Be alone. Eat alone, take yourself on dates, sleep alone. In the midst of this you will learn about yourself. You will grow, you will learn what inspires you. You will cultivate your own dreams, your own beliefs, your own stunning clarity. And when you do meet the right person who makes your cells dance, you will be sure of it because you are sure of yourself.
I need someone to draw Lena and Kara in onesies. Kara would totally be in a Supergirl onesie like the nerd she is but Lena HAS to be in a dinosaur one because I’m sorry but that woman runs like a dinosaur and if you need proof just go back and watch 2×01 or 2×08 and you’ll see her dino-running in action. It has to become a thing!
Alex took the picture
oKAY REMEMBER WHEN THIS HAPPENED?!!!!!!!!!
Lena stays over at Kara’s one night and given that she’s never really been to sleepovers very often forgot to bring pyjamas. Kara sheepishly retrieves the onesies already having claimed her Supergirl one hands Lena the dino one expecting her to scoff or make fun of her. Except Lena doesn’t do that, no Lena gets tears in her eyes and hugs it to her chest and retreats to the bathroom. She comes back out, her hair down and the sleeves a little big but Kara greets her with the biggest smile. She eventually gets Lena to loosen up and they end up dancing around the apartment to Britney Spears. Alex walks in the door, beer in hand and has to stop herself from laughing long enough to snap this picture.It becomes Lena’s lockscreen.
This is for the beautiful and wonderful and kind and gloriously assed (confirmed) @thequeenofnationalcity who was all “soulmate aus!!!” about 400 years ago and I went all “ermagerd, same!!!!” and then this happened and I forgot about it on my google drive, but lo and behold! I fuckin found it.
Tis v short and if you’d rather read it on AO3, Here is the link.
The first thing she sees on Earth is color. Green, to be specific. It’s everywhere, the world is awash in this gorgeous, gorgeous green.
Krypton had nothing like it. Krypton was grey and dying, but Earth is green, green, green.
Alex checks to make sure she blinks every now and then those first few weeks. “That’s the color of your soulmate’s eyes. There really wasn’t any green on Krypton?”
She doesn’t know. She shouldn’t have been color blind; she came out of a machine and no one else in her family ever was. Except for Kal, but she didn’t know that then.
Title: Almost Pairing: Alex/Kara (Supergirl) Words: 3.4k (Chapter 2 of 3) Rating: M
No powers, modern AU.
The parallel stories of Alex and Kara’s past and present:
Past: At twelve years old, Kara is orphaned and sent off to live with a family she only knows from her parents’ funeral. Overcoming such a massive loss seems impossible, especially when she’s worried about her place in the Danvers household.
Present: After a bad break-up and a regrettable one night stand, Kara finds herself single and pregnant. It’s a good thing she’s not alone—but complications arise when her sister Alex steps up to help her.
How about for Supercat: “Cat’s got a gun.” I’d be thrilled with any Supercat though, honestly 🙂
Kara rushed from the ballroom, nearly tripping in the heels that should not have been a mandatory part of her outfit that evening. They were four inches tall, which made her tower over most everyone, and seemed to defy the natural order of things more than she did. She caught her balance before taking a very embarrassing spill in front of very large names in the publishing business and hurried to the coat room. Cat needed the pills from her purse–that she had, of course, checked at the beginning of the evening. Her phone had been stashed in Kara’s clutch so that she could be free to mingle and schmooze, and do whatever it was people did at parties like this. Kara didn’t know; this was her first, and despite Cat’s guidance, she felt out of place.
The attendant fetched the purse for her, and she undid the delicate golden latches. She reached inside and rooted about for the bottle; when her hand tapped into something hard and cold, she froze. Tipping her glasses down her nose, she narrowed her eyes and searched the purse. Withdrawing her hand in a quick snap, she tried to process the fact that her boss–that Cat Grant, media magnate, Queen of All Media, and self-professed die-hard liberal Democrat–had a gun.
Hufflepuff is tea and sweaters. Hufflepuff is punching someone in the face because they need to shut up, calm down, or get the sense knocked into them. Hufflepuff is spring, seeing winter melting away and basking in the sunlight. Hufflepuff is singing loudly to Journey and Queen. Hufflepuff is having the messiest room and yet knowing exactly where to find everything. Hufflepuff is “there’s no such thing as too much chocolate”. Hufflepuff is one too many glasses of champagne so the world feels like sunshine. Hufflepuff is honestly not giving a damn what anyone else thinks. Hufflepuff is prank wars that spiral out of control. Hufflepuff is getting shit done while everyone else argues. Hufflepuff is refusing to fit into the mold, which results in hufflepunks. Hufflepuff is staying up till three am to talk someone out of depression, out of suicide, out of something stupid, convincing them how amazing and how loved they are. Hufflepuff is loyalty, is true friendship, not the plastic My Little Pony stuff but the true friendship. Hufflepuff is the first ones to get Netflix running at Hogwarts, despite magical interference.
Hufflepuff is loneliness, is the intense desire for friendship. Hufflepuff is having to deal with derision and scorn. Hufflepuff is loyalty placed in the wrong ideal, loving the wrong person. Hufflepuff is drowning in emotions that bring panic attacks.
Ravenclaw is winter peace and blizzards. Ravenclaw is the beauty of white snow against evergreens and a baby blue sky. Ravenclaw is the sharpness and cutting edge of a cold breeze, the glint of a metal blade. Ravenclaw is the silence of a library, lost completely in a world of ink and screens and words. Ravenclaw is a glass of wine and an old friend. Ravenclaw is martial arts and street smart. Ravenclaw is always asking why. Ravenclaw is pages filled with writing and doodles and diagrams. Ravenclaw is telling dirty jokes in code so no one can tell why you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, and the teacher can’t read the notes you were passing in class. Ravenclaw is failing a class because you couldn’t be bothered to read or do homework, it was too boring and you had other things. Ravenclaw is challenging the status-quo and saying “there’s always another option”. Ravenclaw is citrus and a stash of junk food that you always seem to eat right away. Ravenclaw is learning a new language because you want to. Ravenclaw is an innocent face that can hide the dirtiest mind. Ravenclaw is a pile of books that you’ll read – you will, you promise – one day. Ravenclaw is looking up and saying “hell, when did it get to be three thirty AM”, and you have classes in five hours but decide that staying up another half hour won’t hurt. Ravenclaw is love that happens slowly, like creeping ivy, till one day you wake up and realize it’s ensnared you tightly and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Ravenclaw is addiction, to coffee, to drugs, to sweets, anything to get that clarity and that swooping feeling. Ravenclaw is coldness, is locking away resentment to fester, is “revenge is a dish best served cold”. Ravenclaw is shutting up and never ever asking for help, because you’re smart enough, capable enough to handle it. Because you have to.
Gryffindor is summer, cloudless blue skies and endless green fields. Gryffindor is adrenaline highs and truth or dare. Gryffindor is bright red lipstick and cologne that makes heads turn. Gryffindor is parties that go all night. Gryffindor is fireworks exploding in the sky. Gryffindor is standing up to anyone, friend, foe, or stranger, to tell them they’re wrong. Gryffindor is throwing your friend a beer and jumping on their lap to take a nap. Gryffindor is the love of horror games. Gryffindor is steak and burgers, Gryffindor is spicy curry. Gryffindor is taking the risk, making the leap, no matter the odds. Gryffindor is raising your hand in class. Gryffindor is passionate love, whether it be romantic, platonic, or otherwise, that sees no difference in a hand picked wildflower and a diamond necklace as long as it makes the recipient happy. Gryffindor is defending, even if it’s defending someone you hate against someone you love, because Gryffindor stands up for what is right.
Gryffindor is recklessness, the uncontrollable emotion, the carelessness with laws and rules. Gryffindor is choosing the ‘morally correct’ option even if it means more are hurt. Gryffindor is solving things brashly, physically, and only making everything worse.
Slytherin is fall evenings, the air crisp but not cold, the setting sun revealing autumn beauty before darkening to show a million billion stars in the indigo inky sky. Slytherin is when the air smells like cloves and cinnamon and smoke from the crackling bonfire. Slytherin is apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Slytherin is a glass of golden scotch. Slytherin is finding comfort in jeans and a leather jacket, dying your hair and tattoos that are like artwork. Slytherin is pride in your heritage, in what it took to get you here. Slytherin is the warm blossom of accomplishment in your chest. Slytherin is tall boots and long scarves. Slytherin is the person you’d trust with anything and everything, the one you love above all else, the one you’d kill for. Slytherin is not being afraid of the dark, but remembering that night heals. Slytherin is musky forests and the steady soothing rainfall. Slytherin is sarcasm and wit. Slytherin is determination in the face of fear. Slytherin is talking your way out of situations to keep those you love safe. Slytherin is the love that shows itself quietly from day to day, with quiet brushes and unsaid favors, but that rears up in fury to defend if necessary.
Slytherin is the dark side, the morally ambiguous, the race to the finish line for whatever it is you desire, shoving others aside because you have to. Slytherin is locking yourself in a shadowed corner and curling up, because it’s too much… it’s too much… and wiping the tears and standing anyway, head held high because you can’t stop now, and you can’t show weakness.
Hufflepuffs are not weak. Ravenclaws are not heartless. Gryffindors are not arrogant. Slytherins are not evil.
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
Lucy looks up from her desk to where Alex is leaning in the doorway to her office. She’s not in uniform, the tactical gear traded for jeans and a hoodie, and Lucy smiles at the fact that that is definitely her West Point sweatshirt.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Lucy says, discarding the reports she’s working on. “What’s up?”
“I’m caught up on literally every single thing I need to work on,” Alex says with a shrug. “And so are you. Let’s go get dinner.”
“Would if I could,” Lucy says apologetically, glancing at the clock and shutting down her laptop. “But I promised James I’d get drinks tonight.”
“Oh,” Alex says, smile flickering momentarily. “Right.” It’s nearly ten months into this whole relationship thing they’re trying, the one that started when Alex got far too drunk at Christmas and kissed Lucy sloppily under the mistletoe Kara had hung up around the DEO: far enough in for Alex to find comfort in the easy solidity of spending almost every evening that isn’t wiht Kara with Lucy; new enough for her stomach to twist around itself because Lucy is going to get drinks with her ex.
“But you’re still coming to mine tonight, right?” Lucy says, shrugging into her coat. “Unless you’re hanging out with Kara?”
“No, no plans,” Alex says. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Have fun with James.”
She smiles, too tight and narrow to be real, and turns to go.
“Wait a minute.” Lucy’s voice chases after her, sharp and piercing, commanding enough to make Alex stop and turn in spite of herself. “Are you jealous?”
“No!” Alex says too quickly to honest. “Of course not.”
“Alex,” Lucy says, pulling at Alex’s sleeve until she turns the rest of the way around. “That’s idiotic.”
“Gee, thanks,” Alex mutters.
“You know what I mean.” Lucy rolls her eyes and pulls on Alex’s sleeves until Alex is back standing in the doorway to Lucy’s office, wearing Lucy’s sweatshirt and folding in spite of herself under Lucy’s hands. Lucy pushes up onto her toes and peers out of the office, down each side of the empty hallway, and pulls back in to kiss Alex. “You don’t have to be jealous of James. Or anyone.”
“Yeah?” Alex’s hands finally move, curling around Lucy’s hips and tugging her closer.
“Yep.” Lucy kisses her again, biting down on her lip and then sidling past her into the hallway. “See you later, hot stuff.” She slaps at Alex’s ass and dances out of Alex’s reach, making it halfway down the hallway before Alex has found her balance again and waving with a flutter of her fingers as she disappears around the corner.
The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.
Suggestion: The dragon’s definition of “steal” is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change hands–but on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.
They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.
“Here’s your change, ma’am. One gold piece.” The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.
“That’s a dragon,” you say dumbly. “One piece… and a dragon.”
“Yes.”
You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.
“Ma’am–no, ma’am, you have to take the dragon, too.”
“Sorry?”
The seller notes your dubious expression. “Not from around here, are ya?” They shrug. “Them’s the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.”
They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.
The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.
“Have a nice day, ma’am,” the merchant says. “Spend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.”
From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.
Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.
Question of Smoke 