#would it be heretical to put noodles in there?

[tavina-writes]

Hello friends, I have been debating buying a hotpot to make hotpot. Unfortunately, I've never actually made hotpot myself before. (I mostly used to eat it at restaurants and at my one auntie's house) so idk like, what to put in it that would be good.

What are your favorite hotpot recipes and things to put in the hotpot?

Also: if you make your own hotpot soup bases instead of going out to buy them, are there any good recipes for that?

[thewisaaaaad]

Hey so I was possesed by another vision.

Im so sorry. Have anemoia AU. Anemoia means "having nostalgia for a time you never experienced.

Also this one dives a little into horror, and I made an image to go with it so. be prepared for that.

my yappin below the Read More.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why had you tried to be rid of me? Had I done something wrong?

Oh. oh I must have. something horrible, and now I have done something so much worse! A fool such as myself has no business being ROYALTY! Oh no, this will not do at all! My lord, reduced to a groveling peasant!

But now you are free! Forgive your humble servant for the shoddy illusion of the cult I had left you in, I needed time to prepare your surprise! I meant no harm by it, and it was no prison. You could leave at any time!

And now you have! But oh, oh my Lord, you still look so upset! My deepest apologies and condolences, my lord!

But that foul mood will not last, if I have anything to say about it!

I know! I'll put on a show! Only the finest entertainment will do! The worst of the worst, tormented for eternity!

All for You! What a wonderful circus this will be! Such a wonderful show, indeed!

The price of admission? Oh no such thing, my lord! I would rather impale myself upon a sword or twelve! I offer a gift instead!

Your crown! Your wondrous, red crown, returned to its rightful place!

This body? oh, merely a puppet, my lord! My main body is setting up the big show. If you wish to rip it to shreds, such is your right!

But there is so much more to do, once you are done!

There are plenty of heretical souls to punish here with it, so many traitorous souls to cut down at your pleasure!

Ooh, ooh! There are refreshments, too! Fresh marrow to sup upon, and warm blood to slake your thirst!

And for the main events! Oh! Oh, how the bishops shall suffer for your amusement! Heheheh, I'm rather proud of those, myself!

First, we have Leshy! He of Havock, reduced to bird seed! I made hawks pluck at his eyehole as he remains chained to a rock! But not in the way normal birds of prey do, oh no. They pluck at the same nerve endings.

every. time.

A being who relishes in chaos such as he will surely die of BORDOM from such a fate! oh, but do not worry, my lord!

I WONT LET HIM LEAVE THAT EASILY.

Next up, we have that rotten toad, Heket! She gets the honor of standing in a river, with fruit dangling just overhead! But she never gets to taste either, oh no. The pears retreat, just beyond the reach of her grubby mits, whenever she dares to try and seize them.

And that frigid water that rushes past her legs? Why, her parched lips will never reach its surface! the spiked collar around her fragile neck will make sure of that.

SHE WILL FACE THE VERY FAMINE SHE ONCE RULED.

As for Kallamar. Well, lets just say that I was tempted to make him shove a boulder up a hill for eternity, but his weak noodle arms could barely push a small rock! It was so pitiful, I couldn't even stand it.

So I decided to play to his strengths.

A god of plague should be more than a match for his domain, right? Hehee! I thought so too, but his vomit seems to suggest otherwise! I have lined up a wonderful conga line of suffering for the cowardly squid, a beautiful set of symptoms that shall create a wonderful symphony of agony!

Ah, but I haven't left him defenseless! that would be no fun at all! I have left him a table of tools, a bouquet of medicine to try ant treat what ails him!

But every, SINGLE time he starts to recover to a mere cough...

I HAVE ANOTHER CRIPPLING ILLNESS WAITING IN THE WINGS!

And Shamura!

...ah, Shamura.

It was so hard to find a punishment that got a good reaction out of them. Every single form of torture, from boiling in oil, to being crushed under a lead cloak, they took all of it on the chin.

"Through this, I will repent" MY ASS!

But I figured out a hell that makes them squirm. Its so ingenious!

I simply employed the same punishment that they made YOU suffer through! Ehehee, with a slight twist, of course!

They get to watch their siblings SUFFER for all eternity! Hah, and they get to sit there, knowing, KNOWING that this is all their fault! AHAHAHAHAAAAA!

Oh don't look at me like that, you aren't part of their family! They forsake that honor the moment they thought to put you in chains!

...oh, and before you go enjoy the festivities, I wanted to tell you one last thing.

I will be hosting a show of my own! "The Comedy Of the Last Lamb!" oh, I have been working SO very hard on it! I do hope you enjoy it! The story will be a little... tweaked, from how it actually went. The new ending should fit your tastes MUCH better than how... It had gone.

I do hope you'll show up to see it!

You have a starring role in it, after all.

Please, enjoy yourself.

My lord.

[suffer-for-supper]

In the spirit of Earth Day -and totally not because I happened to go down a rabbit hole centering on marine "plant"life- I'd like to take this time to point out how very many types of edible algae there are.

Nori (which is what California likes to put inside their sushi -the heretics they are), is made of various types of edible red algae. It is also used in foods like nori chicken (try it, it's good), kaki mochi/arare/mochi crunch (found here in Hawaii in the snacks aisle at Walmart), furikake (seasoning), and much more.

Wakame, a brown algae, is used in miso soup and other dishes (or just eat it on its own, I know I would) is high in various minerals, mainly manganese and sodium. It's also yummy, and cronchy. Imagine a pickle that isn't necessarily sour. But like, in the vague shape of a noodle. I recommend it. Highly.

Grapestone is a red algae that can be cooked up like in stir fry or in a soup, and apparently tastes like oysters. It can be fished, but harvest responsibly.

Sea grapes! C. Lentillifera is a cronchy algae that reportedly pops like caviar! I want to try it myself. Apparently umami.

Giant kelp. You can eat it, and it's hot a bunch of nutrients making it suitable as a dietary supplement.

Sea lettuce. Apparently it's a green algae. Though it may contain toxic heavy metals depending on where it was harvested from.

There are many more. Seaweed farming is a carbon-negative affair. But it can have side effects depending on how it is done. For example, wakame seaweed is invasive in the USA and New Zealand.

[retrocontinuity]

Eat, for this is Her Body: Chainsaw Man and the Doxology of Cannibalism

"One day," Anthony Oliveira writes in "The Year in Apocalypses," [Jesus'] disciples approached their master while he was silent in prayer and made a request: 'Lord, teach us how to pray.'" From here, Jesus teaches them the Lord's Prayer, what the Catholic Church once called "the summary of the whole gospel":

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Denji is no one's disciple. When we first meet him, he is closer to how Oliveira describes Jesus himself, "homeless, gleaning for food in the field like a sparrow and relying on the kindness of strangers to put him up, . . . a man cheerfully resigned to powerlessness." And so, Denji doesn't need to be taught how to pray. He has always known. Every bone in his body at the opening of Chainsaw Man sings out the Lord's Prayer: "forgive me my debts", "deliver me from evil." And, of course, Denji is intimately familiar with the prayer's most pitiable, most powerful line. It's this line that he cries out to Makima when he rests, Pieta-like, in her arms at the end of the first chapter. It can only be this line, one that Denji might have written himself:

Give me, from this day forward, and for all the rest of my days, daily bread.

Bread runs throughout CSM like a mocking scent that you only fully identify in the last two chapters. It should have been a sign to all of us when the first meal Makima buys for Denji is not bread (but rather a hot dog and udon noodles). It isn't until Denji meets and enters Aki's home that he is seen making a hideously overladen slice of toast for himself, luxuriating in having all the toppings he was denied. The morning after she forces Denji to open the door to Power's death, Makima makes the very breakfast she once promised to serve Denji: eggs, coffee, salad, and sliced bread. But this is a meal that Denji never eats—maybe the only meal in the entire series that he, a survivor of the meanest starvation and poverty, ignores. There is only one other time we see this meal in CSM, and it is subtle, almost off camera, though no less meaningful: in Chapter 53, after Reze's death, as Denji sits down to breakfast once more with Power and Aki.

To revisit CSM's public safety arc is to see all the ways the plot connects itself to food and the act of eating, both appetizing and revolting, both profound and profane. Denji, eating gyoza at a bar for the first time. Denji being forced to swallow barf as he is kissed for the first time. The Fox Devil, who eats indiscriminately and on command, who refuses to return to Aki after being fed something disgusting. A fox that is hunted and transformed into stew. Denji eating sandwiches at Reze's cafe. Aki and Angel eating noodles. A woman sitting down to eat a hamburger for the first time, before she commits mass murder. She is worried she has lost her taste buds, yet she exclaims, "So delicious!" We know, later, that this woman is a liar, that no part of her is what she presents herself to be. Should we take this moment at its face value then? Was Santa Claus simply lucky enough to have preserved her sense of taste? Or was it her one last act of humanity, to recognize that it is not enough just to eat, that man does not live on bread alone, that there must be at least food that is also delicious, that inspires people to get up and dance—even if it means she has to lie about what she can experience?

Food is necessary for survival, and CSM is a story about survival. But CSM is also a story about glimpsing the after. After you know you can keep living, what next? After you are no longer starving, after you have been forced to kill a friend, after you have touched your first boob, after you have been betrayed, what next? After you are tired of eating toast with jam for breakfast, what do you eat next?

The version of the Lord's Prayer we tend to recite asks for "our daily bread." But this, most modern scholars believe, is a mistranslation. The Greek adjective as it appears in the Gospel of Matthew and Luke is "epiousios," which doesn't mean "daily" at all, but rather something too complicated etymologically for me to even begin to parse. The point is that what we ask for in the Lord's Prayer is not just bread for today, but bread for tomorrow. Both the physical bread and the spiritual bread. Bread on this kingdom of earth, and bread that is the kingdom of heaven. Bread to feed our bodies, and bread to feed our souls. The realm of the divine is full of these moments, isn't it? Of two things existing at once, in one.

Denji starts the series asking for daily bread, and ends the public safety arc with Nayuta, Makima's reincarnation, asking him for daily bread. Trash heap Denji, living with his not!dog Pochita, really was just asking for daily bread. A slice to eat for breakfast, maybe even with butter and jam. But he too learns that bread, physical bread, is not enough. Merely to subsist, to eat good food, is an empty life. And what he must give Nayuta is not just bread, as was given to him. Otherwise, he will be trapped in a cycle of creating more Makimas. Instead, he must give her a relationship, a family, a world that Makima was unable to create. He must give her, in Pochita's words, lots of hugs. He must give her, in the words of the Lord's Prayer, epiousios.

To be clear, I am not arguing that CSM is meant to be read through a Catholic lens, and I doubt Fujimoto had all of this in mind when he wrote it (though he must have thought something, given that he drew a very large print of Gustave Dore's "Satan descends upon Earth" in Makima's entranceway!). But there is something primal (primordial?) about the Lord's Prayer. If every reader can understand the horror that the Darkness Devil represents, so too we can understand the intimacy and comfort of the Lord's Prayer. It is, as Oliveira writes, "a simple peasant's mantra for detoxing anxiety." Jesus opens by addressing God as father—not king, not an all-mighty spiritual being, but rather "abba, which is rather closer to 'dad,' and not in the intercultural Greek of his adulthood, but the Aramaic of home and childhood." The Lord's Prayer asks for what we always want, the only thing any of us have ever wanted since leaving the womb as infants: for no bad things to happen, for there to be enough to eat.

Even if what we have to eat is another person.

At the center of the Christian liturgy is the Last Supper, and at the center of the Last Supper is a meal that functions as ritual, abomination, accusation, transubstantiation, paranoia, and an early example of cracking open a cold one with the bros. Here, Jesus shares bread and wine with his disciples and then, as if trying to invent r/creepypasta years before its time, informs them they are actually eating his flesh and blood. This image is so powerful and heretical that the Romans accused early Christians of being cannibals. And why shouldn't they? It's there in the text. "Take, eat. This is my body. This is my blood." Stripped of the grandeur of tradition and ritual, this is downright vampiric. And yet it goes on to become the cornerstone of the Christian faith.

Oliveira begs us to see the Last Supper as a family meal, one shared by Jesus and his found family. "All he is really saying is, 'I hope when you eat together, you remember me.'" It's a good reading, one that moves me to tears, and is the framework through which I see the events of chapter 80. Because Makima is not the first time that Denji "consumes" a friend, and I don't just mean him sucking Power's blood or taking Pochita into himself. When Aki died, he left half his fortune to Denji, who uses it to support himself and Power. They "pigged out on good food," he tells us. This is Aki's symbolic body, through which he provides Denji his daily bread. Eat ice cream and onigiri in remembrance of me.

But it is not how I see the events of chapter 96. Denji does not eat Makima in the context of a feast. He does not partake of her in a communal meal, as Jesus did, among his found family. He eats every bite of Makima alone. Jesus said before his death, "this is my blood, which is shed for many." Yet Denji says to Makima, I alone will absolve you alone of your sins. I alone will bear you alone.

Denji's Last Supper is a lonely remembrance. He is hoping that no one but him will remember her. He is hoping to wholly consume her, because he loves her. "We love as cannibals," French philosopher and activist Simone Weil wrote. "Beloved beings . . . provide us with comfort, energy, a simulant. They have the same effect on us as a good meal. . . . We love them, then, as food." In fact, Weil believed we cannot love any other way. As humans, we are forever doomed to want to eat the ones we love. In order to escape, we must both be devoured by God and then become food for our fellow human beings. As Alec Irwin writes of Weil's philosophy, "the devouring violence of God must be positively harnessed in order to dismantle the machinery of human cruelty."

If Weil is right and being devoured is transformation, a crucial part of salvation, then in eating Makima, Denji redeems her. He turns her into food to break the cycle of her cruelty. For Makima's power itself is consuming, cannibalistic. She "eats" humans in order to use her power, which remains mysterious like God moving across the face of the earth, leaving only broken corpses as a sign of its presence. So it must be Denji, not Chainsaw Man, who does the consuming. If Pochita had consumed her, as she had always prayed for, then it would simply be another act of violence being enacted. Instead, Denji gives her salvation by turning her into human food—his food.

To Denji, Aki was human, his family, his brother, his friend.  It is Makima he loves as a God and a woman. To him, she is Satan and God, his betrayer and his creator, his salvation and his friends' damnation. So he must take her, consume her, digest her, excrete her, reduce her to nothing, as she once consumed and excreted and reduced him. "I ate her to become one with her." He ate her to become her. There is no truer form of his love than for Denji to take Makima into himself. I use those words purposefully, because this is the rejection of classic cishet PIV penetration, that old hoary chestnut of men inside women. As Don Delillo famously outlines in White Noise, we talk about sex as if women are containers, rooms, elevator lobbies: "He entered me," "I want him inside me," "I took him into myself." Denji and Makima never have physical sex, but this is a consummation, a reversal of roles. We are given the only sex that Shounen Jump will allow us, with Denji taking Makima into himself. She enters him. She is inside him. He is—physically, emotionally, willingly—penetrated by her flesh. She is released inside of him, becoming part of him.

Because the divine is full of moments like this, isn't it? Of two things existing at once, in one. That is the kingdom and the power and the glory. For Makima now lives in that country inhabited by God, where loving and eating are one and the same. For that country is none other than Denji's body.

In conclusion:

Substitute Makima for "God", and the preceding statements are still rigorously accurate.

Further Reading:

Anthony Oliveira's ongoing podcast reading the Gospel of Mark (Patreon exclusive, but I highly recommend, even/especially if you are a heathen like me)

Hannibal (NBC)

Daniel Birnbaum and Anders Olsson, An Interview with Jacques Derrida on the Limits of Digestion

David Farrell Krell, "All You Can't Eat: Derrida's Course, "Rhetorique du Cannibalisme (1990-1991)." Research in Phenomenology, vol. 36, 2006, pp. 130–180. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24660636. 

Alec Irwin, “Devoured by God: Cannibalism, Mysticism, and Ethics in Simone Weil.” CrossCurrents, vol. 51, no. 2, 2001, pp. 257–272. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24460795.

[thefirstknife]

Hello! I know with Osiris acting sus there's a lot to be unpacked there but I wanted to know if you had thoughts on Sus!iris giving Crow his cloak and the "one exile to another" comments. Those felt more... Organic I guess than other actions of his. Do you think maybe he's still in there, just suppressed?

I'm not entirely sure honestl, but here are some of my thoughts.

When he goes to comission the cloak, Eva notes a few strange things:

With each stitch, she recalls the strange encounter some months ago that prompted her clandestine work:

It was late that evening. She had been walking back from the Tower, nearly home, when she heard a smooth voice quietly assert, "Eva. It's been too long. You look as bright as ever." Osiris melted out of the shadows near her doorway.

"Melting out of the shadows" has been a common theme for a while now. In Play of Shadow and Light (hint hint nudge nudge):

There is an imminent, daunting pressure.

Ikora holds her breath.

She is not alone; something is wrong. She feels an intrusion and tension draws tight around her heart.

A shadow moves over her.

"Ikora."

She breathes again; familiarity anchors her.

"Osiris… would you care to join me?" She recognizes his robes, his voice, and that is all. His face sinks between dancing shadows cast by the garden's torchlight. He is smaller, worn, and devoid of the magnificence she remembered. A monument of embers, defined by what once was.

Ikora experiences some strange vibes before seeing Osiris. He is then described as a shadow moving into her field of vision. Ikora is relieved to see him, but as she notes: she recognises his basic form, but if she hadn't seen him face to face, she clearly would've been concerned (more so than she was upon seeing him in this state).

In One Exile to Another, the same is repeated again:

"I know just the place." A deep, languid voice floated out of the forest behind them.

Crow whirled, hand on his Sidearm, ready to draw. He relaxed as the grizzled Warlock, Osiris, stepped forward from the shade of the pine trees.

Not only does Osiris "step out of the shade" again, but Crow is immeditely startled and almost draws a gun at him. Additionally:

"I've seen pictures of noodles," Crow said doubtfully. "They look like worms."

Osiris smiled beneath his cowl.

Hm. All of these things being repeated in the same way are not coincidences, for sure.

Anyway, Osiris makes a good reason for giving Crow new clothes: Crow has to stay hidden and having a huge Spider symbol on his chest isn't a good look. His reasoning for comissioning the cloak from Eva also tracks: he explains he needs someone who can keep a secret while Crow is adjusting and before he's ready to be revealed to the Vanguard.

If we're going by the current theory of Osiris having been replaced by Savathun, then it's Savathun who is directing these things. She is known to have orchestrated plenty of events behind the scenes. She loves secrets, even secrets for secrets' sake. In hindsight, keeping Crow a secret seems to fit that scheme.

Moreover, in the lore for Hawkmoon, Savathun is the one observing Crow the YW celebrating. She notes:

The Crow is so carefree in his ignorance. The bonfire's glow lights up his pale features and I am drawn to the hope in his gold eyes. Where is the despairing child I anticipated?

Savathun knows Crow. Or rather, she knows Uldren, whom she is responsible for corrupting. She knows who Crow was before which is why she seems to have anticipated "a despairing child." She is also very clearly experiencing something here that's new to her. Or at least something she hasn't felt in a long time. She keeps repeating how she doesn't understand what she's feeling and how it brings back memories of her family and hope and all the good things that she forgot about.

I believe she is drawn to Crow because of this and because of her past involvement with Uldren. I also believe she may be trying to influence him again.

Of course, it could also be as you suggested: that Osiris is somehow manipulated (Taken?) and she's controlling him and some of these instances is him fighting back. Since we don't know the mechanics of what's going on and how, it's hard to say.

But Savathun definitely holds a connection to Crow in multiple ways. The way he is being treated by Osiris seems to follow that pattern.

One more thing, in regards to the name itself: One Exile to Another. We can of course draw the parallel of Osiris having been exiled and Crow who is an exile himself.

But so is Savathun. Back in Immolant Pt. 2, Osiris interfaces with the Dreadnaught to learn more about the Hive and their structure after Oryx's defeat. He discovers the following:

Osiris sneers and grasps the head. He navigates the recounting of the Hive from Oryx's death. They are fractured, broken by internal power struggles. It leads into a recounting of Savathûn: banished, branded as heretic and set to burn. Many Hive turned to her when Oryx fell. Many of those same broodlines defected as the Darkness invaded Sol, sending Savathûn into hiding. She is still hunted by the hounds of war.

Savathun, same as Osiris, has been banished from her people and branded as a heretic. So "One Exile to Another" fits with both Osiris and Crow as well as Savathun and Crow. Savathun has been shown to be... sympathetic (for the lack of the better word) towards those that are banished and exiled; she also helped Nokris in much the same way.

I hope this makes sense all put together and I hope Savathun is enjoying her imbaru!

[buggie-hagen]

Sermon for Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost (11/13/22)

Primary Text | Malachi 4:1-6

--------------------------------------------

Dear People of God,

            “An oracle. The word of the LORD to Israel by Malachi…See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the LORD of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch” (Mal. 1:1, 4:1). These are words of judgment. Not a judgment that comes from human beings, they are a judgment that comes from the LORD our God. That on the Day he comes he will leave neither the root nor the branch is an apt way of putting it. Evil has its roots everywhere. Like an aspen tree, its root system spreads as far and wide as it can so that its branches come up at every opportune time. This particular aspen tree has also taken root in each of us, deep in our veins. And so it is that God will not allow this to go on forever. God’s judgment will put an end to the evil and the arrogant.

            When we come across passages of judgment like this in the Bible there are several temptations. In one way or another the temptation is self-justification. That people and the world are actually pretty good. Redemption, who needs that? Toward this end one method might be, “Well, that passage is not very nice, the Lord could not have said that.” Another might say, “We all know the Lord does not actually care, so we don’t need to worry whether he frowns or smiles at what we do or do not do.” The ancient heretic Marcion would say, “That’s just some evil god speaking, not the God of love we have now….so let’s delete it from our bibles.”  And he did, Marcion deleted the entire Old Testament as well as much of the New Testament. In all these approaches we have whittled God away so that he begins to look, think, and act just like us. In this way we have made God in our own image, forgetting we are not the ones who created the heavens and the earth. In effect, we have become our own god when we dictate how God can and cannot be, when we reason him into a little box. Many preachers and teachers have whittled God so far down that they have turned God into a wet noodle. A docile god who doesn’t get anything done at all. Now, let’s talk about another temptation we have when we encounter passages on judgment. Some people hear things like God burning up roots and branches and they get eager about it. They get trigger happy. And then with a smile on their face all they do is go around and sling rocks at people. They get out their whips in order to control. The trigger-happy ones have a spirit too, but it is not the Holy Spirit. And of course, they are the most self-righteous of people—they can do no wrong. This is its own form of self-righteousness. Dear people, know this for certain, our God is not a wet noodle, nor is he interested in the arrogant. He is the Almighty. And one day he will show that there is a “difference between the righteous and the wicked, between one who serves God and one who does not serve him” (Mal. 3:18).

What we have in our passage from Malachi and what we have everywhere in both the New and the Old Testaments, is what we call the Law and the Gospel. The Law, that word of God in which God condemns, accuses, and reveals his wrath. We do not paper over this. Nor do we turn God into a wet noodle who is super nice and never actually gets around to loving anyone. The Gospel, that word of God in which God forgives sin, comforts, and reveals his mercy and favor. For two things are true at once, as the oracle revealed by Malachi proclaims, “the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the LORD of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch.” At the same time, just as true is this promise of God as revealed in the oracle of Malachi, “But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall” (Mal. 4:2). There, there is the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is God who has caused us to revere this name Jesus—for it is Jesus who saves us from our sins. He who redeems us from all sin and evil. The sun of righteousness that rises is none other than Jesus, God’s Son, who rose from the dead. In him, through his death and resurrection, you have the full forgiveness of sin, you have God’s mercy as your very own possession. In him, you have nothing to fear, nothing to terrify you. The Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, has healing in his wings. And you, dear children of God, are the ones whom he will heal from all misfortune and calamity. In that last day, when he comes to judge the living and the dead, you will go forth leaping from your stall—no longer restrained by the terrors of sin and death and evil—for sin, death, evil, and all who practice such things, will no longer have roots in you. His wings will heal you. And you shall leap for joy.

[awkwardpenguinproductions]

What food were you surprised to learn most of us goyim don’t know about or haven’t tried? My coworker a few years ago made everyone in the kitchen some of her matzah ball soup, and was super surprised at how many of them had never heard of it. (It was super delicious) Do you have a traditional food item you kind of wish were more popular so you could go out to eat and find it on random menus?

oooh boy, where do I even start?

So matzah ball soup is definitely one, especially the recipe my mom makes, which is clear broth (usually simmered for most of the day and strained before serving) with matzah balls and chicken shreds, and for Rosh Hashanah the kneydlach are replaced with thin egg noodles. I once had a variation of matzah ball soup called mishmash soup, which is chicken soup with matzah balls, kreplach (dumplings), and noodles, and some recipes also have rice and kasha as well. I had it once, and the place I had it has since closed (sad, sad, sad day in the Penguin Family’s New York branch) and I have been looking for another place to get it for TEN YEARS. 

UPDATE ON THE MISHMASH SEARCH: So I just ran a google search for local Jewish delis in my area (I do not live in New York, which makes this search somewhat challenging) and I found a place nearby that HAS IT!!! They call it “chicken in the pot” but it’s basically mishmash soup. I know what I’m doing for lunch tomorrow.

I also really miss my mom’s potato kugel. Kugel is a type of baked casserole that can be made either with potatoes and onions, for a savory dish, or with noodles and eggs, for a sweet dish. I prefer potato kugel, which my mom makes of grated potatoes and onions mixed with egg and matzah meal (basically ground up matzahs) and baked until the top is golden brown and the edges are crunchy. it is SO FUCKING GOOD, especially with brisket gravy drizzled on top. 

There’s also knishes, which are sort of like hash browns except that they’re made of mashed potatoes instead of chopped or grated potatoes and they’re also filled with stuff (usually meat or cheese, but not both because that’s not kosher) and fried.

GEFILTE FISH, I can’t believe I almost forgot about gefilte fish. 

Okay, so gefilte fish are basically round cake-blobs of ground up fish (usually carp, pike, mullet, or whitefish) mixed with eggs, matzah meal or breadcrumbs (if breadcrumbs are used, then the end product is not considered kosher for Passover), spices, and sometimes onion, carrot, or potato, all mashed up together and boiled in fish stock. Modern mass produced gefilte fish are made into cakes and then poached or baked, and then stuffed into jars with jelly made from fish stock like the pic above. 

I THOUGHT THESE WERE SO GROSS AS A KID. We usually eat them for Shabbat and/or Passover (usually Passover in my family), and wee Teviya thought she had never seen a grosser foodstuff in her life. And then I tried some at Jewish summer camp, and MY MIND WAS BLOWN. They are so good. I can’t even explain why they’re good, although I prefer mine at room temp with as little jelly as possible in evidence (my grandmother would serve hers cold, which may have explained why little me found them so unappetizing).

It’s so hard to find these at the local supermarket when it’s not Passover season where I live (as stated above, I don’t live in New York, where my grandparents and my weird Orthodox relatives live). Maaaybe they’ll be in the microscopic kosher section of the foreign foods aisle, maybe not. I mostly associate them with holiday eating, so I generally don’t go looking for them all that often, but every once in a blue moon I’ll get a hankering.

ughghghg I miss real Jewish food. Hopefully this deli I’m hitting up tomorrow lives up to The Stage and Katz’s. They put cheese on their meat sandwiches (again, not kosher), so I’m a little skeptical. If there’s mayo on the pastrami I may riot. (I don’t even really like pastrami, but mayo on pastrami is nigh heretical whether I like pastrami or not.)

I’m doing a #jewish on main q&a in honor of Passover! Come ask me stuff! Disclaimers and warning here.

[twitchesandstitches]

Karkat’s New Life

Commission of an AU where Terezi is the heiress and gobbles up the wicked, and is romance-y with Karkat!

-----

The tale of the epic romance of the second coming of the Sufferer and the empress to overthrow the draconic tyrant who had doomed Alternia, was embellished in the tales.

Great loves, and stern rulership, began like this: ‘oh hey, something shiny!’

And so it began.

----

Karkat Vantas had been stoically quiet and doing his best not to panic throughout the entire trip from his hive, and internally he was freaking out.

Years, he had been waiting for this. Grimly expecting that sooner or later, the hemospectrum would come down on him, and that would be that. Even the whole time he had been on a wagon and then the submarine taking him to the bottom of the sea, he had bundled himself up in his sweater, daring the two guards to say something, or taunt him.

Let him show a bit of pre-culling spite; let him die with that, at least.

But they hadn’t said a word to him; not the huge and burly blueblood with a broken horn, not the absolutely massive and curvy purpleblood with horns like wavy step ladders. They didn’t seem particularly threatening. No taunts, no vicious little cuts where it wouldn’t show, just politely escorted him into a massive undersea palace that had apparently been built into the biggest dragon skull he’d ever seen.

‘Would you please come with us?’ they had been so polite when they had come to his door. That was not how a culling went; no drones, no mayhem, just a very polite, if quiet trip.

Karkat looked around, trying not to annoy the two giant guards beside him. He fidgeted and restained the urge to flee, fearing that this would mean instant death. He glanced aside at his lusus, and saw him still lounging in the submarine, clicking contentedly.

“Useless little grump flick,” Karkat grumbled.

“Keep goin’, little one,” the purpleblood rumbled, with just a hint of chucklevoodoos there. It was difficult to see her face past those humongous rumblespheres, but she wasn’t painted like a mirthful cultist; she wore red paint, emphasizing her eyes so that she looked a bit like a dragon.

Red, Karkat noticed, was something of a theme in this palace. It sprang up in unexpected color palettes, typically around whorls carved into bony pillars that…

That…

Looked just like his own sign. He paled. Where they going to kill him and use his blood to paint up the place?

Come to think of it. Deep beneath the sea? A dragon’s skull? And that symbol, that many whispered the mad heiress was so enamored of?

Oh no. He was in the lair of the Heretic Heiress.

They brought him into a huge, resplendent chamber that was mostly filled with random beds, small piles of what looked like obscure tabletop RPG handbooks to him, mountains of dice, and a beanbag chair. Sitting upon it was a sea dweller, and recognizing her, Karkat’s stomach did a funny twist. “Your Draconic Benevolence,” said the blueblood gravely. “Your guest is here.”

The beanbag turned around with some effort. Facing them now was a startlingly short troll girl, perhaps half a sweep older than Karkat but not much more. Her angled horns were the longest he’d ever seen, the facial fins of her caste sticking out like quills, and her wide mouth was a massive of grotesque fangs. Short as she was, though, she was thick; a sports bra in royal colors stood out against rumblespheres bigger than Karkat’s head, her waist was broad and her plump belly ripened by many rich meals, and from the sheer wideness of her hips, her backside was clearly massive. That all she wore was a sports bra, a swimsuit bottom and a skirt tied over her wide hips was a royal affectation.

Terezi Peixes. The heretic heiress conquering Alternia, and presumptive conqueror of the empire if she lived long enough. The most terrifying troll in existence.

She stood up and moved over to him, not so much walking as using a mobile swagger. “Maenad, Zahhak! You can go. I think we’ll do fine.” She grinned widely, putting a webbed hand on his shoulder and playfully pushing him into the bean bag. The guards left, to do guard-y things.

She sat down next to him, inexplicably smug. Her hip brushed against his body and he instinctively blushed.

She turned, facing him, and her claws patted his arm in a friendly way. He looked into her eyes, and realized two things. She couldn’t have been an inch taller than him, and he was short; fuchsia girls took a long time to hit the leviathan size of the empress, it seemed. And two, her eyes with red. The membrane that should have protected her eyes had sealed over them, clouded by some terrible injury. She was blind.

“Name’s Terezi,” she said nonchalantly. “And you, my loyal subject-” she chuckled. “Smell cute.”

He gaped.

“Also, you are Karkat Vantas.”

He wouldn’t be him without a contrarian impulse. “You can’t prove that!”

She tugged at a tag in his sweater. “It’s got Karkat on this tag here.”

“Lies and vaudeville! It’s a gremlin, hiding false names on innocent clothing to lure me to a culling.”

The Heiress laughed at that. “A culling!? You think this is a culling? Oh man, what did those meatheads tell you this was ,huh?”

“They… didn’t say much?”

“Guppy, I outlawed culling when I took over!”

“...Huh?”

She grinned and patted her belly mysteriously. “Anyone who tried to keep up those bad old ways, uh, got what was coming to ‘em.” She leaned in. “I just wanna talk.”

She reached into her very ample cleavage and pulled out a little pendant, and she showed it to him. Dangling from it, carved of fine coral, was the sign of the Shackles. His own sign, a perfect mirror to the one on his shirt.

Her claws touched hiss shirt, his chest. She was so cold, that it was electrifying, and she was so close to him…

She pulled back, and smelled embarrassed. “Your blood is something of an interest of mine.” She grinned. “Wanted to have a chat with someone who knew how bad things can really get up there. An expert opinion.”

Karkat glanced again at her pendant. Don’t stare at her cleavage, DON’T. “That’s all?”

“Yeah. But maybe, you know. If you wanted to know about what that blood means…?” she left the unspoken invitation dangle. “And I’ll keep you hidden from the empress’ goons. The ones still loyal.” She held a hand out. “I swear.”

Uncertainly, wondering why she bothered asking, he shook her hand. “Okay.”

She sniffed him. “Been a long time,” she said carefully. “Since I had anyone in here full time except me.” Her hand lingered on him, not quite squeezing, but close…

A voice coughed. Both of them jumped.

Standing in the back was a… a… Karkat didn’t know what it was. An alien? Smaller than a troll, dark skinned but just as curvy, with features like a woofbeast that felt oddly out of place on the hominid frame. She bowed, her body crackled with green flame and cybernetic implants. A similar alien, much smaller and with odd avian traits, waved mildly. “Sup, ya empress. Me and Jade rounded up that guy who was trying to sell out your guest here to the loyalists.”

“Thanks, Dave, Jade,” the Heiress said. She aimed her face with odd intensity at the chained troll between them; a massive purpleblood, his face streaked in paint. How had two aliens managed to contain THAT?

The two aliens left. Karkat cleared his throat, and the Heiress interrupted. “Couple of friends I met when I was doing some space travels a while back. Nice planet. Conquered by the empress and those guys got experimented on; hoping to free their planet once I get my war on.” She smirked. “Would just love for you to see there. It has a pleasing symmetry.”

Karkat frowned as she stood up, wondering what that meant.

Slowly the Heiress approached the prisoner, and he began to wail. “No, no no, get away from me, get away you freak!”

She tugged on his chains, forcing him head to his knees, head down so that his eyes were level with hers. “You serve a corrupt authority, and your sentence is execution. How shall you plead?”

“I am a loyal servant, you sick traitor!” he snarled. “I’ll not allow any of the Sufferer’s blood to burn the empire-”

She put a finger to his mouth. The touch was soft, but he flinched in sudden, overwhelming terror. “It deserves to burn,” the Heiress said evenly. “Understand that you will make me stronger, and with your aid, I will fix this empire, and save everyone. You will, in some way, redeem our blood.”

“No, no no!” He strained against his, roaring and trying to bust his way free as she leaned forward, her mouth wide, wider than trollishly possible-

What happened next, as she swallowed him whole in a single gulp, was too quick to accurately parse, and Karkat needed a long time to let it register. But this was the technical process.

The Heiress’ mouth opened wide, wider, impossibly wide, seemingly bigger than she was, and a massive tongue curled around the prisoner. With impossible strength that could break a ship in half with one finger, she grabbed his face and pushed his head into her mouth. Incredibly flexible and strong throat muscles gripped on him, and she swallowed.

His horns, big as they were, slipped down without a problem. His head, bigger than her torso, descended as smoothly as a marble down a cliffside, briefly visible through her skin. She slurped up his hair like noodles, tilted his head up as her gulp took in his massive shoulders, those body-breaking biceps.

Down her throat it all went, and into her belly.

His muscular torso, his strong-fat gut, his huge hips. She could have sat in his lap, he was that much bigger than her.

Her belly ballooned as she swallowed him down, several tons and nearly eighteen feet of subjugglator beef slipping down into her digestion sac. She rose up on it as his legs and feet vanished into her body, and it became clear why her belly was exposed; easy access as she flopped onto it, rising upwards and jiggling faintly.

But, to Karkat, it looked like one moment he was there; the next, the Heiress rested on a water matter of a gut, a masculine body still faintly visible in her belly.

She made a small burp. “Whoof. Hope the chucklevoodoo boost doesn’t screw with my psionics any,” she muttered to herself. There was a small noise as Karkat stood up, more baffled than afraid, and she turned to stare at his direction. “Oh. Oh shit, you weren’t supposed to see that yet! I mean…”

Karkat thought to run… and stopped.

He gulped. “Is that… painful? You need help?”

She froze up… and smiled. “Little company would be nice. I’m gonna eat the entire empire if that’s what it takes to stop it. But a little company is nice.”

He walked up and sat beside her. Her mammoth belly felt as big as a room from his old hive, and he cautiously touched it. She giggled and her belly sloshed. “Hee. Tickles.”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

She smirked at him, with a hint of something genuine and lonely there. “Call me Terezi, Mr Vantas.”

“...Hey, if there’s no formality here, call me Karkat?”

“...Nah. I’mma call you something stupid instead.”

“PLEASE DON’T.”

She stuck her tongue out.

And that, as they say, is the beginning of a beautiful romance.

They stuck more fancy sweet stuff in the epic poems, though.

[thedistantstorm]

Phoenix Protocol 12

Zavala x Awoken Female Warlock | Mid/Post Forsaken | Slowburn | Gratuitous Descriptions of Light | Self-Confidence/Self-Worth Issues | Redemption

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Sunsinger.

Previously

-/

Miyu slashes swift and hard into the meat of a Hunter’s chest piece, the force of the blow throwing them back into the crumbling concrete wall behind them.  She flicks the sword and shoves it back into its sheath quickly, reaching for the scout rifle on her back.

A Titan surprises her, whipping around the corner in a blur of sparking blue arc energy. He throws her back a good ten meters, but it isn’t enough to put her down. She slams her fists to the ground, feeling the burn of her Light at her fingertips. She breathes hard, and suddenly the Titan is pinning her, a knee heavy in her abdomen, gauntlet-covered hands wrapped around her neck.

She burns.

The Striker yelps, but she holds his wrists with blazing fingers, and rolls them with knowledge that comes from beyond the edges of her memory. They both burn in the strange Solar fire that’s half grenade, half Lightburn.

Shaxx pulls her from the match. She rezzes mid-transmat, both Guardian and Ghost caught by surprise. Miyu lands hard on her rear, glaring up at the emotionless helmet of the one-horned Crucible Handler.

“For fuck’s sake, Mimi,” He says, looking at her charred gauntlets. “What the hell was that about?”

She dips her head, but her chin juts out. In others it would be proud, but on her it’s an indicator that she’s furious. “Not dying?”

“You just died. Try again.”

“He was killing me.”

“You could have rolled him, then reached your blade.”

“You’ve done nothing but damage yourself today. Usually you are far more careful.” He motions to a crate beside where Arcite oversees the matches Shaxx is too busy to tend to. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You came from the Bazaar,” He tells her, not that it’s a secret. “What did Ikora say to you?”

Miyu rolls her eyes, and Shaxx - while irritated with her - is happy she’s not behaving like a wet kitten, at least. “Nothing. I have to get going, anyway. I have plans for lunch.”

At that, the Titan freezes, caught off guard. “What?”

She slinks away, more like a broody Nightstalker than a Warlock. He wants to think on it some more - that’s a shift in events - but Arcite points out a ten-kill streak on one of the monitors. The Crucible waits for no one.

-/

He can see the intensity of her rage without her saying a word. She’s practically vibrating, contents under pressure. He dips his head to regard her, blinking pointedly in her direction. She looks at him and closes the door to his office behind her.

“What’s on your mind,” He asks by way of greeting.

She sighs. “I don’t want to ruin our lunch.” She sighs. “We’ll talk about it afterward.”

“You won’t ruin our lunch.” He slips an arm around her, guides her to the table upon which their lunch is waiting, cutlery, take out containers lined up with effort. Her stomach rumbles, as if to prove his point. “I invited you so that we could catch up.”

The Warlock nods reluctantly, and he pulls out her chair for her. It wins him a smile, puts a heavy crack in her anger, and helps set her to rights. “How have you been?”

“More or less the same,” He tells her. “The Consensus is still asking me who the Hunter Vanguard is, and the Hunters are still saying it’s Colonel.”

She chuckles, though he gives her an exasperated look. “She’d look great in a cloak, I’m sure.”

“Don’t help their cause,” He teases gently. They dig into their meal - she’s infinitely grateful for the lean meat and noodles, Crucible always does a number on her. The silence is comfortable until Zavala hedges, “So, what happened?”

She sets down her chopsticks, folding her hands under her chin and resting her elbows on the table. “I spoke with Ikora today.”

His eyes darken. “That bad?”

“She’s upset that I withheld my vision from her.”

“But you-”

“‘If you wish to be heard, speak louder,’” Miyu says in a scathing mock of her Vanguard mentor. “‘Perhaps if you were to assert yourself, I would be less inclined to push you away.’”

Zavala deadpans. “You went to her multiple times.”

“Twenty three, to be exact.”

Zavala frowns, chewing thoughtfully. “Did she have any input?”

Miyu nods, levelling him with a deadpan stare. “Kind of. She’s contacting Osiris.”

“What?”

“Yup,” Miyu huffs at the Commander’s reaction to his predecessor. “Apparently her visions were similar to mine, but she wants an expert opinion. Don’t be surprised when she tries to send me to Mercury.”

“Miyu, even though I dislike-”

“If you tell me I should go see him, I’m leaving,” Miyu tells him, eyes hard. “I know you want to help me, but we’re of similar opinion when it comes to him. Don’t pretend for my sake that you’re alright with me seeing him.”

The Commander exhales, leaning against the back of his chair. “I’m not, but you come before my reservations.”

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. It’s bold for her, but she’s become more comfortable with him lately. “I appreciate that. But I remember when he was our Vanguard Commander.” Blue eyes blink at her in surprise. She smirks at him, “Told you I’m not that young. Anyway, the only lessons I’ve learned from him are how not to be - both as a Warlock, and as a person.”

He sighs. “Miyu, it’s your call.” He looks away. “My personal opinion, or with those you come into contact with should have no bearing on yours.”

“I know, but I value your opinion, Zavala.” She squeezes the hand she’s still holding on the other side of the table before releasing it.

“If Ikora - even if I - do not repeat this -” She nods, eyes serious, “Am not on the best of terms with her, she is a skilled Warlock.” He levels her with a firm gaze. “She would not consider Osiris if she herself were not stumped. You are a Sunsinger and he is one of the best to ever exist.”

“He is a heretic and a piss-poor defender of humanity.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Zavala concedes. “He is egoistic and selfish, and personally, I do not condone his behavior. However, neither did Ikora. It is not an easy task to contact him. She would not go out of her way for his input unless she felt there was no other choice.”

Miyu sighs. “If he’ll speak to her, I’ll listen. But I have no interest in going to see him.”

“If that’s the only way?”

“It’s not.” White eyes burn. “We both know it’s not.”

“We both hope it’s not,” Zavala corrects. “Think carefully, Miyu. Dealing with someone you dislike is a small price to pay. Do not discount anything that might help you.”

The Warlock sighs harder than before and looks down into her lunch. “I’ll try.”

“So,” He muses, lighter, “You’re far older than I gave you credit for.”

“Old,” She scoffs, without any malice behind it. “I will throw this piece of broccoli at you, Commander,” She quips back, lightly. “You’re old too, you know.” She flushes at the playfulness of her comment, but his lip pulls to the right to signal he finds the humor in it, which allows her to relax.

“I would prefer if you did not,” He deadpans. “I have a feeling you would not prefer to be assaulted by this carrot.”

She laughs so hard she snorts, and Zavala follows suit. By the time she leaves his office, she doesn’t feel nearly as angry.

“Thank you,” Miyu calls in her airy voice, lingering in the doorway before she goes. “I feel better now.”

“It was my pleasure,” The Commander says, warmly. “We’ll talk soon.

Golden brown eyes watch as the docile Awoken hovers in the doorway for an extra second before flitting away, a spring in her step that was not present hours before. The pale-skinned Warlock might have feel better, but Ikora is absolutely furious.

“What is he angling at,” She wonders aloud. Ophiuchus, her ghost, the only being around, does not answer her. She follows the Sunsinger until she leaves the Courtyard - which is not what Ikora had told her to do, but she has bigger issues, so it’s actually a help - and heads to the only other person who might know what in the Traveler’s name is happening here.

He’s barking into the comms that feed directly into the arena - Legion’s Gulch, at the moment. She steps in front of him, imposing for a woman who barely reaches his shoulder.

“Shaxx,” She demands, eyes sparking, nostrils flaring. “I need a moment.”

[justanotherloveaffair]

Just Say Yes - Chapter 8 (Chadwick x Reader)

<< Chapter 7                                                                                Chapter 9 >>

A Collaboration Fic between @justanotherloveaffair/ @captainsordersfic

Summary: Penny gives you some sage advice that you immediately put into practice just in time for your Friday night with Chadwick. 

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 4,042

Chapter Author: Me

Your name: Submit (what is this?)

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You didn’t call Chadwick that night.

After putting in an exhausting day of work, you took your laptop home and continued working in your tiny office, your face awash from the light of your screen and a single lamp. The only reprieve your lip got from your anxious chewing came when you stopped to slurp instant noodles, which was also the only time you allowed yourself to look at your phone, flicking through Instagram, Twitter, your eyes scanning but not reading, only going through the motions. You were thinking about only one thing.

He’ll get bored. Some hot girl will come along. He won’t have time for me. I’m not good enough.

You indulged in dark, brooding thoughts as you poured yourself a glass of wine and emptied it, then poured another and brought the bottle and glass over to your desk, turned the phone face-down and got back to work.

The next morning, you dug your phone out from under your pillow to shut off the alarm and saw a missed text from Chadwick at 1:00am.

Missed your voice tonight. Message me today if you can… I’m looking forward to details about tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you.

Your heart surged. “God, what am I doing?” you groaned out loud. The text message stayed with you, running through your mind over and over the entire time you got ready. For an hour you thought of and discarded a handful of responses and in the end, didn’t respond at all.

You could practically hear Penny’s voice, which in all matters Chadwick had become your conscience, lecturing you about self-sabotage. Despite all of the logical reasons against your behaviour, it really came down to one thing: you were scared. And when you were scared, you ran.

At work, you were in full preparation mode for the conference on the next day and didn’t have time for any thoughts of Chadwick as you rushed from meeting to meeting. After getting in at 8:00, the first time you got to sit and go through emails was lunchtime. You closed your office door and finally looked at your phone.

Two missed calls. And a voicemail.

With shaking hands you pressed the phone to your ear.

You have one new message. To listen, press 1…

You pressed 1 and held your breath.

Music.

The familiar opening of a song, instantly bringing you back to a single moment before Solomon Burke’s soulful voice began, making you break out in a full-body shiver at the memory of being in Chadwick’s arms, his intense sexual energy running through your veins, the brush of his lips at your ear as he invited you to his room…

When your baby… leaves you all alone… and nobody… calls you on the phone…. Don’tcha feel like cryin’, Don’tcha feel like cryin’ Well here I am honey… come on… and cry to me.

The message ended there, leaving you breathing hard and tingling.

You let out your breath and put the phone down, smiling, your body tight and tense from the sudden rush of sparks in your belly and between your legs. “Cute, Mr. Boseman…. very cute,” you murmured out loud.

His message had worked. You were squirming to call him and hear his voice. But instead of calling Chadwick, you found yourself dialling Penny’s number.

It rang four times and your friend answered, breathlessly. “Hi, Y/N?”

You covered your mouth, eyes crinkling as you withheld laughter. “Oh no… did I interrupt honeymoon sex?”

“Yes, you did...”

“OhmygodImsorryyy,” tumbled out of you and you smacked your forehead with your palm, “I’ll let you go, this isn’t important.”

“You sure? Cause Chadwick texted me to ask if I’d heard from you. Are you alright?”

You sat straight up in your chair. Busted.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been avoiding him.”

You were silent for a few long seconds and Penny groaned with frustration, “Y/N! Why are you making this so complicated? Stop running away from him or you’re going to kill this before it even gets started,” she scolded angrily, “Unless that’s what you’re trying to do… is it?”

You were taken aback by her aggressive tone and tears stung your eyes as your silly and stupid actions were laid bare for their rightful ridicule.

“Please help me,” you said in a small, tight, pleading voice, your eyes closing as you cradled your head in your free hand. “I’m so fucking scared.”

There was silence on the other end as Penny took in your turmoil. “Okay,” she responded, more softly and your eyes opened again as your finger rubbed away the wetness gathering at your temple. “I’m going to give you a task that you have to promise to fulfil for one week. No matter how you feel at the time, no matter your doubts, you can keep stewing over them if you want but you still have to do this one thing. You promise?”

Curious, you nodded, “Okay.”

“Say yes for one week. Say yes to everything. He asks you to call him, you call him. He asks you to go for sushi, you say okay Chadwick, let’s go for sushi. He wants to fuck you in the coat closet tomorrow night, you say yes, and ask which position.”

You gasped and covered your mouth, laughing at the idea while finding her proposition exciting and alluring at the same time. “Oh my god, you’re nuts.”

She continued in a serious voice, “Let’s practice. I’m going to be Chadwick. I say, hey Y/N, how about you pull my pants down and suck my dick in the middle of this crowd of people? Now, what do you say?”

You pursed your lips to keep the giggles at bay. “Yes, Chadwick.”

“Do you want to go to a concert with me tomorrow night?”

Still smiling, you nodded again as your mind started to open up to all of the possibilities. “Yes, Chadwick.”  

“Great. I want us to be closer together. How about you come to LA and move in with me?”

Your eyes widened and your laughter died in your throat.

“You say?....” she prompted.

You licked your lips imagining being asked such a thing and how you would respond, and there were goosebumps on your skin as you breathed, “Yes.”

“Good answer.” Penny replied approvingly. “Okay, you have a plan now. One week of yes’s, no cheating allowed. Maybe nothing happens, maybe everything happens. But you’re not allowed to fight it because the choice is now out of your hands.”

She was a genius. An evil genius.

“What do you say?”

“Yes, Penny.”

“Atta girl. Now call him back, so both of you can stop bothering me while I’m trying to ride my husband’s dick, alright?”

“I love you Penny.” You gushed affectionately giggling at her gruff response before you hung up the phone.

Adrenaline coursed through you as your mind went down all kinds of wild turns. Anything could happen. What if something came up you weren’t ready for? You could back out, but…. you could never forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try. You either committed fully, or didn’t at all.

You picked up the phone and called Chadwick.

He answered on the second ring in a slow drawl, “Hey, there she is.”

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes as endorphins flooded your body at the sound of his voice.

“Hi,” you started, sounding slightly hesitant as you prepared to acknowledge your silence. “I’m sorry Chadwick. I should have called earlier, I was busy getting ready for tomorrow.” You paused and smiled, “I liked your voicemail.”

“I figured you would,” his voice was low and sensual direct into your ear. “I’ll never hear that song again without thinking ‘bout our first kiss,” he purred and you squeezed your eyes shut hoping he wouldn’t begin something you would have no choice but to go along with, as you had a meeting in a few minutes.

You steered the conversation away purposefully leading him off of dangerous ground. “So I’m wearing a sparkly black dress with a black leather jacket tomorrow if that helps.”

“I can work with that. How short’s the dress?”

“Pretty short,” you responded in a flirty tone, “why do you need to know?”

“Cause I’ve got another night without you and you haven’t sent me any nudes yet, give me a break,” he admitted with frustration and you flushed all over at the stomach-twisting thought of him getting off to just the image of you.

Your mouth ran away with you as you taunted, “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

He gave a gasp and you should have seen his next comment coming a mile away. “Really? How about right now?”

Shit. He was asking.

And based on the rules, you had to say yes.

Your mind started to race as you glanced at the clock, knowing you had only a few minutes and your words came out in a rush once you realized what you were about to do. “Let’s make a deal, I’ll send you one if you send me one, but I gotta hurry cause I have a meeting... call you later?”

He groaned, the sound making you sweat. “Please, yes, sweet merciful god…. it’s a deal.”

“OK I gotta go. Bye Chadwick,” you said, already yanking up your dress to your hips in preparation.

“Bye baby.” He was out of breath at the thought and it just turned you on even more, making your body thud with excitement. You hung up the call and quickly went to the phone’s camera while the other hand tugged your damp underwear down, then pulled on the zipper so you could shrug the top half of your dress off your shoulders until it pooled around your waist, leaving your torso covered by only your balconette style bra that made your tits look huge. You held the camera high and flipped it so you could see yourself, boobs filling the frame and you opened your thighs just enough to show him how naked you were underneath, leaving your hand brushing your thigh suggestively and you snapped a couple of photos looking up into the camera with your lower lip seductively trapped between your teeth.

You didn’t have time to care if you liked the photos or not before quickly dressing, choosing one and throwing it into the text message conversation as your heart raced with the forbidden thrill.

Underneath, a Delivered notification appeared and a few seconds later, as you prepared to head out to your meeting, a picture appeared in response and you quickly tapped it.

“Holy. Shit.”

Your man was in the bathroom in only a towel, pushed down low on his hips, enough to reveal his dark, trimmed pubic hair and the first few thick inches of his cock, half-hidden by the towel. Above the towel his glowing skin was on display, tailored down his toned stomach into a V, one long, muscular arm holding up the phone while his thumb on the other hand was hooked underneath the towel as if ready to tease it lower. Most enticing of all was that gorgeous face half-smiling in the mirror looking into the camera, into you, all flirtatious and aware of his godlike sexiness and you sank back against the office door preparing yourself to be at least ten minutes late.

That night, instead of going to sleep drunk on wine and self-pitying thoughts, you fell asleep worn out by multiple orgasms encouraged by Chadwick’s voice as he talked you through, step by step, everything he wanted to do to your body, saying things that made your skin burn and pussy throb, and you were so addicted to it that you couldn’t stop from getting off after just one. When you fell asleep, you were already anticipating how hard it was going to be to keep your hands to yourself at the cocktail party.

The next morning you woke an hour earlier than normal to get ready with enough time to tidy the house and practice your speech. Before leaving the house, you texted Chadwick one last time your address and reminded him of your itinerary, followed by three heart-eyed emoji’s and to your surprise at the early hour of the day, he immediately messaged you back.

Just a few more hours and then you’re mine again… see you soon.

You sighed and flicked open to the picture of him in the towel one last time, resisting the urge to set it as your lock screen background and pocketed your phone as you walked out the door.

The annual conference was full of people you either had already made connections with or people you hadn’t yet met but couldn’t wait to. You were busy from the moment you arrived handling media interviews, welcoming guests and speakers, and taking part in a two-hour panel about seminal female characters in video games. You had long gotten over your fear of the spotlight once you realized that if you were talking about your passion, you could go on for hours on end. But being so tightly tied to the schedule meant you barely got to check your phone, so it wasn’t until you were wrapping up the end of the day that you saw all of the texts.

Mom, 8:07am – Good luck at the conference today sweetie, thinking of you! Penny, 10:01am – Did you call him? How many yes’s have you done? I’m dying to know! PS I wore Chris’s dick out yesterday, he needs a break. I think I broke it :( Chadwick, 12:03pm – This day is crawling by. Chadwick, 2:08pm – Dressed in my best and leaving the house. See you soon. :) Chadwick, 3:22pm – Bad accident on the highway. Currently stopped. I’ll keep you updated but I might be late… Chadwick, 3:49pm – Still stopped. This sucks. I’m going to be late. I’ll have to meet you at the reception – I’m so sorry.

You typed a quick text back to Chadwick that it was okay, to look for you at the cocktail party and to just get there safely and when you didn’t hear back right away, you assumed he was back to driving.

In a way you were thankful, because if he showed up at your apartment you’d probably end up keeping him there. It had been five whole days through a particularly horny week and at this point just seeing his name on your phone made you wet.

You had an hour to get changed and used every minute. Your initial idea to wear red lipstick was abandoned as you wanted no reason not to put your lips on Chadwick’s the first moment you could, so you swiped on a nude gloss instead and focused on a charcoal, dark eye that went well with the leather jacket, short dress and boots with metal accents. On your way out, you paused at the hallway mirror, feeling sexy and confident and ready for whatever the night could throw at you.

The cocktail reception was at the bar in the same hotel as the convention. As well as a huge contingent from your developer studio, who were officially promoting the conference, were key people from the industry and most of the speakers. The types of women who worked in video games tended not to be comfortable in traditional cocktail dresses and like you, had dressed a bit less red carpet and a bit more Lady Gaga concert. Embracing creativity and alternative forms of expressing beauty were part of what you loved about the small, but influential group of smart and strong women.

You went straight for the bar where a group of your colleagues were standing, and they all greeted you with raised glasses as you approached.

“Hey, you killed it today!”

“Nice job Y/N!” 

You acknowledged them and smiled at your mentor, Neil who was in the middle of the group. He moved forward to give you a hug. “Congratulations, you kicked ass today,” his bearded face was turned up in a grin.

“Thanks Neil, I’m glad you could come.” You let go of his hug and a moment later, felt a cold glass placed into your left hand from an unseen person.

Surprised, you leaned back from Neil and looked to see your slightly awkward co-worker standing next to him, attempting to appear suave and cool but failing. You noticed it wasn’t the first time he’d insinuated himself next to you at an event.

“Oh hey Glen, thanks for the drink.” Acknowledging your co-worker as coolly as possible you raised the drink, hoping it didn’t come with any expectations and they clinked together.

He looked ready to say something when a microphone screech seized all of your ears, and the voice of the MC called your attention. You quickly placed the drink down on the bar without taking a sip, knowing your moment was coming soon.

“…. And I’d like to introduce you all to one of our ambassadors for the event, from Capdog Entertainment, Miss Y/N Y/L/N!”

You hurried over to the microphone, starting to feel your heart beat climb and rehearsed the first few words you’d practiced to get you started, while the rest you’d planned to be off the cuff. To the sound of applause, the loudest contingent coming from your co-workers, you stepped up under the spotlight and grabbed the microphone with a gracious smile, and managed not to flub a single word as you gave a short speech thanking all of the guests and inviting them to enjoy the open bar. They broke out into rowdy applause at that while you blinked at the bright lights that blinded you to almost everything until you stepped back down, taking a few deep breaths to calm your racing heart and regain normal vision.

As white sparks were still crackling around your periphery you spotted a shape walking towards you, with a familiar slow, confident swagger and your heart leapt at the sight of Chadwick.  

You nearly sank onto the floor as he made his way towards you in black slacks, with a black shirt under a sparkly blazer. His hands were in his pockets as he strutted towards you with more cool in one finger than all of the men there combined. He was breath-taking and the slow smile that came over him the closer he got made you grab the nearby table to hold yourself still.

“All this for me?” You gulped as Chadwick finally stood in front of you, your hands going straight to his forearms clutching him as he bent his head to smile down at you while you took him in, from shiny shoes up to his tight curls. “Get down here,” your hands gripped the back of his neck pulling his head down to get the first taste of him in a week, and as you did, you heard a few cheeky bastards you worked with went Ooooooooh! behind you.

Your lips both widened into a smile and his low chuckle on your lips sent a bolt through your body. Since you were in front of everybody, you had to settle for a quick press of his warm mouth on yours. “Later,” he promised, rubbing his thumb against your cheek and his dark eyes flashed as he looked at you.

“Fuck, I want it now,” you whined, but then quickly said before he got any ideas you couldn’t say no to, “come get a drink with me?”

His hands slid down your back setting a blazing trail of heat as he went and they stopped on your ass, giving it a quick, but significant squeeze.

“Sorry, had to do it.” He explained, innocently shrugging while he winked and smiled and you pulled away with a smile matching his.

He took your hand and walked confidently in the room, and you felt the thrill and draw of attention that Chadwick commanded everywhere he went. He was easily the best looking and best dressed but if he knew it, he didn’t show it. He just owned it, totally himself in his own cool energy without being conscious of the effect it had and that was part of what made your knees weak around him.

When you reached the bar, you were trying to decide what to order when you noticed a pair of elbows lean over the bar immediately to your left, close enough to be touching your elbow. On instinct you inched your arm away and that’s when you heard Glen’s voice.

“Oh hey again, you!”

Either intentionally or not, he acted surprised to see you and you tilted back to greet him politely. “Hi, Glen.” He had the pasty white skin of a programmer, permanent dark circles under his eyes and at this close distance you could smell strong cologne masking slightly sour breath. Every time you saw him, and tonight was no different, he was in wrinkled clothes, usually slacks and a pullover shirt that you imagined was picked up off of the floor right where it lived after the last time it was worn. And whereas Chadwick’s confidence came from a place of innate comfort with himself, Glen’s confidence seemed a gregarious mask of trying-too-hard-itis.

“I don’t see you with a drink yet, let me get you one – hey, bartender!”

Without waiting for your input, Glen managed to get the man’s attention and before you could stop him, he was placing an over-filled beer in front of you while Chadwick’s hand gripped your side, conveying his withheld silence and irritation as he waited for you to either react or give him some signal that he could.

You made a quick decision, grabbing the spilling-over lip of the beer glass and placing it back on his side. “Thanks for the thought Glen, sorry but I’m just not much of a beer drinker.” You felt Chadwick’s hand on your lower back giving you a squeeze of approval.

Glen accepted it in stride, coming back for another swing without having picked up on any social cues from you or noticing the man on your right whose hands were all but massaging your ass in that moment. “Oh, okay, how about vodka and soda?”

The vein in your forehead was twitching but you felt a wave of confidence hit you and you turned your head to Chadwick, who was giving you doe-eyes in return as you locked gazes extra-affectionately at each other. You said loudly, your hand creeping onto Chadwick’s bicep, “Hey honey, what were you thinking of getting?”

The bartender had stopped in front of you to put away a row of glasses when Chadwick looked between you and Glen, taking in his widening eyes with relish before coming back at you, “This is a celebration of your hard work and I think that calls for champagne, don’t you?”

“Ooh, yes, champagne! Definitely.” You clapped your hands together loudly and enthusiastically and Chadwick nodded imperceptibly at the bartender, paying for his instant attention with the strong social currency of his attractive aura and calm dominance.

“Can we take that Dom Perignon off your hands? Two glasses please, unless –“ he pointed at Glen cordially, “you wanted a glass too Glen?”

If a man could wither and die with just a few words, this would have been his final moment of mortality. He clutched his beer a bit tighter looking between the two of you and responded, deflated, “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Just two glasses then,” Chadwick nodded and as the bartender announced his total, he slid a few hundred-dollar bills from his wallet onto the counter, waving away the change coolly and placing his wallet back in his pocket while your clothes nearly disintegrated from the alpha display. 

It wasn’t the fact that he could casually flash that much cash but it was the deliberate power move in a language Glen would understand, without being directly aggressive while in fact being deceptively, passive-aggressively nice about it, pissing Glen off even more.

He took his beer and mumbled goodbye, leaving you alone without another word and your eyes slid to Chadwick’s who smiled, passing you the glass of champagne and you clinked them together.

[navelgazed]

A list of things I've noticed: (I'm talking about my 'diet' here, which involved consuming less sodium, but did not involve calorie restriction. Be careful regardless.)

-eating out multiple days in a row feels much worse than it used to, and it didn't used to be great

-not eating fruit for a while leaves me feeling lethargic, and due to the food I eat to replace it, honestly kind of greasy

-I actually crave my homemade sodium-light hummus with carrots

-catch me daydreaming about roasted sweet potatoes and broccoli. Unheard of. Heretical.

-McDonald's fries are too fucking salty and I could barely eat a small when I used to chug a large. Chicken nuggets are still good but also leave me feeling bad.

-can't eat breakfast sandwiches anymore. Hash browns are still fair game, but only one.

-tempura is too greasy and makes me feel sick when I eat it, even if it's vegetables

Now, mind you, I was always kind of sensitive to the amount of salt/grease on my food. I couldn't eat pizza or fried chicken or what have you that had visible grease on it, and I would often have to dust excess salt off of chips before I ate them. I also have always disliked putting butter in certain foods--plain noodles, f'ex, or vegetables, and I never seasoned stuff that came out of a can. I genuinely enjoy plain unsalted unbuttered rice and always have. But still, the fact that these dietary changes have actually influenced my taste for this long is kind of nice, because I'm legitimately craving healthier, low-sodium foods, and diets have never had that effect on me.

And I wasn't really 'dieting' so much as I was choosing a healthier option, and eating as much of it as I wanted. But I didn't limit myself if there was something special I wanted. If I wanted cake, I would get cake. If I wanted something sweet, I would eat something sweet, and if I wanted something salty, I would grab a low-sodium salty snack. I didn't so much cut things out of my diet as I just started eating a hell of a lot more fruit and vegetables outside of meals. Doing this while also trying to lower my stress levels was really working for me despite how much, well, work it was.

So, idk. We're going to get back to that. I'm going to go to the grocery store on Sunday and get a bunch of fruit and stuff to make that hummus again. It'd be nice if I could also meal prep my lunches, but idk if I have that much executive functioning in me this week.

[meteorxfall]

➺ [[ because here have a dragon, Noodle ]]

Warm blood soaked through the white and blue of his Ward robes, seeping into the snow around the mage as he huddled weakly behind the body of a slain aevis. No one had expected the small expedition to be ambushed and the soldiers sent with him had grown cocky with the conjurer on their side. Noudenet had done his best to keep up but even the aetherical genius could not ward off such great numbers and in the end he’d resorted to summoning the meteor rain that had put an end to the enemy squadron.

Overexertion and loss of aether however had left him vulnerable and in his haze he did not notice the surviving heretic until too late. Not until two arrows had found their mark in his body did he manage to retaliate and utterly annihilate the man before collapsing in the snow.

Exhausted ears picked up on the sound nearby and the mage turned his head, eyes widening at the sight before him. Weakly he lifted a hand to attempt casting, a small glow of aether sparking and nothing more. Ah, he was going to be devoured now, wasn’t he? He didn’t want that to happen, he didn’t want to die. 

“Don’t...” His plea is barely audible. It would be a disgrace to be seen begging his mortal enemy for mercy but the fear of death was greater than his pride and the conjurer was already too close to the edge. If he could just lie here a while longer he could regenerate enough aether to heal himself. He just needed a little more time, just a little more.

“D-don’t... don’t eat me.”

[talhaghafoor2019-blog]

Prog Rock Is the Whitest Music Ever

“We are the most uncool people in Miami.” So begins, promisingly enough, David Weigel’s The Show That Never Ends: The Rise and Fall of Prog Rock. Weigel, along with 3,000 fellow Yes-heads, Rush-oids, Tull freaks, and votaries of King Crimson—cultural underdogs all, twitching and grimacing with revenge-of-the-nerds excitement—is at the port of Miami, about to embark on a five-day progressive-rock-themed cruise: a floating orgy of some of the most despised music ever produced by long-haired white men.

W. W. Norton

Do you like prog rock, the extravagantly conceptual and wildly technical post-psychedelic subgenre that ruled the world for about 30 seconds in the early 1970s before being torn to pieces by the starving street dogs of punk rock? Do you like the proggers, with their terrible pampered proficiency, their priestly robes, and their air—once they get behind their instruments—of an inverted, almost abscessed Englishness? I don’t. At least, I think I don’t. I like Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which is a kind of wonderful satirical compression of prog rock, a fast-forward operetta with goofy existentialist trappings and a heavy-metal blowout in the middle; I like the bit of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells that became the theme music for The Exorcist. And there are contemporary bands I adore that have been grazed by prog: the moody, alchemical Tool, the obtuse and crushing Meshuggah. But for naked prog, the thing itself, I seem to lack the mettle. The trapped, eunuch ferocity of Geddy Lee’s voice, squealing inside the nonsense clockwork of Rush, disturbs me. And Yes’s Tales From Topographic Oceans is an experience to me unintelligible and close to unbearable, like being read aloud a lengthy passage of prose with no verbs in it.

Hated, dated, sonically superannuated … One could enjoy prog ironically, I suppose—listen to it with a drooping and decadent ear, getting off on the fabulous obsolescence, etc. But that’s not what Weigel is about. He loves prog, and his argument, his prog polemic, is that the glory of this music has been obscured from us by sneering decades of hipster rock criticism and prejudice against 20-minute songs:

Teams of highly trained visionaries paced themselves against their influences and their peers to write songs they were confident no one else would think of writing. They took the music far, far away from the basics, so that some later groups of jerks could take it “back to basics” and be praised for their genius. Every new artistic movement rebels against whatever came right before it. But the progressives’ rebellion was the weirdest and the best.

Put like that, it does sound rather tasty. Prog as a wild chamber of experimentation, a sci-fi trespass across the limits of popular music, driving clear of fashion and orbiting the Earth forever. Awesome. The problem comes, for me, when I actually listen to the stuff. Is it not a form of aesthetic dissipation to praise something for its ambition and its bold idiosyncrasy when that something is, objectively speaking, crap? I think it might be. Gentle Giant, in 1972, took a poem from Knots, a book by the great heretic psychiatrist R. D. Laing, and turned it into an intricate, multivoice chant: It hurts him to think that she is / hurting her by him being hurt to think / that she thinks he is hurt by making her / feel guilty at hurting him by her thinking / she wants him to want her. The idea is great on paper. But listen to the song, to its scurrying, fidgety instrumentation, its fussy avoidance of anything like a melody. It is not enjoyable. At all. Magma, the French prog band, invented not only its own L. Ron Hubbard–style cosmic origin story but its own language (Kobaïan, which reads like a sequence of Gothic expletives: Nebëhr gudahtt, Köhntarkösz). Again, very creative. But run, oh run, from the music.

The relative crudity of punk rock was simply a biological corrective—a healing, if you like.

If Weigel were David Foster Wallace, he would have written his entire book from inside that cruise ship, possibly never leaving his cabin, eavesdropping on snatches of music and chitchat and sending out his imagination in heavy spirals of paranoia and insight. But Weigel is a political reporter for The Washington Post, so he climbs off that wiggy, proggy boat and treads onto the dry land of chronology. “We’re a European group,” declared the lead singer of proto-proggers The Nice in 1969, “so we’re improvising on European structures … We’re not American Negros, so we can’t really improvise and feel the way they can.” Indeed. Thus did prog divorce itself from the blues, take flight into the neoclassical, and become the whitest music ever.

Procol Harum fiddled around with Bach’s Air on a G String and came up with “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” More vandalistically, the super-keyboardist Keith Emerson, of The Nice and then Emerson, Lake & Palmer, unleashed himself upon the works of Modest Mussorgsky (Pictures at an Exhibition), Alberto Ginastera (“Toccata”), and Aaron Copland (“Fanfare for the Common Man”). You’ve got to love Emerson. He would wrench, upend, and literally stab his instrument—rather in the manner in which Hunter S. Thompson used to shoot his typewriter—jamming down keys with daggers, the better to produce his trademark squelching stun-chords. Fiending for technology, vivid with turbulence, he went from the Hammond organ to the freshly developed Moog synthesizer. (The proper pronunciation of Moog, I recently discovered, is “Mogue,” like “vogue.” Perhaps prog should be pronounced “progue.”)

Money rained down upon the proggers. Bands went on tour with orchestras in tow; Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s Greg Lake stood onstage on his own private patch of Persian rug. But prog’s doom was built in. It had to die. As a breed, the proggers were hook-averse, earworm-allergic; they disdained the tune, which is the infinitely precious sound of the universe rhyming with one’s own brain. What’s more, they showed no reverence before the sacred mystery of repetition, before its power as what the music critic Ben Ratliff called “the expansion of an idea.” Instead, like mad professors, they threw everything in there: the ideas, the complexity, the guitars with two necks, the groove-bedeviling tempo shifts. To all this, the relative crudity of punk rock was simply a biological corrective—a healing, if you like. Also, economics intervened. In 1979, as Weigel explains, record sales declined 20 percent in Britain and 11 percent in the United States, and there was a corresponding crash in the inclination of labels to indulge their progged-out artistes. No more disappearing into the countryside for two years to make an album. Now you had to compete in the singles market.

Some startling adaptations did occur. King Crimson’s Robert Fripp achieved a furious pop relevance by, as he described it, “spraying burning guitar all over David Bowie’s album”—the album in question being 1980’s Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps). Yes hit big in 1983 with the genderless cocaine-frost of “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” And Genesis, having lost ultra-arty front man Peter Gabriel, turned out to have been incubating behind the drum kit an enormous pop star: the keening everyman Phil Collins.

These, though, were the exceptions. The labels wanted punk, or punky pop, or new wave—anything but prog. “None of those genres,” grumbled Greg Lake, retrospectively, “had any musical or cultural or intellectual foundation … They were invented by music magazines and record companies talking together.” Fake news! But the change was irreversible: The proggers were, at a stroke, outmoded. Which is how, to a remarkable degree, their music still sounds—noodling and time-bound, a failed mutation, an evolutionary red herring. (Bebop doesn’t sound like that. Speed metal doesn’t sound like that.)

I feel you out there, prog-lovers, burning at my glibness. And who knows? If the great texts of prog had inscribed themselves, like The Lord of the Rings, upon my frontal lobes when they were teenage and putty-soft, I might be writing a different column altogether. But they didn’t, and I’m not. The proggers got away with murder, artistically speaking. And then, like justice, came the Ramones.

This content was originally published here.

[arcadiatale-blog]

Sans

 Sans is the short-height skeleton. He likes to put on eye makeup at the end of his eyes in blue. He always wears in a blue coarse cloth jacket and a black middle pants. With stepping a pair of clogs, he is just taller than frisk a little. His left side of the sleeves is bound by specially cut sleeves of an archer's dress which is tied by a jade ring. Sans likes to bring jade ring, except his left sleeve, he also uses jade ring to tie his belt. He also wears black half finger gloves so much. When you meet Sans for the first time, you would be impressed by his bamboo hat and Copper Coins’ pendant. In the room, he will take off his bamboo hat and hang on his back.

In the Genocide Ending, he will wear Papyrus’s red headband. This headband may be forgotten by you after you killed Papyrus; you are such a dirty brother killer.

The eye colour of Sans is in white. If he is serious enough, you will see nothing underneath his eye sockets. When he uses magic, there will be a circle of blue light around his pupils. At the time he using “Rounding Reincarnations” (回合轮回), more blue light will increase their quantities around the original blue light circles in his eyes.

  Individual Status

Sans is the brother of Papyrus in blood. He is an ordinary fisherman in the Peach Blossom Village. He has many part-time jobs from his Monday to Sunday. For example, he is a sentry in every stronghold in the village, and he does sell blessing rope under Red String Wishing Trees and roast fishes on the ait.

He also works as a judge to your behaviors in the darkness. This duty was from Gaster, when Gaster died before. If your behavior is at the requirement in 0 EXP in the Pacifist Ending, he will tell you he is the last monster in building “the Barrier” and help you to remove “the Barrier”.

 Personality

You may feel gentle from Sans as his first impression of you. He always smiles with showing his teeth and squinting. He looks like the guy who amuse himself in any situation, however, in dealing everything with the attitude of moderate ways. He uses the half of the time to sleep in his fishing time. He often drinks on the branches, and afterwards, he will sleep. He likes to recite poetry so much, and these poems are left by humans who once has been in Arcadia. If you talk about the poems to Sans, He will be very happy at all. If you can recite some paragraph of well-done poems to him, he will be satisfied:” A poetry lover has the lowest possibility to be a bastard at all”

When you get off the Ruins, he began to observe every detail of you. Sans interacts with you at every time, but he will disappear after you choose to go through Genocide Ending.

He is really sensitive. He will judge and make different reactions by the quantity of blood that sticking with you. On the other hand, he always emphasized himself as a Humanitarian。

 The level of Magician

Sans didn’t make any progress when he started to study magician. The reason is not only because he is a lazy bone, but also he is clumsy in studying how to use magic.

The most abilities of Sans are from Gaster after Gaster possessed for him. Gaster let him has a “Bone Flute”, and let Sans use his own “Magic from Eyes”. In this way, Sans can find the LEVEL of you as well as Gaster.

(Now, I will introduce some magic of Sans)

1.              He knows about “Space Transportation”; the magic which is originally from Gaster. The Caster can use the black curtain, is made in Ink, above/under them to transfer the other place. Sans always use this magic for him to take a shortcut. In the battle, he will this magic to avoid others in killing him.

2.              He knows about “the Blue Magic”; this is the magic which is originally from Skeleton Brothers. This can make the soul enemy turn in Blue and control their gravity to the place that the Skeleton Brother’s want.

3.               He has a “Bond Flute” which is made by the coccyx of Xuanwu. This Bond Flute has been melted inside of Sans’ skeleton, and it can be separated to use. If you want to use Bond Flute, you need to inject a large quantity of Magician Power (MP). The more power has been injected in, the more cracks will be appeared on Bond Flute. When the Bond Flute is smashed, the power of Sans is drained.

4.              He knows how to control Gaster Blaster. Gaster Blaster is originally from Xuanwu. When Xuanwu had become the God of North, it’s body has been left in under the ait of Arcadia. Because Xuanwu is looked a monster that a snake is coiled on a huge tortoise, the Gaster Blaster that Sans can control is the head bone of the Tortoise part and the entire body of the snake. It can blast in white ray. The Bone Flute can awake the bone of Xuanwu underground, but it only can use on the ait.

5.              The last magic or called special attack of Sans is “Rounding Reincarnations”, and this is also the magic from Gaster. The Inner Eye of Gaster can open “the Door of Reincarnations” which contains with the round of Death and the round of Reincarnation. Simply, Sans can use this magic to return back the previous round to prevent the smashing of Bone Flute, which is just like “UNDO” in the chess game.

At the time when Bone Flute is smashed, Sans will use his special attack. In fact, he has no power to deal with this situation at this time, and his magic is not strong enough for him to return back to the round and stick you in the round that you cannot make a choice.

Using Inner eyes will cost a huge quantity of power. After Sans used this “special attack”, he will be too tired to hold on you.

  Miscellaneous Setting

He likes to drink Peach Blossom Wine, and he loves reciting poems.

He likes to drink wine on a peach tree in the ruins.

It is possible for him to put 29 roasted fish on your head.

You may find Sans is sitting and fishing on the Waterfall.

He will be slightly interested in some new things.

He hates promise, but he is not willing to refuse others.

He once promised to Toriel that he will not kill a single human, and he did. However, in the genocide ending, he felt sorry that he needs to break the law with Toriel.

He cares Papyrus so much, but doesn’t show that from face. If you once killed Papyrus, it will stimulate him to be a revenger.

He is the last soulmate to Toriel. He always sings antiphonal poems with Toriel.

Except the “Bond Flute”, he also has a bone flute for himself. When papyrus found his bond was eaten by a dog, he must play the flute to laugh at his brother.

When you wave to him, he will put Siberian cocklebur on his hand.

Outside the Peach Blossom Village, he will ask to sell peach with you. He will keep increasing the price until you cannot pay, and says: “That’s fine, it is not the time for Trees getting their fruits.”

In the Grilby’s boite, Sans will ask you to choose noodles or rice. He will also buy a drink for you. Whatever you choose “YES” or “NO”, he will say that it is not good for a child to drink and drink the wine by one breath.

His room is stuck by enchantment. Only papyrus and himself can get inside.

If you return back to the time point before the judgement after you finished the judgment in the pacifist ending, he will recognize that you have the power of “Timeline Reset”. In this way, he will pick up a copper coin from his pendant, and said:” This is the coin from the Blessing Fiestas, unlike the coins in the ordinary ways. If you can truly return back, I must recognise it.” After you successfully LOAD to the point before Sans judge you, he will give you a piece of yellow charm so that you can enter into his room.

 You only chance to kill him is in the Genocide Ending.

   His Judgement to you on Genocide Ending:

So many days later and goes for Peach Blossom,

Fragrant waves to the kid that shows in random;

Petals wither, the island can be call as Arcadia,

The wind cut years in piece and leave Dystopia;

No heretics burned, but winches’ suitors,

No kid born as killer, but cut ants in scissors;

Here comes the time, who lives to see that day,

The leaf turns lime, freak and pass to thy way!

----

（One of the sentence in the poem is what II salute the monologue of a fool in “the King Lear” of Shakespeare, because I think it is very suitable for this.）

[extranoodlesyvr-blog]

Gyo Para

Introduction

Usually this is the spot in reviews where people talk about the things they were doing before getting to the restaurant. Mr. Noodle and I have agreed that neither of our lives are exciting enough to talk at length about, so instead we’d like to give you some background information about the restaurant, Gyo Para. Gyo Para is the reincarnation of a ramen restaurant from the nineties called Gyoza Paradise. It was opened in 1993 on Thurlow and Robson by the Aramaki family. Boy, how I’m sure that spot has changed over the years!

The concept was simple back then too-- serve a small selection of great ramen and gyozas. The son of the original owners has decided to continue to family business and works as the head chef at Gyo Para. They focus on using natural flavours and avoid adding MSG to their dishes. They also pride themselves in using the “Neu G7 Water Activation System” from Japan to purify their water, which they use as the base for their ramen broth. 

The Place

Gyo Para is located near the intersection of Broadway and Arbutus which makes it very easily accessible by the 99 B-line. We parked around the corner along arbutus, where you can often find free 2 hour parking on the street. The first thing you notice when you enter the restaurant is the large “gyoza paradise” painting from the original shop on the wall. It’s vibrant colours and nineties style really makes it stand out amongst the otherwise minimalistic and wooden decor. Unlike other ramen restaurants, the space is actually quite open, with a very large communal table in the center. That being said, the place can still only host at most 30-40 people.

When we got there, it was fairly busy, so we were sat at the bar. Although we know some people aren’t big fans, we actually don’t mind sitting up at the bar-- it brings us closer to the action. From our bar seats, you could see straight into the kitchen and there was a hanging tv playing a Japanese film on Netflix. The space behind the bar was a bit disorganized, with some dirty plates and rags waiting to be taken into the back. In all fairness though, the restaurant didn’t have many places where the servers could put things down to rest and it didn’t really bother us much.

The Menu

With a concise selection of five ramen you won’t have too many options to weigh before making up your mind. Gyoza and fried rice are available if you’re looking for something additional to snack on. I think it would be heretical not to order gyozas from a place called “Gyoza Paradise”, so we got ourselves an order of the pork ones. We don’t rate non-ramen items in our reviews, but we would definitely recommend getting an order if you have room! The gyoza skin was incredibly thin, but still crunchy and nicely caramelized from the frying. The filling was also very tender and juicy--- they were honestly really frickin’ good gyozas. Mr. Noodle also ordered himself a beer. They only have one draft beer, Kirin, which comes in 16oz for $4.75. There are also a few other drink options like hot tea and highballs.

The Ramen

I appreciate shorter menus, because I find that makes it easier for me to come to a decision. In fact, this decision took almost no time at all-- I was set on the Butter Corn Miso Ramen. Butter and corn are no strangers to the ramen world, but in Vancouver you rarely find them as toppings on a “default” menu item, but rather as sides that you can add. One can’t miss out on this sort of opportunity!

Broth: Wow. This broth was seriously delicious. If you haven’t had butter in your ramen before, the concept may seem sort of strange. There’s no reason to be intimidated though! Once the butter melts it gives this lush richness to the broth, with a warmth reminiscent of hearty comfort foods. Definitely worth a try!

I think Gyo Para uses a white miso in the broth, since the miso flavour is delicate and not too in-your-face. I think lighter miso was a good choice since it balances out well with the richness contributed by the butter. In addition, the broth wasn’t too salty nor too heavy which was just what I wanted.

Noodles: I try to be cautious when it comes to evaluating whether ramen noodles look hand-made or *store bought*. I don’t want to go around making any false claims! I’ll say instead then, that these noodles were fairly generic. They had that familiar yellow colour and standard thickness. They were pleasant to chew on but not quite al dente. It seems that there are a good handful of ramen places that use this type of noodle in Vancouver. They are not necessarily memorable nor anything particularly outstanding. Nevertheless, they get the job done and contribute to an overall enjoyable ramen experience.

Toppings: The Butter Corn Miso Ramen came with two pieces of chashu, green onions, seaweed (wakame), a few chopped vegetables (carrots and broccoli), and a sprinkling of sesame seeds. Oh, and a generous helping of corn and butter, of course.

I enjoyed my chashu. The pieces were soft, tender and about 1cm thick. Fat is gratuitously marbled throughout the meat, adding good flavour and richness to each bite. The corn was crunchy and slightly sweet, which was a nice contrast to such a umami-filled broth. I also liked the way the butter came in a beautifully rectangular slice, perched delicately atop the ramen.

I am definitely a vegetable person. However I found that the small pieces of carrots and broccoli didn’t really add much to the overall dish. There was only perhaps 2 or 3 thin slices of carrots and a random broccoli floret here and there, so their inclusion didn’t feel very purposeful. I wouldn’t have missed them if they weren’t there. Price: This ramen cost $11.95. I personally thought that this was a very fair price, and would happily pay the same again in the future. I  think that since butter ramen is harder to come by in Vancouver, this ramen warrants a “novelty” bonus factored into my calculation. Now, for some of you, the lack of an egg may be a setback but i think the price if justified even without it.

Presentation: I felt excited when my ramen was brought to our table. The bowl looked very appetizing and the yellow and greens caught my eye. The butter was placed delicately, still solid and unaffected by the steam from the broth around it. It was almost as if it was waiting for me have a first look (and take photos) before melting away gracefully into the soup.  The corn and sesame seeds seemed  a bit scattered in their placement, and I had a few stray wakame climbing up the walls of the bowl. But that’s me being nitpicky, this was definitely a solid bowl. 

Mrs. Noodle’s Verdict

Broth: 4.5 Noodles: 3.5 Toppings: 3.5 Price: 3.5 Presentation: 4

Mr. Noodle got himself the Shoyu Ramen. I’m actually surprised he didn’t get the cold ramen (they had a sesame flavour!) but he said he was in the mood for something hot and uncomplicated. Broth: This broth was very clean. It was thin and clear but still very flavourful. Mr. Noodles appreciated how the shoyu brought a subtle earthiness to the dish and didn’t think that it was overly salty or oily. He feels that the broth harmonizes very well with the noodles, but probably wouldn’t be a broth that he would drink straight from the bowl.

Noodles: The shoyu ramen used the same noodles as the noodles described above in my miso ramen. Mr.Noodle felt that they were a little bit on the soft side, and would have been perfect if cooked for just 20-30s less. 

Toppings: This ramen had very humble toppings: two pieces of chashu, half a ramen egg, menma, green onions and spinach. Mr.Noodle thought that the chashu was good although he would have probably liked to see more of the fat rendered out. There were two distinct lines of fat, which may be a bit unappetizing to some. He also felt that the meat could be a little bit softer. Otherwise, the chashu had a nice texture and flavour. As for the egg-- this was really good! The texture was perfect. Soft and runny, but at the same time not falling apart. Sometimes you get ramen eggs that are too fragile and disintegrate into the broth. This egg held itself together well and was Mr. Noodle’s favourite topping of the dish. 

As for the other toppings: the spinach added a nice green colour, but didn’t have much flavour. The slight crunch was appreciated though! The menma was pretty average, similar to most other menma we’ve had. Finally, the green onions actually brought a really nice freshness, which definitely elevated the flavour of the ramen.

Price: The Shoyu Ramen cost $9.45. Part of the single-digit club! Mr. Noodle thinks that any ramen under $10 is incredibly reasonable, and this one is no exception. One would probably expect to pay around $11-12 at other restaurants for a comparable ramen. $9.45 is very fair for what you get, especially since an egg is included and you get two pieces of chashu. Presentation: This ramen was fairly simple so there weren’t too many components have to think about. Everything was organized neatly and overall looked very appetizing.

Mr. Noodle’s Verdict

Broth: 3.5 Noodles: 3 Toppings: 3.5 Price: 4.5 Presentation: 4

Conclusion

Piece of Vancouver history. We never got the chance to try the original, but very glad we got to visit version 2.0. Will be back!

Gyo Para Gyoza & Ramen Bar 2120 W Broadway Vancouver, BC V6K 2C8 604-288-2941

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Rating: 3.8 Ramen Eggs

[justanotherloveaffair]

All That You Can’t Leave Behind [Part 6/14]

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, T’Challa x Reader

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1,482

Summary: Reader and Steve debrief.

Author’s Note:  Some Steve x T’Challa references in this chap.

Part 1   |   Part 2    |   Part 3   |    Part 4    |    Part 5

Your name: Submit (what is this?) 

Taglist: @nah-imjustfeelinit, @tchallaholla, @a-heretic-child

With no real table in your studio apartment, T’Challa ate his noodles cross legged on the bed with a fork you brought from your kitchen after you took pity on him. The chopsticks lesson lasted about 2 minutes: one minute of actually trying and the other minute of you razzing him.

While you ate, he remarked on your unpacked suitcase and you took the chance to bombard him with questions while you could. “Do you have wifi? Plug-ins? Is it warm? Should I bring a jacket? How many pairs of shoes?”

To your frustration a lot of your questions were waved off with “you won’t need it” or “it will be provided for you.” In the end, he seemed to think all you should need is a bag with your most valuables and everything else would work out. 

“Hey,” his hand stroked your hair and cupped your cheek. “I know you feel anxious, but you will be my personal guest.” He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. “I will take care of your every need,” he smiled provocatively.

You had to give it to him, he was saying all of the right things. You tried to push your concerns aside as he kissed you to comfort your thoughts and make you feel his presence beneath your skin. He finished the kiss, bringing your hand up against his chest and said again softly, “Don’t be nervous,” he kissed your hand, “And if you are, just remember you’ll be protected by the King and the Black Panther.”

…. The Black Panther?

You looked at him with surprise. At that moment he noticed the clock behind you, “I have to go. Late for meetings.” He had already put on his pants before eating so he slipped back into his shirt and lifted the heavy coat back on while you stood there blinking at him. 

“We’ll talk later,” he answered your questioning look and began to come towards you to quickly kiss you on his way to the door.

“Wait, when am I seeing you next… tomorrow?” 

His hurried movements slowed and he paused at the door to glance back, and then seeing your expression, he crossed the room back to you. In the few extra minutes he took to spend with you then he was probably making some important delegates angry and impatient while they waited.

“We leave tomorrow morning, I will be here at 8:00am for you, entle.” 

“Where are you staying tonight?” You tried to keep the clinginess out of your voice, you really did and you prayed it didn’t come across that way. You hated to be that girl who suddenly wanted to monopolize the time of a man she’d just slept with but there was so much you wanted to talk about. And yes, part of it was just wanting to be around him.

In a completely normal tone he said, “I have the royal suite at The Plaza.” 

Your eyes widened. Not knowing how to respond, you just answered “oh,” as if that little tidbit of news was as normal as could be, while trying not to sound intimidated or overly impressed, which you were. 

From the Royal Suite at the Plaza to a studio apartment literally without a table to eat on and yet he had complained not once or seemed bothered by it, you thought with amazement.

“So, tomorrow it is then.” You looked up into his eyes with unconvincing agreeableness and gently pushed at his shoulders, knowing he needed to be out the door.

A smile curled over his lips, turning into a lopsided grin as he said, “I’ll pick you up at 6. Dress nice.” He pecked your lips and left, leaving you staring after him in wonder. 

Text from Steve: How’s your day? 

Y/N: OMG. Steve. OMG…

Steve: OMG

Y/N: I know!

Steve: I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of you.

Y/N: I already miss him. What is happening

Steve: Holy shit. Let’s get coffee?

You met at your coffee spot, The Mighty Bean just downstairs from his place. Cap hadn’t bothered with his baseball cap and glasses disguise, since he and the coffee shop owner were on good terms and he made sure it was never awkward for him with intrusive fans. It meant you could sit at a window table in relative peace. 

Steve’s blue eyes were bright with interest once you were settled with your coffees. “So? How did it start?”

You described how he arrived with food and he nodded as if he knew all too well, “Ah, the ‘ol “I brought lunch” move. Classic. And did you eat before or after he made sweet, sweet love to you?”

You giggled and took a sip of your coffee mostly to hide your overly giddy smile behind the coffee cup. “After.” 

“Oh, I’m so proud of my boy. What a dreamboat.” He rested his chin on his interlocked hands and sighed dramatically. “This is big for him, you know.”

 It was the second or third time Steve had mentioned this and once again your expression was bewildered. “How though?” You took another sip. “He could have literally anyone he wants.”

“He could,” Steve nodded in agreement, “And he’s gone through that phase, but he was never the one pursuing. As you can imagine. He doesn’t have to, the gorgeous bastard.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” You remarked, narrowing your gaze and he smiled boyishly, not oblivious to how attractive he was but he’d never fully embraced it either. 

“Oh my god, I just remembered… Steve, I have to ask,” you lowered your voice to a hush. “T’Challa mentioned something about the Black Panther before he left… is this something nobody’s bothered to tell me?” 

Steve stared at you unblinking and then deadpanned, “Wait, how did you NOT know the King of Wakanda is the Black Panther? This is literally common knowledge.”

You made a dramatic hand movement to the heavens. “Gahhh! Am I the only one who didn’t know this?”

“Yes, Y/N. The answer to that is yes.” 

You groaned with frustration at yourself. You could be so painfully oblivious. Steve wasn’t going to let you live it down either and you endured his ribbing for the next few minutes until he decided to leave you alone.

“So? What’s next for the future Queen?” he smiled devilishly knowing you would swat his arm and he deftly dodged it.

“Well… he’s picking me up at 6. I have to dress nice.” 

Steve expressed genuine shock and put his hand against his chest, “My word! Well I do declare, Mr Udaku is positively besotted with you.” 

You didn’t have any best girlfriends and Steve’s willingness be your gossip buddy never failed to crack you up. At the same time you were biting the smile back at the mention of T’Challa’s interest. 

“And is he staying at his usual royal suite at the Plaza?” You nodded in answer. “Ooh, I’ve been there before. It’s nice.” 

Your curiosity got the better of you again and you thought to just be direct was best. “Steve, will you tell me about you two?” 

To your great relief, Steve was in a talking mood and didn’t brush you off or give a vague answer. You adopted your most eager listening expression and took every detail like a rare gift, entrusted into your hands for safekeeping. 

Steve described his time in Wakanda after they put Bucky on ice and how easily he and T’Challa had come to know each other. It was a hard time for him, and the steadfast support of the King meant the world. They were drawn to one another, both being so alike in character and morals, and during his time in Wakanda they were inseparable for a time. Steve’s feelings were strong, not romantically but in an “I would die for you” way. One night he was struggling emotionally, and T’Challa was there for him in a way no other man had ever been. They held each other, kissed, talked all night and Steve had felt complete love and peace in his heart. 

Finishing his story, which you admit you’d listened to with a few shining tears from the telling, he splayed out his hands, “that’s it, that’s all I have to tell unfortunately. I won’t lie, I’m a little jealous you got the full thrust of T’Challa if you know what I’m saying.” 

Your hand, that had been holding Steve’s on the table for some time, squeezed his and you smiled. “Who knows what the future holds. I’d be happy to share him with you,” you winked, returning his earlier statement to him. 

“We need to stop talking about this or I’m going to have to take you upstairs.”

You lifted an eyebrow and moments later, you had stashed your empty coffee cups and were out the door.