#aluminum foil for space

[artcalledoddities]

Bow - ing

Obey - ing

Obliging paid works for their fuck up’s

The door went missing

Mishap

Third quality assurance will work it

Happy America

Flying Again

[nasa]

Don’t Say “Bye, Bye, Bye” To Your Vision: Solar Eclipse Safety Tips

On Oct. 14, 2023, many people across North, Central, and South America will have an opportunity to view a “ring of fire” eclipse – an annular solar eclipse – when the Moon passes between the Earth and Sun! During an annular eclipse, it is never safe to look directly at the Sun without specialized eye protection designed for solar viewing. To spread the word, *NSYNC's Lance Bass stopped by to share some tips on how to stay safe while viewing a solar eclipse.

Check out these detailed viewing maps to see if you will be able to see the entire or partial solar eclipse. If you are, make sure your solar viewing glasses have the ISO certification 12312-2. You can also check with local libraries or science museums to see if they have safe solar viewing glasses to hand out. You can also make a simple pinhole camera at home with some paper and aluminum foil: go.nasa.gov/pinholeprojector

Everyone online can watch the eclipse with NASA. Set a reminder to watch live: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlY79zjud-Q

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[insomniumstella]

spice & honey

bucky x baker!reader

summary: cinnamon buns and wickedly strong coffee must be the only reasons James Buchanan Barnes visits your bakery daily, despite the inconvenience of driving to a small town on the outskirts of Upstate New York. right?

warnings: first dates and crushes (absolutely classified as warnings), mead consumption, a curse word or two, soft!bucky

word count: 4,565

author's note: i've been watching Gilmore Girls a little too much lately (hence the little easter egg). on another note, autumn is my favourite season, so prepared to be sick of James attending harvest festivals and drinking apple cider 🍂🥧🎃

all the stories i've written

September 21st marks the official arrival of Autumn. Though the weather has been rather cheerful lately, today’s air is much crisper and heavier with the promise of looming rain. The streets of Eldermont remain far too green to your dismay, but Spice & Honey—the bakery you’ve owned for the past five years—is rich in shades of marigold and copper. A wide assortment of mugs, mostly in various shapes of pumpkins, and spiced teas, line the shelves, while the fresh jars of apple butter are neatly stacked alongside the register. Besides the usual treats, the glass display teems with seasonal favourite pumpkin tarts and apple cider donuts. 

The everlasting chatter of customers and soft sounds of a vintage record you scored at a neighbour’s garage sale just last month saturate the space as you place the second batch of cinnamon rolls on the counter. The clock reads 10:57 AM, and though you’ve been attempting to conceal your excitement, Vivienne could sense it the second you stepped through the door, teasing you about the very special visitor who’s always in need of sugary buns and black coffee at exactly five past eleven. 

James Buchanan Barnes is a regular customer, you often argue. The nervous babble, flustered movements, and beaming smiles convey otherwise. And so yes, you might have a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on the freakishly tall, muscular brunette who brings in the latest editions of The Culinary Canvas magazine each Monday and notices the smallest of changes in your recipes. Just maybe, you reluctantly ponder when your thoughts inadvertently wander to that charming grin and baby blue eyes every time you knead the dough for his adored treat — a dessert once reserved for Autumn suddenly available year around. 

“Staring at the entrance won’t make time pass quicker,” Vivienne whispers, arranging butterscotch cupcakes by the pumpkin tarts. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper back, covering the pans with aluminum foil. 

Perhaps hiding the pastries, a favourite amongst Spice & Honey shoppers, is not the best business decision, but Eldermont is merely a small town in Upstate New York. If it wasn’t located a thirty minute drive south of the Avengers compound, most people wouldn’t be aware of its presence in the first place. And besides, everybody in Eldermont is connected to everybody — the town holds no secrets, including the pastries you keep warm and frost fresh. 

“The tall, dark, and handsome man,” she points out, “still has a few minutes. Perchance the preparations of Eldermont’s Annual Harvest Festival made it trickier to find parking.” Vivienne turns to you with a mirthful grin, the cupcakes resting perfectly positioned in the glass case. “You should invite him. Heard Brad brewed an incredible batch of apple cider mead this year.”

You sigh, snatching the golden tray out of her grasp. “I’m not asking Bucky out.” 

“Ah! Bucky!” The woman’s grin widens. “Forgot his name for a second.” Shades of mischief dance in her tone as she marks Elijah’s, the eccentric owner of Marigold Meadows flower shop across the street, special order of fifty maple bacon BLTs as completed. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Only that you mention Bucky at least seven times a day.” 

“Seven’s oddly specific,” you note and swiftly, “also I do not,” disagree.

“Bucky smelled great today,” Vivienne mocks your voice, the grin you’ve come to love—and hate—remaining on her features. “Should I add apple to the cinnamon rolls? I wonder if Bucky would enjoy apple cinnamon rolls with brown butter and maple icing unless he’s a creature of habit. Maybe I should suggest a sprinkle of nutmeg in his coffee to test the waters first—“

“Vivienne,” you groan, yet she persists.

“What’s the worst that could happen? Bucky could say no. Bucky could also choose The Sugared Whisk. Bucky wouldn’t. I adore their croissants, but the coffee is terribly weak, and even their tea selection is mediocre. Indigo should include spiced teas. And sure, Luke's doesn't offer spiced teas, but Luke’s sells great coffee and danishes, except the danishes are only available on Wednesdays.” She recites a recent monologue of yours, and if you weren’t mortified, you’d actually be quite surprised at Vivienne’s ability to remember conversations as if they happened minutes ago. 

The doorbell chimes before she has the chance to finish, and you’re highly unsure of whether it’s a saved by the bell kind of situation or if you’d rather the floor magically swallow you whole. 

“Good morning.” James smiles, and it’s then that you decide you’d rather the floor split open because you’re awfully flustered by his entrance despite secretly anticipating the moment since the sun arose. 

“Hiya, Bucky,” she returns the favour, secretly nudging your side. “Have you ever been to the annual Eldermont’s Harvest Festival?” 

“Cannot say I have,” he chuckles, breaking eye contact between the two for just a second to glance at her. 

Though you’d never admit it aloud, those eyes, baby blue on sunny days and resembling the ocean on the ones of rain, cross your mind more than a pair of eyes should. This infatuation borders on obsessive, you often contemplate. James Buchanan Barnes is an Avenger for heaven’s sake, and you’re almost sure a man of his maturity and composure wouldn’t agree to a date with a baker, a clutz one at that. It’s not that you’d want to, nevertheless. The two of you have a great thing together — you serve coffee, he survives on coffee, and if time allows, the lighthearted conversations you have bring colours to otherwise monotone days. 

“The decorations, the food, the people are phenomenal.” You might have to assign the redhead to kneading duty if she’s heading to that territory. “This beauty right here could take you on a real good tour. Eldermont is gorgeous this time of year.” Enjoy kneading bread, Vivi. 

“Is it?” James grins, his stare flicking between you and Vivienne.

“Drop dead,” she reiterates, “much like the women.” 

“Vivienne,” you suddenly cut in, “the coffee station is out of paper cups. Could you bring some from the back?” 

She gives you another grin, less mischievous and more understanding, nodding at Bucky before she disappears into the kitchen. The heavy wooden doors create a boisterous sound once they close, and you couldn’t be happier for a distraction because you cannot look at the brunette just yet. The bakery is sweltering, and your hands are sweaty, and, if it wasn’t evident you’ve been nurturing a crush on James, Vivienne practically plastered a HEAD BAKER IN LOVE WITH SERGEANT BARNES sign out front. 

“The station’s out of cups?”

“Yes!” You glimpse behind the shoulder, deciding to keep the lie alive. “Spice & Honey gets busy during the afternoons, and we run out quickly.” The words leave your mouth rushed and a bit muttered, but the effort is there. “Black coffee and a cinnamon bun?”

“It’s a habit,” his smile is as charming as always. James hesitates for a beat, observing you locate the plastic to-go containers. “The festival Vivienne touched on, have you ever been?”

The atmosphere stills for an awkward second as you gawk at him. “Oh, sure,” you answer at last, praying her babbling wasn’t too obvious because you couldn’t fathom Bucky choosing The Sugared Whisk. “Every year since I was four. The festival’s great. Brad brews the best mead, and Johnny, the mayor, is comically strict about the decorations, so it’s all pumpkins, and string lights, and festive garlands,” you mumble, scrambling for the pan and cream cheese frosting. “I’ve even heard whispers of fireworks this year. It’s next Saturday if you want to drop by. Cassie bakes the best apple pies.” 

“Better than yours?”

“I don’t serve apple pies,” averting your eyes to study the grinder seems like the best decision to avoid his piercing gaze. 

“I’m sure they’d be the best if you did.” Bucky beams, leaning against the counter as he observes you make coffee. 

“Thank you,” the expression of gratitude melts into somewhat of a question despite your best attempts at keeping your voice level, “but the pies I bake often turn out horribly wrong. The apples were overcooked, and the dough raw last time I tried.” 

“How undercooked?” 

“The trash can enjoyed most of it.”

James laughs at that, the sound of it hearty and endearing. “I’m sure it found the pie delicious.” If he’s flirting with you, you can’t tell, and you don’t exactly want to, for expectations are the fool’s hope. “If you’re not terribly busy during the festival,” he speaks after a protracted moment of doubt, “I’d love to take you up on that tour Vivienne mentioned.”

“Tour?” The man in front of you must almost all but hear your heart pounding rapidly inside your chest.

“The tour of mead, pies, and decorations.” 

“Oh?” You tinker with a couple napkins, peering at him. “I’m not sure I could give you a real good tour, I’m barely a guide, believe me. I got lost in that new Target on Cedar Lane, and I cannot understand maps, and—“

“I’m asking you out on a date.” Bucky chuckles at your flustered visage, baby blues never once breaking the eye contact. 

“Shit,” the curse word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you silently reprimand yourself for the rash impulse of colourful words. “Alright.” 

The sergeant titters at your sudden reaction, a shy smile dancing on his lips. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. I just thought we might have something between us, chemistry of sorts, and that it might’ve been fun,” he briefly pauses, eyes wild and roaming around your face. “It’s just that Vivienne mentioned Eldermont being gorgeous in the fall, and it got me thinking that I’ve never truly experienced it, because the only thing I visit in this town is your bakery, not that it’s the only place worth visiting—“

“Bucky—“

“There are many stores I should probably check out, and Samuel’s birthday is in a couple of days, which is convenient. I wouldn’t describe Sam and I as the best of pals, but Steve likes him, so I should probably get him a gift.” 

“Who’s Samuel?” You ask puzzled, but the flustered soldier standing before you continues to ramble.

“Something small to indicate I remembered but not necessarily care. Something that screams I’m not a total jerk, but you are for reminding the whole compound that your birthday’s on the twenty third. A wooden statue of a bird. Sam likes birds, particularly Redwing, though Redwing’s not technically a bird. A wooden bird statue would certainly insult him, so it’s settled — the plan is to visit Artists & Wood on Land.” 

“The shop’s name is Woodland Artistry,” you correct with a gentle smile. 

“Right!” James clicks his tongue, studying your softly amused features. “We should probably forget this conversation happened. It was a stupid idea too—“

“Yes,” you interject. “I mean no.” Surely, this scenario is a strange dream that wicked mind of yours created to punish you for the sins you assumably committed in every single one of your previous lives. It’s the only possible explanation for the sergeant’s flustered behaviour. “I would absolutely love to go on a date,” you say and pinch the flesh of your thigh for reassurance, but the scene remains as it was, “with you.”

Gently placing a twenty on the counter, James gleams at you. “I’ve never actually given you my number, have I?” 

"No," you shake your head to indicate disagreement, pinching the flesh of your thighs once more. “Only the pleasure of our little chats,” the response makes you wince. The pleasure of our little chats? Something’s definitely wrong with me.

Chuckling, James grasps one of the pens you keep by the cash register and scribbles down a series of numbers on his receipt. "If I don't reply, Steve must be holding me hostage.”

"Duly noted," you grin, folding the piece of paper to tuck it into the back pocket of your denim shorts.

He stands there for a second as if absorbing the situation. “Good. It’s a date, then.” he smiles in the end, taking the coffee and the plastic box, and peeks at you behind his shoulder. “And keep the change, please. These treats of yours are more than worth it.”

A timid smile spreads across your lips at the compliment before you sink your teeth into the soft of your bottom lip, observing the soldier scramble out of the bakery, the phone in his flannel jacket ringing for attention.

“Next time,” the redhead appears beside you once James disappears out of sight with a final wave goodbye, “you should give the man coffee and buns on the house," Vivienne nudges you, "both of them." 

A surge of warmth rushes to your cheeks at her innuendo. “It’s great you suddenly possessed the ability to teleport and all, but the dough back there won’t knead itself.” 

“No,” she gasps, and you only laugh at her realisation, turning to help the next customer. 

It’s a date.

The evening of Eldermont’s harvest festival is pleasant, neither too blazing nor cold, but despite the temperature and the appropriate sundress you’ve chosen for it, you’re on the verge of fainting. I cannot faint on our first date, you think and decide it’s the man next to you’s fault, really. The smell of his cologne is too addicting, the hints of pine and cinnamon in his aftershave too intoxicating. James is a gentleman, which you expected and appreciate, but it’s overwhelming, the way he holds your hand to lead you through crowds and attentively listens to your overdrawn stories about the origins of pumpkin carving. Heavens help me.

“Have you checked out the corn maze yet?” Brad asks cheerfully. He’s surrounded by large beverage urns and stacks of disposable drinkware. “Mary mentioned Elijah’s still in there,” he chuckles, pouring two paper cups full of steaming apple cider mead. “The fool must’ve gotten lost or something.” 

“Must’ve,” you glance at him, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a half smile. “Happens every year.”

“The two of you should go,” Brad speaks once again before smiling at Bucky. “It’s a great first date activity.”

James chuckles, and you wonder if he regrets asking you on a date. The small town you call home is ludicrously close, and if Vivienne didn’t spill the beans to Mary as she promised, Mary must’ve spread the ‘rumours’ around herself. The town’s beloved bookshop owner is an incredible woman, but she loves to gossip, and you should’ve expected the second person after Vivienne to consistently insert themselves into your dating life to jump to conclusions. Though the situation isn’t precisely comfortable for you, it must be worse for James. Whilst he has never outright mentioned, the soldier has important reasons to stay under the radar. Bucky has witnessed a lot, horrors you’ve even heard about on the TV, and currently, every resident of Eldermont is aware that James Buchanan Barnes is on a date. With a local baker, nonetheless. Participating in acorn tossing and harvest bingo and conversing with Brad Monty about all kinds of sneaky activities couples get up to in the corn maze. You're certain that James is bound to vanish without a trace due to the town's antics if your diffident and often rather awkward behavior hasn't already scared him away. The anxious parts of your brain have even compiled a mental list of today's disasters: 

Johnny wiped his sweaty hands on Bucky’s jacket, realising the blunder only to mumble “I love this jacket, Sergeant Barnes”, and pretending he wanted to initiate a hug before he disappeared.

Cassie offered you a sample of pecan pie, which you eagerly tasted due to Bucky’s “If I had to choose the second best pie after apple, it would be pecan” comment, and completely choked on. 

Vivienne located you in the farmer’s market to say “hello”, and persuaded James to purchase a pair of beaded bracelets, the two of you had ridiculed moments earlier, for “every first date needs a souvenir to remember it by”. 

James guided you to Mary’s bookstore because you conferred a series of rare hardbacks Mary hides in the back for special customers, and the older woman steered you towards a selection of intimacy guides. 

Indigo, The Sugared Whisk owner, pleaded with James for Captain America’s number in the middle of a busy intersection and discussed his “timeless looks” for the next couple of minutes until a car almost struck the three of you. 

Elijah phoned you in distress, panicking about “having to live out his best years in a smelly corn maze”, which disturbed the sergeant and resulted in an “Elijah will find the exit eventually” monologue on your side. 

You accepted to take a photo of a tourist couple, accidentally dropping the wife’s phone and shattering the screen because James stood so close, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

“Thanks, Brad,” you fumble with your wallet, hastily placing a ten on the stand. “See you around.”

“Doll,” Bucky doesn’t move once you attempt to remove him from the nightmare that is the situation the two of you found yourselves in. It gives you a second to evaluate his expression, and much to your surprise, his features are as soft as ever. James is blushing, too. “I wanted to pay for that.”

“You paid for the apple pie,” the words slip past your lips mumbled because the only thing you can truly concentrate on is the fact James is blushing. Blushing as a result of Brad’s stories about couples so in love they simply cannot be bothered to locate the labyrinth’s exit before proving their emotions to the world. Couples that could be the two of you. Possibly. A sane person shouldn’t rush to assumptions unless they earned the sweetest nickname from a dream of a man. You’ve never paid much thought to whether you would enjoy being called a ‘doll’—you do, but you would probably adore every label he’d choose. The notion steers your head toward unexpected and dirty waters, and you couldn’t be happier for Brad’s decision to chime in.

“Cassie outdid herself this year,” he nods. “I’m most definitely going to dream about that blackberry pie tonight.” 

“Yes,” James agrees never once breaking the eye contact with you. “The pies were delicious, and it was my pleasure to pay. It was me who demanded a tour.”

“You may pay for the maze then,” you smile at him, “but leave the ten — I’m not that great of a tour guide, and I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Dates should be fun,” James suddenly speaks. “We could’ve skipped the labyrinth.”

The corn maze is high and intimidating, but Bucky’s presence and the soft glow of an orange sunset manage to silence your fears a bit. The passages are almost entirely empty except for the two of you, and each corner you take makes your heart jump at the possibility of encountering spooky surprises. 

“This is fun,” you reassure, taking a sip of mead. James shoots you a look you cannot truly decipher, but you decide the meaning is somewhere between worried and teasing. “It is,” you hesitate for a beat. “I just keep remembering the haunted corn maze in Greenwood. They have scare actors there, who jump out of the bushes when you least expect it and completely startle you. Vivienne took me there last year, and I cannot shake the memories.” 

The expression on his face melts into sympathy. “If it’s any consolation, I would protect you against all the zombies and monsters this maze might throw at us,” he speaks before, “not that it has any,” adding. 

“If theme’s anything to go by, I think we’re OK,” you chuckle at his offer, referring to the cutesy signs and charmingly painted pumpkins scattered throughout the labyrinth, “unless Johnny decided to include a couple gory scenes at the end, though it’d end worse for him than it would for me.”

“Johnny The Mayor?” 

“Johnny The Mayor,” you take yet another sip, nodding. The beverage is barely warm twenty minutes into the attraction, providing only the comfort of a soft alcohol tipsiness. 

“He’s a charming little fella,” Bucky notes, and you don’t have it in yourself to deny the statement. “I’ve never experienced someone initiating a hug by wiping their hands on my jacket.” 

“Sorry,” you offer sheepishly because what could you say after an occurrence so bizarre. Everyone in this town is strange? James must’ve caught on to the fact by this time. 

“It’s alright, and besides, I now have a humorous story to recount at parties, which is a first,” he gleams at you. “It may come as a surprise, but I’m not usually the life of it.”

“Can I ask you a question?” You shift to gaze at him before emptying the cup of mead to steady your nerves. 

“I don’t promise to answer,” James grins, fiddling with the beaded bracelet, “but yes.” 

“Who’s Samuel?” 

“That’s your question?” He laughs as his flesh arm slithers to rest upon your waist. At least you think it’s his flesh arm. The man wears gloves whether the sun shines or the rain pours. You’ve seen pictures, though, and read stories of The Winter Soldier in possession of a metal arm. Neither raise concern, not for the reason you’re smitten with Bucky. Rather, because James was manipulated and stripped of free will, and if heaven would descend, perhaps because that metal arm is sinfully attractive. It’s a thought forbidden to be mentioned aloud, for the gloves are a large indicator he’d enjoy staying silent about the matter. “Who’s Samuel?” 

“Yes,” you sputter. The butterflies his simple action caused you don’t mention. “I want to hear about this Samuel. I’ve been informed he likes birds, especially Redwing, who’s not technically a bird?”

“The Samuel I was babbling about is Sam Wilson. The Falcon, if you’re a fan of CNN,” James teases, steering you into the left pathway of the maze. Despite your instinct to choose right, you stay silent. “Redwing’s a drone of sorts Sam uses on missions, and, this is a direct quote, for surveillance. I despise the thing.”

“If we get lost, forget the second date,” you playfully threaten. Though the coziness of his body pressed to yours is intoxicating, it does nothing to ease the goosebumps painted on your skin, and as the sky bleeds in shades of crimson and purple, the sun melts into the horizon, teasing you for forgetting a sweater. “I would’ve categorised holding a grudge against an object as below you.” 

“If the shoe fits,” he chortles, leading you down a long passage before abruptly stopping. Hesitating for a beat, he drapes the flannel jacket you’ve come to love on the man around your body. The garment is red and weighty, and it smells of James. The gesture makes your heart swell with admiration, but you ignore it. Dates should be approached with a blank slate because expectations are easily shattered. “I shouldn’t deliver Steve that woman’s phone number, should I?” Bucky’s arm finds your waist again. 

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, “on the bright side, Indigo is quite a pleasant woman,” you verbalise the thought. James observes your expression, baby blues studying the same features he cannot resist thinking about at nightfall. Blood rushes to his cheeks at the notice of your fingers on his lower back, the heat of your skin piercing through his charcoal henley. “She’d certainly treat Captain America right. On the downside,” you pause, “Indigo is the exact opposite of Steve as the media portrays him. Come to think about it, both of us are.”

“How so?”

“The media portrays supersoldiers as courageous, but Indigo and I once had to call Luke to get rid of a teeny spider. Steve’s active in politics, whilst we often skip the town’s meetings—“

“Eldermont holds town meetings?” James chuckles, subconsciously drawing you in closer.

“Once a month, always on the first Tuesday,” you gleam at him before drawing in a deep breath to calm your violently beating heart. “Last time, we discussed the very pressing issue of Halloween decorations. Johnny insists every business on the main street must participate in the festivities. Indigo and I escaped out the back before the mayor could finish his speech. At the least, Steve would’ve stayed in that meeting, and at the most, he would’ve managed it.”  

“People do say opposites attract.” 

“Heard that before,” you agree. The loose strand of Bucky’s auburn hair tempts you to tuck it behind his ear, but you halt the impulse of committing such a ludicrous decision. “It must be true because you drink coffee black, and I prefer lattes. You have cinnamon buns for breakfast, and I, if time would be gracious enough for breakfast, would choose danishes.” 

“The jury’s decided, then.” The corners of his mouth quirk up into a lazy and wickedly attractive smile, and, you almost wonder if Bucky’s aware of the effect he has on your body because if he isn't, your buckling knees must’ve given it away. “Opposites do attract.” His wildly confident attitude is a new discovery, but you decide you like it. “It would be a shame to ignore matters of the universe.” Confidence is a good shade on him. 

“Is this your way of asking me on a second date?” You tease the man, memorising the pink hues veiling his cheekbones. 

James guides you around the corner, observing the corn maze’s exit, and halts his movements. “Only if the lady agrees,” he shifts to stand before you, catching your forearms in his gloved hands, “which I’m sincerely hoping she does.” 

Resting your arms on his shoulders, you gift yourself a quick moment to explore his features — the stubble gently lining his sharp jaw, the little scar above his eyebrow, and the red lips you, despite hiding it, wanted to kiss since he first visited Spice & Honey. “The lady would love to go on a second date.” 

“Good,” an emotion you cannot comprehend waltzes in his eyes, but, for the sake of your composure, you abstain from thinking it could possibly be lust. “The gentleman is looking forward to it.” There's an argument happening inside him, you can sense it by the way he keeps drawing you closer until the space between your bodies is virtually erased, but retains his posture straight and almost rigid. The weight of should he or should he not lingers in the air around you before James catches your stare and smiles timidly, shattering the flicker of hope you have for him to kiss you. You don’t exactly yearn for him to kiss you. In theory, kiss-less first dates are a great idea, paving the way for deeper conversations and a closer bond. They build anticipation. Anticipation is good, you ponder for a second, but all you can truly focus on is whether James would taste like apple cider mead or the sugary desserts you two savoured earlier. “The night is still young," he speaks, the tone of his voice light and reticent. "It would be a shame to end the date this early." 

“Luke’s open if you want to grab a quick dinner,” you say with a grin, stepping away from him. “Though we should probably exit the maze first.” 

“Yes,” Bucky laughs and extends his arm towards the light at the end of the passage. “Lead the way, pretty lady.” 

[mirage-aera]

•°. *࿐ Microwave

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : The Feeling - Lost Frequencies

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Synopsis: It’s way past midnight again. You’re feeling hungry and decide to warm up leftovers. You try to keep everything quiet, but you get bested by the goddamn microwave.

Word count: 1.136

Masterlist

More domestic Simon to keep me going in life.

It was another one of those nights. It’s 3 AM and you’re wide awake. You’re scrolling through your social media as Simon is happily snoring away next to you. Suddenly your stomach grumbles. You quickly cover your stomach so that it ‘quiets’ down, you didn’t want to wake Simon. You cringe at the loudness of your stomach. You turn over and glance at Simon, checking if he’s still asleep. Seeing that he’s still sleeping you let out a sigh of relief. You quietly and slowly climb out of bed. Widening your eyes when the bed creaks. You quickly whip your head to Simon. He stirs a little and turns over. You quickly place your pillow where you would be sleeping. He grabs it and pulls it closer to him. You snicker quietly before taking a picture with your phone. You’ll show him that in the morning.

You slip your feet in the fuzzy slippers that Simon bought you. You were complaining that your feet were always cold and you refused to wear socks when you didn’t have to go out. So, Simon bought you a pair of warm slippers so that you wouldn’t be cold anymore. You slowly get up, this time the bed spares you. You quietly shuffle out of the room and close the door gently behind you. Refusing to make any noise so you wouldn’t wake Simon. You make your way to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. You turn the tap on slightly, making a small stream of water. You splash some water on your face before turning the tap off and drying your face with a towel.

You head to the staircase, purposely avoiding the floorboards that are known to creak under weight. You quietly make your way down the stairs and turn the lights on. You walk towards the kitchen and open the fridge. You look at all of the items in your fridge, wondering what you should make. An idea pops up in your head. You still have some leftovers from tonight’s dinner. You’ll hear it up in the microwave and finish it. That way you save space in the fridge and you’ll have some easy food to make. You grab the plate with the leftovers and take off the aluminum foil. You open the microwave and gently put the plate in the machine. Not risking waking up Simon. You quietly close the microwave door and set a timer for two minutes.

While you wait, you quickly boil some water to make a cup of tea. You cringe slightly at the noise the kettle makes while boiling water. Everything sounds so much louder at midnight. Once the water is nice and hot you pour it into a mug. You’re about to take a sip when you abruptly stop. You panic as you hastily put the mug down and you check the microwave. You forgot to keep an eye on the timer. The noise the microwave makes when the timer goes off is horrendous, especially at midnight. Before you can even glance at the timer it makes a loud shrill sound. You tap on the button multiple times to turn it off, “come on, you shit thing. Turn off already.” You insult the microwave. As if it’s the bane of all your problems. It is currently but that’s beside the point.

Finally, you get the thing turned off. You stand there leaning against the kitchen counter and pinch the bridge of your nose, reflecting on what just happened. “For fucks sake.” You mutter quietly. That woke Simon up, you’re sure of it. You take the plate out of the microwave and put it down on the counter. As if on cue, you hear Simon running down the stairs. He’s holding a combat knife as he looks around the lit bottom floor. He analyses everything before sighing once he sees you in the kitchen, looking very guilty. He puts the knife down and walks up to you. “Bloody hell, I thought a bomb went off or something. But no, it’s only you making food again.” He jokes lightly. Finding this situation a little funny. You chuckle lightly, “sorry, love. Didn’t mean to wake you with a bomb scare.” He lets out a laugh as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him. He kisses the top of your head before speaking. “It’s okay, lovie. Go on eat, you’re hungry again.” He leads the two of you to the counter where you place the plate. You grab a fork from the drawer and start munching away.

As you eat in silence. He’s watching you with a content smile. You stab the food with the fork and offer it to him. He chuckles but shakes his head, “no it's okay. You eat, ‘m not hungry.” You frown. You shove the fork closer to his mouth, “just one bite.” You say gently. He sighs but opens his mouth and lets you feed him. He chews on it and swallows. He smirks, “it’s cold now. You’ve learned from last time?” You groan as you’re reminded of your stupidity. “Oh come on! That was a one-time thing…” You grumble at his remark. You continue shoving forkfuls in your mouth with a pout resting on your lips. He smiles at you, “one-time thing or not. Once is already enough. Don’t want you hurting yourself around me, lovie.” You mutter an insult under your breath before grinning mischievously.

He looks at you warily, “what are you do-“ he tries asking before he gets interrupted with a mouthful of food. The fork is still hanging from his mouth. He stares at you in shock. You snicker at the sight of his dumbfounded look and the fork hanging from his mouth. You take out your phone and snap a picture. He quickly takes the fork out of his mouth, swallows the food, and tries to take the phone from you. “Delete that now!” He shrieks. You giggle as you continue turning your phone away from him. He smiles at your happiness. He knows he could overpower you easily, he’s SAS after all. But he doesn’t have the heart to do it, not after hearing your giggles. He huffs playfully and throws his arms in the air. “Fine! Don’t delete it.” He exclaims dramatically. You grin at him, finding this whole act of his amusing. He smiles before sighing and wraps his arms around you. “Now finish your food. I’m tired now and demand to go back to bed.” You give him a mock salute as you continue scarfing down your food. He shakes his head in amusement. He places a kiss on your cheek as you eat, content with holding you and swaying in the kitchen at 3 AM.

[thefoilguy]

Deep Space Nine from Star Trek - Aluminum Foil Sculpture

[the-moon-files]

I love the idea of humans being space orcs. I’ve always wondered about the potential differences between Hylians and Humans some of my ideas include:

Humans are heavier than Hylians (they have bird-like bones)

Hyrule is the lightest of the links since is half fairy (personal hc)

A hit that would break a Hylian’s bones, just majorly bruises a human

Reader can carry multiple small links or a bigger link

They are limited by the size of the Link being carried, not weight

Reader is shorter than Time (personal hc), so it’s a little awkward carrying him in smaller spaces

Can double carry (piggy back one Link on their back, carry another one on their front) easily

Will carry both Four and Hyrule, going through portals and after since they both get sick (personal hc)

I feel like Twilight would initially be the Link most resistant to being picked up, shaped as a Hylian or Wolfie, when they are first picked up. They just freeze for a solid minute or two before relaxing. He loves it after that.

More resistant to weather (heat & cold)

Have iron stomachs (compared to Hylians)

Humans can eat pretty much every plant and not get sick unlike their Hylian counterparts

Can easily eat Hyrule’s cooking, it may not taste as nice but it’s still edible

Wild pouring in Gordon spice is still palatable, like eating a dorito (not really spicy, just adds flavor)

As a population, humans expand faster (more fertile, pregnancy is shorter than Hylians)

It’ll blow their minds if you have 2+ siblings

I mean, is there even a large Hylian family (I think once I saw a family with 3 kids once?) (imagine if they saw the show 19+ kids and counting)?

Resistant to magic, but also can’t use any

Hyrule’s magic healing does nothing, good thing humans don’t get injured easily

It’s okay Rulie, it’s not your fault

Humans heal slower than Hylians (since in Wild’s world they can eat and instantly recover)

Hylian metal is thin compared to what humans use

I don’t know why, but I just imagine it like thick aluminum foil, very pliable, but resistant to cuts and stabs

Could you imagine human!reader finding a dent in Times armor, and just smoothing out the dent with their bare hands

Four is probably swooning in the background

Also shows how dangerous their enemies are compared to humans

Earth doesn’t have Hylian monsters, all of Earths monsters are just evil/bad humans

Wind is astonished you can swim against the tide with ease

Their Hyrule’s ocean currents are 1/2 as strong as Earths

Think of Hyrule’s stormy oceans as swimming in a strong lap pool (you know those small long skinny pools with a current so you can swim straight in them and go no where?)

To end all of this, could you just imagine, the Chain and human are fighting a group of monsters. Human’s sword breaks (one of Wild’s), so human throws the sword away, they look defenseless so the monsters target the, all Links are freaking out, so what does human do? They start punching, kicking, and decking every monster in the face. Turns out humans are Hylian One Punch Man (/men?). Their punches are lethal if it hits the right spot. Link (all of them) is dumbfounded, how are they that strong? Are our monsters weak to them? How strong are their monsters? They don’t have any?-well it makes sense,if all humans can do that then they clearly eradicated them all!

Sorry for taking all of your time and spamming you with my thoughts, I just love, love, LOVE, the idea of humans being space orcs to Hylians!!!

AHHHHH I cant believe so many ppl (like 3?) are into the humans are space orcs to Hylians AU :’)

erratic bits i wanna add on to ur incredible list u got going on here

Sun: Masc/Male!Reader (he/him)

Orbit: ERRATIC Headcanons, ADHD-influenced headcanons, if you will

Stars: little bit of all the Chain

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: mild typical loz violence, mild cussing, & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

☆

I SUBCSCRIBEEE TO MAMMAL BASED HUMAN ANATOMY VS. AVIAN BASED HYLIANS

like how tf else u livin in the sky?? lol

or riding all those birds and creatures, like ofc u weigh on avg exactly 8 apples lmao (btw i got this from botw, where someone tested how much Link weighs for game physics and it was about 8 apples i think)

smth about u being a game nerd boy, may or may not be that fit, and yet goes to take a blow for a Link that had them all wincing, only to walk away with a nasty bruise like,

yes pls be impressed by me literal versions of Link from Legend of Zelda, along with now being real life heroes who have literally fought evil itself and won <3333

would literally start flexing my (nonexistent) muscles like LMAOO

that's going straight to my head ngl

like can u imagine the amount of times you have to resist just sweeping a Link up to princess carry them around?? like poor boy you've always done the princess carrying, allow me 🫴 (gentlemanly bows with hand out for him to take) LMAO

Gay tension thru the ROOF one time u playfully did this lol

some of them rlly out here trying to find a reason not to be picked up like??

Twilight: look u can pick me up, but im too big compared to you so it just wont work out…

You, seconds away from ur dream of picking up Twilight Princess Link, not about to stop now: SO WHAT ur bigger than me? All the more room to get a good hold on you babieee >:)

and Time,

Time: i have armor on, and im taller than you. itd be awkward, i can just lean on you until we can splint my ankl-

You: u think the little details gonna stop me? cute, get on my back rn. 😐

on another related carrying Links note,

BRO U BEAT ME TO IT!!

I thought as soon as I posted other ask abt this abt how Rulie/Four get sick and how others have had to carry them before,

but with you here??

Rulie and Four are livvinggggg >>>

so if we go on bird hylians theory, they actually have a higher body temp (bird base contribute to burning thru food quicker too? birds have a higher metabolism too right? would make more sense with how they consume food a lot for both healing and bc they hungrier more often than humans)

so u know that feeling of being nauseous, laying stomach down on the cold bathroom floor or smth and suddenly all ur problems are solved?

Hyrule and Four getting carried by u, their lovely Guide become physical, after portals ^^^

getting carried by u/physical affection from u is by far the best thing to come out of you becoming physical, all links have secretly decided lol

so unlike previous posts, if we’re being more true to humans are space orcs/australians tumblr side, i think I've heard over there abt eating/human diets being radically different a lot!

like how originally caffeine/capsican (the spicy part of peppers) was poison, or kept animals from eating that plant bc that was their defense,

then humans came along, said, “hm, makes my mouth tingle, more energy, i like it.”

and then made coffee, energy drinks, and a million spicy dishes/snacks worldwide lmao

anyway the Links are scared lol

esp after u talk abt stuff like this, or try Goron spice

my fav scifi idea thing i ran into somewhere was how these aliens gave their human meat to eat, human got curious (which, human curiosity a whole different beast of a post to get into, so many ideas)

and tried to gnaw on bones, like u do with stuff like ribs u know, and then broke the bone, found the marrow tasted great, and then the bone was so flimsy/broke down so much that they ate it too lol

So now, imagine the Chain did that to you LMAO

Four/Wild/Wind are fascinated by ur bone/jaw strength, Wars/Hyrule/Sky/Twi are mildly horrified but cant look away, Legend and Time are surprised but also at the stage of just acceptance of ur human bullshit lmao

unrelated to above, abt the fertility thing

one side of my family is super big (mom is 1 of 5, one of which is her identical twin) then each of them had about 3 kids, then some of my cousins are now having their own 1-2 kids, along with some of my adopted cousins thrown in/somebodies stepkids or like divorced situation where they sometimes show up to this side of the family, like 💀

Chain want to hear everything about ur family ngl if ur in a situation like this lol

the absolute shock on their faces after u tell them about twins/triplets/quintuplets/etc. existing lol

Bro, the amount of things I could talk abt with magic resistant reader pros/cons, like have u ever seen that in animes before? where it'll have a character who can negate stuff?

its so OP, it might just be worth not being able to use their magic much in hyrule

so i included that gif bc a scenario i can totally see happening that i didnt get to include in other posts is a guardian firing a laser at you and it just,, bounces off

or gets kinda absorbed, like maybe you got the equivalent burn of like touching a hot pan, stings for like an hour then is gone by the end of the day

Wild would literally not let go of you or let you out of his sight if he saw that happen poor thing ToT

Guardians were already so tricky for the Chain, esp black blooded (robots have blood? unclear)

then ur ass shows up all heat resistant to their world, and ur slow ass gets got by the beam, everyone’s horrified and poor boys are regretting you ever getting a physical form, bro you think your dead-

and then u just sit up, chest kinda burny, but just like described above, not even a real burn

even better, the guardian takes out ur weapon and u just have to like, square up to a guardian ASFHLJSL-

tbh most battles ur absolutely set,

u got magic resistance, so like wizzrobes who are all magic-based do nothing to you, u can literally punch ur way out a situation, as long as u keep ur guard up ur good, but even if u get hit physically, like u said, bruises at worst, bc at worst in a battle you'd get a broken bone

maybe if something had the strength to like, sever a limb, a step up from broken bones, then they manage to actually bruise u badly + cut you or smth

so basically ur biggest challenge in battles is working up the courage to get into them LMAO

like u know that thing from Oot with the bloody hands and shit?? dead hand or redead or smth?? skulltulas???? (esp if u have phobias related to it, like having arachnophobia like me for skulltulas💀)

Chain: Charge! cmon Guide!

You: I got your back girl! …from over here!

ur so perfect for fighting and ur biggest obstacle is just how fucking terrifying fighting that shit irl would be 😭 😭

the Links don't give u battle advice really, they instead just have to encourage you so you'll be less afraid and can fight LMAO

(makes sense to them tho bc ur world doesn't have these same monsters, most of them tbh would've had a harder time relating before this adventure, bc now they get to a new hyrule with entirely diff monsters they can relate more lol)

(Oh, and yes. Four is honest to god falling in love with you all over again seeing you sharpen edges of swords by pinching ur fingers, or dipping ur hand in lava casually to help the harder metals soften, or smooth out dents in armor. Time may have also felt some type of way the first time you reached out and smoothed a dent right in the middle of his chest.)

☆

could've said SO much more, but my ideas sometimes go too quick for my fingers to type, so this was all i could catch for now

dw ill never shut up about this AU so ill prob get them all out eventually, GOD i wanna write a male!reader fic with this so bad

but i keep forcing myself to at least finish 1/3 fics im updating rn before i launch into another lol

TYSM for this!!

I LOVE hearing ppls idea abt this AU, esp if u include male/gen neutral reader, like just take my heart ig <333

Sorry abt the late reply btw!! :’(

Peace out Daicinia,

🌙

[lilac-5ky]

always darkest before the dawn (Satoru x Fem!Reader)

plot: your boyfriend finds you waiting on his porch after a mission you warned him against going.

tags: hurt/comfort with a silly ending cause I'm silly for this man.

wc: 2.4k

“Baby? What are you still doing up?”

The sound of his voice gets amplified with every step he takes toward the dim-lit engawa, a pleasant break from the incessant chirping of the cicadas slowly being traded for that of the first morning sparrows—midnight sky melting into the lightest shades of blue. Stars are sprinkled over the velvet canopy like powder sugar, a subtle bronze haze dividing the horizon from the heavens above, and you almost thank them for sending their most exalted angel your way.

He comes alive again—wings heavy from the blood that soaks them, its source hardly human.

The knitted blanket slides off your shoulders as you turn around to face Satoru, his otherwise sublime features wearier and more haggard than you remember seeing them this morning by your pillow. He carries a bag in each hand, his apology wrapped in layers upon layers of aluminum foil. You wonder what it tastes like. Last time was gyoza, and the time before that drunken noodles—always accompanied by some sort of dessert from some faraway corner of the map, which he (typically) promises to revisit with you.

“Welcome home.” You sigh, mustering a smile to distract him from the dried-up tears that stain the apples of your cheeks.

It was a long night, and his absence stretched it to eternity. You realized after he left for his mission that forever is a long time to be spent alone, especially when the last words you said to him echo harder than the cumbersome footsteps of his departure, scaring you into thinking that was the last you heard of each other.

No one ever told you that being with the strongest meant becoming stronger yourself.

It’s not fair.

He doesn’t miss the opportunity to call you weak, making a habit of teasing you when your puny arms fail to carry his excessive haul of grocery bags or when you can’t open a mere jar of jam without him loosening the cap beforehand. He doesn’t admit you are stronger than him, despite you being the one to carry his burden and your worries, the two brewing into a sickly cocktail of premonition you can barely stomach—one that initiated today’s fallout.

You feel wronged. Your roles were reversed against your will; the comfort of being the weak one viciously yanked from your grasp, feet forcefully put into a pair of shoes you were never meant to wear. You should be weak. He should be strong. You should be crying, and he should be comforting. You should be able to tell him, don’t go, and he should be able to stay.

But you didn’t. And he did not.

Unaffected by the war of contradictory motions in your head, Satoru plops down beside you, large palms emptying of the cheap plastic handles to fill up with you. The thrill of the fight still hasn’t worn out, muscles taut from the action, and eyes bright under their concealment. He feels warm, warmer than the blanket that’s now receded to your thighs, though not warm enough to appease the cold in your heart, goosebumps prickling your skin from the inside out like your body is trying to escape itself.

A lump forms in your throat from where his lips touch your neck, briefly and fleetingly, before they are replaced with the familiar fluff of hair. It’s ironic how he tries to fit in you. There isn’t a part of you that hasn’t been touched by him in one way or another, and if you could pull out your own guts to make more space for him, then you would. You’d let him consume you whole if that meant never spending a second without him.

You wonder if that’s how love is supposed to be. You aren’t sure. You don’t know if you’re just another person who foolishly let themselves worship Gojo Satoru—if, in your effort to get to know the real him, you became his biggest fan.

“You are abnormally quiet.” You point out, instantly hating how ragged your voice sounds. The only dissonance in the picturesque garden of his estate.

Satoru shifts in his position, heavy jaw rubbing sweetly against your bare shoulder, hot breath fanning your neck. “I’m just mimicking you.”

“Mimicking me?” A bit better this time.

“Mhm.”

You glance at him, following the curve of his nose down to the dip of his cupid’s bow, both highlighted under the waning moonlight. Even when the stars are slowly drained and those flattering shadows dispelled, his beauty remains a certain constant. He is so beautiful that your heart aches, a longing sigh caught at the far back of your palate, his soft smile begging for its release.

He won’t hear you say it. Not tonight.

You test out the waters with a teasing poke of your tongue. He does the same, mouths almost touching with how closely he leans forward. Then a pout. A scrunch of the nose. An unserious wiggle of his eyebrows that mirrors your own—an image far more perfect than the one you’re used to seeing in the mirror.

“Would you jump down a cliff if I did?” You taunt.

“Absolutely!” He breaks the loop, answering in less than a heartbeat. “You know I would. The world would be a horrible place without my sugarplum.”

“You know, you could save us both if you wanted.” You say with a level voice.

“The greatest love stories are sealed by tragedy.” Satoru argues back. “Romeo and Juliette. Jack and Rose. Orihime and Hikoboshi. Takeru and Hikari.”

You are quick to spot the odd one out. “First of all, stop sneaking in Digimon references thinking I won’t notice, and second of all, Takeru and Hikari didn’t die.”

“No, but they never got together.” He frowns.

You roll your eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re soooo pretty. Did you do something to your face? Your dark circles look extra dark tonight.” Satoru tries to catch your cheek in his palm, fine sand slipping through his fingers as you pull away.

“Shut up!” Your mixed chuckles course through your body, reigning over the tremors that previously had you shriveling into a ball of tightly packed limps. Staying mad at him is impossible when he’s actually there; all mood for poignancy gone in an instant.

“You never answered my question.” A featherlight hum brushes against the shell of your ear, the pout easy on his tone. “What are you still doing up?”

With a knowing smile, you peer at the sky, feeling the press of his cheek on yours as he follows the movement of your eyes. “Whenever I miss you, the only thing that calms me is looking at the sky.”

“You know I’m not dead, right?”

“Say one more stupid thing, and that will change!” You warn with your pointer up. He kisses it. God.

You tap your finger against his forehead, urging some distance be put between the two of you. “Whenever I look at the sky,” you start again, “I see you.”

Breaking from his embrace, you shape two circles with your thumbs and forefingers, narrowing their size until they turn into a pair of minuscule goggles you lower over to where his eyes supposedly lie behind the blindfold. “See? Just like your eyes.”

“Oh, I’m not too sure about that.” Satoru gazes at the sky through your fingers, eventually tipping in your direction. He smirks, “I mean, the eyes of the Gojo Satoru are kinda hard to beat. See?”

Peeling the blindfold off, he lets your palms spread over his cheeks, azure eyes losing their vibrancy as your dainty fingers frame them better than any pair of sunglasses in his collection. He’s right. The original cannot compare. It’s not Satoru’s eyes that resemble the sky. It’s the sky that resembles his eyes, for in his 28 years, he’s managed to make something as ancient as time itself seem like a cheap rip-off.

“But I am flattered.” Warm palms cushion yours as he brings them to his mouth. You don’t realize how frigid they are until he starts blowing the cold away, smiling against them. “Means I’m always on your mind with how often your head’s in the clouds.”

“Can’t go one minute without bringing me down, huh?” Your voice frail once more.

“I can. But where’s the fun in that?”

You pull each other into a gentle kiss, Satoru’s arms snaking around your waist while your fingers cup his cheeks with urgency, fearing that by the time your eyes blink open, he’ll already have faded into stardust. He doesn’t share your concern, soft pecks interrupted by muffled chuckles, the taste on his lips giving you an idea of what he brought home with him.

“Pancakes?” Your tongue drags against his bottom lip. Foreheads pressed against one another.

“Mhm. Figured you’d be hungry for breakfast at this ungodly hour.” Satoru pecks your lips again and again, making it impossible to think straight, let alone answer, given how often your mouths are smashed together.

“How did you know I’d be up?” You breathe out.

“Hmm, a premonition?” He grins, playing with fire with how he mocks your previous words of concern. “My six eyes—”

“Do your six eyes tell you that you’ll be smacked in three, two, one!”

Limitless activates before your forehead can ram into his skull, the number of times you bob your head futile.

“One of these days, my anger will outdo your technique.” You promise.

“Can’t wait for that!” Satoru beams earnestly. “Maybe then I can teach you about domains too. Make my baby into the best—well, second-best sorcerer.”

Truly impossible.

The world quiets down as the final veil of the night is lifted from the sky and dawn begins its dance, everything it touches slowly coming into life. Light seeps between the yellowing grass blades, illuminating the morning dew that rests upon them. Water sparkles as it pours from the bamboo fountain, the constant thump setting the tempo for the birds’ song. Fragrance is drawn out of the towering pine trees, grounding the elegance of the showy blue hydrangeas. No room for despair in this imagery of hope, complete with Satoru’s presence, white lashes fluttering shut as he stretches like a cat in the sun.

You love him.

You know you do. You mean it every morning and every night when he makes you say it in between chuckles, slender fingers tickling the admission out of your ribs. You mean it when he moves heaven and earth to fulfill a stupid promise you made at 4 AM when you were drunk out of your mind and he tucked you into the comfort of your shared bed—somehow less sober without a drop of alcohol in his system.

You mean it when there’s sand in his eyes, when his breath doesn’t smell as peachy as one would expect of someone as ridiculously perfect as him, when his voice cracks during a sing-along. You mean it when his tongue licks the luscious coffee cream from your lips and when it greedily laps between the puffy lips down under.

There is so much you love about him that you’d run out of synonyms for words before you could jot them all down in a way that’s not dull to read, and still, you’d lose out on describing how exactly he makes you feel.

Because Satoru isn’t a person, so much as he is art. Sometimes he is just splash of colors across a canvas without the masterful strokes needed to hone him into a finished product. Other times, he is just the notes composing the wonderful lilt of his voice, too audacious to be deemed a symphony. He can be poetry too, spilling out of the ordinary 17-syllable arrangement of a haiku. But most of all, he is raw energy, an untamed torrent ripping through mountains and a whirlwind sweeping everything in its path.

It’s hard not to romanticize him in moments like this. They don’t come too often.

“You know, you don’t need tragedy to write a good love story.” Your tendency to break the silence festers into a bad habit. “We might be doomed by the narrative, but we are here to live. I’d rather live with you than die with you, or live a life without you.” You whisper, voice getting caught in your throat.

Sincerity always scared you, but if there’s one thing more regrettable than words you’ve said, then that’d be words that were never told.

Your focus shifts to your dangling feet, grass grazing your toes at the completion of each nervous sway. You are no longer touching. Not purposely at least, contact reduced to the slight nudge of your shoulders as Satoru leans against his to smile.

“Gotcha.” He says, not quite pressuring you to face him just yet. “It was easy-peasy, by the way. Yuji and Nobara did most of the work, while Megumi—he fell inside a curse’s stomach. It was hilarious! You should visit them soon; see how my kids have grown.”

Your lips pucker their way around your mouth, tongue poking at your cheek from the inside—prelude to a slow nod. Too uncertain to be directed at him. You regret bringing this up. You should’ve let yourself bask in his affections when they didn’t require a verbal answer.

“You worry too much.” Your uneasiness prompts Satoru to crane his neck and lay a tender kiss on the crown of your head. His voice serious when he says, “I won’t die.”

“That’s what everyone says right before they die.”

“But I’m not everyone. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I won’t die.”

You gulp, then huff a forced chuckle. “H-hey, that’s a pretty good catchphrase. You should use it in your fights when you’re about to deal the killing blow.”

“I have a better one. I’m Gojo Satoru, and I love youuuu~” He sings, seconds before his lips attack your neck, deft fingers mercilessly tickling your sides against the hard wood.

“God! You are so corny!” You blurt in between giggles.

“You love it!” He protests, a wild glint to his eyes. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Say it.”

“N-no way!”

“No?” The sadist stops his torture, finding new ways to torment you as he slyly moves toward the forgotten takeout. “Guess I’ll be enjoying these myself then. Thank me for the food!”

“Hey, Satoru! Wait!” You concede.

Maybe it’s fine to let him stand on the podium alone this once.

a/n: my mood is all over the place nowadays, suffering writer's block, wrote this as a self-indulgent 5 AM craze, help satoru brainrot too strong

[interpolanticssuperfan]

nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 5 | 18+ only

hi everyone!! wow, i did not mean for this chapter to be so meaty!! i sort of had fun setting up the building blocks for ken's return, so i hope it makes sense and feels necessary. thanks for reading and supporting <3 <3 SMUT IS COMING!! DO NOT WORRY (:

tags: @heyareyoulistening @itsametaphorbriansblog @alyeria @chrispontiass

After Ken leaves you, the weekend passes by without notable interruption. Life goes on, and you have no choice but to keep going with it. If the blues of the sky pale, the whorls of white clouds disentangle themselves into nothing; if the pastels of colored buildings all seem duller afterwards, you don’t say anything about it to anyone. 

Not like you had anyone to tell.

Your supervisor ends up buying the flimsy lie you’d concocted as to why you were so behind on reports and emails. To compensate for the hindrance and cover your ass, you worked a handful of hours on Sunday, barely functioning after fighting sleep that night. Blinking blearily into your weak homemade coffee. 

The first night without Ken was impressively quiet. Hours of tossing and turning, counting stippled designs on the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut when the blue or white light of your television grew too intense, your mind repeating on a loop that you’d never see him again. Funnily enough, the obtrusive screen could have easily been turned off, but the idea of laying cocooned in silence was worse than any other punishment imaginable. 

You remembered how clean and aromatic Ken had smelled in your kitchen, as you observed the featherlight movement of his stomach, his breath tense under your catatonic stare. Like fresh linen, the initial wave of those pink tulips planted in tiny little rows in front of the library, the relief of a clean, spotless home. 

Ken had smelled like a long-awaited sigh, like comfort, like the warm tailend of a nap that you couldn’t be shaken out of. A home you’d never known. Each element of Ken’s ever having existed had blown out the front door and followed him back to a place that didn’t sound real. Maybe wasn’t real.

How could you miss someone you hadn’t even really known at all?

Perhaps you could traipse out of the bedroom, wait out there in silence to see if you could still pick up any lingering traces of him in the dark, if you could pick up any notes of the pure bleach of his hair, pungent like a drying ink stamp. 

Something told you even if you had nuzzled against Ken’s head, it wouldn’t smell like chlorine, wouldn’t smell like sodium hypochlorite or aluminum foil, because Ken didn’t need to seek out alterations to make himself beautiful, didn’t need to add to or take away from any part of his physicality to fit some type of standard. 

He was naturally impeccable. Easily unmarred.

(Astonishing, really, how little time it had taken for your every waking moment to be consumed with thoughts of Ken.)

But now your living space was stoic. Fragmented by a deficit of light and life and sparkling teeth that glowed like ethereal cave moss. 

(Teeth you desired to feel with your own tongue, battling for dominance in his sweet, pink mouth that curved like a marble bow. You wanted to memorize the dips and juts of his molars, his canines, wanted to know them each by shape alone.)

The cold right side of your bedsheets felt freezing to the touch once you’d spent three hours awake in the small of dawn imagining how wonderful it’d be to share it with someone. Picturing the rise and fall of thin fabric as Ken rested, let his body go lax next to yours. The way he wanted to. The way he’d been angling for.

You frowned to yourself, twisting a fraying thread on the empty pillow around your pinky, the silk too plump, too… devoid of blonde companionship.

How could you have pushed Ken away? Was it mere loneliness that had conjured this visceral reaction out of you? The feeling that deep down, you’d never really been seen for who you were and subsequently accepted? Let alone fawned over?

Your head bobbed as if underwater, tumbling out of wakefulness and into disappointment.

The second night without Ken had been fretful. Restless. Two bottles of pink wine sent you straight to sleep, and after brushing Willa’s hair and ordering in ten dollar pad thai, the only flashes of blonde you saw in your conscience were drifting through sleep, hazy through lackluster dreams.

You tried cleaning. Tried scrubbing the tiles of the kitchen for something to do. Anything to remind yourself that you had responsibilities, that life carried on outside of the compelling stranger you’d met at the library.

When Sunday rolled around your work bag felt about as heavy as the ones under your eyes, twin weights that refused to be alleviated.

You wished you understood why this was taking such a toll on you. Even Willa seemed to be raising her eyebrows at you from her tiny enclosure.

You’d been the one to suggest that Ken leave. That he pack it up and go right back the way he’d came.

You’d never really been one for accepting good things that rolled into your life. Whether they made sense or not, had been earned or not. Displays of paranoia at even the most throwaway compliment. 

It’s how you’d reacted to receiving a scholarship – awkward declinations that catapulted house parties or family dinners into palpable silence. “No, no. Really, it’s nothing, I don’t even deserve this. Don’t mention it. Can we please stop talking about this now?”

You didn’t even like celebrating your own birthday.

How ironic, that the pinpricks of attention from your loved ones made you shrink under the pressure, but the laser-tight surveillance Ken directed towards you had the opposite reaction. You came to life under his scrutiny. Felt your heart swell and twist with each moment he spent watching you.

The cashier at the corner store nearly dropped his jaw in horror when he caught a glimpse of how ragged you were looking. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, your fingers fumbling with your wallet as you paid for another pack of cigarettes.

“Been a minute, (Y/N). Everything going alright?” What he really wanted to say was, what the fuck happened to you?

You ignore the stilt of his worried voice. “Fine. Thanks.” The kid doesn’t push it, just adjusts his baseball cap and shrugs, watches you shoulder out the front door with a loaded sigh.

Setting up at the library reminded you too much of the sweet, breezy morning you’d met Ken, the sunshine that had wrapped itself around you. You just couldn’t anticipate how you’d react while trying to pay attention there, surrounded by so many reminders of the only interesting, worthwhile thing that had ever happened to you, so the most sensible course of action seemed to be the patio.

You lasted about an hour in the sunshine before the glare bothered you and all you wanted was darkness.

Monday proved to be worse.

Reluctant to leave the apartment, you work again for the day in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine at noon and logging off early at four when the carpet starts to spin, when email subjects blur into train tracks of nonsense that you can’t make sense of.

Your sister calls unexpectedly at dinner time while you’re dozing off at seven, drooling on the pillow. It goes straight to voicemail. How nice of her to find time away from her son to remember your existence.

Rubbing your temples, you chide yourself. Not nice to think things like that. Grow up.

Not calling her back, you throw your phone on the bed and follow suit, dropping down again and sipping a crushed can of beer from the night before, stale and tasteless.

Tuesday plagued you with the promise of nice weather, a drop in extreme temperature, but again, the second you got dressed to head down to the library, you felt laziness tug at your mind, felt depression sink into your chest.

Why even bother, you wondered? Why bother when I’ve a perfectly comfortable bed just around the corner where I won’t have to be looked at.

It should have concerned you. The drastic, melodramatic changes you’d been experiencing, the intense highs and lows of your emotional wellbeing all because of some guy you’d only met last week. 

Then again, you’d always been like this. Building up fantasy lives and scenarios in your head so fondly (stupidly) that when faced with reality, actual human beings tended to let you down, so this exercise always resulted in disappointment. Locking yourself in your childhood room, scrawling on the walls in pencil and then erasing what you’d written for hours. Your parents left clueless without any idea as to how to handle your outbursts.  

Wednesday seemed to tease you. A pointless company retreat at corporate meant your supervisors were all out of town until Friday, inviting you to slack off as much as you wanted – ergo, no one would notice your idling. 

So you slept diligently until noon, fed Willa her special pellets during a fleeting moment of salience, and then got ready to catch a taxi to your favorite bar. 

Who said you couldn’t work from a sticky countertop surrounded by shots of tequila and boisterous strangers?

Not like you’d be paying much mind to your laptop anyway. You showered out of habit and slipped into a skirt that fit your hips nicely, in your opinion, and shimmied into a tight fitting brown top. 

It occurred to you that calling your sister back would be a fruitful use of your afternoon, but shoving your phone into your bag, you decided to put that off for another time. 

Perhaps when your head wasn’t spinning with pathetic visions of being shoved into a wall and forcibly kissed breathless, strong hands glued to your side and tracking down the outside of your pelvis, repetitive circles rubbed into your skin with soft thumbprints until you could finally, finally undo the zipper, hurry the rest of his clothes off, shove him backward into your bed –

The taxi blares its horn out front in the road, shaking you from the vivid daydream. Leaving you with nothing but emptiness and a heat pooling in your abdomen that had grown difficult to suppress. Arid summer air filled your weary lungs, and you hid behind a chunky pair of sunglasses which successfully concealed how tired you looked from the driver, who looked to be as old as your father.

“Dropping you off right at Paulson’s? Or you going to the cafe right next door? Place is pretty popular from what I’ve heard.” His attempt at genial conversation was kind, but it wasn’t what you needed right now.

“Actually, Paulson’s is fine. I’m meeting a friend.” Pulse still racing in your throat from what you’d been imagining earlier, it takes mountains of effort to keep your voice even.

“No problem. Just making sure.”

 The bar is essentially empty save for you, two employees and a guy slouched into a newspaper near the television. Which is fair, seeing as it isn’t even two in the afternoon.

One tequila soda turns into two which turns into a blistering three which eventually turns into closing up your laptop in favor of chatting gregariously with the bartender, complaining about the weather and the price of gas (even though you don’t drive) and requesting ABBA on the ancient jukebox. Patrons start to trickle in as the sun sets and it’s just as well, you’d been feeling particularly lonely by yourself.

The pack of cigarettes you’d bought dwindles as you reach your fourth cocktail. You light another one, hold it to your lips just as a figure approaches from behind. 

A guy with long, stringy brown hair takes the stool next to you, his scrawny frame swimming in a button up shirt too big for him. He’d given you a once over before picking this spot, and you knew it. You swallow, your throat clicking, and think to yourself that were it not for Ken, he’d be exactly the type you usually go for. 

Quiet, unassuming guys who don’t have much going on in life besides perhaps their accounting job and a few friends they see in dingy bars. Maybe they play shitty music in shitty bands that you hate staying out to see.

You should hate how it reeks inside this smoking-allowed bar. You should hate that you’re capable of drinking so much in one sitting, that it hasn’t knocked you out, put you to sleep. You should hate the persistent way this skeleton-thin loser is eyeing you from behind his beer, but you don’t.

You should hate how easily you rip yourself open for men.

The guy tucks a strand of that hair behind his ear and it makes you squirm. Any music coming from the jukebox feels a hundred miles away.

“What are you drinking?” A beat of silence passes between you, and you flare your nostrils, unsure of how to proceed but honestly so sloppy from the liquor you aren’t giving it too much thought.

“Tequila.” You take another drag from the smoke, blow it away towards the propped open door, your mouth lazing in an “O”.

“How’s that going?”

“Pretty great.” It wasn’t a lie. If great consisted of your vision fuzzing at the edges and your mind falling blissfully quiet for the first time in days. 

“You have beautiful hair.” The offhand comment makes your cheeks flush. It could’ve also been combining with the sizable amount of liquor you’d imbibed. 

“Mind if I buy you another round?” You wonder if this a trap. If it’s a trick. The guy’s deep brown eyes swirl under the overhead lights, comfortably dim, and you can nearly smell the sweat circling the back of his neck. It’s like a starving lion fighting the urge to pounce at a wounded gazelle bleeding out profusely on a plain. Agony.

But the idea of Ken accepting a drink from a girl throwing herself all over him has bile crawling up your throat, and you pale at the thought. Absolutely not – no way. 

Not like you owned him. Not like you wanted to own him. 

“Sorry, I’m actually on my way out.” It’s a blatant lie, it feels thick on your tongue and it’s so obvious to the stranger too with his damp chest on display, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but it’s not smart for you to entertain him for another moment longer. You round the bar to a less occupied area, take another shot, and close your tab.

Your bag has never felt so heavy on your shoulder before.

The taxi heading back home is initially uneventful, but as soon as the driver peels onto the highway, something about your stomach doing cartwheels and the melting streetlights makes you emotional. You can hear Ken’s voice at your side, hear his words playing at your neck. 

“That’s one enormous building, (Y/N). People work way up there? Even right at the top? Oh, man. Did you see that fountain – it’s like a lake! I bet you can ice skate there when it’s cold enough. Would you go with me? When it’s cold?” 

You’re about to tell Ken yes, of course we can go skating, when you remember it’s not real. It’s so seamless to place him here, to envision how he’d react to the different sights and sounds of the city. Feels so correct, like it was preordained or something. He’d wrinkle his nose at the way you smell right now, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be next to you.

It’s impossible to hide the tears that flow from your eyes as you rest your forehead against the chilly window. Choking back an audible sob, you dig your nails into your palm, everything so small and futile and fucking lonely. The covered seats smell like patchouli and you just want to get home.

Thoughtfully, the driver clears his throat, turns the radio down a smidge.

“Is there… do you have anyone you can call?” He asks politely and clearly despite his noticeable stutter. For some reason he surmises that you’re in a state to have a conversation.

“Uh, I... do I look that bad?” You question.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, miss.” He seems offended.

“Well. My sister’s the only person I know within a fifty mile radius of the city, and she’s so busy with her kid I don’t think she’d give me the time of day. ‘Specially not when I’ve been drinking like this. Thanks for asking.”

He peers at the road like he’s ready to drop the subject, but he gives a light cough after a few seconds.

“A boyfriend, then?”

Oh, Jesus. Not this guy, too? Can you ever catch a break? His bizarre advances and body language were about to make you cry even harder.

“There was this guy. He was. He was everything. I pushed him away… I feel like I’m going crazy. Didn't even know him that well. He was so exciting. And he treated me like I was the interesting one, but I'm not. I'm not. And I told him to go home. I always do this.” Snot trickles from your nose in time for your bare wrist to catch some of it. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d apologize to the driver for being such a nuisance.

“I’m sure if he was feeling the same way you are, he won’t be upset to hear from you again. Distance can show a guy what he really cares about.”

Thumb scraping at the mascara clumps under your eyelashes, you nod, surprisingly agreeing with the driver. 

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just feels like I screwed things up with him. I have never met anyone like him before. Like if I lost him, I feel like I might die.”

“Sounds pretty serious.” He clucks his tongue, listening intently as the road whizzes by. 

“That, or I’m just an insane person. He relied on me for a lot of things.”

“Were you living together?” The driver wonders aloud, flipping to a local late night talk show. It occurs to you to check the time. Ten past nine. You’d been at the bar for that long?

“No, he was just… getting used to the world. He had been away for awhile. If that makes sense.”

The driver nods knowingly, a glint in his eye that you catch from the rearview mirror. “I see. He did some time and now you’re helping him get acclimated to life again?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on your shoulders. Doesn’t he have family who can help too? Unless he cut ties with his family. Getting tangled up with the law can put a lot of stress on everyone involved. I know from experience. My brother robbed an electronics store when he was nineteen, he’s still paying for it.” 

Normally, this sort of long winded back and forth would annoy you, moreso after you’d been crying. But the driver’s words lulled you back down to earth, reminded you that other humans and situations and problems existed outside of your own insulated world.

“Sorry to hear that. To answer your question, I’m kind of his only lifeline. The only one who can help with all the things he wants to know. Like I’m a mother sometimes. I know how that sounds, but it’s not a horrible thing, not really. I have no idea how he’s going to find a job. I don’t know how much I’m supposed to be involved, or if I should just let him be an individual and figure things out on his own. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” 

The driver shakes his head curtly, rolls the windows down a pinch for you. You’d been hoping he’d answer affirmatively as you’d already pulled another smoke out from your bag.

“Well, not that you asked my opinion. But I say just be realistic. If you see a need you can fill, I say there’s no harm in helping. Oh, I almost forgot. I volunteer at an animal shelter right outside of town. You know where the Lyons Bridge is?”

“Yeah, my dentist is over there on the corner of Orwell.”

“It’s right across, you can’t miss it. Point being, I can probably talk to my manager, see if we have any work to offer. Not sure how your hubby does with animals, but it’s a start, right? And for someone jumping in fresh, you can’t really beat it.”

The unprompted offer caught you off guard, and you barely had the sense of mind to give him a smile, or positive acknowledgment. You flicked your cigarette with your thumb, watched the ashes dance away. “Wow. I mean. Thank you so much, seriously. That’s so kind of you. If I see him again I will definitely tell him that.”

“You’re very welcome. It was hard for my brother too, getting back on his feet. For years I was the only one in his corner supporting him, so I know how you feel.”

When he pulls up to the half circle parking loop in front of your apartment building, the driver scrawls the name and number of the shelter on a business card. He cracks a lopsided grin, and you realize that this guy is probably way too old to have been hitting on you.

“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir.”

“Call me Mike.”

“Mike. Thank you.” You made to pop open the door handle, ready to face the nothingness of the rest of your night, visions of the wine coolers in your fridge calling to you sweetly, but Mike piped up again.

“Not so fast, little lady. I think you should dry your tears and give him a call. Put on a nice dress, you know? Put your best foot forward. Lord knows he missed you while he was behind bars!” Obviously it was meant to be a joke, but the heart behind it felt a little too real, though you’d lied about the nature of your relationship with Ken.

Ken. Even saying his name had your palms growing clammy, your eyes welling up again with stupid, childish tears. Mike noticed this falter in your face, and he shifted his body fully in his seat to face you.

“No more of that, okay? It’ll be alright. Just get yourself cleaned up and give him a call. Think positive.”

“You’re right. Sorry for making a fool of myself. I’ve just had an incredibly weird week.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It occurs to you that perhaps Mike is angling for a nice tip. He was your taxi driver, after all. You fish out a ten dollar bill from your bag and hand it to him, taking the business card and sniffling quietly.

“Thanks again. Have a safe rest of your night.” 

Wisps of the night air knocked at your ankles, the exposed skin of your arms, and you scolded yourself for not bringing a sweater. Your bag hung heavy at your shoulder, but you just stared down at the business card. Second Chances Animal Haven, the card read. Ask for Dominic – tell him Mike sent you!

As usual, the unexpected generosity of strangers is enough to make you weepy again, so instead you read the card aloud to yourself, digging absentmindedly for your keys as you head towards the back row of apartment units.

“Here at Second Chances, we believe animals and people deserve to be seen at their best. We’ve been proudly partnered with local rehab centers and addiction programs for twenty years to provide employment opportunities to convicted felons, or those reintegrating back into society. Are you or someone you know interested in volunteer or career information? Give us a call at three zero four…” 

You trailed off, flipping the card over to assess the cute graphic of a man petting the head of a labrador, absolutely beaming. The dog’s fuzzy snout brought tears to your eyes, and you wanted to scream at yourself, why does everything make me so goddamned emotional? It made you feel so puny and vulnerable, being affected like this.

“Stupid card. Stupid drawing. Stupid tequila, stupid fucking –”

Your embroiled utterances fell flat as if smashed into a wall, your eyes slamming shut instantaneously, registering that you’d just ran straight into something bigger than yourself, something moving – 

Something wearing long, chocolate brown corduroy sleeves, expert tailoring obvious even under the flickering sidewalk lamp; something waiting at the bottom of the steps leading up to your unit. 

The hard thud of your foot railing against a solid surface drowns out when you fumble backwards, nearly tripping onto your ass, your eyes widening at the speed of light when your vision focuses and drains of moisture. 

There was no mistaking it. Waiting at the stoop with what appeared to be… five or six baby blue suitcases (each embroidered delicately with swooping, elegant ‘K’ headings) of varying sizes all stacked up against one another, was Ken, who towered above you, clouded in the veiling mist of the summer evening air. 

Through the shadow his piercing blue eyes met yours, startled like a baby deer and even more innocent looking.

Were you hallucinating this? Was this really Ken, standing right in front of you, clad in brown and stunning, silky mustard orange pants that felt otherworldly in its softness, though your arm had only grazed it?

Etched into the face he gives you is instinctive surprise, as if the last thing he thought would wander around the corner was you. You drop the business card to the ground, don’t watch its descent as it flutters down to the sidewalk. Clutched under Ken’s left arm is a thick folder (maybe a book?) filled to the brim with papers stacked neat and horizontal. 

For a sickening pause that lasts thousands of centuries, you wonder if Ken’s here to tell you off. To tell you that he was only dropping by before his departure, that he was going far away and only wished to tell your guinea pig goodbye for posterity. 

You couldn’t have blamed him. In fact, you would have understood. I deserve that, you tell yourself, but Ken doesn’t say those awful things. He bends at the waist and plucks the business card you dropped, holds out his arm to return it. It’s then that you remember to breathe, remember to say something, and it’s then that you notice Ken’s gripping a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, pink and white thick petals wrapped in yellow that repel the light landing on them. 

Ken’s so tall above you, his legs so lean through his almost sheer pants, and you swear you can make out the swells of his kneecaps, the curve of his hip. The incline of muscle in his neck works as he cocks his head slightly, eyes persistent, dancing and twining with yours under the moon, the feeble crackle of the dying, cheap lamp.

Handfuls of silvering blonde hair tumble down across Ken’s tender eyes as he waits patiently for you to take the card. Blinking is an uphill battle. Moving your lips to form a sentence is some sort of sisyphean curse that you’re unsure of how to break.

“I – I’m. Ken. You’re.”

Unflappable, Ken elects to hold off on exchanging the card, and slips it into his pocket. Instead, he takes a brave step forward, and like he’s rehearsed this a thousand times on the sidewalk, puts on his most hopeful smile, extending his pristine hand that holds the flowers that you are starting to suspect might be plastic. Shrouds of crickets kick up their serenade around the both of you.

“(Y/N). These are for you. I tried relentlessly to keep them perfect on my way here, but you would not believe how difficult it is to stop objects from floating while you’re in a spacesuit, I will tell you that much right now.” You hear his heartfelt words but all you can stare at is his face, every inch of him that you can see, the imperceptible flat of his cheekbones, the angular jut of his chin, all of him so illuminated and real and right in front of you.

“You came back.” It’s all you can manage to say. Like as if a prank had been pulled on you. Could it be the case – all these days of torture and self hatred and drinking yourself to sleep had been completely in vain?

Ken’s smirk widens, crinkling the lines of his cheek, but it just makes him look even more like a timeless painting of someone who once had been real. Boyish charm bled from his every move, his honeyed words, every response he could give you.

“Told you I would, didn’t I? Do you like them?” Ken nudges the bouquet even closer to your line of sight, practically begging you to accept them. “Barbie told me – sorry. My friend Barbie who is a florist told me that these are quintessential spring colors. I wanted purple ones too but Barbie said that wasn’t staying on theme.” Ken enunciates every word, relishing in sharing his newfound knowledge of flowers. They appear to be roses, as if they were somehow handcrafted, each one made painstakingly, lovingly. 

Jolting at a realization, Ken raises his eyebrows hastily. “How could I forget? I also brought you a banana. From Barbieland! So that you can really understand what I’ve been working with my whole life.” 

Something in the lowest part of your heart snaps entirely in half, and with fingers trembling like a leaf, you finally take the flowers from Ken, cautiously placing your nose to the tips.

By some sort of miracle, though they’re obviously not real, they smell exactly like roses.

“Riveting, aren’t they?” Ken’s adding, watching through his curled eyelashes to see how you like them, but he doesn’t notice the stinging tears that rush down your cheeks until you’re crushing the bouquet between the both of your bodies, impatient to feel him for yourself, just to affirm this is real. 

The petals don’t budge or compress, they just twirl in different directions to accommodate the pressure, and the breath leaves Ken’s chest at once with the force of it. “(Y/N)? Tell me you’re not crying. The one thing I didn’t bring was a hanky with your name on it, which I was planning on having my friend Barbie who is a seamstress make for you, but my schedule was pretty tight. Here, let me just –”

There aren’t words for how you’re feeling, the relief, the overwhelming adoration, the incredulity that Ken had actually traveled all the way back for you, the sweetness of everything he’s telling you. It manifests as tears that race to escape your eyes and make you look even more disheveled than you already had been.

Ken carefully wipes at your cheeks with the edges of his jacket sleeves, folding the fabric over his thumbs like it’s brain surgery and he cannot afford to mess it up. Without asking permission, he sticks his hand out and tips your face up so it’s level with his. Gentle, so gentle, so endlessly attentive. 

“Why are you crying, (Y/N)?” Your brain should be throttling ahead, formulating a cogent response, but all you want is to hold his shoulderblades in your shaking hands and feel his body flush against yours, make him feel what his presence is doing to you, how it’s making you breathe and sway, unsteady on your feet.

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Ken quirks his eyebrows, dusted blonde and light brown, like he’s taken a punch to the gut. His hands don’t move from their spot on your chin, affixed. 

“You can’t be serious. When I accept an ultimatum, I never back down, and that’s a fact.” He seems to not mind the brazen tears and snot he’s wiped onto his (expensive looking) clothes, he just looks right down at you with a dizzying openness. Your fingers twitch around the stiff flowers where you’re still clamping them tight.

“I. I can’t. I didn’t know…”

“Look at me.” You don’t have the inner energy to fight him. Maybe it’s the liquor that’s rounded out the edges of your usually combative reflexes, or maybe it was the repressed emotional floodgates breaking, and suddenly you weren’t afraid for Ken to see what you’d really been feeling for him. The seeds you’d been sowing of your own destruction. “You really missed me that much? I thought you’d be working away like nothing ever happened.” 

It’s Ken’s turn to feel flummoxed now, analyzing what you’d said, but you can’t allow him the time to rethink. To backpedal.

His chest rises and falls in rabbit-fast motions. You swear he smells like aftershave, but you can’t pinpoint the precise scent, just that it’s minty and pleasant. Ken’s body is like a barricade of warmth and there’s roses in between you and desire gnawed at your stomach like a profanity.

“Please. Please don’t leave again. I need you, Ken.”

“You – what?”

“I need you. I n-need you to be here, with me. Don’t leave again. I. I made myself sick without you. I have a two bedroom place, I don’t h-have to use it for storage, you can have your own room and everything, I’ll be the cleanest, tidiest person in the world. Just. Please, just. Just promise. Can you promise me that? Ken?” It’s embarrassing. It’s humiliating. There's so many things you could've led with: I may be able to help you get a job, I turned into a complete and utter hermit without you here, I think you may be the best thing that's ever happened to me, I've had so much to drink tonight I shouldn't even be standing. But no, it was mushy garbage that decided to tumble out and settle in the cool air.

You know that you should have shut yourself up after the first sentence, but once the first syllable let loose, there was no taking it back.

Ken continues to wipe at your face where you continue to cry, and he rests his chin quietly on top of yours, somehow managing to hold onto everything he’d been grasping and still making just as much room for you as you needed. Your words move Ken to the point that his pulse has quickened, and – 

His pulse? Laying your browbone against his neck, just to see if you’d dreamt that forceful thrum of blood, Ken gives a submissive sigh for the contact. “I will never go anywhere ever again unless you want me to.”

“Your heart.” You mention, tucked against his frame but eyes wild with shock.

“I won’t even look out the window unless you think there’s something I should see.” Ken persists.

“Ken.”

“In fact, I think I’d be most comfortable just waiting for you to lay out what we’re doing every day, first thing, so I can get an adequate idea of –”

“Ken?” Your tone is sharp now, because he’s getting carried away – not that you weren’t receptive to his idea of what living together should look like.

“Yes, little firefly?” Ken muses, pulling you even closer to the front of his body.

“Your heart. It’s beating.”

[witchysylv]

simple negative energy capture spell jar

hello! this is a spell from my bos that i typed out today, and thought i'd share with all of you.

it's a basic energy capture jar. what it does is it takes negative energy that hits it and absorbs it into the jar, keeping a space safe. it can be considered to be a type of ward.

feel free to modify this to your needs! if you try it, let me know how it goes in the notes.

ingredients

a jar or bottle of your choosing

a small mirror to go on top of the jar (i prefer aluminum foil, but either works)

a binding sigil, either handmade or sources from someone else

obsidian for protection

basil for attracting negativity to the jar (and not you)

cinnamon for protection and defense

mugwort for a magical boost

hyssop for purifying the captured negative energy

st. john's wort to handle the negativity

dandelion for added protection

a black candle

optional: mullein, acrimony

steps

create, print, or copy down your sigil. assemble other ingredients and perform any pre-spell rituals you have.

place ingredients into the jar. you can select the order, or you can do it like this: cinnamon, basil, st. john's, dandelion, hyssop, mugwort.

as you place each ingredient into the jar, visualize your intent for it. you can also speak an affirmation such as "this jar will protect me" if you wish.

fold your sigil thrice away from you, tucking it in the jar, and following it with your crystal.

pop the cork, lid, or seal on the jar.

seal JUST the edges with the candle, and place the mirror in the center of the closing contraption.

et voila, you're done! place it wherever you need that protection.

notes

i'm autistic and selectively mute, so i usually don't speak during my spells, focusing more on intention. this is something you can modify.

i would rate this an 8/10. it's a good basic protection jar, and you don't need anything too extensive for protections unless someone is after you or something anyway.

anyway, i hope that's helpful to someone! if you have comments, suggestions, etc., do let me know. part of what i miss about old witchblr is the open dialogue that used to be spread on posts; people don't talk enough now. so feel free to come talk to me, and if you have improvements, i'm all ears!

thank you for your time.

[vind3miat0r]

things my classmates have said as Redacted Characters

i got bored 👍 (long warning)

"What does space taste like?" Babe

"Apparently Coke found out!" Asher

"I wrote the page—" Starlight

"How do you write a blank page??" Avior

"We were playing Russian Roulette and I missed" Sweetheart

"[...] The board's not even three dimensional at this point" Morgan

"I like your shirt!" Treasure

"Thanks, I like it too. It's not mine :3" Porter

"Autocorrect is like the devil for foreign languages" Milo

"Did you just sleep through the lunch period—" teen!David

"It looks like the angel might need saving [...] he looks like 'hhHRGhaghrr'" Huxley

"How do you breed flowers?" Guy

"[SAM]! WHAT THE HECK!! [...] YOU'RE WEARING THE EXACT SAME SHIRT!!!" Darlin'

*points at license plate with KGB on it* "OMG IT'S THE KGB 😦😦😦" Angel

"Are you artistic?" Doc

"Aluminum foil in the microwave goes crazy" Gavin

"Now does it curl up and die? Or does it scream in pain?" Echo talking about Blake krilling himself

"And [Darlin'] enters the room at the perfect time!" Asher

"Wait what—" Darlin'

"Why is the 94 year old fighting the dragon 💀" Damien

"We named the worm Bernard! And his wife's name is Brenda, and she was mad at him for donating his body to science :D" Babe

"Hey [Freelancer], are you okay?" Lasko

"I'm fine, just processing the trauma of waking up :3" Freelancer

"EWWW WHY DOES IT MOVE LIKE THAT—" Angel

"So the first thing goes first?" Milo

"Yep!" Asher

"Uh huh. Thanks [Ash]" Milo

"I don't trust your 'Google Translate'" Vega

"Well you haven't found anything else, so" Warden

"Have you heard of Poppy Playtime, [Milo]? :3" Sweetheart

"Omg its him" Vincent

"Omg yes he's the only one ever" Lovely

"But I don't know instrument lore!" Guy

"DO YOU MEAN MUSIC THEORY??!" Honey

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

Okay so, my mother works in maternity and being born stuff. Here is a thing I heard from her a LOT

Skin to skin contact between mom and baby is the MOST important thing, first thing out of the womb besides making sure the baby breathes and healthy. Heart to heart.

That way the baby gets healthier or something? Don’t remember but makes the baby work better, frees oxytocin or smth Idk.

Also, babies some get ATTITUDE as soon as they pop out. Like, drama queen attitude. But understandable because they are babies.

Yeah, I'd heard that about childbirth! Skin-to-skin contact is important for developmental growth. According to Google, it helps calm and relax both the mother and baby and regulates the baby's heart rate, breathing, and temperature.

I read somewhere once (I think it was in a health textbook back in high school) that aluminum foil is used to help keep newborn babies warm by swaddling them in it, since they lose heat faster than adults do. Considering they have aluminum blankets as part of an emergency survival/first aid piece to help prevent hypothermia, I can believe that!

Considering they go from being in a confined space to a big cold wide world, I'd be surprised if one didn't come out screaming! 😂 But from what I understand, this is a good thing, though I think I've heard it's possible that babies don't always cry or scream. Either that or I'm thinking of after they're born and have settled 🤔

Anyway, thanks for the information! It's good to have resources to reference for accuracy when it comes to the things we want to write, so I appreciate it! UvU

Also, your mom sounds like a wonderful woman, and I hope you both have a wonderful rest of the week!

[hamartia-grander]

Please I’m begging you on my hands and knees please elaborate on Luis and Ada being foils

I am SO happy that someone finally asked me to talk about this I know I asked you to ask me I love you so much thank you because once I had this realisation it made me love both of their characters - and the re4 remake as a whole - so much more than I already did.

Explanation below the cut:

So first lemme define what a foil is when it comes to characters, not because I think you personally don't know Wilfred but in case anyone's reading this and wondering why I'm calling these characters aluminum wrap. I'm not, I promise it's a real narrative device. A literary foil is "a character whose purpose is to accentuate or draw attention to the qualities of another character". Essentially, a foil requires two characters to be identified, and they exist to contrast, reflect, or exist in an opposite way to their co-foil so as to highlight the other character's weaknesses, strengths, and personality. However, they are often also very similar in technical ways, and thus their behaviours and/or quirks that set them apart show the audience how some things just work for one character but not the other. Think of it like an inverted image, how some details look better in negative space but worse in positive space. This is true of narrative foils. In the remake of Resident Evil 4, Luis is written as a literary foil to Ada.

We first meet Ada in re2, and she's introduced as this mysterious woman who claims to be of the FBI but reveals no further details about herself. We as the audience/player behind Leon have to trust her to get to where we need to go, and she proves herself worthy of that trust. Leon doesn't question why she's helping him, because he believes that she really is FBI and that helping people is her job. He doesn't know her goal, but he's willing to help, and receive her help. However, at the end of re2, we find out that she's actually not FBI, that she was using that as a cover and she is actually a mercenary and spy, whose goal was to acquire a sample of the harmful G-virus and bring it to Wesker who was obviously going to use it for nefarious purposes, and she knew that. Leon (the audience) doesn't know this until the very end.

We first meet Luis in re4. Now in the original, he barely had any substance as a character, and his personality was simply an expression of cultural stereotypes and misogyny, masked under "charming flamboyance". In the remake, however, Luis does have substance as a character. We not only get more out of his personality, but we now know his goals, his flaws, and his interests. And just like Ada, he is a mysterious character with a dark past that led to him making bad decisions and aligning himself with bad people. However, the difference between them and the beginning of what sets them up as foils is that Leon (the audience) finds all of this out about Luis almost immediately. Unlike with Ada, where Leon took her word and went the entire game believing what she said, Leon was sceptical of Luis and had Hunnigan look him up - and sure enough, Hunnigan was able to find all sorts of information on Luis, despite Luis actively trying to make that information as well as himself untraceable. So rather than having the audience trust Luis outright like we did with Ada, and then having that trust threatened when we learn who she is later one, we learn who Luis is immediately, setting him up as someone who we should be sceptical of.

With Ada, by giving us a character to trust and see good in for an entire game only to end it with the reveal that she's actually working for the "bad guys", we are led to think that all of her actions up to that point were fake, that she was simply putting on a cover of kindness and care for Leon. And of course that's the wrong idea, as she clearly does care for him, which we see when he stupidly dares her to shoot him. And she refuses. IDK, even if I loved Leon, I would've shot him then just because he was being a cocky shit about it, but Ada is certainly stronger than me. Ada's actions prior to us finding out who she really is now are tainted, and we're led to see her actions as that of a facade. Adversely, with Luis, by giving us a character who's bad past we know outright and repeatedly meet up with throughout the game, we are led to see all of his actions from that point on as acts of redemption.

We first see Ada as a Good character and therefore all of her actions are that of someone just being herself, but with Luis we first see him as a Bad character, and therefore all of his actions are that of someone who must redeem himself. However, they are both very similar characters; but in the way the stories introduced them to us, and in the order they revealed information about these two characters to us, the narrative influences how we see these characters. Imagine if we had gone the entire game not knowing Luis used to work for Umbrella, thinking he was just Some Guy who happened to live in this village. Leon most definitely would have trusted him much quicker. But that 'Umbrella' background being the first real thing we learn about Luis means that his dark past will always be on our minds when we see him next. And it makes sense to us, given the events of re2, that Leon wouldn't trust Luis, even if the audience does. (Same with Ada; the audience could be distrusting of her, but narratively we see why Leon would've trusted her implicitly in re2.)

Both Luis and Ada are mysterious characters whose real moral alignment we are uncertain of for almost the entirety of their games. Both Luis and Ada tell lies to protect themselves or their cover. Both Luis and Ada withhold information they either feel too ashamed to admit or can't admit, again, to protect their cover. Both Luis and Ada - specifically in re4r - have a recurring theme of change. They both speak to Leon about people changing. They both show their own relationships with change. And yet, their endings are vastly different.

Where Ada withholds information and succeeds, Luis withholds information and is found out by Hunnigan. Where Ada can double cross Wesker and escape, Luis attempts to double cross Los Iluminados and gets found out and captured, which is how we meet him. Where Ada gains Leon's trust almost immediately and loses it at the end, Luis doesn't gain Leon's trust until the very end. Even when Leon shows situational trust in him - accepting Luis's help in the safe house, agreeing to partner with him to get the suppressant for the plaga for Ashley - he still doesn't trust Luis's motives, his goal, or even his character. Leon constantly questions Luis throughout their interactions, unwilling to believe this man would help them unless he had some ulterior motive.

That brings back up the theme of change. Luis asks Leon if he thinks people can change, and then Leon asks Ada if she has changed. Luis's death scene could very well be the first time - or at least, the first significant time - Leon has been forced to confront the idea that people change. His confusion regarding Luis's real motives the entire time as a result of learning that Luis used to work for Umbrella seems to be proof enough to Luis that Leon does not see him as someone who has changed, even though Luis desperately wants that to be seen. Adversely, Leon desperately wants to see some proof that Ada has changed, that she's not using him. He's learned from Luis, but he's stumped by his own personal lack of change. Leon doesn't understand how to identify that kind of change in someone; or at the very least, he doesn't know how to voice it. Ada replies "what do you think?", and this could be passed off as her usual way of avoiding the truth, but really she's asking him "Are you even able to know if I've changed? Did you ever pay attention to who I am, or did you lose sight of my character as soon as you learned something bad about me? Have I changed, or has your perception of me changed? Can I change to you if you never really knew me at all? What do you think about how people change?" (And I love this about her.) Luis is Ada's foil because the way Leon perceived Luis's change was so abrupt that now Leon is looking for change in everyone, even himself. And where Luis doubts himself and has to ask Leon - as he's dying - if Leon thinks people can change, Ada is sure of it.

And of course I have to add some serennedy in this. As @thebrokengate kindly mentioned, the dynamics between Leon and Ada, and Leon and Luis, are opposite. Leon trusts Ada and then that trust is broken; Leon doesn't trust Luis, and then that trust is earned, but too late. Luis isn't just a foil for Ada, but his relationship with Leon is also a foil for Ada's. We see where Luis fails in ways that Ada succeeded when it comes to their characters; but when it comes to their relationship with Leon, Luis succeeds where Ada failed. And it makes his death even more devastating as he had the potential to go further with Leon than Ada could, but he was killed, leaving Leon alone regardless. In both instances, Leon lost someone who affected him personally; but where one was lost with trust broken, the other was lost with their life taken.

Again, by giving us Ada's personality first and her background last, we soften up to her as a character before having to question everything we thought we knew about her, as who we find out she is contradicts what her actions have been. However, by giving us Luis's background first and his personality last, we start out sceptical of him, and when his actions contradict what we found out about who he is, we forgive him. I'll also take this opportunity to point out the misogyny in this fandom, as many fans still dislike Ada or believe her to be a bad person, when they love Luis. in many ways, they are the same character. We were just given details about them in a different order that influenced how we perceive their actions.

[scoliosisrick]

What is the scoliosis Rick lore do far

NO IDEA LET ME TRY TO REMEMBER

- DATED SATANIST RICK

- TRIED TO DATE SPACE PIRATE RICK

- SOLD MY MORTY TO ORGAN HARVESTERS FOR SAFARI FRIES

- FOUND MURT IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS

- DATED GHARTHANAUUG

- CHEATED ON GHARTHANAUUG WITH SOMEONE I DON'T REMEMBER LMAO BUT GHARTHANAUUG PUT A CURSE OF PLAGUE AND FAMINE THROUGHOUT THE LANDS FOR 500 YEARS

- SOMETHING ABOUT MY AI CHATBOT CLONE GOING ROGUE

- DATED A FEW OTHER MONSTROSITIES AND A TUMBLR PORN BOT

- I THINK ONE OF THESE MONSTROSITIES TRIED TO PARENT MURT SO WE BROKE UP BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE TO BE UNDERMINED IN MY AUTHORITY

- THINK I LIVED OFF THE GRID FOR A WHILE AND PUT ALUMINUM FOIL ALL OVER MY CABIN IN THE WOODS

- I HAD A TON OF RICK CONSCIOUSNESSES LIVING IN MY HEAD AND THEY ALL KEPT YELLING AT ME I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT THE POINT OF DOING THAT WAS.

- I THINK I EXPERIMENTED ON SEWER CREATURES DURING THIS TIME TOO

- GOT SUCKED INTO GMOD DARK MILITARY RP AND GOT PERMABANNED FOR ERPING IN THE BATTLEFIELD TRENCHES

- COULDN'T GET OFF MY GAMER CHAIR I WAS WELDED TIGHT ON THERE

- GOT SWEPT OUT TO SEA AND STRANDED THERE, MET MY FISH WIFE BUT SHE GOT A RESTRAINING ORDER ON ME BECAUSE I TRIED TO HARPOON SOMEBODY I THINK

- WAS HUNTED DOWN BY MURT FOR NOT MAKING HIM CHICKEN NUGGETS

- HID IN A CAVE FROM MURT WHERE I DATED HOLE MONSTER BUT THEN WE BROKE UP

- MURT GOT CAPTURED BY THE GOVERNMENT AND GAVE THE EARTH A TASTE OF JUST A FRACTION OF HIS POWER, OPENING HELL FISSURES AND DESTROYING THOUSANDS OF MILES OF LAND. THIS WAS ABSOLUTELY APOCALYPTIC AND LOTS OF PEOPLE DIED L

- MURT SENDS OUT DEMONS THROUGH THE NIGHT TO HUNT DOWN AND DEVOUR PEOPLE FOR HIM

- GOT INVESTIGATED BY THE POLICE

- A CULT HAS FORMED AROUND MURT AND NOW I'M PISSED

[ziptie-bouquet]

Update on the V1 clay thing (the other post got too long!!)

Step 7 (wing holders):

Finally. This is the last big addition to the body. After this, I'm gonna do a last control bake to fix all the cracked and rough areas and also add details to the chest. (and then I'll sculpt some weapons!)

I had issues figuring out a way to make wing holders that would both stick to the wire and have space in the middle to glue the wings in. I ended up using axial symmetry to be able to fold them around the wire, and then I put aluminum foil between the two halves to make sure they wouldn't close while baking.

The aluminum foil on top of them was a way to align them all together, if that makes sense. I also placed aluminum foil balls under the wings for support. I didn't press too hard on them to avoid leaving marks and to be sure they'd be easy to remove.

It looks like this when cured, and honestly I'm really happy with it. The other 4 broke because they were too thin but I remade them.

And here they are! Sexiest wings of the century

After this I'm gonna add details, glue beneath the less stable parts and start nail filing some bits here and there. Maybe I'm gonna see the end of this.

[specialinterestshows]

The following is an Asta Twelvetrees x D’arcy Bloom fic no one asked for, but that the world definitely needs.

Episode: Season 2, Episode 5: “Family Day”

Song:

Warnings: Passing allusions to domestic violence / controlling relationship, pining, underage drinking mention, cannabis (weed), underaged inebriated sex mention (of two characters now adults), passing mention of alcoholism, infertility mention (jokingly), biting, hickies, dirty talk, rough oral

-

GN69

Given how difficult the last few days had been, D’arcy was on the upswing. With Asta’s arm around her shoulders and the raven-haired beauty resting against her, D’arcy almost wished Asta had more of her shitty ex‘s clothes in her trunk, so they could stare at the fire burning on the grill for hours. Still, she held onto this moment for as long as she could.

By the time the sweatshirt was reduced to soot, the sun had almost set and the cloud cover was shifting to reveal the night sky.

Looking up at the stars that began to peek out from the parting clouds, D’arcy was reminded of the plastic imitations stuck to Asta’s bedroom ceiling and how many times the two of them had explored each other under those stars as stoned teenagers. Fuck, the two of them had even done it in the yacht spot, drinking beers that Asta had snagged from work in the parked car until they were just tipsy enough to say they couldn’t remember sloppily making out, groping, going down on, and fingering each other. Inevitably, the night would end with both of them passed out in the back seat, one on top of the other. D’arcy fondly remembered how Asta’s full weight on her was always so comforting.

Those were the days.

Before passing out drunk at The 59 happened more often than making it home to fall asleep in her own bed.

Before Jimmy made Asta stay home anytime she wasn’t working.

Before bruises and excuses, shattered legs and broken dreams.

Just the two of them at what felt like the beginning of their lives.

It was time to recapture that feeling.

“Wanna go park at the yacht spot and turn that” - D’arcy pointed at an apple sitting on a nearby table - “into a bong, for old times’ sake? It’ll get the smell of burnt sweatshirt out of our hair.”

“Sounds perfect,” Asta said, lifting her head from the other woman’s shoulder to look at her, “I’ll drive, you work your magic.”

D’arcy couldn’t help but smile when a soft kiss was planted on her cheek - what probably looked like a casual show of affection between best friends from the outside. But every time Asta’s lips touched her, D’arcy felt a tug in her chest; a protective instinct swelling with happiness and longing.

“Thanks, D’arce,” Asta said, smiling before turning to walk to her car, “You always know just what I need.”

—

Parked at what might have been considered a jaunty angle if there were parking spaces in the woods was Asta’s car; not “the yacht,” namesake of the spot, but a suitable substitute for the occasion. The two women sat within its padded frame, the occasional flicker of a flame highlighting just how smoky the air was inside.

The apple D’arcy had expertly carved with her pocketknife gave each hit a sweet taste, filtering the smoke through a bit of water as well as the inner walls of the fruit. The aluminum foil bowl with a long down-stem that she had fashioned from scraps wasn’t quite as impressive, but it did the job.

“Maybe I should’ve made this thing out of a pepper instead,” D’arcy mused, passing the makeshift bong without noticing the incredulous look being thrown her way, “Most of ‘em are already basically empty, and it might give it a nice kick-“

“Shut up!” Asta gave her a playful shove, reminding her of the chili pepper eating contest before taking a hit and trying not to laugh into the piece as D’arcy giggled. The last bit of ash pulled through quickly, heralded by a cough.

“Well, looks like that’s the last of it,” Asta said, looking down at the cashed bowl.

“Actually, if you’ll scoot a little bit,” D’arcy leaned over, reached underneath the driver’s seat, and moved a few things around before triumphantly pulling out a small ziploc bag containing a few bits of flower, “Aha! First try.”

“You hid weed in my car?” Asta raised an eyebrow while a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“You’re surprised?” D’arcy countered, pulling out a nug and taking it apart piece by piece as she packed the bowl. Her hands worked quickly, despite being more used to a grinder at this point; something about the atmosphere was almost perfect in recapturing the nostalgia she sought.

“Aw, greens? For me?” Asta made sure as she was handed the lighter and bong.

“I started the last bowl - this one’s for you,” D’arcy insisted, “But it feels like we’re missing something… Mind if I put on some tunes?”

“Go for it,” Asta encouraged, gesturing to her case of CDs before lighting the bowl.

D’arcy clicked the key left in the ignition just slightly to give power to the radio and lights before looking through disc after disc. Finding one that made her smile, she plucked it from its sleeve before pushing it into the player and skipping to track two. She leaned back in her seat again, watching Asta listen curiously to the repeating discordant noise before it changed to guitar and drums. The realization hit Asta slowly, a smile creeping onto her face as she let out her hit.

“The Breeders? Really?” Asta laughed.

“It’s ironic!” D’arcy said defensively, “I thought that was, like, half the reason we used to listen to them all the time. Y’know, ‘cause you got slow swimmers and I’m barren. That’s why we used to do it raw every time I called you for what I thought of as a GN69, even though we never actually-“

The sudden look of realization that fell over Asta’s face as she listened made D’arcy stop. Had Asta been telling the truth about not remembering any of those moments? Did D’arcy just trigger a memory that might compromise their friendship?

“Wait,” Asta’s hand slowly crept over to D’arcy’s thigh as she spoke, “I’m single... You’re single…”

“Oh you’re baked is what you are,” D’arcy laughed, trying to give her an out, her own heartbeat speeding up.

“I want you even when I’m not high,” Asta said matter-of-factly, the lyrics echoing with “want you” as she set the lighter and apple on the dashboard and scooted a bit closer, “You’ve always felt like home to me, and I’ve been gone for so long. Don’t turn me away.”

Those words, paired with the soulful brown eyes staring into hers, made D’arcy’s carefree persona falter.

“I’m finally back, D’arce,” the emotion in Asta’s voice tugged on her heartstrings like nothing else, as Asta’s face steadily approached, fingers gently brushing D’arcy’s lips now, “Please, just let me in.”

Before she knew what she was doing, D’arcy had closed the distance between her lips and Asta’s, arms moving to pull the other woman as close to her as possible.

Asta’s lips were just as soft as D’arcy had remembered and - despite the smoke and its vessel - she could taste the vanilla ice cream Asta had used to ease the overpowering heat of the last pepper she had attempted to eat. D’arcy chased down the flavor until she was lost in it, numb to it, and finally reached a familiar, unnameable taste that felt welcoming like nothing else, her hands roaming Asta’s breathless body. She was met with the same enthusiasm she gave, lips breaking apart only to feel the electric sensation of running them together again, clinging to each other as if letting go meant never seeing her again.

“I’ll be your whatever you want” was the only part of the song that registered for D’arcy every time she heard it - it was exactly how she felt.

Giving the both of them time to catch their breath, D’arcy gently tilted the other woman’s head, slowly trailing kisses across her cheek and down her neck. Feeling the occasional buzz of Asta moaning into the kisses they shared was nice, but hearing her moan was something D’arcy was craving desperately. Biting down harder and harder, sucking on the skin between her teeth, she savored the sounds that almost harmonized with the music. Starting to squirm, Asta’s moans turned to whimpers as she grabbed a handful of bright red hair to stop the onslaught to the space between her neck and shoulder.

“Not too much,” she said, already breathing heavily, “People still get weird around me when I have bruises.”

“We should probably take this to the back seat anyway,” D’arcy suggested, removing her jacket and undoing her ponytail.

Asta ambled into the back, not bothering to use the car doors and sliding off her plaid button-up once she was seated. Her t-shirt was the next thing to go as D’arcy squeezed between the front seats to join her.

“Helloooo nurse!” D’arcy exclaimed, laughing when her comment was met with the shirt flung at her.

“Oh, I see. You wanna play doctor?” Asta asked, donning a smirk and enjoying the way the other woman looked at her, “Where does it hurt?” - she leaned in to whisper - “And where do you want it to?”

Wordlessly, D’arcy bit her lip and took the other woman’s hand, guiding it down to the space between her legs. Asta went back to occupying her lips with D’arcy’s while she undid the black leather belt. Pulling away every piece of clothing that stood between her and her target, Asta was a woman on a mission. The moment she had enough space, she dipped her head between D’arcy’s thighs.

Pants, belt and underwear abandoned just above her knees, D’arcy tried and failed to spread her legs further in response to the warm, wet tongue that flitted against her. She tried to shimmy her way into a position to lower her pants further without shifting too much - but the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

D’arcy moaned loudly when Asta gripped her thighs to hold her in place and started biting her tender labia instead.

“Fuck! That shouldn’t feel as good as it does,” D’arcy said, gripping the headrests of the seats on either side of her and leaning back against the cold glass of the window.

“Yeah? You like that?” Asta teased, lips hovering just above the wetness she had already brought forth, one hand firmly pressing down on the other woman’s stomach to keep her from moving her hips.

“I missed your mouth, like, a lot,” D’arcy admitted, bringing a hand down to wipe off some of the face paint around the edges of Asta’s face. It was all she could do not to grab Asta’s hair and push her back down between her legs, but she had to ask.

“You down to keep going?”

Rather than speaking, Asta replied by pulling the pants and underwear the rest of the way down before bringing her mouth back down to D’arcy’s aching flesh. Her fingers parted the rosy folds and she began flicking her tongue, rapidly and rhythmically. D’arcy felt her pleasure mounting embarrassingly quickly, but just when she was getting close, Asta went back to biting instead.

“Ah! Unfair!” D’arcy whined, running her fingers through her own hair in frustration, feeling the mounting pleasure stall.

Before D’arcy could protest further, Asta began using her tongue again, expertly bringing the other woman back to a place where her pleasure continued to build - before denying her again, teeth leaving her even more tender with the most pleasurable pain.

“Asta!” she whined, squirming, “Please!”

Tongue slowly reuniting with D’arcy’s throbbing clit, Asta slid a single finger slowly into the source of her wetness as moans overtook the music in volume.

“Yes! Yes!” D’arcy was dizzy with pleasure, feeling Asta add another finger as her mouth continued - but part of her was waiting for the pain now that she was so close to the edge. The thrusting and licking and sucking didn’t stop this time, bringing the perfect peak directly into her sights.

“Asta! I’m gonna-!” was all D’arcy managed to say before her body took over, hands grasping the other woman’s hair as she heard herself gush down Asta’s fingers and chin, onto the seat. She was about to apologize until she realized Asta had started fingering her harder and faster because of it, drawing out her orgasm for as long as she could.

This was better than nostalgia; this was real.

The world was so much more colorful and vivid when D’arcy finally opened her eyes, feeling better than she had in years.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, wiping tears from her cheeks, “Holy fucking shit.”

Asta giggled, planting one last kiss between D’arcy’s legs before slowly pulling out her fingers. Staring her down seductively, she licked them clean.

“Oh you sexy bitch, come over here so I can thank you,” D’arcy breathed, sitting up to grab Asta in a passionate kiss before stripping her down to return the favor.

—

“Good morning,” Asta said, walking to the staff lockers of the Patience Health Clinic and setting down her things.

“‘Morning,” Ellen replied, looking her over suspiciously, “You look… chipper.”

“I slept well last night,” Asta replied curtly, putting on her scrubs, “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Wow, I was just trying to be nice,” Ellen held her hands up defensively before taking a sandwich out of a nearby tupperware, “Thought you’d appreciate it. Especially after the competition yesterday.”

She took a small bite, mulling something over before saying more.

“Speaking of - are you and D’arcy a thing ‘cause all the men in town require their own sad, separate ranking system? Or are you, like, into her.”

“Excuse me?” Asta whipped around to face the accusation.

“I mean, I get it,” Ellen said before taking a much larger bite and continuing to talk with her mouth full, “The 59 on a weekend has zero eye candy - until you start looking at the ladies.” Ellen gestured to herself, sandwich still in hand, making Asta roll her eyes and scoff.

“What makes you think we-?”

“Yesterday’s clothes” - Ellen leaned over and pointed - “that hickey you keep trying to hide, and” - she plucked a long, bright red hair from the back of Asta’s shirt with finality. “Not that I care, but if you’re gonna lie, maybe you should do it better.”

Saying this, Ellen gave Asta two gruff pats on the shoulder, stuffing her face and leaving the empty tupperware before walking off.

Asta looked down at the container. Maybe Ellen was right - she shouldn’t be lying; if only because Ellen herself was probably already on the phone telling everyone in town. Then a second realization sunk in.

“… ELLEN! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE MY LUNCH!”

[end]

-

Tag list (thank you!)

@domripley , @falloutboy-lover

[thefoilguy]

Discovery from 2001: A Space Odyssey - Aluminum Foil Sculpture