Requested? ✅️

NSFW? 🔀

Requested by: 🫧🧵

Art by: Kitsuneisi

A/N: Literally woke up to a call with the loudest most chattiest woman on the phone ever. Safe to say we did not take anYthing in that she said.

Joe lay back against the warm shingles of the television studio roof, fingers laced loosely over his stomach, eyes reflecting silver streaks that tore across the velvet sky. Night had wrapped Hermitcraft in a deep indigo hush, but above, the heavens were alive: meteors hissing in bright, brief scars of light, each one flaring and vanishing before the echo of its brilliance could settle.

His glasses caught the glimmer of each streak, lenses flashing like twin constellations. “There! Did you see that one?” he breathed, voice low and reverent, but threaded with excitement. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, curls catching the breeze, and pointed toward the fading tail of a meteor that dissolved into nothing. “That was a fast one. Probably a fragment no bigger than a pebble by the time it burned up. Isn’t that wild? Something that’s been drifting through space for.. what? Millions of years? just to blaze out over us in half a second.”

The communicator at his hip gave a soft electronic chirp. Then another. Then a cascade: beeps and buzzes layering over each other like overeager crickets. Joe huffed out a laugh, rolling onto his side to fish it out. The glow from the screen painted his face in cool blues and greens, highlighting the fine lines at the corners of his eyes as they crinkled.

“Oh, they’re losing their minds,” he muttered fondly, scrolling with his thumb. “Impulse says it’s a sign of impending doom. Of course he does.” A soft snort. “And someone’s already asking if you can silk-touch a meteor. That’s... ambitious.”

Another meteor tore overhead: longer this time, a brilliant white spear that split into shimmering fragments. Joe’s breath caught audibly. He sat up fully now, cross-legged, communicator forgotten in his palm. “Okay, that one was gorgeous. That’s the kind you make a wish on, right? Classic folklore. Shooting star equals wish granted. Though technically” —he raised a finger, slipping easily into lecture: “they’re meteors, not stars. Stars are enormous, fusion-powered spheres of plasma. We are emphatically not watching those fall out of the sky.”

He grinned sideways, expression open and warm. “Can you imagine, though? If an actual star fell? There wouldn’t be a roof left to sit on. Or a planet.”

We love meteor showers they're so beautiful.