#and more basil oil

[ggots]

So excited for summer I can start making condiments at home again

[figofswords]

hi just thought everyone would want to know. I think I just made the all time best potatoes anyone has ever made ever. just wanted to share

[antheliia]

lesson learned today: classico puts way too fucking much olive oil in their pesto.

[summer-fire]

Sweet Jesus

[inkykeiji]

youre so funny cause I eat scrambled eggs with ketchup for dinner like every night and my brother does nottttt understand how I dont need toast, bacon, cheese, garlic, spices and all that. im like leave me and my terrible stomach issues alone!!!!!

LITERALLY THO!!!!! omg get out i love scrambled eggs and ketchup!!! i love ketchup in general but i don’t eat like, hamburgers at all or anything you’d put ketchup on regularly other than eggs so hehehe c; i use them as an excuse to eat an obscene amount of ketchup (*/ω＼*) but yeah i eat a lot of steamed veggies with hot sauce, vegetable soups, and balsamic vinegar salads! those are pretty much my main meals and then i’ll snack on fruits, nuts & dark chocolate all throughout the day!

honestly i get a lot of comments on the way i eat very similar to ur brother and i genuinely think it is so fucking rude to comment on someone else’s food or eating habits >.>

[peachesofteal]

ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here / masterlist

Six thirty in the morning might be your favorite time of day. 

It’s the before.

Before anyone else comes in, before the morning rush, before the chime of the front door’s bell, before the shop is filled with lines of people, before it all upends you.

At six thirty in the morning, you sit in the back, perched on the prep table, with a fresh cup of coffee. You leave the side door open, screen separating you from the world, fresh air mixing with the smell of strawberry basil scones, cinnamon coffee cake and mini kolaches, fruited with whatever jam you’ve managed to throw together. Steam rises, semolina spills, the sun dawns, and the world wakes… all well after you’ve had your breakfast.

This corner of the city is busy, and the shop always hums like a well-oiled machine in the dregs of a rush, the front counter team churning out specialty coffees and teas effortlessly. It’s cyclical, similar faces every day, morning commuters rushing in and out, locals settling in a nook with their laptops and lattes, people swinging in for a quick bite. You hide in the back, usually, elbow deep in sudsy warm water with your mountain of dishes, answering the occasional shout of 'do we have more of-' and 'just sold the last-'

This morning in particular, cranberry orange scones, pumpkin muffins and mini quiches are the only things left cooling on the speed racks, waiting patiently for their turn to be placed in the display case, an endless cycle of replenishment lasting until the rush dies down, morning fading into afternoon, triple shot monstrosities turning into decaf coffees. 

It’s laborious, this routine. Five, six, sometimes seven days a week, going to bed with the sun, rising before it. Your wrists ache from rolling dough, cutting dough, scraping dough. Your back weeps when you lift the bowl from the mixer stand every morning, and your joints fare no better. You need new boots, and new insoles for your new boots, and probably a new standing mat, though you know your boss will never go for it. 

You’re tired.

The exhaustion settles into your bones easily today, wearing you down until you’re allowing your eyes to close, wilting atop the butcher’s block- 

The shop phone rings. 

You heave yourself down and swing through the double doors to the front, scrambling for the classic corded receiver, nearly fumbling it in your hands. 

“Hello?” Shit. You always forget to answer with the shop’s name. You’re not exactly the customer facing part of the operation. “Galaxy’s.” You correct and… wait. 

There’s no response. 

You think you can hear someone breathing, something rustling, but it’s too faint and difficult to make out. 

“’Lo?” You try again, but still, there’s silence. It’s an unending moment, you on one end… who knows what on the other, and you hold your breath, straining to hear, to listen. 

The line clicks dead in the next second. 

Odd. 

The shop girl is chewing gum. 

You’ve told her a million times not to chew gum when she’s working the counter, but clearly, she’s never heard of norovirus, and you’re not the boss, or the owner, so being the broken record only gets you so far. 

“There’s someone out front to see you.” She snaps it between her front teeth, and your molars grind together like stone. 

“Who?” You toss a clean towel on the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen with a frown. You don’t really get visitors here, most of your friends are in the same industry, and either work the line too late to be up in time to even get coffee somewhere, or are already at work, buried beneath a bain-marie and the never-ending sound of a ticket printer. 

There’s dried, caulked dough caked to your fingers, shoved up underneath your nails, and you brush them self-consciously against the ratty old apron stretched across your waist. 

The surprise lingers on your tongue, and then explodes when you spot the massive dusky blonde from the other day, the one who was with the guy who split the coffee all over your favorite dress. He’s too tall, and too broad, and too imposing, everything in your sense of self-preservation screaming at you to run when he notices you approaching, gleam of a predator sparkling in his eyes.  

Still, somewhere, tucked away, it thrills you, the idea of them, the balancing act, two halves of a whole. He’s etched from stone, strong and steady, while his partner is saporous, vibrant, and riotous, crystal blue eyes sparkling in the mid-day sun. 

You wonder what they're like. What they talk about. What they do.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Your skin prickles once you fall into his orbit, immobilized by the molten toffee pooling around his irises. You float for a second, tracing his knife’s edged jaw, the fullness of his lips, imperfect pieces puzzled together to make a masterpiece, and then crash back to earth quickly, realizing you’re standing in front of him… staring. 

“Uh. Hi.” What is he doing here? How did he know where to find you?

“Sorry to barge in on you at work.” He starts immediately, wallet appearing from his back pocket like a magic trick. “Wanted to make sure we settled up.” Thick fingers hold a folded nest of notes, and you stare down at them, slowly processing what he means.

Cash? 

“Oh, I… I have… venmo. Or we could use apple pay, you didn’t have to come all the-“ 

“Don’t have venmo.” His mouth tilts, and you go with it, head listing to the side like a wayward buoy. “This is easier.” He pushes it into your hand, peeling your fingers back to enclose the money in your palm, heat sparking up your spine. 

“How did you know where I worked?” You blurt, unable to keep it at bay any longer. The question singes, settles uncomfortably in the sparks between you. 

“Saw you in the back yesterday, when we were in for a cuppa.” Oh. Suspicion sheds, snakeskin left behind on a cold, dusty trail, suspension of disbelief settling in the back of your mind. Sure. After all, this is where you ran into them last week, on your day off. They do come here. 

“Well. Thanks.” 

“It’s our pleasure. Hope the stain came out okay.” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s… still at the cleaners.” This is absolutely false, but he doesn’t need to know that. The spare bills will probably go towards your energy bill, and the ruined dress will go in the trash. 

It is what it is. 

“Couldn’t help but notice when I was comin’ through the parking lot that the back door is open.” His voice swoops low, dropping into a rumble, and you blink, lips parting. 

“Oh, um y-yeah. I like the breeze.” He shakes his head, a simple rejection, leaving you spinning. 

“City’s not the safest right now, yeah?” Oh, yeah. Of course, you knew. Rival factions of organized crime were leaving a red sea of bodies in their wake all over town, a new murder popping up in the headlines nearly every week. 

But you were safe. You were fine. Galaxy’s had never been stained with the bloody touch of any of them, and you took it as fact. Permanence. 

You agree reluctantly, watching the storm clouds roil on across his expression before evaporating. You shrug, hands clutched in your apron, doubt and skepticism clear on your face.

His expression shutters. His eyes turn cold.   

His thumb and forefinger dart through the air, latching onto your chin. 

You freeze. You should tug away, jerk backwards, yell and scream and hiss, but all you can do is stand there, caught in a trap and trembling as he leans forward to murmur in your ear. 

“Lock the door, little doe.” 

[katyaapekina]

Side Dish - Stacy's Basil-Lemon Green Beans

[the-californicationist]

Solomon's Seal

John Price works hard to maintain his self-discipline, but sometimes he loses his grip on that fiery temper of his. When he needs help to feel in control again, he turns to you and your impeccable rope skills. You try to keep things professional, but that proves challenging for both of you. After all, John is just a friend, one of your best clients… so why do you keep imagining him as more?

TW: rope bondage, femdom, crying, emotional hurt/comfort, female genitals. Please check AO3 link below for full tag list.

Big huge thank you and kudos to the amazing and beautiful @gemmahale for her ideas and support on this one! Love you, bestie.

You had cleared your schedule the moment you hung up the phone with him. His voice had sounded so strained, like he was struggling to say the words. You knew that, sometimes, John Price’s work asked too much of him, but this time, he seemed so far beyond his usual level of need that you decided it was better to play it safe and cancel all of your other clients for the week. 

As you cleaned your studio, you made additional preparations. Something in your gut was telling you to prepare for the worst. You did your best to remember what he liked. No music, low lights, a soft fan for a bit of a breeze, and jute ropes — none of the synthetics in sight. You eyed your collection; eight hanks should have been enough, but you grabbed four more from the back room just to be sure. 

You never really pried into his life during his visits, knowing there was probably much he couldn’t or wouldn’t tell you. He had given you just enough information for you to understand the basics, and you had scoured the internet with those small clues to uncover the rest. At best, he was a soldier, handling the expected dangers and stressors of the job. At worst, he was a literal weapon, aimed and fired at His Majesty’s darkest enemies; a demon hunter meant only for darkness and secrets and pain. 

When he had come to you last November, bruised and battered, craving your particular set of skills, you had surmised that it was the latter. Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of the news, you looked at the bombed buildings of Urzikstan for a sign of him, hoping you wouldn’t see one. When there was a battle lost or won, plastered across the front page of the news, you wondered if he had been there in the thick of it, protecting the world from the monsters that ravaged that land, keeping them from your privileged doorstep. 

You checked your clock. He’d be in from Heathrow within the hour. You got to work in the wet room, digging around for the soaps he liked best. His favorite bathing oil was a complex, spicy mix of coriander, basil, and bergamot scents. You’d never admit it to him, but you used it when you found yourself thinking about him, unable to get your equally complex, spicy warrior out of your mind.

John was so different from most of your clients. Many people who came to you were usually seeking something other than what you were prepared to give them. Half of your customers came for sex, for which you added them to your blacklist. The other half was a mixed bag seeking humiliation or reassurance, trying to use you and your art as an alternative to counseling or as a way to explore their kinks. They usually didn’t return after they experienced the level of your craft. You did have a handful of repeat clients who appreciated the practice itself, but they usually had their own partners to play with. You were just a novelty to them. An escape. 

Working as a traditional Bakushi was no fleeting hobby, not for you anyway. For you, it was a spiritual calling. John was one of the only clients who understood that and actively wanted to learn more. He had asked for stretching routines, breathing exercises, and advice on meditation. Your soldier was the real deal, even if he couldn’t remember any of the terminology to save his life. You were just happy he had managed to adopt the word shibari into his vocabulary. You could forgive the rest. He didn’t need to know the names of the knots or the positions of the body in order to benefit from his practice. 

Your doorbell rang. You took a breath to calm yourself. You needed to be centered for John. Yes, you were excited to see him, but he needed you to be his rock right now, and you needed to push your own desires out of your mind.

The door cracked open, and there he stood. He was just as you remembered him, but he looked like he’d been through hell. Those bright blue eyes were sporting a dark, purple shiner on his left orbital bone. He had cut his lip across the top and bottom, a red line still marring the sensitive flesh. John had cut down his beard to a more manageable level, but his hair was long and unkempt. What worried you most were the dark red welts he wore around his neck. It looked like ropeburn. 

“John,” you smiled softly, “So good to see you again. Please come in.”

The formalities of such a polite greeting seemed silly to you after what you had been through together. Sessions with John were always… intense. 

He stepped into your foyer, looking at you like he had missed you, but you didn’t allow yourself to give in to the fantasy. He needed you to be professional, and you had a job to do.

You took his hand and led him into your sitting room, offered him a glass of water, and sat beside him. He held your hand in his, refusing to let go, playing with the small bones in your middle finger absentmindedly. You smiled at him, enjoying the quiet of his presence, letting yourself take in these silent moments, unwilling to break the spell of peace until absolutely necessary. 

He seemed content to bask in the tranquility as well, happy to rub your delicate knuckle back and forth with his thumb, letting his eyes explore you, lingering on your long, silk robe, his gaze burning into your sternum at the join of your breasts. 

“How can I help you, John?”

He took a long breath through his nose, his eyes diverting back down to your connected hands; shame, regret. 

“I lost control, again.”

You had heard those words from him before. When he first found you, he told you about his temper. He hadn’t given you any details, but apparently he had hurt an enemy beyond what was necessary. Something he had done had changed him. He wanted to be different, to be more even-keeled, so he’d come to you for help. 

“The same as last time?” You asked, hoping it would be better than you suspected.

“Worse,” he looked up at you and flashed a tight-lipped, bitter smile. 

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. 

“Tell me what you need,” you ran your other hand across his wounded cheek, watching as the shine of his eyes gleamed in the low light. 

His emotions were at war all over his face. His wet lashes, the twitch of his lip, his darting, avoidant eyes; you could almost hear him fighting in his mind. You put a stop to it, scooting closer to him on the deep sofa, holding his stubbled chin in your hand, 

“Hey, you know you can tell me. If it’s within my power to give it to you, you know that I will.”

“I know, love,” he nodded his head, “I think you might try to talk me out of it, is all.”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to work it out. Rebuilding your trust together after some time apart wasn’t something to be rushed. Finally, after a few moments of thought, he studied your face and admitted his desires,

“I want it all. Just like last spring, but more. I need more.”

Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself. You remembered last spring. Vividly. In fact, you had thought about that appointment more times than you would ever admit. He had pushed himself so far, he’d trusted you so deeply, and you’d watched him heal from his wounds. He’d found a new kind of peace. You remember holding him, still bound, both of you sprawled across the floor, sweaty and grinning, your foreheads pressed together, sharing in his joy. 

But, you also knew that him wanting more meant that you would be restraining him from head to toe. He’d done arm and chest bindings with you, and in the spring, you’d put him in a single-leg frog tie. But, you’d never done full body work with him. For all of his progress, John still had issues letting his power be taken from him. He wanted to be in control, almost to the point of obsession, and it was only when he was in your ropes that he was able to practice internal control over himself without threat of judgment or danger. He could examine his temper in your safe setting, testing it like a scientist, finding new strengths within himself, mental hurdles to overcome.

However, you worried about what his mental state would be like when he was fully at your mercy. Had he ever been at anyone’s mercy? You doubted it. 

He could see you rolling over the problem in your mind, watching as you thought it through, imagining the possibilities. 

“What d’ya say, love? Think we can try?” His eyes met yours, and you nodded. 

“Yes, let’s try.”

“I might… uh,” he hesitated, clearly unsure of how his next request might be received, “I’m not sure how to say this, but I might need you… after. I know that’s not what you do, but after last spring, I thought you might make an exception.”

You were fully aware of what he meant. Last spring, laying there sweaty and swimming in euphoria together, you had broken your own rule. You’d let your body slide over John’s naked, tied form, and you’d rubbed his cock across your belly and on top of your pussy, sharing an orgasm together. It was reckless of you, and fully outside of the scope of your role, but it was what was right for you both at the time. He hadn’t asked for a repeat performance, always the perfect gentleman, until now.

You nodded, 

“Thank you for asking. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll check in again at the end. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You moved to leave the comfort of the sofa, but he caught your hand,

“Can we start now? Just a bit. If that’s alright.”

“Alright,” you agreed, “Any new injuries I should know about?”

His face stretched into a boyish smile,

“Too many to count.”

You shook your head, ducking into your studio to grab one hank of rope,

“You’re the only one who gets a pass on that, you know.”

You watched his eyes dart to your hands as you untied the bundle, looping the rope end over end, making your first bight. His energy was electric, but you could see something dark slithering underneath. 

“I’ll start now, but you need to talk to me. What makes it worse now, John?”

You stood in the middle of the room, watching as he moved into position in front of you. You waited patiently, not needing to give him instructions. John knew what you wanted from him. 

He avoided your question, going through the motions of preparing his body for your work. He tugged off his coat and tee shirt, raking it over his broad back, and you tried to ignore the aching red marks that littered his scarred skin. Then, he unbuckled his belt, letting the metal tip clatter and clang in the quiet room, dropping his jeans and peeling off his shoes and socks. Naked, he folded his clothes and lay them to the side. Then, he found his neutral position, kneeling at your feet, palms flat on his thighs, head bowed as if in prayer. 

“Hands behind your head, palm to palm,” you spoke your first command, listening to the timbre of your voice and knowing it was different. You were changing into the person that he needed; someone strong, unyielding. 

He complied, but he looked a little surprised. You’d never asked him for this position before, but you knew it would get his attention. He would feel the vulnerability of it immediately, his sensitive ribs and armpits exposed. 

You started your work, tying his wrists carefully, making sure to leave the proper amount of room, running the rope, rubbing between the soft jute and his hairy skin to check and double check it for safety. As soon as you had one wrist bound, you moved to the other and heard him begin to talk. 

“I nearly lost one of my men last week. Good bloke. Took a bullet for me, so I broke the rules.”

“Which rules?”

“All of them,” he looked up at you, rueful and yet unrepentant.

“Would you do it differently,” you admired the smoothness of his wrist, watching as his pulse beat just under the thin skin, rushing through blue veins, “If you could go back in time?”

“No,” Price’s voice was like that of a beast. A dragon. It was a short, simple word, but within it, you understood exactly the feeling of vengeance he was carrying within it. No, he would not go back and change his actions. He would repeat them. That much was clear. 

“It doesn’t sound to me like you were out of control, then,” you looped the knots of his wrists around a temporary harness, simple and quick. This was just for now. You had bigger plans for him after you bathed. 

John’s mouth turned up into a wry smile, thinking about your assessment, then he said,

“You might be right, love. But, I’m here. I needed this. Needed you. There must be a reason I feel so bloody lost.”

“Let’s find your way back, then. Stand up.”

You led him by the end of the rope to the wet room. The off-white tiles glowed yellow in the candlelight you had prepared, and as you turned on the tap, the room filled with steam. You watched John’s face become indecipherable as you untied the ribbon of your robe, letting the silk pool at your feet, stepping into the shower before him. 

You pointed to the small stool in the middle of the wide shower, 

“Sit.”

It was a huge installation. During the build process in your renovated space, you’d asked for two large rainshower heads and a massage wand with a flat drain in the center. John knelt in between the two heads, but well within reach of the wand. You switched it on, watching the water jerk and flow through the metal hose, holding it towards your chest and out of his eyes. 

You started with his feet, washing them with only warm water first before moving the wand up his legs, wetting his body in stages. You didn’t use your hands yet, but you were eager to. John was quite the specimen, and you felt yourself flush as your eyes explored his body, lingering on places they really shouldn’t. 

You were adamant that you were a sex worker who didn’t have sex. You tried to make it abundantly clear that your clients were paying for shibari practices only, and that you did not do… happy endings. Other than your encounter with John, your clients orgasmed alone, and you went to great lengths to ensure it remained that way. But, here was your weakness, asking you to wash him while he was in your knots, warning you that he might crave a sensual aftercare scene, that he’d been thinking about you. It made your skin flush, and even though you were comfortable in your own skin, his obvious desire for you in such a carnal way made you hyper-aware of your bare flesh. 

The wand sat back in its hook, water paused, and the only sounds were the quiet drippings against the tile, a slight sucking from the drain, your breathing. You scraped the soap into your palm, making sure to lather it into a rich, thick foam. You stood, walking around him to his back, and began with his bound hands and arms, rubbing his warm, swollen muscles with your palms, spreading the suds over him liberally. 

A long, animalistic groan shuddered through John’s lungs, echoing in the bath. It set your nerves on fire to know that you were giving him such pleasure. You wanted more. 

You moved to his back, massaging the scented soap into his body, working his skin firmly to promote his bloodflow. As you made pass after pass, his moans became steady and breathy, his mouth hanging open, unable to fight the relaxation he was experiencing. 

You washed his legs and feet, needing to bend over him in order to reach the length of his huge thighs. In doing so, your bare breasts came in contact with his back, only light tapping at first, swaying forward as you washed him. You could tell that he could feel you, and he froze, his noises of pleasure turning into hitched breaths, shocked and inaudible. 

Your clients usually washed themselves, but John had asked for special treatment, and this was a new experience for you, too. You tamped down on your excitement, but you couldn’t hide your nature. As you leaned forward to wash his knees and shins, ankles and feet, you had to press your soft tits and contrastingly taut nipples against him, over and over, like two inkless stamps, leaving impressions on his wet skin. 

Standing again, you waited to give yourself a minute to compose your emotions. The tips of your hair were damp, and your chest was shining from his soapy torso. You tried to wipe the shine away, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. He needed to be looking inwardly, finding his deeper meaning. Staring at your gleaming, sensitive tits was not what he was paying for, no matter what your biology might have wanted. 

You stepped around to his front, and you marveled at how big his frame truly was. While sitting, even though the stool was low, his eyes were directly in line with your furry mons. If he only tilted his chin up a little, he could lick…

Your mind clamped down on that thought like a vice. You breathed steady, kneeling before him and reapplying the soap to your hands, trying to refocus yourself on your work. 

That was proving more difficult by the moment. Washing his broad chest was like something out of a dream. His nipples were so responsive, and now you could see the way his face twisted with pleasure as your hands massaged your serums into his skin. Every swipe over his pink nubs make him gasp in a new pitch, his brow furrowed with desperation, but his eyes stayed pinned to the tile, just like he was meant to. You expected all of your subs to avert their gaze, to concentrate on their mind, and you made it clear that the practice would stop if they lacked the discipline to do so. 

You had never been more grateful for that standard, because if John’s sharp, pale blue eyes found yours right now, you might not be able to keep yourself from losing your own control. 

You stepped out of the shower for a moment, grabbing the tie from your robe, slipping it out of its loops. Then, as a way to anchor yourself, you wrapped it tightly around your wrist, twisting the knots you made so that they would face inwardly, the discomfort reminding you of your duties as his dominant. It would work for now, you hoped. 

Already, you could feel yourself coming back online, as if someone had splashed cold water in your face. That was, until you turned back to John and saw the last part of your process.

You peered down into his lap, hands full of creamy suds, ready to wash his belly and his nethers, only to discover that he was as hard as steel. His cock flagged tall and curved, tapping on his abdomen, far beyond his bellybutton, giving you a reminder of what was plaguing your dreams. It was beautiful. The uncut skin of his shaft folded around the rim of his ruddy head, eager to be slicked down so that you could tease the tip of him. His balls were round and full, hanging as he sat on the edge of the bench, and all you could think about was what delight was stored within them, ready to burst.

You focused on your knots, letting your one ribbon keep you grounded, and you finished the job. Your hands rubbed soap along his belly, fingers dancing through the thick happy trail of his lower abs. He was built like a workhorse, and although he was fit, his body was well-fed and wide, his core wide and protruding with his strength, thicker as he sat on the stool. There was no bodybuilder’s trim waist. He was all power, heavy and built for unimaginable destruction. You’d never seen his equal, nor a man even close to his immense form. If someone had told you John was one of Zeus’ many bastards, roaming the earth immortal and inhumanly large, you might have believed them.

“I’m going to wash the rest of your body. Remind me of your safeword so that I know you can use it,” you commanded softly, hearing your own voice bounce around the hollow room. 

John did not meet your eyes, fully committed to his submission, but you could see his cock pulse with anticipation. He spoke quietly but clearly, 

“Red.”

“Louder,” you instructed. 

“Red,” he obeyed. 

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Again.”

“Red.”

“Good. Stand up.”

You needed to make sure he was ready to proceed. John, experienced as he was, could get stuck in his sub-space just like anyone. So, you made him practice, let his mouth feel the word again and again, primed and ready to be used. 

Finally, you reached for his genitals, washing his cock and being mindful of where you spread the soap, scrubbing ever so gently down his ballsack, and then swiping across his cleft, washing through his legs to clean every last bit of him. 

Then, trying to be almost clinical about it, you washed him off, cleansing his lower extremities to ensure his comfort before hosing down the rest of him. 

Finally, you shut off the water and began to towel him dry, wiping at his dripping skin, trying to ignore how his body’s heat seemed to radiate onto your bare body, inviting you to lean just a little closer, to press into that lovely burn. 

But, you didn’t. You discarded the towel and untied your wrist cuff, leaving it with your robe. You reached behind John’s head and unbound the center knot of his ties, allowing him to bring his wrists to the front of his body like handcuffs. You used the end to lead him like a prisoner through your space, parading him to the studio quickly and quietly, eager to begin the main event. 

Once inside the studio space, you finished untying his wrists, setting him free once again. He looked down at them, running his fingertip across the raised ridges left by the ropes before dropping his arms to his sides, waiting for your instruction and guidance. 

You knelt next to your basket of rope, retrieving a hank from the stack and unwinding it. His eyes darted to your hands, watching you prepare it just for him, like a dog expecting a bone. 

“Lay in the center, arms at your sides,” you told him and watched as he followed your instruction. He was less hard now, more relaxed than before, but before long, as he lay there letting his excitement build, he strengthened again, his prick bowing up onto his stomach, flushed and full. 

You got to work. Your first goal was to put each of his legs in an advanced frog tie, turning his body on its side so that you could bind his ankle to his thigh, first one leg and then the other. Once his initial ropes were in place, you checked their tension, moving two fingers around and around, trying not to notice his mounting enthusiasm every time you brushed along his inner thigh. Then, once you were satisfied, you helped him into a kneeling position, pushing a thin buckwheat pillow under his knees for comfort. 

He shook his head, 

“Don’t need it, love. I wanna feel the floor. The pain… helps.”

You eyed him, turning your lips into a soft grin, 

“If this were a normal session, I would give that to you,” your tone got his attention, and he did look at your face now, needing to see your intent, “But, what I’m about to put you through is something different. Trust me, John.”

“I trust you.”

He settled into the pillow, returning to his meditative position. You took his hands in yours and held them between your two palms, squeezing them tight, binding them without rope for a moment. Then, you began to breathe in deep, cyclical patterns, over and over. He breathed with you, and you saw the tension leave his face. Whatever had happened to John on this last tour was plaguing him, and you slowed things down to give him a chance to control himself again. 

He breathed in with you, and his air rushed out with yours, washing over your skin like a summer wind, keeping your body responsive to him. Every now and then, as you meditated together, you caught his eyes fixed on something other than the floor. He was staring into the darkness between your legs, shadowed by your body and covered with curly hair, hidden from him in plain sight. It was hard for you to focus, knowing he had his mind on your body, but eventually, he averted his gaze, focusing inwardly again. 

Finally, when you felt his heart rate slow, you used another hank of rope to create a short waist belt, applying more tension than usual as you fed it along his hips, knowing his thick ass and thighs could take the pressure. Still, you were adamant about safety, watching him every moment for discoloration or discomfort. 

He was fidgeting now that the tighter straps were on him, and you saw him closing off his stance, bringing his knees closer together. You caught him, and used one of the loops on his thigh to pull his legs apart again,

“Spread them. Let the pressure flow through your belly and out of your center.”

“Aye,” he sighed, settling into the pain and doing his best to spread his knees wider, concentrating on the feeling. His cock was leaking now, leaving little dark marks on the canvas of his knee bolster, bobbing between his legs as he spread them wider, shining and wet. 

You grabbed another rope, trying to hone in on your work,

“I’m going to bind you in almost the same style we practiced last spring, but it will be modified to provide more of that challenge you’ve been looking for. Place your hands behind your back, palms on your elbows, if you can.”

Not every sub had the flexibility to obey, but John did. He’d been doing his stretches. As he assumed his position, his arms’ placement made his chest broad and high, stretching his pecs open while his back was pinned, the skin folding in on itself as his shoulder blades folded back like featherless wings. You threaded your rope over his shoulders, centering the bight at the back of his neck for an anchor point. It was essential that no pressure was applied to the front of his throat, and you were ever-mindful of the fresh injuries that marred his neck. 

“What happened here?” You asked, letting your finger pass under a rope that lay on his injured skin, making sure it was loose and gentle. You would give him tightness elsewhere. 

He was hesitant to answer you, but he shrugged,

“Bastard came up behind me. Before I could react, he had the wire around my throat.”

“Did you escape on your own?” You pried, trying to keep him talking as you started the long process of his arm binding. 

“Aye. He was so busy trying to choke me, he forgot I still had free hands and plenty of bloody knives in my belt.”

You praised him for his openness,

“Good.”

“Is it?” Now, you heard the doubt in his tone. It made you pause, but you simply continued with your ties, not allowing him to know that you were challenged by his cynicism or regret or whatever darkness was making him lean on his fear and anger instead of his peace.

You left his question unanswered, allowing it to hang in the air between you, forcing his mind to dwell on it. You needed him to answer it within himself before you went opening more portals to other emotions and struggles. 

You added more and more rope to his binding, and when you finished, you pulled the cord forward across his chest, resting it below his nipples, making sure to graze them as you checked your tension, enjoying the trembling shudder that came from him as your reward. It was the most advanced harness you had performed in a long time. This one was unforgiving. He couldn’t twist left or right. His shoulders were forced down and back, shrugged tight against his body, and his arms were completely powerless. He could pull and heave to try and move his hands away from his back, but there was no escape.

You sat across from John once more, holding his chin up so that he would know you expected him to look at you, and you asked him,

“Do you have any pain or tingling?”

“No.”

“Say your safeword to me one time.”

“Red.” 

“The next step will be the final rope, and then we can sit together for as long as you need. Do you want to continue?”

His eyes stared into yours with a bright clarity, and he answered softly, 

“Yes.”

You could tell that he was slipping deeper into his sub-space. His eyes softened, but his body shivered. If you brushed your fingers along his ribs, his muscles would kick and jerk. Anything harder, like a deep tissue massage against those huge thighs and he whined for you, smokey and gravelly, full of feral need. 

You moved behind him, taking a rope and placing it across his forehead, using your hand to tilt his head back until his eyes were staring at the ceiling. Then, you carefully crafted a face harness, making sure there was not too much pressure on his more delicate bones while still limiting his range of motion so that he was forced to keep his chin pointed up. 

You connected the rig to an anchor point on his wrists, and then you took your position in front of him again, staring at his bearded jaw and injured neck, watching his body struggle to relax into a very uncomfortable pose. 

“Breathe for me, John,” you knew it was a lot. 

Controlling someone’s body was one thing. Even Price had experienced tight knots before, but when you took control over the head, that animal instinct all humans keep deep within themselves tended to come alive. It was a primal fear. You watched John’s chest rise and fall, his stress tumbling around in his breaths as he tried to stay calm. 

You reached out both of your hands and rested them on his chest, feeling the way he jerked at your touch, overstimulated and sensitive. You pet his fur, the thick brown hair that dusted his body, soft from the oils you had used. As he breathed, you felt it moving in his lungs, and you let your fingertips ghost over his nipples, rubbing them with the backs of your knuckles, admiring the way they perked up at your attention, puffy and swollen from the unforgiving rope that made them bulge outwardly.

“Mmf–fuck,” he coughed, his eyes knitted into a worried sort of agony.

You smiled, bringing your own nipples towards his chest, letting your soft peaks brush against his hard ones, moving your breasts up and down, drawing little circles and crosses over his chest. 

You knew he couldn’t see what you were doing, but he could feel it. He knew, instinctively, and it was sending him into a drunken daze. The pleasure of your touch combined with the pain of your ropes pushed him beyond where he had been before, and perhaps it was past where you had dared to go as well. 

“Control your breaths, John. There is nothing else you are responsible for. I’ve taken it all from you. You need to breathe and to spread your peace through your mind. Focus.”

He didn’t respond, but his breathing stilled, and his eyes closed. You removed your touch from him and let him bask in the sensations he was experiencing. 

Minutes passed, then more. It had been almost an hour, and you were admiring the way he stayed strong, at first. You reached out to him to anchor him when he seemed like he needed help, caressing his arms and back, massaging the muscles that must be burning white hot by now. He was much more determined than any other sub you controlled. If anyone could handle this difficult position, it was him. But, he was not invincible. You saw the way his breathing became labored, and his cock, which was losing and regaining its hardness as time went on, throbbed from its struggle. 

“Do you want to continue?” You asked again, touching him as you had before, moving your hands from his chest to his belly, petting him rhythmically, avoiding his phallus but touching everything else around it. You knew it must have been teasing him, forcing him to imagine how your hands might feel if they reached just a little further. 

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained due to the position of his jaw, and you watched the bulge in his neck bob up and down.

More time slipped by. Your hands had wandered down his legs and across the soft pads of his feet. His body was buzzing with the energy he was spending in order to stay the course. He must have been far beyond simple pain at this point. You remembered a similar scene you’d experienced, and this was much longer than you ever expected to be in it. If John was anything, he was stubborn. 

But eventually, you heard him speak, 

“We knew it was a trap before we went in. I was reckless, and angry, and I wanted my fuckin’ revenge.”

He paused but you just kept up with your massage, rubbing him down, letting him know you were still there. He continued,

“That bastard was gonna shoot me,” John’s voice cracked from his despair, and you saw shining tears stream down his temples and into his hair, “It was me that he wanted. Then, my… one of my men, he jumped right in front of the gun and took the bullet for me. I thought he was dead. I thought I was, too. But, after… I left my team. Charged in alone. I did things to those men that I'll have to think about for the rest of my bloody days. I became… something else. Something… “

You wiped the tears from his face, petting his cheeks, letting your thumbs brush over his lips gently. He sighed, and you could feel his breath on your fingers,

“It wasn’t right. I knew better, I just wanted them to bloody pay. Wasn’t sure if I was going home with a fuckin’ medal or my papers. Didn’t care.”

There was a long pause, and then, his voice became small. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, but they were wide, full of fear and uncertainty,

“Am I a monster? Is that… Is that the real me? Who am I? What am I?”

You leaned forward and planted delicate kisses across John’s stretched neck, licking and sucking at his skin in very light, careful touches, tasting his wounds and trying to heal them.

You sat back, removing yourself from his body, letting him sit alone for a moment before you said,

“You are a human being. You are capable of love and hate, pleasure and pain. You might feel like you need to answer for some of your violence, but your own humanity is not defined by your actions. You believed that was the path you needed to take. You destroyed dangerous men before they destroyed you. That is not a monster. A monster destroys the innocent. Were those men innocent?”

“No,” he snarled, full of spit and ire.

“They made their own choices. They controlled their own lives. Your perception of your own control is too broad, John. You couldn’t save them. They didn’t need saving. You did. It was you who needed to be saved.”

“I should’ve been able to stop… to stop… stop killing. I couldn’t. I needed them to burn for what they did to my fuckin’ soldier. To my friends! Fuck!” 

John was gasping now, too full of emotion to control his breath, releasing his stress in deep, bellowing grunts. You unfastened his head harness immediately, freeing him. The instant he could move, he let his head fall forward and placed his cheek on your breast, stretching himself as far as he could, hoping you would be there to catch him. 

And you were. You held him in your arms, wrapping your own across his many knots, feeling the fibers of his ties and the smooth warmth of his body, separate but unified. You could feel his wet cheek upon your skin, his anger rolling off of him in waves. He was letting out each breath as an exhaled hiss, the fire in his eyes at full peak, a blazing rage that seemed like it would suffocate him. 

You picked up his head in your hands, resting your forehead on his and told him, 

“Let it go. Just like that. Scream. Let it out of you, John. Forgive yourself.”

He let himself go for a moment, howling like a wild boar, full of unnatural rage and pain. You heard his shouts and tucked them away from your heart, keeping them for later, choosing to just let him express it and have his crashing waves of feeling wash over you, but you refused to drown in it. He still needed you. 

“Do you forgive me?” His plea was that of a boy, innocent and achingly pure. 

“I forgive you,” you replied without hesitation, “Forgive yourself, now.”

He shook his head back and forth, rubbing his face on yours, bitter and despondent, 

“I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you to,” you barked, grabbing him at the base of his skull by his hair, forcing his head back into that same bent position, holding him by force, “Trust me, John. Say it out loud. I forgive myself. Say it. C’mon.”

“I… forgive...” 

“C’mon. I know you can do this,” you used both hands to hold his head under your control, your chests pressed together, your breathing equal and ragged, both of you pulled to the end of your abilities.

“I forgive myself.”

“Again!” You gasped. You tugged at his nape, forcing him to arch his back with what little movement he still had access to.

He grunted in response, breathing heavy, each exhale a guttural shout,

“I forgive myself.”

“Good. So good. Let it out. Use the pain; let it wash you clean.”

You let his head come forward, and you saw a new man staring back at you. Before you knew what was happening, you felt your lips crash together with John’s, sliding along his mouth, tasting him and being tasted by him. His tongue slipped into the hollow of your palate, folding and twisting for more and more control, taking you into him as much as he could manage. Then, he pulled away abruptly, resting his forehead against yours again,

“I’m sorry. I just… I feel…” You watched him search for the words, “I feel like I’m back. It’s been so long, but I can feel myself again.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you,” he tilted his head, exhausted, sitting back on his heels, his face a serene picture of peace, “I need you to touch me, like this. Please.”

You looked at him for a moment and then moved your hands between his legs, finding his warm rod waiting to be held. As soon as your fingers touched him, his whole body convulsed, and he cried out at the sensation. 

You began to rub his shaft with long, slow strokes, avoiding his head for now, finding a nice, easy rhythm, encouraging John to match your breathing. He did, stealing kisses when your faces were near one another, and eventually, you were nose to nose, sharing your breaths again, listening to the rush of air and the wet slick sound of his tacky precome being spread all over his length. 

You reached behind him and grabbed another bolster, putting the soft pad behind his back. Slowly, you helped him lay down onto it, knowing his arms would be crushed by his weight, but making sure the stress was something he could stand. His legs were spread wide, fully pliant and open to you, and you sat between them, bringing your hands back to his center, working his curved shaft up and down, watching as his belly filled with air, expanding from his breaths, only to collapse again, the muscles within him clenching and releasing in an undulating pattern of lust and need.

“Oh, fuck,” he bit his lip, wrenching his eyes shut, “Please… I need… Bloody hell, I need you, love. Please.”

“Are you sure, John?” You tried to check in with him, ignoring your own desire to immediately fulfill his wish, your pussy swollen and dripping in anticipation. 

“Yes. I want you to take me. Please.”

His eyes looked up at you, his body bent and bowed, sweet and desperate for you, looking to you for his pleasure.

Carefully, you straddled him, feeding his head between your legs, sighing with joy as his tip slotted into the soft divot of your hole. He couldn’t thrust up into you. In fact, he couldn’t participate at all. You were the only one who could bring him pleasure or bring him pain, and that thought made your head rush, making you dizzy with desire, knowing that this man, a ruthless killer, mysterious and brutal, steady and kind, all of what he was — he was helpless beneath you. 

As you sank down onto his girthy tip, your body ached from the stretch. It was an effort to fit him inside of you, and you breathed through it, wanting to push yourself flush to his hips. When you met his warm root, you shared a loud moan together, the relief overwhelming you both. 

Then, you used your hips to make grinding, wide circles, churning his cock within your core, making yourself even more soaked, feeling your movements sending repeated signals to your cunt to make more and more slick come. It seemed endless, and it pooled out of you, matting his hair and drowning his dick in hot, sticky fluid. 

He was grunting softly at the apex of each circle of your hips, his voice hoarse and full of want. You heard him wanting more, wanting you to hump him up and down, to slide yourself along his cock from root to tip. But, you were in charge, and you set the pace. So, you continued, around and around and around in an impossible spiral, using your hands to play with his nipples, pinching them cruelly, positioning them under the tight rope to make them ache to be free. 

“Ungh, fuck! You’re fuckin’ soaked, love. Feels so bloody good.”

You smiled down at him, refusing to take his bait, knowing he was beyond ready for more. 

Sure enough, he began to beg you, his skin flushed and his heart beating hard from being edged by your grinding,

“Will you fuck me… please? Just… I need… fuck, I need more. Fuck me, please! Oh, fuck…”

“Shh. Be good for me, John. Trust me.” 

You stayed the course, rocking your hips around his base, never letting him thrust in and out, just winding yourself around him like a tight spool, pushing him to his breaking point. He felt so good inside of you, and his cock was so deep, you could feel the turgid body of his shaft if you pressed down on your lower belly, your fingers finding his outline through your skin and muscles and fat, your hands making indentions in your flesh, teasing him from the outside. 

“Cut me out,” he snarled, straining against his bindings hard enough to hurt himself.

You peered down at him, slowing your hips to a glacial pace,

“You know your safeword, John.”

“Cut. Me. Out.”

His eyes were vicious when he looked up at you now. He was like a hungry wolf; his gaze held within it a dark promise that — if you cut his leash — he would destroy you. 

On one hand, your body celebrated that realization. It was eager to be devoured by this monster of a man, but you had worked hard to control your primal urges, and you decided to put your hound back in his cage. You let your hand snake around his throat, squeezing where it was safest, digging in your nails for him to feel your threat more vividly, knowing it would hurt him against his healing wounds,

“If you want to stop, say the word.”

You waited, watching his tortured face, panting and wet from tears and sweat, but he remained silent. You licked your lips, 

“You came here for a lesson in self-control, and I am your teacher.”

For the next half hour, you made sure John Price understood who was in control of his pleasure. You sat on his cock, rocking back and forth until you felt his body tense up, and then you pulled yourself off of him, leaving his throbbing prick out in the cold, tapping at your ass cheeks, begging to be let back in. 

You ignored him, touching yourself with your fingers, using the chubby flesh of his lower belly to rub against your cunt, smearing your wetness all over him as you played in your hole. 

Then, you would put him back inside and start the process all over again, grinding and stopping, grinding and stopping, until your mighty sub was whimpering for release, his balls tight against his core, ready to flood you with his come at any moment. 

Finally, when you saw how fuck-drunk he was, coming in and out of consciousness like he’d been drugged, you decided to relieve him of his burden. You caught his eye and made sure he knew what was coming. Immediately, you had his full attention. He began to chant, hoarse and rasping under his breath,

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…”

You let the anticipation build, slipping your pussy over his head in feather-light swipes, letting your folds tickle his cockhead mercilessly. Then, you began to bounce your hips on his cock. 

“Ungh– love, I’m —” he growled, his words breathless and broken, unbridled. 

“I want your come,” you confessed, getting lost in your own pleasure, “I want it in me… Deep. In. Me,” you changed your tone, tightening your grip on the nape of his neck as much as you dared, “And I’m going to take it from you.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his eyes locked onto yours, shining with fresh tears, overstimulated and raw. 

Then, you saw the relief smooth across his brow, and you waited for a breath before you felt it, spearing yourself on him to his hilt, plugging your cunt so that his come would be plugged up inside of you, filling your emptiest parts, making them warm and swollen with his spend. 

You felt him bursting inside of you, his girth stretching you every time he throbbed, spraying inside of you over and over, dumping his load into your soft hole. When you felt him finish, you began your grinding circles again, causing him to roll and twist, aching from the pleasure and pain. 

“Nngh… love, please… can’t… I can’t…” 

You yanked the slip tie out from under his shoulder, and suddenly, he had control of his arms again. You did the same to his legs, freeing him from your ties, ending his captivity. 

Like a flash, he erupted upwards toward you. His hands went to your hips, sitting up to hug himself around your body, crushing you to his chest and forcing you down into his lap, spearing you on his sensitive rod as if you had planned to pull him out. His mouth savaged your breasts, biting them cruelly, his fingers holding you tight enough to leave you bruised. 

You grabbed his face, holding his bristled cheeks in your hands again, bringing him up to kiss you. You pressed your lips to his as delicately as you could manage, trembling from your bliss. He kissed you back, and that’s all you did for what felt like an eon. Your mind swam through a blank, glittering cosmos, and the only thing that was real was the feeling of John’s mouth on your mouth and his sex on your sex, his hands on your body and your hands on his body, his pain and your pain, his love and your love. You and he were muddled together like pigments on a palette, jonquil and fuschia, no longer existing as one or the other and yet both smearing together, mixed and inseparable, ready to paint a bright, endless sun. 

You had melted, it seemed, under John’s sweating, heaving body. His ribs bullied into your belly every time he took a breath, and his cock had softened so that it slipped away from you. Your body ached for its comfort again, every nature-made part of you punishing you for losing it, coaxing you to do anything to get it back, to fill the space left vacant. You were tucked into his chest, folded and hiding beneath his chin, rubbing at the flat of his sternum with the back of your hand. 

His finger brushed a stray curl from your brow, touching your hair with respect, staring down at you in awe,

“My hero,” he purred. 

You smiled, kissing the stubble on his chin,

“Am I, now?”

“My head…” He stared up at the ceiling again, going to it for comfort like a long lost friend, “It’s so quiet. So clear. You’ve done that for me, and I’ll be thanking you for the rest of my days.”

“I’ll always be here for you, John. You are my muse in more ways than I’ll ever admit,” you laughed breathlessly, a little sad. It was bittersweet, falling in love with a man you couldn’t have. But, you found yourself in him and now you would need to work out how to live without that mirrored reflection. You felt linked to him, two unbroken cords looped together like Solomon’s seal, inseparable and yet laid on two disparate paths. 

“Don’t…” He said, his tone sounding even more sorrowful than yours.

You sat up on your elbow, bringing your face up to his to look at him, to see his emotions, 

“What?”

“Don’t make me hope.”

“What do you hope for?” Your voice fell into a whisper, your heart not having the strength to ask your question aloud.

He matched your tone, purring out his confession with a tired but cheeky grin,

“For a woman who can bring me to my knees,” then, his expression turned serious, and his eyes traced his finger as he played with the stray curl he had found, studying its winding path, “For a healer. Someone who can remind me of who I am. Everytime I stop to catch my breath, I’ve been hoping for you.”

Your heart stuttered, knowing that he was not a man to settle down in one place. You looked down at his chest rising and falling with his breath, matching your rhythm, unable to meet his eyes,

“How long can you stay?”

He put a thick finger under your chin, just as you had for him during his session, making you meet his gaze, 

“Let’s start with tonight…”

He planted a soft kiss on your left cheek.

“...then tomorrow…”

His lips kissed your right cheek, dragging hungrily across your skin, 

“...and all the tomorrows that you’ll give me. I’ll take them all, if you let me.”

John placed his final kiss on your open mouth, lips parted, concentrating on what he was saying. You smiled, kissing him back in earnest, 

“Tonight, then. And tomorrow.”

“And tomorrow,” he nodded, smiling brightly, rolling himself over you to shield you from the chill of the room, folding you into his darkness, safe, bound to him without a cord, knotted together without a bight, tangled for however long the strands would hold.

AO3 Link --- Thank you for the kudos!

[ky-landfill]

Here's a recipe for pesto gnocchi:

Ingredients:

* 2 pounds of store-bought gnocchi

* 3 cups of basil leaves, washed and dried

* 2 cloves of garlic, peeled

* 3/4 cup parmesan cheese

* 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

* Salt and pepper, to taste

Instructions:

1. In a food processor or blender, combine the basil, garlic, cheese, and olive oil. Blend until smooth and set aside.

2. In a large pot of boiling salted water, cook the gnocchi according to package instructions.

3. Drain the gnocchi and add it to a deep skillet with some olive oil. Cook over medium heat until light brown.

4. Pour in the pesto sauce and toss well to coat. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

5. Serve hot and garnish with more parmesan cheese and fresh basil. Enjoy!

Thanks.

[hedgehog-moss]

I finally planted my garden last week! We had a couple of days of sun which gave me hope, but it's once again raining every day. Thoughts and prayers for my tomato plants, but I couldn't keep everyone in the greenhouse forever, I had to make room for other plants.

(In the fourth picture above you can see what's inside the hügelkultur mound—it's a pile of branches + llama manure + compost + potting soil. One thing I find great about it is how well it retains moisture! Well it's not a problem this year so far but during heat waves I water these plants a lot less than non-mound plants.)

In the greenhouse my seedlings have been struggling due to lack of sun. Impossible to get courgette plants so I had to buy a few from the young couple in town who recently started a plant nursery—they didn't have many either, and I had to share with the mayor who also came looking for courgette plants because slugs devoured all of his.

He must have seen on my face that I thought my plants didn't stand a chance if slugs don't even respect municipal authority, because he kindly advised me to place crowns of bedstraw (see above) around my plants to protect them. I didn't dare to ask "If it works so well why do you have no courgette plants left?" I just said thank you, and then spent an entire evening last week weaving this sticky weed into crowns and whatsapping photos of my art to the mayor, who always replied "More! More! It needs to be thicker! Like a doughnut!"

Meanwhile 1 leek in the greenhouse suddenly grew a lot thicker while the other 3 remained skinny and fearful-looking and I'm not sure why. They share a pot, so maybe it's like vanishing twin syndrome. My bell pepper seeds had the same asynchronous development issue—one pot is just now starting to have timid seedlings while the other (right next to it) already contains a grown-up plant with baby peppers:

By far my happiest greenhouse plants are the potatoes and lettuce. They shot up so fast! I've been eating a lot of lettuce lately but I can't keep up with how quickly they grow in this cold, rainy spring. And I haven't had any slug raids in the greenhouse so that's great.

My greenhouse squash, onions and pickles are still tiny and not worth a photo (harsh, but this post already has too many photos). My strawberries in the aquaponic towers are beautiful despite the lack of sun and I've been getting mini-harvests of 2-3 strawberries a day for two weeks! They're done now, but I started more seeds so maybe I can get a second round at the end of the month.

Three more things:

1. Morille helped a lot as I was planting the garden. She kept an eye on my gardening tools so no one would steal them, and sometimes used them as cheek-scratchers. At one point I put one of my beautiful bedstraw crowns around her neck so she looked like Philip III of Spain in that painting where he wears a big ruff, but tragically she ran away in outrage before I could take a picture, and when she returned she'd got rid of her collar.

2. At the cow parade the other day there was a lady at the market who sold jars of homemade pesto sauce made from all kinds of different plants, and it opened up my mind to entirely new pesto horizons!! I always make the traditional kind with basil, but I have plants that grow much faster than basil, like my rocket, so I tried making pesto with 1/3 basil 2/3 rocket (plus garlic, olive oil, parmesan, cashews) and it was so good! I have to explore all of her recipes now, like plantain or nettle or sage pesto...

3. There's a monster in the greenhouse. It appeared practically overnight and is quickly claiming more and more territory. Unlike last year it's not a parsley monster—it's my lemon balm. One day it was growing in its vertical tower, luxuriant but tidy, like a normal plant, and the next it had quintupled in volume and was threatening to swallow the nearest planter. Look at the tiny tomato plants, they look terrified of it!

I urgently need to fight back against this giant mélisse (as we call lemon balm) but I've been really busy and I keep putting it off, and then remembering anxiously at 11pm that I still have this creature to take care of, which is ironic seeing as lemon balm is supposed to relieve stress and anxiety. This is the exact opposite of why I planted you. Anyway if you never hear from me again after this post it's because I finally engaged in battle against this year's vegetal menace, and lost.

[copperbadge]

This is not to sniff at packaged food in any way, because cheap, uniform, nutritious, premade food is important and necessary. And despite what your local tiktok orthorexic may tell you, packaged food is still capable of providing solid nutrition.

That said, I've been making my own bread for about twenty years, and for the last ten or so it has often been easier to make bread than buy it, solely because I don't need to leave the house to do so, and I live alone so a decent loaf can last me a good ten days. Being able to make ones own bread in this modern era is a product of privilege -- the resources to buy the ingredients (especially high quality flour, not cheap), the time and space to bake, the stamina to knead or equipment to make kneading easier -- my breads improved a lot when I got a good stand mixer, and those aren't cheap. But also, to make a decent edible boule you can get by with flour, water, yeast, salt, and time. Throw in a little oil and you can make pizza crust; add in kneading and a bit of sugar and you have bagels.

It did somewhat change how I eat, because homemade bread is often a little difficult to make a sandwich with, but I was never a huge fan of sandos anyway. These days I often don't even make loaves -- I make rolls or bagels, or flatbreads.

But all of this is to say that because I'm now accustomed to eating my own bread, which is necessarily small-batch and produced without stabilizers that make commercial bread so soft and uniform, I am starting to struggle when I do buy bread because the flavor and texture often feel off. It's not that it's objectively bad food, but it's very different from what I'm used to, which is unpleasant. I've been aware of the issue for a while but previously even if the bread wasn't as good to me as my own, it was edible and convenient, so it was fine. Making your own hot dog buns is a pain in the ass.

I just bought a loaf of Italian bread, reasonably fresh, a brand I used to eat regularly, because I wasn't feeling up to baking anything. I've been making toast with it mostly. But yesterday morning -- admittedly while dealing with some nausea -- I bit into a sandwich I'd made with it (cashew butter and strawberry jam) and thought, "this feels like eating upholstery fabric."

I haven't been able to eat any more of it since. The soft, dense texture, the specific preservative flavor, the mouthfeel. I tried to eat some toast just now and had to spit it out because it felt like buttered brocade and I started to gag. I'm kind of mad about it, honestly.

The bread won't go to waste -- if I can't eat the rest of the bag I'll dry it out and crush it for breadcrumbs for fried chicken or a panade -- but it's both sad and funny that I have functionally baked myself into a corner where packaged bread is no longer even an option.

It feels like I'm becoming one of the middle-aged eccentrics I used to know when I was a kid -- older people or couples in my church, sometimes parents of my school friends, who were just kind of oddballs, hippie leftovers, what I still think of as Berkeley Weirdos (affectionate) even though Berkeley has long since gentrified. The lady who didn't have a functional oven or stove because she ate raw vegan or the family that converted their old station wagon to biofuel but kept the rear-facing back seats with no seatbelts and would give us death-defying rides to the community pool in them. I'm already growing my own basil because I eat an unlikely amount of pesto for one person. My signature potluck dishes are kiwi dip or egg-free meringues.

I don't mind, exactly. I loved the Berkeley Weirdos and the community they built for us kids. But it's definitely not a place I imagined ending up.

[kitchenwitchtingss]

50 KITCHEN WITCH TIPS TO MAKE YOU FEEL MORE WITCHY

(And other useful things I've learned over the years)

Hi! This is a list of dos, don'ts, tips, tricks, and other fun things that I've learned over the years. I always love finding more effective and efficient ways of doing things so if you have any cool things you'd like to add, leave them in the comments or reblog. I'd love to read it.

Anyways... On with the list ^_^

Light candles around your kitchen space (just make sure nothing flammable is near you)

Annotate your cookbooks with the correspondence of the ingredients.

Mediating is really good to calm the mind before cooking.

Cut oranges and lemons thinly, dry them, and hang them with twine around your kitchen

Need a cleansing tip? Open all your windows near your kitchen. Let some fresh air in.

Cutting sigils into apples, pie crusts, and carved potatoes.

Save lemon and orange rinds, freeze them, and then use them to clean the garbage disposal.

Make infused oils and honey: Things like garlic honey, lavender honey, herb oil, sun oil, moon oil, dandelion oil, and other different edible oils are very fun and useful to make.

Hid sigils in pages of your cookbooks and kitchen witch journals.

Add some plants! Snake plants and spider plants don't need too much light, and growing your own herbs in your kitchen is awesome too. Basil, lavender, thyme, aloe vera, rosemary, etc. are good fits. You could also add some plants that require more sunlight on the kitchen window sill. Like cacti and succulents.

Bring crystals into your kitchen space such as rose quartz, clear quartz, amethyst, or whatever you want the space's intentions to be.

I keep a small money tree on the sill, along with cacti for luck and protection.

Make a simmer Pot! Mostly because it makes the whole house smell good, easy, and fun.

Stir clockwise for best results!

Learning how to pickle things is actually pretty witchy. Plus, anyone could do it as it requires absolutely no kitchen experience. You could pickle any vegetable, even if you don't like pickles. I originally learned this after having to take shelter from a natural disaster. A person brought a bunch of stuff and taught us how to pickle things with different spices and herbs. Very fun!

Decorate your kitchen with your favorite stuff. Crystals, decor, heat mits, that cool mushroom cake stand you've been eyeing at the World Market for the past 2 weeks, cool looking curtains, sun catchers. Why stop there? Paint the walls, hang shelves full of marked-up cookbooks that are a little too well-loved and thumbed through.

Wanna be the person that has the amazing-smelling house every time people come over? Syrups take some time to simmer down, it's actually a pretty good time to leave it on the stove to simmer. Since syrups have a lot of aromatic ingredients, it acts as a really good-smelling simmer pot.

Hang up herbs to dry with twine from cabinets that are rarely used.

Invest in that new set of plates and cups.

Homemade jams, butter, sauces, and syrups are your best friend.

Crochet or knit your own dish rags, pot holders, etc.

Don't pour extremely hot things into a glass that's not Pyrex, it will break, and you will be very sad about it.

Don't cook anything while extremely upset or emotional (For safety reasons)

Make recipes you want to make, not just because you'll like the effect. Make it because you think it's tasty.

Chinese Five Spice works in place of herbs for protection and luck spells a lot of the time! It's cheaper to buy 1 spice than 4 different spices that total up to 15 dollars when you could just spend 3-4 dollars.

Take a shower before cooking (I don't know how to explain this one other than it makes you feel better)

Don't use microfiber/plastic material clothes on hot burners, it will fuse to the burner and melt. It is VERY hard to get off.

I don't know if I need to put this one but I did see someone do it so nonstick pan = wooden utensils and plastic utensils, metal pan = metal utensils. Do not use a metal spoon in a nonstick pan, please. It can make you very sick.

Keep your pets away from hot oil, open ovens, and hot pans.

You can proof bread dough in the fridge overnight if you don't have the time to bake, or want to eat fresh bread right in the morning.

Need a quick witchy meal for dinner in 12 minutes? Use premade tomato pasta sauce and doctor it up with thyme, rosemary, and garlic, for protection and distilling stagnant energies. Serve with pasta of your liking.

You can substitute Butter for Crisco/shortening, buttermilk for 1 cup of milk + 1 tbsp apple cider vinegar or lemon juice, and heavy cream for 1 cup of half and half plus 2 tbsp of butter.

Use leftover animal bones to make bone broth

Teach yourself the art of bread scoring (It's fun, and you can show it off to your loved ones!)

Collect and hoard your own and others' family recipes.

Sometimes the food doesn't have to be a spell, sometimes it just makes you feel good and you don't know why.

Listen to your favorite music in the kitchen, it makes the monotonous things like chopping veggies move faster.

Invest in a vegetable chopper if you don't like chopping vegetables.

Find a really good hot cocoa recipe and make it once a week. Master it. Just for your own happiness because hot cocoa is really good. You could also be the friend/family member that makes the best hot cocoa ever.

Focaccia Bread Lasts a very long time, and it's very easy to make!

Keep a first aid kit near where the oven is, in case of burns, cuts, or serious injuries where time is everything.

Quick Bread and no-rise loaves are simple for beginners, tasty, and take little time. They also feel very witchy to make.

Study a bit of Herbalism! It's fun and really helps better understand the herbs you're putting into your food.

While something is boiling, put your wooden spoon over the pot to minimize the chance of something boiling over.

Try a bit of coffee magick, it's simple to get into, and gives you a boost of energy to take on the day!

If you're over 21, wine-making is a very interesting way to celebrate the sabbats. Just with that, make sure you KNOW what you're doing. With anything fermented, there's always a risk if you don't store things correctly. Apple wines, strawberry wines, dandelion wines, etc. all very cool to experiment with. If you're not over 21, vinegar is a similar way to experiment.

Hang up some witchy things, sigils, photos, cool magnets, and other things that give you joy on your fridge. (Sometimes if you are lucky they have some fun magnets at five below)

If you live in the US, for some reason, there are a lot of books in the book section dedicated to witchcraft and spirituality. At least where I live. And they are all under 5 dollars!

Teas are the cheapest and easiest things you can practice being a kitchen witch.

[fataldrum]

Dorian Gray is queer art, period.

Apparently Netflix has decided to make an adaption of The Picture of Dorian Gray with Dorian and Basil as siblings. Unless they're planning to go the gothic horror incest route, they've completely missed the point of the relationship between these characters.

If you haven't read the book, Basil is a painter who becomes infatuated with a beautiful young man, pouring his feelings into a painting. Dorian becomes jealous of the painting's beauty, realizing that he will never be as young and unspoiled as the version of himself on the canvas. He finds himself wishing that the painting could age instead of him. His wish is granted, allowing him to stay young and beautiful until the end, with his moral and spiritual decline reflected only in the painting.

I cannot overstate how queer this book is. Dorian is so beautiful that their first meeting inspires a wave of existential terror in Basil. Dorian changes Basil's entire understanding of art and beauty. This book is so queer it was used as evidence at Wilde's sodomy trial.

The existence of the portrait itself is tantamount to a confession of queer desire. Basil tells his friend, Lord Henry, that he can't exhibit the painting because "I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry (who will later lead Dorian into a life of vice) laughs, but Basil explains:

“[E]very portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. [...] It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

This is how he describes meeting Dorian:

When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. [...] I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

Notice that turn of phrase--it was not conscience but cowardice that made him attempt to flee. Why would conscience factor into his decision? Because he felt shame at his reaction to Dorian's perfect, beautiful face.

Lord Henry is shocked to discover Basil cares for something besides his art.

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.

Basil goes on to confess, "I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there."

Lord Henry still doesn't understand why there is too much of Basil in the painting, so Basil explains:

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!”

Lord Henry asks how Dorian feels about Basil, and his response is absolutely tragic.

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

Any adaptation that ignores the way Dorian's existence and beauty utterly destroyed Basil is doomed to be shallow and insipid. This is not just a book about a magic painting. It's a monument to queer longing.

[leog4u]

My fav algerian recipes

wrote this out for a friend but i figured i'd share here.

The best part about algerian cuisine is its all very common stuff, and easy to make. Garlic, onions, beef, garlic, cumin, tomatoes. That's most of the dishes. The one thing you'll need is harissa, which is sold in more and more supermarkets, and easily available online. You can make your own, but most algerians just get the yellow tube lol.

M'thewem - A chickpea and meatball stew with very little "broth", served with bread you dip and grab with. very filling, freezes and keeps well. You brown lamb neck or shank or whatever is cheapest, and the meatballs are just your average ground beef, but seasoned with Stuff. the video has a diced red onion, but i prefer yellow/white https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1V5xgnQRmzg

"Omlette" - It's actually just spanish tortilla, but we have that. here's a vid, literally all you need is potatoes and eggs, but goes great with bread. One of the best parts of it is again, it's very easy and Incredibly filling, and easily feeds a crowd! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPYk9W9v-bI

Shakshuka - a pepper, tomato, and harissa dish that's very basil forward. its really good and very different then the recipe all the white youtubers keep doing thats based on the moracan version. this vid is close to what I do, but you can include small pieces of potato and a Lot of basil. You can expedite the process by just cutting up your veg and potato and cooking them down on the frying pan, adding water so they dont burn. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJuyS_tyz_M

Merguez - SO I...dont know if you should make merguez from scratch cause it's expensive. i dont even make it. on top of spices you need harissa, but the price comes in from Needing fatty lamb/mutton and beef. It's unfortunately non negotiable, using anything else is like giving somebody a steakhouse burger recipe and they sub with 99% lean turkey. unfortunately it's my favorite thing on planet earth. serious eats has a recipe thats close to what i think is ideal https://www.seriouseats.com/homemade-merguez-sausage-recipe

None of the supermarket pre-packed brands do it justice, go to a butcher and hope they have it. I've noticed it's been getting more and more popular, so if you live in a metro area, try and find it.

merguez is like, the greatest thing ever. its great with eggs, it's great with salad, but the best, and most Most Primo Mmm-mm! way to eat merguez is in a hoagie roll with french fries and more harisa as a sandwich. A seasoned salad of diced cucumber, tomato, red onion, and olive oil goes excellent with it.

[mushroomates]

the fellowship grocery shopping (modern au!):

frodo: has a list which he always loses halfway through shopping. tries to bring his own bags but they’re never enough, or he forgets them in the car and realizes mid checkout. does not like a lot of the name brand foods, goes for the knock offs- partly because he thinks they taste better and partly because he’s rooting for the underdog. (also they’re cheaper which means more money go towards buying treats for the neighborhood cats.) makes an exception for name brand strawberry poptarts, a pippin favorite. keeps his fridge stocked with snacks for his friends.

sam: grows a lot of his own produce and makes an effort to shop local. has his own chickens and a thriving herb garden. he often trades with neighbors-tomatoes for honey, basil for goats milk, etc. once a month he teams up with boromir and goes to costco for insane amounts of flour (he bakes his own bread) and a foot long hotdog. sam refuses to get his own membership.

merry: has a list of things to get that he has worked very hard to compile. this list stays on fridge, and whenever he runs out of something he adds it. this is always sabotaged by pippin who, in a port attempt to mimic merry’s handwriting, adds a copious amount of sweets and things only pippin likes. ends up buying them anyways only to not share with him- will gloat by snacking in front of pippin and not offering any to his cousin.

pippin: does not actually grocery shop. yes, he has food in his house but this is more because he just tags along whenever someone else is going. selectively copies whatever they get into his own basket. has eight jars of peanut butter because he loves peanut butter but does not consume it at the rate he believes he does. also for backup, incase he runs out mid sandwich and needs eight jars of the stuff. loves to ride in the shopping carts when no one’s watching. definitely scooters along isles. loves to hijack boromir’s shopping trips as boromir is the only one who will push him in the cart and give him a lil treat at the end.

gandalf: kind of just. wanders around the store. gets lost in the bakery. buys the most random things, causing the clerks to conspire about what he’s doing with two packs of rubber gloves, a rosterseie chicken, and a tub of mayonnaise. is he a murderer? a professor? a single mother? what is he doing with this stuff?

aragorn: does a lot of trading with neighbors, like sam. likes to accompany arwen on errands and do the little things. she points at an item and he puts it in the basket. he bags at checkout. drives her home. unloads the car and put it away. real quality time and acts of service. yes, arwen is capable of doing these things herself, but he likes to do it for her: hunts so be always has a surplus of jerky, does need to buy more salt then the typical person.

boromir: also hunts. has a thing about using every part of the animal, will eat bone marrow straight out of the femur with a spoon for breakfast. eats a lot of protein. is real big about no food waste and will use everything he can. has his own compost bin and a humble herb garden. likes hosting barbecues for everyone, and makes the burgers and hotdogs from scratch. every other tuesday is grocery day. he goes to costco and buys his things in bulk. he’s the only one in the fellowship with a costco card and everyone loves to take advantage of it.

legolas: mainly just happens upon farmers markets and grabs what appeals to him in the moment. does not have any seasonings or cooking oil as it’s not something that’s ever really occurred to him to buy. will forget he has food in his fridge for weeks and when he finally does it’s gone bad. this, however, does not stop him from eating it. makes a lot of smoothies.

gimli: has a lot of preserved foods and a cupboard dedicated to emergencies. owns a lot of canned beans, fruits and vegetables- anything that will keep well. has a freezer filled with food in his garage with backup stock. is a very good with coupons- pippin likes going with him just to see the total (and the clerks jaw) drop. eats a lot of trail mix and jerky. enjoys fresh fruit when he can but doesn’t like to buy it because it doesn’t last.

gollum: sneaky little man. he hides in the bottom part of the carts meant for heavy items and parties his way across the store with his hands, scooting along tile and grabbing anything with reach, tossing it back up to the cart and continuing on his journey. then he just rolls right out the door. no one can stop him.

[dear-ao3]

god tier pasta and broccoli

greetings friends romans and fellow countrymen today i have succeeded at life in ways previously thought impossible by mankind. how did i do that? well i figured out how to make the cavatelli and broccoli that the little italian deli in my hometown makes

as some of you may know i am in fact from new jersey and like any self respecting new jersey town we have several italian delis, one of which makes the literal best cavaelli and broccoli and i have been wanting this for perhaps months but keep forgetting to get it when i am home and well desperate times call for desperate measures and today i cracked the code.

so heres what you do:

take a saucepan. cover the entire bottom with olive oil. then add a little bit more. add some chili oil (as much as your heart desires) and slightly more red pepper flakes than you think necessary, a bunch of black pepper and some italian seasoning and dried basil if you have it. turn the saucepan on medium ish until the oil starts to heat. reduce it down very low. to this add as much fresh garlic as you want. vary how its chopped. dice some, smash some, leave some whole if you want. throw all of this in the oil.

take some broccoli. i had the equivalent of about one head. cut it up, leave the pieces slightly bigger than you usually would. add this to the oil. mix it around a little until its coated well enough. add some more oil to make sure its all covered. add more chili oil and everything else too if youve underestimated how much broccoli you have. put a lid on and cook this on THE LOWEST HEAT POSSIBLE, stirring every now and then, until the broccoli is just done. do NOT OVER COOK IT. there is nothing worse than over cooked broccoli in this world.

boil some pasta and slightly over cook it (crucial step). technically yeah youre supposed to use cavatelli, use whatever you want. i had radiatore. as long as its a Medium Shape.

drain pasta. dump in the broccoli, spatula out the sauce pan to make sure that everything is out of it. mix it until the pasta is coated in all the oil yumminess. to this add around three big handfuls of parmesan cheese, if not more. mix until the cheese is melted. take a bite and die because it tastes so good. resurrect yourself and continue eating.

bone apple tit!