#the-rain-on-your-dandelions

[artykyn]

hiiiii sorry to bother you again but uh... homemade vegan dark chocolate?? Would you mind ruining me on that please?

HA okay recipe time

*Disclaimer: I've done this so much that I might have skipped over random stuff, or said something that makes sense to ME but to no one else. Feel free to reach out for clarification on anything.

Super long post!

Ingredients

Cacao butter, cocoa/cacao powder, sweetener of choice, little pinch of salt, little bit of vanilla, little bit of instant coffee

Cacao butter -- note that people use this as both a food ingredient and a beauty ingredient and you want the stuff that's food-grade and safe to eat.

Cocoa/cacao powder- "cacao" means it's raw and "cocoa" means it's processed, if you were curious. Pick whichever you like, but the source you choose affects the flavor of your chocolate. Cacao tends to be slightly more bitter and cocoa tends to be slightly sweeter. If you have a local chocolate shop in town, I highly recommend buying your powder from them! A store that specializes in chocolate products tends to have great cocoa/cacao powder.

Try different kinds of products and learn what you like! I often use Dutch-processed cocoa powder.

Sweetener- Lots of options.

Brown sugar, white sugar, whatever you pick. It all affects the flavor and you can experiment and discover what you like! I will say that powdered sugar usually makes my chocolate come out smoother than granulated sugar. Some brands of powdered sugar are processed with bone char though so take care to check for vegan brands.

Honey is also a great option that makes chocolate even smoother than with sugar, but I'm sure agave would be a good substitute for vegans. I haven't used agave personally since it can cause health problems so I usually go for powdered sugar for my vegan chocolates.

Vanilla- I usually use a dribble of vanilla extract. I want to try vanilla sugar sometime though 🤔

Instant coffee/espresso powder- Coffee naturally intensifies the chocolate flavor! 😃 Try putting a teaspoon of it in the batter next time you make brownies or chocolate cake.

Special: Add in whatever else you want for flavor. Mint extract. Cinnamon. Anything. This is YOUR CUSTOM HOMEMADE CHOCOLATE!

Instructions

Tools: stove, table/work area, a saucepan and a glass or metal bowl (for a makeshift double boiler), digital thermometer, rubber spatula/spoon (DO NOT use metal or wood), measuring utensils of choice depending on how much you're making, tea towel, whatever you'll be pouring your chocolate in or on

A good ratio to start with is 1 part cacao butter : 1 part cacao/cocoa powder : 1/4 part sweetener. The more experience you get and the more you taste-test and figure out your preferred bitterness/sweetness/flavor, you will form your own ratios. Salt and coffee are a couple pinches, measure with your heart depending on how big your batch is. About a teaspoon of vanilla extract is appropriate but you will learn to measure that with your heart as well.

Raw cacao butter is usually sold in big chunks. I like to put those chunks in a bag and get a hammer to SMASH them into smaller chunks, for better measuring and melting.

Note that chocolate is SUPER FINICKY about moisture! It does NOT LIKE WATER. Make sure that your tools are all clean and completely dry. Wash your hands before working with food, of course, and then make sure your hands are VERY DRY.

BEGIN

Put your cacao butter, sweetener, salt, vanilla, and coffee in your bowl. Put a little bit of water in your saucepan, maybe an inch deep, and put it on a low simmer. Put the bowl over the saucepan like a double boiler (don't let bottom of bowl touch the water).

If you're using any extra ingredients for flavor, add them in at this step, too. Whatever you do, do NOT add liquid ingredients (like mint extract) after the cacao butter is already melted. This beginning part is the only time you can add liquid ingredients. But you could add solid ingredients, like spices, later on.

Monitor your chocolate. If you're not noticing any melting of your cacao butter, start ticking up the heat a bit at a time until you start to notice some slow, gradual melting of your cacao butter. Do not start high and then turn it down, you don't want it to melt too fast.

Stir regularly to avoid getting any "hot spots" and trying to get the cacao butter to melt evenly.

Once all your cacao butter chunks are melted and the mixture looks smooth, check your temperature. Your goal: between 120 and 130F (50 to 55C). Keep stirring until you get there, might take a little bit. Might need to tick up your stove temp slightly.

Wipe your thermometer immediately after each time you check the temp because otherwise the chocolate will solidify on it.

When your temperature is in range, take it off the stove. Wrap the bowl in the tea towel and place on table. Gradually stir in your cocoa/cacao powder.

This is the point when I'll start taste testing. Is it chocolatey enough? More powder, maybe a little more salt. Is it sweet enough? More sweetener. Is it too bitter? I might add more cacao butter and put it back on the stove.

Your goal at THIS point is now to let it cool to about 82-84F (28-29C). Sometimes I have a bigger bowl of cold water that I will dip my chocolate bowl into, to chill the bottom, like an inverse double-boiler (double-chiller?). Or you can just be patient. Just be sure to keep stirring it. Doesn't have to be perpetual, tbh. Make some tea for yourself, give it a stir every couple minutes, but be very careful that you don't take too long between stirring that the chocolate at the edges of the bowl starts to solidify.

Once you've hit your cooling temp, put it BACK ON THE BOILER! Yup. Now you heat it up again! Not too long this time. Just to about 90F (32C) and then take it off again.

The final step, easy mode: let the chocolate cool a little in the bowl. You don't want it to be super runny, but you do still want it to be pourable. Lay out a big sheet of parchment paper on your table and slowly pour the chocolate all over it. Now you've got a big chocolate puddle on your table. It'll cool and harden and then you can break it apart into pieces. I usually make my chocolate in the evening so it takes all night to get fully set.

The final step, fancy/hard mode: have some molds to pour your chocolate into. Depending on how careful you're being/how long that takes, you might need to put your bowl back on the saucepan a couple of times to try maintaining the chocolate in the upper 80sF (low 30sC) while you're still working with it. Transferring a little chocolate at a time into a smaller container so it's easier to pour into the even smaller molds might be a good tactic, but whatever you choose for your intermediate container, pre-warm it. Let it all cool and harden for a few hours, ideally overnight.

Pouring tricks: if at any point you think you screwed something up and the chocolate seems a little chunky, run it through a strainer.

Storage: DO NOT put chocolate in the fridge. Cacao butter tends to absorb the scents and smells around it, which will come out as part of the flavor. You got onions in your fridge? Now you have onion-flavored chocolate. Just keep it in a bag or nice little container on your counter.

Congrats! You made some homemade chocolate!

[catgirlkirigiri]

My scug, Dandy! They can piggyback two slugpups and carry one in their mouth to hold babies and keep their hands free :D They'd start their campaign with one pup (that pup being Metal Pipe, the little grey/black one) and have increased pup spawn rates. She's also able to tame lantern mice, centipedes, and jetfish! And finally her spots and antennae glow in the dark, essentially giving the effect of eating a neuron fly without having to go get one. They would also be unable to ascend due to their title/role as a parent to abandoned slugpups; I like to think their campaign's ending would be similar to the slugtree ending Monk and Survivor have.

[ladymarvel27]

[yelenapines]

He Was Sunshine , I Was Midnight Rain *** They're So Pretty, It Hurts I'm Not Talking About Boys I'm Talking About Girls   *** You Look Perfect Tonight                                                                                                     *** You're on your own, kid  Yeah, you can face this You're on your own kid, you always have been *** I'm in a field of dandelions, wishing on everyone one That you'll be mine mine 

[hedgehog-moss]

Good news! I managed to find the last dandelions of the season :) I really thought I'd missed the window to harvest them this year; it's usually a late-April activity for me but it rained so much in the past couple of months, it just ruined my flower-harvest schedule.

The only dandelions left where I live are all in their wish-granting puffball phase, but I thought I'd try my luck at higher elevations—yesterday I called a neighbour who lives 150 metres higher, it went something like "Hello I would like to inquire about your dandelions and what stage of their life cycle they have reached." Neighbour told me if I hadn't introduced myself first she would have assumed I was a salesperson cold-calling to pitch a product ("You sounded so professional.") But she confirmed that she saw a few still-yellow dandelions during her last walk! Pandolf and I were immediately on our way.

Neighbour also told me that the cows were out in one of the pastures I was about to cross, but I didn't tell Pan, it was a surprise. He was so happy! Look at him bouncing his way towards them:

I was ready to call him back if the cows looked nervous, but instead more cows arrived to meet this visitor, to Pandolf's extreme delight (I had to call him twice before he deigned to stop greeting cows and join me on my dandelion search.)

Usually I just sit in a pasture covered with thousands of dandelions and I barely have to move to fill my basket, but in late May the harvestable dandelions are few and far between, so I had to walk long distances to find a couple here, a couple there—and I had to really inspect the tall grass, where they are much better-hidden than in April grass.

And guess what else I found in the tall grass?

A lion!

Worse! it's Texas :) I guess he is officially a recurring character. (Here's Texas' memorable introduction, for those who missed it.)

He makes Pandolf look small and scrawny!

I went to say hello to his owner but she wasn't home, so we returned to our dandelion field, followed closely by a suspicious Texas.

Sure, I'd scritched his ears and it was nice, but he's a diligent guard dog and unlike Pandolf he doesn't think friendly ear-scratching and malicious intent are two circles that can't overlap. But once I showed him my harvest he lost interest in us. Catching dandelion thieves is not in his job description.

Another animal I had to negotiate with were pollinators, who were clinging to the last few dandelions even though there were other wildflowers for them to feed from. They probably thought I was being similarly unreasonable with my single-minded focus.

I also found an adorable tiny spider in my harvest—she was dandelion-yellow and perfectly camouflaged to hunt insects in there! Here she is giving me a tiny spider high-five (or maybe angrily shaking her fist at me as I deprived her of this ideal hunting ground)

I let the llamas out to eat the weeds in my (still not planted) vegetable garden, like last week, as I started the long and meticulous process of destemming 400 dandelion flowers one by one. It started raining at some point but I had to stay outside to keep an eye on Pampe—it wasn't cold at all, and after the initial "oh no! rain" reaction, it started feeling pretty nice and meditative, sitting outside in the soft spring rain with the animals while preparing flowers.

I proudly told my mother that despite being one month late I managed to make 5 jars of dandelion honey just like last year, and she complained about shrinkflation seeing as I used significantly smaller jars than last year. I'm sorry but that's just called making clever use of packaging to meet unreasonable customer expectations in difficult times. Plus, I used 1 more lemon than usual in my recipe, so what this product lost in quantity it gained in quality. ("That's what they all say," she tutted)

(If my hen looks grumpy it's because she was sheltering from the rain under the table and I unceremoniously caught her and dropped her on top of it to enliven my photo. Not only did she get wet but she felt used, like a mere prop. She's back in her sheltered spot and it's been over 10min but you can still hear muffled resentful clucks when you walk past the table.)

[heartfullofleeches]

Potential Yans for Farmer Witch Reader (besides the living crops)

The Dandelion Witch

"I'm not a weed..."

A plant based witch created from the remains of a dead witch who's corpse became excellent fertilizer for the soil they were buried in.

Does to humans what they do to wild plants growing on their land.

Initially despises Farmer, but later develops a crush after seeing them uproot dandelions in their yard to plant in a mini garden outside their bedroom window.

Turns the heads of humans into wild flowers which they leave for Reader around their farm.

The Scarecrow

"Witch....Give me your heart."

It means that literally.

A demon who seeks out Farmer Witch to devour them and regain the power it lost centuries ago.

"Alright, but please allow me to say goodbye to my farm first."

"Very well...." <- Big mistake.

Develops a soft spot for Farmer watching them wish goodbye to their crops. Denies any feelings for them and claims they gather enough energy from the soil that they don't need to eat Farmer...yet.

Stands guard in their field. Does not do well in bright light so Farmer gifts them a sunhat and burlap sack to put over their head.

The Apprentice Farm-hand.

"I-I'll do my best!... Please give me more work than raking the leaves...."

A homunculus normal human boy who loses his head from time to time. I've spoken of him before - his name is Pliny. Farmer finds him sleeping in their barn and takes him under their wing. Terrified of them at first as he is of all witch, but eventually comes around due to how hospitable Farmer can be when they feel like it.

Wants to become a full fledge witch to protect Farmer, but Farmer doesn't think he's ready for that just yet. Especially after the last time his head fell in a pot of stew.

Peak male-wife if it wasn't for his head not being attached to his body. Makes a mean peach cobbler.

The Woman in the Well

"Come on in, Dear... The water is just fine."

Lives in the lake nearby the farm where Farmer collects their water from. Speaks to them through the well which connects their land to the body of water, pleading with them to visit.

Farmer isn't certain they are female as the voice changes from time to time.

Claims to be a mermaid that will grant all of their wishes in exchange for their hand in marriage.... Or was she a siren?

If they won't visit her, all she asks is they bring her a pair of legs so that she can visit them.

Sometimes when it rains, Farmer can hear crying outside their window.

[prythianpages]

Dandelions | Azriel

Azriel x Green Witch Reader | The moment in which you realize you're in love.

word count: 1,713

warnings: fluff, kissing

a/n: Surprise Surprise! This is my 1,000th post on this blog and I wanted to dedicate it to Green Witch reader <3 This can be read as a stand alone. I was on reddit when I saw a comment that reminded me of these two and I just had to write it out before I lost inspiration, even though it was midnight when I saw it.

Walking through the cobblestone streets of Velaris, your heart feels light and content, further lifted by the enchantment that seems to weave through every building and tree. The rain from the afternoon had left behind shimmering puddles and brought upon a misty evening. Warm and humid, the air was alive with the croak of contented toads and the delicate flutter of moths.

As a green witch, your connection to nature runs deep. You cherish all living things, from the majestic trees lining the streets to the smallest insects that flit about underfoot. Many might find them insignificant, even terrifying. But to you, they’re lovely.

Yet, among all the wonders of Velaris, it's the shadowsinger walking slightly ahead of you who captivates your heart the most. 

His dark hair, damp from the mist, clings to the back of his neck. It curls at the ends and you’re sure there’s a matching, distinctive curl of hair or two that falls down over his forehead that you would love to run your fingers through. His wings are tucked into him and though his back is turned toward you, you notice the slight tilt of his head downwards. 

You also can’t help but notice the way his shadows slither along the ground in front of you both. Almost as if they’re clearing a path for the both of you. You don’t think much of it, even though you’re usually the one walking slightly ahead. Azriel is always attentive to your surroundings.

Your lips curve into a tender smile as you continue to admire him from behind. The mating bond hums softly between you. You give a tug and it’s instant, the way your chest swells with warmth as he responds. He doesn’t turn around but you catch the subtle twitch of his right wing. Something you notice he does when flustered or blushing.

Though you both are now aware of the mating bond or at least now aware that you both are aware, you came to a mutual agreement to take things slow.  So Azriel courted you, determined to right the wrongs of his initial coldness. His efforts to show you his true self, the side he's always wanted you to see, have been nothing short of enchanting.

You always suspected there was more to Azriel than the stoic warrior facade he presented to you. And as the days turned into weeks, he revealed layers of his personality that left you breathless.

You discovered his love for reading, the way his eyes softened when he spoke about his favorite books. He took you to his favorite hidden spots in Velaris that he wanted to share only with you. 

One evening, he surprised you with a picnic by the Sidra River. Since you could not prepare him food due to the bond, he had taken it upon himself to prepare all your favorite foods. 

His gestures were not always grand, but they were always meaningful. Like the time he spent hours helping you gather rare herbs for your potions. Or the quiet evenings you spent in his arms, where words were unnecessary.  Yet, he never stayed the night, always leaving before it got too late.

“y/n?”

“Yes?” 

You hadn’t realized he’d been talking to you, too lost in your thoughts.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say again, seeing that you have reached your small townhome. Your apothecary is located right next door, the sign swaying slightly despite the lack of wind.

The fae lights hanging from your door’s overhang flicker on as the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow over the entrance. From the window, you spot a set of two glowing eyes watching you, bringing forth a smile. It’s your cat, Binx. He blinks at you in greeting.

Azriel draws your attention back to him as he carefully makes his way up the three steps that lead to your door. He offers you his hand, not wanting you to slip on the wet cobblestone. You take his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. His fingers intertwine with yours, strong yet gentle.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Azriel’s gaze locks onto yours, his hazel eyes warm with emotion. “I’d do anything for you,” he replies softly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. There’s a vulnerability in his voice, a raw honesty that makes your heart ache. 

He steps closer and the space between you seems to hum with the energy of the bond you share. You find yourself giving in to the irresistible pull of that bond, wrapping your arms around his neck, and bringing his head down toward yours. Your lips meet in a tender kiss, a soft and delicate exchange but as the hands at your waist travel upwards, it morphs into something more heated. A kiss that speaks volumes about the growing connection between you two. 

His hands cradle your face, one moving to the back of your head as he gently pushes you against your door. It’s when your tongue traces along his bottom lip that he pulls away. “You should go inside before the rain comes down again,” he breathes but you catch the way his pupils flare as he gazes down at your swollen lips. Droplets begin to fall from the sky yet neither of you move.

“I should,” you reply, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you pull him back in for another kiss.

**

You linger by the window, fingers pressed against your lips, drawn to the sight of Azriel walking away in the gentle drizzle. It wasn’t your first kiss and certainly not the last. Each kiss only further fueled the desire between you both but you two had agreed to wait to be intimate with one another until you’re ready to accept the bond. Something that was becoming a struggle with every passing day.

As you watched Azriel go, you saw something that made your heart skip a beat. He was pausing every few steps, his fingers gently lifting what appeared to be small worms off the wet pavement and guiding them to safety in the lush greenery that bordered the streets. His shadows danced around his feet, helping him.

And then it hit you—why Azriel’s attention had been on the ground as he walked you home earlier, why his shadows had been forming a pathway. He was saving the worms from being stepped on. Tears welled up in your eyes, and before you knew it, you were slipping out your door and running toward him.

“Azriel!”

Azriel turns, his brows furrowing in concern as soon as he sees you. He raises one hand—the one that hadn’t been picking up the worms—to caress your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a rogue tear. “Why are you crying?” he asks, frowning.

“Because you’re so sweet and thoughtful and kind and I love you and—”

“You love me?” he interrupts softly, his right wing twitching as a blush creeps onto his cheeks.

“Yes, you. I love you and only you,” you repeat, voice trembling with the weight of your feelings.

And then he’s kissing you again, letting his lips convey those three words for him.

**

You glance over at Azriel, his focused expression making your heart swell with what you’re now certain is love. Every time he looks your way, his gaze softens and you feel like you’re about to burst.

His eyes had widened slightly when you had offered to help, not realizing he’d been caught. He had protested, claiming you’d only get sick if you stayed out in the rain with him. But you had ignored him, kneeling down on the damp ground.

So now you both were kneeling on the ground, the cool rain soaking through your clothes as you helped the small bugs to a safer path. Azriel’s shadows were eager to help as well, nudging worms and beetles your way. A bit too eager, as they sometimes sent the bugs skittering away toward the grass, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the playful chaos.

Just as you’re about to pick up another worm, a small movement catches your eye. A toad hops out from under a bush. Azriel startles but you grin, scooping it up into your hands. When he inches away from you, your eyes light up in mischief.

Before he knows it, you’re chasing him around, the toad held out in front of you. Azriel dodges and weaves, his laughter mingling with yours in the rain. His shadows seem to be on your side as one sneaky tendril crosses over his leg and he trips. You fall over him, the both of you collapsing in a heap on the wet grass. The toad hops out of your hold, much to Azriel’s relief. You’re both breathless and grinning.

"Do you still love me now?" You tease.

“More than anything,” he replies immediately, his wings stretching out under him to fold over you and shield you from the rain.

“Would you still love me if I were a toad?” You challenge.

Azriel laughs, his hazel eyes twinkling as he pulls you closer. Your head rests on his chest. “Even if you were a toad. I’d find a way to become one with you,” he says, the sincerity in his tone nearly bringing you to tears again, as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

The rain grows heavier, and the two of you finally decide to seek shelter, running back into your home. When you ask him to stay the night, he doesn’t hesitate to say yes. After washing up and changing into comfortable clothes—Feyre had magically sent Azriel fresh garments at his request—the two of you nestle into the comforting warmth of your bed.

It’s not big enough to accommodate his wings. Something you're already working on replacing. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, it only gives him more reason to hold you closer.

Your back is flush against his chest, one of his strong arms draped protectively over your waist as you both watch the rain patter against the bedroom window. His chin rests gently atop your head and you close your eyes, feeling utterly safe and cherished. 

The bond between you sings with contentment, but it’s the love dwelling within that bond that makes your heart overflow with joy.

a/n: This takes place after the first imagine but before you accept the bond with a witchy ritual as mentioned in these HCs, which I may or may not write. In my mind, Azriel fell first but you fell harder. Not only is this the first time you say I love you but also the first time he stays the night.

series tag list:@fxckmiup, @aria-chikage

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming

[series masterlist]

[soapoet]

A letter from your future spouse

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

Hello,

You must be up to something, because I cannot get you off my mind. Day and night you haunt me. I type away on my computer, answer phone calls, and I could swear I saw you in the corner of my eyes. At night as I begin to drift, I hear your voice and jolt up, only to be met with an empty room entirely void of you. When you're really here with me in the flesh, I look at you only when you look away. Will I be punished for these stolen glances? You and I, are we forbidden, and if so, who will be the judge?

I thought my life was stable, and in many ways it was. Though it was painted grey, dull. I lived dreary mondays every day of the week. I chased after new experiences, new achievements, new opportunities, new things. New, new, new, new. But it was not until you walked into my life that I truly felt the warmth of the sun and the rain on my skin. Was I colour blind all along? Because you show me colours I never even knew existed. You were truly new. A new light in my life that shines so brightly, but never hurts my eyes. Still I look away. It's not proper, is it? I've been caught up in the crossfire, amidst a battle between head and heart. You're in my heart, you have it in your hands, but didn't I say you are constantly on my mind too? It seems then, my dear, that this battle has a victor, and now I must prcoeed to gather up the courage to speak what I've so carefully kept hidden.

Oh, but you're so observant. You already know. You knew all along, didn't you? You so innocently sat there, knowing I'm a moth to the flame, and that come hail or shine I would find my way to you. You're a mastermind. An architect, the keeper of the blueprint to our tale. I am in awe of you. You were supposed to be a problem, a silly crush I could get over and never act upon, but now I'm thinking of things borrowed and blue. The first day that I saw you lightning struck. It marked the beginning of the end for many things in my life which I had kept around because it was fine. Not perfect, just fine. Suddenly I saw all the cracks and flaws, saw that which I would tolerate, go along with, even when I really didn't want to. You shook me to my core. In many ways, you ruined my life. For the better, I am sure. But for a moment there I wondered what horrors you had unleashed upon me. With your face so sweet and innocent I thought surely you would be unable to trigger earthquakes. And that even if you could, surely you were much too sweet and much too kind to do such thing.

Yet here I stand, amidst the rubble of what I used to call my life. Everything came crashing down because none of it was as stable as it should've been. I'm rebuilding, slowly, and could use some guidance or inspiration. What's your favourite colour? Would you like these tiles for the kitchen? I want to build my life up to look like the perfect home for you. I wish to keep you safe. You've weathered storms just as I have. Had to grow quickly, like dandelions through concrete. You're tired, and I don't want to see you quitting so I am building you a shelter. I promise to keep watch while you get some rest in my arms. When you're healed and strong enough I will provide you the space and time so you can chase your dreams in peace. You can use our home as the foundation for your castle. I know the power you hold, and I will be there to help you wield it.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

02.

Hello,

Coincidentally that is exactly when I knew. "You had me at hello" is such a cliché, but I swear that it is true. I always know trouble when I see it, and you are quite the nightmare indeed. I hope you take no offence to my words. I say what I mean and mean what I say. That typically results in problems, but to me it's another one to toss onto the existing pile. I have a lot of baggage, but if you don't mind, I won't mind yours. Maybe we could get a big storage locker and shove all our baggage in there, lock the door and toss the keys, skip town and never return. It'll all be auctioned off one day for somebody else to deal with. Wouldn't that be nice?

Where was I? Right. Hello. That's when I knew. I always do. I fall very quickly and passionately. Really I leap off into free fall all by my own judgement, sometimes perhaps lack thereof. I know a pretty thing when I see it, though pretty isn't enough, is it? I've learned that the hard way. As I've learned most things. Behind me lays a trail of burnt bridges and broken hearts, though most of those pieces are my own. Most people are unable to tell. I have a reputation, but I think the judgement is unjust. Wholly unfair. I have developed trust issues. Betrayal cuts deep. You know that, don't you? I keep people at bay, and guard my territory fiercly. I am very loyal and I am known for my equal bark and bite. I want to be your guard dog. I swear I will lunge for the jugular if anybody dares cross you. I am protective, albeit a little reckless. I have a lot of scars to prove it.

Little birdies may warn you of me. Tell twisted tales of my exploits. I've been called toxic. Perhaps there is truth to some of it. My love burns bright and hot, but it never wavers. I crave closeness, and wish to crawl into the heart and mind of my target of affections like a spider trespassing into your home to weave its webs in the darkest corners. I want to know you better than anybody else. Know your body, mind, heart, and your soul like it is my own. You will never be left wanting reassurance, because I have known doubt, and doubt is my enemy and I will fight it on sight. You will always know that I am yours. With me you have nothing to fear. Least of all me or my commitment to you and us.

Perhaps we both had to scrape our knees as we crawled through painful loves before we found each other. Together we'll be powerful. A dynamic duo, partners in crime. Those closest to me would come forward as witnesses to my ride or die nature, and you as my life partner will be my biggest testament to this part of my character. You're not too different, are you? You would die for your people, fight with your bare hands if you had to. Together we will face the world. I'll have your back and you'll have mine, a 360° of the battlefield. We can tear down and build up whatever we want. We can build an empire, or bring them down. With you by my side, everything is possible. I would move mountains and part seas for you. Your love is an enchanted rose and I am a beast, and I will wait for you. Come to me quickly.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

03.

Hello,

I hope my words don't bore you with their simplicity. I also hope that you've been well. I have so many questions, but let us not rush. There is no finish line in love, correct? I've been alright. Y'know, ups and downs. I've kept to myself a lot. Self improvement has become akin to an occupation. I always strive to do and be better. I may not seem the kind, but I have a soft heart which I guard closely. I like old timey romance and watch sappy things when I am down. Please don't tell anybody! I am a rock, but for a long time I was but a pebble, kicked around and misplaced. I have moved around a lot and all I want is to grow roots. Would you mind sparing a little spot in your garden? I just need a little sunlight and a fall of rain to grow. I promise I won't waste your time and do my all to never disappoint you.

My affections build slowly. Too slow for many, but I hate accidents and mistakes, at least my own. I strive for perfection, though people tell me it does not exist. I see it in you, though, so they must be wrong. Sure, you have your flaws, but the glue between your cracks glisten in the light and are still beautiful to me. I really do enjoy the simple things. Do you stop to smell the roses too? I have a gentle love to offer. A kitchen bathed in morning sunlight and the smell of pancakes in the air. I'll eat the first pancakes, because the ones I bring to you in bed should be perfect, and the first one never is. You deserve so much good, and I really hope I can provide a lot of that good to you by my own hands.

I am shy, and don't always have a way with words. I will tell you through music how I feel, or paint you on a canvas in all your favourite colours. I'll help you sculpt your dreams and wishes. I'd make a great assistant. I would love to follow you on your way up ladders and mountains. I believe in you like some believe in a higher power. You can put your faith in me too. Love is a choice, and I will make the choice to love you every morning when I rise. You are the kind of fun that doesn't make me ill. The adventure I am unafraid to embark on. We can play our own roles and support each other. I'll be of service to you at every step if you need me. In return I only ask that you hold me close and never let me go.

I fear abandonment, and have known a life without guidance. I've become rigid, and hope that you'll help me bend without snapping and show me the wonders of the unknown. With you by my side I won't be afraid. My skepticism will not be a hindrance because you lead me into uncharted territory as though you have a map, and I trust that you know where we're going. And should uncertainty rise, well, I have dealt with that beast plenty, and I can tame it and send it on its way should it bother you. I will always stand by you so that never again will you need to face challenges alone. You are a promise I will keep forever if you let me.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

04.

Hello,

Have you eaten? Taken your meds? Keep yourself hydrated. Take even just a sip. I apologise if I'm fussing, but I've always been a caregiver. People depend on me. At home, at work, even my friends. I get taken advantage of pretty easily, and I try my best to keep my boundaries. Though I am admittededly prone to a bit of a saviour complex. It's not so much that I don't think others cannot get up on their own, I just think they shouldn't have to. A helping hand is often rare these days. For many, even just the day to day grind is unbearable, so any chance to take the load off another's shoulders and let them rest and catch their breath I'll happily take.

I try my best to be fair, but often lose sight of what's best for me. I want to help and support everyone who needs it, but in my quest to save everyone, I have often abandoned myself. My care is often expected and thus taken for granted. Nobody seems to understand how much it hurts. Well, until I met you anyway. You're a little fire cracker. You have a great presence despite your size. You're honest and so very clever. I was instantly in awe by your radiance, your willpower, your resilience and your strength. You taught me important lessons. I'm older than you but sometimes I feel like a student listening to my teacher preach. You're opinionated and steadfast, and have such a strong sense of justice. You call it like it is, and have called me out aplenty. Always well-intentioned. You get worked up easily, and I find it rather cute. You scold me like a parent their child when I don't take up enough space, don't hold my head high, or when I give away too much for free. You are objective and fair, never tell me I'm right or wrong unless I really am. It's refreshing. You're like a breath of fresh air.

It pains me to hear of your past. How you've been to hell and back. You face struggles even when you really can't or feel like giving up. You always get back up again, always try to find another way around when an obstacle sits in the way of where you're going. You've lived life on hardmode, and now I yearn to make things easier for you. You if anyone deserves my devotion. I know you are much too just to take advantage of my kindness and return my love in earnest. I trust you, and that says a lot as I've only ever been able to trust myself.

Would you let me be your safe space? We can build you a nest and make sure you have the nicest, softest things and plenty of snacks. I wish to provide you the space and time to really relax and let your guard down. You can safely get in touch with your inner child and heal them from all their past wounds. I will guard your sanctuary and let you be free and able to go wherever your heart desires. Let your curiosity guide you, and I will follow and keep bandaids in my pocket should you stumble and fall. You don't need to be strong all the time, and you need not be ready for battle at all hours of the day. I will take the wheel and take us in the direction of your choice whilst you rest safe and sound for as long and as much as you want and need.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

05.

Hello,

Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, ay? Am I late, or were you just early? It seems as though you've been waiting a long time. Wasted your time kissing a whole lot of frogs, huh? Settled for good enough? Jumped from ship to ship like a pirate looking for the best loot? Well, congratulations! You made it. I'm here now! I'm just kidding, but I am, in fact, very happy now that you found me. Lots of hurdles to get over, had to crumple up many plans and ideas and kick yourself into gear on the career front. I'm far from your finish line, I am merely a little prize for a job well done. And now you'll have me by your side for the next chapters. Oh, the adventures we will have! How exciting, I can hardly wait.

Something important you had to learn before you got here is beating the status quo to the curb. You always did struggle with fitting into a neat little box and following orders, didn't you? Yet so many fools tried to bend your will and make you follow a nice little step by step pre-determined program. Hah, as if you'd ever be happy giving up your freedom like that. And I adore that about you. To hell with the status quo. I never do what is expected of me unless I myself set or agreed to those expectations. This is my life, and your life is yours. Wanna dance? Because I'll choose to court you on sight, and I hope you don't make me look like yet another fool because truly, I tell you, our dance will be an exhilarating one. We can both lead, because screw the rules!

Do not mistake my arrogance and my eleutheromania as purely egoic and a sign of wavering commitment. Though I have my admirers and my comrades, I am fiercly loyal. I do intend to flaunt you, because you are a dream come true worthy of the spotlight. I hope you're not shy, and if you are, then well, it'll be that much more entertaining for me to see you flustered by all the attention and applause. So learn to take a compliment, kiddo, because you just hit the jackpot and the prize includes a lifetime supply of praise. Along with a steadfast support system, as not only will I be at your beck and call, I fully intend to introduce you to my network of friends in higher places. Fret not, because your wildest dreams will soon appear mundane as together with some found family we will get where you are going so much faster than you've been going before.

Speaking of family, I'm not very close with mine. Perhaps neither are you, so you will understand the feeling of always having to do everything yourself and not having the kind of safety net that a family can provide. This is why I have collected friends over the years to whom I serve as family and they the same for me in return. In my anxieties of abandonment and neglect, I do everything in my power to help and support my loved ones because I know what it feels like to be without as much as encouragement on this journey of life. If you ever need some kind words, I'll be sure to whisper them in your ear and shout your name from the rooftops. You deserve the world, so pack your bags. We have tickets to explore it all.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

06.

Hello,

I pray you did not hear me talking to myself. I cry out into the void often. My mind, always abuzz with what ifs and wonder, has its way of driving me mad. Often I feel like a mad scientist, fixated on something so long I fail to take care of all my human needs. Before I know it, the sun has set and made way for the night. I recognise the passing of time only when I notice it is dark and the only source of light is the screen right on front of me. I have so many tabs open in my head I don't always notice what goes on around me. But you startled me. Admittededly I did not notice right away, but when I did I was shocked. It must've been weeks before I zoned out, watching your face as I thought of absolutely nothing. I waited for you to finish whatever it was that you were occupied with, and then it hit me. You're beautiful and I like you.

It feels easy to be around you. I can't say the same for many people, if any. I have had plenty of offers, but competing against my solitude is difficult. A race few finish, and none truly come out of as the victor. I get bored easily, and I must be honest and admit that though I may be quickly intrigued and glue myself to my newest interest, my attention is hard to keep. I enjoy the rush of newness, and yearn for a love that stays fresh and full of intrigue. And I found that in you. For you lead your own life, explore your own paths, then report back to me your newest finds. We pick apart things and situations like mechanics figuring out all the parts of a new machine. Then we go and find new things to inevitably share, and sometimes we journey together too. There is always something. I no longer feel like I am the only one keeping the conversation going. No longer the one in charge of every who and what and how and why and when and where. You pull your own weight. For once I, too, feel fascinating. And not only do I feel interesting, I find you equally interesting. It didn't drop for either of us.

Some may look at us strangely, but good heavens, are some people so easily lulled into a boring and mundane routine. Every time I would cry out my woes, I was called childish. Told that love will and should settle into a comfortable and steady routine. That it is normal for the excitement of newness to fade as you get to know someone. I refused to believe every relationship was doomed to become such a snooze. And I am glad you did too, because you keep growing as I grow and our vines they intertwine and part ways and cross again in this intricate web of possibilities. To know you is to be a student of law or medicine. Doctors and lawyers practice their craft, they're not fixed by a mere degree because neither law or medicine is fixed. It is ever-changing and developing. I pinch myself because I can hardly believe I found another student like me.

Never fear I will leave you feeling stupid. I am aware of my own merit, but never wield it against anyone, unless needed. You are very clever and you have strengths and skills that I do not. I promise to be there to listen, especially in times when nobody else will. I have known loneliness and neglect. My curiosity is a form of escapism as I run away from the eldritch horrors of my past. Please be direct with me. Within me lives a tired old hopeless romantic, whom I locked away in shame as I was told it never plays out like in the movies. But you've proved to me that it actually does. And for you I'll do anything. Though you sometimes leave me tongue tied and flustered, you stabilize me. As thanks you'll have my loyalty and devotion. I'm used to taking care of others, and I know my care won't be misplaced on you. I read people easily already, but please allow me to study your face and note down every micro-expression so that I will always be able to tell how you are feeling even when you feel unable to put it into words.

Sincerely, your future spouse.

[satanicpagan]

Offering Ideas for Deities

─── ⋆⋅⚝⋅⋆ ───

Fire Offerings:

Charcoal

black salt

herb ashes

images/symbolism of sun or hearth

spicy foods

Red poppies

Spicy/strong-smelling herbs (Cinnamon, Chili, Pepper, Cloves, Ginger, Wormwood, Asfoetida)

Rosemary

sunflowers

marigold

dragons blood

calendula

herbs that sting or irritate the skin (Stinging Nettle, Holly, Cedar, Mace)

Protective herbs/crystals

red crystals

incense

cauldron

Earth Offerings:

Any herbs

plants

flowers

rocks you find

protective crystals

obsidian

amethyst

onyx

garnet

sticks/bark/branches

bones

images/symbols of earth, Gaia, mother earth, flowers, plants

most food offerings

fruits/vegetables

bread

rice

milk/water/tea

dried herbs/flowers

Water Offerings:

moon water

rain water

clear quartz

jasmine

mugwort

lily

willow

nettle

violet

lavender

perfume

essential oils

seashells

beach sand

florida water

symbols and imagery of water, ocean, fish, rain, the birth of Venus, etc.)

blue/transparent crystals

air humidifier

Air Offerings:

smoke cleansing

sound cleansing

feathers

incense

light fabrics

white/light/transparent crystals

dandelion fluffs

essential oils

essential oil diffuser

Athame

bird bones

meditations

breath mindfulness

moths

butterflies

Most Deities have one or more elemental associations and this can help you with finding some offerings! Remember, every offering is unique to you and your energy and actions, outfits, songs, writing, and art can be offerings as well!

[literaila]

a walk

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: you, satoru, and the children stumble upon a curse during your walk

warnings: a curse, info on reader's ct, satoru is annoying

last part | next part

*

year five.

your glare aimed at satoru is almost instinctive at this point. 

and so is the wall you’ve put in front of the children, a glowing white only you (and satoru) can see.

your muscles tense automatically, and you make eye contact with the curse standing in front of you. 

the mesh of flesh and bone curse, staring at you and your family like you're a meal, hot and ready for the taking. 

"want some," it says, taking a step towards you, "want some?" 

honestly, you're sick and tired of the weird things they all say. but before you can gesture at satoru--seriously, is he going to just stand there?--it's gone, in just an instant. 

and great. now you're going to have to go look for it. you doubt it'd prove a challenge for you, or satoru, obviously, but still. you're supposed to be taking a walk. hanging out. 

and it's just started raining, which is also probably satoru's fault.

your glare increases, and the two kids watch the two of you as you stare silently at each other. 

you can feel it when tsumiki pushes at your barrier like she's testing something, and you almost smile. 

but then you remember exactly why it’s there in the first place. 

“satoru…” you say, in warning, in indignation, in ‘i’m going to kick your ass as soon as i deal with this.’ 

“what?!” he gasps, looking at you, and he’s already smiling guiltily. “i didn’t do anything. i don’t create curses.” 

his hands are raised in defense and he's taken several steps away from you. 

good, he should know his place. 

“oh, right, what’s the one benefit of the six eyes?” you ask, dryly, still much too close to him. “sensing the curses,” you grind out, an evil look on your face. 

you don't even care that he didn't immediately exorcise it. it's more that he's acting like an idiot, like a regular civilian with no ulterior motives--

satoru waves a hand, nonchalant. “so i missed one.” 

“we both know that you knew it was there.” 

“um, actually,” satoru looks towards the kids—still entrapped in your cage—with a grin. “we both don’t know that.” 

“i’m seriously going to—“ 

“there’s a lot of things to sense,” he argues, crossing his arms. his voice is boisterous, completely irritating. "not like you would know. it takes a lot of work to—“ 

“okay, you can go," you snap, almost eye to eye with him (minus the blindfold that is doing nothing for him). his hair is also ridiculous, dripping from the rain. he looks like a drooping dandelion. 

you should leave him outside until he freezes. 

“what?” 

“shoo,” you tell him, waving a hand. “take the kids and go home. i’ll deal with it.” 

“how is that fair?” 

“it’s fair because i’ll be beating up a curse instead of you.” 

“please," satoru scoffs, shaking his head at you. 

you roll your eyes. “and i can’t teleport, you idiot. take them, please. i don’t want tsumiki to get hurt.” 

you both look at them, standing there watching you, and megumi is shaking his head. you sigh. if only you could limit the sound within your objects. 

you already know what this is going to start up again--

“i don’t think megumi wants that,” satoru tells you, leaning in and smiling. his face is so close to yours that you can see the air he breathes. 

“do you want me to hit you?” 

satoru only looks at you, his face completely unbearable. he's obviously already won this argument, because you're terrible at denying megumi anything--which he knows--and you realize, suddenly, that he probably planned this. 

seriously, he needs to be banned from existence. 

“where’s the curse?” you ask him, voice low. 

satoru’s grin widens, and he doesn’t even pretend to look around. “hiding about a block away.” 

you release your technique, both of the kids immediately fall against nothing but air. tsumiki laughs at the rain that suddenly hits her, and megumi watches the two of you closely. 

you don’t look at them though, your eyes are only on satoru. 

there’s a tug at your side, a pull of your shirt. “can i stay?” megumi asks, his head brushing against your arm. 

he must've learned that pleading look from satoru because it immediately dissolves your anger. you don't even think, about to give in, and then--

“what a wonderful idea,” satoru says. “some light practice.” 

that calm disappears. on instinct, you answer. “no. go home with gojo and tsumiki. i’ve got it, bud.” 

tsumiki is looking around. she understands what curses are—and to the shock of everyone, she can see them—but unlike the rest of you, she has no natural defense from them. 

which means that satoru needs to hurry up and get her out of there. not to mention the fact that she doesn't like your job, and she doesn't really understand the way curses operate. 

and also, she's a bit skittish. 

“but you don’t know where it went,” megumi argues, his voice almost whiny, soft, and pitched. your brow furrows. 

finally, you lose satoru’s gaze and look down at him. “i can see, megumi. i know how to look for curses.” 

“hide and seek with a curse?” satoru chuckles, patting your head. you don't get the chance to slap his hand away before he takes a step back. 

you glare at him again, matching his obvious satisfaction. 

“my dogs can find it,” megumi says. “i want to help.” 

“no, megumi. we don’t even know how strong it is or what it can—“ 

“grade three,” satoru answers, automatically. “it can camouflage, but it shouldn’t be an issue with your traps and the demon dogs.” 

you turn towards him, eye twitching. 

satoru nods, knowingly. “oh, yeah, my eyes are good now. i think i just needed to adjust to the rain.” 

“satoru, i swear—“ 

“i better take tsumiki home,” he looks towards her. “ready, kid?” 

tsumiki barely has the chance to nod before they're both gone. 

you can hear satoru’s distant “good luck!”

every single nerve in your body is automatically on edge, ready to attack him--even though he's literally gone. 

and you would stomp your foot on the ground and throw a tantrum like a literal child except… 

your child is standing right there and there’s a curse roaming around. you don't want megumi here in the first place, and you definitely don't want him lingering around while the curse reeks havoc on who knows what. 

you swallow—preparing a million different punishments for satoru in your head—then look at megumi, immediately softening. 

“i can call satoru to come and get you,” you tell him, gently, trying not to plead. “really. you don’t need to worry about this.” 

megumi rolls his eyes. “why can’t i practice?” 

“because… you’re only eleven, kid. you don’t need to practice. when you’re ready for high school—“ 

“i want to help.” 

you sigh, nodding. of course he does. really, he was raised by two complete masochists with superpowers. he's watched you and satoru fight over responsibility for four years, learning about burdens from the champions of keeping them. 

what more can you expect? 

you would sit there and argue for a little longer. try to convince him that jujutsu isn’t a fun hobby to take part in, not something to mess around with—but, again, there’s a grade-three curse somewhere out there. and it’s raining. 

you're already a bit cold, and you want to get home as soon as possible so satoru doesn't get too comfortable. 

“okay,” you tell him, giving him a small smile. he looks silly with his hair dripping down his face, eyes widening in success. “go ahead.” 

megumi nods, flexing his hands. then he looks back up at you, taking a step back. and then he does it again. 

he repeats this process several times, preparing for something... you guess.

it's a bad enough reminder that you have no clue what satoru's telling him when they go off on their own, acting like the reckless little boys that they are. 

and you’re just about to tell him not to be nervous when he folds his hands together and whispers “demon dogs.” 

you could try to act unimpressed, but it’s pointless. 

really, the shadows responding instantly are amazing. in a single second, there are two puppies there, appearing from nothing more than thin air. 

and you know a lot about summoning, but you've never managed to bring anything to life. walls are entirely boring, you decide, looking at megumi's pets. 

isn't there a saying about your children succeeding you?  

“go on,” megumi tells both of the puppies, fortunately missing your astonished look, patting the black one’s head. “find it.” 

the two dogs respond with succinct barks, and then they’re gone, tails wagging as they listen to megumi's command. 

you wonder if you're going to have to give them both a bath later. you already know satoru will be complaining about the smell of wet dog. 

you turn to megumi with a smile, tilting your head. “now we follow them?” 

“yeah,” he takes a step forward. “this way.” 

you follow after megumi, trying to remind yourself that satoru has taught him about this--that he'll be fine, even if the curse does show up, because you're there. but it's difficult. your entire body is on high alert. 

you haven't felt this tense around a curse since you were fifteen.

megumi, as if sensing this, speaks up suddenly. “do you think i’m weak?” 

you look towards him with wide eyes. “what?” 

megumi continues to walk forward, seeming to listen to soundless signals from his shikigami. he doesn't look back at you.

“is that why you don’t want me to practice my technique? because you think i’ll get hurt?” 

your face falls, guilt seeping through your body immediately. stupid satoru and his impulsive decisions. this is his fault too. 

“oh, megumi, no. of course not.” 

“then why?" he asks, turning to look at you, his face is stern, comprehensive. "gojo thinks i’m ready.” 

you sigh, looking around a corner. this district is completely empty. if you weren't so distracted by satoru and his stupid smiles, you would've noticed the vibe around here earlier. you should've sensed the curse before it could come face to face with you, at least. 

you swallow, shaking your head. “it’s got nothing to do with you, megs.”

he looks at you skeptically. 

“really," you blow a breath out. "i think… your shikigami are very impressive. it’s just that you’re still a kid,” you shrug. “i don’t think you should get involved in jujutsu before you have to.” 

“but i want to.” 

you'd like to tell him about all of the things that you want. all of the things you know you can't have, because they don't make sense. because they're not meant for you. 

but then, you know, that this is meant for him. that he was born with a purpose, jujutsu or not. 

and clearly, he's powerful. at eleven he's got shikigami that listen to his every command. shikigami that would die to protect him. 

and two parents who would do the exact same. 

still, he's your little boy. he's still so young, still so vulnerable. and, yes, you know that you can't keep him away from your curse-filled world forever. you know that megumi should be making these decisions for himself. 

but is it so wrong to want him to stay small and yours? to want to freeze time to keep both of your children protected from everything possible?

“i know—i know. it’s…” you give him a small smile, bizarrely proud of him all of the sudden. his tenacity, his strength. his willingness to ask you this in the first place. “it’s about me, really." you look away from him, sniffing in the rain. 

megumi is lingering at your side now, walking right next to you. you wonder if he's cold. you should've grabbed an extra jacket or an umbrella. 

"when i was your age," you continue, eventually. "i didn’t want to be a sorcerer, and, obviously, i didn’t have a choice. so i guess i just… don’t want to push you into it.” 

“you’re not,” megumi says, automatically, frowning. “why not?” 

“hmm?” 

“why didn’t you want to use jujutsu?” 

you smirk at him a little, a bittersweet feeling filling you, shaking your head. “my technique isn’t as cool as yours, you know.” 

“it’s cool,” he argues, but then he looks away. 

because you both know that he doesn't really understand how your technique works--not his fault, of course, but yours. you've been hesitant to tell him about it. it's not as easy to show as satoru's, and not as useful. 

still, maybe if...

you hold your hand out towards him. “try it,” you tell him, gesturing down. 

megumi furrows his brows but does as you say, reaching his hand toward yours. 

and when his hand is pushed back, kept away from your skin, he frowns. he tries it again, stopping in his tracks. you both pause there, standing in the rain. it doesn’t work, so he does it again. 

and then you release the barrier, grabbing his hand with a grin. it must startle him because he jumps. “see?”

megumi purses his lips, looking up at you. “like gojo?” 

“sort of. it’s more stationary, and it can’t stop any cursed techniques. your dogs could probably get through it if i was tired enough.” 

megumi looks down at your intertwined hands, still frowning. you squeeze his tiny hand in yours, feeling your system relax. 

he hasn't let go yet, so neither do you.

“when i was a kid, i couldn’t control it. someone would try to grab my hand,” you say, swinging his, “and they couldn’t. i thought something was wrong with me.” 

“oh.” 

you take a step into him, dragging him along as you resume walking. “that’s why i didn’t want to be a sorcerer. i thought it was… bad.” 

megumi looks up at you, eyes contemplative. “that’s why you left home?” 

a bit of a euphemism, but you shrug. megumi doesn’t need to know the gory details of being tossed out on the street with nothing but a jacket and some shoes. 

“yup.” 

he looks away, nodding. 

you're less worried about the curse now. he's close enough that you'll keep him safe, and you're assuming that his dogs haven't seen any sign of it yet. 

“i'm always gonna be worried about you going on missions,” you tell him, a bit softer now. completely serious. “but not because i think you’re powerless, or anything of the sort.” 

“really?” 

you laugh, shaking your head at him. 

you really do adore him. it's a shocking feeling, a strange love you wouldn't trade for anything. 

your children might be your greatest gift.

“if you ask me, megumi, and don’t tell him i said this, but i think you’ll rival satoru for strength someday.” 

he looks up at you, his lip twitching. 

“you might even beat him,” you add. 

he’s about to say something when he stops, looking forward again. one of his dogs trails up to him, panting softly. 

megumi looks down, silently communicating with the puppy, and then he gestures his head to the left. “this way,” megumi says, looking around. and this time, you just let him lead. 

you'll keep him safe, you know, and he probably doesn't need your help anyway. 

*

"so, how'd it go?" satoru asks, as soon as the two of you walk through the door. 

you know he's been waiting there the whole time, probably trying to resist the urge to text and make sure that you were both doing okay. 

he's overbearing and completely stupid. 

and his smile is very telling, just a bit hesitant. 

"mom says that i'm better than you," megumi says as he walks past him, making sure to shake his hair out onto satoru's pants. 

the man's jaw drops, looking at you. 

"what?" you say to him, shrugging. "i wasn't gonna lie to him."

*

next part | series masterlist

[cordeliawhohung]

Of Sea Foam and Iron [4]

general masterlist | series masterlist | taglist

Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap

a love like fire

wc: 3.5k

 You rise before the dawn’s glory has the chance to wash your home in gold. 

Not even the doves are up to sing their songs as they bask in the faint glow of the sunrise curling above the horizon. Its pallid light seeps into the bedroom through the shutters over the window where it streaks on the walls in gentle beams. You are still trapped just like you are every morning; nestled between your two naked husbands as they gently snore through their dreams. Their warmth lulls you to sleep, whispers for you to close your eyes once more and rest. It takes significant convincing to coax your limbs into movement. To rip yourself from the heat that surrounds you in this elysian morning. 

Like a hare, you burrow your way through swathes of blankets, taking care not to tread on the sleeping figures on either side of you. They wake. You know they do. Snores suddenly ceasing, bodies tensing, eyelids fluttering — but they do not speak. They let you slip away; their little dove, fluttering free from the nest. 

Small beads of water clump onto the shutters of the kitchen window, dripping on the sill in tiny pools as you open them. Rain has continued to spit and drizzle over the land for a few days now, but the bulk of the storm has passed. Green foliage and fresh crops have thrived off of the nutrients, covering the oceanside with lush, singing plants. Even the courtyard hums a verdant tune with specks of yellow dandelions dancing in their midst. 

But you did not wake up early to stand in the moist, chilly air, or to watch as the brume settles and sways above the earth. You are awake to make bread. 

A warm blaze ignites in the stove with embers you steal from the dying hearth. Growing flames waltz before your eyes to a terrifying tune. Fire has always scared you. You watch their amber glow and recall the burning flesh of your fathers hands from a kitchen mishap when you were a child. Seared skin, bubbling with blisters, and quiet curses; it took him weeks to fully heal. To be able to hold your hand without tears pricking his eyes. 

Your love for the ocean only grew after that incident. An insatiable urge to let the foamy waves wash over your body, cleansing you. You suppose fire can also clean — can sanitize you until there’s no filth left — but there is more love to be found in briny water than choking flames. Fire cleans by consuming indiscriminately. Water cleans by smothering the grime until you are bare and naked. 

How odd, then, for you to be married to a man born and raised by fire. 

Simon is the first of the two to rise after you. Half dressed, he carefully shuffles down the stairs, following the scent of warm bread cooling next to a bowl of freshly boiled dandelions. Unlike usual, you hear him approaching. His steps are hardly silent these days with his knees aching from the weather, but he grunts less as he enters the kitchen. 

You turn to greet him, and an ambivalent pang twists in your stomach. Simon has been on your mind all morning — or, really, the last few days. Your conversation with John has haunted you in more ways than one, and it’s especially tortuous when you’re living with the ghost. That strange apparition who arrived in your life to whisk you to safety. Not even the simple act of breadmaking could void him from your thoughts. While kneading dough, all you could recall was the way your fingers moved along the scars on his knees in an attempt to quell the agony writhing underneath his skin. 

A small act of love — too meaningless to acquit you of your other transgressions.

“Good morning,” you say, voice shorter than you intended. 

Simon looks at you for a long moment, fingers curling and uncurling to break apart the stiffness in his joints. “Morning.” 

Thick ignominy clogs your throat, and you avert your gaze from the towering stance of your husband for bread and wilted dandelions. You distract yourself as you dress the greens with a healthy drizzle of olive oil and coarse salt, but you are well aware of the heavy feet sliding along the floor behind you. The dull scrape leaves the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, and you regret leaving the windows open. 

“What’s this?” He’s close. The closest he’s ever been to you outside of bed, chest nearly against your back as he glances over your shoulder. Heat radiates off of him like the forge he slaves over — as if the flesh of his heart has been torn out and replaced with a crucible. “Horta vrasta?” 

Every instinct within you screams at you to look over your shoulder, but you don’t. “Yes. We don’t have any lemons, though. Oil and salt will have to suffice.” 

A sonorous hum rattles his chest. “My mother used to cook this,” he recalls. 

You wish he didn’t tell you that, because now you’re thinking of him as a child. Young, small; free from scars. Fair skin kissed by the sun — kissed by a loving mother — as she attempts to fix messy strands of flaxen hair on his forehead. You imagine him being embraced by his mother. You imagine his smile before it was ruined by marks and disfiguration; before it was washed away in blood and gore. A twitch in your fingers halts your movements as you go to mix the still warm dandelions in front of you:

Does he still dream of his mother? Does he pray to the gods that you would hold him the same way she used to? How ugly of you — you think to yourself — to be so wary of a man because of the scars on his skin as if his voice wasn’t the sweetest sound you had ever heard when he spoke of the woman who birthed him. As if those scars were given to him over something other than love. 

Neither of you speak a word as he retrieves a knife and begins to slice the bread. Help that you didn’t ask for, yet help that you don’t refrain from receiving. His hands are almost as large as the loaf, and though it could easily crumble in his hands, he handles it with nothing but care as the crust breaks beneath the blade. 

He’ll keep his distance, if you let him.

You swallow. “Did… you enjoy this meal as a child?” you question. 

“No,” he admits. Blunt, but not rude. “But it reminds me of her, so I enjoy it anyway.” 

Just as Simon finishes — several slices sitting in pristine stripes in front of him — you hear a yawn from the stairwell. You turn to the source of the noise and find John, chiton hardly covering his chest as he lumbers into the kitchen. He yawns again, hand covering his open mouth, before eyes dripping with delassation land on you and Simon. A smile attempts to flitter across your lips, but it looks just as awkward as it feels. 

“You should have woken me up. I would have helped,” he says. It’s unclear as to who it’s directed to, you or Simon, but you have a feeling it’s both of you. 

Simon doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder as he replies: “You needed the sleep.” 

John scoffs, something light and playful, as he approaches the table with a wave of his hand. Wood squeaks as he drags his chair back, and sits down with a thump. “Making me obsolete over here.”

“I’m makin’ you heal,” Simon retorts. 

Breakfast is quiet, save for the savory crunch of fresh bread crust between your teeth. Everyone is too busy nourishing their bodies to stop and talk, but there is a tight atmosphere that hangs heavy in the air around your head. This discomfiture plagues you relentlessly, painfully reminding you just how sheltered you have been throughout your life. Boarded up. A bird locked in a cage. Rather than preparing you for the real world, you’re left writhing about, pecking at the hands that try to feed you, and lazily preening yourself for comfort. 

Despite Simon’s apparent dislike — or contempt — for the dish, he’s the first to finish. Plate nearly licked clean, you’re certain the man has never complained about anything in his entire life. He’s never complained about you, anyway, even when he should have. He licks his fingers clean of oil and salt before pushing away from the table. 

“I should head to the market. We’re low on food,” he says. 

“Simon, love, you’re still struggling to walk,” John reminds him. “Let me go.”

“I can walk plenty fine.”

It’s a lie; an obvious one. He always limps, but it’s been exaggerated ever since that storm rolled in, and you’re reminded as much as you watch him stand to discard his plate. Warm stones and your brittle hands can only do so much to heal the ache that permeates even the toughest parts of him.

“You have work to catch up on. Been too rainy to keep the forge running,” John urges. He’s nearly begging as he stands from his seat and chases after his lover. “Let me go. Worry about work. I’ll take care of this.” 

Either Simon is a man who refuses to accept help, or he holds a love so strong that he can’t imagine shouldering any sort of burden onto the ones he cares for; either way, when he finally accepts John’s offer, he does so begrudgingly. Mutters something about how he shouldn’t be out long before pressing a kiss to his cheek. When he decides that wasn’t good enough, he drags John closer by his chiton before truly embracing him. 

I would have liked to have married him.

Nothing settles properly in your stomach. Not the oil or bread, nor the delicious greens — the only thing that settles is the guilt. Its roots twist far and deep in your body, strangling every artery and organ until it’s got a hold of your bones. You have ruined something beautiful; become a disgusting stain on what could have been a poignant love story, and you don’t have even the slightest idea on how to mend the damage. 

“Would you like to come with me, little dove?” 

The plate in front of you scoots back along the deep, etching grains of the table, and you follow the hand moving it until John is in your view. Your brain processes his question, eyes blinking as you try to come back down to earth. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say in a half-hearted attempt at dismissing his notion. 

His smile is faint and exhausted as it crosses his lips, but his movements are just as strong and tempered as the stories would have you believe. Wooden boards creak underneath his weight as he gets on one knee, hands slowly reaching for yours. John relishes the touch of your skin, thumb rubbing along the metacarpals in your hand like he’s never felt anything so soft before. 

“It would do you some good to get out of the house,” he insists before pausing. What was a faint smile quickly morphs into a hardly contained grin as he leans closer. You attempt to quell your thunderous heart, yet it does not listen to you. “I’ll take you to visit the ocean.” 

Zeal glimmers in the dark pupils of your eyes, and John can no longer contain the curl of his lips or the flash of his teeth. He’s lured you in; hook, line, and sinker — but you don’t care. You have not tasted the brine of home in so long, you almost fear you’ve forgotten it, and you willingly fall into him as he pulls you up from your seat like a fish dangling on thread. 

Despite the cool breeze, the market is packed. Freshly slaughtered animals hang up for display on wickedly curved hooks piercing through their meat. They’re so fresh that you swear you can nearly feel the life still buzzing through them; hear the quiet bleat of a lamb crying for comfort.  Boisterous laughter ignites as deals are struck among traders, and you find your eyes wandering to wooden tubs full to the brim with mouthwatering produce — you can’t recall the last time you were allowed at the market. Some time ago when you were still a child, surely. Before your father locked you away to keep men from spilling blood over petty vanity. 

John rarely lets go of your hand as he splits patrons apart like a knife through flesh. No one dares to brush past you. They eye the dog leashed to your hand, look at his scars and bloodthirsty smile, and they refrain from even glancing at you, lest they tempt the beast into attacking. For a moment, you’re able to be blissfully unaware of it all. Of the bodies swarming behind you as you squeeze freshly harvested tomatoes. Every voice that speaks is muted as you enjoy the artisan goods and handcrafted jewelry — the freshly pressed cheese, the expertly woven textiles, beautiful dyes. 

For the first time in years, you’re able to wander the world with child-like wonder rather than dread and trepidation, and you’re not sure what to thank for that. Have you grown undesirable? A wild woman locked up too long? Feral, untamed eyes that only know how to yearn for the world rather than seize it? Or is it because of John, the man who holds so much care for you that you are the only thing in the world that can bend his otherwise immutable stance? Is this the life your father dreamed for you? To not only be respected, but feared? 

Once the bag is heavier with food than it is coin, John fulfills his promise to you, and you find sun kissed sand between your toes in no time. Days grow warmer and longer as summer reaches its peak, and your lungs revel in the brackish air, still thick with petrichor. The ocean’s song hums low and strong, a gentle push and pull that leaves your senses tingling. You feel it calling. That insatiable allure that would have you drown in the salt and mist if it called for you to do so. 

You stare out at the waves as the wind teases your chiton. That same wind drags billowing clouds along the horizon where the sky meets the sea, drawing away the summer storm that’s been plaguing the city for days. Something swells in your chest. You pray that Poseidon shows mercy with his storms. Simon has been aching for too long. 

“Look at this.”

John begs for your attention softly with the brush of his knuckles against the back of your arm. His mellow touch still makes you jump — flinch as if you have been burnt — and you glance to your side as he comes into view. Sand coated fingers brush against a dainty, bone white disk, cleaning it of debris. A delicate fossil reveals itself underneath the grime; perfect bones preserved in sediment to create a completely whole sand dollar. You find your own fingers reaching out on instinct to brush against the fragile shell. It’s rare for you to find one unbroken. Something not shattered into pieces that litter the coastline. 

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe. 

“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” he insists. 

Warm hands embrace yours as John uncurls your fingers and presses the sand dollar into your palm. You let it rest gentle and quiet, as if a mere onerous thought would force the sediment to crack. You smile down at the object — or, perhaps you smile at John’s enthusiasm. Wild dogs are often known for biting. For reveling in the flesh they sink their teeth into, and chuckling while they savor the blood. But this dog — Ares’s Dog — loves to play just as much as he does fight. Fetching trinkets and bones like childsplay. Returning it to the people he adores most with an ivory grin. 

John MacTavish is very altruistic for a dog, and it worries you. It worries you, because you don’t know what to do with this unfamiliar feeling that twists in your stomach. 

“You are… very kind,” you note with a stiff tone. 

“Does it surprise you that I am?” he asks, sliced eyebrow quirking. 

“I think so,” you admit. Restive fingers carefully curl around the object in your hand. You stare at it as your heart thuds against your sternum, as if attempting to break free from your chest. “All other men before you and Simon love so violently. Enough that they would strike my father, or lunge like snakes poised to bite. Kindness has always been false for me. Something that precedes the terrifying reveal of what people truly want from me. I think… I am afraid to love, or be loved. I’m afraid it will hurt.” 

John is silent for a moment. The swell of crashing waves waxes and wanes just like the moon it dances to. Seagulls scream their shrill song for the ocean to dance to. They clash to make their own symphony. It is a tradition you were born and raised on. You could sway to it with your eyes gouged and ears ruptured. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time now,” you continue. Your toes wiggle in the sand in an attempt to comfort yourself, but you can feel the way the brine burns your eyes. “My fear. I lash out like a child. A wild animal. I do not know how you and Simon put up with such an unruly wife. Anyone else would have…”

Swallowing, you cut yourself off, refusing to finish your thought. 

“If it is violent, then it isn’t love,” John concludes, smothering any worries lingering in the cords of your heart. His fingers brush over yours, soft and comforting, and this time, you do not flinch. “Love is not gentle. It rages like fire and consumes more than you’d like it to. But it does not hurt. It never hurts. I promise. And don’t worry about Simon and I. Neither of us are unfamiliar with the strangeness of the heart, or how fear manifests into anger. It’s a fragile balance, little dove.” 

With trembling lips, you look at John. For a man with sinewy muscles and scars deep enough to shred them, he looks at you with a softness that nearly makes you crumble. The very foundation of your being weakens and cries out. You could collapse to the ground, and you’re terrified there would be nothing to break your fall. 

“You’re quite the poet for a soldier,” you say in an attempt at humor. 

He grins. “You find much to think and write about while traveling the lands. Much to love. Including you.” 

You understand what John meant when he said love is like fire. Unforgiving flames lick at the heels of your feet, and your heart flutters in preparation to flee. It’s foreign. Uncomfortable. All your life, you have known nothing but the cold, treacherous waters of the ocean — it’s all you’ve ever been — and you fear it may be too late to warm you now. 

John does not wait for a response. Does not demand gratitude or reciprocation. Instead, he turns his head where the wind pulls at the dark locks of his hair. His skin glows beneath the sunlight as if Apollo has kissed him a hundred times over, and he smiles at the warmth. 

“We’ve been gone too long. Can hear Simon’s mumbling already,” he teases while he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Are you ready to go home?”

Home. He says it like it’s the place where you’ve always belonged. Like your very essence stains the wood and stone that house is built of. It feels wrong for him to give you ownership of something you used to rage so fiercely against. You are undeserving of it. Of any softness they bestow. Yet, you crave it. John says that word — home — and you want to wrap yourself in his timbre. You would have liked to have met him and Simon sooner. It would have been enjoyable making bread for them every morning. 

“Yes,” you answer meekly.  

This time, you are the one to take his hand. John glances at you like a dog with its ears perked up, and for a moment his expression is unreadable. Shock. Startled. Then, he melts. Fingers interlacing with yours, his quiet mirth washes over you as he tugs you forward, nearly bounding off to follow fading footprints back home. Hand clutching John’s gift to your chest, you smile. It aches and burns in your cheeks as the unused muscles protest, and still it persists. 

If what John says is true — that love eats like a raging fire — you will gladly be consumed until you’re used up and nothing but ash. After all, it would be fitting to be destroyed by the only thing you have ever craved.

[headspace-hotel]

I think that traditional knowledge (using this term loosely, to mean any experience based knowledge that might be orally shared and/or passed down) is not just Science in a different form, nor is it a simpler, earlier stage of a developmental path toward Science, nor is it an inferior form of knowledge.

When you are an apprentice of Nature, constantly seeking Nature in your surroundings and intentionally OPENING YOUR EYES to what moves around you, knowledge accumulates in a slow drip, like water dripping from a stalactite.

Individual days and moments of observation pull together strands of the web of life that entangles you. One day I see this bird eating from this bush; one day I see this butterfly land on this flower; one day I see that this leaf catches fire more readily than that; every day I see organisms interacting with one another and their environment, I see new environments and new interactions of organisms, and slowly I begin to see the RELATEDNESS OF EVERYTHING, an understanding that is constantly completing and filling in and becoming deeper.

The scientific framework allows me to pinpoint these observations and pose hypotheses to myself which I can then intentionally investigate and attempt to falsify. It makes the process of gaining understanding more methodical and directed.

But formalized science investigates questions within little enclosures. The learning that happens in a scientific experiment is not only limited by the boundaries of the question being investigated and the exclusion of extraneous variables (which are of course, fundamentally important parts of science), but by the idea of Science as a specific activity that a person is either doing right now or not doing right now, like playing baseball.

A baseball player has times when he is playing baseball and times when he isn't. It's the same with most jobs and hobbies. So someone who is a Scientist might be tempted to have times when she is doing science and times when she isn't. The knowledge within her might therefore be tempted to have times when it is being developed and times when it isn't.

But my dad was a pastor. The nature of his job was not in the act of preaching a sermon (which can be done from an outline you got online—shouldn't, but can) but in preparing sermons, going to events, being around to answer questions, visiting sick people in the hospital, spending long hours in study seeking spiritual insight, spending time with the youth at arcades and roller-skating places and the like, being present, being.

Being a farmer is a lot similar. Your life is defined by your relationship with the life-forms you care for in a way that can never be shelved or set aside.

The traditional way of attaining knowledge and understanding of Nature is a RELATIONSHIP that is developed and deepened in every interaction between you and your LIVING surroundings

This means that you also cannot learn the ways of the plants by Going To a Specific Place that you consider to be Nature—you must realize that EVERYWHERE IS NATURE, and the endless movement, change, and chaos of life can be seen in the dandelion and spotted spurge of the sidewalk. Anywhere you see change that was not changed according to an Idea of how the space should be, but that happened according to forces outside of human purpose—a weed popping up in a lawn, a tree that was not planted, a planted shrub drying up and turning brown, mushrooms emerging after a rain, a tree blown down in a storm, a hillside eroding, a leaf being blown in the wind, the community of plants along a roadside or in a ditch—that's Nature, and She Will Teach You.

Learning is not a job—it is a relationship, so even when you go to the walmart, Nature will show you something in the cracks of the pavement and the sad parking lot trees

[five-miles-over]

Imagine waking up in an alternate reality where you and Loki are a newlywed couple living in the suburbs

This isn't my bed.

You opened your eyes, finding yourself nestled in pine green sheets of sateen. How did I even get here? As soon as you sat up, your eyes darted about the room.

Large and luxurious seemed to describe the queen-sized bed you were sitting in. The bedroom had off-white painted walls, a large ebony dresser with a mirror that perfectly captured your reflection, and a three-paned window offering a view of an idyllic suburban neighborhood.

From there, you could see a clean yard with rose bushes and yellow dandelions, all behind a white picket fence. There was a walkway, leading up to what could only be assumed to be the front door. And there was even a little mailbox with a green flag.

You blinked in disbelief at the sight, and decided to turn your attention to the rest of the bedroom. The next thing that caught your eye was the nightstand, which was ebony to match the dresser. Maybe it was part of a set.

On the nightstand was a set of silk ribbons, a wristwatch, and a framed photo. You picked up the frame and saw yourself in a wedding gown, smiling while being hugged by a tall man with dark curls that framed his long, pale face. His eyes crinkled at the corner as he grinned, looking at the camera as if this were the happiest moment of his life. The two of you seemed so perfect together, maybe even in love. The photo was in black and white, so you couldn't say much about the color of his eyes. However, it was obvious that he was wearing a black suit with a lily boutonniere. Classy.

"Morning, darling!"

You looked up to see the same man from the photo, except his curls were dripping and he wore a fluffy, black bathrobe. It didn't take long for you to notice his striking cheekbones, and the besotted look in his eyes that almost resembled the way he looked in the photo. But in all fairness, the camera did not do his beauty complete justice.

He came closer to you and gently planted his lips on yours. He tasted of mint, and his skin smelled like rain. You slowly reciprocated the kiss, putting your fingers on his cheek.

"Were you taking a trip down memory lane?" The man fondly asked, glancing at the photo. "I still can't believe that was only two months ago. Can you?"

You shook your head.

He hugged you from behind and kissed the top of your hair. "I'll finish getting dressed, and then meet you in the kitchen for breakfast."

You climbed out of bed, oblivious to a ring on your left hand. "Where...where are you going,...darling?" You swallowed.

"To work," he chuckles. "Can't be starting a Nexus Event at my own workplace." The man examines himself in the dresser's mirror. Then, he opens a drawer, retrieves a small pot of facial moisturizer, and dabs it on his forehead, rubbing it in circles. "You know the TVA, darling."

"The...Time Variance Authority," you mumbled, watching his reflection. "I should...I should go."

You hurried out of the bedroom, down a long hallway filled with pieces of generic artwork, and into a kitchen.

"What do you think of having pancakes this morning?" The man could be heard asking while you entered what seemed to be the kitchen kitchen.

As if the place were taken straight from the 1950s, everything - the oven, the fridge, the cabinets, and even the wallpaper - was completely pastel green, a shade of seafoam. Why is there so much green in this house?, you asked yourself.

Maybe it was because you watched too many sitcoms, or had seen too many vintage photos, but the first thing you did was put on an apron that had been laying around. And then, you opened the fridge, which was fully stocked with everything: a full carton of milk, a dozen eggs, various vegetables, some cuts of meat wrapped in butcher paper, and cheddar cheese.

Pancakes, you thought to yourself, taking the eggs and milk out of the fridge. Thankfully, there was an unopened box of pancake mix on one of the kitchen countertops. Yes it was strange, cooking breakfast for a man whose name you didn't even know, but he'd been so sweet to you. And maybe if you were on his good side, you could actually get some answers about who he was. "Hm..." A few moments later, while you were mixing the pancake batter in a large bowl, you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist. "I just can't get enough of you." The man's dulcet voice tickled your ears.

You laughed politely as he kissed your cheek. When you looked over your shoulder, you noticed he was wearing a white button-down shirt , a dark tie, and brown dress pants that showed off his perfectly-tight ass. For a moment, it made you blush. Apparently, the man noticed...and promptly winked in your direction.

As you heated the pan and greased it with butter, you could hear the man pouring himself a cup of coffee or tea, and then opening a newspaper.

"I'm cancelling drinks with Mobius tonight," the man casually said. "Coming straight home after work."

Not knowing at all who he could be referring to, you scooped the batter into the pan and watched it sizzle. "Why?"

He flipped a page of the newspaper. "Because he's making me watch another set of boring trading videos today. It's tedious, honestly." The man smiles when the scent of warm pancakes reaches his nose. "What I wouldn't give to be back on our honeymoon."

"Me too," you lied, placing the golden-brown pancakes onto a plate.

The man set the news paper aside and walked up to you, stroking your hair. "Maybe, tonight...we could even finish what we started on our honeymoon."

"Oh?" You found yourself smiling while you flipped two pancakes.

He whispered, "We could continue trying for a baby."

Don't burn the pancakes. Do NOT burn the pancakes. Blinking, you placed the two new ones with the rest of them on a plate, trying not to let your hand tense around the spatula. "A baby..." You put the plate of pancakes on the dining table, gently pushing aside the newspaper.

Next to the paper was a laminated id badge. It read, 'Time Variance Authority, Name: Loki Laufeyson, Role: Variant, ID: L1130'. You swallowed. struggling to look away from the badge as you tried to understand who the man really was. "Loki?"

"Those smell amazing, darling." Loki sat down and drizzled syrup on the pancakes. Then, procuring a bottle out of thin air, he sprayed a large peak of whipped cream on top.

You handed him a fork and knife, watching him begin to eat.

"Mm!" He moaned, closing his eyes for a moment. "This is delicious! Mm, I knew I married the right woman."

"Married?"

Loki chuckled before feeding you a forkful of pancake, syrup and whipped cream. "I love you more every day, Mrs. Laufeyson."

You gave him a gentle smile while chewing. "I...I love you more, Mr. Laufeyson." You made two pancakes for yourself, turned off the stove, and ate them while sitting across the table from Loki. How could it be possible that you were married to the God of Mischief, the younger prince of Asgard, the frost giant?

While eating, you glanced at your left hand, surprised by the sight of an elegant emerald ring with a gold band placed on your middle finger. But before you could ask Loki about any of this, the God of mischief put his now-empty plate in the sink. "I'd best be off now." He put his arm around your shoulder and pecked you on the lips. "Ah, parting is such sweet sorrow."

Loki walked towards the door with a brown jacket and a briefcase. "Wait! Loki!" You followed him out of the kitchen. "You forgot your badge."

Loki smiled, tapping the left side of his chest. "Pin it here, darling." He watched you with nothing but pure, unadulterated affection. "What would I do without you?" When you'd gotten the badge on his shirt, Loki gave you one last kiss. "No matter what happens," he softly said your name, "never doubt that I love you. I'll see you tonight, darling."

Taglist: @lokischambermaid @lokiismineforever @lokidbadguy @lokisgoodgirl @lokisprettygirl22 @smolvenger @holdmytesseract @wheredafandomat @wolfsmom1 @lovelysizzlingbluebird @evelyn-kingsley @muddyorbsblr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @icytrickster17 @thatdummy-girl @fantasyfan4life @huntress-artemiss @itsdoni @gruftiela @ellooo0ooo @ireallyneedtherapy @jennyggggrrr @anukulee @turniptitaness

[cheeseceli]

Thinking about how...

I.N fits perfectly in the "right person, wrong time" trope. The right person being you, the wrong time being apparently his entire life.

He met you when you both were still kids. At that time none of you knew what love was, but he could swear you were the one who showed it to him. Playing in the rain, sleepovers with a lot of cartoons, going to parks together... It was everything to him. But you were too young.

And then teenage years came. Everything was too much, he was living like there'd be no tomorrow. Actually, the only future he ever knew was you. And that was so clear on the way he lived so recklessly yet so in love. Running at each other in the rain, sleepovers at weekends, skipping classes together... It was still everything. But once again, too young to call it love.

Life went on and both of you became young adults. He was still as beautiful and as youthful as ever, but now he was smarter. He had dreams ahead of him and he was working hard to get them. But not once you were forgotten. Dancing in the rain, sleepovers where you never actually slept, going out while hiding from the paparazzi... It wasn't everything he had, but it was everything he wanted. And yet, everything he could only wish for.

He really wished time would be kind to you both. Maybe, in a few years, it could finally work. The rain would finally witness your first kiss, the sleepovers would be in your shared bed every night, the hangouts would possibly be in the company of a kid or two, the family you'd build... Maybe, in a few years, you'd be able to be everything. Together, rightfully so, for once.

You just read: (almost) everything

Masterlist | you'll probably like: love looks good on you

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Dividers by @thecutestgrotto | images 1 2 3

[mediumgayitalian]

In his head he is brave enough to say it: gods, you are beautiful in the moonlight. He is. He has made Nico weak in the knees since they were fifteen and new and fragile as spun glass, and he does now. In the moonlight his radiance is much subtler; he is opal and pearl and quartz, he is shining and multifaceted.

Instead he traces the bob of Will’s throat, his long, freckly neck, cratered with burn scars and cupped with a raised white scar from years of endless picking; follows the wild winding wisps of his hair, barely held back by his old sunglasses, compressed in coils around his head like a pen spring squished to the size of its threads, creaking with the weight of its own potential energy, brimming with the imagined burst of its future; memorizes the fluttering flap of his feathering eyelashes, the delicate dips of his deepened Cupid’s bow, the roughened raze of his wide rowdy hands. All of him is in motion, always, but now especially, hands twitching on the wheel, head thrown back, mouth wide and shaking along with his shoulders.

“I really like your laugh,” and it’s quick, vowels tumbling over each other and tripping the consonants, a queue of clumsy hopefuls scrambling over shoulders and clasping hands. The pretty laughter fades and arched eyebrows replace it, poorly hidden surprise, twitching smile lines, and Nico looks deliberately forward, mortification cackling along each of his wire-tense muscles, dancing along the shimmering heat of his face. “It’s. Wide.”

“Wide?” asks Will carefully, craning his neck to glance in his blind spot, whispering chuckles dancing along to the beat of the blinker.

“Wide,” Nico confirms, flicking out his hands. His fingers are not nearly as long, nor as wiry or corded, but the scarring is mirrored. Nicks and scratches and burn marks and calluses, topographic maps of time spent.

Will’s turn is successful — the strawberry baskets dip dangerously from their precarious perch on backseats, but don’t fall, shifting over and around each other to burst tiny globules of stretched taut flesh, rubbing against rough reed ribbons. Nico inhales deeply, and the sweet is almost nauseating, summer fruit twisting in the air along with lavender body wash and Blistex and Texas summer sun.

“You take up space.”

“My laugh?”

Laughter in his words in his hands in his skin, in his eyes, in the coils of his hair, in his grass-stained heels, in the bends of his scar-bleached knees. In the dancing dots of his face arms chest legs. In the dip of his bottom lip, crater under his too-big front teeth. In the jut of his crooked spine and wide hips.

“What about my laugh?”

It is in his words more often than not and in Nico’s dreams even more so. It curls around the blurry edges of his dreams and weaves into daisy-strong chains, dangling from the too-high ceilings of his nightmares, coiling around his arms and chest and back and yanking with the force of breaking ribs, the force of bellows, the force of clasped bloodless hands. Dragging him across trench gouged ground to bright light and clear air and the distant memory of summer rain.

“That you like, I mean.”

“It’s snorting,” Nico confesses. Will reddens, and Nico smiles, under the heat of it grows sunflower and dandelion and tinted brown-eyes Susans. “Um. Loud.”

“Geez,” Will grumbles, “tell a guy the truth, why don’t you.”

Nico has never seen gold under silver nightlight and it fascinates him, how Will sparks and shimmers, how when the sun sets it does not fade away. How the tiny specks of precious metal weave through him like tinsel and glow in veins of sweet summer memory; how the warm night billows and blows around him lovingly, how the breeze from the open window greets him like a precious grandchild, a beloved nephew. Seedchild; beloved of the earth and sun, performer under the moon, the stars.

Will’s wide hands inch across the dash, brushing over the ancient radio dials and dipping over the skipping cassette, pausing by the base of the gearshift and resting, limply, palm open, fingers cracked and spread. Knuckles popping and chittering amongst themselves, hiding in the bent hoods of wrinkled skin. Nico lowers his heavy hands on the heated hopeful hesitance, curling his cool fingers around much longer ones, and squeezing, once, twice, thrice.

“I like your laugh,” he repeats. He rolls his shoulders, hands flexing, twitching, pulling.

Will’s hand tightens. The road opens up and the Atlantic glimmers beside them, moon whispering to its rippling waves, and he smiles, grins, wider than before, and he is laughing, again, and it is wider even this time, as wide as the sparkling silver water.

“I hear you.”

He squeezes.

You are beautiful in the moonlight. You are beautiful all the time.

Nico squeezes back.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU pt 67

part 1 | part 66 | ao3

cw: recreational drug use

Waiting around to die or get arrested or whatever fucking sucks. Partly because there’s no running water (Steve’s never wanted to take a stress shower so badly in his life) and partly because Eddie won’t let him stay sober. Has it in his head that altering Steve’s mental state will keep Vecna away, like hanging a mosquito net over the opening of a tent.

It’s not not working, he guesses.

He hasn’t fallen in to any more hallucinated open graves, at least.

He comes down the stairs a little before noon, towel-drying his hair after a bottled water sink bath, and finds Eddie in the kitchen: Reeboks on, hair a cotton candy mess, head-to-toe teddy bear tie-dye under his leather jacket — a matching shirt and sweats that he fished out of Rick’s dresser. He’s stirring Spaghettios in a small pot at the stove, and when he sees Steve come in he turns to offer some, the wooden spoon held out with a sort of desperate perkiness. “Morning! I found food that isn’t expired. You want some?”

Steve shakes his head.

Eddie shovels the whole spoonful into his mouth; wipes sauce off his chin, speaks before he’s finished chewing. “I also found blotters in the freezer and shrooms in the bedroom closet, so uh. Pick your poison.”

Steve picks the shrooms. They wait a few hours to take them because Eddie swears the sunset while you’re tripping is unparalleled, man, although Steve kind of suspects that he’s just giving him time to work up the nerve to eat them. He still gets nervous about chemicals — probably always will, after the shit the Russians did.

In the meantime, Eddie rummages through Rick’s cassette collection, and Steve talks to Robin on the walkie; gets all the new details in staticky half-sentences — something about mind flayers and mental hospitals, what else is new? He tells her to be safe; tells her that he loves her; keeps his eyes trained on the clock.

—

Shrooms smell and taste like ass. Steve can’t stomach them; spits into the grass while Eddie laughs sympathetically and hands him a little square of paper to put on his tongue instead, and they spread out side by side on a few old beach towels by the water and wait for it to kick in.

Nothing, at first, not that Steve expected different. Twenty minutes; forty-five.

“Still nothing?”

“Nothing.”

And then.

Eddie holds up a glossy aquamarine pebble, squinting at its glow in the late afternoon sun. “I should give this rock to Skye. Bet she’d love it.”

“That’s a shard of glass.”

Eddie blinks at it. “Oh, shit.”

Steve snorts, and when he looks at Eddie sideways there’s a glimmer of that same cerulean shade outlining his whole body, a low-frequency feather of energy rolling off of him in waves. Eddie moves his arm and the color chases it, a long-exposure photo of high beams on rain-slick roads.

“Oh,” Steve says, mouth slack. His voices echo in his head; all six of them. “I think I’m…”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, eyes alight, pupils blown.

“Yeah.”

All at once something slots into place, attunes itself inside of Steve, and it’s like… he can see Eddie’s mind; touch it, cradle it, reach out to it with its own. It feels crazy. Psychedelics are fucking crazy. He reaches out a hand, slicing through ribbons of shimmering light, tasting the colors as they fade, and Eddie’s emotions spread out in high-definition before him — like the image has always been there but now it’s crystal clear; someone’s shifted his focal point, filled a kiddie pool with Epsom salt and left him there to float.

“I see you,” he says nonsensically.

Eddie frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“…That I can see you?”

“I usually am.”

That’s not right. Eddie’s thoughts shouldn’t sour on his account, shouldn’t sag in the middle like a moldy tangerine. “I can close my eyes?”

“Fuck,” Eddie laughs, thin and strained. ���Don’t say shit like that when I’m not allowed to kiss you.”

“You’re not?”

He hesitates. “Am I?” Antsy fingers drum the grass, overgrown with vibrant clover and dandelion stalks. “Just feel like we should talk first, if uh, if it’s safe.”

Steve probes his own mind, tests it for outside threats, but there’s nothing. The acid forms a fractal fortress. Penrose steps, paradoxical and strange. “It’s safe.”

He moves to lie on his side, invites Eddie to do the same. “Talk into the kiss,” he suggests when Eddie joins him — face to face, chest to chest, Steve can see the thrum of Eddie’s heartbeat in the hollow of his throat; wants to press his thumb to it, so he does, the sense memory of ripe cherries bursting on his tongue.

Eddie’s lips against his own; hovering. Static electricity like the scent of summer rain. “I think my pride makes me a coward.”

Steve rubs his dry lips across Eddie’s, chapped skin and shared heat.

“It’s like… I kept trying to tell myself that I was being… I don’t know, valiant, or some shit? Like, ‘oh, he’s so much better without me. I’m the town pariah; I’m keeping him safe by running away.’” He thumps his fist against his heart as if beating a shield to shining armor, and Steve can’t see his eyebrows with their foreheads pressed together, but he can feel Eddie scrunching them into a picture-perfect hero frown. Almost has to laugh — so fucking theatrical even when he’s serious.

“But if I’m honest,” Eddie murmurs, “it wasn’t like that at all. Nothing fucking brave about vanishing on you. Like, what?” His voice shifts again, lilting but critical, a comedian doing crowd work. “I get a liiiittle fucked up by townies two too many times, and I sabotage my whole life over it? Ruin the best thing I’ve ever had over it? As if this goddamn horseshit hasn’t been happening to me since— forever! Shit.” He blows his bangs out of his face; calms himself. Goes a little cross-eyed trying to look Steve in the eye. “I got scared, Steve. There it is. That’s the ugly truth of it.”

He swallows harshly in the dense silence that follows.

Robins chirp; cars pass.

The lake laps at the shore and casts prisms like fishing line, spiderwebs of rainbow light flashing behind Steve’s eyelids. He brings his hands up to Eddie’s face.

“Christ.” Eddie shudders; lets himself become dead weight, rubbing his cheek into the touch, warm stubble scratching over the pads of Steve’s fingers. “Am I making any sense? I feel like I’m not making any sense.”

Yes. No. “You’re making sense. I mean. As much as anything is right now.” The sandy brown freckles on the bridge of Eddie’s nose are swirling like snow flurries. Steve traces them with curious hands. His knuckles blur and swivel, too. “You left because… you wanted to protect me from… yourself?” He sums up, not sure if he’s getting the math right.

“I left because I’m a scared little shit who couldn’t handle getting bullied in a parking lot, but uh. Yeah. I guess I, like, didn’t want to…” His eyes go big and startled, cheeks flooding bright pink. “Oh, shit, I was about to say I didn’t want to curse you, Jesus Christ.”

Steve honks with laughter. Loud and deep and punched out without warning, because the irony of that — that there’s a literal big bad running around cursing people, and the person who was actually doing some real good in his life decided that he was the problem — it’s fucking— hilarious! Hysterical! Steve giggles himself sick, lungs burning as it tapers to a silent wheeze, and Eddie joins him, confusion giving way to compulsion; contagion in the manic giddiness spewing out of Steve.

“You thought—” Steve struggles through hiccups, tears beading in his lash line, “you thought you were the bad luck charm in this relationship?”

“Don’t mock me!” Eddie whines, still laughing. “I already said it was dumb.”

“It’s so dumb.” Eddie may be the cutest, dumbest thing he’s ever seen. He rubs his thumbs over his cheekbones, smile fading. “If anyone’s a curse, it’s me.” Four for four here on getting dragged into supernatural shit. Does Eddie really think homophobes are more dangerous than hell dimensions?

Eddie’s already shaking his head. “You’re a fucking blessing.”

Warmth radiates through Steve, drips from the crown of his head like a downpour of holy water. He feels anointed. Ascended. He feels— “Please tell me we’re allowed to kiss now.”

Their mouths crush together, impossible to tell who moves first, whose tongue is in whose mouth, whose desperate breath Steve swallows as Eddie rolls him onto his back. Hands roam and pull and clutch, molding the shape of him into the earth. Maybe someday, Steve thinks, if aliens invade, they’ll study these imprints like crop circles, trampled declarations of how much Steve loves this boy. “God,” he gasps into the kiss. “Missed you so much.”

“So much.”

“Don’t do that to me again. Don’t go.”

“Never,” Eddie swears. His grip tightens on Steve’s waist. “Never again, baby, I fucking promise. I think I—”

On the far side of the house, leaves crunch and branches snap as a car pulls up the drive. Boots on pavement, rowdy voices; unfamiliar; red alert.

“Spread out, boys!” the voice of Jason Carver bellows. “If that Freak’s in here, we’ll find him.”

—

part 68

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