#Detritus Books

[sandwichmaam]

“Look at this mountain here, Dook’o'oosłiid, the San Francisco Mountains. Look at, and think about it and know, and understand that it is not just a chunk of rock. It is not just a huge pile of dirt or a mountain. Think of it as a being, as a living, breathing, thinking being. In there it has a consciousness. Try and think of it in that way. It does not stand there as a commodity to be used or as something there to be enjoyed as entertainment.”

—Norris Nez, Diné Hataałii

Quote and image pulled from No Spiritual Surrender: Indigenous Anarchy in Defense of the Sacred by Klee Benally

[nando161mando]

Oct 14 1982, the Canadian anarchist group Direct Action, composed of Ann Hansen, Brent Taylor, Juliet Caroline Belmas, Doug Stewart and Gerry Hannah, used 550 lbs of stolen dynamite to bomb the Litton Industries factory that was manufacturing guidance systems for 407 US Tomahawk cruise missiles

They first stole 38½ cases of dynamite from a Highways explosives store house months earlier.

They drove a stolen truck alongside the building, stuck a fluorescent warning sign on it, called the security desk to tell them a bombing was imminent and to warn factory workers and local hotel guests to avoid windows.

Dead Kennedys would later sing

"In Toronto someone blew up

A cruise missile warhead plant.

10 slightly hurt, 4 million dollars' damage.

Why not destroy private property

When it's used against you and me?

Is that violence?

Or self-defence?

You tell me "

They would later fire bomb three franchises of "Red Hot Video" which was linked to paedophilic and snuff material.

One of the members Ann Hansen Would later issue Direct Action - Memoirs of an Urban Guerrilla

(Thanks to Detritus Books for the initial post)

[got-the-cool-shoeshine]

some night watch characters :)) theyre awesome

[could-they-win-jungle-run]

Sergeant Fred Colon, Corporal Nobby Nobbs, and Sergeant Detritus of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch

let me know if the images should be changed, I grabbed the first result on google lol

[wanderingokali]

insectober day 5

The twin-tailed dustwing; a common generalist, which feeds on various fluids as an adult (it's not picky ; nectar, sweat, juice, blood, urine, you name it). Its larvae, on the other hand, eats food waste.

Due to the larvae's alimentation, finding them inside a house or communal kitchen is often an early sign there's a hygiene problem and scraps aren't cleaned properly.

They're a common compost pile sight as well, and are generally appreciated for their intricate wing patterns. In symbolic okaliss (sorry link from my other blog i need to make an actual post about it on this blog but im doing my best here), they may represent the act of cleaning/removing the last bits of food from the table after a large meal.

[scribefindegil]

revisiting Discworld is wild bc the social commentary is SO blatant and SO pervasive but I first read these books as an extremely sheltered eleven-year-old who knew zero things about systems of oppression so I was just like "Wow what a fun fantasy story!!"

[deluxeyellowflower]

*stares at my 7 various piles of paper*

…I have too much paper.

[cosmicrhetoric]

again i love when horrible events befall vetinari cause it's always funny but vimes really watches him get shot at his wedding and goes yooooo no way you can bleed? you know what at least things are looking up for ME 😁

[incompleteninny]

The one-hundred and fourth free, unedited chapter of my upcoming book, “The Heist at Cordia Aquarium” is now available on its website (or click https://www.kitfisto.gay/chapters/thea to read from the beginning).

Joel is gone. Probably back with mister Hersh, speeding off toward Windbridge. So, Waylon stands alone in a hallway of arched ceilings and doors. In front of one door in particular; where Joel left him. Staring down at the hooked door handle, he runs his thumb over the textured grip of his revolver. How long have I been standing here? It's odd. The trip here, the ride up; the whole time, his chest burned. Each step closer to Albert, another log for the fire. But now? Not even an ember. Cold. "Second thoughts?" It's her voice. Gina's from long before, just like at the aquarium. He closes his eyes. He can almost feel her hovering over him. Phil, too. Their ghosts both judging him. Without another moment's hesitation, Waylon grits his teeth, opens his eyes, and barrels through the door. [...]

The disaster is back!

[ashes2caches]

equipment required for kinky cishet sex

1 (one) condom

equipment required for vanilla t4t sex

red hot fireplace poker

guiness book of world records 2015

an assortment of woodland detritus

Alfonso

the blood of a virgin

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

The thing is, Tommy’s worried about Evan coming over to his house for the first time. He’s seen Evan’s loft. It’s all clean lines, modern appliances and details. What little sentimental odds and ends he owns are tucked away or so subtle than Tommy didn’t spot them the first couple of times he came over.

Tommy’s house, by contrast, is filled with the detritus one accumulates when they’ve gone no contact with everyone related to them and they’re trying to create a homey, family atmosphere out of thrift stores and the Pottery Barn catalogue instead of friends and family.

He’s a knick-knacker, an antique furniture collector, a throw pillow and afghan fanatic.

He doesn’t have much in the way of books, but he has shelves and shelves of notebooks, some full, some half-used, some untouched. It’s a habit he picked up when his first ever therapist (after he left the 118) coaxed him into writing everything down to make a little sense of the mess of contradictions, phobias, old prejudices, prejudices still clinging on and traumas that made it feel impossible to figure out what to talk about first when he sat down in that office.

There’s a small, awkward section of wall in his kitchen created when a previous owner of the house decided to add a laundry room (embarrassingly, his favorite room in the house for it’s sheer utility) and that’s where Tommy hangs his collection of coffee mugs. Some of them are Goodwill finds, some souvenirs, some band merch or creations by local artists he picked up at some market or other.

There’s five different varieties of protein powder constantly cluttering his kitchen counter because he ran out of room in the small pantry. His pots and pans hang over the tiny, rolling kitchen island, which is itself nearly taken over by a serving tray that holds his water filter, a candle, a decorative planter filled with his cooking utensils, a plastic case of toothpicks.

He still has a dvd collection, for heaven’s sake, and it takes up most of his sagging entertainment center. He should replace it, but it’s the first piece of furniture he ever restored and he’s having trouble letting go. Speaking of letting go, there’s a dog bed in the corner for a dog that passed away nearly ten months ago. He probably will at least hide that in a closet before Evan gets here.

Because he is coming over. No matter how nervous Tommy is, he’s not gonna come up with another excuse for why they have to postpone or meet at Evan’s instead. He gets the feeling he’s already made Evan a little wary, and with Evan’s relationship history and his fear of being too much, not enough, just left, Tommy will eat his own foot before he purposely exacerbates Evan’s fears.

If Evan looks around and decides Tommy is a hoarder or a slob or a million other nasty epithets Tommy’s brain is offering up like some cruel, self-sabotaging buffet- Well, they’ll talk about it. They’ll learn and adjust. Evan has never, ever been cruel to Tommy and it’s quite frankly laughable that he would start now.

That’s what Tommy tells the rogue half of his brain trying to rain on their parade. Another thing he picked up from his therapist - name the part of you that spews negative self-talk and talk back to it. Predictably, Tommy named his Vince. Shut the fuck up, Vince.

Evan’s shift ended twenty minutes ago and Tommy has chili on the stove keeping warm. Between showering and the drive over, Evan should be due at his door in another twenty-five or so. Tommy hides the dog bed, lights the kitchen candle, tries to find things to do with his hands so he doesn't watch the time like a hawk. They’ve had conflicting shifts for almost two weeks with only stolen moments and half-asleep kisses in between. Tommy misses his boyfriend. But a watched clock never ticks, or whatever.

His strategy works, because Evan’s knock on the front door actually startles him a little from the stack of unopened mail he’s sorting through. So many flyers for what feels like every home decor and craft store in the state.

Evan’s eyes are gentle and joyful when Tommy answers the door. “Hey.” He leans in to squeeze Tommy’s bicep and press a kiss to the wing of his cheek. Tommy can feel Evan’s mouth stretch into a smile against his skin.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy wiggles his fingers under the strap of Evan’s duffel to take it from him and steps aside to let him into the house. His heart thuds in his chest.

Evan surrenders his bag and steps into Tommy’s home for the first time. If he notices Tommy holding his breath, he doesn’t comment yet.

He takes a look around while Tommy tries to look anywhere but his face. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s being a complete lunatic about this, that he let his anxiety take over for the better part of the day.

When Evan turns around to face Tommy again and slides his hands over Tommy’s waist, presses his fingers into Tommy’s back, nudging them closer together, his smile has split into a full grin. Tommy can’t help reflexively smiling in return. He can feel his cheeks flooding with warmth. It should be embarrassing that Evan still makes Tommy blush at the drop of a hat even all these months later, but if it helps Evan know deep in his bones that Tommy is gone for him, Tommy wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It looks like you.” Evan draws his hands up and down Tommy’s torso in gentle strokes. “Cozy. Warm. Like…” He trails off and bites his lip, drops his eyes to Tommy’s chest.

Tommy hooks his fingers under Buck’s chin and lifts his gaze back up until their eyes meet in a move that’s become so routine it’s pretty much an inside joke between them. “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging.”

It’s Evan turn to flush a deep pink. He takes an unsteady breath in. “L-like home.”

An immense weight lifts off Tommy’s chest so quickly it almost steals his breath, but Evan has tensed up just a fraction, so Tommy hums softly, spreads his big hands over Buck’s wide shoulders and digs his fingers in to massage the tension back out. He slides deeper into Evan’s space to take his mouth in a chaste, lingering kiss, and he murmurs against his lips. “Glad to hear it.”

[taylorswiftstyle]

WELCOME TO (THE) NEW YORK (TIMES BESTSELLER LIST). 

My luggage is strewn haphazardly on the floor. The detritus of a week on the road piles up on every surface. Sold out book event posters. Friendship bracelets by the dozens. Most of them green. All of them made by someone’s patient, caring hand. 

I’ve been in five different cities in the last eight days. I’ve had the immense gift and privilege to say “thank you” in person to hundreds of you for choosing to support this book (and me by extension) with your time and your efforts and your kind words. For choosing to show up and engage in this space and choose to leave behind a digital legacy based on kindness, community, and connectivity. 

But there’s nowhere else I could have hoped to be to get this news than at home the night before my hometown signing in Vancouver. 

I’m a New York Times bestselling author. 

Long live these walls and these pages we crashed through. 

I had the time of my life writing this book for you. 

I will never, ever, ever forget this moment. 

THANK YOU.

[vintagerpg]

Anomalous Subsurface Environment takes a novel approach to contending with the inherent irrationality of the dungeon by embracing it. There’s no secret at the center that makes it all suddenly make sense (in part because after two volumes — ASE1, 2011, and ASE2-3, 2012, both print-on-demand — the dungeon remains unfinished, but still, the introduction is pretty clear that there are no revelations to be had).

The dungeon came into existence spontaneously and persists thanks to a maintenance staff of self-created elemental spirits and defies any further explanation. The ASE was discovered in our own cyberpunk future by a megacorp that built large facilities around the ASE to research and extract profit. At some point, an unknown disaster forced the megacorp to seal the complex, trapping staff and resources inside. Fast forward 4,000 years into a retro-future resembling Thundarr the Barbarian, where the detritus of high technology mixes with magic and the ASE is, mysteriously, open for exploration once again. Thus, ASE is both as bizarre as its freeform funhouse ancestors but benefits from the narrative framework of modern megadungeons like Stonehell.

The central implication is that the system of the universe wanted dungeons to exists so badly that it just summoned one into existence, complete with all the silly game logic that had developed over the last 40 years, to see what would happen. The book present the ASE as the product of indomitable will that lacks driving intelligence. This is both brilliant and deeply, deeply weird. Watch out for the cornstalk warriors.

[stupidphototricks]

I still have a lot of leftover favorite quotes from Feet of Clay, I hope nobody minds.

People look down on stuff like geography and meteorology, not only because they're standing on one and being soaked by the other. They don't quite look like real science. But geography is only physics slowed down and with a few trees stuck on it, and meteorology is full of excitingly fashionable chaos and complexity. And summer isn't a time. It's a place as well. Summer is a moving creature and likes to go south for the winter. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Just take a minute with this one. Geography is only physics slowed down and with a few trees stuck on it. Is it profound, or is it complete nonsense? I can't tell! Curse you Sir Terry (affectionate)

Constable Visit[-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets] spent his days in company with his co-religionist Smite-The-Unbeliever-With-Cunning-Arguments, ringing doorbells and causing people to hide behind the furniture everywhere in the city. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(These names are genius)

"Guild member?" "Not any more, sir." "Oh? How did you leave the [alchemists'] guild?" "Through the roof, sir. But I'm pretty certain I know what I did wrong." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Is dere any trouble?" he said. The crowd backed away. "None at all, officer," said Mr. Raddley. "You, er, just loomed suddenly, that's all..." "Dis is correct," said Detritus. "I am a loomer. It often happen suddenly. So dere's no trouble, den?" "No trouble whatsoever, officer." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

The tincture of night began to suffuse the soup of the afternoon. Lord Vetinari considered the sentence and found it good. He liked "tincture" particularly. Tincture. Tincture. It was a distinguished word, and pleasantly countered the flatness of "soup." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(An oddly Douglas Adams-esque digression. It goes on, too)

The three thieves looked around. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they received a general impression of armorality, with strong overtones of helmetness. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(mmm adjectivized nouns, my favorite)

She scrounged what she could from the guild, but a real alchemical laboratory should be full of the kind of glassware that looked as if it were produced during the Guild of Glassblowers All-Comers Hiccuping Contest. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Ankh-Morpork, alone of all the cities of the plains, had opened its gates to dwarfs and trolls (alloys are stronger, as Vetinari had said). It had worked. They made things. Often they made trouble, but mostly they made wealth. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

There were no public health laws in Ankh-Morpork. It would be like installing smoke detectors in Hell. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"D*mn!" said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(I was wrong about Mort, it wasn’t the last time for that joke)

"The man has actually got charisn'tma." "Your meaning?" "I mean he's so dreadful he fascinates people." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

He felt more alive than he had for days. The recent excitement still tingled in his veins, kicking his brain into life. It was the sparkle you got with exhaustion, he knew. You were so bone-weary that a shot of adrenaline hit you like a falling troll. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

I love this because you're just reading along, it all makes sense, and then a troll drops unexpectedly into the sentence, illustrating the simile in a very meta sort of way.

Cows, in Sergeant Colon's book, should go "moo." Every child knew that. They shouldn't go "mur-r-r-r-r-m!" like some kind of undersea monster and spray you with spit. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Hello, hello, hello, what's all this, then?" said Carrot. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Carrot being a human police officer, iykyk)

Rogers the bulls were angry and bewildered, which counts as the basic state of mind for a full-grown bulls. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

Just as a point of interest, Rogers is one of only two literary characters I can think of that use plural pronouns, the other one being Proginoskes the cherubim from A Wind in the Door by Madeline L'Engle.

Angua couldn't make out any words but many dwarf cries didn't bother with words. They went straight for emotions in sonic form. -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"It's the most menacing dwarf battle-cry there is! Once it's been shouted someone has to be killed!" "What's it mean?" "Today Is A Good Day For Someone Else To Die!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Dwarfs are more pragmatic than Klingons)

"Commander Vimes said someone has to speak for the people with no voices!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Vimes would have gotten along with Granny Aching, I think)

"We can rebuild him," said Carrot hoarsely. "We have the pottery." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

"Dis is police brutality..." Igneous muttered. "No, dis is just police shoutin'!" yelled Detritus. "You want to try for brutality it OK wit' me!" -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

(Detritus has really gotten the knack of policing by now. And by the way he does nothing out of line here, or I think ever)

"That's blasphemy," said the vampire. He gasped as Vimes shot him a glance like sunlight. "That's what people say when the voiceless speak." -- Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

[avocado-writing]

Oooh, for bg3 asks, I’d LOVE some Tav bonding with Halsin ♥️ Trauma dumping, or being out in nature together, or maybe realising they’re catching feelings? Whichever you feel like, thank you so much in advance, hope you are doing well ♥️

notes: I have wild, carnal desires for this man. should be gender neutral, only description is that your lips are “pretty” and you’re shorter than him!

pairing: halsin x reader

rating: M

“Halsin, I’m going to gather some firewood. Care to join me?”

Halsin looks up to where you stand at the edge of the camp, hand on your hip and head cocked to one side, easy grin on your pretty lips. He resists the urge to glance over to where the firewood pile is - many logs high already, far more than you likely need - because the two of you know that this is just an excuse to spend some time alone together.

Halsin makes a show of standing and stretching, smiling down at you. 

“Why not? It will be nice to go for a walk.”

“We’ve been walking all day,” shouts Astarion from the other side of the camp, glaring over the top of his book. He’s just irritated because, rather than being at the Elfsong, business has called you back to Wyrm’s Crossing and camping life. You roll your eyes and flip him a good-natured rude gesture. 

“Good thing you aren’t invited then, hmm?” you turn to the druid, and he loves the way your face lights up when you’re being silly with your friends. It stirs something in his old heart. 

“Lead on.”

You do, you’re beginning to know the woods pretty well around Baldur’s Gate. They aren’t as vast as the ones which Halsin is used to at home, but at least it’s a break from the suffocating stone walls and brick roads of the city. It’s good to be back in nature and he can feel his energy slowly return - it is a salve for his soul, and with you by his side? Well. It is heaven. 

Halsin takes a moment to watch you. You tread with a sure-footedness to rival his own through the detritus of the forest floor, pausing only so that you can carefully hop up onto a fallen tree and use it as a makeshift balancing beam. He observes fondly as you place one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, balancing upon the crumbling bark with your arms outstretched. 

“You don’t like to stay still, do you?”

You throw him a look over your shoulder and grin, making a show of tumbling forward into a perfect cartwheel and alighting gracefully on the gnarled roots. 

“I don’t. Sorry. It’s far too boring otherwise.”

“Never apologise. I find it…”

Enchanting, he longs to say. Captivating. So utterly and wonderfully you. But he doesn’t want to overwhelm you with his feelings so he settles on, “endearing.”

“Oh, ‘endearing’?” you tease with a little laugh, “I’m glad that I endear myself to you, archdruid.”

You look down, seeing how high up you’ve ended, and Halsin steps in to help you back to terra firma. Clearly he’s played right into your plan because you wrap your arms around his neck and press your body to his, sliding down to the ground but not breaking the embrace.

“I’ve been thinking about you, you know,” you say, softly, eyes twinkling. 

“Oh?” he raises a brow; feels something stir. 

“Haven’t been able to think of much else. The claw marks have only just started to heal.”

You chuckle as he feels himself blush, a rich and full-bodied thing. It is his favourite sound, he thinks. He doesn’t know how he ever lived without it. 

“I was worried I was too rough…”

“My dear, you misunderstand. It was not a complaint.”

He can feel your smile as you press your lips to his, and oh he is gone. The things you do to him… surely it must be some sort of enchantment, for he’s never felt so totally enamoured before. 

He holds you in the safety of his grasp. His muscled arms engulf you utterly, rooting you into the moment. Oak Father preserve him, he has not stopped thinking about the night that the two of you laid together. The hot tightness of you as he slid inside; how his name fell from your lips like a mantra, a prayer; the way he’d woken next to you the following morning and you’d ridden him again - shining in the glory of the dawning sun with your head thrown back in rapture. You’ve known him both as man and beast, taken everything he was - everything that he was scared you’d run from - and embraced it entirely. 

What he’d have given for a repeat, but duty called you elsewhere. He’d been dreaming about it since, quietly taking himself in hand when the rest of the party was asleep, fucking his own palm to completion with your name growled under his breath. 

Spellbound. That’s what he is. Spellbound by you. 

“Halsin…” you whisper, in that dreamy, honey-dripping way you do, and you do not fight when he finds a soft patch of grass to lay you in. 

He wastes not a second, now he has you alone. 

A handful of hours have passed by the time the two of you return to camp. Though you both have leaves in your hair, you do not have any firewood. 

Wisely, nobody comments. 

Taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate

[screamingcrows]

I am sadly not immune to all the talk of Veritas Ratio in a modern university setting... (Manu - I hope I can call you that - your posts are so sweet) pair that with the autumn mood and you get this;

tags: pure fluff, they're about to be dating your honor, modern university au

minors do not interact!

Veritas had been puzzled at first, while it wasn't exactly odd for you to be fidgeting with something during lectures, it was usually limited to a specific set of items: your water bottle, some form of pen (he had a spare of your preferred tucked away in his bag for the inevitable bad days where you'd had to leave your dorm in a hurry), or the keychain on your bag.

Whatever this new item to catch your attention was, your hand had practically been glued to the inside of your pocket for two weeks.

Conveniently hidden out of sight, forcing his hand.

He catches you at your usual autumn spot, at least it was last year, a fairly secluded bench sheltered from the elements by four old chestnut trees.

You jerk in surprise when he sits down next to you, and warmth blooms in his chest when you close the book in your hand and lightly smack the top of his head. Still, there's no real power behind it. Only one hand is holding the book after all.

"Your pocket," his gaze is momentarily drawn to a lone magpie rummaging through the first yellow leaves to bed the ground.

"My pocket?"

A sigh leaves his lips as you parrot his words, turning to look upon your face. Veritas thinks his heart might burst at the soft confusion etched into your features, so reminiscent of a delicately carved masterpiece and still containing so much that could never be conveyed through cold stone.

"Yes. You've been fiddling with something in your pocket for a few weeks. At first I assumed it was a loose thread, but it persisted through days regardless of your outfit," cool air caressed his cheeks as he breathed, carefully tuning his voice to your widening eyes, "naturally, I've grown curious as to the nature of that item."

Silence sweeps through the air, enough that Veritas can faintly hear the buzz of people closer to campus. What would normally be comfortable, has him shifting a bit. Too keenly aware of your downcast eyes, his hands find solace in adjusting his scarf.

It feels invasive when you pull your hand out, and he finds that perhaps this knowledge wasn't worth the price. But the words never make it from the tip of his tongue, not before you've opened your hand to reveal a single chestnut.

He blinks, the smooth brown reflecting what warm sunlight pierces the overhanging canopy.

You're already talking again, "-and I've just always grabbed one since that, it's just a silly tradition but I enjoy it and it's harmless and-"

"Would you tell me how, in detail?"

The way your shoulders slumped a little confirmed his theory, you'd been about to rile yourself up with nervous ramblings. Veritas turned towards you, leaning against the bench while you sought out words.

"The first thing you do is to gather the very first chestnut you lay eyes on," what else was there to do but oblige in the face of your expectant pause, "and then you whisper a wish to it."

Again, he obliges, wringing his nose at the faint scent of detritus that already clings to anything picked from the ground.

"Now you just, well you carry it with you, just like you carry a wish. And if the wish comes true, then you take it to a stream and throw it in after thanking it."

"And if it doesn't?"

Veritas notes with satisfaction how smooth the chestnut feels under his skin, and how pleased you look upon catching him shift it between fingers.

"Then you return it to the ground, bury it somewhere, and let it bloom when spring comes."

A charming sentiment, even if you kept waving your hands dismissively. There'd been no deeper meaning behind it, just a parent taking measures to keep little hands occupied.

It was sweet, the memories painting your eyes with colors he couldn't imagine never getting to see again. Time worked differently with you, it always did, and too soon did the evening air chill.

Several hours had passed, time that Veritas should have spent studying, had allocated in his schedule for completing at least two assignments. Yet he couldn't quite find it in himself to mourn.

"Here," he removed his scarf to bundle it around your neck, deft hands adjusting it to let you breathe, "you were shaking, maybe it's time to head inside?"

Something foreign drifted through your eyes and held him captive, leaning forward like this would make it so easy to-

Your lips were just as forgiving as your words, molding perfectly against his even in the brief moment before his mind caught up and he pulled back.

An apology was at the tip of his tongue, cheeks already heating up and mind thrown into a frenzy unrivaled by the most advanced calculations.

All thoughts of your friendship souring turned to dust when he saw you stand, throwing your chestnut as far towards the little lake nearby as you could.

Oh.

With a thundering heart, Veritas pocketed his own chestnut, unable to resist the urge to give it a little pat.

"Wait- you still have yours? Veritas what did you wish for?"

A laugh bubbled from his chest at your expression morphing from bliss to pure petulance, the sound sending flutters through his body, how rarely he could let go.

And always in your presence.

"Veritas! It's not funny, it would've been so romantic!"

He merely hummed, enjoying the fleeting heat of your skin as he brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, "perhaps I wished for something less fleeting."