#low intervention wine

[wine-porn]

Anyone for tennis? Wouldn't that be nice.

A beautiful, crisp, fruity addition to a hot socal night. Feels almost like Malvasia in its depth of of fresh, up-front lychee and crazy nectarine. Some *natural wine* sediment clouding the bottom of the flint glass, turbidity throughout. Haricot verts and Caltrans mowing blow a vegetal beauty across the nose, grassy and briary in a funk blessedly lacking in ‘cidery’ nuances. In the mouth, a…

[ianmacallen]

Natural, low intervention, and organic wines are a growing trend, but they all mean different things. Italy is embracing the trend, in part because of lower cost vineyards and a rapidly changing climate.

[anonymityisfunwriter]

bad idea right?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: It's a bad idea. He's a bad idea. A walking red flag - if your friends are right about him. It's really too bad red was always your favorite color.

bad idea right? | get him back! | love is embarrassing

"This is an intervention."

You sputter, almost choking on your wine, "What?"

Nat crosses her arms, her eyes boring into you as she speaks, "A Bucky Barnes intervention."

"What are you talking about?" you hedge.

"You've been seeing him again." It's not a question, but a statement of fact. You don't know how exactly she found out, but you don't doubt that somehow she knows everything. You've been caught red handed. 

You had two choices here. Come clean to your two best friends. Or lie through your teeth. You choose the second. "No, I-"

"You left your location on," Wanda explains, stopping you before you try to lie your way out of this conversation. "You were at his apartment two nights ago. You didn't leave until the next morning."

You hold your head in your hand, still curled up on the couch, "Can't two people reconnect?"

"He's your ex for a reason."

You knew that. You knew that there was a reason you and Bucky broke up all those months ago.

And you certainly didn't plan on getting involved with him again. It just sort of happened.

If you thought about it, really, you were blameless.

You hadn't heard from him since you broke up three months ago.

Three weeks ago, you found yourself out and drunk.

Calling him was just a drunken accident.

Bucky coming to pick you up and take you back home was not at all your plan.

Leaving your bag in his car was just a funny coincidence.

How else were you supposed to get your things unless you saw him the very next day?

And was it your fault that he invited you inside to catch up? No, of course not, you were just being polite! 

Really, who could blame you? It just happened.

"I only see him as a friend." It's definitely the biggest lie you've ever told your friends.

"So you just tripped and fell into his bed?"

Your jaw drops as your cheeks flame, "It's not like that!"

"Well, clearly you think you're doing something wrong when you're lying to us about seeing him," Nat accuses.

"I haven't lied to you guys about anything!"

"So two weeks ago you didn't lie to us when you were actually with him?"

"I never lied. I told you I was asleep." You just never said where. Or in whose sheets. "Alright, fine, I might have omitted, but that's just because I know how you guys feel about him."

"Because you could do so much better!"

You shrug, knowing Wanda is probably right. You could find someone so much better for you. Someone who you probably wouldn't have to sneak around with. Someone you hadn't already broken up with, but something about Bucky Barnes makes your brain a little fuzzy. You can't think straight when you think about him. And you most certainly can't be trusted around him. 

Even now, just thinking about him, you're spiraling back to a place where a bad idea turns into the best one you've ever had. 

You know've probably seen much hotter men, but then you think back to two nights ago, and you suddenly can't remember when.

Not when Bucky stood at his door with his sweatpants slung so sinfully low on his waist. Not when he wore that henley that left so little to the imagination - and he wore it so well. His arms crossed over his chest. Leaning against the doorway, one hand clutching the top of the door frame, as he waited for you. That teasing, challenging smirk. Those mischievous blue eyes. That vibranium arm glinting in the moonlight. 

Could you really be blamed for appreciating what was right there? Of course not. Or at least, that's what you told yourself. 

Natasha waves her hand in front of your face, "Are you even listening?"

Your eyes shift back to her, your mouth inexplicably dry, "Huh?"

"I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but it's a bad idea," Nat emphasizes. "A terrible, stupid idea."

"What I think Natasha is trying to say," Wanda gently interjects, "Is that we love and respect you too much to watch you get hurt all over again."

Natasha was right. You knew that.

Your impromptu girl's night came to a close with her reminding you one last time. It was a bad idea.

Seeing him tonight is a bad idea. It's most definitely a bad idea. You knew it the moment your phone lit up with a text from Bucky.

"I want to see you."

You could almost picture the disappointment in their faces. You should turn around and go back to your room and forget about Bucky Barnes. Never speak to him again. Block his number. Forget he exists. 

It's a bad idea to grab your keys and hop in your car to go see him.

It's a bad idea to drive to his apartment right now in the dead of the night.

And it was definitely a bad idea to wake up twisted in his sheets again.

It's a bad idea, right?

But you're standing in your room all alone - with no one telling you that it was indeed a bad idea. And it sounds like a fantastic idea to you. Yes, he's your ex, but can't two people reconnect? And if you trip and fall into his bed, really, what's the harm?

You shrug your shoulders, snatching up your car keys.

Fuck it, it's fine.

Part 2 - get him back!

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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[nova-amor]

༘☁︎⋆ ◜ 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ◞

it had been weeks since you had a moment alone with your husband, rarely ever seeing each other due to your conflicting schedules. even while living in the same apartment, your schedule and miguel's often overlapped, preventing either of you from at least acknowledging each other's presence in between missions.

one evening though, whether it be by fate or the divine intervention of miguel's artificial intelligence assistant, L.Y.L.A., the two of you were finally able to catch up during a much-needed date night. the date night had gone swimmingly with your evening starting at your favorite latin restaurant for a nice dinner before ending with the two of you back at home— a bottle or two of your favorite red wine split between you.

you were tangled up in miguel's arms, held tightly against his bare chiseled chest, his skin warm and soft beneath your fingertips. his lips had captured yours in a mind-dizzying kiss, tongues sliding and swirling around one another as he fondled the underside of your ass cheeks. you could taste the wine on his lips, intoxicated by the flavor of the wine and his familiar taste. one of his hands trailed beneath your blouse, your back arching into a crescent as he traced the length of your spine.

"let's take this off," miguel murmured against your lips, slipping the shirt off of you. the cold air nipped at your exposed skin, nipples hardening from both the cold and his attentive touch as miguel unclasped your bra. "my god, you're gorgeous... i'll never get tired of seeing you like this, mi amor."

his scarlet eyes were glazed with a layer of lust and devotion, large hands pawing at your breasts, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers as his warm breath fanned over your lips. you rolled your hips atop miguel's, your skirt bunched up to your waist, the crotch of your panties soaked thoroughly with arousal. your cunt rubbed against miguel's erection through the layers of fabric between you.

"cariño," miguel purred, his lips latched to the hinge of your jaw, strong hands grasping at your hips in an attempt to aid your languid movement. "i missed you so much, you have no idea."

your hips began to stutter above him, the tent in miguel's pants catching onto the hood of your clit, the pleasurable sensation making your toes curl with each roll of your hips. "miguel," you purred, fingers laced into his thick, inky hair while your other hand found purchase atop his muscular shoulder. "missed you more... thought of you every day... needed you so bad, miggy."

"what do you need, cariño? dime, quiero escucharlo." miguel whispered, his voice low, thick, and sultry. he leaned his head back to rest against the cushions of the couch, shifting the dominating reins to you, allowing you to take control over the next sequences of events.

"need you, miggy," you cooed, combing the fringe of his hair back. miguel smirked up at you, a wet spot forming on the front of his pants from your arousal and his leaking pre-cum. "needed your kisses... needed t' feel your hands all over me... needed t' feel your cock stretch me out."

"mierda, cariño, such a dirty little mouth," miguel hissed through his teeth, fangs poking at his plump bottom lip. he loved it whenever you expressed your desires, the filthy words rolling off your tongue like drops of honey. "why don't you show me how much you've missed me, huh? wanna feel those pretty lips wrapped around my cock."

with a teasing smirk, you slipped down miguel's lap, kneeling between his thighs. your hands massaged his inner thighs as the hiss of his zipper filled the air, his hips bucking up momentarily to shuffle his pants down, his boxer briefs following close by. you licked your lips, watching in anticipation as he peeled back the elastic band of his underwear.

"you're so beautiful... missed your cock so much," you praised, eyes locked on the sight of his erect cock. the cinnamon-colored head glistened with thick sheens of pre-cum, the veins of his cock throbbing in the soft palm of your hand, your fingers barely able to curl around his width. "might need you t' retrain my throat, miggy, 's been too long,"

miguel chuckled, watching with greedy eyes as your lips wrapped around the head of his cock— cheeks hollowing as you sucked hard, the tip of your tongue lapping at the oozing slit, hands squeezing and pumping at the inches you couldn't reach.

"don't worry about that, cariño," miguel placed his hand on the top of your head, guiding your head down, easing into your mouth centimeter by centimeter until your throat was constricting and gagging around him. tears brimmed at the edges of your eyes, head bobbing up and down his length with his guidance, your jaw and throat straining to accommodate him. "well, would you look at that... ya didn't need a reminder after all, huh?"

[lulublack90]

Prompt 23 - Alley

@jegulus-microfic February 23 Word count 949

Previous part First part

CW- Torture via cruiatus

Regulus knew something was going on the second the werewolves arrived. They entered Malfoy Manor in an orderly manner, unlike their usual free-for-all. 

They seemed to be guarding something in the middle of the group. They continued on until they stopped in front of Voldemort, and a man was dragged from the centre and forced to the floor. 

Regulus immediately recognised him. It was Remus. He carefully masked his features so he wouldn’t give either of them away. 

“Shit, is that Lupin?” Barty whispered too loudly to Regulus and Evan. 

“Hush,” Regulus said, warning flashing in his eyes. Barty fell silent, and they all watched the scene unfold before them. 

“Mr Lupin. I have heard many things about you. Most of them are not pleasant. I believe, though, it was your intervention that saved our dear Regulus from that beast Moody.” Voldemort paused to allow Remus to respond. Remus didn’t lift his head from the bowed position he’s been left in. He nodded. Voldemort placed a cold hand on the top of Remus’s head. Regulus didn’t know how Remus managed not to shudder at the contact, but he did. “Regulus also told us you wished to join your brothers and sisters and help our cause.” Another nod. Voldemort turned to one of the werewolves standing near him. “What of his companion? I believe he was always seen with the disgraced Black brother.” 

“We left him in an alley. My brothers may have had a little fun with him first. There’s been no sighting of him since. The informant hasn’t confirmed his current status, but they are working on it.” 

Informant? That was new. 

“Shut up!” Voldemort screamed. “CRUCIO!” The man fell to the ground, writhing in pain and screaming at the top of his lungs. The other wolves shuffled nervously while they watched their brother be tortured. 

Voldemort grew bored and released the curse. “Take him and leave.” He spat at the rest of them. One came forward and took hold of Remus’s arm, ready to drag him away with them. “No, no. Leave this one. I wish to speak with him alone. Tell Fenrir I will send word when he can collect him.” The wolves bowed and hurried away. 

Voldemort turned to Regulus and beckoned him forward. He went, leaving Evan and Barty behind. 

“Yes, my Lord,” He said as he bowed low. 

“Watch Mr Lupin here for me, will you? I have some urgent matters I must attend to.”

“Of course, my Lord.” He bowed again before wandering back to the others, Remus following behind. 

Barty clapped a hand on Remus’s back. 

“Knew you’d see sense and join our team,” Barty said loud enough for the whole room to hear. 

It was clever if they showed they trusted him, less would question his loyalty. 

“Well, the other side wasn’t exactly offering me much being a werewolf, were they?” Remus spat on the floor in disgust. He knew how to play this game. Barty howled with laughter and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, walking him towards the kitchen to help themselves to the refreshments. 

Regulus followed them, his mind whirling at the prospect of the information the wolf had let slip. An informant within the Order was bad news. 

When they entered the kitchen, he and Remus made eye contact, and he knew that Remus hadn’t known that either. 

They needed to be careful how they tread from now on until they found the leak. 

Remus stuck close to Regulus for the rest of the evening. Until Voldemort took him into a room by himself, he came out sweating and shaking but still in one piece. He bowed to Voldemort and then came to stand with their small group again. He didn’t say anything, just accepted the wine glass Evan handed him and sipped it slowly. 

“Chin up, Lupin, you’re one of us now,” Evan winked at him. 

Three wolves showed up to escort Remus back to the pack. Evan, Barty and Regulus all shook his hand. Regulus slipped a folded scrap of parchment into Remus’s hand as he shook it. 

Regulus needed to get away and call James. He was waiting, and so was Sirius. He needed to tell Sirius that Remus was all right. He left, only saying goodbye to Evan and Barty before apparating home. 

He sat in the kitchen with the mirror, sat on the table, and spoke to Sirius. 

“Sirius, I saw Remus.” 

James took the mirror back from Sirius’s hands after they’d finished so he could say goodbye himself. 

“James, there’s something else.” He said urgently. James waited for him to continue. “One of the wolves that brought Remus in let it slip that there is an informant in the Order. They’ve been passing information to the death eaters. They’re trying to find out if Sirius is alive or not.” James had gone pale. 

“Shit,” He said. “Are you sure?”

“Voldemort told him to shut up, and then Crucio’d him in front of everyone.” He watched the worry etch itself into James’s face.

“I’ve asked for a meeting with Dumbledore about the other things we discussed. I’ll alert him to this as well. I’ve got to go now, Reg. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to Dumbledore. Keep you’re head down. I love you.” James smiled at him sadly as the sounds of Sirius’s snuffling filled the silence between them. 

“I love you too,” Regulus whispered as he ended the connection. 

He relaxed into his chair, taking a moment. He thought about the informant, wondering who it could possibly be. A flash of red blinked in his memory, and his blood ran cold. Surely not. She was a muggle-born, after all. 

Next part 

[devious-little-milkmaiden]

Hey guys!! So I've been pretty hesitant to ever share any of my poetry (mostly because I don't think it's very good) but I wanted to write a persona poem based on Crowley and share it with you all. (He's just such a fascinating character.) Here it is :)

It’s a long night and I’m sharing wine with you— an ages-old tradition we largely established ourselves, and I can already predict what happens next.  I nearly beg for it, for you to describe the wine it’s French, you’ll say, and your mouth will do that little round red thing where it blooms over the French you can’t pronounce. I think it beautiful, the sharing wine with you I say it in my head like the name of a ritual and I think that comparison isn’t so wrong and all rituals have an intention we don’t even have to say it.  There’s something I’ve convinced myself I’ll never say: I’d have grown eyes just for looking to you, a body just to feel everything for you, and, most of all, a mind just to know you. But there’s a grief that keeps me from saying any of it out loud: I took the mind. I took the mind they made for me and I thought of you I fell and creation shunned me. What I would do to love you what I’d done, in six thousand years what had I done? What I would do to love you: as nothing but the two, as gossamer intertwined, as complete and raw energy, nebulas crushing their speckled matter against one another, not in battle, not in a battle of rage, but of need, to crash together strong enough to really get it to you for you to know: that if I burned blue for you  the yellows of my eyes  would stand out more— to perceive is to be perceived and if you could see me more I wouldn’t have to say anything at all. But why would I take the privilege away: to say it, and to ache deep enough to feel human. Tonight I’m sharing wine with you and in six thousand years of this ritual perhaps we’ve both been hoping for a miracle a divine intervention something big and blue and I’ll watch you sip your wine and it’s an action so miniscule, so believable, that it’s comedic when it’s the only thing I can think about when it’s a near-divine cynosure. I think that must be what it means to be an angel, and I shudder to think of what it means I’m not. I suppose there’s something in there, some way of saying what I don’t think I can,  the feeling: it’s like being born not beautiful, but inescapable, indisputable. There’s a lowness that blooms within me. When I look at you I grit my teeth— biting back the nebula. Dividing gossamer.

[merao-mariposa]

I have your back, you have my heart

Day three of the pissa/death duo week! This au was the idea of @amymorningstar ​​in this post I really wanted to write about the Mafia Pissa and this was a good excuse for!

“Mafia + I promised you as long as I'm with you you'll never be alone again”

(…)

Philza Minecraft had been on the dark side of the streets for a very long, long time, since his first interventions dismantling brothels that were a little too... “flexible” with the idea of consent going to authentic inhumane places, all falling under the scourge of the Angel of Death until a man, a friend, appeared in front of him with the idea of dominating the criminal world, converting it to his ideals. That was a long time ago but corruption spreads like a fire in gasoline and Phil was there to suffocate it until it went out.

Maybe it was his cruelty in how he snuffed out the lives of those corrupt men that led him to pay the karma he was paying right now, he doesn't know.

The man sitting at his desk looked miserable for say the least, from the outside you feel the discord in the trademark half-twisted hat or the uncorked bottle of wine resting on his messy desk but you can see how the damage runs deeper than that if you know Philza well enough, the immaculate two pieces-suit stand out like a sore thumb on a man so casual and relaxed, the white shirt is buttoned at the neck almost restrictively, and his trail of beard is just a little more prominent than it has been in recent months.

The last few months, that sugar-filled almost year where mafia boss BOLAS had been closer to being an angel than he would ever be since he lived in what he could only call heaven.

His arrival in heaven was a young man with messy, dark hair. His purple eyes dragged him deep into the flames of hell now that they were no longer looking at him.

The fact that he had no one else to blame but himself didn't make it any easier.

But when Sinfonia appeared everything was perfect. He was reserved but easy to smile, aloof but with loyal friends, so pathetic (and cute) yelling at the slightest threat but he was a real threat in front of some of the most ruthless members of BOLAS, selective but had two beautiful kids who looked alike barely in the whites of the eyes, even his last name “Sinfonia” evidenced the harsh contradiction that surrounds the object of the crow's loves, a man as gifted in every possible musical instrument as if he had the Midas touch, and yet that very appropriate last name wasn't real. His Missa was a set of contradictions and embarrassing coincidences over knots in lavender stems.

Which in retrospect must have been a loud alarm, a siren announcing the disaster that his false moon left in its wake in the crow's heart.

It turns out that his love lied, the fire burning inside him to abandon important meetings for the sole purpose of sharing more time of his life with him as opposed to the absolute security of being understood as someone returning to his childhood home (beloved, cared, welcome) with the ease of riding a bike. All of that had been a waste.

The soft hugs that lulled him into deep dreams (chasing away the nightmares that Missa shouldn't know about for his own good) to the chaste kisses all over the face that released the negativity from his husband's shoulders (and if instead of being a result of his low self-esteem was his guilt taking charge?) to the private kisses that said “I miss you” and “one last time, love” without the words, all were nothing but lies.

Not that he had cared much about anything at that moment, he found himself focused on his children (because now they were also Phil's children) they were angels and he only had the head to raise them with Missa, who returned with a sweeter demeanor after his night walks and long work trips, he tenderly asked for nap together as a family.

He should have questioned more why Missa disappeared like that, coincidentally, just when Phil was paying for the services of the most dangerous mercenary on the black market, unlike the assassins he had on his payroll, this guy had the prestige of killing only with his touch, too lethal and above all cautious, Phil did not even met him in person, they only contacted through third parties who agreed on the service and only told about his violet hood and his skull mask. It is said; no one has seen his face and lived to tell.

Like I said before; Phil is old, he's been in the environment for years where only an intelligent man could live as long as he does, with that in mind how was it possible that he didn't know that his sweet husband was actually the most dangerous bastard in the underworld? Shocked by the discovery, in this kind of world, someone you trust can stab you in the back so how can you trust a man who lied to you?

And Missa knew who Philza Minecraft was, what his name means, he always knew, he did always know when something had gone wrong and Philza needed more comfort, always two steps ahead of his needs because he knew it.

The time after their fight breaks up, everything is a drunken blur in the crow's mind, he doesn't remember what they said, he only knows the screams and the revolver clicking in his left pocket while Missa, The Reaper or whoever it was have knowledge of the gun in his pocket and as soon as he pointed it at the man he said he loved time ago the gun was already on the ground, rolling behind this man who was unrecognizable to Phil, the shouting match continued more heated after the blonde pointed his gun at the helpless and clumsy Missa.

That was the last time he saw Missa.

Phil has been so distracted, tired and paranoid since then, even the security is a disaster ignoring the advice of the rest of BOLAS. Philza has scattered guards in unimportant areas, some stuck to him all day but the majority watch that Missa does not return or get close to the children (his children; Missa's own children) Chayanne almost bites him at the slightest suspicion of not being able to see his father, so his impenetrable fortress suddenly becomes a weak place.

Literally and metaphorically

He ordered several guards not to even dream of setting foot in certain areas of the family mansion (those such as the music room, the kitchen and the art studio, any room with traces of Missa must remain identical to how it was before his departure, as if they were waiting for him)

Philza feels betrayed and hurt but above all he is so confused, his rational mind tells him to defend himself, to put up the highest walls to protect himself, his organization and his family but his family is Missa. He is outside and Philza once promised that he will demolish every wall in the world that did not open its doors for the man with purple eyes.

And yet here he is.

Inside his fortress it can breathe the air of a broken family, the kids have believed him for the moment but the tension is felt increasing with every minute they pass without hearing from their papa. Inside the fortress are no longer him and his chicks but a greedy and lonely crow with two brittle shells and a broken heart.

The days pass in that agony until there is a surprise attack from which they cannot respond.

Tensions with the Federal mafia had gotten much worse in recent months, after his formal alliance with Soulfire he did not believe they were going to attack seriously.

But they did.

Thank his Goddess, thank The Lady for allowing Chayanne and Tallulah to be in the school while the white clad mercenaries broke down every door and shot at anything that moved.

At least Missa would get them back and they would be together again. Just as they should have been before he and his greedy hope for a family took that away from them.

As soon as his office door is kicked down one of those white masked sons of bitches puts his hands on him, something happens.

Penetrating in his vision when he sees him but there is stealth in his steps, he is the only one to notice his presence until two bullets (how quickly are repeated) knock down two of the men to dead, wound another in the shoulder, and the last one misses just centimeters away for paint the wall with Philza's skull.

Four shots, two fired before the reaction time of their distracted predators and attacked from the purest darkness, shots fly towards the door and if it was not absolutely broken after that rude kick it is now unusable, falling from its hinges under the siege and behind it are no signs of the mysterious shooter.

Tense seconds pass until one of the feds quickly puts one of his dirty hands in Phil's hair, pulling hard on the golden strands in a hissing threat and that's when he enters the scene.

The men on each side of the door were the first to fall, one quickly takes the place of his fallen companion, his gun raised, ready to shoot, followed by the one with the shot in the shoulder, unfortunately with that wound he is not able to shoot at time to prevent another bullet from the darkness from taking the life of the other one.

The bullets fly again while the threshold of the door swallows the corpse, dragging it out and soon, very soon, his savior enters the room with a constant step carrying the dead body as a kind of human shield.

A well-placed shot, other fall.

And the guy who touched him is one of them, his screams are muffled by his mask and by the gunshots exploding around him.

Phil hides under his desk as fast as he can but not before taking a bullet in the shoulder, it hurts like shit.

But it seems that it hurts them more because he can hear how one by one the white masks fall with sharp blows, they could barely scream in horror before fall with a fatal shott.

Fast, efficient and lethal

When it seems that the rain of bullets is ending, Phil distinguishes the voices from outside his office. That sounds like… Chainsaws? And laughs Phil knows immediately that his best people, who should be with his children, are on and from what he hears they are having fun.

He slowly peeks out of his desk, his hand warm from the blood dripping from his shoulder, and finally sees the reason of his recent insomnia.

Missa, or also known as The Reaper, moves almost with grace but the anger burns in his every movement, it is a wild spectacle as soon as the bullets run out, each man who even tries to get close to Phil is shot down with ease, he watch in trance as his husband smash anyone who tries to get close to him to pieces.

“M- Missa…?” he comes out as a dismayed whisper

The Reaper turns to look at him for half a second, which one of them takes advantage of to kick him in the stomach. Missa lets out a grunt of acute pain but holds the guy's leg with his hands, taking advantage of pushing him forward, knocking another of them against the favorite glass table.

The two guys are left on the floor, one on top of the other and one's suit is now full of glass.

And just like that Missa goes for the next one and Phil can only watch in shock.

Missa is The Reaper, The Reaper is Missa. They are both the same person; they have been forever.

Missa, his Missa is his mercenary and his mercenary is his husband.

he approaches, slowly, as slowly as he can with a bullet embedded in his shoulder. The cacophony of screams shakes the floor and Philza suddenly realizes that he must have gone down to the panic room.

The weight of not doing so clings to his shoulders, the clear implications trying to cross the capo’s tired mind like a malicious whisper makes him feels so wrong, so manipulative.

But he was waiting for him to save him

Of a thousand people in this aggressive environment who swore their loyalty to him and finds himself depending on the arrival of the one who not only never swore anything to him but also betrayed him.

Oh well, who betrayed who?

After yelling at him for lying to him when he also lied, pointing a gun at him and taking him away from his own children, he knows that the Philza of the past would have sent him to hell for ruining the things with Missa.

Missa knew who he was before, he knew it from very early on and that affected Phil, it made him feel cornered and at a disadvantage. He realized at that moment that he was afraid; he didn't fear the hitman under his roof as much as he feared the man under his sheets. feared he was so vulnerable letting him walk around the red mafia's base of operations, taking the children to school every morning, training Chayanne and hearing Tallulah's flute in the distance did terrified him, his worst nightmare was in how his heart was warmed by them so soft and gentle in the reaper's expert hands he could take out his heart and the worst thing is that he would have left it in order to see the children and Missa every morning when he woke up.

My God, he was crazy, he went crazy when he fell in love with him and even crazier when Phil sabotaged his own happiness.

Loneliness tasted bitter on his lips, power and honor became poison with the diffuse days, with his cold bed at night, with his absence piercing his chest.

The last man fell and with the elegance of a dancer stabbed by a steel dagger into his chest, he did the same with the other two men on the ground. The Reaper left no witnesses or loose ends.

He could hear in the distance Baghera and Cellbit stopping their chainsaws which was a good sign. The Federation had basically sent a mini army to his grounds and he partly wondered if his men knew that Missa was there with him.

His name tasted salty when it finally left Phil's lips in a whisper, it tasted like the tears he shed every time he was sober to remember his absence. Behind that mask it is almost impossible to perceive the purple eyes but he knows well that look that is hidden in front of him.

Missa wipes the blood on his own pants with slow movements, the dagger pressed against his thigh until it's clean enough.

“Missa…” Phil insists, he shouldn't insist to the man who has the dagger, especially when he is hurt.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he feels (not sees) the intense gaze on his shrunken figure, well, at least he now has his attention. The purple eyes that he loves so much scan him from top to bottom and a wave of shame hits the stunned and guilty part of his subconscious as he remembers how he looks even worse for being in the middle of a fucking shootout. That wasn't how he would have wanted to see him again see but it was the most likely way to meet again now that he knew they were in the same work area

His eyes seem to linger on the wound on his shoulder and if he could see his husband's face, he would say he was not pleased with it.

“…Phil” Missa's voice sounds like a late greeting and is focused on him.

Goddess, how he had missed that voice

The professional, and infamous mercenary approaches, a little more hesitant than he should for a man of his reputation and a wave of affection breaks over Philza, he too takes a single step closer and they are looking at each other as the first time, feels like looking at the moon at its peak or the sun descending. He can't, he doesn't have the right to act like a wet cat after tearing up his enemies and expecting Phil to be normal about it. Missa just can't do that to him, he bites back a light laugh and takes another step in his direction. noticing that there is blood on his clothes and some cuts on it but if I had to guess I would say that most of it is from the others and Phil is already losing blood himself.

Missa takes another step, knowing the bleeding has stopped and believing the bullet grazed but he won't be sure until he concentrates on something other than mustering the words to ask him to fucking take off the mask.

Fortunately, he seems to read his mind as Phil doesn't even finish taking another slow step towards him when the mask is finally gone, The Reaper has officially left the room and his husband looms in front of him in his place. Is it strange to say that death is good for him? His face, his hair and the sparkle in his eyes or is the blonde just delirious?

Be that as it may, it doesn't take long for them to find themselves in the middle of the destroyed office as if it were his own world.

"You went"

“You kicked me out.”

“You still shouldn't have left” he replied very intelligently and Missa smiled, a little nervous.

“Does it hurt so much?” The black-haired man worried, looking at his injured shoulder and Philza wasn't having his partner distracted just like that.

"No, no. It doesn't hurt" He responded, knowing that lies were not the best for the relationship at this time.

Missa frowned like a kitten about to sneeze but he allowed this one for him, just for now.

“You… you're right Philza” Missa lowered his head in shame and a confuse “what?” died in the blonde's throat.

"I shouldn't have left-"

“I pointed at you with a gun, mate” he interrupted, feeling guilty and a little freaked out by whatever that means, it all was his fault, why was Missa saying that?

“Still, I should have stayed, I wanted to stay” hesitantly he noticed how Missa’s arms floated loosely around him. They weren't very elegant clothes, just good enough for work and Philza wanted to focus on that and the stains of blood all over his man instead of the new confession, after everything he did, but how could Missa still wanted him?

“Missa…”

“I promised, right?” Phil raised his head suddenly, searching for his gaze between the strands of black hair that escaped from his messy ponytail. “I always keep my promises, dear”

When the members of Bolas made sure they had the entire area clean, they advanced, covering the entire perimeter until they climbed the stairs that led to the red leader's office, they found themselves face to face with the splintered frame of the door, an office in an absolute disaster. with the imposing doors thrown next to the lifeless bodies and in the eye of that past storm was the mob boss.

Philza was leaning against his desk (which was out of its place) the purple cloth acted as an improvised tourniquet and in his arms was the waist of a tall man with black hair that they had trouble recognizing at first if it weren't for the clear display of affection, unaware that they had company. Now Phil kept his face buried in the taller man's torso as if he were afraid to let him go again and Missa hummed, deeply satisfied with having his little bird in his arms again, he carefully avoided the other man's shoulder but remained attentive, didn't want to leave that wound out of sight until he could drag his husband stubborn ass to the infirmary. Ignoring the living and dead audience, the couple was trapped in their own world, little giggles that didn't seem to go anywhere, dying and returning with each other's laughter in a vicious circle, finally together.

“I promised you, I didn’t? as long as I'm with you you'll never be alone again, cuervito”

EXTRA:

“You look pretty good with that ponytail you know, mate?”

“Philza!”

“So, guys, do I tell Jaiden that there will be no divorce?”

“Shut the fuck up, Charlie”

[foxofninetales]

You get more leverage with a crowbar

"...I told you," bristles Elliot, stalking in an angry little half-circle around the open – very open – door.  It's a heavy door, fireproof, and designed to add an extra layer of overnight security to the collection in the room beyond, but it hadn't been able to stand against the explosives that had been packed around its hinges and lock.  "I told you there was something off about the whole setup. Or do you think that it's just a coincidence that someone else decided to rob the museum right after we took down all their security precautions?"  He prowls back around again, feet automatically stepping over the unconscious security guard who is dreaming happily on the low-pile carpet – one of several who lies scattered decoratively around the museum thanks to Sophie’s intervention. 

Hardison sees his point, but at the same time, it's not like mister punchy-man is the one who has been putting in the hard work on this heist so far.  "You're upset? Who spent hours”– okay, lie, it was like five minutes, but he has a mystique to cultivate here –"making sure all the alarms were disabled just to find that someone took advantage of his hard work–"

"Your hard work!" Sophie breaks in with an expressive wave of her hands. "You think it's easy spending two weeks being a docent? On a museum salary? During field trip season?!"  She shudders beneath the name badge (not hers) that she is still wearing. There are sticky handprints on the hem of her sensible grey suit.

"Quiet!"

They all stop and look at Nate, who is staring down at the fallen door with a deeply contemplative expression.  Hardison can almost hear his fans spinning.  "Do you ever feel," he says slowly – and that is his sit-up-and-pay-attention voice, his mastermind voice, his I'm-at-heart-a-deeply-creepy-bastard voice, "that we were being led the whole way here?"

Hardison knows by now that the best way to speed up Nate's processor is with a little kick of wounded pride, and he's got plenty of his own to share. "Naw – you're saying that someone mailing us a newspaper article about the failed repatriation attempts around the duke's collection might not have been a coincidence?"

"I'm saying," says Nate, rising predictably to the bait, "that I think this is less to do with the temple and more to do with some other person or agency about which we, currently, know far less than they apparently do us."

"I can tell you they're Chinese," interjects Elliot.  Nate's laser-focus snaps to him, and under that stare he gives a shrug.  "Or at least that they learned how to build explosives by working with fireworks in Liuyang.  Smell that."  He takes a deep sniff and let the breath out through his mouth, just like he's at a wine tasting. What a freak [affectionate]. "Notice how the sulfur tang hits the back of your tongue? The bitter finish?"

Hardison sniffs dutifully, but mostly smells...smoke.  And not even much of that – not even enough to set off the museum's smoke detectors even if they and everything else in the adorable little setup the museum thinks is a security system weren't sitting there obediently waiting for Hardison to tell them what to do.  "Mmmhmm, sure," he lies, with the ease of long practice.  "And you're trying to say you know where this guy trained from a smell?"

"It's a very distinctive smell," says Elliott, right on cue.  Damn, Hardison is gonna get Elliot bingo fast tonight.  "But the explosive placement on that door is more like the placement you'd use in underground structures, so we're dealing with someone who was trained on explosives in mines, or excavation, or–" 

He stops dead.  Stares at nothing, brows drawing down in a tangle, and mutters something that sounds mystifyingly like "cultural artifacts".  Then tilts his head back and yells like the tiniest, angriest rooster in the world:

"WANG PANGZI, YOU GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!"

There's a moment's pause, and then a deep rumbling chuckle.  They all turn towards the source of the sound, just in time to see a man amble into the light.  He's a big man, fat-over-muscle, but he moves with the kind of ease that tells Hardison that he knows how to use every ounce.  Elliot is glaring at him like he's going to go for his ankles any second, but Hardison is saved from having to intervene (i.e., get out his camera) by the delighted trill that comes from Sophie beside him. 

"Pangzi, darling!"  She drifts forward like a battleship under full sail and is almost instantly wrapped in the big man's arms, both of them breaking into a fast-paced chatter in a language Hardison recognizes from his hacker forums and subbed dramas as a Chinese dialect (not that the man's features and the fact that he's apparently *also* robbing an exhibit of Chinese antiquities aren't also something of a tip-off). Whoever this guy is, Sophie knows him well, so well that their expressive movements as they both gesture effusively with their hands interweave effortlessly. 

Hardison's so busy bemusedly watching this unexpected love-fest that he misses the moment that someone else appears on the scene. What he doesn't miss, though, is Nate stiffening beside him.  It's almost a Sterling-level stiffen, and that has Hardison glancing over pretty damn quickly, but all he sees is another man, Chinese like the first but a little younger, and far too ordinary in appearance to be in a museum at midnight with an unconscious guard and a still-smoking door.  Hardison looks him over evaluatingly: the glasses say "geek" and the sweater says "prep", but the scar on his neck says either "danger" or "has a hell of a story about a power tool". 

"Wu Xie," says Nate, not so much smiling as allowing his teeth to surface from the depths.  Oh, Nate hates this guy.  Hardison perks up in interest.

"Nate," says the man, returning the smile – and Hardison may not know him, but he's stolen enough antiques to recognize a matched set when he sees one.  Innnnnteresting.  Hardison tries to remember where he's heard the name Wu Xie before – and 3.5 seconds later, it hits him like a box of rocks.

He flails. 

"Wait a minute," he says, loud enough to break through the sound of Sophie and the fat man (who appear to have started singing) all indignation at being used by the competition evaporating like smoke in the face of a much greater injustice.  "Wait. A. Minute. If that–" he points at Nate's latest nemesis, who blinks "–is Wu Xie, and that–" another, increasingly accusatory jab of his finger "–is Wang Pangzi, then does that mean"– he can hear his own voice getting higher –"does that mean that Zhang Qiling is around here someplace?" 

He spins around, futilely scanning the ceiling, and finishes his circle aimed squarely at his cheating, holdout, betrayer of a boyfriend who'd better enjoy having every internet link he clicks be a rickroll for the next week because he knows what he did.  "You know Batman and you didn't tell me?!"

** * **

In the quiet shadows of a balcony above, a dark figure crouches on a railing, his black clothing somehow managing to blend with the dimly-lit neutrals of the museum walls. His posture is attentive but comfortable; his hood is pulled down low over his face, and strapped to his back is a black and gold sword that would be worth a heist in its own right. 

Silently, a line drops down from the ceiling and a second figure in black – this one upside-down and with a blond ponytail that hangs down like an inverted exclamation-mark – slides down to hang even with the first.

"Hey, Xiaoge," says Parker, holding out an open bag of marshmallows that she'd liberated from the gift shop.

Not turning his head, Xiaoge nods, and takes a handful.

And together they chew in companionable silence, while their families sort things out below.

[pouringforever]

Another bit of what I do in real life - I've been quoted (extensively at that) in an article on the Natural & Low Intervention wine scene in Manchester, and about how it has evolved over the years.

Please excuse the way that the grammar of the quotes I gave has been mangled, it definitely could have been paraphrased more elegantly. I think the guy who wrote it likes long rambling sentences even more than I do. Lol

[originemesis]

@ophidianthoughts xxx

The crescendo of doors cracked halfway off their hinges only serve to elicit the twisting of a smirk as wide as it is cruel. Not that there's anything particularly cruel in the truth- it just hurts. And it always would no matter how many illusions the devil would entertain just to convince himself it didn't have to. The man can think of few others that he'd enjoy watching that passing pain possess other than the someone who claimed to care - from one extended apple to a helping hand given above the grave it inadvertently dug for him. The audacity he had to spit in the other's face like this then? With his wings hurriedly hacked off and mounted above the fireplace- where was this devotion he apparently owed? Adam would tell the clown to try looking for it up his ass if he wasn't so sure that Pride Ring's proudest didn't have the room for it what with his head rammed up there and all -

And there's not even the slightest hesitation for that well past festered feeling, so when yet another 'catch' presents itself in the other's so called merciful act, he's not surprised. Annoyed- sure, but the white room searing his eyes doesn't help with that either. "You enjoy being a predictable prick, don't you?" He grumbles. Would even go so far as to go over every instance the other has dangled the idea of something more over his head just to yank it away when he jumped. But before he can lay into him, he's flung out- barreling through the long corridor and out into hell. The less enclosed version of it anyway.

"Fuck that clown bitch, this is definitely an upgrade." As much as a street full of brawling and blatant fucking is concerned compared to a room with apple themed everything. At least that's what he deems his truth to be. If the goal was to get him comfy with the idea of being some palace poodle, he's already decided it's not going to work. And it's with that attitude he totes as his only luggage. Well, until that quaint little nugget of information gifted to him about how no one would recognize him with an identity under devilish intervention is also yanked out of his almost grasp.

"Yeeeeah- I don't think they're over it. Fuck me." An out of breath remark taken halfway slid down a blood spattered brick wall of some back alley 'murder made dirt cheap' operation. Whether or not sinners recalled him by his clearly angelic attire or they just caught some whiff of needing to bash his kneecaps in past whatever Lucifer was suppressing, he doesn't know and frankly wouldn't care. If it didn't make getting a bite to eat such a fucking hassle. And it's not like he can just whip up a disguise out of nothing without his powers. Grimacing at the idea of being forced to find his way back to the Pride Ring dictator's pad just because he's sure there will be another fucking apple pie for him to contest with, he decides a much better option is to drag his ass to some bat inclusive bar since the lights are turned down so low, and get fucking wasted while filling up on the free bread. Yeah!! Easy shit. He makes sure to chew loudly too as a 'fuck you' to his long distance captor, figuring he's tuning in for another round of sinners relentlessly mobbing him.

Drinking in hell seems more appropriate than the reverse, though he's accustomed to a splash of wine here and there, so ordering something 'that'll fuck me up' probably isn't the best course of action. Not that he has one except avoiding that so called 'inevitably' in crawling back to scratch at a closed door. No way in hell is that fucking happening. But also there's no way in hell he's not getting jumped again once he's eventually kicked out of the bar. He needs a disguise... and apparently bat demons don't need coats because there wasn't a rack at the door for them. Mind already fuzzing around half-baked ideas by the time he's halfway through the second whiskey sour, he groans and face plants into the bar counter. There is that one thing he could- well...could he even? More importantly did he even want to when getting run down by riots seemed...far less cringe in comparison?

Mulling over it as another patron he can't see finishes up a screeching rendition of Limp Biskit on the only lit device in the establishment (save for his mask) - the kareokee machine, he sideways sips the new drink. Truth be told he's not even sure if he can manage the shift in hell regardless of Lucifer's meddling with his 'essence' or whatever the fuck. Still, it's not like forcing an archangel through a sinner shaped hole is going to change the result into anything other than what in it, so technically it could work...if he wasn't surrounded by everything that he hates. It's just fucking tragic that such a big dicked alpha Chad like him had to come into power that required a level of self reflection most would assume him incapable of, or at least unwilling to try- covered up and smothering all indication that a man still lurked behind a beast's hunker. And they'd be right...three whiskey sours that he can't pay for ago.

Oh well- at least the room's dark?

Some how it amplifies the fuzzies he's feeling along with the buzz of the microphone jolting up his wrist once talons close around it. A moment spent poking around the play options until it settles on 'CRINGE' later, he blows a raspberry to test the volume - which a resounding hiss from ceiling hung sinners confirms it's just loud enough. Whoever thought giving angels access to their fiercesome forms through pounding out power ballads- he'd like to find and exterminate them on the spot.

Resisting the urge to spit on the mic again, he begins with a flourish of talons and a "this one goes out to my dead, whore ex wife ~ whatever pit of hell she's locked in." And it's with that sentiment and the gentle rock of the sound leered at enough that someone would label it 'cringe' on the damn machine, the gathering of fuzzies in his chest just on the surface of the soul with its lock pad in place begins to commence.

"I might do this to myself Only made it worse, but I just can't help it-"

Slow crooning emissions like the frequency in a mourning dove's duress boom with the familiar bass he's used to emitting himself, but now relies on the machine's machinations to give him a pulse beyond the limits of the devil's whims weighing him down.

"Listen every day til the dark is back- now I pine for phantom pain..."

She really had to go and eat that shit, huh? Too bad she looked pretty while doing it. Of course anything made of him would be.

"It's the only time that I see your face."

As the tone in the timbre shifts, so do the fuzzies all latched onto his soul like millions of dandelion seeds all aquiver for the slightest chance to catch a ride on any hint of a breeze, though the hissing of bats overhead does little to stir one. "So just hold quick- you're fading right in a cold trick... of the light ~ "

They don't have to wait long for their chance once he blows with enough force to free each embedded pod and they begin their journey outward in the form of sparkling pollen-like particles that illuminates the darkness around him with the consistency of mist. The hissing grows fearful and retreats further back into the darker corners of the room as he rakes talons up in waves of flourishes through the glittery emission- each section of his arms burning with a platinum heat over every patch the dusting lands.

"I'm just so sick, I thought you might be here but you d-disappear." Without wings to catch all the lights, he twists and turns in place as if showering beneath the smallest spigot.

"Now I wake up and I forget that you are gone Phantom limb is all that I am hanging on So don't stop-" Drenched in gold, he sings as it consumes him.

"no stopping it yet. What if the the one true love's the only one that you get?"

Slowly the casing of sunbeams begin to shift and alter the man's rather unorthodox shape- stretching it longer and thinner in the neck, extending limbs and thickening paws in place of talons. The shape of a tail drops off the stage and trails off into the dark, pushing more of the bats back even further in their ceiling corner sanctuary. Once the form has nearly reached the rafters the light cooking it quickly disperses in one expelled bass boom sending vibrations through the cramped structure. The feet of a griffin dig in to the floorboards, leaving scratches that beguile the viciousness afforded a beast so long of neck and...fluffy.

"One love ~ one love...you get one love. One love, you get...one love, one love- you get..."

Soon the darkness of the bar is replaced with the all white sear of the featureless room he'd been cast out of however many weeks ago- the one he'd been warned he'd return to for any attempt to make contact beyond the veil of his extended prison, though he's yet to notice as he tops off the performance to seal the transformation, dragging claws sensually up through the silver tipped edges of bristled white fur and into the fluffier neck down splashed a shade of the A usually riding around on his gut, the hint of a frozen over pond at the peak of dawn present.

"One love...one love you get- One love." A golden gaze set in the same shade of his mask flit open, pupils immediately dilating to nothing at the harsh contrast from blackened bar to overly sanitized holdings. A weary blink or two later, he's plopping on the floor, head cocked carefully to one side as the tip of a spiny tail flicks side to side intermittently.

"Guh, what?" He finally snaps at the nothing, figuring it's not just nothing. "I wasn't asking for help- least of all at the fucking Bat Cave, loose Bruce. What gives?"

[wine-porn]

Du Haste

I love pulling out these little *low-intervention* wonders out of the cellar with WAY TOO MUCH age on them. They develop so differently–or maybe not so… just *different*. Gobs of milky sediment a the bottom, a nose with distinct toastiness: kinda a burnt-rubber nuance right where the mineral and tropical leave off. Tasting it is a sharp experience, with definite sprite feeling along the tongue.…

[vagabondfandoms]

Falls On Me

Day 5- Tiefling Party: Early Evening

Rating: Teen/Mature 

Previous Chapters: Chapter One , Chapter Two , Chapter Three , Chapter Four , Chapter Five , Chapter Six , Chapter Seven ½ , Chapter Seven 2/2 , Chapter Eight , Chapter Nine ,

Characters: Gale Dekarios and F!Tav: Copper

Tags/Warning: Gale POV, Gale x Female Tav. Alternative version of the Weave Scene. Approx: 3400 words

Gale tries to distract himself from his near-death experience and Mystra's continual dismissal. But expected emotions come up when Gale and Copper connect through the Weave.

---

The long day was soon winding down and the stars were coming out to play alongside everybody in camp. The joy of victory was contagious and even the most sour individual was cracking a smile at the defeat of the goblin army. 

Gale of course felt happiness and even relief at the annihilation of the goblin hoard and after spending the good part of the day recovering at the Druid’s Grove he even felt energized. But there was a small part of him that couldn’t shake the gloom of death and thoughts of Mystra. 

His Goddess didn’t care that Gale almost died. 

There were no magical interventions to heal him. No heavenly reprieve from his suffering. Just plain old-fashioned dumb luck and quick reactions from his teammates that prevented him from exploding. But Gale should have expected that, of course. Mystra never goes back on her word and if she is done with Gale, then she is done with him.

The man just hoped since her rejection was silent and not forthright that maybe somewhere in the goddess’s heart she would forgive him in the end.

“Urgh, let’s not get stuck on that line of thinking,” Gale grumbles to himself. “Let’s think happy thoughts! First, I am not dead. Second, I have an excellent bottle of wine waiting for me at my tent. Third….”

Well, he couldn’t think of a third but Copper comes into view and everything else is forgotten or at least put aside for the moment.

“Good evening, Gale.” Copper says with a smile. She’s dressed in her casual clothes and she looks far from the battleharden monk she was earlier in the day. “I was hoping you could join me at the celebrations tonight?” 

Gale smiles, happy that Copper sought out his company but then an idea springs in his head and he must follow it.

“I was hoping you’d spare me a moment.” Gale greets back, noting a slight eagerness in the woman’s demeanor. Did she start drinking already or was she truly happy to be in his company?… “There’s something rather magical I wish to show you tonight.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Copper asks, lifting an auburn eyebrow at him and crossing her arms in disapproval. “You could’ve died this morning from being low on magic.”

Gale coughs, wanting to avoid that topic again. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” He places his hand over his heart as in oath. “No complicated, magic-consuming spells are needed.”

I just want to show you something few people have had the pleasure to experience.” Gale smiles and offers Copper a hand, wanting to lead her away before the party gets too rambunctious. “Let’s quickly head to more intimate surroundings so we don’t get disturbed by this revelry.”

“Pleasurable experience? Intimate surroundings?” Copper questions, her hand hesitating to reach for his as a slight blush forms on her cheeks, and Gale quickly realizes his offer could be mistaken for another pleasurable activity.

“Nooo, no!” Not that kind of….umm… pleasurable offer.” Gale hastily corrects. “I mean to teach you a magical lesson in the Weave. I’ve been promising you for days now and I want to show you my appreciation for all the Ki lessons you’ve graced me with.” Gale gratefully bows. “I truly don’t deserve your time or kindness.”

“Gale, that’s not true.” Copper gently argues, motioning for him to raise his head. But he knows the truth. He isn’t deserving of all the support Copper and now Karlach is giving him.

Gale swears he was mere seconds away from being kicked from the group if the two warriors didn’t defend him so vehemently against the others. Luckily, Wyll quickly joined in his defense and Astarion was outnumbered so the vampire didn’t put up much of a fight when Shadowheart and Lae’zel proved disinterested in continuing the argument as long as Gale could control his orb and left if it proved too unstable.

Startled out of his thoughts by the feeling of strong warm fingers wrapping around his long fingers. Copper looks at him expectantly and Gale realizes the monk is silently taking up his offer for a magical lesson. His stomach starts to flutter with excitement. “Excellent. Let’s mosey on over to a more quiet location.”

He needs to distract himself from his depressing thoughts and what better than a beautiful companion and a magical lesson?

---

“Copper is an excellent student in the Weave.” Even through her protests that she doesn’t have a drop of magical talent, Gale thinks as she mimics his words and actions to produce a burst of light. The happy look on the monk’s face was causing a surge of pride to swell in Gale’s chest. 

It’s been a while since he channeled the Weave in this way. Recently, Gale only dared to do it for battle. Yet being by another person’s side and channeling the Weave so imitately didn’t bring the same feeling of dread to the pit of his stomach. 

“If Mystra feels me connecting to the Weave in this way then so be it.” Gale hesitantly believes. All he was doing was teaching a fellow traveling companion a minor trick or two. It wasn’t like Gale was seeking the goddess’s attention. 

He just wants to return the favor to Copper for all the help she was giving him.

“Excellent. Now repeat after me,” Gale steps closer and instructs Copper in clear and concise prose. “Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao.” 

A wary look appears on Copper’s face as her eyes quickly flicker to Gale’s mouth as he speaks the incantation. The hesitation quickly turns to determination, and Gale smiles at the sight before thinking ahead so he can blaze the trail to make it easier for Copper to magically follow. The concept of harmony bursts through his mind. The scent of rosewater, a sense that everything is fine in his world, and a sweet taste on the tongue. 

Copper’s eyes grow large and then Gale feels her whole body relax and he smirks, she must have felt the change in the air, as he leads her down this magical exploration. With only the smallest inaccuracy, Copper repeats the incantation. 

“Very good.” Gale praises, looking fondly at the woman. “Now I want you to picture in your mind the concept of harmony. As true as you can.” 

Without a second thought, Copper closes her eyes in prayer. 

Magically connected to the monk, Gale is greeted with a sense of nothingness.

This well of nullity lasted for several seconds and just as Gale was starting to feel concerned for Copper’s mental well-being, small sensations began to flutter at his chest and spark with life. The feeling radiates from his core outwards towards his limbs. 

Each small spark, crackles and comforts his sore muscles like he is made of a warm, gentle fire. However, the sensation doesn’t stop at his body's boundaries. The warm comforting feeling expands outwards connecting him to each blade of grass, the earth beneath his feet, and all the little life that surrounds him. 

Without realizing he is holding his breath, Gale lets out a gasp and greedily sucks in some air deep into his lungs and within that second he becomes one with the universe.

Gale’s body feels larger, stronger, and calmer than it could alone.

He is one with his surroundings and he is unable to figure out if this was the Weave or Copper’s doing…but the thought gets wiped away as quickly as it came and he settles into the pleasant feeling. 

He smiles over to his companion just as she slowly opens her grey eyes and smiles back. Their souls are connected and he was not expecting this kind of reaction when he offered a small magic lesson.

The longer Gale stares, the more he realizes, how deep and reflective Copper’s eyes are. It’s addicting staring into those eyes and feeling this connected to somebody. This warm, safe, and whole. 

“I was missing this my whole life.” Gale briefly thinks as a pull to kiss, to meld into the person next to him floods his body. 

But before he can act on that impulse to kiss Copper, Gale senses her. Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries, Gale’s goddess herself, came to investigate the pleasant hum that was vibrating through her Weave. 

The wind gets knocked out of him, sensing Mystra nearby and in that second of distraction, Gale is mentally surprised by a pleasant image of Copper kissing him. Tender at first that soon turns passionate.

Gale turns away from the magical presence of the Goddess of Magic and tries to focus his eyes on the person before him. Copper is looking at him with a hooded expression reflecting the desire that they felt as she leans in for something they both were drawn to do. 

Embarrassment boils and runs over, followed by hesitation, and exhilaration. But no, Gale can’t do this now. Can't kiss Copper now. Not with Mystra so close…not with her watching. 

However, Copper doesn’t recognize the sensation of the goddess’s presence as Gale does. So the monk doesn't know the turmoil with Mystra is happening and her eager face soon drops to disappointment at Gale’s hesitation to kiss her. 

The magic quickly evaporates like a droplet of water hitting a hot stone and Mystra disappears just as quickly now that the Weave has come undone. 

Copper looks shy and rejected, standing in front of Gale. It feels like she might sprint away any second now. But Gale isn't ready to address the goddess in the room and the folly that brought him here so he quickly turns to another subject matter, embarrassment coloring his voice and actions.

“Well… that was an exhilarating picture!” He claps his hands and rubs them together as he shifts from heel to toe. “I wasn't expecting it but it was very welcomed nonetheless.”

Copper gives him a questioning look and the wizard feels her withdraw from him. “Really?” Copper says hesitantly. “I feel like I completely misread this situation.”

“Noo, no you did not!” Gale quickly corrects. “You were- we both were- umm, feeling the same in that moment. It's just a very complicated situation on my part.”

Copper frowns and her eyes lose her usual sparkle for the man. “You have somebody else?” she whispers, connecting the dots right away.

“Yes.” The word comes out without Gale’s permission. Hurt floods Copper's grey eyes and before Gale can explain further she quickly turns to run away back to the party, away from him and the hurt he caused.

“Wait, please!” Gale shouts in frustration, grabbing Copper's hand and pulling her back to him. “Don't go. I couldn't stand you being sad on my account.” 

“I’ve been acting a fool with a man who's already taken. I do not wish to keep up this charade.” Copper hisses out, refusing to look at Gale out of embarrassment.

“It's no charade,” Gale murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Copper's warm skin, already missing his connection with her. He feels her tense up but he can't find it inside himself to let go. “It's just my…Goddess.”

“You told me you were an ex-Chosen of Mystra before.” Copper says heatedly.  “I didn't pry into why. But I don't understand how your goddess affects what we have. Why does it make you hesitant to…be with me?”

Copper has proven to be strong and dependable yet in this second she seems tired and barely keeping her pieces together through iron will alone.

Gale feels faint, like all his blood disappeared from his body. Still holding Copper’s hand, refusing to let her run. Gale sits down and hides his face with his free hand. 

“Tell her the truth, you coward! She deserves to know the truth after everything you put her through. She barely knows you and doesn’t deserve this treatment. And once you do explain the whole sordid affair you better prepare to let her go. It's the best for her and you. Save each other the heartache.”

Gale mentally berates himself. Going through hundreds of explanations in his head on what to say to the monk but each one lands on him being a worthless ignoramus, a disgrace of a wizard.

“Gale?” Copper gently questions, bringing the man out of his reprimanding thoughts. She doesn't say anything else, letting her original words stand for themselves. But at least he’s not feeling her actively trying to pull away from him.

Gale drops her hand and claps his together, steeling himself for the next few minutes.

“As you know, I am what one might call a wizard prodigy. Such was my skill that it earned me the attention of the mother of magic herself.” He sighs and continues “Starting at a young age, Mystra revealed herself to me and she became my teacher. In time, she became my muse, and later my lover.”

Gale senses Copper becoming very still next to his side. “You had your goddess as a lover?”

“Oh yes,” Gale says, feeling a flicker of burned-out pride at his words. “We enjoyed each other’s company- body, mind, and soul. But even so, I desired more… You see, no matter how powerful a wizard we mortals can become, we never scratch more than the surface of the Weave. Mystra keeps us in check.” 

Copper lets out a huff at that statement and Gale feels encouraged to go on. 

“There are boundaries she doesn’t let us cross. Yet each time I was with her, I stood on the precipice, gazing into the wonders that lay beyond. Wanting more than what I currently possessed and knowing she could give it to me. If only…”

“She should have known better to show you such a thing.” Copper mutters, appearing agitated.  “Enlightenment is something that is earned through years of work to understand our minds. Cause we mortals truly only have barriers in our minds. We must slowly learn to overcome them. If we are shown the truth beyond our understanding at that moment, then those benevolent barriers become cages.” 

“Yes, you are right on that.” Gale turns to her in shock, not expecting this woman to understand him so easily. “I learned there were things beyond my understanding. I sought to be free of my cage. I tried to convince Mystra. I pouted, I pleaded, and I swore my ambition was only to serve her better. But she only smiled and wanted me to be content- locked in my limitations.”

Gale’s hands begin to shake and his orb responds to his agitation, like it knew he was going to speak of it next. 

“I…I thought if I showed her I was better than all the other magicians, all of her other Chosen, then she would unlock my cage and allow me beyond her veil. I sought after a piece of Weave lost to her during the Spellpague. I thought if I returned this lost part of herself to Mystra she would finely deem me worthy to be her full-time companion in all the ways that truly counted, in both mind, body, and soul.”

Copper chuckles drily and shakes her head. “I guess you ruled out flowers and chocolates to woo your woman.” 

“You know me. My gestures can never be grand enough.” Gale jokes, his heart feeling a little better from the lighthearted teasing. “I was certain this deed of raw power draped in romance would convince Mystra to take me by the hand and welcome me into her hitherto forbidden domains. But I was mistaken…”

“Let me guess, this is where the orb comes in?” Copper asks.

“You are correct.” Gale sighs and reaches forward for Copper’s hand. She jerks back slightly from the sudden touch but allows the man to grasp her hand. “Here, place your hand over my heart. You’ve done it before but now know the truth.”

Copper’s strong fingers rest, in the cradle of his collarbone and chest, over his damaged heart. The warmth from her skin spreads instantly but Gale doesn’t dwell on the sensation as he lets his guard down, letting their tadpoles mentally connect. 

The memory is agonizing and Copper is right alongside him for the ride. Images of dark hallways. A book, bound, then suddenly opens. Inside there are no pages, only a swirling mass of blackest Weave that pounces. Tearing into his flesh, to settle hungrily in his chest. Slurping up all his magical energy, discontented with the feast that lay before it.

“Gale!” Copper says worry in her voice as she grits her teeth at the memory of the magical attack.

“As you can see, I recovered the lost piece of Weave, sealed within a Netherse tome.” Anger grows in Gale's voice. “But once I opened that cover, I was cursed with this blight and Mystra dismissed me as her Chosen. She turned her back towards me. Unhappy with my mild rebellion to win her love.” 

“She refused to help you? After everything you did for her?”

“Mystra is a goddess and oftentimes fickle. Even when I loved her with all my heart,” Gale says discouragedly. “I disobeyed her and was punished for it.”

“Gale that is not fair!” Copper says out loud what the man hides in his heart.

“You serve a god! Don’t you expect to be punished for disobeying him?” Gale argues back, still faithful to Mystra’s image. 

“I serve a good god!” Copper asserts, her eyes blazing with pride. “A nice god that understands our human struggles. Ilmater would alleviate any suffering, and never punish his followers for choosing to love, no matter how foolhardy the journey. Has Mystra fallen so far to forget what it’s like to be human?”

“You know Mystra was a human once?” Gale says with curiosity.

“You aren’t the only wizard I’ve made acquaintance with, Gale.” Copper reprimands with a small huff. “Your human folly shouldn’t condemn you to suffering when Mystra could easily take that blighted piece of Weave away from you. You shouldn’t suffer from loving and trying to please her. No harm was done except onto you.”

“I wish Mystra saw it that way.” Gale sighs dejectedly. “But I wronged her. Now I am condemned to take care of this orb until it kills me. And I forbid taking you or anybody else down that path with me.”

“Is that why you hesitated to kiss me before.” Copper says frankly, her earlier embarrassment about the topic gone.

“Yes, in part,” Gale answers without mentioning that Mystra was present for that almost kiss and he doesn’t yet know how to sort out his complicated feelings for his goddess. “I feel drawn to you but I am not worthwhile for you to pursue. Especially now with this blasted thing in my chest. I feel any sort of “excitement” might trigger an explosion.” 

“Gale…” Copper pleads, taking a step closer to him but stopping short of touching him. “I just want to enjoy your company in any way you can give me. I’m not asking for much. I just want to continue walking by your side until this journey is done.”

“If we are only walking you might get bored,” Gale says as a mischievous glint appears in his eyes as he takes her waiting hand. Caressing the skin. “I might have to fill the hours with my scholarly expertise. A lecture perhaps or a debate on the merits of the Weave over Ki?”

“The horror.” Copper jokes, shaking her head as a playful smile emerges. 

“But in all honesty. I’m glad to know you enjoy my company so much.” Gale brings her hand up to his lips for a quick peck. “But I’ll loathe to waste your time tonight. There’s a party to be had. Go, indulge in the frivolities-they’re good for the heart. And mine would be all the lighter, to see you enjoying yourself.”

“What about you?” Copper asks, confusion on her face as Gale turns the conversation around. “Aren’t you joining me?”

“I’m awfully tired.” Gale lies. “I think I’m going to head to bed. But not before I take you to enjoy the food table.” He grips Copper by the shoulders and playful steers her back to camp. “I don’t know where Wither’s conjured up all that food and wine but it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Disappointment flashes in her eyes but she quickly hides it as Gale leads her along.

---

The next chapter will be the last for Part One!

[miochimochi]

The Self as a Whole: Ecological Nativism

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Just a short piece on position on gardening that I've been growing more and more in favor of. Enjoy the read if you wanna.

When I first started thinking about the idea, I looked up what I thought would be the most easily understood word: nativism. Unfortunately, I found the term already taken within the political space to mean that a native people are to be put first. But terms have been used in many contexts before to mean many different things, and native gardening is a thing, so why not call an ecological position in favor of native gardening nativism? So, that's what I'm going with. When speaking ecology, nativism is a position that one should cultivate the native plants of a region rather than introducing or propagating non-native species. So whenever I mention nativism in this piece, just understand that this is what I'm talking about. If there's another word for this that I simply couldn't find, let me know.

There are two reasons why I put my support behind nativism. The first has to do with effort. I'll admit, I'm rather lazy. When it comes to native plants, that's okay. They're already acclimated to the environment they're being planted in. I'm in the Pacific Northwest. If I plant a raspberry bush here and then mostly ignore it, it will do well. They thrive in oceanic climates and the low nutrient soil of temperate rainforests. The benefit of putting in minimal effort is obvious: I have more time on my hands than if I went for a plant needing a lot of attention and care every day of every year just to watch it die in the winter. The work needed will be to establish it and then to harvest it once it's set to go. Behind my house is a large patch of salal which I can pick each year to make delicious jam, wine, and tea or simply just eat as is. This is the effort benefit of nativism.

The second reason is environmental. When a new species is introduced to a region, there are various effects it can have. The benign effect is that it cannot survive without intervention and thus dies out in the wild. An example of this would be growing a cactus from Mexico in Siberia. The minor effect is that it integrates into the ecosystem, allowing for the environment to change in response but not in major ways. Dandelions are a great example of this, finding ways to grow everywhere without being destructive to the environment. The major effect is that it changes the ecological landscape in drastic ways. An example of this is a vine called kudzu which did well in its native environment without disruption, but when it was introduced to the southern US, the conditions were perfect to eventually name it "the plant that ate the south". A native plant already has an ecosystem adapted to its presence while other environments are not. To introduce it to a new environment can spell disaster. This is the environmental benefit of nativism.

Between these two reasons, the benefits of nativism are clear. You work less when the plants are native. You get plants more acclimated to their environment and thus do better. You promote the protection of the native environment. They're low risk with high reward and thus valuable to personal survival and trade. As a market anarchist, that part makes it that much more valuable to me. Does this mean I'm entirely against growing non-native plants? Not at all, but they should be a lot more controlled, such as using a well sealed planter box for bamboo. But there's nothing better, easier, and more environmental, than growing native.

[ackermom]

an excerpt from the post-canon christie-esque jearmin buddy cop murder mystery i'm never going to finish

"The great Battle of Heaven and Earth," Mr. Jordan booms in admiration. He braces his knife and fork, raising an inquisitive eyebrow as he chuckles. "Now, there is a story that ought to be told!"

Forks scrape and still against plates, a silence falling over the room. The whole dining table seems to falter, from the Eldians at their uneasy places to the rest of the diplomats, avoiding each other's eyes in the sudden wariness that surrounds them. Even the steward blanches. He excuses himself without a word, disappearing with the water jug through a side door. Only the priest seems unperturbed, as he always is, his knife and fork still steadily working across his plate. Yet in the scraping, stifling silence, it takes every hesitant gaze glancing down the table for Armin to realize they are waiting for him to respond.

"Oh," is all he can say. The taste of the silverware seems to stick in his mouth. He swallows. "Well, it is a story we have all heard many times over, I'm sure."

"Surely you've had your fill from the newspapers," Jean says on his right. All eyes flicker to him instead, and he clears his throat, making a show of reaching for the wine and offering it to those down the table. Armin has never felt so grateful for an intervention. 

Jem Jordan, however, remains unmoved, and he huffs, or laughs, letting out a coarse breath that heaves his shoulders. "I've read the newspapers, yes, my boy. But it is quite another thing to have the heroes who saved the world sitting around my dinner table, isn't it?"

Someone scoffs. Mr. Jordan's eyes flicker down the length of the table, his smile somewhat less syrupy sweet than before. My table, Armin thinks, meeting Jean's gaze; he supposes he would be amused, if everyone wasn't so on edge, how easily it is to read Jean's annoyance with the tycoon in the palpable frown that's curling across his face. The others heard the same remark, and Armin can see it on their faces too— this table, nor this ship, does not belong to anyone other than the Azumabitos, though on Armin's other side, Mr. Oyama is smiling with everlasting politleness as if he had not heard the misstep. Further down the other end, Miss Hermann turns from the table to clear her throat, her eyes never meeting another's. It is Mato beside her who speaks, letting out a huff as his knife and fork clatter to the table. 

"I'm sorry," he interjects, his impatient tone making it clear that he is less offering an apology than embarking on a manifesto. He glances around at the rest of them, his brow working itself into keen frustration. "But that name is grating, isn't it? The Battle of Heaven and Earth. Someone says that, and we're just supposed to worship at their feet? The whole business is rotten if you ask me."

"Hear, hear," Pieck mutters, so low under her breath that only those nearby hear it. Beside her, Annie has returned to her food with diligence, and she eats steadily, carrying on as if she is unaware of the argument about to erupt. More likely, she's just bored, having heard it all and more before. Reiner, on the other hand, has hardly touched his plate, and he stares blankly at the table, as if each swell and sway of the ship back-and-forth in the water is all that he can grasp right now.

"Rest assured, the name had nothing to do with us," Armin finally manages to say.

Mato's intense gaze jumps to him. For a moment, the brooding look is so familiar it sends Armin into silence again. He swallows back the lump in his throat and loosens his white-knuckled grip on his wine glass.

"The people who were there that day spoke of what they saw," he says. "It would not be right for me to deny their experience."

Mato stares. "I see."

"I thought you, of all people, would appreciate a great show of heroism," Mr. Jordan exclaims. His knife and fork saw readily through a piece of meat. "Now come to find out, you are a cynic through and through, Mr. Rosario. Those who saved our world from certain despair have no doubt earned the right to tell their tales— and the right to boast about it, if you ask me."

"I didn't say it wasn't well-earned," Mato says curtly. He pauses a moment before his hands return hesitantly to his fork. "Believe it or not, I am glad the world is still here. But there are some of us who would prefer to hear a less sensational version of the truth."

Mr. Jordan mutters something Armin can't hear from the other end of the table— but it does not escape Mato.

"I will not be accused of being a denier!" he shoots back at once, his utensils clattering to the table. "I know all too well what the Rumbling did, and what else it could have done if it hadn't been stopped. I'm only saying—"

"Oh, come now, must we use such terms?" Even Mr. Jordan sits back from his plate, a disgruntled frown pursing beneath his mustache, though he does not once glance in Mato's direction. It is beneath him, Armin thinks, to consort with revolutionaries, even to look at them. No wonder he is on the far side of the table. "This may yet be a polite dinner."

Miss Hermann looks up for the first time, her fork tenderly clinking on her plate. It seems few of them can stomach both the conversation and the food. She glances back down to her plate when she catches Armin looking at her, but her gaze widens and raises with a start when Mato's chair peals back from the table, bumping into hers.

"You wish to speak of great battles, but you choose false names," Mato exclaims coldly. "'The Great Event', is that what you would call it? Such simple words allow you to hide beneath the ugly truth of the devastation."

He towers over where Mr. Jordan sits. Between them remains only the priest and the empty seat for the princess. Armin feels Jean tense, shifting forward in his chair as if to spring into action. These dinner knives are not sharp enough to hurt, should one fling them across the table. But held at close rang in the fist of an angry young man who has lost much of his homeland— Armin does not know what they would could do to stop him.

"That is even worse than speaking of heaven and earth," Mato spits. "What would a man like you know about how the rest of us live?"

"Now, look here, I should say that those who were there have the right to speak their minds. And as for my own experience, you cross the ling, young man—"

"To speak of the heavens and the earth is more apt than our mortal souls might know."

It is Father Emir who speaks, his pleasant and placid voice washing through the argument like a river over rocks. He does not look up at the men beside him, nor at the rest of them. His gaze remains on his plate, his fork moving purposefully in his aged trembling hands.

"For it is a constant battle to understand the wicked nature of this world," he continues, "and we must struggle with the ones from beyond to know the truth they would impart on us. Heaven and earth are only two mirrored planes on which we see our true selves."

He pops a fork of peas into his mouth and looks up with a plain smile. His gaze lands directly on Armin.

"You speak of truth," Mato says a moment later, his brow furrowed as he rounds on the priest. "Yet not one of us know your purpose on this ship. I recall that the delegation agreed not to include a religious envoy. My nation's participation in the peace accords hinged on this decision. If we are to be baited and switched throughout these proceedings—"

"Gentlemen, please!"

Mr. Oyama's nervous, lilting voice finally breaks through the rising argument. Armin had watched him from the corner of his eye, every second closer to standing from his seat. It is only now that he leaps up, his wine glass in one hand, the other outstretched as he shares his most amiable smile around the dining room.

"Each one of us has a purpose to serve on this voyage," he says. "Let us try to enjoy one another's company, and the journey around the coast. There are many days ahead of us before we reach Paradis Island."

His presence seems to remind the diplomats of their mission, and the tension in the room softens with every word he says. Soon, they have all turned back to their plates, the dinner continuing in silence. Armin takes a gulp of wine. Connie dives back into his meal, seemingly grateful for the end of the diversion, while Annie scrapes the last few peas from her plate, leaving it spotlessly empty. Jean lets out his breath. Reiner looks yet worse. On the other end of the table, Mr. Jordan has resumed sawing into his meat, while Mato stabs his potatoes in silence. The priest, between them, finishes eating, stands with his plate, and shuffles out of the dining room without so much as a word— only a faraway look in his eyes and a gentle smile on his wisened face.

Armin catches Miss Hermann's eyes again. This time, she's the one looking at him, watching as he observes the others around the table. He raises his wine glass an inch, nodding to her, and a flicker of recognition flashes in her eyes, though she does not smile before she looks away. He thinks she understands— even in these brave new times, Eldians must stick together.

Jem Jordan coughs, huffs, and clears his throat as he clears his plate and sets aside his utensils. He reaches for his wine glass, swallowing, and nods at Armin from the other end of the table. "But have you considered writing a book?"

[carmenized-onions]

First of all, happy (late) birthday! Wishing you health, wealth, and many more years 🎂

Second of all, I cried lol

I loved how you jumped between the aftermath of what happened on Friday and seeing the development of Chip’s relationship with everyone at The Beef. It’s giving Season 3, Ep 1 vibes with all the flashbacks and that was my favorite episode of the season, so yay ✨

It was sooo cool to see how you used the original scene where Mikey shows Tina the picture that Carmy sends him from Copenhagen and seeing how Chip would fit in that moment AND the confrontation between Carmy and David

“I just-I just made the-The only fuckin’ good thing in my life leave…” P A I N

Also, Carmen not being able to confidently say that he wouldn’t have taken the bait of giving the Exec Chip’s number…oof

You know what? Chip is 10000% correct about the whole Christmas dinner shitshow, like why didn’t anyone defend Mikey? Everyone kept telling him not to throw the fork, not to engage, but Lee started it! I think the only person who told Lee to shut the fuck up was Uncle Jimmy but it was a half-hearted effort at best

Seeing the moment when Mikey calls her Chip, after learning about the weight of being nicknamed Jack…and then the line “He will never realize that you consider the exchange equal”…yeah my heart can’t take this

WAIT, Chip started doing research on wine pairings to impress Syd?! oh this makes them growing apart for a few years even more painful...it should’ve been them all along bro like who tf is Carmen? Don’t know him.

I appreciate the “that’s what she said” joke thrown in there 🫶🏼

“‘I’m not gonna forget you love me, Chip.’ and neither of you know this is a lie, yet.” and now I’m sad again

The entire exchange between Carmy and Richie was so heartbreaking, especially when Richie hits him with “if that’s what your love is, I don’t want it and I don’t want it for Chip, either” like DAMN

“…he might as well tear his hair out because there’s no reason for it anymore if you’re not in it.” oh my guy is going THROUGH IT

The freezer scene with Mikey…yeah that was rough. Like I never really thought about just how bad Mikey got. Obviously, bad enough to the point of taking his own life, but I never pictured the moments leading up to that. The pain of withdrawals, the feelings of shame that come with relapsing. The emotional toll that it takes on everyone who loves the person that is struggling with addiction, really going through the highs and the lows with them. And the parallels between the brothers, too! Carmy and Mikey having some of the lowest moments in their lives play out in the same freezer with Chip and Richie being there for both 💔 AND the foreshadowing of the door handle breaking off one day because of how hard Mikey was pulling on it…you’re a genius fr

“Do I look like a fucking milf, what the fuck is going on —“ Not Uncle Jimmy thinking they were having a kid lol

“I don’t want to choose between her and my career. If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” okay I think we’ve been focusing on the wrong love interest for Chip. I see the vision now, and Carmy’s not in it

The scene with Eva was so cute and then I get hit with “You’re gonna break your neck Mike. I don’t want to plan your funeral.” EVIL

“You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late.” “You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t.” Both of these stabbed me in the chest and I haven’t recovered, just fyi

Mikey wanting, needing Chip to promise him that she’ll talk to Carmy when he comes back because he knows she’s good for his soul…😔 (wait I think you said to remind you about Mikey and fire a few chapters back when I said he was playing matchmaker? I’m seated)

I love that despite still being upset with Carmen for being a dick to Chip, Richie and Syd decide to help him help himself because he’s CLEARLY in desperate need of an intervention

“He’s gonna be your man, and he’s going to fucking earn that title. He’s going to prove it.” When I tell you I’m EXCITED. Rooting for him ✨

okay being completely honest, the last portion of this chapter was really moving. It was so fucking sad to read their last phone call. But what actually made me cry was “He said he would come home and you believed him because he never lied to you before.” She set his things on a tray because he said he would come home. She fell asleep on the couch, waiting up for him because he said he would come home. Yeah. That totally didn’t break me just a little 🥲

This really has been your best chapter so far, 10/10 💜

Thank you for the birthday wishes! Sorry for the crying! But also maybe you’re welcome? Also I’m begging everyone to read this ask/answer because this is like. My director’s commentary of this chapter and i want you to play the fucking dvd extras that is this series. please.

I had Mikey’s scenes planned for so long, and I was planning on putting them all like, back to back with each other, travelling through time. And then S3EP01 came out and i was like oohhhh i could be a little spicy?? I could be a little timey wimey weird? Had a lot of fun that way. 

S3 really gifted me with those two scenes to work with, because I HAD planned something similar with Mikey and Chip to the Tina and Mikey scene, but the way they did it in the show was SO much better i had to yoink it. AND they let me know exactly how Carmen would react one on one with fucking david so that’s. Ah. the timing was genuinely insane of S3 coming out pretty soon after Just Dropped, ,,, in s y n c

I shant say anything about the number because as the end of the chapter puts it, they told each other everything I wrote down. So Chips gonna have some…… thoughts about all that. 

Chip’s whole dialogue about the Christmas Dinner was my own therapy. I was getting so fucking hyphy watching that scene. I dunno man. I’ve always stuck up for MY older brother when he gets thrown shit. WHY THE FUCK WAS IT ON MIKEY TO CALM DOWN?? HE’S NOT BEING ALL THAT UNREASONABLE?? BEAT HIS (uncle lee’s) ASS!!!!!!!!!! 

The big like, through line I took from Mikey’s character is that he feels as though he is made to give to other people, and so when Chip is the one giving back to HIM he’s like. Oh I guess I’m not the giver here. I’m simply taking. And that’s how relationships work. Someone always has to lose. And simply never realizes that there can be relationships where the burden is fucking shared. 

…berzatto men share a lot of the same brain chemicals. 

Everyone go scroll and look for the ‘who folded’ poll to vote for syd (or whoever). I think you only have a couple hours left. Or go to the #sillylittlepoll tag. GO VOTE!! It’s really quite cute though. It’s referenced in Doing Too Much that they played a game of matching wines to her plates, but it was never confirmed until now that Chip literally deliberately started doing that just for Syd. 

I need somewhere to rant so much about Richie in this chapter, like. Am I gonna do it here? I think I’m gonna do it here. This is the director’s commentary part. EVERYONE LISTEN TO ME !!! EVERYONE SHUT UP!!

This whole chapter was so fun to write, because each scene is very weirdly mirrored and sewn together with each other, and that very much also coincides with Richie being in BOTH sequences. Let’s just go scene for scene. 

What are you amish? To 0ERR. This one is very simple, the line ends with In your life/Out of his life. Simple. Cute. Whatever. There’s also the aspect that Mikey/Richie very deliberately interrupt Chip’s mental fatigue and then no one talks to Carmen and let’s him spiral… Interesting. 

Then there’s 0ERR to fixing the coffee machine. Carmen says he can do it all by himself, that he’s good by himself. And he tries to think of Chip but she’s not here and it’s not working. And then we go to coffee. Where Chip admits that she’s not good by herself and she hasn’t been for a while, and she needs The Beef. And then she spirals and Mikey is there. And he is able to calm her down. Without even asking if she was freaking. 

Then coffee to handing off the dessert. Again, Carmen reminisces about his old life, he didn’t know any of his coworkers because they didn’t matter. He knows the faces of everyone here but doesn’t actually know them. Very much so unlike Chip. 

Dessert to Fixing the Chair. This one’s not a big flip, but—

Fixing the Chair to the DAVID TALK is huge. Because it’s very clear, Chip used to be a lot more guarded and insecure. She still is. But worse then. And it was thanks to her Guiding Light Mikey. And he supported her, and believed in her. Believed in his brother too, but he never said it. And then with David, David says Carmen is excellent but it’s with such vitriol. Carmen doesn’t get the support, and the praise he does get doesn’t feel good. Because there’s really only a few people he actually wants it from. 

You’re Needed Asshole to You’re Needed, Cousin. Not much to say more there. Just fun. 

But then. There’s Narcan to I would be so lucky. Richie saw all that shit. Richie saw how much of a fucking mom friend and overly prepared Chip always is. OF COURSE he’d be so lucky to have her because he IS so lucky to have her. She’s a LITERAL LIFESAVER. And to see fucking CARMEN? MAKE HER FEEL LIKE IT WAS HER FAULT??? OHHHHHHFHHFHF. …. I should’ve made him throw fucking punches i’m mad all over again. 

24 Hours Sober to Fighting in the Window, not much to say there. Their contrasts of talking one on one is enough, howeevverrr

This is where I have so much to say about Rich. Because his ‘stop being you’ means so much to me. BECAUSE he’s saying it with so much sincere love. Like he really is. Because you can see in the NEXT SCENE, with the withdrawals, he WATCHED his best friend have to very literally stop being him, and TRY to grow. Fucking RICHIE had to stop being him, he had to become the guy, he had to stage, he had to start wearing suits. He had to fucking GROW! And Richie KNOWS how fucked Carmen’s brain is. And that this kid is torturing himself in his head. The best solution for Carmen, to Richie? He needs to stop being him. 

Which is why he was so fucking pokey with ‘have you done the work?’ because Mikey had to, Richie had to, even Chip had to do work. He doesn’t see that work in Carmen! He gives up on himself because he doesn’t think he’s worth the work and it PISSES RICHIE THE FUCK OFF!!

There’s also the aspect that Richie literally screams back at Mikey while he’s going through it in the freezer, and Chip has to tell him to not be mean. But Chip’s not there in Carmen’s moments anymore! So no ones there to pull him back!

The deal scene vs the bear flickering scene isn’t much besides the burn the money, but I do love that Sydney asks ‘can you stay after close?’ and that being the exact same thing Carmen said to David. The difference is Carmen actually did stay to hear the critique. Proud of him. 

I’ll leave it there, because this is so much to process. But thank you for giving me a place to yap about all that. 

Anyways, back to the things YOU wrote because there’s still much to discuss. The freezer scene with Mikey was one I had set up since the beginning, and it really was so crushing in execution. There’s so much love in it, with all three of them being there— And it really just makes the introduction scene from chapter one so much more painful because it felt so familiar to both of them, just without their original Bear.

“I don’t want to choose between her and my career. If that’s what getting a star takes, I don’t want it.” okay I think we’ve been focusing on the wrong love interest for Chip. I see the vision now, and Carmy’s not in it

My master plannnn,,,, i’ve pulled you all in,,,,

The scene with Eva was so cute and then I get hit with “You’re gonna break your neck Mike. I don’t want to plan your funeral.” EVIL “You will not realize he is trying to make things clean and square, until it is too late.” “You think Mikey has a future, still. Mikey knows he doesn’t.” Both of these stabbed me in the chest and I haven’t recovered, just fyi

Yeah i was fucked up for these i have to quote them back to you because i did get a little crazy. A little wild. 

MIKEY KNEWWWW, original CarmTony shipper before they even met frfr. Which, speaking of, as promised, the Mikey Fire thing. ALRIGHT. 

So in Just Dropped, as I said before, there were SO many different routes I was considering, but one of them that I didn’t mention before was that the oven that Chip fixed, once Carmen dropped the ‘you failed Mikey’-- Was going to full flame up. Like that one scene where Carm tried to light a cig and it almost lit his fucking hair on fire? That. 

I ditched this idea, inevitably, because it just felt too much like me fully going ‘yeah ghosts are fucking real’. And I wanted it to be more a choice for the reader whether or not they want to see that as a thing. So instead, there was the expo clock buzzing out for no reason— And if you choose to believe it, it might be Mikey trying to both scare Carmen out of fucking tweaking (painful back massage) and get Carmen to get Chip back out of the parking lot to fix it. Alas, it doesn’t work. But he tried. He also (if you choose to believe it) made the Bear’s logo buzz out. A design you technically helped make. That was just petty older brother shit. I like to think it coincided with Chip at home and the picture frame falling off her wall. 

I like this because it adds context to other random breaks. The toilet spraying water in Tony’s face when she started to think she was nothing, Carmen’s oven breaking when Syd was on the verge of losing it. I like to think the Guy is still the guy. Even dead. 

I’M GLAD THE LAST SCENE WAS MOVING!! The phone call was also one of those scenes that had a lot of different routes, and I’m glad I went with a lot more of a very simple almost sweet and like,,, pedestrian phone call? Like a normal day, almost. And it just makes the rest so much worse because YEAH SHE EXPECTED HIM TO COME OVER. HELL .

Thank you for your review, and thank you so much for reading it and thank you so much for reading THIS god i just spent like an hour yapping. If anyone read this please send me your thoughts on this director’s cut alone honestly just so i know someone read it and i am not yapping into the void THANK YOU LOVE YOU KISSES HOPE THE NEXT ONE IS ALSO GOOD HOPEFULLY

[waltwhitmansbeard]

my fair lady: chapter sixteen

read these first! always inspired by @romeoandjulietyouwish.

For a palace that is allegedly under strict watch, the Emerald Citadel is alarmingly easy to navigate through undetected at night. Vax leads Keyleth through the shadows, easily avoiding the eyes of wandering guards until they find themselves outside one of the two entrances to the wine cellar. Vax pulls Keyleth into a small side cupboard as they wait for the appointed meeting time, midnight exactly, unwilling to be the first to enter the cellar. In this small room, no more than a few feet a side, she is pressed torturously close to him, and within moments the entire cupboard smells of her. He thinks of the kiss he stole just last night, and thief that he is, all he wants to do now is steal another.

"When we are in there," he says, keeping his voice just at a whisper, "do not ever be out of arm's reach. I need to be able to put myself between you and a blade at all times, do you understand?"

She frowns, annoyed. "I'm the one who called this meeting, Vax. I hardly think an assassin would be waiting around for me to deliver myself to the chopping block."

"Speaking from experience, an assassin would never let an opportunity as golden as the one you're presenting slip out of his grasp." He looks at her pointedly. "Do you understand?"

She nods. "I promise."

"Good." This is madness, conspiring with an enemy prince under the cover of darkness, with no plan for support or intervention should things go awry. Vax had begged her to at least have Lord Percival just a few yards away, hidden out of sight, but Keyleth was adamant that such a precaution would not be worth the risk of scaring the Draconian prince away. He cannot imagine what is so important to discuss with him that she would fear his fleeing from the table, but she has also neglected to clue him in on exactly what it is they're up to here tonight.

(There is the notion, of course, that despite his best efforts he can't not consider. These two are, upon the successful signing of the peace accord, betrothed, and what woman wouldn't want to know more about her someday husband? He is to be a prince ruling beside her, and Keyleth, steadfast in her duty to her people, will want to know whom she is bringing home to Zephrah, whom she will have by her side as she shepherds her nation forward into a new era. And though his teeth ache and his ribs crack with base jealousy, he does hope, for her sake, that she learns to love this prince, that her days are not filled with the hollow yearning with which he will be cursed until his soul has been passed along to the gods. If tonight is to be the start of that love story, then he will stand by and watch the prologue unfold, even when his vulgar instincts spur him to free this dragonborn princeling from his mortal coil.)

The massive gold and marble clock that towers above the citadel's western entrance begins to chime, and Keyleth takes a deep breath. "Are you ready?"

No, but he nods all the same. After surreptitiously checking the corridor outside for wandering eyes, he leads them down into the wine cellar, where, descending the opposite stairs, they see a bronze dragonborn, well-armored with several intimidating weapons hanging from her belt, and just over her shoulder, a familiar red dragonborn, his small glasses pushed all the way up to his eyes and an eager smile on his face. "Princess Keyleth!" he exclaims, his voice loud and blustery.

The prince's guard winces and holds a hand up to halt their progression. "Have you come alone?" she asks, her voice a raspy whisper.

Vax nods. "You?"

"I am a man of my word!" the prince insists, pushing his way past his guard into the room. "And one who was both honored and intrigued by your invitation, princess." He bows so low his glasses nearly slip off of his face, and he must hurriedly press them back up his nose. "To what do I owe this rather unconventional night in your magnificent presence?"

Vax can feel Keyleth's entire body vibrate with discomfort. She stands just beside him, ramrod straight, and he can see in his peripheral vision the tight, polite smile she uses when she would rather be anywhere else. "Prince Tiberius, thank you so much for meeting me. I wanted to start by expressing my deep sorrow for the losses you and your nation suffered at the peace celebration, including the loss of your uncle."

The prince dips his head diplomatically. "Thank you, Your Highness. It has indeed been difficult, being so far from home when there is grieving to be done. But you would know; your people suffer greatly during the attack as well."

"We did, yes. We have that in common. Actually, I believe you and I have a lot in common these days."

"Oh?" The prince straightens the lapels of his coat, preening. "How so?"

"You and I have both been reduced to pawns in our fathers' war games. I can't imagine that is at all agreeable to a man of your...intellect and ability."

Vax's eyes narrow slightly. What is she getting at?

The prince deflates just a bit. "Well...my father is a great man, of course. An excellent monarch of Draconia."

"Of that I have no doubt," Keyleth says quickly, taking a reassuring step forward. Vax's fingers twitch, desperate to yank her back. "I admire my own father for being a dedicated and judicious ruler of our people. Still, no sovereign is infallible, and who knows that better than a sovereign's own child?" She asks the question with a note of humor in her voice, endearing and gentle.

"Well, yes, I suppose that's true." He shifts uncomfortably between his feet. "What are you getting at, Your Highness?"

"Just this: our fathers, along with their respective retinues of advisors, shored up in this citadel for weeks to hammer out the details of a peace treaty that, if we are to be honest—and can we be, here among friends?—does not serve either of our nations as best as it could. For example, I know that Draconia has been struggling with maintaining its regular shipments of worked stone for your grand construction projects, and our city of Terrah has storehouses of such stone sitting untouched. Yet the treaty as negotiated does not seek to rectify this issue."

The prince scratches his chin, intrigued. "Yes, I noted this myself...though I do believe my father knows what he's doing when it comes to securing the best future for Draconia."

"And I know that Draconia is famed for its exceptional arcane instruction, and I believe it is a crime for the Ashari to let the opportunity to learn the control of such magics pass us by."

"Ah yes..." The prince begins to pace from one side of the wine cellar to the other, hands clasped behind his back. "On this issue...well, I suppose now is as good a time as any to bring up the...display you put on during the attack the other night."

Keyleth freezes, and Vax's fingers once again flex, this time toward one of the daggers on his belt. He stays his hand only by the warning flash in the bronze dragonborn's eyes. "I beg your pardon?" Keyleth asks flatly.

"I know that Draconia is...unusual in this regard, but we are a nation that favors the use of the arcane. We find the divine a bit..." He waves a dismissive hand. "...esoteric." He pauses his pacing to look at her. "What magic do you wield, princess?"

Keyleth's face blooms in surprise. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, clearly at a loss for words, and Vax doesn't know how to help her. Finally she says, "My magic is something...different, though I have been informed that it bears a greater resemblance to the divine than to the arcane. Is this to be a problem, Prince Tiberius?"

"I suppose that depends on the direction of this conversation."

Vax sees it only because of the low light in the cellar, the small, ethereal flicker of flames in Keyleth's palm, which hangs by her side. She is seething, and he quickly steps forward to murmur into her ear, "Control your anger, before it controls you."

Keyleth takes a slow, deep breath, and after a few moments, the flames flicker out. She nods her thanks, and Vax steps back to his original place. Keyleth takes another breath, and then presses on. "This conversation is an opportunity for the two of us, who represent each the futures of our beloved nations, to direct those futures where our fathers could not. And I don't know about you, but I see a future in which I, a sovereign in the making, choose my own destiny, and the path of my own heart, rather than the path dictated in a piece of paper I had no hand in writing. I have to believe that one such as yourself, who values the pursuit of knowledge and all the curiosities life has to offer, would like that same privilege."

The prince resumes his pacing, thinking the proposition over, and Vax is in awe. Keyleth really called him here in the middle of the night to rework the sovereign's carefully constructed peace accord. This is madness, and it will surely send shockwaves through both nations should a new treaty be written behind the backs of their respective rulers. He has no idea how she plans to get both monarchs to agree to an entirely new peace deal, one which they had no hand in guiding, but he is dazed by her audacity and determination. This is the sovereign that the Ashari deserve, and he cannot wait for the day to come when the nation looks to her with the same reverence that he does.

After a few minutes of silent deliberation, the prince comes to a standstill and turns to face Keyleth. "Well, I suppose that at the very least, we ought to try it out. See if we can't cook up something better than our fathers did. Who knows? Maybe we'll be able to direct the fates of our nations."

Keyleth is beaming, and she pulls from the pocket of her skirts a rolled-up scroll, her copy of the extant peace treaty. "Come. Let us go over our starting position, then we can begin making our improvements."

.

All told, they spend two and a half hours on the floor of the wine cellar, the many pages of the peace treaty spread out before them and a pen apiece, marking up the document with their own suggested amendments. The prince notes his nation's need for more regular diplomatic visits with neighboring states, and Keyleth reduces the promised amount of saltwater fish exports to more manageable levels for Vesrah to fulfill. And course, the clause demanding that the two of them be wed is struck out entirely.

At the end of their discussion, which, despite Prince Tiberius's rather grating disposition, is productive and even, at times, fun, Keyleth rerolls the papers, stating, "I'll have a copy of this drafted and sent to you as early as I can. Look over it, ensure that everything is to your liking, and then wait for my signal before approaching your father with the proposal."

Prince Tiberius frowns. "Why wait? Should we not attempt to have this signed as soon as possible?"

"Currently, each king suspects the other of being behind the slaughter that killed your uncle and countless others. I...have my suspicions about a third party who might be behind the violence, but until I can prove both our nations' innocence, neither of our fathers will be interested in discussing peace. But when the time does come, should my suspicions be proven correct, I will provide you with the proof of the Ashari Nation's guiltlessness, and then it will be up to you to convince your father that our treaty is better for Draconia than the original."

"Me?" he sputters. "Ah, but you see, I—my father—this is—oh goodness."

"Tiberius." At the sound of his own name, he falls silent, stunned. "I don't pretend to know the intricacies of your court, nor of your family, but if you were able to sit on this cold floor with me and discuss a brighter future for your people, based only on your knowledge of and love for your nation, then I believe you can convince King Kruvanis of the value of our work here."

Somehow, Prince Tiberius flushes even redder than his scales would normally allow. "Well. That is...yes, I suppose I can do that."

"Thank you." Keyleth stands, smoothing out her skirts. "This has been a most productive evening. Do keep an eye out for our new treaty once I've had a copy made."

Prince Tiberius stands as well and bows low once again. "It has been an honor and a privilege, princess." After a small nod of respect toward Vax, he turns to leave, his bronze guard keeping an eye on the two of them until the prince is out of sight. When they're finally alone, Keyleth whips around to face Vax, breathless. "Wow."

"Keyleth!" He rushes over to her and scoops her up, her feet swinging behind her as he spins her around. "You are incredible!"

She laughs and steadies herself by holding her arms around his neck. "I cannot believe that worked!" When she's set down, she can feel the heat in her cheeks. He's so close to her, his face just a few inches from hers, and she has to remind herself of what they came here to accomplish, who she came here to be. "I have not felt this optimistic in ages."

"You ought to be so proud of yourself." His voice is warm, like honeyed tea. "I'm unspeakably proud of you." He pauses. "Do...you have a plan for getting your father on board with this?"

"One thing at a time." Which is her way of saying no, absolutely not, but she can only keep so many plates spinning at once. "Come, we need to return before Derrig does."

And though they both know he shouldn't, Vax takes her by the hand to lead her up and out of the wine cellar, his free hand on the hilt of one of his daggers as they press forward. There is no ambush waiting for them in the hall, and it takes only a few minutes of caution to retrace their steps back to Keyleth's chambers. Once in the hall, they find the door still mercifully unguarded.

"Thank the gods," she breathes. Vax checks the door for traps before pushing it open, ushering Keyleth inside. Once in the door, she skids to a halt, Vax bumping into her from behind.

"Keyleth?"

Waiting for her in the middle of the room, arms crossed and face set in a deep frown, is Derrig, clearly displeased. Percy is sitting on the settee in the middle of the room, leg bouncing nervously, and when Keyleth looks to him, stunned, he mouths, Sorry.

"Your Highness," Derrig says, his voice flat and cold. "I would like to request a word."