#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…

[notablenotions]

Letters from Sir Hans Capon-part 1

To Katherine, Maid of Threaded Mayhem

Katherine,

You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Spying for Jikta. I respect that. Loyalty is important. But answer me this: Why didn’t you stop him?

Henry stitched owls into my bedding. Owls wearing monocles. I woke up, terrified, thinking I’d been judged by feathered nobles.

I offer a deal: tell me what he’s planning next. I’ll give you coin, silks, even that pie you like.

Discretion rewarded,

Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Rattay, Victim of Monocled Owls

P.S. He’s now working on a rat wedding scene for my bed curtains. Katherine, I am not sleeping with rats watching me.

---

To Radzig Kobyla (get out of my house)

Sir Radzig,

The Rat Wedding Tapestry—your doing. I know it. He embroiders with your encouragement, your blasted thimble, and your “fatherly pride”.

He is mine—my guard, my companion—yet you lure him with stitches and tea. This ends. We duel—in dice, or drink, your choice.

Also, I want my house back don't you have an estate?

With escalating ire,

Sir Hans Capon, Nobleman at War, Betrayed by Silk and Paternal Whimsy

P.S. I found an entire chicken parliament stitched onto my left sock. None of them respect me. Not even the rooster.

---

To Jikta (scrawled with wine stains)

Jikta,

You knew. You planned this. Katherine betrayed me. She said “Sir Henry should be allowed peace” again. Peace?! He stitched a goose army siege on my sheets. Geese, Jikta. In formation.

I cannot rest. They march on me.

I demand surrender. Or wine. Or both.

—Hans

P.S. He embroiders Mutt as a knight commanding the geese. I have lost all authority.

---

To Father Godwin (desperate and rambling)

Godwin,

Come. Now. With a barrel. Henry’s embroidery has reached a new low.

He’s stitched a wine barrel with my face on it, labeled “Holy Spirits” , on a cloak I gifted to the Bishop of Sasau. The Bishop, Godwin!

I am excommunicated by cloth.

I await holy intervention. And drink. Mostly drink.

In torment and thread,

Sir Hans Capon, Embroidered Heretic, Cloaked in Shame

P.S. Today’s crime: a snail royal court. I am the jester. They’ve given me bells.

---

To Henry (note pinned to his sewing kit)

Henry,

You’ve gone too far. The cloak, the curtains, the socks—fine. But my sword belt now bears a parade of hedgehogs.

Hedgehogs, Henry. Waving banners. I cannot fight like this.

—Hans

P.S. There’s a tiny Radzig shaking his head disapprovingly at my groin. I cannot make love under judgment, Henry. REMOVE HIM. Or sleep elsewhere.

[writtenbysprout]

Fireworks | Aaron Hotchner x reader

word count: 2.3k+ pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!reader tags: mutual pinning, angst and lots and lots of fluff after

You sighed softly, watching JJ's hopeful expression as she practically bounced with excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious, but you couldn’t quite muster the same excitement for New Year’s Eve.

"Come on," JJ said as you tried to keep up with her brisk pace as she rushed toward the printer. "Even Hotch is joining."

She grinned, spinning around to face you with a knowing look. "If Hotch can have a little fun, then so can you."

You gave a small chuckle, shaking your head. "I know everyone’s going to be there. It's just… not really my scene."

"But you come to all our team celebrations! Halloween, Christmas—you’re always there."

"That’s different," you argued, keeping pace beside her. "Those are easy. This? New Year’s Eve? It’s... it’s not my holiday. I’ve never really been into the grandiose celebrations and the whole countdown thing."

JJ’s face softened, and she reached out to lightly nudge your shoulder. "But this year, it’s going to be low-key. Just dinner, wine, maybe a little champagne, and fireworks from my balcony. Nothing over the top."

You hesitated for a moment, conflicted. "I don’t know…"

"Come on," JJ said again, her voice gentle. "Think about it. Please?"

You stopped in front of her office, the printer beeping softly beside you both. You sighed and looked down for a moment before meeting her gaze. "Okay, I'tt htink about it."

The private jet hummed with the quiet buzz of conversation, the steady hum of the engines providing a rhythmic backdrop to the exhaustion that hung in the air. After the intense case they’d just wrapped up, everyone was ready for the upcoming New Year’s Eve party, but the tension of travel and long hours weighed heavy.

You sat by the window, watching the landscape pass by as the others—Derek, JJ, and Emily—milled around, catching up and joking. Hotch sat a little farther away, his face calm, though his posture remained sharp as usual.

Emily leaned in, her voice low but teasing. "Have you decided what to wear yet?"

Before you could respond, JJ gave her an elbow in the ribs. "Come on, Em. Back off a little."

The smile on Emily’s face remained, but her eyes held concern. "I just asked. No need to be defensive."

You sighed softly, leaning back in your seat. "I don’t know if I’m going."

Derek perked up, his expression shifting to confusion. "What? Why?"

"It’s just… not really my scene," you said softly. "Big parties, loud noises, countdowns—it’s not really my thing."

"You’re telling me you don’t want to come out with all of us?" JJ asked, genuinely surprised.

"I didn’t say that," you replied. "It’s just not something I enjoy. Honestly, I’d rather sit this one out. You guys deserve a break, and I don’t want to be the one dragging everyone down."

Derek frowned. "You won’t drag anyone down. We’ll lift you up if anything."

Before the conversation could continue, Hotch’s voice cut through the noise with its usual steady, firm tone. "Enough. Back off," he said, his gaze steady on the group. His tone left no room for argument.

The others fell silent, though you could feel their curiosity, still lingering. The warmth from Hotch’s concern was there, but they respected his decision to step in.

You gave a small nod in acknowledgment, taking a deep breath as you mouthed a 'Thanks' at Hotch.

After Hotch’s intervention, the ride back to the office was subdued. The jet was quiet, everyone visibly exhausted from the case, but the warmth of the team’s presence lingered in the air. Derek had tried to lift your spirits, and while his words were well-meaning, there was still a heaviness you couldn’t shake. Emily offered a sympathetic smile from her seat, while JJ and Rossi sat quietly, content with simply being there without pushing.

As the jet touched down, the tension began to ease slightly, but the unease remained. The drive back to the office was equally quiet, the city lights flashing past the windows in a blur. The conversation was minimal, the team too drained to maintain the usual banter. When you finally arrived, the office stood empty, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the faint sound of your own footsteps echoing softly on the tile floor.

The office was eerily quiet as you returned, the hum of the jet and the chatter of your team now distant memories. The faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the room. You walked toward your desk, your mind still processing the events of the case. Your fingers brushed over the surface as you absentmindedly picked up a few scattered papers, but your gaze kept drifting. It landed on the framed photo of your dad, his image calm and familiar in the corner, but still a haunting presence in moments like this.

Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the door open behind you until you caught a familiar presence. Slowly, you turned, and there he was—Aaron Hotchner. His usual composed expression softened just slightly when he saw you, the weight of his usual stern demeanor lightening, even if only slightly.

"Thanks, for having my back back there," you said quietly, breaking the silence first.

Hotch gave a small nod, his tone steady. "They never know when to stop."

"True," you agreed, offering a small smile. "But we still love them."

"Some more than others," he said with a faint smirk, his voice low enough so you couldn’t quite make out the last part.

"What was that?" you asked, arching an eyebrow.

He shifted slightly, his gaze meeting yours. "I said don’t show up just to please the others," he clarified, his voice softer now, the humor behind his words subdued.

You exhaled softly, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "Thanks. I was kinda feeling like I have to go."

"You shouldn’t," he said gently, his tone quiet but firm. "If you don’t want to go, or if you have someone else to spend your time with, then you should do that instead."

You hesitated, your fingers lingering on the edge of your desk. "I don’t know… it’s hard."

Hotch’s gaze softened even more, his expression warm but still composed. "Holidays are especially hard."

You nodded, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. "Yeah… you can say that again."

"But you’re not going to be all alone on New Year’s, are you?" he asked softly, his voice laced with subtle concern.

"I was kind of planning on it," you admitted quietly, looking down again, unable to meet his steady gaze.

He paused, as if carefully considering his next words. Then, he spoke softly, leaving the statement open-ended. "If you want company…"

The words hung in the air between you, a quiet offer that wasn’t forced or expected, but there nonetheless. You felt the warmth in his voice, the understanding, and it gave you a sense of relief.

"I might take you up on that," you said finally, meeting his eyes once more.

Hotch gave a small, approving nod, his gaze steady. "You don’t have to decide now."

The sight of Aaron Hotchner in your kitchen was one you never thought you’d witness. Over the years, you’d grown to know him as a man of discipline, authority, and unwavering professionalism. So the thought of him preparing a secret dinner for New Year’s Eve in nothing but his most lounge-worthy clothes, while you sipped on a glass of red wine seated on the kitchen island, laughing at his attempts at humor, seemed almost surreal.

If someone had told you, two years ago when you first joined the BAU, that your stoic boss would, one day, be cracking jokes while cooking, you would’ve laughed in disbelief. There was no way Hotch would ever let his guard down like this—not in front of anyone, let alone in such a relaxed setting.

Yet, here you were.

He had made a last-minute excuse to JJ, opting to keep you company instead.

The soft hum of The Beatles’ melodies filled the room as Aaron moved around the unfamiliar kitchen, his relaxed demeanor at odds with the precision he usually displayed in the field. He’d noticed your LP collection before and had quietly put on The Beatles album, allowing the gentle tunes to wash over the space.

You’d offered countless times to handle dinner, but tonight he insisted, claiming he wanted to try a new recipe—something he rarely had the chance to experiment with.

So you let him have the space, knowing how much he valued the moments where he could step away from the rigidity of his usual responsibilities. The dinner he prepared was unexpectedly perfect—flavors balanced, every dish meticulously crafted—and afterward, the two of you found yourselves sitting comfortably on the couch, lost in easy conversation.

As the evening wore on, the clock edged closer to midnight, and the weight of the holiday settled in your chest. You tried to push it aside, but the memory of past New Year’s celebrations with your dad crept up on you. The first year without him felt like a gaping absence, and despite Aaron’s presence, the sadness was overwhelming.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, your gaze falling back to the family portrait on the shelf—a snapshot of a moment frozen in time with your dad, the man who had always been your rock, your best friend, the one who had always watched fireworks with you.

Aaron returned from the bathroom, his eyes meeting yours. The lighthearted mood in the room shifted as he saw the tear sliding down your face.

"Hey," he said softly, concern clouding his usually composed expression. "Do you want a hug?"

You nod immediately, your breath catching in your throat as Aaron pulls you into his steady embrace. For a moment, the world seems to pause—everything fades away except for the comfort of his arms around you. The floodgates open, and the words pour out, each memory, each longing spilling into the quiet space between you.

"It’s the first year without him," you whisper, your voice shaky with emotion. "We always used to watch the fireworks together." A soft, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you remember the times you would sit on the roof of your childhood home, sneaking out through the window in your old bedroom to watch the sky light up with vibrant colors. "We’d sit there, just the two of us, watching the sky erupt into every color imaginable."

Aaron holds you tightly, his presence grounding. He doesn’t rush you, allowing the silence to stretch between you as you collect yourself. The weight of the moment is palpable, but his steady embrace offers a sense of peace that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"It’s not too late…"

You pull back slightly, frowning in confusion. "Too late for what?"

"To do the tradition," he says softly, his voice calm and reassuring.

You blink up at him, still trying to process his words. "What tradition?"

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his gaze steady and unyielding.

With my life, you want to say, but instead you hesitate for a second, your heart beating a little faster, but a warm smile spreads across your face. "Yeah."

Aaron gives a small nod, leading you gently towards your bedroom. Moments later, you emerge in a simple outfit, ready to follow his quiet guidance.

Together, you make your way to the rooftop of your building. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling in the distance, but up here, it’s quiet, private. There’s no one else in sight. The fireworks begin to burst in the sky, dazzling colors lighting up the night.

The city hums below, but the roof is still, just the two of you standing side by side as the world around you is illuminated in bursts of reds, blues, and golden hues.

You turn to Aaron, the warmth of the moment filling the air between you. He watches you closely, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Your breath hitches as a tear slips down your cheek, and without thinking, you press your lips softly against his shoulder in a wordless thank you.

Aaron doesn’t flinch, simply holds you a little tighter.

"Any other traditions?" he asks softly, breaking the quiet that surrounds you.

You take a deep breath, recalling a memory you hadn’t fully shared with anyone in years. "He’d always kiss me on the forehead at midnight. That was my New Year’s kiss." You let out a small, wistful laugh despite the tears that blur your vision. "Then, he’d walk over and kiss my mom. It was their thing." You pause, the sadness creeping in again. "He was heartbroken when she passed, but he kept the tradition alive for me. Even though… it meant I never had a real New Year’s kiss."

Aaron listens carefully, the weight of your words settling between you like an unspoken understanding.

"Ever?" he asks gently.

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. "Ever."

For a moment, you both stand there, the quiet moment wrapping around you. Then, Aaron’s voice cuts through the stillness, steady and firm.

"Would you want one?"

You look up, your eyes meeting his, the moment shifting. It isn’t just a simple question anymore—it’s more. You realize that this isn’t just about tradition or comfort; this is something deeper. He’s offering something more personal, more vulnerable, and that thought leaves you breathless.

You nod slowly. "Yes," you breathe out, the weight of the moment sinking into your heart.

Without hesitation, he leans in, his lips brushing gently against yours. The world melts away in that single moment—no fireworks, no city sounds, just the two of you sharing something tender and meaningful. When the kiss ends, you rest your head against his shoulder again, the weight of the night finally lifting.

"Thank you," you whisper once more, your voice filled with emotion.

Aaron wraps his arm around you, holding you close as the city fireworks continue their display, but for you, everything feels different. It’s not about the grand celebration—it’s about the quiet, personal connection you share, the solace found in the smallest gestures.

[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?"

[linkemon]

Beauty and the Beast (Bakugō Katsuki x Reader) 9

ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛ. ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛꜱ, ʜᴇ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ʟᴏꜱᴇꜱ ʜᴏᴘᴇ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ, [ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ], ꜰᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴛɪᴍɪᴅᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀʜᴀᴜʟ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇ. ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ʀᴇʟᴜᴄᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʙᴏʀɴꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱʜɪᴘ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɢʀᴏᴡꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

The whole series can be found here. Part 1 is here. Part 10 coming soon.

When you go out

[Reader] stood before the enormous gates leading to the palace, pacing back and forth along the same path in restless impatience. The enchanted objects weren’t even sure anymore if it was worth waiting. She had insisted on staying just a little longer, hoping Katsuki would show up, though she no longer had much faith in that. That’s why she was genuinely surprised to see him standing before her. He held a woven wicker basket that, despite its age, somehow held together. Unsure of what to say, she started down the forest path.

— Do you like picnics? — she broke the silence.

— No — said the king.

Then what are you doing here? — she wanted to ask.

— His Majesty meant to say he didn’t like palace picnics — Kirishima corrected him, clattering with his wooden legs.

The enchanted objects darted in and out of the thickets, appearing sometimes ahead of them, sometimes behind. The girl kept her eyes on the ground, afraid of accidentally stepping on one of them. The Beast, however, didn’t seem particularly concerned.

Bakugō let out a heavy sigh. Kirishima’s intervention had forced him to elaborate, which he wasn’t happy about.

— The picnics my parents organized were... over the top. Tons of food, decorations and a whole lot of boring, pompous people I didn’t even know. I had to wander around, talk to them and try to win their favour just because I was the future king.

It was just another kind of party that restricted his freedom. Occasionally, someone would set up some archery targets as entertainment, giving him a chance to sneak away from the noble circles for a little while — but not for long. Usually, sooner or later, he’d be cornered by an advisor or a foreign noble with a proposal to marry him off to their daughter. He hated listening to them.

— Our picnic will be completely different. I only brought a blanket and some wine. And besides, you’re stuck with me instead of a crowd of boring people — [Reader] laughed. — What’s in the basket?

— I made sandwiches. — He shrugged.

He’d wanted to do something more, something to show her he could. But he hadn’t even been sure whether he should come on this strange outing and by the time he’d decided, there wasn’t any time left. So, he’d sliced up a big loaf of bread and made the first thing that came to mind. The enchanted objects assured him the distance wasn’t as great as it seemed but he felt as though something was pulling him back with every step. Ignoring the dull ache, he focused on the road ahead.

— Your mother was a very good queen.

The sentence immediately pulled his attention away from his discomfort. It had been so long since anyone had mentioned her. He often called her an Old Hag but he knew she was much better at being a ruler than he was. She annoyed him because she burdened him with responsibilities he hated. But that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize how hard she worked. He’d seen her fall asleep over ledgers or maps. Sometimes, when he snuck out of the palace late at night, he’d see his father approach her, drape a blanket over her shoulders and finish her speeches or edicts himself. Now, all that remained of her was a dusty chamber.

— After those picnics, there was always leftover food. She gave it to the needy. I even got some once. Back in spring, when my village was running low on food, I hadn’t eaten for days. She came and personally handed me a sandwich. At the time, I didn’t even know who she was. If not for her, I might not be here now.

— My mother... was... — The lump in his throat grew, making it hard to speak. — She was different from me. She was suited for all of this.

That’s how he felt. She knew exactly what to do, how to speak and everyone adored her. He was never like that. He played a role he’d been forced into. He didn’t fit in at court. He didn’t know how to care for people like she did. He couldn’t care less about his subjects. They seemed like an indistinct mass far away. Charitable outings were met with grumbles of displeasure and he usually skipped them, leaving them to others. But now, having met [Reader] and realizing she might owe her life to such a gesture, it stopped being an abstract concept. It became tangible proof that such actions truly affected people’s lives.

— Overhaul seems to have plenty of money — he deduced from the man’s clothing and demeanor. — And yet, you starved?

— He didn’t. I did. I wasn’t always a lady — she accented the word with a small smile. — I grew up on the streets. From time to time, people let me stay with them in exchange for work. Then, one day, he came and offered me a permanent roof over my head, meals and new clothes if I was willing to learn.

As a child, she’d been enchanted by the life spread out before her. The orphanage was just a cover. The new life was full of opportunities to access things she’d only ever dreamed of — beautiful gowns, rooms filled with food, and countless new skills. Over time, however, she realized she could dress as she pleased but only if it aligned with current trends or Overhaul’s preferences. She could eat only dainty bites, at designated times and with perfect etiquette. Her education had to align with what Overhaul needed, so she could forget about learning swordsmanship.

In exchange, she had to smile and dazzle. Sometimes, she attended parties to steal documents from a rich man’s safe. Other times, she eavesdropped on gossip or confidential conversations. Occasionally, she delivered written threats to various places. It was a small price to pay for the basics of life.

— It was enough for me until Eri came into the picture at the residence.

— Your younger sister? — The fact that Katsuki even knew who she was genuinely surprised [Reader]. She rarely talked about her, certainly not to him. He must’ve been paying very close attention, unless one of the enchanted objects had explicitly told him. But she had a feeling they’d kept that detail to themselves.

— Yes. We don’t share the same mother but we still call ourselves sisters. She’s the one who told me I should demand more, speak up for what I want and that I deserved better. It was all so beautiful... but also naïve. I believed her. When I told Overhaul I didn’t want to continue etiquette lessons, he slapped me. After that, every cup of tea I drank was as if someone were watching me.

The memory reminded Bakugō of an incident in the kitchen long ago. A weight settled in his chest and he was almost certain it wasn’t because of the blue rose.

— Then I refused to marry Shigaraki, so he decided to starve me instead. The servants kept a close eye on me. I managed to get by for a while but eventually, he realized what he should’ve done from the start.

— He threatened your sister — the king finished for her.

— He said that if I don’t yield, he’ll start conducting experiments. The ones so far haven’t been that bad but his future plans are awful. I’m not sure exactly why he needs the rose but somehow it can replace what concerns Eri.

The Eight Precepts of Death sought power and dominance. The group saw an opportunity in forming an alliance with the League of Villains through marriage. For years, neither had been able to seize power on their own. Both managed to orchestrate a few conspiracies but they were usually quickly suppressed. Now, however, in a kingdom without a king and a council of nobles easily bribed, they saw a chance.

— We’re here — announced Gentle.

— Indeed — echoed La Brava.

The view was truly beautiful. A gentle breeze created ripples on the surface of the lake. The trees were covered in fresh green leaves. The group settled on a sandy patch of the shore. [Reader] took the second blanket from Katsuki's basket and tied it between two trees. The magical friends were delighted with the hammock and took turns swinging in it.

— I bet if I skip a stone, mine will bounce more times! — The girl knew nothing motivated Bakugō more than competition.

They raced to gather stones, combing the shoreline but staying out of the water. It was freezing cold. Just approaching its edge was enough to feel the chill, even though the sun shone brightly overhead.

They threw stones of all shapes and colours. Their enchanted belongings cheered them on. Denki, of course, shouted the loudest when [Reader] managed to set a new record. She decided she could even forgive him for spilling the beans in the library, convinced every bird around the castle had already flown away from his noise. Kirishima claimed that whoever won the little contest didn’t matter because everyone was having fun. That didn’t stop the girl from teasing the king about her victory.

— And that’s why I’m taking the first sandwich! — she declared, lunging toward the basket.

— Not a chance! — Bakugō raised the basket high, out of her reach. He immediately took out a sandwich and ate it whole, a smug grin spreading across his face.

— Did you see that? — she turned to their lounging friends. — That’s unfair! — she groaned.

— We’d love to help you — began Gentle, blowing steam from his spout.

— We really would — added La Brava, splashing tea left and right — but we’re busy.

The girl sat on the blanket with her arms crossed. She turned her head away but out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large brown paw offering her food. She didn’t respond, simply accepting the sandwich. In exchange, she slid over a bottle of wine, hoping the odd truce proposal would be understood. It was. They sat in silence for a while, watching their rowdy friends swinging nearby.

— Is this from the library? — Katsuki lifted a book of fairy tales.

She nodded.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d picked up anything to read. He preferred learning from real-life examples. His mother had insisted he read many books to prepare him for his future reign. He remembered little from them now but he could recite most battle strategies and combat tips by heart.

His nights had never been great. He often had trouble sleeping. Lately, it had been worse. So, when he stumbled upon his mother’s favourite books while cleaning the library, he took them with him. The queen had a habit of jotting down her thoughts in the margins. He recalled how much the royal librarian used to scold her for it. Back then, he didn’t understand why she wasted time writing words on paper. Now, reading her notes in the moonlight, he felt as though he were having a conversation with her. It gave him strange, mixed feelings.

— I don’t like reading but Eri loves happy endings. That’s why I’ll read them all to tell her about when I return.

— What’s your sister like? — It genuinely piqued his curiosity since learning of her existence. From what he’d heard, she was little. And he wasn’t fond of kids. Most "brats", as he called them, usually got in his way or chased him around the palace, asking him to teach them something.

— Eri’s too good for this world. Cheerful and warm, like sunshine. I think you’d like her and she’d like you.

Somehow, he found that hard to believe but [Reader] seemed utterly convinced.

— Kids don’t like monsters. No one ever liked me back then and I doubt that’s changed.

It was true. In the past, those who associated with him at court were usually there for some benefit. Kirishima was a rare exception but Katsuki had recently wondered if, after the way he secured him his dream position, Kirishima still considered him the same friend.

He wanted to take back his words. They sounded sentimental, overly emotional and foolish — like he cared. But he wasn’t like that. He didn’t need others’ approval to be happy. Before he could add anything, [Reader] interrupted.

— Well... Most people don’t like pompous jerks. Who you are... — That sentence made a sharp retort dance on the tip of his tongue. — But Eri would like you anyway. Besides, you still have your subjects... and me... because I like you — she finished softly.

— As if I care — Katsuki shrugged.

His mind was in turmoil. He didn’t know what to cling to anymore. His heart beat faster and he couldn’t pretend it was because of the rose’s distance. The dull pain eased for a moment. It was such a strange feeling that it left him silent. When was the last time someone openly admitted they liked him? His gruff, unrefined self with the sharp tongue? And in this wretched form he hated to see in the mirror?

A loud splash broke his thoughts, followed by desperate cries from where his enchanted friends had been swinging. Something white flashed quickly and disappeared into the lake.

— It’s Ochaco! — Denki shouted. — She’s going to die! — he wailed.

— We’re all going to die! — added the teacup.

— Tea to calm everyone down? — the teapot asked calmly.

— Nobody’s dying! Calm down — the Guard Captain searched for anything that could help the drowning maid.

He looked for sticks but quickly realized that without hands, even with a branch, he was useless.

Without much thought, [Reader] ran into the freezing water. She took a deep breath and dove. The water was murky and muddy. The bottom felt like sludge. She couldn’t see anything but tried to feel around for something resembling her friend. Before she could search much, something yanked her upward. She blinked rapidly, rubbing her eyes. Bakugō’s paw held her above the water. In his other paw was a soaked, muddy Ochaco.

The three made it to shore, where they were immediately swarmed by their panicking friends. Everyone hugged the featherduster, apologizing profusely and promising never to swing the hammock so hard again.

— But could she really have died? — Kaminari had a sudden realization.

Everyone paused to process his words. They quickly concluded that objects don’t breathe. The worst that could have happened was her spending the rest of the day at the lake’s bottom among cattails and stones. Now [Reader] felt a little foolish. She’d jumped to the rescue when it wasn’t really necessary. She didn’t regret it, though. Even if she was soaking wet and the cold was starting to creep in.

— Thank you, [Reader] — Ochaco tried to wipe the mud from her light feathers. — And you, Your Highness — she added.

Katsuki felt strange. They’d barely spoken before. He knew why. Until recently, it hadn’t bothered him. But every time something reminded him of Midoriya, unease crept back. The thought that he might be responsible for his death haunted him. And this maid was the most vivid reminder of it all. She annoyed him. He realized why. He owed his survival to her, which hurt even more. If she hadn’t intervened with the old matron of her fiancé, would he still be standing here?

— I think we’ve had enough excitement for today — Kirishima announced.

The group agreed and began packing up. They didn’t have much. [Reader] wrapped herself in a blanket and handed the other to her strangely quiet companion.

— I’m not cold — Katsuki said, throwing his blanket over her head.

When she freed herself from it, she saw that all their enchanted friends had settled into the basket. A free ride must have seemed like a good idea. Of course, not without the king’s complaints. After all, they had legs of their own. But when it turned out they’d all fallen asleep, he stopped grumbling, realizing it was pointless.

— What would you say if you could leave this place? — Bakugō’s voice faded among the forest trees.

— If this is a rhetorical question to see if I’d run, I’m not falling for it — [Reader] laughed.

— If you want to leave... to see your sister or something... I won’t stop you. You don’t have to worry about my deal with Overhaul. I’ll keep my word.

Saying it made him wonder what he was even doing with his life. He still had a chance to break the curse and return to being human. The odds of someone like her showing up during the time he had left were practically zero.

And yet now, knowing so much, it was hard not to let her go free. He’d done to her what everyone had done to him years ago. They wanted to crown him, despite him not wanting it. And she was part of a transaction with even less say than he’d had. Besides, someone was waiting for her. His family had long since passed. If he could talk to that Old Hag again or see her one last time...

— I’ll think about it but for now, I don’t plan to leave. I miss Eri but as long as I’m here, she’s safe. Even if you kept your word, I don’t think Overhaul would believe it. The moment I show up at the estate, he’ll know. And then he’ll either resume his experiments or marry me off — or both. Do you really have to get rid of me? — she asked with a small smile.

They stopped before the palace doors.

— Looks like I’m stuck with you — Katsuki sighed dramatically.

With that, he disappeared down one of the long hallways.

— You really like her, don’t you, Your Highness? — Ochaco murmured sleepily. — I think there’s still hope for all of us...

He didn’t reply. He put the basket down and headed to his bedroom. That night, he wasn’t haunted by nightmares of blood-stained visions or blue rose petals. For the first time in a long while, he dreamed of something else. The kingdom from years ago. The throne room. And finally, hazy silhouettes resembling his parents. It was a good dream.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - "Regaining Divinity - Chapter 2" Rated M

Summary:

Love isn't just a static thing. It's give and take, push and pull. And while Crowley is coming to terms with what might be a permanent change, something different is now stirring inside Aziraphale as well...

Notes:

So it never dawned on me to wonder what was going on with Aziraphale while Crowley was freaking out over his change. I figured this was a one-and-done, that everything that needed to be said had been said. It wasn't until my car accident, as I was looking at the MRI of what the impact had done to my brain, lighting everything up white that it hit me (no pun intended). You can't have Crowley affected without Aziraphale affected, too. That's not how these things work. So, here is poor Aziraphale, coming to grips with the reality of loving a demon. Warning for a brief mention of body harm.

Read on AO3.

The sun set slowly that evening - supernaturally slowly, sinking into the horizon like a hot air balloon. And as it did, creeping the millimeters towards its own extinguish, it left Aziraphale behind.

A bizarre turn of events since Aziraphale never slept. Not a wink.

But he couldn't help himself. He'd been out for the count all day. Snuggled beneath Crowley's down comforter, Aziraphale felt like a million cherubs armed with golden trumpets couldn't rouse him.

He didn't want to move. Never again.

At least not for the next half-century.

And he was pleased as punch about it.

He had decided to lay beneath these blankets with his eyes shut and maintain this glorious stillness. Well, outer stillness. There were stirrings in his body that he'd never felt before. He focused in on them, tracked them with his mind, enjoying this new part of him blossoming beneath the surface.

These stirrings, these urges, they were still him, just different.

Crowley was a dear. He wouldn't mind Aziraphale becoming a permanent resident in his bed. And he would bring Aziraphale cakes and wine from time to time if Aziraphale asked him to. Yes, that sounded like a marvelous idea. It would be the perfect plan if not for that awful buzzing. He thought it was in his brain, like when humans complain about a ringing in their ears, but it had started to become a low-level hum all around him.

Where the Hell was that even coming from?

Was it a fly?

A swarm of flies?

In Crowley's impeccably kept flat?

Impossible! Not without some sort of demonic intervention.

Aziraphale gasped.

Was it Beelzebub? Searching out the traitor Crowley?

Aziraphale popped up in bed, scanning the room with eyes screaming to shut again, nerves at the ready. But only silence met him. Of course, there were no demons there. How silly of him! The ridiculousness of his quick action stamped inside his brain like the worst hangover imaginable.

“Oh…good Lord,” Aziraphale groaned, yanking the blankets over his head to block out the light spearing his eyes. He did all that for nothing. No one was in the room with him. Not even Crowley, oddly enough.

“What time is it? Oh!” He took himself by surprise with that question. Others often said it when they slept in, but now he was saying it. Because now he was a being that not only slept but slept in!

What a slothful glutton he had become!

It was Crowley.

Not because Crowley was a bad influence.

He was, but not intentionally.

Now that Aziraphale had him, every inch of him, his existence would change. It already had.

For one, God Herself couldn't peel him out of this bed.

But the lack of Crowley unnerved him. What in the world could his demon be up to? He wasn't what one would call an early riser. So how is it he was up and gone before Aziraphale?

Aziraphale reached out with his senses, trying to hunt down his wayward demon. He had to be there somewhere. Probably in his office? Or terrorizing his plants? And though Aziraphale didn't condone his demon's intimidation of his pet plants, the thought brought a chuckle.

Wherever he was, Aziraphale had a need to be with him, stronger than his need to stay abed.

So that was his day started then.

Desperate to stay cozy for as long as possible, he slithered his way to the edge of the mattress, then swung his feet over the side onto the floor. With the first touch of his soles to the hard marble, he recoiled as if burned.

"Yikes! How did I never notice how much this place feels like a tomb?" he muttered. He struggled to find his slippers, but they were nowhere to be seen. He sighed. He would have to make it to the loo sans shoes since that's where he left his clothes, and he did not mean to waste a miracle getting himself dressed.

But the floor beneath his feet was uncomfortably cold, even for him.

He half-hopped his way to the cracked bathroom door, unfurling his wings along the way to work out a few kinks he felt tightening his shoulders, and lept to the safety of the bathmat. He didn't need the light, but he didn't want to exert the effort to turn it off, aching eyes or not.

He saw himself in the mirror for the first time since he'd put on his pajamas and shuddered.

Goodness gracious! What the...? He spread his wings wide, turning right and left for a better look. He'd just preened them, too! How did they get mussed so quickly?

Aziraphale stopped short, cheeks immediately burning. Last night probably didn't help. He wouldn't normally think to unfurl his wings while being intimate. He had a habit of keeping them tucked away pretty much always. Aside from Adam, Crowley was the only one to see them in the past few thousand years.

Crowley had a thing about them.

But Aziraphale's wings had always been that way.

Unkempt. Uncontrollable.

And for the love of Peter! Now they were filthy!

Aziraphale tutted, grabbing a hand towel from the counter and swatting at the dirt. It took a fair bit of maneuvering to reach it, but if he threw his arm out to the side dramatically enough, the tip of the towel just about grazed the spot. It stung, but he persisted. Harder and harder he swatted, but the stain didn't budge.

Hell's bells!

He'd need to wash them properly. That would take all day!

Aziraphale grinned.

If he could hunt down his wily demon, maybe the two of them could climb into the shower together, and Crowley could...

A cruel jolt of reality interrupted his fantasizing. A breeze from somewhere drifted in and fluttered the feather, lifting the corners and exposing both sides.

His hand shook.

He dropped the towel.

That dark spot wasn't dirt.

It was the feather.

A single black feather astray in a field of white.

But how did that get there?

Surely, it was one of Crowley's, shed during last night's escapades.

Aziraphale gave his wings a flap, then another harder one when the first did nothing to dislodge it. No, it was stuck in there tight, mingled in with his own.

Then it hit him. Hit him like a spike-studded brick to the brain.

That feather might not be Crowley's.

That feather might be one of his, transformed from white to black.

Was this a side-effect of making love to a demon?

He peered into the mirror to get a better look at his wing, leaning far over the counter until his nose touched the glass, which brought his attention around to his face.

That was when he nearly disincorporated.

Whatever was going on with him, it wasn't done.

One of his eyes - one of his blue eyes - was turning coal black with every blink until it was obscured from white corner to white corner by an inky abyss too painful to look at.

He blinked again, and deep within his stomach, something rumbled.

Not like a hunger pang.

More like the awakening of some creature.

He remembered Crowley saying that underneath the human facade of certain demons, where muscle and blood and bone should be, there were maggots instead. Was that what he was feeling? Not emotional stirrings, longing for his demon husband, but bugs?

If he could have been sick, he would have.

That might have been a blessing. If he'd vomited up a sink's worth of maggots, he'd have his answer. He didn't want to resort to slicing himself open to see what would come out.

Surgery aside, who could he ask?

The obvious answer was Crowley, but Aziraphale suspected he wouldn't know. He never once mentioned turning anyone into a demon using sex. That was definitely something Crowley would dish on if it had happened.

What should Aziraphale do now?

Should he look through every book he owned for an answer? Off the cuff, he was more than certain he didn't have one that broached this. If he did, he would have bookmarked it and put it in the safe beside his desk.

For research purposes only, of course.

Should he call Anathema and see if she had any inklings?

Should he call Madame Tracy simply for the sake of gossip while he sussed out the important stuff?

Should he pray?

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, hoping that when he opened them, the eye and the feather would be gone back to right. All but a bad dream.

It had to be! Aziraphale wasn't a demon.

He didn't feel like a demon.

But he had never been a demon before. What exactly would that feel like? Would he know right away? Would a switch click in his brain the moment it happened, or would it take time to settle in, seep into his bones first, then send a message to his conscience? And what would the symptoms be? Beside the feather and the eye? Would he develop powers - demonic powers? And how would they differ from his angelic ones? Would they be the same, all things considered, just...evil?

Again, all questions that Crowley would be best suited to answer, but Aziraphale didn't want to ask him. He didn't want to have this conversation with him.

He didn't want to frighten him.

He didn't want to lose Crowley to the foolhardy idea that going far from Aziraphale would be the best thing for him.

Could he cover this up and never mention it? One feather and one eye should be an easy fix for sure. But that wouldn't likely be where it stopped. It would take over, wouldn't it? Consume every bit of him? It would have to.

Aziraphale had never heard of someone becoming only a tenth demon.

He stared hard at his reflection in the mirror, the coal-black eye staring back at him, not with menace, but confusion.

Still him, but different.

Aziraphale blinked slowly and gulped hard, considering the one question he would never, ever be able to ask his husband. The one that might be the lynchpin to this all.

And it wasn't if making love to Crowley turned him into a demon.

It was did making love to Crowley turn him into a demon because Aziraphale loved him, and Crowley loved him back?

[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.

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Dammon Date pt2

part 1, an extension of a wonderful anon ask

The encounter with Dammon at his new forge in the city almost felt like fate to Tav, of all the streets they could have walked down, all the alleyways they could turned into, they all led to his new forge. How could it not be fate, how could it not be a divine intervention that moved their feet in that direction of all places they could have ended up.

Tav ruminated on the possibility of fate as they navigated their way back to their own city home, they did unfortunately have to stop and ask for directions, normally their anxiety would hinder them from even approaching a stranger for something as simple as directions but now they were on cloud nine, their emotions soaring through the clouds of happiness and distracting them from their own anxiousness, they could approach a devil and not bat an eyelid or sweat with how they felt in this moment.

Given the nudge in the right direction by some kind soul, Tav walked home with their mind preoccupied with tomorrow’s date, wondering what to wear and how to act. Should they announce that they were the Hero of Baldur’s Gate to get preferential treatment or should they keep a low profile and have the date as any regular person. This issue amongst many other trivial ones started to swirl in Tav’s mind, the dancing happiness that affected them was slowly giving way to the anxiety once again.

It was almost nightfall when Tav arrived back home, it was a shock even to them at how far they had managed to stray away from their home just by walking absentmindedly, it was a relief to finally reach their home and block out the noise of the city. Another feeling that was foreign to them, feeling relieved to be in this building that they had now called home, maybe Tav was now finally finding their place in Baldur’s Gate after all.

The night drew on but it was not over, clothes were ripped from the wardrobes of their bedroom in the attempt to find something to wear, most of the outfits were gifted by the seamstresses and merchants in town after the salvation of the city, trying to gain capital and business from the Hero wearing their merchandise. None of it was what Tav wanted, it wasn’t them. It was all frills and fancy, not to say the clothes weren’t beautiful, the craftmanship was absolutely to be adored, but it was not to be worn by Tav. Tav wanted plain and practical, not because they didn’t love a beautiful gown, in fact Tav had been hoping Wyll would host a ball at some point so they could wear something extravagant, they just wanted something simple for this occasion, they wanted Dammon to see them for who they were, not for someone who they would be pretending to be.

Dawn broke and Tav finally had to give in with their search for an outfit, giving in from fatigue they went to bed and decided to wear something casual, Dammon was a Blacksmith so hopefully he would not expect something so fancy.

Light began to stream through the gossamer curtains, the soft light breaking upon Tavs face bringing them gently around to the real world once again. Tav sat upright and rubbed the sleep away from their eyes before sighing at the sight of their bedroom, clothes strewn everywhere as they remembered their argument with the wardrobe with the night before. They pinched their nose and shook their head, they had never been this anxious about a person before, why did they feel this way now.

A sigh left their lips, it would not be long before they were due to meet Dammon. Tav finally picked an innocuous outfit out of the pile, a random dress that had worked its way into their wardrobe, it would be nice enough for the date later on at least.

The tavern they were due to meet in was full, Tav arrived early to sit at the table and order a glass of wine for their nerves, knowing that if they even arrived a minute late the table would be gone. It wasn’t an overly popular place, but a lot of people turned up on the fly. A glass of wine was sorely needed, Tav felt the nerves creep up as soon as they sat down, the sweet grapefruit wine the tavern was famous for calmed them for now, the alcohol giving Tav a nice tingling feeling in their body as they waited for Dammon.

Minutes passed, people walked in and out of the tavern and Tav sat there with their glass of wine, alone with nobody to talk to. It almost came to a point for Tav to leave until they spotted Dammon, entering the tavern in a flustered state. The state of him so flustered made tav take their seat once again, enamoured by the adorable look of confusion on his face. Tav looked down and giggled to themselves, the flushed look upon Dammon’s cheek was too much.

Tav composed themselves as Dammon finally sat before them. Neither would look each other in the eye, the tension was there but they both seemed too scared to accept it. It wasn’t long until the remarks happened. “foul Blood” , “Horned Freak” and “Devil Blood”. Tav could not help but hear these remarks, each one made them look up at Dammon and gauge his reaction. Tav saw him flinch at each shout and that was enough for them.

Tav stood from the table and held their hand to them, their eyes sparkling and showing that they did not agree with this, they pulled him up from his seat and dragged him away from the tavern. Tav walked Dammon away in the streets, it was not the nights but months of living in the city had helped Tav, they knew where they were headed and it was their house.

The door to Tav’s house was stiff but it opened, it was a home to all, Tav never felt comfortable in such a large space on their own, tonight it was empty as usual but Dammon being here with them made it feel warm. Tav locked the door and turned to Dammon, apologies in their eyes about how people had been treating him tonight. They wanted Dammon to feel safe now that he was away from the crowd, to feel safe with them. They both took a seat on the sofa and held each other , it needed to be discussed how they felt for one another but for tonight they wanted to not acknowledge it, to be silent in each others arms, revelling in the feeling of one another, something they had both longed for since they had first met in the Grove.

[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”

[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.…

[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

[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?"