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dostoyevsky-official · 10 months

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Grandi has dedicated his career to debunking the myths around Italian food; this is the first time he’s spoken to the foreign press.

Grandi’s speciality is making bold claims about national staples: that most Italians hadn’t heard of pizza until the 1950s, for example, or that carbonara is an American recipe. Many Italian “classics”, from panettone to tiramisu, are relatively recent inventions, he argues. [...] And his mission is to disrupt the foundations on which we Italians have built our famous, and famously inflexible, culinary culture — a food scene where cappuccini must not be had after midday and tagliatelle must have a width of exactly 7mm.

[...] “It’s all about identity,” Grandi tells me between mouthfuls of osso buco bottoncini. He is a devotee of Eric Hobsbawm, the British Marxist historian who wrote about what he called the invention of tradition. “When a community finds itself deprived of its sense of identity, because of whatever historical shock or fracture with its past, it invents traditions to act as founding myths,” Grandi says.

[...] Panettone is a case in point. Before the 20th century, panettone was a thin, hard flatbread filled with a handful of raisins. It was only eaten by the poor and had no links to Christmas. Panettone as we know it today is an industrial invention.

Parmesan, he says, is remarkably ancient, around a millennium old. But before the 1960s, wheels of parmesan cheese weighed only about 10kg (as opposed to the hefty 40kg wheels we know today) and were encased in a thick black crust. Its texture was fatter and softer than it is nowadays. “Some even say that this cheese, as a sign of quality, had to squeeze out a drop of milk when pressed,” Grandi says. “Its exact modern-day match is Wisconsin parmesan.” He believes that early 20th-century Italian immigrants, probably from the Po’ region north of Parma, started producing it in Wisconsin and, unlike the cheesemakers back in Parma, their recipe never evolved. So while Parmigiano in Italy became over the years a fair-crusted, hard cheese produced in giant wheels, Wisconsin parmesan stayed true to the original.

“Italian cuisine really is more American than it is Italian,” Grandi says squarely.

[...] Today, Italian food is as much a leitmotif for rightwing politicians as beautiful young women and football were in the Berlusconi era.

[P]oliticians understand the power of what Grandi terms “gastronationalism”. Who cares if the traditional food culture they promote is partly based on lies, recipes dreamt up by conglomerates or food imported from America? Few things are more reassuring and agreeable than an old lady making tortellini.

It wasn’t always like this. “The grandparents knew it was a lie,” Grandi tells me, finishing the last of his prosecco. “The philologic concern with ingredient provenance is a very recent phenomenon.” Indeed it’s hard to imagine that people who survived the second world war eating chestnuts, as my grandfather did, would be concerned about using pork jowl instead of pork belly in a pasta recipe. Or as Grandi puts it, “Their ‘tradition’ was trying not to starve.”

[...] As Grandi points out, a tradition is nothing but an innovation that was once successful.

Everything I, an Italian, thought I knew about Italian food is wrong

the most hated man in italy is a historian on a mission to prove that most immemorial italian traditions—like many elsehwere—date from 1860-1960

#focaccia is an ancient roman recipe however

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hunn1e-bunn1e · 9 months

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Bonten - Debbie Jelinsky (Male) Reader 2

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

I wanted to give the reader a husband that he actually likes for a bit of a change, so this is pretty early on into the relationship. I've also decided that this one is very important to Bonten, so they wouldn't kill him nor be okay with the reader killing him. I hope you enjoy this, 🫓Flatbread Anon! — Benny 🐰

Part 1 Part 2

🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴

"Shuusuke? What's wrong?"

[Name] asks his new boyfriend, confused, as the man had stood abruptly from his chair, causing it to jerkily skoot back.

The man in question, Tanabata Shuusuke, a young billionaire who owned a very popular tech company operating out of Sendai. The blonde man had reached the peak of his success at the age of 28 and it kept climbing for the next 5 years to where we are now. Now 33, his company, Tanabata Technology™, was the second most popular in all of Japan.

The young and wealthy bachelor was pretty easy on the eyes as well. In fact, many news stations and magazines voted him as the most handsome billionaire of 20××. To furthur estimate his popularity; Tanabata Shuusuke would get at least 13 letters of love and admiration from random strangers every single day without fail.

"[Name]....—"

Softly speaks the blonde as he gracefully walk around the table; coming to a stop in front of his seated e/c eyed lover.

"—....Every day from the moment I met you has been a whirlwind of pure bliss for me. You've made me feel like noone has ever made me feel before. You complete me, truly. So I want to ask you...—"

He slowly gets down on one knee as he gently takes [Name]'s small hands into his; carefully he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a royal blue cube shaped box. Flipping it open, Shuusuke reveals a gorgeous ring, consisting of gold band with the words 'Our Love Is Eternal' intricately ingraved on the inner side and a large heart shaped diamond implanted into it.

"—... Matsumoto [Name], will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! I'll marry you!"

"I still don't understand why we have to find this fucker in the first place. We already have Kokonoi, why do we need another person like 'im?"

Complains a surprisingly sober Sanzu as he lazily sprawls out on one of the sofas in Bonten's common room.

Bonten had been searching for the serial killing gold digger after a while of letting him go, which was a very strange decision on Mikey's part, considering they usually never let people go.

But now it seemed that their boss had regretted that decision thus ordering his men to try and find him again. What prompted the sudden change of heart was left out from their orders and they won't exactly ask either, lest they get offed for questioning leadership.

"I don't exactly mind finding him, he had a great ass. I'd love to see him again."

Ran says from his place behind the sofa that the pinkette was occupying as he smoothly inserts himself into the conversation with a sly look on his face.

Kakucho, who was seated in the sofa opposite to Sanzu, deadpanned at the elder Haitani's response. He silently rolled his eyes along with Rindou who was sat next to him scrolling on his phone. The two gave each other a side glance that held so many words of exasperation and expectancy.

"Of course you would."

Rindou groans, finally done with his side-eye conversation with Kakucho.

Ran looked at his younger brother with a teasing expression as he simply shrugs as if to say 'what can ya do'. Prompting yet another eye roll from the jellyfish haired man.

"I found him.—"

Says a previously silent Kokonoi as he reads the information off his screen.

"— Looks like we were right, he got married again. And it's to another one of our partners, but it's an important one, so we need to get to him before he decides to kill the guy."

"Ah! That vanity is vintage! Be more careful, will you! You can put it in the lounge."

A robe clad [Name] huffs at the clumsy movers as they accidentally bump his furniture into a nearby wall.

It had been a few days since Shuusuke had proposed to him in that restaurant; the billionaire asking him to move in right then and there. Which leads us to now, where the last truck full of [Name]'s possessions were being moved into their now shared home.

The h/c-ette vaguely remembered his now fiancee telling him earlier that he'd be meeting with some people today. Perhaps he was still talking with them, it would certainly explain why he wasn't present. Surely if he came and got his wonderfully rich husband, Shuusuke wouldn't mind him interrupting whatever meeting he was in. [Name] was his fiancee now after all, he needs must be tended to.

The e/c eyed man nodded to himself as he made his way to the home office, his eyes carefully scanning the halls so he wouldn't get lost again. Even if he'd been given a tour of the entire estate, it would take a while to really know where he was going.

Reaching the intended door, [Name] gave a brisk knock, entering before an answer could be given. He made a b-line for his blonde fiancee, paying no mind to his guests, and planted a kiss on the man's forehead. He was startled though by his lover's nervous expression.

And then he heard it.

"Well, well, well... If it isn't the cutie from Minato.~"

Shit.

🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴•♡•🎴

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

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asha-mage · 3 days

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Assorted Thoughts From Forcing My Friends to Watch all of WoT as a birthday gift, Season 2 Edition-

When taken as a whole unit, the show actually completely conveys what's happening with Lan's bond from the jump, it's just that several characters are incorrect or working with incorrect information- as was often the case in the books. Lan thinks he's just been blocked out, but in reality Moiraine has released his bond entirely (as she floated she might do to Alanna back in season 1) and you can see the moment he realizes this in episode 2, when saddling the horses- he realizes that he didn't sense the Fade and what that means, and then Moiriane realizes he has realized.

The show in general is a lot more subtle, and a lot more willing to delve into the idea that often characters are just...wrong, or uninformed, or lying, without holding the audience's hand to explain that fact then I think people give it credit for- which is very in line with Jordan's ethos. For example, Ishamael's telling of Perrin 'the more wolf you become the more you are mine' is a blatant manipulation attempt to scare him into being afraid of his Wolfbrother powers and Perrin, who is going through hell, just buys it- and that makes sense he's already wrestling his own anger issues and fear. He doesn't question why Ishamael would tell him this, or what the effect would be (i.e not trusting the wolves, and thus maybe making himself more vulnerable to the Shadow) he just accepts it because it plays into his existing fears and biases about himself.

Anvare also raises this point really well when she gives her 'ask yourself- is it true?' speech to Moiraine. Moiraine is operating at that point under a lot of assumptions that aren't true- not just that Lanfear is going to hurt or capture Rand, but also that she really was stilled, that she can't trust Lan with her fears and doubts, that her presence is a threat to Barthanes and Anvare (when really Barthanes's presence is a threat to her)- and this moment, is meant to cast doubt not just on that, but on a lot of the assumptions the audience has likely been making too, which characters their taking at face value and which characters their thinking off through the lens of their own biases.

Continuing the trend of Moiraine displaying many of the bad coping mechanisms that will later dog Rand/Rand will internalize from her- @ofthebrownajah pointed out recently Rand's consistent issues with food and eating, which made it stick out to me how frequently in the show Moiraine has a similar problem. People repeatedly try to reach out to Moiraine via food/encouraging her to take care of herself, and she repeatedly rejects them. Lan's attempt to get her to come down for dinner, then to bring dinner to her in her rooms, Barthanes's sandwich, tea with Anvare- Moiraine has her walls raised so high she rejects this basic form of self-care and attempt to reach out hand in hand. This is especially notably because their is a repeated emphasis on food this season. Every major character gets at least one scene eating or drinking this season (Egwene and Elayne doing bootleg, Rand grabbing flatbread on his way to work, Mat with Liandrin's honey cakes, Nynaeve preparing dinner in the arches world, Lan sharing dinner with Alanna's family at her farm) but even Moiraine's eventual forced tea with Anvare goes deliberately unshown.

On rewatch I think that, while I really really love the moment where Renna and Seta are left to the mercy of their own culture by Nynaeve and Egwene in the books, the moment of Egwene killing Renna just makes the most narrative sense for the show- and I think will be a change that they are going to walk out through it's consequences.

The point of that sequence in the book is that Nynaeve understands that Egwene's bloodlust and anger are valid- but that the fact of killing will not help her in the long run. "It's okay to hate them. They deserve it. It's not okay to let them make you like them." I suspect, especially given how thoughtful the show has been about violence and death (and how clearly hollow the experience of actually killing Renna is for Egwene) that the show will take the plank of 'she deserved to die- but killing her did not undo everything you went through or heal you'. Which, again makes sense both Egwene's oncoming Aiel arc, and the fact that the books do spend a lot of time focusing on Egwene working through the trauma of her captivity.

The arches are another thing I've come around on after initial trepidation about their changes. I think each manages to still cut at the heart of Nynaeve's character arc and her struggles. The last one was my biggest concern, the shift from Nynaeve deliberately rejecting a perfect life with Lan for the sake of going back for the other Emond's Fielders to Nynaeve going back after realizing that such a life lived with Lan, as much as it might give her joy for a time, would still be hollow in the end. She can't turn her back on the struggles of the world and her friends without consequence- she can't just go back to life in the Two Rivers. She has to keep fighting for what she loves.

I think the choice itself also works when put in the context of the steady removal of Nynaeve's charges one by one. She thinks Rand is dead (and is probably blaming herself for his death as pops up in her interaction with Tam), Mat ran off, and Perrin is safe with the Shinearans. Her main charge left is Egwene- and hering that she's not helping Egwene but hurting her, overshadowing her- removes the final reason she really had for being at the White Tower, staying on the adventure. If the people she left home to save don't need her- then why is she there?

I continue to really think people are over hyping how bad the show supposedly makes Siuan look- my friends despite being largely uninitiated in the book series immediately groked that Siuan and Moiraine where just doing what they felt was right, in a complicated situation. They both are trying to save the world, and they love each other- but the world is more important.

Moiraine also brings a lot of the trouble on herself by not telling Siuan she was stilled and damaging the trust between them- leaving that detail out is the first crack in Siuan's ability to trust Moiraine still be honest with her, her partner in all this, and then her seeming to have either lied or regained that power, right at the moment she's allied with Lanfear, is the final blow any hope they where still standing together.

Despite stopping frequently to talk at even minor moments, we ran through almost the entire finale without pausing and then collectively all just sat there speechless. Man is the battle of Falme and everything around it so good.

Quote one of my friends re: Moghiden "Oh she's a little freak."

Also shout out to Lanfear for making one of my MLM friends doubt his sexuality with her 'short hair pirate t shirt look'.

That entire scene in the dream world bedroom cased a collective meltdown and one of my other friends to say 'oh I see why you where insane about this'

The effects continue to be killer throughout the season and god I can't wait to see season 3.

#WoT #WoT On PRime #Wheel of Time #Wheel of Time on Prime #WoT s2 #Wheel of Time s2 #I have more thoughts but I saving some of them for metas #I really REALLY want to talk about Lanfear's manipulation techniques and do a compare-contrast with her in the book and the show

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 5 months

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Dying Light [Chapter Two] Room to Breathe [Bi-Han/Sub-Zero]

A/n: I want to thank everyone for the lovely support and kind words going into the first chapter. I appreciate it so much.

Warning(s): dread, female reader, arranged marriage trope, Bi-Han being Bi-Han, breakdown, overwhelmed reader, tears.

Taglist: @genesiswrld @cherryblossomly @dilf-destroyer-04 @louis2gobrrn @umbransister

No Minors Allowed!!

The sweet and earthy aroma of dumplings and oven-baked flatbread reminds you that breakfast is near. For the first time, you are dreading it.

Though it is a surprise to you, when you wander into the dining room, that Bi-Han is not among your immediate family. He must have chosen to eat alone. This you take comfort in, however, your parents and their gauging stares, do not make the dread stirring inside you disappear.

You sit on the opposite side of the table in front of your mother and before long, the servants bring out a small spread of breakfast foods; congee, eggs, dumplings, and a variety of flat breads. You awkwardly fill your plate and begin to eat, grimacing as a stab of pain from your busted lip suddenly overtakes you.

The minor injuries that you sustained from the previous day's spar look much worse today. A bruise is slowly developing across your cheek and chest, and the split in your lip looks raw; an eyesore that your mother points out.

“You do not look well, daughter,” she mentions.

“It looks worse than it feels,” you assure her.

It is the high price of making your clan look good, nothing more.

Eating in silence, you witness a strange look your mother gives your father. You raise a brow.

“Is there something wrong?”

Your father hums. He takes a moment to drink his tea before he answers, clearing his throat.

“Due to unpredicted circumstances, I can not show Bi-Han to the training court today. It was his wish to watch our fighters train.”

That is unfortunate, you reckon. You sigh. So he is sold on this merger after all.

“It will do you some good to bond with your husband-to-be,” your mother states, cutting in. “Show him the compound.”

Is she serious? You give your father a curious look, but he merely nods, agreeing with her. As much as you want to decline, you know that it is unwise.

“I will take him.”

Your mother grins proudly.

“I am pleased to hear that. Bi-Han took an interest in you.”

Did he? You glance at your father.

“What did he say?”

“He was irked that I did not tell him prior about your capability with magic, but overall, he was curious about you.”

Even so, you are not sure what to make of this. What it means in the grander scheme of things is that you are not as insignificant as he had thought. Still, your future with Bi-Han is hazy. What will he expect of you now? You are not sure you want to know.

“Where is he?” You ask with a sigh.

“The servants prepared him a room in the eastern wing of the house. He should be there, having breakfast,” your mother answers.

Then there is no need to rush him. You take your time to eat, and then when you are done, you sigh in apprehension.

Might as well get this over with.

Excusing yourself from the table, you wait for permission, then you stand and walk toward the front door. The Eastern wing is easier to get to via the inner courtyard, so you leave the main house and walk to the entrance.

Normally, the Eastern wing is where the fighters reside; the Western wing houses the servants and their families. So it is no surprise to you when you approach the far end of the wing that several Lin Kuei assassins are on guard. You wander past them with no problem, but you can feel their eyes burning holes into you.

Approaching the door to Bi-Han’s room, you knock softly. A moment later, he permits you to enter, and you do so hesitantly.

The said Grandmaster is seated at a low table in the center of the room. His breakfast has been eaten, leaving nothing but a steaming kettle of tea in front of him. However, the thing that draws your attention is that Bi-Han is without his mask. His angular face and sharp features, despite his obvious scowl, are attractive qualities.

“Is there something you want?”

His tone makes you frown. You avert your eyes.

“My father was meant to escort you to the training court, but unforeseen preparations have delayed him. He asked that I do it instead.”

Bi-Han hums. He takes a drink from his cup and then stands, brushing off his loose-fitting robe.

“Let us go.”

Without a word, you leave the room and lead him from the Eastern wing to the inner courtyard on the Southwestern side of the compound. The court is on the far end of the wing in a square-shaped field.

Standing off to the side near the inner wall, you wait in silence next to Bi-Han as he spectates. The fighters are in sync, practicing kicks and punches as a teacher orders them. Your master is off to the side, watching in satisfaction as her style is passed on.

You can not fathom her pride, though perhaps one day you will know what it feels like if you have students of your own.

That is not a guaranteed possibility anymore.

Not after you marry Bi-Han.

You turn your eyes to him and take in his curious expression as he watches. When he catches you unexpectedly, his brows knit. You sigh.

“It is nearly time for them to spar.”

This is awkward. You do not know how you are meant to bond with a man so high-handed and reserved. What do you even talk about? Fighting? Your interests? You scoff. Of course not.

“It is no concern of mine your inner protests,” Bi-Han states. “However, they are irksome.”

You tighten your jaw. This man is exhausting.

“It was not my intention to involve you in them.”

“Speak your mind,” he orders.

For someone not concerned, he is rather curious. You can not help your irritation.

“I'm sure there are far better clans to merge with.”

“But none so willing,” Bi-Han states without a moment of hesitation.

He is right about that. You can not be mad about something true. Though, you do not have to agree with it.

“I don't share my parent's sentiments.”

Bi-Han turns his eyes to you and then averts them. Whatever he has on his mind, he does not share. After a moment, he crosses his arms and hums.

“It is a shame to waste potential like your masters. She would benefit the Lin Kuei.”

You hum, feeling less annoyed. Looking across the field at your master, you frown.

“Time has a way of weakening us all. Passing our teachings onto others is what keeps our principles alive. She is at peace knowing that her martial arts will live on.”

“You learned from her, did you not?”

You nod.

“How to fight, yes. When I was a child. She saw potential in me that I did not…and she was right.”

“Your clan does not seem to know magic, yet you wield it. Did her teachings help you to utilize your chi?”

You recall her telling you about this. Humans can learn magic, but it takes concentration and special training; the likes that she is not capable of.

Is it really that impressive to Bi-Han? You feel almost elated by this.

Reaching down to your side, you grab the amulet and allow him to take a closer look at it.

“My magic comes from this. There is a tale that derived from my clan about a sorceress from Outworld, it is the reason we know of it. The tale goes that she put her magic essence into the amulet and came here to aid a warrior, one she foresaw would rise to be a great champion.”

“And you are this prophesied one?” Bi-Han asks with a skeptical look.

You snort. No, you do not think you are.

“I'm no great champion, but I was able to utilize its magic better than anyone before me, so until someone comes along who better uses it, I will remain the owner of the Amulet of Damashi.”

“I have not heard of this Damashi,” Bi-Han states with a raised brow. “How does it work?”

You honestly have no idea, and even if you did, there are some secrets better left unsaid. Opting to remind your soon-to-be husband about this, the sound of someone addressing you by name halts you.

Your father offers you a pleased look.

“I thought you were delayed, Father.”

He hums.

“I have done all I can for today, so I am here to relieve you.”

It was not as bad as you had expected, though it could have been better. You smile.

“Then I will join the others.”

“Before you do, there is an important matter your mother needs to speak with you about. She is in the dining room,” your father tells you.

What is the important matter? You are curious. Turning your eyes to Bi-Han you offer him a polite smile.

“Please excuse me. We will continue this conversation later.”

Bi-Han agrees with a brief nod.

Hastily, you saunter back across the courtyard to the main house, forcing the awkward events of the day to the back of your mind. There are much more important matters at hand.

As said, your mother awaits your company.

“Sit for a moment,” she orders while motioning in front of her.

As you eagerly do so, she sets a scroll out on the table and unfolds it. You raise a curious brow.

“This is your marital contract,” she discloses. “It was written and signed by your father and the former Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei many years ago.”

You were not aware that there was a contract made. It makes sense though. Written, it is certified, not merely a verbal agreement.

“What does it entail?” You ask curiously.

“That our two families are to become one. A list of stipulations was written, but that does not concern you,” she answers. “What does, is the upcoming ceremony, which will take place tomorrow afternoon.”

Tomorrow. Is she serious? That is too sudden.

“That…doesn't follow tradition,” you state.

Your mother frowns.

“Not entirely no, but times have changed. And at least some of the etiquettes have been fulfilled. We received the Betrothal Letter many years ago. The former Grandmaster came to us with the proposal and yesterday your father set the date with Bi-Han over tea.”

So he knew. He agreed for the ceremony to be so soon. You honestly feel a bit overwhelmed. It's like the walls are closing in on you bit by bit.

“I am not ready for this,” you admit.

What happened to a fair warning?

“Leave the preparations to me. While it is last minute, I have it under control,” your mother states.

She almost sounds eager, but preparations are not what concerns you.

“I…I need a moment to think.”

Your mother sighs.

“This ceremony is taking place nonetheless, so have your moment, but as of tomorrow, you will need to put aside your issue for the sake of the clan.”

You tighten your jaw. This sake of the clan nonsense is getting on your last nerve. All it boils down to is the comfort of your parents as they sign over their future and yours.

Standing, you storm out of the room and to the balcony overlooking the garden. As soon as you are alone, your control crumbles.

“Perhaps you should marry him if you are so damn desperate. Does what I feel not matter? Do I not matter?”

Angry tears sting your eyes, turning the world into a saturated blur.

You growl in frustration. Despite wanting to take your frustrations out on something, you force yourself to calm down, sitting on your knees in the doorway.

I can't do this to myself, not now. I have to be strong.

With an uneasy sigh, you wipe the tears from your face.

“It's fine. I'm fine,” you tell yourself.

It's a lie.

The truth is you are tired and angry of being made to feel unimportant despite trying your best to take control of your life.

Tomorrow you might feel better - you doubt it - but as of tonight, you just need to be alone.

#mortal kombat fandom #bi han x reader #female reader insert #mortal kombat fanfiction #arranged marriage au #pre-mortal kombat 1 #bi han mk1 #mortal kombat 1 fanfiction

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gatzilksis-2 · 6 months

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Recent true fart experience #1:

My boyfriend and I went on a road trip to a city a few hours away. I still haven't told him about my fetish. He hasn't farted around me much, only in his sleep or by accident a couple times.

His friends are all guys, and the group talks about the farts of two friends in particular. I'll call them D & L. D looks like a chubby, hairy Hobbit, with a beard and round glasses. L is tall and fit, pale with pretty eyes, light brown hair, and a very nice ass. (My boyfriend knows I find him hot.)

This road trip included myself, my boyfriend, D, L, and my boyfriend's other two friends (who I don't really care for). Two of us to each vehicle, so no farts on the way.

The first thing we did was a music museum. The two friends I don't like drifted off while myself, my boyfriend, D, and L stayed together. We were in a dark room of the museum when I smelled a powerful fart. I looked up to see D and L covering their laughter.

"Who did it?" My boyfriend asked.

L raised his hand while D pointed at him. I'd always heard bigger asses made better farts. This was apparently true of L.

We all met up to eat halfway through the museum, going outside to a barbecue food truck. D and L, ever in sync, both got pulled pork sandwiches with pickles.

L finished first, then D finished and stood, stepping to the edge of the table with his butt facing the open air. He sighed, and his gas was caught by a breeze. I learned D's farts smelled somewhat like breakfast sausage, while L's were more sour and green. The whole table hollered at the unexpected wave of stink. D said, "I was trying to do it away from the table!"

We commenced the museum exploration, ending in the massive gift shop with too many souvenir options. My boyfriend had to use the restroom, so I stayed with D and L. As we walked through the gift shop, I found myself cropdusted, multiple farts layered on top of each other, following behind L. When we stopped to look at shirts, D whistled and pushed up his glasses. "That pork got ya, huh?"

We got done at the museum and left, separating to our different vehicles to head to the hotel.

We checked into the hotel and brought our stuff in. The six of us boarded the elevator, my boyfriend joking that we'd be too heavy for it. When it went up, L made his own joke, "Six big guys in an elevator after barbecue. What could go wrong?"

No one farted, unfortunately. Not in the elevator, at least. As soon as we got into the room, L farted across the suite, and D responded with his own short quack.

"Not already!" yelled one of the ones I don't like. Party pooper.

"I might have to shit." L paced to the bathroom, shutting the door and turning the fan on. The rest of us unpacked and arranged our stuff. L came out with a hand on his little pudgy belly. "False alarm. Just echoing farts in the bowl."

I laughed with the rest of them.

We left the hotel, again separately, this time for mini-golf where they brought you alcohol and food. We were on teams, split the same way as the vehicles. D took one of his turns, L standing beside him. Again, a fart was caught on the wind.

"Aw, who was that?" asked the other one I don't like, fanning his nose.

I blurted that it was D, because I knew exactly how his farts smelled. Everyone had a signature.

"How'd you know?" D asked me.

I played it cool and shrugged. "I guessed."

The alcohol came, and then the food. L ordered extreme nachos while D ordered a huge flatbread pizza. L was done with his first and threw back his beer. "That'll be bad later."

"Gee, I can't wait to sleep next to you," said D with heavy sarcasm.

"You know you love it," L teased D. Isn't it just awesome when great farters say shit like that?

We left mini-golf late and returned to the hotel to work out sleeping arrangements. My boyfriend and I took the pullout couch, only a couple feet removed from the bed of D and L.

The two I didn't like were in the other bed, all the way across the room. As soon as we were all in bed, L threw the covers off himself and cranked out a huge fart. Everyone laughed, until D smelled it and yelled "Oh God!" in a laughing manner.

The smell reached me, the same as L's prior farts but accentuated by the loaded nachos and beer. "Damn!"

"That sounded wet," chuckled D.

"I promise it's dry," said L.

There was a long lull of silence, covering several minutes. L flipped over in the bed and pushed his nice ass up in the air. He ripped another loud one, several seconds long.

"Oh no!" D's giggle made me laugh.

The second fart layered over the first.

"You're gonna suffocate us!" whined one of the other ones. He was joking, but ugh. You know? "This room already isn't big enough for six pairs of lungs."

Nerd.

"Here you go." D flipped over in the bed, ass pointed at L. His fart came out in three little parps.

"Can we go to sleep?" asked the other boring one.

"We're gonna knock each other out." L chuckled and slapped D a high-five.

"Very mature," Mr. Boring replied.

There was a long period with almost no noise. I usually fell asleep to a TV, but the boring twins requested silence.

A sudden fart made me jump, and L was laughing again. My boyfriend was snoring, the others were quiet, and D and I quietly laughed.

In the morning, I woke to the smell of L's morning shit emanating from the bathroom.

And unfortunately, we went home separately. I haven't seen D and L since, but they're my boyfriend's best friends so I'll definitely see them more. Hoping for more gas 🤞

#eproctophilia #farts #gatzilksis #eprocto #fart kink #flatulence #fart fiction #fart stories #male fart fiction #male fart stories

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gothhabiba · 6 months

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hello I am one of those people for whom coriander tastes like soap. depending on the thing I'm making/my feeling on the day I usually swap coriander for mint or parsley (not bc they taste similar really but just because they produce something different that is nice) but I was wondering if you had any other suggestions I might not have thought of. my aim isn't really to replace coriander taste but just to make my tongue happy so I'm pretty open

for sure you can't go wrong with mint or parsley. I would probably favor mint in Indian dishes and parsley in most Mediterranean dishes (Moroccans, for example, consider both cilantro and parsley in the same category of "greens" "rbi3," and when they say "rbi3" it could mean either one or a combination of both).

for a similar flavor to cilantro, if you're willing to go to a speciality store:

Vietnamese coriander (rau răm, Vietnamese mint) gives the citrusy, peppery taste of cilantro, but isn't botanically related. people with soap gene report no soap effect from this herb.

culantro may or may not produce the same soapy effect--it depends on the person. you might chuse to find some and try it. it would work as a substitute for cilantro, but here are some recipes that explicitly call for culantro.

other leafy herbs to consider for general use:

dill (mix with spinach, green onion, mint, parsley, and cumin as a stuffing for an herb flatbread; blend or pulverise and mix with mayonnaise and spices to make a salad dressing; mix with mint and parsley and add to falafel batter)

Vietnamese fish mint and other southeast Asian herbs. if you have an Asian grocery store near you, go and see what they have, especially in the spring and summer. (they may also have culantro, "ngo gai.")

a south Asian grocery store may have fresh or frozen fenugreek leaves (this is the same plant whose seeds constitute the spice fenugreek). they're mild, slightly bitter, and slightly sweet.

dried ukazi (or "okazi" or "afang") leaves will give a peppery, bitter, earthy taste to soups and stews. you may be able to find some at an African speciality store.

#Anonymous #questions #faq

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eluvisen · 3 months

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The Bear and the Barbarian

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3

Characters: Karlach/f!Tav

Rating: M

After unleashing nature’s wrath on the goblin camp, Rhodeia struggles to return from the violence she inflicted. Karlach helps.

Notes: Written for Femslash February 2024. Prompt: chose violence.

—

Lost in her wildshape, the killing is easy. Easier than it’s ever been as Rhodeia rides the rush of battle-tides, losing herself in the current. Fire and blood spill across defiled stone until there’s no roar left but echoes off the crumbling walls and she doubles over, panting. A red string of saliva drips from her mouth to the floor.

With every breath, she becomes aware of the flagstones under her paws. The wet stickiness coating her claws. But the shape of them feels wrong, too short and too blunt, and it takes several tortured seconds to realise her paws are no longer paws at all.

“Soldier.”

A creak of leather, and a pair of knees sink into her field of vision, accompanied by a wave of heat. The infernal reek beats against her, crisping the air with an unnatural acrid tang. Some animal instinct as deep as the earth beneath the temple floor needs to attack, but her claws are bloodied nails once more, and she can only gasp as black spots roll across her eyes.

“Come on. Focus on me. That’s it. Battle’s over, in case you couldn’t tell. But you probably can, since you changed back.”

Her vision is dim, greyed at the edges. Distant noises roll in like a tide, and she twitches at a nearby laugh. Voices. The crackle of flames, and a closer heat against her face. She heaves in breath after breath, the air clawing the back of her throat. The pain brings her back, just a little.

Rhodeia manages, “Karlach?”

“Ey! She speaks! Good news, soldier: we won, and now there are hot baths in our imminent futures. Or a dip in a cold stream, rather, which is almost as good.” Karlach’s voice lowers. “Come on, now. On your feet, soldier. No baths for you if you don’t.”

With one hand planted on her knee, Rhodeia pushes herself upright. The dimensions of her body feel wrong—too narrow, too contained. Cold air on furless skin.

“That’s it, soldier. You can do it.”

A final push, and Rhodeia makes it to her feet. Just. Beside her, Karlach rises to her full height with far less wobbling despite the bruises and streaks of blood marring her skin. Rhodeia scans the temple courtyard, but the bear hasn’t quite left her yet; her gaze snaps towards every nearby sound, searching for threats. Lae’zel brings her blade down on a not-quite-dead goblin while Shadowheart cleans her mace with a sneer at a defiled statue of Selûne. The others similarly move through the tides of the dead, pilfering trinkets and slitting throats. Halsin stands gore-streaked in the moonlight, his hands and chin gloved in red. Rhodeia supposes she looks much the same.

She blinks, and they’re a safe distance from the temple ruins. At some point they must have stopped to make camp, and she watches from somewhere beyond her body as they wash away the blood and seal their wounds. Something squeaks nearby, and she realises her eyes have focused on a bat hovering above Halsin’s hands. With a final murmur from him, the bat takes flight, speeding in the direction of the Emerald Grove. Firelight glimmers off its wings, and then it disappears into the gloom.

Rhodeia is vaguely aware of a chunk of flatbread being shoved into her hand. Maybe she eats it. Maybe she doesn’t. When she rises to her feet, the bread is gone and the warm crackle of the fire has faded behind her. Overhead, the forest canopy shivers and peels apart like unwinding fingers, offering precious silver glimpses of the distant sky where all of Selûne’s grace shines down from her pale, full cheek. Perhaps she’s pleased by the slaughter.

Rhodeia passes through the trees until the foliage drops away, revealing a small creek that winds through the night-silvered forest, gurgling in its gravel bed. The sound makes her teeth itch.

She finds a place to sit. The trees aren’t particularly tall—certainly nothing like the old growth of the deep forest she calls home—but here they loom like living shadows. They stand over her in a silent guard, shivering above while she shivers below. The unfamiliar shape of them leaves her feeling small. Isolated.

Something moves in the underbrush, and she tenses until she sees dim orange light reflecting off leaves and tree trunks in a phantom blaze. A phantom blaze that’s at real risk of becoming a real blaze, but Karlach navigates towards the creekbed with all the care she can muster, and the forest remains blessedly unburnt. She halts a little ways away, and Rhodeia recognises Karlach’s wolf-wariness, head half-cocked and feet light. The yellow glow of her eyes fix on Rhodeia.

“Hey, soldier.” She scuffs one boot in the gravel as the rocks heat and sizzle “Thought you might want some company.”

[Read on AO3]

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #karlach #karlach cliffgate #bg3 karlach #karlach x tav #druid tav #rhodeia whitebloom #femslash february #femslashfeb2024 #writing #blood cw #violence cw

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wheretosearchforsnow · 4 months

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Destiel in Season 4 and 5 of Supernatural and Death of God

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s well-known phrase “God is dead,” introducing the idea of the missing God, laid the foundation for one of the most important topics in the 20th century Existentialist Movement. The possibility of God’s non-existence means that everything that is possible to happen can happen, and if everything is allowed, how can man choose? How can man know how to live? If everything is allowed, can there be we define right from wrong?

Such questions are asked on Supernatural, with the character Castiel first appearing at the end of the first episode in the fourth season, which marked the series’ introduction of Christian mythology as a central them ever since. Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, initially shows complete devotion to God and identifies as servant of heaven:

CASTIEL: We have no choice. DEAN: Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers? CASTIEL: Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just. SAM: How can you even say that? CASTIEL: Because it comes from heaven, that makes it just. - 4.07 It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

This argument on the morality behind the act of “purifying a city” or “taking one thousand two hundred fourteen lives” between Castiel and the Winchesters is not dissimilar with Danish theologian Søren Kierkegaard’s discussion on Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac. When Abraham was told that as a result of God's will that he must sacrifice his son Isaac, he was in a kind of either-or. If the message is genuinely from God, then he must sacrifice Isaac and it is the right thing to do; but if the message is not from God, then he would be committing what would be the very worst possible crime judged on the basis of Abraham's own view of human ethics.

The dichotomy here, between Castiel’s and Dean’s rationales, is that while the former believes there is a God and God and religion (in other words, heaven’s plan for earth) are the most important things, and man must do nothing but obey heaven’s command, the latter insists that there is no God and it is for man to take the total burden of responsibility for the world and for himself upon his own shoulders, with no one to give him any sign.

Though the former seems to suggest a lack of agency or necessity for decision making in moral judgement, as the plot unfolds, we see Castiel demonstrate a sense of uncertainty, the very secret he voices in the conversation with Dean in the episode’s epilogue.

CASTIEL: I’m not a… hammer as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t. - 4.07 It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

This mirrors Kierkegaard’s Abraham in his questions on God’s will. Indeed, how is one to know whether the command is from God or not? If an angel speaks to him, how does Abraham know it's not a hallucination? And if God himself speaks, how is Abraham, or Castiel, to know whether this is really God or whether the command is their own inward evil wishes? Nobody but Abraham, or Castiel, can decide and they cannot tell within his life whether he has done the right thing or not.

Perhaps it is this introspective nature in Castiel that draws him close to Dean, the human in his charge, and by implication humanity. Dean, a firm non-believer and what many, including himself, perceive to be as farthest from being servant of God as possible, detests the idea of God even in face of angels walking the earth.

DEAN: God? CASTIEL: Yes. DEAN: God. CASTIEL: Yes! He isn't in heaven. He has to be somewhere. DEAN: Try New Mexico. I hear he's on a tortilla. CASTIEL: No, he's not on any flatbread. DEAN: Listen, Chuckles, even if there is a God, he is either dead—and that's the generous theory— CASTIEL: He is out there, Dean. DEAN: —or he's up and kicking and doesn't give a rat's ass about any of us. CASTIEL glares. DEAN: I mean, look around you, man. The world is in the toilet. We are literally at the end of days here, and he's off somewhere drinking booze out of a coconut. All right? - 5.02 Good God, Y'all

Dean has no intention of trying to prove that God does not exist, as one cannot prove a negative, but the very specific objection to the traditional concept of God above parallels with the simple objection in many existentialists work that is based upon the injustice of the universe. Albert Camus has given this same type of criticism in his novel, "The Plague", in which the priest, Padalu, confesses that he is not able to understand how there can be any justification so that even eternal paradise could cancel out the sufferings here on earth of one innocent child. Why, Deans asks, if God is all powerful, does man have to suffer? If God is merciful, then how can he sentence man, any man at all to eternal damnation?

There is an optimistic side to this. As the repetitive occurrence of the term “free will” on this show suggests, if God exists, man is nothing; but if God does not exist, then man is free to choose what he wants to make himself. But for Castiel to arrive at this destination, it first takes him to undergo a two-season long crisis.

ANNA: What do you want from me, Castiel? CASTIEL: I'm considering disobedience. ANNA nods. ANNA: Good. CASTIEL: No, it isn't. For the first time, I feel... ANNA: It gets worse. Choosing your own course of action is confusing, terrifying. ANNA puts her hand on CASTIEL's shoulder. He looks at it; she drops it. ANNA: That's right. You're too good for my help. I'm just trash. A walking blasphemy. ANNA turns to walk away. CASTIEL: Anna. ANNA stops. CASTIEL: I don't know what to do. Please tell me what to do. ANNA turns back. ANNA: Like the old days? No. I'm sorry. It's time to think for yourself. - 4.16 On the Head of a Pin

If God isn’t out there, then Castiel has nowhere to turn. This dreadful realization may best be articulated through Hazel Barnes’ analogy that as if one would try to judge a Ford car without any Mr. Ford. So long as there is a Mr. Ford or one of his agents, then one has a model, one has a blueprint and one can say that the car which is coming there off the assembly line is a perfect Ford or an imperfect Ford. But without a plan, one cannot judge a car, and without God, there is no plan for Castiel and there is no final point of reference by which he can judge his values, or right or wrong, or declare that he has lived up to his possibilities or not lived up to his possibilities.

Yet despite “choosing your own course of action” being “confusing, terrifying,” Castiel is not in total despair. Dean, the human equivalent of the burden of a self-creative life, provides reference for Castiel on how to live a life as if there were no God. I have concluded thus that in the context of existentialism Castiel seeks Dean and humanity for answers and view them as his destination.

Note: this article is MOSTLY arguments in Hazel Barnes’ Self Encounter 2: The Far Side of Despair.

#destiel #supernatural #spn #castiel #dean winchester #existentialism #cas meta #dean meta

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talenlee · 10 months

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Speaking In Mangled Tongues

I don’t talk right.

I mean I talk in a way that has obvious incorrect ideas in it. My idioms, my reference frame, even the ways I engage a newcomer into my life, these are all things that I feel, in a very pronounced way, are weird and wrong.

I am blessed in that now I’m old enough that I just seem eccentric, or old fashioned, or, to my students, some boring old guy. I’ve passed the time when people my own age can hear the way I speak and think ‘hey, there’s something wrong there.’ I’m also lucky in that I don’t seem to look my age, which means people my own age talk to me and think I’m just weird and young, and people younger than me have no idea if I’m five or ten years older than them.

I have been out of fundamentalist christianity for twenty years. Doesn’t matter. The effect is still there. The effect is not a byproduct of doing things in a Christian way, but rather the result of my developmental period being limited to socially conversing with about ten people who were almost all the same age as me, and almost all as limited in their experiences as me.

Our way of speaking was simplified, our poetry was dulled, our grasp of language and rhythm and meter were all deliberately contained and curtailed. I don’t know how to dance and I struggle with clapping in time with music, I am uncertain of how to even describe the way I sing or the way music works, because these words, in a period where I was building the foundations of meaning in language, were all kept from me.

We’d repeat lines from TV, over and over, but we’d only be able to do that with the TV shows that were acceptable, that our teacher didn’t ban from hearing us say. We wouldn’t hear pop music of the day, except in tiny excerpts, at places like the supermarket. The idiom and language we learned therefore mostly was imprinted with references from our adult peers, and they were deliberately stifling us. I grew up delivering the jokes of the Rocky and Bullwinkle and The Goon Show affect, but didn’t watch or participate in the common public life of my age. I learned rhetoric presentation from the preachers in my family, I learned the way you pace and build and demonstrate a point.

It’s something of an embarrassing story, but I feel more it should be embarrassing to my family than to myself, but I learned about sexual reproduction not from my parents nor from school, but from reading an expanded dictionary and looking up every single thing I could until I had a working model. That working model had to then be interpreted onto some extremely dubious source material.

This creates a corpus of reference, of performance of language that is equal parts highly technical language pronounced wrong, a melange of calliopes, dated references that predate my entire birth, and playful words from childish source material, like the actual text of Alice In Wonderland. The whole mix means that a lot of my conversation, certainly in those early days, was not so much about talking to someone and sharing ideas or getting answers to questions, but to perform at people, to present in a way that got focus, so you could convey your position.

By the way, don’t be surprised to learn it’s also racist. Accents completely confounded me growing up. We had some neighbours from down the street whose names I remember, who invited us to their home and shared curry and rice and flatbread with us, and about whom I know almost nothing but their names and maybe that they were from Pakistan. I know they were nice and I know we dressed up nice to visit them and I know we went to them once and never again thereafter. I do not remember a single word they said to me and I do not understand anything but their names, and that isn’t because I was very, very young, it’s because when I try to remember what they said, what comes out is tone, and a sort of sloppy, choppy half-way handling of language. My memory can only remember those two people saying their names.

It wasn’t like they spoke to us in Urdu, I just had no idea how to process a thick accent at that age. Or later. It took me decades to build even a familiarity with grammar structures outside of my extremely normalised experience.

This isn’t built out of, by the way, glossalalia – not speaking in tongues. We didn’t truck with that in my church. In fact, those people, we could tell, obviously, were all faking it. Some of them claimed to be possessed, but they so obviously weren’t, that was silly. We could tell that there was something nonsense about that, so we didn’t do that. Of course, we also only read the King James Bible, which meant that that corpus got to form an underpinning for how we made points, how we were compelling; we quoted scripture at one another, meaning that particular manner of speech was the way good points were made.

The way my way of speaking is composed is so obvious — to me — as impersonations of media forms. Finding my own voice, finding my own identity, is so fucking difficult. Even writing as much as I do, as often as I do, I still have these moments of you got that joke from Douglas Adams or didn’t you copy that from Yahtzee?

I was a teenager who knew the word unctuous and cephalaphore but didn’t know what motherfucker meant.

And that’s part of why I love The Locked Tomb so much HAH bet you didn’t expect that to show up here. Look, the main characters of Gideon the Ninth are essentially, two of the most homeschooled fundamentalists you’re going to see without uh, meeting people like me. But instead of making the story sad and miserable because of that, the Locked Tomb books instead decide to make sure that story is focused on cool sword fights and creepy magic rather than, like, the trauma of being locked in a small wooden box and punished for looking at the sky. That particular way of talking Gideon’s narrative voice has, which is able to be sophisticated enough to know the term liquescent, while also base and childish enough to refer to galumphing down bread. And that’s of course, setting aside that ‘galumph’ is a word I knew out of nowhere, because it’s a word my dad uses, because it was used widely on radio programs across Commonwealth nations in the 1950s and 1960s including as part of an ad campaign to refer to when a character arrived quickly.

Yeah, random tumblr user, complaining about galumph. I’m coming for you.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#The Locked Tomb #Fundie Stuff

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dathomirdumpsterfire · 4 months

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Chat writes the plot! Time for more 👑🐲🐟 KotD!

🔥🔥 don't forget to reblog tysm! 🔥🔥

Want to be on the tag list? -> Comment with 'tag me!' Have an idea for next chapter or clicked the wrong option? -> Reblog about it! Check the bottom for the Ao3 link. Latest chapter is below the cut!🔥

~King of the Dragonfish: Chapter 19 ~

Never has he faced such a challenge as this, but, as a sith of his caliber, Maul could do nothing else besides rise to the occasion. As with any test of skill or resolve, this new challenge was merely a hurdle to be overcome. Failure was not an option.

That he was fighting the ocean and sky itself bore little significance in the matter.

He would fight. He would endure.

Heaving through his gills for more air, and dizzy from strain, the dragonfish sith swims deeper into the seas off the coast of Theed. Between his webbed, widespread fingers is a bubble of air, and inside that bubble of air is a loaf of bread.

Most of Maul's spoils from this latest venture to the surface were gathered in the appropriated cloth bag streaming behind him, hung from his shoulder.

The tea leaves he was able to find double sealed within a tin. Lemons too, contained in only their rind. The honey, in a rippled orb that had partially bent in on itself under the pressure, remained viable. There was a discarded tea pot in his… collections that would serve for production.

Maul even, even, had a block of butter tucked away in the bag, though the surface was bound to be extra salted by the time he made it, so to speak. He had everything necessary to keep his promise, and, nearly everything in place to secure the possibility of a repeat.

The loaf situation, however, was proving to be extremely vexing.

He swims slow, jaw clenched, and fights his way forward while holding steady the ball of low pressure air around bread sample number seven. Surrounding that orb, he holds a dome of force that keeps back the physical presence of the sea.

Darth Maul would bring ‘bread not drowned in salt water’ back to his caves. Not a dough ball, not a wet mess, and absolutely not nothing.

He would.

He does.

The sith lord has a trickle of blood running from his nose, but he makes it to his home and into the air pockets therein with one breadloaf, unwatered, and still relatively fluffed.

“...what in the blazes happened to you?” his prisoner mutters from the bed, hazy eyed and buried under sail cloth.

Maul licks the blood away from his upper lip, and carefully brings his hard won token over with him. He curls himself downward at the edge of the bed, still fixated on the object held suspended between his hands.

“Does-” he starts, struggling to speak and hold it at the same time, “flat bread count as bread?”

Slightly glassy blue eyes stare at him, then look at the floating carbohydrates, then squint a bit at him… it takes the sickened jedi a solid minute to put together what was happening.

Kenobi groans into the arm under his cheek. “Are you using the force to keep plain white bread from collapsing into a bloody pita due to atmospheric pressure, because you want another kiss? Is that what's happening here?”

Maul growls, forcing out, “answer. the. question.”

“You're bleeding,” the witless man comments.

“Jedi.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Kenobi capitulates. “Flatbread will do, good grief. Please stop.”

Carefully, Maul releases his hold on the density of molecules between his fingers, holding in a moan of relief. Perhaps he'd pushed himself a bit much, all things considered. He had not done such a technical working in the force since… before.

Maul lets the energy fall away from the rapidly condensing loaf, leaving it to settle while he instead focuses on reclaiming air and ignoring the tinnitus echoing around his skull. He slouches, forearms on the side of the bed to hold him up.

A hand lands on his head, cupping the side of it. The sith looks up to assess the threat, he has to, and stretches himself outward in the force…

...but the touch is light, and it's intention lighter still. The dragonfish sith can feel Kenobi’s exasperation and… and these other things he has no name for.

Fingers stroke the skin between his horns, and he droops.

The contrast between the strenuous effort to get here, and the warm greeting that welcomed him back… the dichotomy makes the welcome all the better.

Maul sloughs off the shoulder bag and pushes himself upward and closer until he's on the bed too. Though the sith is not sure he likes the squish of the mattress, he very much likes the pliant, sleep-warm jedi in the bed. All other factors could be disregarded.

“...bother,” Kenobi mumbles.

“I intend to, yes,” Maul agrees, lifting the sail cloth out of the way until he can get close enough to spoon the other man against his front.

The jedi doesn't even quibble about it.

Perhaps there is some merit to letting Kenobi get himself sick by being foolish, if this compliant lethargy was the result.

“You're cold,” the man complains.

“Then warm me up,” Maul suggests, smirking as he wipes stray blood off his face with the back of a wrist.

His prisoner makes an aggravated noise, “must you crowd me like this?”

Maul answers that question by running his hand down the front of the body he is curled around, finding that which he'd like to have, and cupping it.

Kenobi swallows with a click.

The dragonfish sith presses no further, settling in to rest right where he is for a while. Maul is… very tired from getting that bread down here.

Yes, he will take a moment to rest his eyes, indulge in… this.

Then, he will… get up and make…

the tea…

as promised…

He falls asleep without meaning to.

When next Maul opens his eyes, he's on his side, curled around the dwindling heat where his jedi should be.

The sith lifts his head looking for the missing presence. He doesn't have to look far. Kenobi has stolen back his clothing, and sits on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except boots. The dented pot Maul had thought to utilize sits over on the magma rock, balanced atop it and giving off a trace of steam.

A crunch sound comes from the other man.

The dragonfish sith perks up curiously, and drags himself over on his arms. He discovers that Kenobi has over-warmed bread like he over-cooks meat, and slathered it with butter. There he sits, looking off into the distance, nibbling his food and sipping on a cup of tea. Maul settles back down beside him.

“You are recovered?” he asks, feeling like perhaps he has not quite done so after fighting the seas.

“Well enough,” Kenobi replies, cuddling with the somewhat damaged but still functional teacup from the stacks.

Maul hums with self satisfaction. “Tea with honey and lemon, as promised. Bread not soaked in sea water, as agreed.”

“Not quite,” the jedi says with a soft laugh, eyes twinkling as he looks over, “limes are not the same thing as lemons.”

The sith makes a face. “The fruit is… wrong?”

Grrrrrr.

“The fruit is wrong,” Kenobi confirms, leaning over to kiss his brow, wiping the wrinkle from it.

Maul blinks, thoroughly confused.

…why is he being rewarded for failure?

“I will find these lemons on my next trip…” Maul stalls out for a moment, then overcomes his pride to ask, “...what is the difference? How are they identified?”

The jedi sighs, finishing off his toast and washing it down with the last of his tea. Then, Maul watches him set the cup down in favor of turning to face him.

“Maul… thank you, for the tea. It was hearting to have, even without the lemon.”

The dragonfish sith squints at the other man, suspicious. Something was… off.

“Yesss,” he agrees slowly.

“Now, we need to discuss- That is to say...” Kenobi sighs, “I really don't know how to approach this, so I suppose I shall just… out with it. You've been strangely accommodating thus far, despite- well.”

Maul rises up onto his palms from where he had settled down, suspicious and listening.

Watery blue eyes meet his, coming closer… closer… Kenobi's hand cups his jaw, so gentle it only raises his hackles more.

“I need a break from the pressure down here, please… if I give you my communication device, and swear to return here of my own volition, just as I relinquished my lightsaber, will you take me to the surface for a while? An afternoon perhaps?”

Maul hisses. Up? The jedi wants to go UP?

Does Kenobi think he is a fool?

“You will run,” the sith accuses, bearing his teeth.

Kenobi shakes his head. “I will not.”

“You will!” he shouts, “do not LIE TO ME!”

“I’ll not try to escape. Not even if master Yoda shows up with my padawan and the best ship in the fleet,” the jedi swears.

Maul snarls, and opens his mouth to begin berating Kenobi, but the man short circuits his rising anger by kissing him. Once, twice, these lingering taste tests that scatter his thoughts, and oh, it is warm and good… but…

The other man chases Maul as he tries to pull away, tries to hold onto his fury. Thrice he is kissed, and again, and on, until the dragonfish sith is on his back once more, the jedi leaned over him, a hand on either side of his head. Down they sink, until he can't see or focus on anything besides Kenobi Kenobi Kenobi…

The jedi tastes of tea and honey. Maul winds claws into beige and brown robes, torn between shoving him off and dragging him in. He gets dizzy quickly, being the focus of so much horrible affection. He… perhaps… makes a noise unbefitting a lord of the sith. Kenobi only gives an encouraging hum in return. Time wanders off, until Maul isn't sure what they were talking about anymore.

Of course, the jedi proceeds to ruin it by reminding him.

“Please, Darth Maul,” the man whispers to him, the cold tip of his nose dragging against Maul's cheek, “Take me up for a little while. I want fresh air and sun. I need a respite from the constant pressure.” Another kiss. “Please.” Another. “I won't leave.”

The sith wraps his arms around the jedi, and drags the man down underneath him. He is not shaking. He is not.

“I will not let you,” he snarls messily into Kenobi’s face. “You are my prisoner! This is my revenge!”

The jedi lays beneath him, compliant and unspeaking, just staring upward with a patient gaze.

He wants to say no, it is a risk, why should he take it? He wants to say yes, he knows it will earn more favor. He wants to claw this wrenched jedi to pieces. He wants to sink inside him and never leave.

“You… you will never leave,” is what finally tears itself from his throat.

“I will not run off if you take me to the surface,” Kenobi agrees mildly.

Maul hisses, and adds, “You will not try to send a message of any kind. You will not see or speak to anyone else. You will not hide from me, or- or-... you will not flee.”

“Yes, you have my word, on all of that, barring accidentally seeing someone else. I can't really control that, you know.”

People? If he saw another person? A lone, lost jedi... they would try to take him, wouldn't they? To save him.

Maul shakes his head, “no… no. You don't need to go, you don't need sun, you are-”

The jedi starts kissing him again, more softness in one go than he's gotten in his entire life, all the while whispering his arguments between them. Somewhere between fingers petting endless circles into his back where skin meets scales, and a pale neck bared willingly to his mouth, Maul loses the fight in a way that felt very similar to winning.

He takes Kenobi to the surface.

Maul does this, despite no small list of reservations, by sharing the air from his lungs and rising slowly through the sea to prevent diver's sickness.

When they surface, it is just after dawn. Maul deposits the jedi on the shore of an island that has all of five coconut trees, a few bushes, some reeds, a smattering of grass, and one large rock. Nothing else.

The dragonfish sith retreats, and begins to make slow, watchful laps of the island with only his eyes above the water line. There's nothing on the horizon in any direction, but surely the jedi can sense the energy that is all the organic life over on the continent where Theed lies. It will make no difference. At the first sign of ship or search, Maul has every intention of snapping up his prisoner and returning to the caves. Should a ship come by air, he will see it. The sky is mostly clear, with only a few scattered clouds, and few have the cloaking capacity of his own vessel.

The sith infiltrator is still his… even if he cannot remember how to fly it.

More importantly! Should a threat begin to approach on the water, he will-

Kenobi is shirtless.

Maul blinks, pulled out of his thoughts as he double takes. The morning sun is shining down on the jedi as he sits on the beach, eating a coconut and sun bathing in nothing but pants. In the bright light, he can make out these faint marks… freckles. They're called freckles, he remembers.

Kenobi is all thin waist and muscular shoulders, peach tones in the sunshine, covered in freckles, with all that soft, coppery hair...

The dragonfish sith continues lapping the little island, now primarily watching it's sole occupant.

After a while, Kenobi finishes his fruit, and starts running through saber forms. He goes slow, steady, posture relaxing as he moves about under the sun. Then, the jedi stretches out, bending and twisting, flipping and cartwheeling. After that, the he begins…

…picking reeds? Reeds. For what reason?

Maul slows, getting closer to the shore.

Yes, the jedi is gathering plants, selectively thinning but not killing any of the mother plants. Most he considers then keeps. Others are tossed away.

“What are you doing?” he eventually must ask.

Kenobi replies without stopping. “I'm going to make a basket, I think. If I can remember how. It's been a bit since I handmade something like this -since I was a child in the creche, actually- but I believe I remember the jist of it.

Maul scoffs, beaching himself to get closer. He takes a furtive look around, but seeing nothing of note, the sith rises up on his long black tail fin and sways closer.

“Why are you wasting time making a basket of all things?”

“Hmmm,” Kenobi replies, lifting a flimsier sample plant and then discarding it. “For the fun of it, I suppose? It's been a… trying week. I deserve a bit of pleasant time wasting.”

Maul crosses his arms, watching the idiot jedi gather an ever larger bundle of flexible greens. “This is what jedi crechelings waste their time on? Weaving? No wonder your order is so pathetic.”

Kenobi scoffs. “Didn't you do craft projects when you were younger? Make things to show your friends? Your master?”

The sith imagines making a basket and then presenting it to Sidious. His face scrunches up. “My master would have thrown me into the walls and then electrocuted me for wasting my time and his with baskets.”

The jedi stops his gathering to turn and look at him, his expression twisting with... something pained. Adjacent to pain.

Maul snorts in amusement. What a delightful face! “What need has a lord, of the skill to weave grass into a container?” he asks with a sneer.

“It's… not about need, ” the man offers, frowning.

“Hmph. My time was better spent learning how to survive the elements, to persevere through hunger and thirst…” The sith grins as a thought occurs to him, and he leans closer to taunt the other man. “...the self same things I do not expect of a soft jedi like you.”

Kenobi huffs, turning away. “I've known each of those, but because I chose to face them as a… older child. Mostly older. Jedi as whole learn what it is to do without… but not as a youngling.”

“Soft,” Maul accuses with that smug amusement still pulling on him.

“I rather think you like soft things,” Kenobi drawls, “you remark as such on my hair nearly every time you touch it.”

The dragonfish sith’s brows furrow. Does he have a predilection for soft things? Maul is still musing on this when the jedi finishes collecting his reeds, and finds a spot in the grass under the shade to sit down.

“Maul?” the other man calls, “... do you want to learn how to make a basket?”

to be continued next week...

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New? Start from Chapter 1! 👇🏽

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