:Time lapse images of Earth at night taken from the International Space Station.
god this planet is fucking beautiful
always reblog forever.
Holy crap the last one, you can really see the Great Wall from space!
amazziiingg
Earth is so beautiful omg.
reblog forever.
woah the lightning storm in the second last panel is amazing
Fucking amazing and so pretty :3
Rule of Sherlock: When this is on your dash, always reblog.
No problem
‘Bama says do it, I do it.
I wasn’t gonna do it…but…then I just ended up staring at it for a while…and then I had to
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The darkened water swishes around in the basin, waves slapping agains the wooden side, a few drops leaping out and plummeting to the stony floor. The water can’t stay still, in constant motion as a pair of feet dunk in, and then out, and then back in, and so on.
Right now, Dean’s foot hovers above the waters, drips dropping off the ball of his heel and the tips of his toes, the arch of his foot slowly being washed over by a soft towelette. There’s no soap—soap burns—but the rinse is still effective, cleansing and rejuvenating the skin while washing away any dirt or grime.
Castiel, a high commanding knight of all people, is the one knelt down, the one tentatively rubbing over the sole with the cloth, the one honouring the future king with a foot wash. It’s not among the duties knights are normally tasked with—at best the lowliest of pages may do this only for their masters—but the angel gave the prince no option of refusal. He gingerly dips the front of Dean’s foot back into the water, submerging lightly freckled toes that wiggle beneath the thin surface, ripples blooming like elegant roses.
“You really don’t have to do this…” Dean grumbles, staring down at his knight as Castiel eases his damp, bare hands into the basin, bony fingers massaging Dean’s skin. Castiel doesn’t look up, though, his too blue eyes concentrated on the wriggling toes.
“It’s a sign of respect, my prince,” Castiel simply says, even abandoning the casual usage of first names (‘lovers’ terminology’ he sometimes calls it, for most knights stick to titles and names that stretch as far as the horizon line). Still, there’s a tone he uses, a subtle edge to his voice that indicates more than just respect, something strong reinforcing his words, like fiery affection or bleeding adoration, marvelling worship or smouldering love.
Dean rolls his eyes, suppressing the smile teasing at his lips. He may still be waiting in line for the throne, the reign of John still expanding over the kingdom, but little things like this make him feel like a king. A bit of a foolish one, it all in the heart, half-formulated in the head, the rest fogged and blinded by the strong emotion, but nonetheless a king. And either way, Castiel is his devout knight, his beatific angel, his ethereal amour. That’s enough.
“Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, you know,” Castiel mentions, lifting Dean’s foot and reaching for the rag again, prepared to repeat his cycle of washing and drying, loosening the earth and wiping the residue away.
“I know,” Or at least he should. Just because the country sticks to religion doesn’t mean he remembers the Bible verbatim. Most people don’t even read it, honestly, that job reserved for the priests, the bishops, the clergymen and not the people.
Castiel pauses, Dean’s foot just about dry, just about clean. He looks up at Dean a second, chapped lips parted, as though he’s about to say something, but no sound meets the air. He spends a long moment just boring into the prince’s warm olive eyes, only for his gaze to fall back on the foot he still holds. Castiel discards the towelette, it serving no further use, and pushes the basin aside, too.
Then, slowly yet fluidly, he leans over, pressing his lips to the top of Dean’s foot, planting a tender kiss of veneration. But it’s somehow more than just that, just simple reverence, mere honour, plain esteem. No, it’s a lot more than that.
Dean can’t stop the grin any longer, the feeling breaking through his defences and running through him with blood, rushing like the galloping jousters, splashing extra pink on his speckled cheeks. And he sees Castiel look up at him from beneath his lashes, the angel smirking, lips curving against his skin.
“And as it was an act of love then,” Castiel murmurs, tickling Dean with his breath, “It is now, that I serve the one whom I love most,” He plants another kiss, this one harder, lasting a little longer, showing deeper passion, higher love, “My prince, my Dean.”
