wind tasting

anonymous asked:

could you write something about my poor touch-starved sweet baby lena getting physical attention? (like the chin touch from rhea, the PERFECT hug from kara, anything i just have so many feelings about my child 😭)

She’s not used to touch.

Being touched.

Unless it’s by rough hands.

Rough hands, dismissive hands.

Hands that want to show her off to the world, but only because she’s beautiful. Only because she’s brilliant. Only because she can raise her mother’s bottom line.

Until she can’t anymore.

And then the only touches are clinical. Necessary.

Jack touched her. It was nice. It was delightful.

But Jack was a long time ago, and now Jack was dead, and now…

And now, there’s Kara – there has been Kara, since before Jack… – and Kara doesn’t shy from her touch like her skin contains a Luthor plague.

Kara hugs her and Kara holds her and Kara kisses her forehead gently, gently, gently, and it’s the most tender kiss Lena thinks she’s ever received.

And Supergirl’s arms are strong and they keep her safe and they protect her, like Kara says she will. Protect her, and they feel exactly like Kara’s arms do, and she wonders, and she knows, and she wonders when Kara will tell her.

And then there’s Rhea, and Rhea talks to her the way she’s always fantasized her mother would, and Rhea touches her chin the way her mother used to touch Lex’s but god, no, never hers.

Not like that.

She doesn’t think she needs it. Most of the time.


Because she has her work and she has her red wine and she has her meals brought to her at her desk, because if she’s working while she eats, she doesn’t have to be reminded of the soft, quiet intimacies that she’s missing.

The touches that she’s starved of.

And she is.

Starved for them.

For touches that love her, that revere her, that… treasure her.

And that’s how Kara Danvers touches her.

That’s how Kara Danvers lifts her chin, softly, gently – god, how can a woman with such superhuman strength have such control, such perfect tenderness? – and that’s how Kara Danvers touches her entire body with her eyes when she breathes, “Lena, can I kiss you?”

And god, yes, yes, yes, she can.

And Kara’s hands are gentle, and they’re soft, and they’re slow, but they touch her like Kara will die without more of Lena’s skin under her palms, under her fingertips.

Her lips taste of wind and mints that mostly mask the taste of pizza, and Lena smiles, because Kara Danvers is touching her, holding her, loving her.

Worshiping her.

She promises she won’t cry, and she immediately breaks that promise.

It’s the little intimacies that bring the tears to her eyes.

The ones like Kara bringing her hand to Lena’s thigh under the table when someone brings up Cadmus.

The ones like Kara’s fingers weaving through hers when they walk from their newest brunch place to the docks to meet Alex and Maggie for the second half of their date.

The ones like Kara’s kiss brushing the back of her neck while she works, Kara’s fingers kneading softly into her shoulders, melting her tension like magic.

The ones like Alex hugging her in greeting at game night while Kara beams behind her.

The ones like Winn offering her his hand when he invites her up to play pool with him and Maggie.

The ones like James pulling her into a relieved hug after she narrowly avoids taking a bullet during one of their skirmishes with the Daxamites.

The ones like J’onn putting a hand on her shoulder, an approving nod accompanying his almost-smile that’s more than good enough for her, after she saves everyone, again.

The ones like Maggie putting her hand on Lena’s lower back as she leans up and whispers, “Our Danvers girls are at it again, huh?” when Alex and Kara start to team up against James and Winn on game night.

It’s the little intimacies – the softest, most casual touches – that, slowly, slowly, slowly – make her life full again.

there is a secret history woven
into the curls of your veins,
blue highways that wind down
your arms, shadow in your wrists.
the way you bend in the storm
like a young tree, branches
cracking with the weight of
the wind. your mouth tastes
like the dark between the stars,
a promise from another world
of cool rivers, smooth skin.
i come undone for you
over and over again.
—  undone || a.s.w.

anonymous asked:

I'm still laughing after it happened. Some lady yelled at one of our cashiers to the point that she was in tears over an expired coupon, and my manager sided with the cashier, so the lady left in a huff after her transaction, saying she was calling corporate right now. She did so while smoking in front of the exit when a cart from the store next door that was left outside by another asshole customer got pushed by the wind and hit her. Taste karma, bitch!

I can’t stop laughing. You can’t do this to me when I’ve been up late to a point I’m not sane anymore. And especially after a couple of drinks. I’m going to dream about this and it’ll be SO worth it though. FUCK that is satisfying! -Abby

anonymous asked:

Could you do a fix it fic where kara and Lena finally admit their feelings for each other (and lena knows that she is supergirl) and lena stays with her on the ship please? Your fics are the best and honestly you should write the show!

This picks up from here:

Lilian underestimates her daughter.

She always has.

She probably always will.

Underestimates her because she sees her.

She sees the way she clings to Supergirl’s hand; the way her entire body pressed into their hug; the way her entire body is relaxed, now, safe, now, that the caped alien nuisance is by her side.

She sees her, but she fails, utterly, to understand her. To comprehend her.

To truly feel for her. With her.

Because she underestimates Lena.

Underestimates her knowledge. Her perception. The depth of her love, her appreciation, for Supergirl. For Kara Danvers.

She wants the news that her two friends in National City are, in fact, one friend, to break her.

She wants it to make her hate Kara. Hate Supergirl.

And that break will be the clean one Lilian’s been searching for, to use to weld Lena by her side.

But she doesn’t understand her, doesn’t comprehend her, doesn’t feel for her. With her.

So she doesn’t know that Lena already knows.

Lena already knows exactly whose hand she’s holding.

Knows exactly who this woman in a cape is.

Her hero. Kara Danvers.

Her friend. Supergirl.

Her love. Both. The same. One.

So when Kara thrusts Lena protectively behind her back, because at the slightest nod from Lilian, Cyborg Superman lunges to try to wrench the two of them apart, Lena knows exactly who is protecting her.

Who is fighting for her.

She knows exactly who is throwing punches and sweeping up her cape to protect Lena from hellfire.

She knows exactly who is punching and heat vision-ing into unconsciousness the man who hurt the woman she loves. The man who hurt the woman her sister loves.

No more. No more.

Kara rounds on Lena’s mother, and she doesn’t need Lena’s whimper to stop her from killing her.

She won’t break Lena, not like that. Not ever.

“Take those two and Lena back to the surface,” she tells the man restraining Lilian Luthor.

“What? Why? You can’t stay here, the DEO has that cannon thing trained on this place – “

“I have to give your mother a chance. All of them. I can’t just leave them to die without another chance.”

He doesn’t argue nearly enough, but he shuts Lena’s mother up effectively enough when she starts to scoff. 

He doesn’t argue nearly enough, because he says he’s a superhero because he loves a superhero, but he loves his comfort more.

But Lena? Lena won’t take a step toward him. And she certainly won’t look at her mother.

“Lena,” Supergirl prompts, her voice softening as she turns to her, blocking her mother from her view. “Lena, you have to go with them. The DEO can protect you – “

“We don’t have time for this, Supergirl, the DEO is about to blow this place – “

“I know, I know – he’s right, Lena, you need to go, now.”

Lena tilts her head and stares, like she can’t quite comprehend what’s happening, what Kara is saying.

“Not without you,” she says, like it’s the most obvious conclusion in all the multiverse.

“Lena, you can’t – “

“Lena, be reasonable, you – “ But Lena has grabbed the device from Supergirl’s hand, and she’s fiddled with it with the speed of a genius, and without another word, without another blink, she and Kara are the only two remaining.

“Lena, what did you do? I can’t let you stay, it’s too risky – “

“Your sister won’t fire a weapon that will kill you, Kara.” She says it soft and she says it scared. But god, god, god, she says it.

Kara nearly reaches for glasses that aren’t there and she desperately tries to pfft. “What? How do you – “

“Because she loves you, of course.”

Kara blanches. Everyone keeps saying she loves Lena… And she does. Rao, she does. Just not in the way they were all saying. She thinks Alex might know, but that’s not the point, not right now… 

“No, I meant how did you – “

“Because those eyes, Kara Danvers? Will always be heroic to me.”

The ship rumbles and Lena staggers forward, into Kara’s arms, and just this once, the multiverse is working in their favor.

Kara breathes out and Lena breathes in her breath, and time is frozen like the world isn’t about to end, like the planet below isn’t on fire.

“Lena, I… I’m sorry I lied, I didn’t want to, I just – “

“No, Kara, this isn’t… that’s not why I told you, I’m not… I’m not angry. There are many kinds of lies, Kara Danvers, and the ones you have to weave in your life? I imagine they’ve only ever caused you more pain than they’ve caused anyone else. And you bear it so beautifully, so bravely, I…”

Kara’s lips part and her breath hitches and her eyes travel to Lena’s lips, to Lena’s chest.

“Thank you for coming to rescue me,” Lena finishes softly, and Kara reaches slow, tentative, terrified, exhilarated fingers to her face.

“I will always come for you,” she whispers, and Lena is too overcome by the burning in Kara’s eyes, by the intensity of the woman’s gaze, to even crack a smirk at the unintended pun.

Lips hover close to lips, and neither is sure who tilts forward first, but Kara is sure that Lena tastes vaguely of hope and loss and stale ship air and Lena is sure that Kara tastes of wind and ash and sky.

Both are sure that the other tastes perfect.

“Well isn’t this the scandal?” Rhea’s voice makes them both jump. “My son’s wife-to-be and my son’s worthless girlfriend, together on his wedding night.”

“You’ve lost, Rhea. There won’t be a wedding night. There won’t be any obliterated hospitals. You’ve lost,” Lena practically snarls, and Kara gulps at her intensity, at her fire, at the fact that those perfect lips were just on hers.

Rhea is chuckling and Kara is clenching her fists, is shifting in front of Lena.

“They’ll blow this place, Rhea. Don’t think that they won’t. You can choose to end this, now, and leave this planet, or you can choose to vaporize with us. And what, you think that’s funny?”

“What I think is funny, Kara Danvers, is that you seem to think I only have one way to defeat you.”

Lena gasps before Kara sees him, before Kara takes the brunt of his blow.

Her stomach contorts when she blinks up at her cousin, clearly controlled somehow.

It’s bad enough that she loves him so much.

But at least it’s not Alex this time.

“Lena, stay back,” she shouts, and Rhea chuckles as Lena scrambles to obey, stolen gun in hand, ready.

Ready to defend the woman she loves, as the woman she loves defends her.

She is born sixty-seven feet underground, twelve inches of steel-reinforced concrete separating her from a world on fire and simmering in radiation. There is no higher than the hatch that will lead them out onto the ground, and though she is little, her mother and father take her to the meeting of above and below, and press her hand to the cool metal. Sister is out there, they tell her, because they must believe in these things to carry on day after day in the below when they have no plan on how to open a door crushed by rubble and ruin. 

She is five when she feels the sun’s warmth on her face for the first time, feels the wind and the breeze, tastes the sweetness of spring air. Now below is the grass between her feet, and above the endless sky, the Go-Sci ring twinkling down at them in the night and the Eligius ship hovering in atmosphere. 

She is seven, when the Sky People return to Arkadia and the rest of the Ark comes crashing to Earth. The warped ruins of Alpha are a husk to be rewired, refitted. The Earth, scorched and toxic, saves them but one valley, life preserved by her namesake. 

She is twelve when she climbs the ring. There are eight other students in her year, a paltry number in comparison to those born once they returned to the ground. There are nine of them, some born down sixty-seven feet underground and some born miles above. Climb higher. They have the edge, have peered down at them from space. But she will climb higher. She does not look down until she has mounted the summit, and sees her grey-haired father swaying on his feet. There is a trick to coming down, the trick of not falling, and her fingers are sore when her feet land on loamy soil. Her mother drags her into the medical bay to count bandages for the rest of the week. But still, she is a child of sky, and her fingers combed through the cloud-like mists. 

She fifteen, when she hears of the hundred. There are not many left. Sister. Octavia. Monty. Harper, Murphy. Bellamy, and Raven. Her parents’ mouths gape from a lack of explanation. You sent them down to die? Their faces turn into strangers and she runs, considers letting her feet carry her out and away into the woods, but instead she finds familiar footholds and climbs. Too fast, arms trembling and the soles of her feet slipping over wet metal. She almost falls, catching herself against the hulking shell, and squeezes her eyes shut. 

How old were they? Sister was seventeen. Some younger, some older. Children of the sky, plummeting to the Earth. She stands atop of her world, and looks up. Further to fall, in a world where she does not know what it means, to fall from any great height. The air is cold, hurts her throat. 

How old will she be, when the fall first beckons her?

They live in the Garden of Eden, some five square miles to be shared by thousands.

They live in the Garden of Eden, and she is Eden Kane, set to inherit all of humanity’s inborn grace and inherent sin.

“ Im not everyone’s cup of tea”

How life is a joke ,how life is a continued journey of laughs with such ridiculous selfish ,egocentric people who composed with their hearts so delighful jewls and at the same time destroy their  fellows’  path in an instant?

How life is a pain ,how life is a tormented joy mixed with sorrow ,with people with the ability of transforming  the world with an act of kindness ,by seeing beyond the obvious but no ,they want and keep tracing the same old path as sinner of their own creations?

How life is a tricky play, roled with dull characters ,with their looks of saints ,of well behaved styles of life and inside they are just dry shallow stinky bones never realizing how fragil and mortals creatures they are ?

Im not everyone’s cup of tea i know ,i dont want to please others just to look good in the big picture ,i dont possess the knowledge of a genious but im real,sharp ,natural ,simple and i fiercely love the ones i care deeply even in a distant shore ,in the ripples of the ocean ,over in high mountains or in the storm of the desert….

How life can be tangled in twists ,in circles ,in ideas ,with a sense of eternity  but not once i tried to be equall in the sense as sheep follow a sheppard but a lamb waiting for a single sacrifice.

No matter i do ,i will be passionated ,proud of my deeds even smaller than the great masters of this universe but i will taste the wind with my words,i will be carried away in a symphony of wonders ,i will be led in a wave ,i will pronounce the name i carry engraved deep down my heart even in death…

Im not everyone’s cup of tea nor i pretend to be ,i just want to explain ,to claim to heavens that even smaller,even in dust im proud of who i am,truthfully ,honestly and proud of my blood mixed in so many skins ,so many languages and like a gem my irish/portuguese heart will be always one in an unique cup of tea or even in a pot of bitter pepper …i will always be me no matter the winds of change ,the winds where all want be led i wont go that way…

Yes im not everyone’s cup of tea and i never will push no one to think like me or like me the way i wanted, but at least, i have my pride …still intact …

This is who i am….

the children’s season falls like love: slowly, stealthily, devious and sticky-sweet like ice cream running down kids’ fingers, like painted colors running down a sunset canvas. there is nowhere to go without sun, without the sound of hot feet slapping on pavement like God is applauding this freedom, this flying-bird falling-sunshine laughing-wind freedom that tastes like honey and looks like the way the sun shines off his hair, the way the sweat rolls off her skin, the way the hearts beat in their chests like youth, passion, red-hot life right off the shelf.

shorts and tank tops and chuck taylors and ponytails swinging like pendulums, glowing like halos, all golden thread and chestnut string; sleek bared chests and swimtrunks and smiles like streetlights (they only come on at night, when the moon is drinking whiskey and the girls are out in full-swing). sweet sweat rolling like ichor and words dripping from full lips like ambrosia. this is how you know the young gods are alive: electricity is in the air in anticipation of all the storms, skin turns to bronze and smiles turn to ivory, the city comes alive deep in the streets where no one thinks to look. the world gets brighter - then the world gets darker.

her mother always told her summer was her season: long legs like effortless, a chest like godless, a laugh like goddess, sweet beauty on top of sour sly cyanide. love pooling in the fingertips of one hand and poison pooling in the fingertips of the other. her teeth are white like sinless but in the right light they glow with the blood of all the hearts she’s popped like balloons and when she walks down the street time stops. sound stops. the light stops. everything stops.

his father always told him summer would be his season: sex drive like a v8 engine, fingers like gold-laced leaves (beautiful but shaking), dimples like craters deep down in his skin. hair falling past his eyes like stay away. his eyes are wide and quiet like the sky, but in the summer the skies light up like the bright flaring pain of beauty and maybe his eyes seem a little more like universes, a little more alive, a little more there, or maybe it’s his imagination. sometimes, when the eye in the sky sets and he’s left on his own at the old cornerstore on 44th street, he wonders why his bones are made of the earth instead of the stars. why he doesn’t bleed jack daniel’s and laugh smoke. why the others are young immortals and he is just young.

immortality is made, not born. the stars whisper to him even though he is deaf to the heavenly:

yours is coming. when your feet no longer touch the ground, do not cry for relief; we will not hear you. and if we do, we will not answer.

- i. the melting season // part one of “seasons” // abby

Angel On Fire [Reader x Countess x Donovan]

Request: “Imagine going to the hotel for the first time as a newly turned immortal and when the Countess and her current lover find you feeding on a blood bag they take you in. Maybe as a daughter/son” - *?

Warnings: SLIGHTLY OOC, sort of off-prompt, blood, probably more…

Word Count: 819

A/N: Not quite like the transitions from the show, but I needed the drama lmao. And hey, Dany’s back! Finally!

*I forgot who sent this in, oops.

“Why did you come here?” The blonde woman asks, her gloved thumb laying on your cheek. You swallow, somehow unable to respond. As she leans farther down, a lock of her hair falls from her elegant updo. She doesn’t bother to push it back, instead wiping a small drop of blood from your paled skin. “Tell me.”


The unusually freezing wind nipped at your face as you stumbled down the quiet Los Angeles street. You were looking for something, but you couldn’t quite remember what. But every time you inhaled that cold wind, you tasted it. It was like an old penny, metallic. Honestly, you were afraid to know what it was, or what it meant. 

Someone pushes past you, knocking you into the side of a brick building, mumbling under their breath. “Goddamn drunks… Always so slow.” As the figure passes a streetlight, you see a very unhappy looking man. He quickly wipes his hand on his coat, and disappears back into the darkness.

You didn’t have the willpower to respond, nor did you much care to. All you wanted was to find that taste… Standing back up, you look above you, the neon light suddenly drawing your attention. “Hotel Cortez,” it read. The sign hurt your eyes, but you couldn’t draw away from it.

Deciding to go in the building, you open the door, slowly walking in. A small bell above the door chimed as you entered, making your head spin in a fit of pain. The sound was much too loud. Clenching your fist, you continue forward to the empty reception desk, past the empty red seats and glamorous furniture. You fall, quickly catching yourself on the edge of the dark desk. You halfheartedly place your finger on the reception bell, earning no immediate response.

You’re not sure how you ended up in that hotel room– number fifty one. You’re also not sure how those three near dead bodies ended up sprawled out on that bed, sprays of their ruby liquid neatly placed on the wall. It could’ve been easily mistaken for art had nobody in that hotel known better.

Sitting on the bed, the blood was overpowering. You wanted it- needed it, so, so, so badly, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. The more you told yourself this, though, the more power it gained over you until you sat in the corner of the bedroom, tears flowing down your cheeks as you tried to wipe the redness away from your lips. 

“Love,” She purrs, snapping you from your thoughts. “you mustn’t cry. You have no reason to cry.”

It’s then that you notice the man beside her. He was tall, dark haired with piercing blue eyes the color of ice. The pair was gorgeous. Each of their features contrasted the other person, but they did share one thing; The couple had the same alluring feeling. You couldn’t help but spill your feelings to her when she asked you to. You couldn’t lie to her.

“We need to get going.” He says confidently, sighing at her [apparently] sudden affection.

“Come with us.” A small smile appears on her lips. You shake your head.

“I-I couldn’t. I don’t-” Your voice is barely above a whisper, afraid of becoming too loud. Your new senses were starting to level out, but you knew anything could set them off again like that bell did.

“You’re no trouble.” She extends her hand, pulling you up from the cold carpet. You follow the pair of them back into the elevator. He presses a button, but you can’t see which one.

“Who are you?” You ask them. The question wasn’t directed at either of them specifically, but you were desperate to know.

“We’re just like you.” He doesn’t bother to turn to face you, but not quite ignoring you.

She cuts him off with a glare. “My name is Elizabeth, dear. He is Donovan.”

The elevator dings, the doors opening. In immediate sight, the room was a beautiful living area. Expensive furniture and art were dotted around the dark space, more neon signs and lights hung on the walls to match. They lead you to the long, red sofa, allowing you to sit. Almost instantly, you feel yourself relax as she hands you a full glass of fresh blood. It was significantly better than those dying bodies you had fed on previously. 

“This is enough to replenish you for tonight. We will hunt tomorrow evening.” Elizabeth declares, confident. Donovan nods.

The rest of the night is a blur, but you’re certain it consisted of them taking you to their bedroom and letting you sleep the newly heightened senses off. Elizabeth fulfilled her promise of taking you on your first hunt the following night, Donovan not once complaining about not wanting to go out. Quickly, the relationship became very much like one of parent and child. And, surprisingly, none of you minded.

  • [Vox Machina returns to the Material Plane from the Feywild.]
  • Jarett: "Ah, friends! It has been a while. I am happy to see that you survive. So… it's been a while; is everyone okay?"
  • Vax'ildan: " 'It's been a while…' How long?"
  • Jarett: "Most better part of a week."
  • Keyleth: "So… so, it is, like, Saturday here, right? Time runs the same?"
  • [Jarett licks his finger and sticks it into the air in confusion.]
  • Jarett: "Yes?"
  • Scanlan: "Why did you taste the wind?"
  • Jarett: "I don't know why; it was a strange question!"

to those who kicked me in this post  ( @forovnix and @saltier-than-thou ): i grant you some words you kicked me into writing

also @dystopiansushi bc i love her

from a fic i haven’t really talked about but hinted at a few times shhh

im hope u like and it isnt trash

(also i tried posting this once before and i think tumblr ate it????? sorry if u had to see this twice idk what’s happening w/ this hellsite)

Keep reading

I need to drink the wind, taste the rain,
Too much sunshine leaves me empty.
I count the petals one by one,
Spring sprints toward destruction.

I am comet hurtling toward
Flaming rock, I am explosions
Rocketing into parts unknown,
I am knife drawn toward tender flesh.

I need the nectar of this darkness
Slipping sloppy down my chin.
All this order makes me uneasy,
I’m hollow without chaos.

anonymous asked:

So I have been re-watching the Richonne van scene from season 7, episode 12. At first when I saw that Rick put his hand down the back of Michonne's pants, I thought "how sexy is that?" Then I started thinking that Rick stuck his hand down there to feel if she was "ready" for him. Now I watch the scene with new eyes 👀. Can you write a one-shot Richonne paragraph about this? I need this smut played out.😎

Hey nonny, hey!


1. I 100% agree with you.

I think he was probably “tasting the wind” so to speak, but I’ll raise you one and add that I think he probably just likes it down there, ya know? Touching it, tasting it, feeling it on his fingers…I’m serious. Rick seems very tactile…I like to watch his hands move (for SCIENCE and b/c I’m a freak) and it seems that is part of him grounding himself: touching things, feeling things, holding things…the way his hands move on things is interesting to watch and gives me that impression. Also, it’s sexy af.

So I think it drove him crazy not to be able to touch Michonne for so long before they got together, and now he can touch her all he wants to – AND I think one of his favorite places to touch and ground himself in is Michonne – in this particular case, her desire for him. He’s giddy. He’s a kid in a candy store. I love it. A couple examples of his hand play:

2. I would be happy to give it a shot! 

At the moment, I’m both working on a pitch for the 9-to-5 (::hard eye roll::) and trying to finish Chapter 4 of Machine Heart – but as soon as those are done I will sit down and try out some one-shots. Your request and a request I got for a Richonne version of the toe-blowing scene from Carmen Jones are in the queue. I will def tag it and post it here when I’m done!

Thanks so much for the ask!


in another lifetime, Hera leaves Zeus and is not ashamed of it. He watches her step, barefoot, down the side of Olympus and learns what it is to lose. He goes home and holds his children tight, apologizes for all he’s done.

Hera apologizes too, first to Hephaestus in his smoky forge. He is still crippled but the pain is gone now. Her hug feels like a bonfire. He makes her a necklace of precious metals.

Next she enters the land of Hades. Semele is there, and she has a soft glow now, like moonstone. They trade stories about Zeus and Hera tells her Dionysus is doing well. She promises to visit again sometime soon.

In this lifetime, Zeus vows to never love again. Leto comes back to Greece and he breaks that promise. Hera went to the wedding. It was lovely.

Orion meets her in a small forest by the ocean’s edge. His quiver holds arrows of starlight and his fingertips touch the moon and sun. Hera kisses him and his lips are planets. They taste like wind. She is happy.

Supergirl headcanon:

Sometimes Kara and J'Onn end up together on the DEO balcony, the sky stretched out over them and a quietness in the air they can almost feel. There’s a heaviness, it’s rare, but it happens, and they can always recognise it in the other. A shared look over an innocuous comment, a moment the other is too still, their gaze a little too vacant, their mind lost elsewhere. Some of these times, they let the quiet settle in their marrow, nestle deep within them, standing there, eyes focused upwards, staring somewhere neither can really see. Their shoulders brush, just barely, an exchange of warmth, and they just be. Other times, they talk. Simple sentences, in bits and pieces, about being the only survivors of their planets. The last man of Mars and the last child of Krypton. She tells him, guilt in her voice, that she can’t count Kal-El, as he doesn’t carry their history in his brain or their language on his lips. He doesn’t remember the streets and how they curved and arched. The sound of the wind, the taste of it, one like she’s never found here on Earth. Their words rise and fall, twist in on each other and fall around them, settling at their feet. J’Onn talks of his children. But also of the way the dust was dry and hot, red the colour of everything. The colour of life. Of death. Of rebirth. And she listens and nods, her gaze still cast up and swallows too heavily, something heavy in her throat. J'Onn watches her under the stars and wonders how she isn’t bowed more by the weight of Krypton, the responsibility she’s carried since she was too small to even grasp what was happening. His arm drapes over her shoulders, heavy and comforting and her head falls against his shoulder, a weight that keeps him here, on this planet. They share their memories in the hopes that someone else will remember, a bond that’s mostly unbreakable. There’s an understanding that comes with being the last of your kind.

Offer Me

The amazing @raven-brings-light requested "offer me”. This is for you (I so hope you don’t mind Loki+lip balm) + a hug for writing such a beautiful fic for me eeeeeee!! 

(this is a little mix of classic Myth type thing and more modern. Sorry for getting names of places wrong!!)


When I turned eighteen, my father gave me a pet Jotun. His name was Loki. The Jotuns, they migrate, just like birds do, when their treacherous  land turns too cold and steals the life away from their lips in their sleep, in that point when all dreams turn to black and vibrate with a melodious silence. He fled Jotunheim with his mother, who perished on the fourth day. Loki was captured two days later and was sent to be sold on our markets as a slave. My father told me that the men who captured him said his black-black lashes were coated with frost clear as water and that the breath of winter itself escaped from his lips and turned their hearts cold and lonely.  

“My lonely boy,” my father said to me, “gone for hours on end with only the skies and the hushed fields to keep you company, only the lakes to reflect your smile, only the caves to echo your laughter. One must never journey through this life alone. Therefore I gift you with a living heart, one you can share your thoughts and memories with. Close he is to your age, and he cannot judge, for he does not speak our language. Teach him, if you so wish, yet remember this: once you gift him with the gift of language, he may ask things of you that you will not wish to give. He may ask for the gift of freedom, my son. What will you do then?”

I loved roaming the fields of our beautiful lands, gathering pollen on my lashes and soft petals on my shoulders, tricking servants sent after me to fetch me back to the palace, making myself invisible to them in all those never-ending fields of wheat glittering like gold in the light, and arriving at the gates just before the sun goes down, breath tickly in my throat, ankles blazing red and sore, the sunlight still sticking to the sides of my neck. I was always alone, but then I had Loki and I took him everywhere I went. I’d watch the shadows of the branches paint ancient tales over the pale skin of his shoulders and arms, I’d feel the ends of his black tunic getting caught in the wind and brushing the sensitive skin of my calves, I’d listen to the sound the flowers would omit when he’d brush them with his fingertips and tip them over like a crumbling tower just to gently push them the other way and have them stand upright again, and I’d study his eyes as they’d touch with their gaze a ray of light fallen over a coarse tree bark, the airy wings of a butterfly caught in the breeze, the corner of a soon to be purple sky closing around a silver half-moon.

Two years later, father had sent me to Midgard, a short stay, to learn the ways of those I was destined to protect. Loki came with me and we found a place to stay, a little apartment, squeezed between so many other grey buildings it was impossible to see the sky. I’d find Loki sitting on the windowsill , his legs crossed, the vertebras visible through the thin fabric of the t-shirts he’d wear, his face turned up, lashes longing to feel the touch of a breeze upon them, eyes missing those shades of blue, and other shades, darker, of times long gone.

We’d walk the streets whenever we could. Loki couldn’t bear staying indoors in the summer. We’d walk side by side, shoulders touching, his gentle silence an entire dialogue between us.  The language of Asgard was soft and silky in his mouth, yet he felt uneasy speaking the words. They felt different to him, so unlike the heavy and sharp rhythm of the language they spoke in Jotunheim. So we invented our own language without even knowing it, a language invented by the passage of time and our need to know each other’s hearts. He’d see something and he’d look at me and I’d know what that thing meant to him, how it caressed his heart and left traces there. He’d smile and I’d know if it was a playful smile, shy, happy or melancholy, that smile you give someone when your heart feels like it bears the weight of the entire world yet you don’t want that someone to know how much it hurts.

We’d visit stores and he’d touch whatever he could, lips parted, blinking softly, fingers trailing over vases, books, picture frames and plastic roses.

It was on one of our trips to one store or another one summer’s day when I found him admiring a little tube of lip balm. The tube was made of the thinnest plastic and was light silver. Inside, the lip balm itself was pale-blue. The name printed on it was visage. It smelled like flowers and Loki had his eyes closed, peach colored lids gently covering pale irises lost in memories.

I stood next to him under the harsh neon lights and searched his face. He felt me looking at him and opened his eyes, fingers lightly closing around the sleek tube.

“This made you remember something. The smell of it. I could see it in your face,” I said quietly, “what did you remember?”

And Loki held the tube pressed to his palm with his thumb so he could gesticulate and used both hands to form flowers. And his fingers moving, along with lights, left silvery imprints of petals in the air.

He let his hands fall slowly and his next blink was sad. He looked down and when he raised his eyes to me again, there was a tiny raise to his eyebrows and he rolled the little tube in his palm with his fingertips and I knew what he asking.

“Sure, we can get this,” I said and he pressed his lips together with glee.

He’d wear it all the time. It would make his lips look wet and cool and if the light hit at the right angle one could see the tiny freckles of silver embedded in the airy texture of the balm. It kept his lips protected from the heat and when the fall arrived, we got him another one, it was the last one they had left and we almost couldn’t find it.

When fall would arrive, Loki’s hair would begin to grow at an alarming rate. It always happened. It would go from shoulder-length to touching his hipbones in under a month. It was his kind’s way of getting ready for the cruel winds and bone-chilling cold of the winter in Jotunheim. When we were living in Asgard, I’d chop it off with my dagger. There, on Midgard I’d use a pair of scissors. The blades would flash again and again and little by little I’d start to see his vertebras and then the back of his neck. It always pained me to do this, but brushing it in the mornings was hard for him and without words he’d ask for my help.

When it’d get cold, he’d sleep for hours on end. When he’d be awake, I’d find him in that same spot on the windowsill, looking for the skies. And when it would get dark and I’d go to sleep, he’d sit on the floor, uncap the lip balm and draw on the walls. The lip balm had a bit of a tint to it and Loki would draw with the sweet taste of it on his lips and the sugary scent of it in his lungs; he’d draw crooked trees and fragile lakes, flowers growing on stones and mountains dusted with sleep, the Jotunheim he so missed. They’d all be gone by morning; he would use the inner part of his wrist to wipe everything off but the scent would linger and fill my heart with sadness.

My father was right. Loki never voiced it with words, but the time came when he had asked me for the gift of freedom. And as much as I loved him, I could not refuse giving it to him.

On a lonely white hill in the heart of Jotunheim, we said goodbye. To this day, I still remember the sight of his long black hair dancing in the wind and the taste of the beautiful flowers of Jotunheim on my lips.  

“Bir ağacı kök saldığı yerden ayırıp başka bir yere taşırsanız, ağaç meyve vermez olur. Verse de, kendi yerindeyken vereceği meyve kadar güzel olmaz. Bu, doğanın kanunudur. Bence, ülkemi terk etmiş olsaydım, aynen o ağaç gibi olurdum.”

Abbas Kiarostami
Fotoğraf: Abbas Kiarostami'nin 1991 yapımı “Close Up” (Yakın Plan) filminden.

  • Güzel uyu İran sinemasının gözü, Abbas Kiarostami.. (4. 07. 2016)

Keşke her şey “Zeytin Ağaçlarının Altında” ya da "Sevmek Gibi"deki “Kirazın Tadı” kadar güzel ve “Shirin” olsa.
Sonra da,
-eminim ki o ağız tadıyla sevdiğimizi arar, sana “Arkadaşımın Evi Nerede” diye sorduğumuzda, sen bizi “Yakın Plan”ına alıp “Rüzgar Bizi Sürükleyecek” derdin..

Ve işte sürükledi rüzgar, ‘güzel bir insan’ı daha aramızdan, ağzımızda ‘kirazın tadı'nı bırakarak..