#archaic cooking

[moa-yaps]

i opened requests on Instagram but all i did today was draw 3 post 2 and lied in bed doing nothing but play reverse 1999

[angelsaxis]

Feminists pushed for women to be able to work because being totally financially dependent on and beholden to One Singular Man was extremely dangerous and quite literally killing women.

Capitalism gets worse but being able have and keep your own money is ideal over being totally financially dependent on One Man.

People who are anti capitalist (in a general sense of the term) rightfully say that the conditions under which we work totally suck (and should change).

Misogynists see that the working conditions are awful (and they see other things happening), but rather than using that fact to push for improvements in the work place for women and people of other gender minorities, they launch back to deeply sexist and dangerous rhetoric that, beyond glorifying a past for women that never existed, doesn't even understand the basics of child and home care that SAHMs have to go through.

So now we have women who thoroughly believe that a) working sucks (theyre right in some ways) and b) the "solution" to this is for women to be SAHMs or housewives because "all you have to do" is cook and clean. They glorify the man having to go out and make all the money--money which they presume will be handed over to them if they so much as ask. Money that they don't have real access to, money that they believe will be their compensation for fulfilling an archaic gender roles successfully. Meaning if they don't perform to the man's standards, they lose the money.

All day. Every day. It's very clear that the women who say this often do not, themselves, have to do all the cooking and cleaning for other people, and the fact that they think this is simple and easy work shows they devalue the real labor that goes into being a SAHM/housewife. I've done cooking and cleaning for a household of five people and I will tell you it's awful.

But these traditionalists and hypergamists and whatever else they wanna call themselves are leading people into believing that ultimately, it's men that should be in control of everything. Women not having to work is somehow a good thing.

[beescake]

i am in love with your sollux i think

sollux love party :]

if you’re interested heres some of my personal fondness thoughts on him.. big warning for the mega long read ahead aye

as we alr know sollux's rejection of participation somewhat mirrors dave's rejection of heroism, but even without getting cooked to completion i still find sollux's character v compelling beyond the fourth wall

as someone who doesnt get a pinch of that Protagonist Sparkle to begin with, he can openly say he wants to leave anytime…. and unlike dave, he actually Can leave the scene anytime. but he can never be truly Free from the story via permanent character death like the other trolls.

his irrelevancy is indeed relevant - he’s there so u can point him out.

while his image is intended to be a relic of past internet subculture, his role is not only about hehehaha being a Chad or a 2000s cyberforum 2²chan haxxor ragequit gamebro.

his continued existence also happens to add a Bit to the overarching themes of homestuck! a Bit that gives him longer-lasting thematic relevance compared to the trolls who could’ve had more character potential but didnt get to survive beyond the main story.

the Bit in question:

his defiance contributes to the illusion of agency (treating characters = people with autonomy). he’s “aware” of it, and that recognition is worth noting enough to forcibly keep him alive as both reward and punishment.

considering how his personality & classpect is designed its definitely a very haha thing for hussie to do LOL. he’s made to be op asf so he's resigned to doing dirty work, gradually deteriorating along the way but never truly dying. as fans have mentioned before, him openly rejecting involvement after a while of grim tolerance is like if the sim u were controlling suddenly stopped, looked up and gave u the finger while u were step six into the walkthrough for Every Possible Sim Death Animation.

but since he’s just a sim… the more he hates it, the more you keep him around. if ur sim started complaining abt your whimsical household storyline you’d definitely keep that little fuck.

but yeah i like that sollux is just idling. the significance of his presence being that one dude who's always reliably Somewhere, root core Unchanged, no individual ambitions (possibly due to fear of consequence?), and design-wise: a staple representative product of his time.

compared to dirk's character, who has aged phenomenally well into the present (themes of control + AR + artificial intelligence, clearer exploration around navigating relationships/sexuality, infinite possibilities of self-splinterhood and trait inheritance), sollux's potential is really... contained. bitter. defeatist. limiting and frustrating in the way old tech is.

the world continues moving on to shinier, brighter, more advanced automated things - minimalist and metaverse or whatever but sollux is still here 🧍‍♂️ going woohoo redblue 3d. (tho personally i imagine his vibe similar to what the kids call cassette futurism on pinterest mixed w more grimy grunge insectoid influences eheh)

conceptually-speaking,

at the foundation of it all, the rapid pace of modern development was built off the understanding of ppl like sollux in the past, who were There actively at work while the dough was still beginning to rise

thats one of the cool things abt the idea of trolls preceding humans! the idea that trolls like sollux excelled back when lots of basic shit still needed to be discovered, building structures like networks and codes from scratch, and humans will eventually inherit and reinvent that knowledge in ways that become so optimized it makes the old manual effort seem archaic, slow, and labour-intensive.

but despite information/resources/shortcuts being more accessible now, much of the new highly-anticipated stuff released on trend still end up unfinished, inefficient, or expiring quickly due to cutting corners under severe capitalistic pressures

meanwhile, some of the old stuff frm past generations of thorough, exploratory and perfectionistic development still remains working, complete, and ever so sturdy.

those things continue to exist, just outside our periphery with either:

zero purpose left for modern needs (outdated/obsolete)

or

far too important to replace or destroy, bcs of its surprisingly essential and circumstantial usefulness in one niche specific area.

which are honestly? both points that sum up sollux pree well.

dramatic ending sorry. anw are u still on the fence or are u Sick abt him like me </3

[cupcakeslushie]

For your brainwash au, do we get so see exactly how Donnie got captured by Kendra? And would this au be a full comic or just bits and pieces here and there? (Not pressuring just curious) Love the au and I hope you’re having a good day! :)

Don’t know why, but I felt like writing this part out instead of drawing it! (Sorry for bad grammar. I wrote this lying in bed, sleep deprived and did no editing)

——

The sad, pained look on his little brother’s face is enough to set off that dark protective fire in Donatello’s belly. And Michael has been a tiny storm of negative emotions since Leo slapped the small cast on his ankle. Donnie may not be able to pick apart and decipher all of the subtitles his brother is feeling right now, but he knows he’s in pain, and that’s enough.

“How many strips of bacon do you think we can get from Meat Sweat’s corpse?” Donnie ponders as he wraps an arm around his little brother’s shoulders, and carefully pulls him closer. Mikey lets out a quiet huff, but the joke doesn’t land the way Donnie had been hoping.

“Michael?”

“I’m okay,” Mikey assures. Then a hesitant second later adds, “it’s stupid.”

“Oh well if it’s stupid, allow me to grab ‘Nardo. He might be able to help you better.”

That gets the laugh he was looking for.

“I’m not in pain or anything. It’s just, tonight was the midnight signing of Joshua Bear’s new cook book. He’s a YouTuber chef that I’ve been following for years, and I went to his first release…I really wanted the second for my collection.”

Donatello does vaguely remember Angelo telling Raph something about this event last night, during dinner. He’d been so excited, and now he looks crushed at the idea of missing it.

“What if I went?” At the suggestion, Mikey’s face becomes brighter than a super nova, almost too bright for Donnie to stare at directly. It takes a moment for Michael to really calm down enough to speak.

“You’d really go wait in line for three hours? Just to get a book?” Donatello laughs at the question. Any opportunity in which his brothers were interested in the world of literature, no matter the subject (except maybe geology) was a time to be supportive.

Mikey pulls him in for a tight hug, and holds up his phone to snap a picture of them. Donnie snorts and slides out of his little brother’s hammock, careful not to disturb it too much. Mikey is already bouncing enough that he’s in danger of falling out.

“Yes, yes. Sing my praises on all your media socials. Let the world know how I’m your favorite older sibling!” Mikey drops the phone to his chest and holds his arms up, practically vibrating for one more hug. Donnie complies. He’s long given up maintaining his bad boy image when it’s just the two of them.

“You’re the best, Donnie! Really!” The words do a hell of a job replacing that previous fury he’d been harboring, the smile and warmth coming from Mikey, now fully restored. The proper order of the universe righted with a simple solution. This was what he loved most about being a brother. Fixing his siblings problems, in any way he could. And if healing the broken bone outright was (for now) out of his control—at least he could do this.

Donnie glances at his watch and notes he should get going if the turn out is going to be as big as Angelo predicts. He sneaks past the living room where he can hear his other two brethren yelling over a game of Mario Kart. He has zero interest in either of his brothers tagging along. He loves them, but neither are suited to standing in a long line for hours. For the last Jupiter Jim reboot, Donatello was seconds away from a double fratricide before they were even allowed into the theater.

Besides. He’s practically 18 (in four weeks). He can run up to the surface for a few hours, without having to call upon the archaic buddy system.

———

He’s in line for about an hour, when he sees suspicious movement out the corner of his eye. A young woman, parting the line a little ways ahead from where he stands, walks quickly into the closest alley. That alone might be no cause for alarm—maybe it’s a short cut. But the tall, hooded creep trailing after her, has his metaphorical hackles rising. It’s a clear case of sinister intentions. He quickly glances around to see if anyone else has witnessed this, but he’s the only one who seems to be showing any type of concern. Typical New York.

“What a town” Donnie sighs. He doesn’t bother asking the old man behind him to save his spot, seeing as he’s practically at the end of the line, and quickly races to the alley to play hero.

It’s a deep one, the lights of the street not quite hitting all the eerie nooks and crannies. Plenty of blind spots.

“Hello there? Stalker and or damsel in distress? Is anyone in need of assistance? Anyone hopefully bear maced and in need of a being escorted to the nearest precinct?”

No answer.

The non-existent hairs on Donnie’s arms stand straight up. Just as he’s reaching for his ninpo to materialize a bo-staff, something thick wraps around his neck from behind. The arm is almost as big as Raphael’s, if lacking in the muscle department.

But before his can break the hold, the solid feeling of a needle slides into the meat of his neck and something rushes into his veins. Within seconds he’s released and stumbling from the lack of support.

Someone is talking to him. It takes a second of his gaze bouncing around to pick them out. Mildly embarrassing, considering they’re standing right in front of him now. Out of all the colors popping in and out of his vision, Donnie only just catches the same turquoise hoodie that seemed to belong to the unassuming young woman.

A honey pot trap, he realizes, stumbling and falling pathetically backwards on his own ass.

He sees pink hair and is almost relieved, if humiliated. With all their enemies, the Purple Dragons are D tier. But the chances he can free himself before his brothers even notice his absence is high. Just the thought of the savage teasing he would be forced to endure if his brothers found out—Donatello is not eager to hear any of it.

As the nauseating colors finally bleed away, and start to leave black growing in their wake, Donatello swears to cause a big explosion on his way out.

[airplanned]

My kid playing totk is the most feral incarnation of Link.

He has not upgraded his armor. He’s in his archaic outfit and no hat. If he gets hit, he dies, but he has no fear of death.

He does not cook food. If I tell him to eat something, he scarfs down five herbs and some raw meat, earning himself only four hearts.

He sells everything. Everything. So that he can buy photos from Robbie.

He uses Yunobo to fight. Just shoots him at enemies, and Yunobo flies at them, bowls them all over, and lights their whole camp on fire.

[meanbossart]

hey RJ! Obsessed with your du drow work. With all the talk of breeding etc, I can’t help but wonder— how good of a support would drow be to a pregnant person? I was also the person who asked if he was a good caretaker (lmao), and you said that he was more likely to be an overbearing one than neglectful. Does this also apply to a pregnancy sort of situation (with or w/out Astarion being involved), or is it a consistent sort of attitude of his that would carry over? I was curious since it’s a bit of a different circumstance than what I had asked previously, and I have a crush on him so I like to rotate all his facets around in my head. even when he’s fucked up and weird etc

He cares about someone being in a state of pregnancy about the same amount as he cares about mothers and kids - he favors then a fair amount more and actually reserves them a bit of respect by default (if a humanoid race, at least). And of course, if he archaically decides you're an unworthy mother for whatever reason this is just nulled.

But if it were actually someone that he cares about like Shadowheart or another friend who can conceive, he would go out of his way to ensure their comfort and safety in whatever circumstances they are in. He's still a realist when it comes to survival situations so you couldn't expect to get away with being a complete dead-weight - but he'd be much more patient than usual.

Addendum to that: It would only apply if the kid was wanted at all. DU Drow WILL help you out with your at-home abortion if you're tight. He might help if you're not, also, but I wouldn't take up on the offer myself in that case.

Obviously a completely different situation if the kid is his own. He'd go insane if he had to put a pregnant S.O through anything short of sitting in bed and eating home-cooked meals all day, he'd adore them and cling from morning until night and never get sick of it and life would cease being about anything besides keeping his partner and progeny safe and in good health. If you enjoy being pampered and deified for being fat with a kid, it would really work out for you! If you'd rather retain a semblance of independence and self sufficiency for the duration of those 9 months, it might get a bit annoying.

(And no, I'm not gonna do undead-male-pregancy, don't ask)

[kairismess]

:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ their ideal dates . . . (part 1)

featuring: tsukishima kei, osamu miya, and kenma kozume.

🏐 genre: fluff !

✒️ word count: 587

⺌✧❀ tsukishima kei.

🍰 his ideal date . . . going to a museum with you.

tsukishima isn't exactly very interested in going out on dates or spending the whole day with another person, he thinks it'll take up too much energy and time. and besides... not a lot of people are into geology like him. though when you entered his life, all this boy could think of was his undeniably strong urge to want to take you to a museum, and just teach you all about the fossils and archaic species of animals that he knew of–and that was a lot–but he feared it wouldn't be your thing, and he didn't wanna bore you or waste your time.

tsukishima didn't want to be selfish and go to where he wanted, he wanted you to enjoy the day over him. but no worries... all you have to do is reassure his anxious self, hidden under his cool facade, that there was nothing selfish about wanting to spend the day with you, the complete opposite of it, really.

if anything... it didn't matter to you where you'd spend the day, just as long as you spent the day with him, you could listen to more of his cute rambling and info dumping about dinosaurs and fossils all he wanted. he did look super cute like that, you thought.

⺌✧❀ osamu miya.

🍙 his ideal date . . . helping you out in the kitchen.

osamu has always had a knack for food and cooking; it could be said that his love language would be sharing food with you, the one thing that gives him the most joy after a long day, second to you, his dearest. he loves coming over to your house to hang out, and if you were ever hungry, he wouldn't hesitate to make you something–though he feels a little self-conscious cooking in a kitchen that he wasn't familiar with. though if you're going to cook, expect osamu to be there, ready to help you make the best dinner you've ever tasted before.

osamu sometimes gets a little anxious about whether or not you'll like the food, and being in the same room as you, doing what he love for the person he loves. it makes him a little uneasy,overthink a little bit–but when you smile and your eyes light up at the taste of his food... he feels warm and delighted; he wants cook for and with you forever, if you wanted him to.

⺌✧❀ kenma kozume.

🍮 his ideal date . . . playing videogames with you.

nothing makes kenma any happier than snuggling up next to you underneath the big blanket, leaning his head down on yours, chuckling a little to himself when you lose a life in the game. he teasingly calls you his little loser, kissing your cheek to cheer you up right after.

kenma stops whenever you fall behind his character in the game to teach you how to jump up on platforms so you two could walk together, and he defends you whenever you fight bosses you struggle defeating by yourself, saving you at the last moment before your hearts run out, and acting all dramatic when he gets defeated before you–laying down on your lap and pretending to fall asleep on you, smiling all cheekily and kissing your stomach as you play.

he rolls over to his side and watches you play, cheering you on, encouraging to avenge him–and when you finally defeat the boss, even without him... he sits up and kisses your lips sweetly, smiling against your lips and chuckling, calling you his little champion.

[fadedelegance]

It’s not women’s responsibility to coddle men. This isn’t 1950 for fuck’s sake.

I am ALWAYS tired when I come home from work, as well, but you know what? I don’t expect anyone else to have dinner ready for me. I scrounge around in the kitchen, or I pick up a frozen dinner and heat it up when I get home. The point is, I take care of my damned self BECAUSE I AM AN ADULT.

Both men AND women work long hours.

I know you’re tired, but fix your own goddamned dinner. You think your partner isn’t also tired? Why is it one party’s—usually the woman’s—responsibility to make dinner for the other when they come home from work after a long day? Why can’t they just relax after they make own individual dinner? What if your partner is still at work when you get home? Do you just sit around and pout until they come home and whine about them making dinner?

Be an adult and take care of your damned self. Or if you come home at similar times, share the responsibility. Cooking together could even be a source of bonding.

I can NOT with how society is regressing.

BTW, this is also an indictment of capitalism. People shouldn’t have to work that much so that they are coming home with barely even any energy to do things like make their own meals, only to barely stay afloat financially. I believe in the 6-hour work day, living wages and salaries, and a 4-day work week.

Archaic gender roles and capitalism are both putting strain on relationships—both romantic and familial. Hardly anyone has work-life balance anymore because all most people fucking do is work.

But this is about the 12th time this week I’ve thought “I hate men. I don’t have time for them and their sexist bullshit, nor do I have time for women who have internalized that sexist bullshit.”

God damn it, I’m tired.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

hello! im a big fan of the childhood friends trope and was wondering if you could write that with alastor? (ex. what being friends with him as a child was like and how he’d act towards reader when theyre both in hell)

Life and Death

Navigation!! // Mastlierst!!

A/N: Clearing out my inbox is proving to be a lot harder than I thought, but nevertheless, I really enjoyed writing this so thank you so much for your request!! I actually wrote something similar to this, which I will link here in case anyone wants to check it out :)

The old manor on the edge of the forest was a place of whispered secrets and endless possibilities. It was here, among the ivy-clad walls and shadowed corners, that you and Alastor first crossed paths as children in 1910. The air was thick with the scent of adventure and mischief, and you were drawn together by an unspoken bond that only childhood friends could understand.

Alastor was a whirlwind of energy, always dreaming up new schemes and fantastical stories. You were his constant companion, eagerly diving into whatever trouble he cooked up. One day, Alastor burst into your room, eyes wide with excitement.

“Guess what I’ve unearthed!” he announced, brandishing a dusty, old book he had found in the manor’s attic.

You looked at him skeptically but couldn’t resist his enthusiasm. “What is it?”

“It’s a tome of ancient rites!” he proclaimed with a theatrical flourish. “We could summon something marvelous!”

Later that evening, under the flickering light of a candle, you followed Alastor’s instructions from the book. The ritual involved chanting in an archaic language and mixing some peculiar ingredients. Alastor’s dramatic flair was on full display as he recited the incantations with exaggerated gestures.

“Prepare yourself for an awe-inspiring spectacle!” he declared, his voice rich with anticipation.

You nodded, and moments later, the “ritual” resulted in a shower of harmless, yet dazzling sparks that illuminated the darkened room. You both laughed, delighted by the harmless chaos.

Despite his penchant for mischief, Alastor had a protective streak when it came to you. One day, a local bully who had a knack for tormenting other children cornered you near the edge of the forest.

Alastor, who had been hiding behind a tree, sprang into action. He marched up to the bully with exaggerated, theatrical bravado.

“Unhand my companion, you ruffian!” Alastor declared, his voice echoing with a dramatic authority that surprised even you.

The bully, taken aback by Alastor’s sudden appearance and his unyielding confidence, quickly backed down. You watched, both relieved and amused, as Alastor escorted you away with a triumphant grin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, trying to suppress a smile. “But thank you.”

“Of course I did!” Alastor replied, puffing out his chest. “Who else could possibly defend you from such knaves?”

Your shared adventures and mischief were punctuated by quiet moments of reflection. After one particularly wild escapade, you’d sit together under the sprawling oak tree in the manor’s garden.

Alastor was sprawled out on the grass, staring up at the sky. “Did you know,” he mused with a playful glint in his eyes, “that the stars are the souls of ancient heroes, forever shining?”

You lay beside him, looking up at the sky as well. “Really? And what about us?”

Alastor turned to you, his expression a mix of seriousness and playful charm. “Well, we must be destined for greatness. After all, we’ve survived countless escapades without a scratch.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “And we’ll conquer many more adventures to come.”

Years later, in the chaotic, glittering world of Hell, your friendship with Alastor became a source of stability and comfort. The year was now 1910, and Alastor, having transformed into a powerful and enigmatic figure, still sought out your company. Despite his new persona, there was a spark of the old Alastor that remained when he was around you.

In the neon glow of Hell, you both found solace in each other’s presence. During a quiet evening, Alastor stood up, his posture exuding both confidence and nervousness. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened as he prepared to confess his feelings.

“Mon chère,” he began, his voice rich with an earnest emotion that contrasted with his usual theatricality, “even amidst all this ceaseless darkness, you’ve become a beacon of light in my existence. I’ve never felt this way before—not even when I was alive. Your presence… it’s something I can’t simply ignore.”

Your heart ached at his words, and you replied with the same mix of warmth and reserve that defined your relationship. “You’ve always been a part of my world, Alastor. Even now, despite everything that’s changed, I still see the child I once knew. And I can’t deny that I feel the same way.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken promises. As the night deepened, you both found solace in each other’s presence, a testament to the enduring bond forged in childhood and strengthened through the trials of the underworld.

In that moment, under the neon glow of Hell, you were not just two powerful entities but childhood friends rediscovering a connection that transcended the boundaries of time and space. The adventures of the past and the mysteries of the present merged into a shared future, one where the echoes of your childhood laughter resonated with the promise of something deeper and more profound.

[vidavalor]

Costermonger

Ok, you know Gabriel and the tomatoes at the start of 2.01?

A lot of great stuff has been written about this scene already and how it's paralleling Adam and Eve but I wanted to throw in something that I haven't seen that I think might interest you. We've spent a lot of time on the question of 'why tomatoes?' but there's also some wordplay involved in the marketplace containing and selling the tomatoes.

The old-school, technical term for a street seller of fruits and vegetables in Britain is a costermonger, which is sometimes shortened to coster or costard. It is a portmanteau comprised of the words costard and monger. A monger is a seller of something but a costard?

That's the name for a medieval variety of apple.

The community market grocery place diagonally across the street from the bookshop that Gabriel walks by is comprised of a different purveyors selling a variety of food items and the like but all of them share an occupational name in costermonger...

Meaning: that all food is, symbolically, an apple (and The Apple), in this story, even if there are also other, additional meanings as well.

No matter what the farmstand owners of the Whickber Street marketplace are actually selling, they all are, in effect, apple sellers...

...or apple cellars...

...if you wanted to get especially punny about the booksellers and their cellar history...

Making things even funnier? The word costard that describes that medieval cooking apple?

Yeah, it comes from the Old French coste... which means rib...

It's also an archaic term English term for the human head... ya know, that thing Gabriel had some issues with in S2 and which contains the mind. The apple was named as such based on people feeling it resembled a human head in shape but was also a bit ribbed.

In French, costard is also connected to costume and refers to a suit.

Gabriel rather notably missing his signature suit during his arrival... Our Naked Man Friend turning up to parallel Adam & Eve, down to the birthday suit to start the season...

...but also the arrival at the bookseller's cellar at end of the season involving an unexpectedly human-looking, (usually floating) head, in a suit...

...and he brought an apple from the shop...

[yuurei20]

Epel Facts Part 1: Family (pt 1)

Epel says that he lives in a house with barely enough room, as his family is larger than most in the area (“I think my family’s as big as they come in these parts”), with eight people (including Epel himself) living together.

Epel has no siblings, explaining that he lives with his mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin and great-grandmother.

Epel says that it’s pretty normal to live with one’s extended family in their village, and dorm life at NRC isn’t that bad, as he is used to being around lots of people back home.

While Epel’s parents are magicless, he says that his grandmother and great-grandmother are both witches (Lilia explains that “witch” and “wizard” are archaic terms, with both now referred to as “mages” in the present day). Mages might be rare in Epel’s hometown: he says that there weren’t many around him growing up.

Epel says that whenever his grandparents get in a fight, they make up by baking an apple pie together.

Epel references his grandmother often, saying that he sent her a photo from the opening ceremonies and asking the prefect to take a picture of him in his Phantom Bride tuxedo to send to her.

He also gets her postcard as a souvenir during the Glorious Masquerade event. Epel says that his grandmother taught him how to cook when he would help out in the kitchen back home.

We meet Epel’s grandmother (Marja) during the Harveston event, and see a picture of her from years ago where she is in a similar pose to Epel in his Phantom Bride card (Sebek, Idia and Jade all mistake the young Marja for Epel himself).

Marja knits Epel’s Apple Pom outfit in the Harveston event, with the outfits worn by the other characters knitted by other people in the village.

There has been a lot of information about Epel’s childhood: before NRC he would go to school in the town next door, which was a three-hour bike ride from his home, though his parents would drive him to and from school on rainy or snowy days.

Epel says that he loved going on car rides, and he had a lot of fun tagging along in the passenger seat whenever his family took their car to delivery produce to neighboring cities.

[recurring-polynya]

I have been thinking about Minazuki lately for a variety of reasons. One interesting fact about Minazuki is that, while that's the name of both their shikai and bankai, it's spelled differently. Shikai Minazuki is 肉雫唼 (Flesh-Drops' Gorge, per the Bleach Wiki). The Bankai version is 皆尽, All Things' End. (For more translation notes, see this excellent Name Games post from @littleeyesofpallas). However, there is another homonym for Minazuki: 水無月, month of water, aka the old-fashioned name for June. Additionally, there is a wagashi called minazuki wagashi, a triangular rice cake topped with red bean. It is traditionally eaten in June, and according to this Kyoto regional cuisine website, it is used in a Shinto ritual at the end of June "to purify the 'sins and impurities' of the six months from January to June."

What makes this interesting to me is that in Bleach, shinigami are a mixed bag insofar as how open they are about the names and abilities of their zanpakutou, but I think that Unohana's would be among the more commonly known since it's used for healing. But is the spelling common knowledge? It's not like she's going to stand in front of the blackboard on the first day of class and spell it for everyone. (I assume this is how Aizen's obligatory shikai-reveal goes).

Furthermore, the assumption that her zanpakutou uses a slightly archaic/poetic name for a late spring month goes right along with Unohana's whole paragon-of-traditional-womanhood deal. It also would be yet another example of Kubo's love of hiding things in plain sight.

I want to get back to the wagashi, tho! For starters, the idea of "wiping away sins from the first part of the year" to me goes along with both the whole idea of Unohana "turning over a new leaf", so to speak, and maybe also with some of the morning vs. night shift change stuff mentioned in the Name Games post above. Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but Minazuki's shikai even bears a superficial resemblance to a minazuki, in the sense that Minazuki is a) vaguely triangular, and b) darker colored on top and lighter on the bottom. (This recipe post suggests you can dust your minazuki with matcha powder, if you wanted to make it green).

Unohana already has some associations with tea ceremony, and she publishes a guide to sweet shops in the Seireitei Communication. I guess I just think it would be really funny if everyone thought her zanpakutou was named after a dessert--like if you met some nice, mild-mannered lady with a cute little purse dog named "Cookie", but then, several years later, you find that "Cookie" is short for "Cook My Enemies in the Scorching Hot Oil of Vengeance."

[shitouttabuck]

Hi! Hope you don’t mind my dropping in. I just read let the world have its way with you and thank you I had to sniff back tears on the plane it was so lovely 🥺😍. Question, and if you’ve answered this before I’m so sorry but I just have to know: how did Buck react when inevitably he sees the photos taken of him and Eddie at Halloween? Thank you again for this fic and I’m sending you all the good vibes of an unexpected humpback whale breech.

hello!!!! thank you so much for dropping in to say these lovely things!!! to answer your question: yes, a bunch of people have asked this actually, but no, i’ve never had a reply until now ! your message sparked something haha so here you go, have a little bucket list fic timestamp:

a thousand times (which isn’t half enough)

buck/eddie | 2k | t

“Oh, ow, what the fuck,” Buck says, wincing as he snatches back his hand.

Eddie glares at him, no hint of remorse while he crumples the dish towel he just whipped Buck’s fingers with before putting his hands on his hips in that perfectly bitchy way he’s got down to an art. “I’m supposed to be doing the cooking, I’m the one who’s actually made this before,” he tells Buck, stepping forward to stir the curry and jostling Buck out of the way. “You’re sous chef today.”

“And this is in no way an objection to that kitchen hierarchy, or a criticism of your cooking capabilities,” Buck says, hands up pacifyingly, “but Eddie. I’ve eaten this enough times at Ravi’s to know this is, uh, nowhere close to the colour it’s meant to be.”

“What do you mean,” Eddie frowns, stirring and peering down into the large saucepan, dent in the side courtesy of Buck’s clumsiness nearly half a decade ago. “It’s a—process. A culinary journey. I’m sure it’ll be the right colour when we’re done. It just needs some time.”

“Eddie, it’s green.”

“Plenty of curries are green. Thai green curry, it’s even got it in the name.”

“Eddie,” Buck says, trying not to laugh at the disgruntled furrow in Eddie’s brow, “I don’t think Ravi’s traditional beef curry is supposed to be green at any stage.”

Eddie’s face scrunches as he squints down at the curry he’s stirring, thick and aromatic and unexpectedly pea-soup coloured.

“Oh God,” he says, staring at the spoonful he’s ladled out. “You’re right. Fuck. How the fuck did it get to—this? Fuck, Bobby and Athena are gonna be here in—” He glances at the wall clock, “—an hour, oh my God, Buck, that’s not enough time to fix this.”

Buck rolls his eyes, hip-checking Eddie in a way he hopes is comforting but not bothering to try and ease any of Eddie’s—quite frankly ridiculous—anxiety about seeing Bobby socially for the first time since the engagement.

He knows the nervousness stems entirely from the fact that Eddie didn’t ask Bobby for his blessing before proposing to Buck, which he’s teased Eddie for endlessly, declaring it old-fashioned and archaic even if there’s something achingly sweet about the intentions with which Eddie went into it.

It did not end up prefacing their engagement. Apparently Eddie’d been testing the waters, gearing up to propose when he hoped the moment was right. Except, then, one night on the couch, watching telenovela reruns, Buck had made an offhand comment about the bride on-screen taking her husband’s last name despite being of the girlboss variety one might expect not to, and how in context it was a win for cheesy romance but maybe a hiccup for some kind of feminism somewhere.

And Eddie, one arm curled around Buck from behind, scratching at his stomach gently as he spoke, had sleepily and thoroughly unintentionally mumbled, “Would you wanna do that with me?”

Buck had blinked and asked what, and Eddie’d yawned and said, “Take my last name.”

Buck had laughed through the want and said, “Careful, Diaz, you might give a guy the idea that he’s being proposed to.”

And Eddie went stiff behind him for a full five seconds, Buck not daring to breathe either, before wrapping his other arm around Buck too, kiss to his temple and a quiet, “And if that was the idea intended?”

And so they’d gotten engaged and had to get the couch dry-cleaned and Eddie was made to pass on his well-meaning, antiquated desire to profess his intentions to Bobby prior to the actual proposal. Which is fine, obviously, but they’ve been engaged just going on three weeks and Bobby and Athena are coming around for dinner, and that, on top of committing himself to captaining an unfamiliar culinary adventure—something decidedly not in the Eddie Diaz wheelhouse—has Eddie strung the fuck out, mild and amusing as it may be.

“Okay, uh, I’m just gonna look at the original recipe again, not the one Ravi altered for white people,” Eddie says, looking around. “Can you get it? Phone’s charging in the bedroom, I think it should just be in the media roll of my chat with Ravi, he sent me a photo of his grandmother’s recipe book.”

“His grandma’s? What did you do to gain access to his family recipes? I feel like I should be jealous.”

“We exchanged abuela secret recipes,” Eddie shrugs. “You already have a direct open line of communication with my grandmother. I think you text her more than me.”

This is true; Isabel is a formidable opponent in online Scrabble and likes to get Buck’s thoughts on the weekly MasterChef episode. She’s his family as much as Eddie’s, and Buck was just teasing anyway, but he skips to their bedroom with a pleased grin nonetheless.

Eddie’s phone is nearly fully charged, so he just unplugs it, typing Ravi’s name into the message app search bar. A few clicks and then he’s snorting at the last image Ravi sent Eddie: a meme of Steve Buscemi saying how do you do, fellow kids? with a rainbow flag Photoshopped over the skateboard he’s carrying. Ravi’s succinctly captioned it, “you,” and Eddie has thumbs-downed it without deigning to respond.

Buck scrolls through the media roll quickly, scanning the images for something that resembles a recipe book or an old lady’s handwriting. It’s mostly memes, some goofy photos of each other taken on one of their phones during slow shifts, and—that’s a picture of Buck. Two pictures of Buck.

He pauses, frowning at the adjacent squares in the media roll. It’s not that it’s unexpected that Eddie and Ravi would have photos of Buck, it’s just—Buck’s usually seen them, too. He has most definitely not seen these pictures.

He clicks on the first one, feeling almost nervous. And, oh. It’s from Halloween the year before last, when everyone else was sick and he and Eddie went to that big gay party. He’s in his Sandy get-up, looking—pretty slutty, actually. He hums appreciatively, re-experiencing the leather pants and crop top and heels. In the photo, his eyes are shut, head tilted back to the music, cheeks pink and red-painted lips ajar. And then he takes in the other side of the photo.

Eddie, watching Buck through the crowd not unlike a lion zeroing in on a gazelle. His mouth is parted too, but—his eyes. It’s like he’s undressing Buck right there in public with just his gaze. Jesus, it’s like he’s doing so much more than undressing him—Buck half-expects the picture to swirl into motion, see Eddie stride across the dance floor and bend Buck over in front of everyone present.

It's not a wholly unfamiliar expression now, to Buck who’s had Eddie like this for over a year, but this was from before they were together. This was before Buck knew Eddie wanted him in any way but platonic. And even then, the kind of raw, unmasked desire plastered across Eddie’s face? Like he wants to swallow Buck whole and keep him there, inside Eddie, close as possible, for the rest of time? That’s the kind of intensity Eddie only reveals on occasion, a vulnerability that’s a certain effort to access.

That doesn’t mean Eddie holds back or censors himself in their sex lives, not anymore, not for a long time now. It’s just—this is the kind of want that comes from a place without adequate words to communicate it, a near animal desperation that’s taxing for the everyday.

And here it is, unmistakeable, before Buck even knew. Eddie, so good at the suppression and the repression in that era, unable to escape the honesty of his hunger with just one look.

Buck swallows and adjusts himself in his pants.

The second picture is—oh. It’s of him and Eddie dancing during the Grease song, when Eddie had held him close and dipped Buck like he’d been doing it all his life. It’s—oh. He can’t believe Eddie’s not shown him this one before, because—there’s so much love contained inside this photograph, he can feel it seeping out of the phone and into his hands, liquid sunshine.

Buck’s head is thrown back, face scrunched in delighted laughter, and Eddie’s so close, beaming at him with nothing short of adoration. It’s pouring out of him, clear as day, the happiness in this single photo a tangible thing even over a year later.

Buck kind of wants to urge the him in the picture to open his eyes, see the way Eddie’s looking at him. But then again, the way Eddie looked at him didn’t really change, before and after. So maybe he wouldn’t have clocked it as anything other than Eddie’s everyday love, so far from the romance column in his own tangled-up brain at the time it wouldn’t have mattered.

He wanders back to the kitchen, swiping back to the first photo. Heat licks its way up his spine, uncaring of the fact that they have dinner guests and no time for this. He slouches in the kitchen doorway, watching Eddie chop cilantro carefully.

“What?” Eddie frowns. “I’m in a crisis, Buck, don’t look at me like that, it’s not helpful.”

Buck clears his throat. “Like what?”

“Like you’re eyefucking me so hard I might undergo immaculate conception.”

Buck can’t focus on the nearly painfully arousing implications of that, but never let it be said his horniness surpasses—rightful—indignation. “Me?” he asks incredulously. “Eyefucking you? That’s fucking rich, considering the contents of these.” He waves Eddie’s phone at him for emphasis.

“What’s that,” Eddie asks impatiently. “Where’s my recipe?”

“Oh,” Buck says. “I didn’t actually get that far.”

Eddie makes a noise of irritation, washing his hands and reaching out for his phone. “What the hell have you been—oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Buck says. “How come you’ve never shown me these before?”

Eddie flushes, even more than the heat of the kitchen can take credit for. “I dunno. I guess I just look so… I dunno.”

“So in love with me?” Buck asks, mouth quirking up on one side. He steps forward, wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist.

Eddie sighs, listing forward in Buck’s grasp. “I mean—yeah. I guess I was just thrown by how obvious the, I don’t know, enormity of my—the way I felt about you was. And by the time I was okay with it—the enormity and the obviousness—I kinda forgot about these.”

Buck turns his head, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s hairline. Eddie lifts his face, searching for Buck’s mouth with his own, and Buck happily obliges, kissing him gently.

“Well, I’m sending these to myself,” Buck informs him, “and then we’re getting the second one framed and hung up in our room.”

“Is that the less horny one?” Eddie asks.

“They’re both plenty horny,” Buck says, “but yeah. Marginally less.”

“Fine,” Eddie allows. “But it will be subject to temporary removal if and when my parents come stay.”

“Deal,” Buck agrees, and then leans back in to kiss Eddie again.

He uses his grip on Eddie’s waist to steer them back, caging Eddie against the counter and lining his body flush along the length of Eddie’s, thigh to hip to chest. Eddie sighs contentedly, hand sneaking under the back of Buck’s shirt to splay across his bare skin. His jeans have a delicious heavy-weight friction to them, and Buck tries to angle himself so he can rock against Eddie lazily. He opens his own mouth under Eddie’s, trying valiantly to deepen the kiss, have Eddie lick into him hot and sweet, but Eddie pulls back.

“The curry,” he says mournfully. “Bobby and Athena.”

Buck groans, taking the edge off it by leaning in to kiss the corner of Eddie’s mouth. “You are so overthinking this Bobby thing. I’m not a woman in the early 1900s. Bobby’s technically not even my—”

“He is, though,” Eddie interrupts. “As far as it matters.”

“Okay,” Buck agrees, because that’s true. “But why are you so hung up on being old-school traditional here?”

Eddie huffs. “Sometimes tradition is good. It’s not like I’d have been asking permission to marry you, just. Wanting to have his—I don’t know.”

“Okay, well, I’m not some blushing bride.” Buck kisses the other corner of Eddie’s mouth, making it quirk up into a smile.

“Debatable,” he murmurs, and Buck pinches him at his waist. He squirms, grinning.

“We’re getting married,” Buck tells him, and Eddie lights up so incandescently Buck thinks even the Halloween photograph doesn’t know such happiness. “Bobby’s really happy for us. A curry’s not gonna change any of that.”

“I know,” Eddie says, sighs. “This is just the first time since—I just really wanted to show him I can be good for you, too.”

Buck gapes at him. “Are you—Eddie. Are you serious?”

Eddie shrugs one shoulder, looking embarrassed. Buck takes a step back so he can grab both Eddie’s hands in his own.

“I’m not even gonna—mention the bucket list,” he says, “but Eddie. Eddie. Why do you think Bobby made us partners in the first place?”

Eddie huffs a laugh, but it’s a real one. “I know, okay, but this just—we’re getting married, Buck.”

“And watch him take credit for it in his wedding speech,” Buck says.

Eddie smiles at him, but the underlying current of nerves is still thrumming, visible to Buck a step away.

“Okay,” he says, one final kiss to the centre of Eddie’s mouth. Eddie chases it when he pulls away, but he stands firm. “Let’s save this curry and the sanctity of our marriage to-be. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow, you’re putting on the greaser jeans and fucking me into the mattress.”

Eddie snorts, cheeks pink again. “Sounds like a plan.” He opens his phone, searching for the original recipe.

The ingredients are read aloud, and when Buck swings shut the fridge door as he confirms them, the faded yellow list pinned with a star-shaped magnet looks back at him, ready to have scribbled-out number 5 ticked off completely, wholly, permanently. Buck’s already there with start a family, but get married? He doesn’t think he could’ve imagined it being as good as this.

And if this piece of paper accompanies them to the courthouse, actual marriage certificate second in importance, that’s for him and Eddie to know, because the list doesn’t end, but God, does it feel good to live through it.

[syoddeye]

I love your writing and literally read your blog like the morning paper. But the brainrot has been rotting and I can’t stop thinking about going on a date with Price and he talks about his three dogs back home and you think it’s so sweet that he loves his pets so much…then he takes you home for the first time and you realize why he complained about how difficult they were to train.

“Meet Gaz, Soap, and Ghost. Why d’you have that look on your face, love?”

jasdhlgjkahg 🧡 thank you, that is so kind. i hope i'm like the funny funny section and not family circus. apologies i don't have the brainspace for a full thing, but—

imagine you meet because he stops to compliment your dog. you're quite obsessed with your little pet. maybe you ramble on about their training and keeping. he mentions he has three of his own.

"wow! you've got your hands full, huh?"

"you could say that."

before you know it, twenty minutes pass and you're typing your number into his archaic non-smartphone. he calls that evening and asks you out for a drink. he seems nice, and he loves dogs, so what's the harm? you've been single for so long.

john's great. better than great, really. a gentleman. intelligent. funny. employed. it's become your custom to exchange little updates on your dogs whenever you meet. he doesn't have pictures to show you (explains he's a little paranoid due to his work. jokes about being an 'endangered species' with his 'dumb' phone.) but he assures you're they're smart, gorgeous, and good with people. really emphasizes that last bit.

"they're for protection and huntin'. took a bit of trainin' in those early years, but now they warm up quick those i deem friendly."

"would that include me?"

"care to find out?"

you suppose it's time to visit his place for once. he picks you up and spends the drive chatting about what he's making for dinner. he mentions that his 'boys' have already eaten, but tend to get underfoot. would you mind playing with them while he cooks? of course! sounds fun.

his property's beautiful. you notice lots of trees and a large fenced area as he takes you up the drive. the dogs must be spoiled with all that room to roam.

it isn't until you step inside, hear a television, and count the shoes in the entryway that a feeling of wrongness sweeps over you. however, john's arm hooks around your waist, and he herds you further inside. he doesn't allow your doubt to keep you at the door.

you want to believe he leaves the television on for the dogs. that he perhaps owns several pairs of shoes…in varying sizes.

but when you round a corner into a living space and see three men draped comfortably on a couch, the realization hits like a pail of cold water. it's the way their heads turn in unison. their slow pan from you to john. the glint of the id tags on their collars.

"meet gaz, soap, and ghost. why d'you have that look on your face, love?"

john chuckles, slips his hand down to squeeze your ass, then pats it playfully. He says he'll start dinner and that he's very thankful you're here to keep them preoccupied.

[hajihiko]

Any fuyuhiko headcanons?

-he mentions fishing with his dad, so I imagine in their future lives he does a lot of the fishing

-still can't decide if I think he's gay or not, on one hand I think it really fits into his theme on the other I think him being into Women Who Can Kick His Ass is also very on-brand

-either way, the moment he realized he was into dudes he crumpled that thought up and locked it down. He's already small, feminine, and "too soft", he can't afford to be a mlm on top of it all (his own thoughts)

-the pain tolerance thing is something he had to train. Like through exposure.

-that said? Bit of a masochist

-this man CANNOT cook

-gold tooth in there somewhere

-sunburns very easily

-good at braids, he did them for peko (because when she braided herself she made them SO tight it hurt) and natsumi on occasion

-hes raised in a traditional way so he might have some archaic beliefs he hasn't had a chance to challenge in the game

-i feel like we don't talk enough about the fact that his parents almost killed him more than once. How?? Why?? On purpose or accident??? Hc that he tried to get in between his parents fighting only once or twice and leared not to do that again because they're not above going through him when they're angry enough.

-"that scar? Uh I think that's from when my mom stabbed me" (cue appalled reactions from everyone but Akane who has a weird baseline for how adults treat kids, she's mad but not surprised)

-tattoos he gets post-wakeup are personal and often reference the people he cares about

-sometimes he says horrible things in anger. It's mostly stuff he learned from his surroundings but it's still something he really needs to work on.

-hes team Touch Averse and Touch Starved at the same time (shared by: Gundham, Hiyoko, Impostor, Peko)

-dainty little hands but the knuckles have been split open and scarred over multiple times

-he knows how to wrap gauze and load a gun and pull teeth but not laundry or common medicine stuff. Like he's kinda helpless in a normal domestic setting. He genuinely didn't know what the laundry labels on clothes were for.

-He didn't realize he was lactose intolerant for the longest time and just thought milk was one of those things that make you feel shitty

-he hates alcohol so much largely because he was raised with the belief that Real Men only drink man drinks, like whiskey and beer (his father made him try it). An occasional sweet cocktail with a little umbrella in a cute glass? He'll sip the fuck out of that fuggetaboutit

[chronurgy]

Gortash Week Day 2 - Worship/Betrayal

The inside of the church’s inner chambers was near black, befitting of the Black Lord. It also did a great deal to disguise a certain creeping age and shabbiness in the theoretically opulent furnishings, though it could not escape Enver Gortash’s critical eye. The congregation in Baldur’s Gate had always been small and thus tolerated by the civic authorities for its insignificance. This insignificance, in turn, ensured it received little and less in the way of funding from the higher clergy. There had been attempts to combat this, of course. But they had lacked vision. The whole of it was lacking, archaic, and insisted on clinging fast to crumbling stone. He would see an end to that nonsense.

A figure, enrobed and enthroned at the massive oaken desk that bore the room’s only lamp, resolved itself as he approached the back of the darkened room. He bowed deeply, as appropriate, and waited for the figure to speak.

He hung suspended for a long, lingering moment as the man’s quill scratched without pause. A deliberate show, he knew, meant to emphasize their difference in rank. Icar Exeltis was nothing more than a wastrel. A disreputable third son with little access to the family coffers playing at power. The man lacked imagination, lacked a deft touch, lacked the will to truly wield power yet held the highest church office in Baldur’s Gate thanks to his name. The church had shriveled under his headship, but he had seen no challenges from the congregants. He was a patriar and son of the last Dark Imperceptor besides. It was his place, they held, in the hierarchy – and thus they must submit unto the order of things. Or so the old blood said. The new blood could see. The new blood chafed against these dynasties old and rotting.

Dark Imperceptor Exeltis finished whatever inane nonsense he had cooked up to occupy him so, at last returning his quill to the inkpot and setting his letter aside to dry. He made a show of shuffling papers on his desk, placing them in one pile or another according to some whim all his own. Gortash knew it all to be thoughtless. He was well aware of those who actually handled the sort of useful paperwork necessary for running any sort of organization, well aware of those who offered value. Serviceable people. For all this man’s insistences at rulership, all the time he spent faffing about with obnoxious make-work, he ran nothing of the church. Not in all the million little practical ways that mattered.

His desk cleared at last of his dross, the Dark Imperceptor wound his languid way around his desk to lean insouciantly against the front of it, weight braced against his palms. “You are seen in this place, my Willing Whip, by both my eyes and the Lord Bane’s. Now give us the obeisance we demand.”

Gortash dropped to his knees without hesitation. He must keep the game going a little longer, and it would not serve him to balk now at this last moment. Pride and scruples were for other sorts of men, men who did not see the greater whole as he did. What was one moment, one lie, one simpering smile in the face of a lifetime? He kept the proper forms and pressed a kiss to the top of the man’s proffered boot. He sat up, the picture of the wide eyed naif he must soon no longer play, not here.

Exeltis ran a hand through his hair as he returned to his kneeling form, his hands so smooth from lack of work that he had no calluses, not even those of a dedicated writer, to catch upon the strands. “It’s good to see you on your knees, young Gortash,” he said, voice rough with desire.

Gortash remained kneeling. He must, until this claimed superior gave him leave to rise. “We are all well suited by our proper place within the hierarchy. You, for example, have always been at your most imposing like this.” He looked up at the man through lowered lashes, a calculated coyness. “It flatters you so well, Dark Imperceptor.”

The idiot was blind to his own failings, and thus agreed readily to falsehoods. He preened pathetically at his false complement, with no more thought in his head than in an ornamental bird’s engaged in the same. “I was born suited for this,” he agreed, his hand still stroking through Gortash’s hair. “We’re of a better sort of stock. Our birth entitles us to stand above the rabble. It’s good to see you know this, pet.”

He continued his irrelevant and incorrect rambles, coddled in the warmth of his self-delusion. But Gortash was not listening. It was not his usual tune out for his own sanity. No. He’d seen a flash upon the back wall, a hint of light in all this black that would never have been allowed were there not exceptional circumstances. He knew those exceptional circumstances, arranged for them himself. He knew who it was standing on the other side of that door. All the pieces in play at last.

“My lord,” he started, “I heard something in the antechamber just-”

“Insolent!” Exeltis hissed. “To think to use a lesser title for one of your betters! I ought to see you flogged for such impudence.”

He raised a hand as if to strike Gortash, but he had played supplicant long enough. And now, with his little army just outside the door, he was free to return to his proper place. He stood. “Oh, hold your tongue,” he told him carelessly. “Who are you to declare that the title of our Lord is too low to suit you? Dark Imperceptor, Grand Bloodletter, Vigilator, this is nonsense. I tire of this hysteria for titles. Lord will do well enough for us, as it does for Him.”

Exeltis was near gibbering with rage, spouting half remonstrations that he was too apoplectic to finish. They mostly concerned his failure to observe the proper hierarchy and indeed, the general conventions of propriety. “You dare,” he managed, spit flecked, at last. “You worthless, lowborn little whore, you dare speak in such a way to me? I will see you hanged for this.”

He does not understand, Gortash thought. He does not see the way the current had turned on him. He has not noticed the glances. He has not seen the others draw away. It has not coalesced yet, not for him. How delightful.

“You haven’t noticed,” he breathed, making no attempt to hide the relish in his words. “I suppose you shouldn’t have. I’ve been very careful, you know. But surely, I thought, surely you had to have guessed. Well then. Allow me, Icar, to enlighten you about your past and future.”

He grinned, wide and sharp. “If you were to look in the drawers of that desk you’re leaning on, you’d find so many interesting things Icar. You’d find them in your house, too, if you looked there. Every inch of it, all the way down to your bedchamber. It’s even in each and every one of your nasty little bolt holes. You’ve been so very profligate with this very, very sensitive information. How dissolute of you, to hide your tracks so poorly. But you’ve gone and done it, left evidence of your crimes all over the Gate from the hills to the harbor.”

“I haven’t done anything, you idiot,” Icar snarled at him. The man still hadn’t caught on. He still hadn’t realized what he was dealing with. An irredeemable failing in a Banite. “I don’t know what nonsense you’ve gone and gotten in your head but there is nothing to find because I have done nothing wrong!”

Gortash laughed, let the shimmering ecstasy of it roll off his tongue. “Like that has ever mattered,” he said, buoyant on a sea of victory. “But perhaps more to the point – I know the evidence is there because I put it there. I put it everywhere. Piles and piles of it, in any place you’ve ever so much as stepped foot in. And then I went to the rest of the leadership, ever so concerned about the things I’d found. I had seen things, I told them, things that implied that you were not so committed to our Lord as you professed to be. They went looking and found all that and more. You’re to be brought before the Black Courts on charges of apostacy and intentional sabotage. They will see you convicted on overwhelming evidence.” He leaned forward, pushing into the man’s space and sending him quailing backwards. “And while you are busy with your sham trial, I will be sitting on that throne of yours, shaking things up around here.”

There was fear tempering his rage now, Gortash could see it creeping through the man’s eyes. He rallied admirably for a fool. “They’ll know it was you,” he insisted defiantly. “And you’re nothing, Gortash, nothing. They’d never make some low-born rat whore like you Dark Imperceptor.”

“But that’s the brilliance of it, don’t you see? Who could ever suspect the lord’s young favorite?” he laughed again, the triumph of it sweet as honey. “Ah but you underestimate me still. I’ll have the recognition for this to trade on, and I’ve been making allies, Icar. Willing and unwilling. So many secrets in these halls and I know all of them. They’ll pick me. They won’t have a choice.”

The rage had now been swamped entirely by the ever-growing tide of fear. Icar could barely manage a pathetic whisp of a protest, but he tried nonetheless. “Someone will figure it out. They have to,” he gasped out between shaking breaths.

“Some will,” he agreed amiably. He would certainly mark this chain of events as suspicious and had no doubt that others would as well. “But those who can put the pieces together will respect me all the more for it. They’ll have promotions waiting for them to the last man. I have need of talented lackeys.”

There was a single loud rap upon the door. The final signal. He straightened up. Icar remained half bent backward over his desk, mouth gaping open like a particularly dumb fish. “That’ll be them,” he said. “Enjoy the Black Courts, darling. I’ve heard ever so much about them.”

They piled into the room, every high ranking Banite and their bodyguard (he’d need one of those himself, soon). They did not bother to list the charges. All here knew it did not matter. Icar went with them quietly, out of either shock or fear, and the whole thing was discharged so neatly and efficiently that Gortash found himself alone in the inner chamber within no more than five minutes, all told.  

He turned to the altar at the back of the room. It was a simple thing, made of a solid, glossy block of black obsidian, all the more imposing for its austerity. He knelt before it and pressed a kiss to its base as he had knelt before the former Dark Imperceptor not more than moments ago. “I hope this has pleased you, my Lord,” he said. “And that it has shown you the value I bring, how well I keep your tenets. You see now only a fraction of what I can do in your name. Lend me power, my lord, that I might further bring your order to the world. That we might throw down these petty pretenders, these puppets grown fat on easy slaughter the strength of a true ruler. Let us glut ourselves upon their fear before they are ground beneath our unstoppable rise. Let us see them weep.”

At first he thought there would be no answer. But then he felt it, felt the darkness thicken and densify, felt it curl around his throat as if to crush it. But it stopped short, stopped at a pressure that would not kill him but would let him feel each and every one of the five fingers that extended from the broad, black hand to encircle his throat.

You will serve, the voice said, as all must serve. But first, a lesson. The hand tightened. Spots danced in his vision. There is no we, boy. There is only me. You are a fleeting thing, born only to serve. And serve me you will. Ably so, young Gortash. I look forward to your next offering.

The hand on his throat vanished with the voice. “Of course, my Lord,” he said to the altar. “Of course I will serve. That is the purpose of those born to my station.”

Gortash smiled alone in the dark.

“I would never seek for more.”