I think we have a problem. Kara is not acting like herself. In the beginning, it was harmless, but she’s starting to scare me, and she won’t talk to me-“

“”

“Yes. Yes, okay, I’ll try to localise her and keep you posted.”

“”

“Thank you, J’onn.”

****************************

Kara landed on Lena’s L-Corp balcony late into the night, having ditched her comms and her usual suit to avoid Alex’s relentless tracking. 

She was dressed in a black fitted suit inherited from her aunt, her blond curls sharp against the dark material, the glowing red vein in her neck starkly visible in the dusk’s feeble light.

Lena heard a knock on her balcony’s door and her heartbeat sped up.

Supergirl. Her first reflex was to snark, but the hero looked different, less polished, more angular and threatening than Lena had ever seen her - truer to herself, Lena thought.

So Lena opted for the safe approach, rising from her leather chair in a smooth motion and opening the balcony door.

“Supergirl. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I would like to talk to you, Ms. Luthor. Privately. There are things that you need to know, things that I want to tell you, but I am being watched as we speak. So, if you would allow me-“

“You want to fly me.”

The black-clad hero nodded, and Lena’s face hardened.

“I don’t trust you, Supergirl. You have never treated me fairly, and I do not feel comfortable putting myself in your hands.”

The blonde’s lips pulled into an appreciative smile, and Lena felt shivers run down her spine.

“Very well. Then I assume you have secluded and protected spaces at your disposal?”

Lena acquiesced slowly, obscuring the windows of her office with a command muttered under her breath. The balcony’s door closed automatically, and Lena led the blonde outside her office, stepping into the corridor and pressing her hand against the wall three times.

Green light pulsed under the CEO’s fingers and a portion of the wall pivoted open, revealing a sizeable, empty room, without windows or furniture, the walls blank to the naked eye.

The walls closed behind them and Kara’s X-Ray vision was obscured completely.

Lead.

“This space is safe, Supergirl. You can speak freely - whatever you would like to say.”

The hero hummed, facing the CEO and standing straight. 

“Safe for whom?”, she wondered out loud, but Lena scoffed and Kara waved her hand dismissively.

“Forget it. I did not come here to fight.”

They were standing face to face, the lack of furniture depriving them the luxury of sitting down.

“Very well. The first thing you should know is that I was exposed to red Kryptonite.”

Lena’s eyes widened imperceptibly, her lips quickly pursing in distaste as her left eyebrow rose.

“So you came all this way to accuse me, is that it? Even for you, Supergirl, this seems extremely convoluted.”

The blonde chuckled. “This is not it, Ms. Luthor."

“Then, what is it? Has the DEO proved its incompetence again? Do you need a cure that they cannot provide?”

“Oh, no, I don’t need a cure. The symptoms are not physical - red Kryptonite affects brain chemistry and reduces inhibitions to a level close to zero. And I didn’t come to accuse you. I know exactly who the culprit is - a stupid man named Maxwell Lord.”

“Then, what did you come here for?”

“How interesting,” Kara mused, as she started slowly circling around the CEO.

“What is?” Lena inquired. 

“You don’t seem afraid of me at all.”

“This version of you is actually easier to deal with than your usual self-righteous self.” Lena admitted, and Kara’s laugh rung out in the empty space.

“Tell that to my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Lena, Lena, Lena. Are we still playing this game?”

“What game?”

“The game where you pretend you don’t know who I am, and where I pretend you’re not smart enough to have already figured it out.”

“I- I don’t know what you are talking about, Supergirl.”

“Really, now? I don’t blame you for not wanting to see - I treated you horribly, after all, but I think we both deserve some honesty. So, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

Kara stopped in front of Lena, executing a bow reminiscent of medieval times, and raised her head as she spoke. 

“I am Kara Zor-El, heir of the El family and last daughter of Krypton. On this planet, I am known as Kara Danvers or Supergirl - though both are but shallow facets of a role I was forced to play.”

Lena stood for a moment, her lips parted and her brow furrowed, her green eyes pensive and guarded.

“Why are you telling me this now? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop trying to protect Kara Danvers. I want you to stop being afraid around Supergirl. I want you to hold me accountable as both my selves. I want you to know me and I want you to have me.”

Lena shook her head. “This is the red Kryptonite talking. Supergirl would never say something like this, would never endanger or entrust her identity to a Luthor-“

“I am not them, nor am I simply the sum of the two. I don’t need to be protected - and I am done hiding from you.”

“How can I trust anything you’re saying? How can I trust that you’re not manipulating me again, telling me what I want to hear?”

“You can’t. You can't trust me, and, quite frankly, you shouldn't. But you can trust yourself. Trust your darkness, calling mine.”

Kara took one step closer. Lena didn’t move. 

“Your instincts when they tell you I won’t hurt you.” 

Kara took one more step, getting dangerously near.

“You can trust your gut when it feels more at ease with Kara Zor-El than it ever did with Supergirl.”

Kara raised one hand and caressed Lena’s cheek, swiping her thumb gently on Lena’s lower lip, leaving a trail of goosebumps and a galloping heart in her wake.

“Your lips when they beg for my touch.” 

Her hand slid down on Lena’s hips.

“Your skin shivering under my fingers.”

Her movements halted and her voice became a murmur. 

“You can trust how much you want this,” she whispered against Lena’s lips.

And Lena surrendered in a breath and a surge forward, her lips crashing against crimson steel, her hands roaming the leather clad shape with barely concealed hunger.

Red pulsed on Kara’s throat and Lena kissed it, following the ominous light up to the goddess’s jaw, nipping and biting at the invulnerable skin as Kara slowly sunk to her knees for her.

*********************************************

[enchantingruinscandy]

i may be aroace but my aromanticism is leagues more prevalent than my aceness.

using aroace as a label is a quick way for me to explain two identities i have, but they are two separate things.

do not forget aro people. do not lump them in with aces. only some of us are both.

[allupinyourminds]

RENAISSANCE 1-YEAR COUNTDOWN act i, track ix: VIRGO'S GROOVE

[radio-4-is-static]

地球儀 / Spinning Globe | Kenshi Yonezu

風を受け走り出す 瓦礫を越えていく この道の行く先に 誰かが待っている 光さす夢を見る いつの日も

///

I catch the wind and start running, overcoming the rubble At the end of this road, someone is waiting for me Dream of light shining through, at any day of the week

[wonder-worker]

"As for the government of the kingdom, [Edward V] had complete confidence in the peers of realm and the queen."

"According to the Crowland continuator, [Elizabeth Woodville] seems to have taken the king's place in listening to his council immediately after Edward IV's death. It does appear that she expected to have some role in her son's kingship, and the Crowland continuator’s report of the letters sent to her by [Richard of Gloucester] indicates that she had good reason to expect to be able to work with him and the other councillors: 'the duke of Gloucester wrote the most pleasant letters to console the queen; he promised to come and offer submission, fealty and all that was due from him to his lord and king, Edward V, the first-born son of his brother the dead king and the queen'."

"[However], in what was Gloucester's first coup, Edward V was separated from his household and Woodville advisors. When the young king questioned the move, Buckingham was reported to have told the boy 'It is not in the business of women but men to govern kingdoms'. The blunt remark referred to the authority of Elizabeth Woodville as queen and the power she must have anticipated within the new political climate left by Edward IV's sudden death [...] While the veracity of this scene is questionable*, the words attributed to the duke no doubt seemed plausible to Dominic Mancini who believed they exemplified the popular sentiment held by men [...]."

-Dominic Mancini, The Usurpation of Richard the Third / J.L. Laynesmith, The Last Medieval Queens: English Queenship 1445-1503 / Alexander R. Brondarbit, Power Brokers and the Yorkist State, 1461-1485

*One of Mancini's key sources seems to have been Edward V's own doctor, John Argentine, who attended to him in the Tower. It's very likely that he was the one who recounted this scene to Mancini, which suggests that it should probably be considered more credible than not.

[grelleswife]

Minature pop-up collectible included with Volume 3 of the Public School Arc Blu-ray/DVD release.

Source

[beastsovrevelation]

I started shipping Crowley/Michael with stritctly a Fem!Crowley, but honestly the more I think about it, the more it appeals to me with male Crowley also. They're so ridiculously mismatched, her being a solemn military woman, and him being a goth manwhore.

Also, it offers me a F!Alpha x M!Omega pair in Omegaverse, which I highly appreciate.

[kemendin]

Damaskh/Cipher Twelve 'fits! One very 'Imperial Agent' for when he wants to use that position to his advantage, and one more laidback set for general field wear.

[palebloodpresence]

what if i said my genuine opinion of "rom the vacuous spider" is that she's actually not like, peaceful because she's stupid, she's just extremely fucking chill bc she's so enlightened. like she WILL defend herself but really she just wants to hide in her cool lake world and hide dark rituals

[ehlnofay]

19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

[starryoak]

Me: I am a totally reasonable person capable of accepting that some people won’t enjoy my favorite media and not freak out over that.

Someone: (expresses even a mildly negative opinion about Psychonauts)

Me: I am no longer reasonable, I am ready to murder.

[perenlop]

not to complain abt a thing every pokemon fan and their mom has complained about but man i just realized another reason why not putting the battle frontier in oras was a failure of a decision- because the next game, sumo, and its postgame kinda hinges on you already knowing who anabel is, and i think a good chunk of the fandom either didnt know or didnt recognize her at all because the last time she appeared was in the deep postgame a game that had come out nearly a decade before. so having the battle frontier, or at least the frontier brains, in oras would have reminded the audience and told new fans who anabel was and given us a reason to care about her

[songofwizardry]

ok look I've had a really really really busy/exhausting few weeks, work related and otherwise, and I have had to mark a lotta papers (they are all done now!) but like. I do really, really, really love my job. it is wild and so weird to me sometimes that I just. get to do this, and i am grateful as hell for it.

[tamaharu]

ive inherited a copy of lolita from my parents (i.e. i stole it from the library in our basement and started treating it like its mine) with the 1989 vintage international cover and i think its actually not that bad. better than the 50th anniversary one with the lips anyway imo (which is the cover for the library ebook vers ive checked out).

like i think any cover that incorporates the "only convincing love story of our generation" quote anywhere kind of sucks on principle, and the fact that it features a photo of a girl at all really goes against nabakovs instructions, but compared to other covers that break those two rules, the haziness of the photo creates a really evocative atmosphere i feel matches the book more or less.

[zsbrainrot]

I’m going on a much needed vacation next week and want to watch something short and sweet.

(I plan on watching both in the nearish future, but I can’t decide which to do first)

[wonder-worker]

"[Alice Perrers] requested that she be buried in the parish church of Upminster, St Laurence, before the altar of the Virgin Mary. Alice seems to have had an affinity with Mary through her life; a seal of hers from c. 1374 shows an image of the Virgin Mary and child, her tabernacle seized in 1377 had an image of the Virgin Mary on it, and now she wished to be buried before Mary’s altar."

-Gemma Hollman, "The Queen and the Mistress: The Women of Edward III"