#food serving vessel

[the-cricket-chirps]

Food serving vessel (dui)

China

early 6th century BCE

[najia-cooks]

[ID: First image shows large falafel balls, one pulled apart to show that it is bright green and red on the inside, on a plate alongside green chilis, parsley, and pickled turnips. Second image is an extreme close-up of the inside of a halved falafel ball drizzled with tahina sauce. End ID]

فلافل محشي فلسطيني / Falafel muhashshi falastini (Palestinian stuffed falafel)

Falafel (فَلَافِل) is of contested origin. Various hypotheses hold that it was invented in Egypt any time between the era of the Pharoahs and the late nineteenth century (when the first written references to it appear). In Egypt, it is known as طَعْمِيَّة (ṭa'miyya)—the diminutive of طَعَام "piece of food"—and is made with fava beans. It was probably in Palestine that the dish first came to be made entirely with chickpeas.

The etymology of the word "falafel" is also contested. It is perhaps from the plural of an earlier Arabic word *filfal, from Aramaic 𐡐𐡋𐡐𐡉𐡋 "pilpāl," "small round thing, peppercorn"; or from "مفلفل" "mfelfel," a word meaning "peppered," from "فلفل" "pepper" + participle prefix مُ "mu."

This recipe is for deep-fried chickpea falafel with an onion and sumac حَشْوَة (ḥashua), or filling; falafel are also sometimes stuffed with labna. The spice-, aromatic-, and herb-heavy batter includes additions common to Palestinian recipes—such as dill seeds and green onions—and produces falafel balls with moist, tender interiors and crisp exteriors. The sumac-onion filling is tart and smooth, and the nutty, rich, and bright tahina-based sauce lightens the dish and provides a play of textures.

Falafel with a filling is falafel مُحَشّي (muḥashshi or maḥshshi), from حَشَّى‎ (ḥashshā) "to stuff, to fill." While plain falafel may be eaten alongside sauces, vegetables, and pickles as a meal or a snack, or eaten in flatbread wraps or kmaj bread, stuffed falafel are usually made larger and eaten on their own, not in a wrap or sandwich.

Falafel has gone through varying processes of adoption, recognition, nationalization, claiming, and re-patriation in Zionist settlers' writing. A general arc may be traced from adoption during the Mandate years, to nationalization and claiming in the years following the Nakba until the end of the 20th century, and back to re-Arabization in the 21st. However, settlers disagree with each other about the value and qualities of the dish within any given period.

What is consistent is that falafel maintains a strategic ambiguity: particular qualities thought to belong to "Arabs" may be assigned, revoked, rearranged, and reassigned to it (and to other foodstuffs and cultural products) at will, in accordance with broader trends in politics, economics, and culture, or in service of the particular argument that a settler (or foreign Zionist) wishes to make.

Mandate Palestine, 1920s – early '30s: Secular and collective

While most scholars hold that claims of an ancient origin for falafel are unfounded, it was certainly being eaten in Palestine by the 1920s. Yael Raviv writes that Jewish settlers of the second and third "עליות"‎ ("aliyot," waves of immigration; singular "עליה" "aliya") tended to adopt falafel, and other Palestinian foodstuffs, largely uncritically. They viewed Palestinian Arabs as holding vessels that had preserved Biblical culture unchanged, and that could therefore serve as models for a "new," agriculturally rooted, physically active, masculine Jewry that would leave behind the supposed errors of "old" European Jewishness, including its culinary traditions—though of course the Arab diet would need to be "corrected" and "civilized" before it was wholly suitable for this purpose.

Falafel was further endeared to these "חֲלוּצִים‎" ("halutzim," "pioneers") by its status as a street food. The undesirable "old" European Jewishness was associated with the insularity of the nuclear family and the bourgeois laziness of indoor living. The קִבּוּצים‎ ("Kibbutzim," communal living centers), though they represented only a small minority of settlers, furnished a constrasting ideal of modern, earthy Jewishness: they left food production to non-resident professional cooks, eliding the role of the private, domestic kitchen. Falafel slotted in well with these ascetic ideals: like the archetypal Arabic bread and olive oil eaten by the Jewish farmer in his field, it was hardy, cheap, quick, portable, and unconnected to the indoor kitchen.

The author of a 1929 article in דאר היום ("Doar Hyom," "Today's Mail") shows unrestrained admiration for the "[]מזרחי" ("Oriental") food, writing of his purchase of falafel stuffed in a "פיתה" ("pita") that:

רק בני-ערב, ואחיהם — היהודים הספרדים — רק הם עלולים "להכנת מטעם מפולפל" שכזה, הנעים כל כך לחיך [...].

("Only the Arabs, and their brothers—the Sepherdi Jews—only they are likely to create a delicacy so 'peppered' [a play on the פ-ל-פ-ל (f-l-f-l) word root], one so pleasing to the palate".)

Falafel's strong association with "Arabs" (i.e., Palestinians), however, did blemish the foodstuff in the eyes of some as early as 1930. An article in the English-language Palestine Bulletin told the story of Kamel Ibn Hassan's trial for the murder of a British soldier, lingering on the "Arab" "hashish addicts," "women of the streets," and "concessionaires" who rounded out this lurid glimpse into the "underground life lived by a certain section of Arab Haifa"; it was in this context that Kamel's "'business' of falafel" (scare quotes original) was mentioned.

Mandate Palestine, late 1930s–40s: A popular Oriental dish

In 1933, only three licensed falafel vendors operated in Tel Aviv; but by December 1939, Lilian Cornfeld (columnist for the English-language Palestine Post) could lament that "filafel cakes" were "proclaiming their odoriferous presence from every street corner," no longer "restricted to the seashore and Oriental sections" of the city.

Settlers' attitudes to falafel at this time continued to range from appreciation to fascinated disgust to ambivalence, and references continued to focus on its cheapness and quickness. According to Cornfeld, though the "orgy of summertime eating" of which falafel was the "most popular" representative caused some dietary "damage" to children, and though the "rather messy and dubious looking" food was deep-fried, the chickpeas themselves were still of "great nutritional value": "However much we may object to frying, — if fry you must, this at least is the proper way of doing it."

Cornfeld's article, appearing 10 years after the 1929 reference to falafel in pita quoted above, further specifies how this dish was constructed:

There is first half a pita (Arab loaf), slit open and filled with five filafels, a few fried chips [i.e. French fries] and sometimes even a little salad. The whole is smeared over with Tehina, a local mayonnaise made with sesame oil (emphasis original).

The ethnicity of these early vendors is not explicitly mentioned in these accounts. The Zionist "תוצרת הארץ" "totzeret ha’aretz"; "produce of the land") campaign in the 1930s and 1940s recommended buying only Jewish produce and using only Jewish labor, but it did not achieve unilaterial success, so it is not assured that settlers would not be buying from Palestinian vendors. There were, however, also Mizrahi Jewish vendors in Tel Aviv at this time.

The WW2-era "צֶנַע" ("tzena"; "frugality") period of rationing meat, which was enforced by British mandatory authorities beginning in 1939 and persisting until 1959, may also have contributed to the popularity of falafel during this time—though urban settlers employed various strategies to maintain access to significant amounts of meat.

Israel and elsewhere, 1950s – early 60s: The dawn of de-Arabization

After the Nakba (the ethnic cleansing of broad swathes of Palestine in the creation of the modern state of "Israel"), the task of producing a national Israeli identity and culture tied to the land, and of asserting that Palestinians had no like sense of national identity, acquired new urgency. The claiming of falafel as "the national snack of Israel," the decoupling of the dish from any association with "Arabs" (in settlers' writing of any time period, this means "Palestinians"), and the insistence on associating it with "Israel" and with "Jews," mark this time period in Israeli and U.S.-ian newspaper articles, travelogues, and cookbooks.

During this period, falafel remained popular despite the "reintegrat[ion]" of the nuclear family into the "national project," and the attendant increase in cooking within the familial home. It was still admirably quick, efficient, hardy, and frequently eaten outside. When it was homemade, the dish could be used rhetorically to marry older ideas about embodying a "new" Jewishness and a return to the land through dietary habits, with the recent return to the home kitchen. In 1952, Rachel Yanait Ben-Zvi, the wife of the second President of Israel, wrote to a South African Zionist women's society:

I prefer Oriental dishes and am inclined towards vegetarianism and naturalism, since we are returning to our homeland, going back to our origin, to our climate, our landscape and it is only natural that we liberate ourselves from many of the habits we acquired in the course of our wanderings in many countries, different from our own. [...] Meals at the President's table [...] consist mainly of various kinds of vegetable prepared in the Oriental manner which we like as well as [...] home-made Falafel, and, of course vegetables and fruits of the season.

Out of doors, associations of falafel with low prices, with profusion and excess, and with youth, travelling and vacation (especially to urban locales and the seaside) continue. Falafel as part and parcel of Israeli locales is given new emphasis: a reference to the pervasive smell of frying falafel rounds out the description of a chaotic, crowded, clamorous scene in the compact, winding streets of any old city. Falafel increasingly stands metonymically for Israel, especially in articles written to entice Jewish tourists and settlers: no one is held to have visited Israel unless they have tried real Israeli falafel. A 1958 song ("ולנו יש פלאפל", "And We Have Falafel") avers that:

הַיּוֹם הוּא רַק יוֹרֵד מִן הַמָּטוֹס [...] כְבָר קוֹנֶה פָלָאפֶל וְשׁוֹתֶה גָּזוֹז כִּי זֶה הַמַּאֲכָל הַלְּאֻמִּי שֶׁל יִשְׂרָאֵל

("Today when [a Jew] gets off the plane [to Israel] he immediately has a falafel and drinks gazoz [...] because this is the national dish of Israel"). A 1962 story in Israel Today features a boy visiting Israel responding to the question "Have you learned Hebrew yet?" by asserting "I know what falafel is." Recipes for falafel appear alongside ads for smoked lox and gefilte fish in U.S.-ian Jewish magazines; falafel was served by Zionist student groups in U.S.-ian universities beginning in the 1950s and continuing to now.

These de-Arabization and nationalization processes were possible in part because it was often Mizrahim (West Asian and North African Jews) who introduced Israelis to Palestinian food—especially after 1950, when they began to immigrate to Israel in larger numbers. Even if unfamiliar with specific Palestinian dishes, Mizrahim were at least familiar with many of the ingredients, taste profiles, and cooking methods involved in preparing them. They were also more willing to maintain their familiar foodways as settlers than were Zionist Ashkenazim, who often wanted to distance themselves from European and diaspora Jewish culture.

Despite their longstanding segregation from Israeli Ashkenazim (and the desire of Ashkenazim to create a "new" European Judaism separate from the indolence and ignorance of "Oriental" Jews, including their wayward foodways), Mizrahim were still preferable to Palestinian Arabs as a point of origin for Israel's "national snack." When associated with Mizrahi vendors, falafel could be considered both Oriental and Jewish (note that Sephardim and Mizrahim are unilaterally not considered to be "Arabs" in this writing).

Thus food writing of the 1950s and 60s (and some food writing today) asserts, contrary to settlers' writing of the 1920s and 30s, that falafel had been introduced to Israel by Jewish immigrants from Syria, Yemen, or Morocco, who had been used to eating it in their native countries—this, despite the fact that Yemen and Morocco did not at this time have falafel dishes. Even texts critical of Zionism echoed this narrative. In fact, however, Yemeni vendors had learned to make falafel in Egypt on their way to Palestine and Israel, and probably found falafel already being sold and eaten there when they arrived.Meneley, Anne2007 Like an Extra Virgin. American Anthropologist 109(4):678–687

Meanwhile, "pita" (Palestinian Arabic: خبز الكماج; khubbiz al-kmaj) was undergoing in some quarters a similar process of Israelization; it remained "Arab" in others. In 1956, a Boston-born settler in Haifa wrote for The Jewish Post:

The baking of the pittah loaves is still an Arab monopoly [in Israel], and the food is not available at groceries or bakeries which serve Jewish clientele exclusively. For our Oriental meal to be a success we must have pittah, so the more advance shopping must be done.

This "Arab monopoly" in fact did not extent to an Arab monopoly in discourse: it was a mere four years later that the National Jewish Post and Opinion described "Peeta" as an "Israeli thin bread." Two years after that, the U.S.-published My Jewish Kitchen: The Momales Ta'am Cookbook (co-authored by Zionist writer Shushannah Spector) defined "pitta" as an "Israeli roll."

Despite all this scrubbing work, settlers' attitudes towards falafel in the late 1950s were not wholly positive, and references to the dish as having been "appropriated from the [Palestinian] Arabs" did not disappear. A 1958 article, written by a Boston-born man who had settled in Israel in 1948 and published in U.S.-ian Zionist magazine Midstream, repeats the usual associations of falafel with the "younger set" of visitors from kibbutzim to "urban" locales; it also denigrates it as a “formidably indigestible Arab delicacy concocted from highly spiced legumes rolled into little balls, fried in grease, and then inserted into an underbaked piece of dough, known as a pita.”

Thus settlers were ambivalent about khubbiz as well. If their food writing sometimes refers to pita as "doughy" or "underbaked," it is perhaps because they were purchasing it from stores rather than baking it at home—bakeries sometimes underbake their khubbiz so that it retains more water, since it is sold by weight.

Israel and elsewhere, late 1960s–2010s: Falafel with even fewer Arabs

The sanitization of falafel would be more complete in the 60s and 70s, as falafel was gradually moved out of separate "Oriental dishes" categories and into the main sections of Israeli cookbooks. A widespread return to כַּשְׁרוּת‎ (kashrut; dietary laws) meant that falafel, a פַּרְוֶה (parve) dish—one that contained no meat or dairy—was a convenient addition on occasions when food intersected with nationalist institutions, such as at state dinners and in the mess halls of Israeli military forces.

This, however, still did not prohibit Israelis from displaying ambivalence towards the food. Falafel was more likely to be glorified as a symbol of Jewish Israel in foreign magazines and tourist guides, including in the U.S.A. and Italy, than it was to be praised in Israeli Zionist publications.

Where falafel did maintain an association with Palestinians, it was to assert that their versions of it had been inferior. In 1969, Israeli writer Ruth Bondy opines:

Experience says that if we are to form an affection for a people we should find something admirable about its customs and folklore, its food or girls, its poetry and music. True, we have taken the first steps in this direction [with Palestinians]: we like kebab, hummous, tehina and falafel. The trouble is that these have already become Jewish dishes and are prepared more tastily by every Rumanian restaurateur than by the natives of Nablus.

Opinions about falafel in this case seem to serve as a mirror for political opinions about Palestinians: the same writer had asserted, on the previous page, that the "ideal situation, of course, would be to keep all the territories we are holding today—but without so many Arabs. A few Arabs would even be desirable, for reasons of local color, raising pigs for non-Moslems and serving bread on the Passover, but not in their masses" (trans. Israel L. Taslitt).

Later narratives tended to retrench the Israelization of falafel, often acknowledging that falafel had existed in Palestine prior to Zionist incursion, but holding that Jewish settlers had made significant changes to its preparation that were ultimately responsible for making it into a worldwide favorite. Joan Nathan's 2001 Foods of Israel Today, for example, claimed that, while fava and chickpea falafel had both preëxisted the British Mandate period, Mizrahi settlers caused chickpeas to be the only pulse used in falafel.

Gil Marks, who had echoed this narrative in his 2010 Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, later attributed the success of Palestinian foods to settlers' inventiveness: "Jews didn’t invent falafel. They didn’t invent hummus. They didn’t invent pita. But what they did invent was the sandwich. Putting it all together. And somehow that took off and now I have three hummus restaurants near my house on the Upper West Side.”

Israel and elsewhere, 2000s – 2020s: Re-Arabization; or, "Local color"

Ronald Ranta has identified a trend of "re-Arabizing" Palestinian food in Israeli discourse of the late 2000s and later: cooks, authors, and brands acknowledge a food's origin or identity as "Arab," or occasionally even "Palestinian," and consumers assert that Palestinian and Israeli-Palestinian (i.e., Israeli citizens of Palestinian ancestry) preparations of foods are superior to, or more "authentic" than, Jewish-Israeli ones. Israeli and Israeli-Palestinian brands and restaurants market various foods, including falafel, as "אסלי" ("asli"), from the Arabic "أَصْلِيّ" ("ʔaṣliyy"; "original"), or "בלדי" ("baladi"), from the Arabic "بَلَدِيّ" ("baladiyy"; "native" or "my land").

This dedication to multiculturalism may seem like progress, but Ranta cautions that it can also be analyzed as a new strategy in a consistent pattern of marginalization of the indigenous population: "the Arab-Palestinian other is r­e-colonized and re-imagined only as a resource for tasty food [...] which has been de-politicized[;] whatever is useful and tasty is consumed, adapted and appropriated, while the rest of its culture is marginalized and discarded." This is the "serving bread" and "local color" described by Bondy: "Arabs" are thought of in terms of their usefulness to settlers, and not as equal political participants in the nation. For Ranta, the "re-Arabizing" of Palestinian food thus marks a new era in Israel's "confiden[ce]" in its dominance over the indigenous population.

So this repatriation of Palestinian food is limited insofar as it does not extend to an acknowledgement of Palestinians' political aspirations, or a rejection of the Zionist state. Food, like other indicators and aspects of culture, is a "safe" avenue for engagement with colonized populations even when politics is not.

The acknowledgement of Palestinian identity as an attempt to neutralize political dissent, or perhaps to resolve the contradictions inherent in liberal Zionist identity, can also be seen in scholarship about Israeli food culture. This scholarship tends to focus on narratives about food in the cultural domain, ignoring the material impacts of the settler-colonialist state's control over the production and distribution of food (something that Ranta does as well). Food is said to "cross[] borders" and "transcend[] cultural barriers" without examination of who put the borders there (or where, or why, or how, or when). Disinterest in material realities is cultivated so that anodyne narratives about food as “a bridge” between divides can be pursued.

Raviv, for example, acknowledges that falafel's de-Palestinianization was inspired by anti-Arab sentiment, and that claiming falafel in support of "Jewish nationalism" was a result of "a connection between the people and a common land and history [needing] to be created artificially"; however, after referring euphemistically to the "accelerated" circumstances of Israel's creation, she supports a shared identity for falafel in which it can also be recognized as "Israeli." She concludes that this should not pose a problem for Palestinians, since "falafel was never produced through the labor of a colonized population, nor was Palestinian land appropriated for the purpose of growing chickpeas for its preparation. Thus, falafel is not a tool of oppression."

Palestine and Israel, 1960s – 2020s: Material realities

Yet chickpeas have been grown in Israel for decades, all of them necessarily on appropriated Palestinian land. Experimentation with planting in the arid conditions of the south continues, with the result that today, chickpea is the major pulse crop in the country. An estimated 17,670,000 kilograms of chickpeas were produced in Israel in 2021; at that time, this figure had increased by an average of 3.5% each year since 1966. 73,110 kilograms of that 2021 crop was exported (this even after several years of consecutive decline in chickpea exports following a peak in 2018), representing $945,000 in exports of dried chickpeas alone.

The majority of these chickpeas ($872,000) were exported to the West Bank and Gaza; Palestinians' inability to control their own imports (all of which must pass through Israeli customs, and which are heavily taxed or else completely denied entry), and Israeli settler violence and government expropriation of land, water, and electricity resources (which make agriculture difficult), mean that Palestine functions as a captive market for Israeli exports. Israeli goods are the only ones that enter Palestinian markets freely.

By contrast, Palestinian exports, as well as imports, are subject to taxation by Israel, and only a small minority of imports to Israel come from Palestine ($1.13 million out of $22.4 million of dried chickpeas in 2021).

The 1967 occupation of the West Bank has besides had a demonstrable impact on Palestinians' ability to grow chickpeas for domestic consumption or export in the first place, as data on the changing uses of agricultural land in the area from 1966–2001 allow us to see. Chickpeas, along with wheat, barley, fenugreek, and dura, made up a major part of farmers' crops from 1840 to 1914; but by 2001, the combined area devoted to these field crops was only a third of its 1966 value. The total area given over to chickpeas, lentils and vetch, in particular, shrank from 14,380 hectares in 1966 to 3,950 hectares in 1983.

Part of this decrease in production was due to a shortage of agricultural labor, as Palestinians, newly deprived of land or of the necessary water, capital, and resources to work it—and in defiance of Raviv's assertion that "falafel was never produced through the labor of a colonized population"—sought jobs as day laborers on Israeli fields.

The dearth of water was perhaps especially limiting. Palestinians may not build anything without a permit, which the Israeli military may deny for any, or for no, reason: no Palestinian's request for a permit to dig a well has been approved in the West Bank since 1967. Israel drains aquifiers for its own use and forbids Palestinians to gather rainwater, which the Israeli military claims to own. This lack of water led to land which had previously been used to grow other crops being transitioned into olive tree fields, which do not require as much water or labor to tend.

In Gaza as well, occupation systematically denies Palestinians of food itself, not just narratives about food. The majority of the population in Gaza is food-insecure, as Israel allows only precisely determined (and scant) amounts of food to cross its borders. Gazans rely largely on canned goods, such as chickpeas (often purchased at subsidized rates through food aid programs run by international NGOs), because they do not require scarce water or fuel to prepare—but canned chickpeas cannot be used to prepare a typical deep-fried falafel recipe (the discs would fall apart while frying). There is, besides, a continual shortage of oil (of which only a pre-determined amount of calories are allowed to enter the Strip). Any narrative about Israeli food culture that does not take these and other realities of settler-colonialism into account is less than half complete.

Of course, falafel is far from the only food impacted by this long campaign of starvation, and the strategy is only intensifying: as of December 2023, children are reported to have died by starvation in the besieged Gaza Strip.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System’s (Israel’s primary weapons manufacturer) landlord; donating to Palestine Action’s bail fund; buying an e-sim for distribution in Gaza; or donating to help a family leave Gaza.

Equipment:

A meat grinder, or a food processor, or a high-speed or immersion blender, or a mortar and pestle and an enormous store of patience

A pot, for frying

A kitchen thermometer (optional)

Ingredients:

Makes 12 large falafel balls; serves 4 (if eaten on their own).

For the فلافل (falafel):

500g dried chickpeas (1010g once soaked)

1 large onion

4 cloves garlic

1 Tbsp cumin seeds

1 Tbsp coriander seeds

2 tsp dill seeds (عين جرادة; optional)

1 medium green chili pepper (such as a jalapeño), or 1/2 large one (such as a ram's horn / فلفل قرن الغزال)

2 stalks green onion (3 if the stalks are thin) (optional)

Large bunch (50g) parsley, stems on; or half parsley and half cilantro

2 Tbsp sea salt

2 tsp baking soda (optional)

For the حَشوة (filling):

2 large yellow onions, diced

1/4 cup coarsely ground sumac

4 tsp shatta (شطة: red chili paste), optional

Salt, to taste

3 Tbsp olive oil

For the طراطور (tarator):

3 cloves garlic

1/2 tsp table salt

1/4 cup white tahina

Juice of half a lemon (2 Tbsp)

2 Tbsp vegan yoghurt (لبن رائب; optional)

About 1/4 cup water

To make cultured vegan yoghurt, follow my labna recipe with 1 cup, instead of 3/4 cup, of water; skip the straining step.

To fry:

Several cups neutral oil

Untoasted hulled sesame seeds (optional)

Instructions:

1. If using whole spices, lightly toast in a dry skillet over medium heat, then grind with a mortar and pestle or spice mill.

2. Grind chickpeas, onion, garlic, chili, and herbs. Modern Palestinian recipes tend to use powered meat grinders; you could also use a food processor, speed blender, or immersion blender. Some recipes set aside some of the chickpeas, aromatics, and herbs and mince them finely, passing the knife over them several times, then mixing them in with the ground mixture to give the final product some texture. Consult your own preferences.

To mimic the stone-ground texture of traditional falafel, I used a mortar and pestle. I found this to produce a tender, creamy, moist texture on the inside, with the expected crunchy exterior. It took me about two hours to grind a half-batch of this recipe this way, so I don't per se recommend it, but know that it is possible if you don't have any powered tools.

3. Mix in salt, spices, and baking soda and stir thoroughly to combine. Allow to chill in the fridge while you prepare the filling and sauce.

If you do not plan to fry all of the batter right away, only add baking soda to the portion that you will fry immediately. Refrigerate the rest of the batter for up to 2 days, or freeze it for up to 2 months. Add and incorporate baking soda immediately before frying. Frozen batter will need to be thawed before shaping and frying.

For the filling:

1. Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Fry onion and a pinch of salt for several minutes, until translucent. Remove from heat.

2. Add sumac and stir to combine. Add shatta, if desired, and stir.

For the tarator:

1. Grind garlic and salt in a mortar and pestle (if you don't have one, finely mince and then crush the garlic with the flat of your knife).

2. Add garlic to a bowl along with tahina and whisk. You will notice the mixture growing smoother and thicker as the garlic works as an emulsifier.

3. Gradually add lemon juice and continue whisking until smooth. Add yoghurt, if desired, and whisk again.

4. Add water slowly while whisking until desired consistency is achieved. Taste and adjust salt.

To fry:

1. Heat several inches of oil in a small or medium pot to about 350 °F (175 °C). A piece of batter dropped in the oil should float and immediately form bubbles, but should not sizzle violently. (With a small pot on my gas stove, my heat was at medium-low).

2. Use your hands or a large falafel mold to shape the falafel.

To use a falafel mold: Dip your mold into water. If you choose to cover both sides of the falafel with sesame seeds, first sprinkle sesame seeds into the mold; then apply a flat layer of batter. Add a spoonful of filling into the center, and then cover it with a heaping mound of batter. Using a spoon, scrape from the center to the edge of the mold repeatedly, while rotating the mold, to shape the falafel into a disc with a slightly rounded top. Sprinkle the top with sesame seeds.

To use your hands: wet your hands slightly and take up a small handful of batter. Shape it into a slightly flattened sphere in your palm and form an indentation in the center; fill the indentation with filling. Cover it with more batter, then gently squeeze between both hands to shape. Sprinkle with sesame seeds as desired.

3. Use a slotted spoon or kitchen spider to lower falafel balls into the oil as they are formed. Fry, flipping as necessary, until discs are a uniform brown (keep in mind that they will darken another shade once removed from the oil). Remove onto a wire rack or paper towel.

If the pot you are using is inclined to stick, be sure to scrape the bottom and agitate each falafel disc a couple seconds after dropping it in.

4. Repeat until you run out of batter. Occasionally use a slotted spoon or small sieve to remove any excess sesame seeds from the oil so they do not burn and become acrid.

Serve immediately with sauce, sliced vegetables, and pickles, as desired.

[fanaticsnail]

"I Can't Do This Without You"

Masterlist Here, Pollen Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,939 (why am I like this)

Warnings: Pollen!Buggy x afab!reader, swearing, smut, mdni, p n v, chase, thrill, fluff, semi-public, mutual pining, has plot - I swear, whimpering, pleading, groaning, use of pet names: baby, sugar, sugarplum, hun, captain, Buggy is a switch.

I said I'd get it done in 48h, and I am a snail true to my word. Crispy leaf, dangle dangle.

Apprehensive Tag List: @sordidmusings, @feral-artistry, @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity

Minors, this is not for you.

You groaned as the exhaustion overtook you, lulling your head backwards and releasing a deep sigh from the chasms of your throat. Feeling the fabric of the partially dampened tea-towel grind uncomfortably against your water-swollen fingertips had you release a hiss from your clenched teeth. 

It was your turn to remain awake, plagued by the domestic duties that came with serving alongside the Buggy pirates. Although your allocations were rotational, you loathed being the only pirate awake during the cryptid hours aboard the vessel. Everything was silenced, aside from the rambunctious snores produced in the crew-quarters: roars, snores and heavy-laden breathing calling you to both run to and away from them as your eyelids grew heavy. 

The echo of: “Nobody can do this like you can,” relayed on loop, the soft breath of your captain dancing atop your neck from behind. He knew exactly what his verbal praise did to you, the confident and arrogant asshole that he was. You adored your captain, loved serving him with your peers and sailing the East Blue with him guiding you through the currants and riding through the waves. 

The only issue that you had serving your captain was this one, small, unspoken thing that had him sweetly pouring your name from his painted lips in a sticky-sweet drawl. His molasses-tone purring for you, coaxing you into doing his bidding by just the utterance of your name. It had your knees aching, spine tingling and heartstrings caught in the firm vice of his gloved fist. Perhaps he truly had no idea what he was doing to you. The way the small rasp in his voice pulled against his tonsils, the sweetness in his cadence truly revealed who he was to you alone. 

You shook your head, plunging your hands back into the suds and muck of the dishwater. The texture of undiscarded food scraps brushing your fingertips caused your lips to pull back, revealing your pearled teeth in a disgusted snarl. Savages: the lot of them. A shudder crept up your back as you pulled the plug from the basin and ran the cool water from the tap. You anchored the nozzle of the tap over the basin, aiming for the bile-like gunk stuck to the steel container and coaxing them down the sink. 

Heavy footfalls of buckled boots broke you away from your disgust, alert and ready to meet with whomever tore you from your thoughts. You rinsed your rubber gloves before removing them, casting them aside to the corner of the sink beside the amassment of freshly cleansed dishes, and turned to greet your crewman. You were shocked to see it was not just a simple comrade sneaking in to collect a glass of water, but your captain clad in nothing but his tight leather pants and unbuckled boots. His long blue hair lay carelessly from his head, waterfalling from the crown of his head down his shoulders and tickling his chiseled abdomen. Whispers of the partially curled hair, untamed and unbridled without his striped red and white bandana, stuck to his forehead in stringy clusters. 

“H-Hey, Love,” his voice rasped. His eyes were panicked, wide behind the lengthy blue eyelashes. The small stuttered quiver in his ungloved hands had your brow furrowing into a dip in the middle of your face. Although not unaccustomed to pet-names from him; the tone in his voice held you captive and unwavering. 

“Captain?” you asked after him, watching as your voice caused his head to twitch to the side and eyes clamp tightly shut, “Captain? Are you okay? You look poorly.” You removed your apron and hastily cast it down to the side as you approached him. As quickly as you approached, he stuttered his feet backwards and fisted the doorframe within his firm grip. 

Immediately halting your steps, your heart beat harder within your chest. Panicked. Your Captain was panicked and frantic. He steadied himself, cowering away from your and physically holding himself to the frame as if it was the last thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Captain-?” you began, only for your words to be halted by your captain speaking through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched so tightly closed, you were afraid he’d break his pearly teeth. 

“-J-Just-....hnngh-... I n-need you to do something-... f-for me,” his voice faltered as the last syllable left his painted lips. His brows furrowed, eyes clamped tightly shut; his blue triangular patterns adorning his cheeks bled into the creases he created with the tightness. Sweat was pooling from his brow, down his temple to his stubbled chin. 

“Captain!” you called after him, prompting him to shake his head from side to side violently to halt you from approaching him further. 

“This was a m-mistake. I c-can’t-... fuck-... I-,” He pulled himself closer to the doorframe; his hips falling flush against the wall from behind. Your eyes searched his closed lids, following the trail of sweat down his chin to the bob of his Adams apple and down the scruff of his tufts of blue chest-hair. 

“Captain,” you spoke in a warning tone. He shook his head from side to side once more, frantic and wild behind his clenched shut eyes. You took a tentative step towards him, his eyes snapping open at the small creak of your foot atop the floorboards. 

“Baby,” he whimpered through a pained groan. His pupils were blown wide and frantic. His saliva drew the red tint away from its designated position against his lips and down his chin. There was something rabid in the air. To what extent, you truly had no idea. 

“What do you need, sir?” Your professional response was to fall back into your ship-savvy training. You stood alert, your hands laced behind your back and awaiting orders from your pirate captain. He winced at your cadence, his voice unleashing a feral groan from his throat. It was deep, desperate and needy - heavy in the growl that laid against its raspy undertone. 

“Baby, I need you to take my head. Take my head, and run.” 

At that final command, he tossed his head at you and you began your sprint towards the upper deck of the Big-Top. You held your captain’s head within the hook of your elbow, cradling him into your chest as your feet picked up a sprint. 

“Where am I going, sir?” you asked him, looking down at the painted clown you had chosen as your captain.

“Away f-from my body,” he winced. You noticed the tone in his voice, picking up his immediate distress and almost halting your steps to go back to collect his torso-.

“-DON’T!” He barked at you. You stiffened, picking up the pace once again as you fled away from the kitchen’s scullery and to the woven ropes beside the top mast. 

Why did he have to collect that substance? Why did he have to find a way to siphon it into his latest ‘Buggy Ball’? Why did he have to spill it over his gloved wrist, immediately inhaling it and sneezing through the chalky pollen?

Because Captain Buggy D Clown was, among all other things, a fucking idiot. 

He cursed at himself, feeling the tightness in the crotch of his leather pants as he braced his body against the doorframe, hoping you had ran far enough away from him to not cage you against the wall and rut into you like an ill-tempered, ill-mannered staffordshire bull terrier. 

It was no secret that he gave you preferential treatment among the crew. He attempted to balance this out by giving you the poor jobs he wouldn’t dream of designating to the others because “nobody does it like you can.” He mentally slapped himself in the face at thinking of that, as he was cradled so protectively against the side of your chest. He wanted you, he wanted you. He wanted you.

But not like this. 

He continued to verbally berate himself as your feet carried you further atop the deck and up the ropes. Your feet looped effortlessly against the woven ladder, hoisting both yourself and him to the crows nest and cowering into the side: hidden and out of sight. The stars illuminated your skin, the rise and fall of your pants holding him in a hypnotic stance as he watched your breasts swell with oxygen. Desire fell from his lips in a feral growl, prompting you to look down and search his face with panic written all over it. 

Even in his afflicted state, he could truly see how desperately you cared for him. The way your hands reached to collect his chin and coax his pollen-blown pupils to meet with your own held him bewitched by your compassion. 

“Captain?” You asked after him, breaking him from his trance momentarily as he panted out incoherent curses and ramblings, “Buggy. You need to tell me what’s going on. How can I fix this? What can I do?”

“You gotta stay away from my body, Hun,” he winced, left eye closing as his right attempted to hold firm to your gaze, “h-he-...f-fuck-... He w-wants-.....hha-ah-... He wants you, Sugar.”

You stay stationary, holding firm and perplexed as your captain continues swearing, cursing and groaning into the wee hours of the morning. You had no idea what had come over him, his affliction pulling at your heart as you watched more sweat produce at his temple. 

“Why do I need to keep away from your body, Captain?” you asked him, placing his head down beside your own and lying down against the floorboards of the crows nest. He panted, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he winced through his next words.

“I fucking told you already, Baby. He wants you.” You cocked your head to the side as you watched your captain huff and suck his bottom lip in and out of his lips. His pants and groans caused caution to tug at your mind as you continued to study him. 

His pained face almost looked as a lover would writhe beneath their other half. Lustful and insatiable being the balance of his growling and pleading expression, his brows knitting together in concentration as he continued to pant like an animal. Surely your captain would not behave as irrationally as a teenager in search of their next crevice to gyrate against. 

Until it dawned on you.

That was exactly what you were dealing with. 

“Captain?” you cautiously asked down at him, “Did you-... D-Did you toy with that flower? The one you said you wouldn’t touch?” After several clenched inhales and exhales, Buggy managed to hiss out a simple word that would change your reaction from concerned to appalled. 

“Yes.”

You immediately began to grumble and chastise the captain, who whimpered away like a puppy caught behaving in a manner undesired by their owners. After a few minutes of berating and chastising, you halted your words as you witnessed the tremble in the bottom lip of your captain. You shook your head and huffed out a simple angry puff of breath. 

“You were warned that it was a powerful aphrodisiac, yes?” you snarled at him, top lip pulling upwards to reveal your canines. 

“Yes,” He managed to hiss out once again. 

“And you chose to fuck with it anyway? Knowing there is no known antidote, yes?” You reprimanded him again, prompting a small winced whimper from your captain as he cried another simple: “Yes.”

You groaned, feeling the frustration and pain of a thousand subordinates taking directions from an idiot captain, and turned on your side, collecting the clown’s whimpering head into your hands and hoisting him over to you. 

“Buggy,” your voice held the reprimanding tone of a superior as you cautioned a warning at your captain, “You are an idiot.”

“I know, Baby,” he managed to wince out through clenched teeth, “b-but I-...hnngh-... I c-couldn’t n-not. It was-... shit–t-... It was right there.”

You sucked in a long and exasperated breath through your nose, filling your chest with the rage of a begrudging superior and began to collect enough rage within you to bring down your frustration onto him-... Only to halt as your eyes met his. 

He was a wreck. His pupils blown, his lips quivering and his teeth chattering behind his whimpering mouth. He was awaiting your beration: dreading it, but prepared for it. He wanted you to be angry with him. He wanted you to be upset that he did something stupid. He wanted you to be-... you. He wanted you.

“Why did you seek me out, Captain?” you asked him while removing your overcoat and placing it to the side. 

“I-I-... I don’t kn-know,” he whimpered, his eyes wide and beginning to brim with desperate tears. 

“Oh? You don’t know?” you asked him, kicking off your boots beneath you and unbuckling your belt, “You didn’t think I’d desire to relieve you of this predicament?” You unbuttoned your blouse, springing forth your breasts into the air and shimmying the cotton material from your shoulders, “You are my Captain.”

“What-... W-What are you doing?” he panted at you. His jaw was slackened, unblinking eyes never once pulling away from you as you continued to undress yourself. You rolled your eyes at him as you continued shimmying yourself from your clothes; presenting your nudity beneath the dusted starlight. Your captain’s blush darkened beneath his painted face, eyes bulging as his jaw began involuntarily salivating. 

“Captain,” you huffed out, rolling back onto your side and meeting his gaze with your reprimanding gaze. Your eyes softened as they met with his, your eyebrows arching upwards at the center and a small smile drew itself to your lips. “You sought me out in the middle of the night,” you smirked, reaching for his cheek but halting before touching him. 

You witnessed his pained and conflicting expression, his grimace straining against his cheeks as his eyes continued to yearn for you. You apprehensively sighed, placing your palm down in front of the clown-captain and bore your eyes into his own. Always encouraging, supporting and cheering for him in your expression.

“I joined your crew to serve you, Buggy,” you confessed to him, “You. You, sir.” You scooted your body closer to him, opting to not make the initial contact with him and holding firm to your position perpendicular to him. He grimaced, wincing in pain but his eyes were full and blown with lust and yearning. 

“D-Don’t, Love,” his tone held the undertones of warning, his teeth pulling back and painfully gritting together in his jaw, “don’t say that. Y-You’re too g-good for the crew-... sssff-... too good f-for me-e.” 

You scoffed at him, inching ever closer to him and almost brushing your nose against his beautiful, rotund circle of a nose.

“I chose to serve you, Captain,” you bore down your intense gaze into his own, “In whatever capacity you deem me worthy.” He groaned, his face involuntarily seeking out your own as you continued your confession, “What is it you always say? Nobody can do this like I can?” 

His jaw fell slack, his eyes completely tint-less as they became eclipsed by desire. The cool teal of his irises were all but lost beneath his gaze. You smiled at him, turning over to lay on your back: eyes looking upwards at the stars as you unleashed a small sigh into the air. 

“What a-are you doing?” he stuttered, slowly inching his decapitated head towards your face. Your eyes held a softness, the smile on your face as hypnotic as the day he first laid eyes on you. 

“Oh, Captain,” you cooed at him, refusing to look at his face as you continued to stare upwards into the cloudless sky, “I’m just waiting for your body to catch up to where your head is.”

Buggy’s thoughts, swirling as the cesspool of a thousand bogs, was rattled by your words. Had he wanted you? Yes. He yearned for you, he pined for you. He had always imagined how beautiful you looked, split over his cock as he inched you downwards to take in his impressive length. He had always imagined you mewling and pleading for him to have you cum against his painted lips, coaxing the eruption of bliss from your core with his tongue as you rode his face. He had fisted his cock in solitude thinking of you, only you, as he spilt himself over his thumb and into a long forgotten sock while he whispered your name as gentle as a prayer between his lips. 

He wanted you. He wanted you so badly. But he wanted you to want him. He didn’t want you to just be his crewman in servitude to their captain. He wanted you to need him exactly as much as he needed you. Even while his senses became overpowered by the aphrodisiac, he wanted you to want him in return. 

“Captain?” your voice called to him, your apprehensive and almost shy tone breaking him from his thoughts. He nodded, knowing you could see him from the corner of your eyes. Even in his afflicted state, he attempted to keep his desperate eyes hyper focussed on your face as he noticed you gulp back a dry mouthful of saliva. “Do-... Do you think you could-... Talk to me a little?” 

“What d-you m-mean, Sugarplum?” he winced, feeling the proximity of his body rapidly approaching towards the two of you in the crows nest. You huffed out your embarrassment, already naked in body beside him but yet to bare your soul.

“Buggy,” you warned him, your eyes now becoming haunted with your own quiet longing and desperation, “You know what your voice does to me, sir. I-... If we’re going to do this, I need you to talk to me.”

He was long gone from the part of feigning innocence to the matter. He was fully aware you were interested in his flirtations: reciprocating them in turn, but always shying away first to his crude and unwithheld shamelessness. 

“You want me-... to get you in the mood? F-For me to… fuck you senseless?” He asked, his brow again releasing a new bead of frustrated and lustful sweat down his temple to his lip. He noticed the visible quiver in your body at the word ‘fuck’, prompting his body to quicken its haste at climbing the ropes from below. His pants were long discarded, his boots pooling at the floor beneath them as he continued to climb as a wild and ferocious beast up the ropes.

“O-Oh,” his whimpered question fled his lips more as a statement, a growl anchoring the end of his expression downwards as he watched your body continue to respond to him. Without warning, his head rocked into your shoulder, placing his lips on every inch of your skin he could find and wiggling his way upwards to trail long and desperate kisses to your jaw and neck. 

“Oh, baby,” he began, licking and kissing at the pulse of your neck, “I have thought of nothing but y-you… -hnghh, fuck-...” he confessed as his feet fell; his cock brushing slightly against the rope and providing the smallest amount of stimuli against the throbbing shaft, “I-I wanted you, hun. I wanted you s-so badly. I wanted t-to know what you looked like caged in my arms as I fucked you beneath me-,” his feet began to pick up the pace, sprinting up the ropes to draw his throbbing closer to you. 

“Hun, I don’t th-think you’re aware of how much I want you,” He licked a long stripe up your collar bone, his teeth grazing your skin as he whimpered against you, “baby, I-I-... I c-couldn’t-...” His words halted in his throat, truly not desiring to release his confession into the air for fear of never reclaiming the words back.

“What, Cap?” you gasped, finally turning to him with your eyes half-lidded and glazed with lust, “what couldn’t you do? Tell me. Tell me, please?” He growled, launching his decapitated head towards you and placing trails of creeping open-mouthed kisses against your cheek, nose and jaw - never claiming your lips beneath his for fear of breaking the spell and having you sprint from him. 

“I-I-...” he whined, feeling his feet beginning to tingle in his approach. He was so close to you, so close to your glistening opening: ready and waiting for him to dive into your supple flesh and chase his release, “-I only think of you. I-I-... I can’t-... I can’t cum without thinking of you. I need you. I only think of you, the way you’d fuck. Baby, the way you’d taste.” 

You gasped, finally claiming his cheek within your palm and watching the tearful expression of the clown within your hands and chasing his fleeting gaze with your eyes. 

“Captain?” you cooed down at him, desperately trying to conceal your enthusiasm and excitement with your tone, “Captain, do-... do you picture me? When you touch yourself? When you-... when you masterbate?” Before the clown could halt his pathetic words from falling from his lips, his mind began to spiral as he continued his unholy confession.

“Baby, I-I tried to cum s-so badly without you. I was right there. I even found your old wanted poster and thought of making you scream as I stretched you out. I-I tried to cum while thinking of you. I kept chasing it, hun. I-I-... I can’t do it without you. I was right there twelve times before I went to find you in the kitchens. I t-tried. It’s-... I can’t do this without you,” he desperately cried, his eyes open and honest as he spilt nothing but truths from his lips. Your heart broke for him, and the shame of his confession began to glisten your aching entrance and swollen clit with his pathetic whines and calls for you. 

At that, you felt the dangerous presence of his body begging to be reunified. The thrill held you quivering in anticipation, desperate to help your captain in whichever manner he deemed appropriate to chase his relief. You closed your eyes tightly shut, feeling his body fall downwards onto you and cage you beneath it. 

“Baby, s-say something,” Buggy’s voice whispered at your jaw, his lips collecting the skin beneath it, “I-I can’t control myself f-for much longer. Baby I n-need to know this is o-okay.” His plea had your eyes snap open, meeting his teal gaze as he desperately sought out your own. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered, feeling the inches of heat grazing against your thigh in his shaft’s approach towards your shamefully aroused entrance. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered into you. You felt the graze of his swollen tip prodding against your oozing entrance, flicking its shined tip against your clit as he rejoined his head firmly atop his shoulders, “I never wanted it to be like this.” He reached down, grasping his abused shaft and almost screaming as he did. His senses were overwhelmed, so desperate for stimuli but conflicted because he wanted so desperately to be good for you. 

“It’s okay, Captain,” you reassured him, turning away from his face to shy from his feral expression. You held your eyes closed in shame at how truly intoxicated this made you. You were both blessing the horrible pollen for having him finally make a move, while guilty at the fact that this was the only reason you were feeling his knob rake slowly between your silken abdominal lips. 

“L-Look at me,” he whispered down at you, “p-please, baby. Please look at me.” As you slowly turned to face him, he achingly withheld the urge to slam his cock fully within your entrance and pushing to the hilt of his shaft in one swift movement. He was physically shaking with the inability to control himself further than allowing this one moment to pass between you. 

As your eyes slowly and coyly met, he glanced deep and unblinkingly into your eyes as he slowly inched the tip of his cock into you. You watched that subtle quiver in his eyes; the way his lip trembled at the friction as his leaking tip arched its way beyond the first point of contact. He muffled a scream, finally feeling relief at the contact of your walls sucking his cock within them. He fought back another urge to break away his eye contact and have his eyes roll back into his skull in bliss of the feeling - opting to continue staring deeply into your eyes as he slicked another few inches within your walls. 

Your breath hitched, staring deeply into his eyes as your lips parted at how truly beautiful you found him. He clenched his teeth together, angling his hips forward and slowly pressing down into you while wincing back his pleasured cries of bliss. He wanted so desperately for this to feel as good for you as it did for him, but the way the pollen enhanced his every sense had his limbs on fire. As he inched his cock down to the base of his shaft, he sucked his cheeks into his teeth alongside his tongue and bit down exceptionally hard to keep his cum from spilling over immediately. 

As you became accustomed to his width, you couldn’t help but sigh out a small mewl of pleasure at being filled by your captain into his ear. At that small hitched pitch of your voice, he began to rock his entire length within you as he groaned out a desperate cry of satisfaction. 

Don’t you dare cum, you idiot. You’ve finally got what you wanted. You wanted this. Don’t you dare fuck it up. Don’t you dare cum-.

“-You c-can cum, Captain,” you whispered into his ear, placing a small kiss on the corner of his jaw, “You’ve waited so long, Bugs. I’m so proud of you. You can cum, baby. Cum for me.”

His breath hitched in his throat, his cock immediately responding to your guidance by snapping the tension within his stomach. His balls were pressed so tightly within his abdomen, almost swallowed within his stomach by how tight and desperate everything became. At that small whisper of praise from you, his orgasm crashed over him like a bolt of calculated lightning seeking him out as a conductor to direct the currant. Ribbons and ropes of hot and desperate strings of sticky cum shot from his tip to coat your walls with their lustful lubrication. 

“O-Oh fuck. Fuck! F-FucK!-.. Nghh-... I’m cumming. I-I’m cumming! F-Fuck, baby. I-I’m-.. Hhah-...” He cried into your shoulder, his lips and teeth collecting your neck beneath his mouth and clenching down onto your flesh. You hissed at the contact, feeling the waves of pleasure he was experiencing coat your walls as you soothed over his shoulders with a gentle, but firm touch. 

His slow thrusts came to a halt, completely sheathed within you as he rode through his high. The collection of arousal pooling at your thighs and coated his groin was surprising to the both of you at the culmination of the fluids. As his eyes drew downwards to the contact between your bodies, he gasped at how beautifully your body had taken him in. He was in awe that you would allow him to join with your body in this way, but guilty in the fact that he was the only one to claim pleasure from this encounter.

He quirked his head to the side, remaining fully sheathed within you and began rocking his hips a little. You gasped, feeling his lingering firmness within your core and brush with the underlayer of your clit while the top brushed with his pubic hair. He laughed with an almost sickening amount of glee.

“Would you look at that?” He managed to stutter out between the snapping of hips. He leant down towards you, hovering his lips just above your own, “I’m still hard.” He hummed thoughtfully, looking first to where your bodies were connected before darting his eyes back up to yours. 

Looking up at him with partially shocked eyes, you felt the lubrication of his prior release grinding against his cock sheathed within your core. His soft and deep gyrations had an involuntary cry fall from your parted lips at the friction. Buggy’s eyes smiled as his lips broke into a crooked smile.

“Ohh,” he cooed down at you, “Ooh, you thought we were done, didn’t you?” He reached down to collect your thighs, hooking them over his hips and joining them at the ankles, “oh, sweetheart. You thought you could get away with ordering your captain to cum in you without consequence?” 

He shifted his cock deeper within you, raking his hands at your thighs upwards to collect your ass beneath his wide fingers. You bit your bottom lip to halt a sound from leaving your lips, prompting Buggy’s teal eyes to look down at you and frown. He snapped his hips harder against you, slow and deliberate thrusts dragging at your walls with his cock and prying another muffled moan of desire from you. 

He frowned further, drawing his face closer into you and almost brushing his lips with yours. 

“Don’t you dare stop those pretty sounds from comin’ out,” he commanded you, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with desire. His throbbing cock was twitching within your fluttering walls, his groans of pleasure serenading you with his raspy tone gracing your ears, “Oh, Baby. Let me hear you. C’mon, now.” 

You screamed at your eyes to remain fixed on the man above you; his own half-lidded expression being mirrored in your irises as your lips almost brushed. He continued slowly anchoring his hips in and out of your glistening entrance with your walls fluttering around him. You gasped as he wove his arms beneath you and hoisted you upwards. He rocked back to sit atop his calves, pulling you with him to sit atop his lap and braced himself fully flush with you. 

With his arms hooked beneath you, he found the backs of your shoulders and braced you against his torso, breaking away his eye contact as his lips sucked on your neck. He gyrated his hips up into you, keeping you completely still and caged atop his lap as he rocked you. The new angle had your jaw slack and gasping silent cries and mewls of pleasure down into his ear. 

“You were so chatty, baby,” he grunted against your neck, trailing his lips against your neck to your jaw, “Where did that go, huh?”

At that final taunt, you wove your hands into the back of his scalp and forced his neck back to look up at you. He gasped out a sighed groan, jaw clenching at your manhandling of his sensitive body. Grinning up at you with a grimaced lop-sided smile, he again taunted you: “Too embarrassed by me? Don’t want to have the infamous Clown-Captain make you cum?”

He picked up the pace, almost disregarding your hands within his hair as his thrusts became more desperate and unbridled. His playful eyes never broke away from your face, only leaving to glace at your breasts bouncing at eye level and shamelessly ogling them before finding your eyes once more. His hips began to stutter more, almost rhythmically in tune with your body as he felt your walls suck him in with their flutters. 

“Not embarrassed, Cap,” you managed to gasp out, grinding down onto his cock. He squirmed beneath you, matching your circling and gyrating rhythm as he bucked up into you. “I’m just enjoying your voice.” You tugged back his hair tighter, his lips releasing a hissed sigh as you brought  your lips down to suck on his neck. He continued rolling his hips upwards, allowing you to chase your release by circling and gyrating against him. 

“P-Please,” He called in a voice above a whisper, “Please cum on my cock. I need you to cum on my cock, baby. I want you to use me like a toy. Your toy.” You whimpered against his neck, feeling the tightness in your abdomen increase to the center of your stomach. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he continued rocking you atop his lap. 

“No,” He shook his head out of your grasp and bore his teal eyes into your own. He uncircled his arms from beneath your shoulders to his right wrapping around your stomach while the other cradled your jaw, “No I want to see it. I want to see you cum. I want to see the lights dance in your eyes as I rock you on my lap. I want to see your pleasure as you chase it, sliding your slick cunt over my cock. Please, please baby. Please cum for me.”

As his eyes locked on yours, you felt the twirl within the pit of your stomach finally release the band of pleasure within you. Every inch of your body burst with the tingles of your orgasm: the tips of your toes shivering within the vibrations of warmth and static up to your legs, thighs, abdomen, torso, neck and face. You were suffocated by the cry you released of his name pouring from your lips as you raked your hips over his lap, whimpering and moaning for him as you rode your high into blissful overstimulation. 

Buggy had no idea when he began cumming, but he could feel you sucking every inch of his second release deep within you by the sturdy thumps of your glistening walls squeezing each drop from his quivering shaft. He cried for you, the sting of overstimulation balanced with ensuring you had truly finished allowing the waves of bliss to wash over you. He felt tethered to you, the only thing anchoring him down to this world as he serenaded your praises with the angels. 

He released your jaw, circling his hand to the back of your head and pulling you down to touch your forehead with his. Your movements stilled, the only sounds resonating were the crashes of waves against the hull and the distant roars, snores and heavy-laden breathing of your crew sleeping and remaining blissfully unaware of what just occurred within the crows nest. Sighs and breaths between you passed as you greeted one another with warm, coy smiles. 

“Did you learn your lesson, Captain?” you asked him with a small, sleepy giggle. 

“I think so, Hun,” he replied with the same tone, the creases of his eyes holding both his charm and his playfulness within it, “‘You’ll always look after me when I do something stupid’ was the lesson, right?” You pursed your lips at him, no longer having the energy to fight with him and opting to place a small chaste kiss atop his round nose. He winced at the caress, but opted not to pull away once he saw your sleep-deprived expression. 

“I’m just playing, Love,” he sighed into your face, still ghosting his lips over your own without fully committing to the kiss. 

“I know, Cap,” you mumbled sleepily, pressing a soft and deep caress of your lips against his. He groaned against your lips as they finally met, holding firm against you as you angled your head to deepen the kiss. Breaking the dance of your lips intertwining, you leant back and smiled warmly at him, “But I will always look after you when you do something stupid.”

“Oh good,” he sighed in relief, a broad and brilliant smile drawing itself against his lips as he hardened his resolve, “Because all I've learnt is nobody can do this like you can.”

[vagabond-umlaut]

cauterize; cicatrize

Wounds left by love are funny little things. Sometimes, they close by themselves. Sometimes, they close when singed by rejection. Other times, they heal when you scar once again, falling in love once again.

▸ ryomen sukuna x fem!reader; reincarnation au; sukuna has been reawakened in the modern era but he does not have any vessel; reader was sukuna's wife in her previous life; FLUFF, ANGST & HUMOR; grumpy!sukuna; flirty!reader; SO MUCH OF PINING & UNRESOLVED TENSION BETWEEN THESE TWO, I SWEAR!!!; brief mentions of food

▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna! [note: each and every character is 18+ in this story :)]

▸ based on the ask sent by @yuujispinkhair for my milestone event. TYSM WINTER!! 🫶🫶🫶 i don't own the characters, image or divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"It's so difficult to know when the gentle flame of love becomes the harsh flame of ruin– isn't it, baby?"

Furious eyes gleam back in the shitty ceiling lights of the restaurant, the very second the waitress who served you the food earlier, lifts an eyebrow in obvious interest before looking away when you shoot her a mirror image of her expression– A very irked call of your name pulls your gaze back to your husband—

No! No! No!!

Ex-husband.

Married to you, over one thousand years back.

No longer is he your terrifying darling husband.

Sukuna stabs his food with a tad too much force than what's needed, growling, "I may not be who I was before, but, don't forget your place, calling me whatever you want, you pathetic—"

"Did I ever tell you how much of a snack you look with your two arms, baby?" you cut him off, carving a small piece of the fish and placing it in your mouth. Your eyes shut momentarily from the rich taste before opening wide again, only to find confusion etched onto your husband companion's face. You continue, ""Cause you really do look so— very, very much similar to how you were in the Heian Era. A damn delicious snack. Or, a scrumptious five course meal— depending on how much you want to indulge silly me, I guess."

Silence greets your comment— the first time in the two hours it took you to convince Sukuna, then drive him to this Thai restaurant– good heavens above, his grumbling's still The Same even after he has been reawakened a millenium later– only to be broken by a too hushed ask within the next moment.

"And what do you think of my two eyes? Are they still as lovely as my four eyes were to you?"

Fondness tugs at your heartstrings, making you want to lean over the table and claim his lips in the neediest kiss ever seen in history— your brain quickly shoves such wishes away, making you return him a fond smile instead. And murmur, "Of course, they are...— Your two big eyes and the two not-really-eyes beneath them... As lovely as red rubies."

Sukuna's look shifts into one of joy, if only for a moment, before being back to scowling once more, the same way you return to your cheeky grin as you inquire, "And what do you think, hm, of the food here? It's just the best– ain't it? Yuuji, Nobara and I discovered this hidden gem on our last mission— and when I tasted the green curry they made– I realized I absolutely had to bring you here, by hook or by crook."

"And which one was it? By hook or by crook?" the curse questions, an extremely rare smirk peeking from the corners of his frown; you don't really grasp how much you missed this sight until now– especially, in the present days, when the only emotion your past lover [and forever beloved] shows you is frustration paired with weary distaste—

You shovel some rice into your mouth to stop the far too familiar train of thoughts– you know where it'll be ending; you know it won't be. An agonizingly slow minute passes, wherein you chew the food so slowly then swallow it down, then stare at your empty bowl of rice for a nice ten seconds before mustering a chuckle.

"Of course, by crook," you reply, ignoring the way Sukuna's gaze roves over your face, then your body dressed in your oldest pair of pajamas; staring not in lust, but with something eerily similar to worry, "No one would've ever allowed me to take you out in their right minds. It's way too risky is what it is. They might even execute me if they find us out."

A beat passes in quiet with you feeling the weight of your words and the implications your actions will bear, slowly sinking into the two of you— before the hush is broken yet again. By your companion again.

Though not with a muted question, but with noisy cackles– the most melodious music you've heard in a duration far too long to your liking.

Sukuna grins, pearly white teeth with those sharp canines on display. Barking a guffaw, he asks, "You're one weak fool, letting love ruin you – aren't you, pet?"

You outstretch a hand over to the other side, dainty fingers brushing away the few grains of rice stuck to his face, then smile– mind going back to the innumerable bloodbaths, the figure before you drenched the country in— them growing in intensity after the winter, you know was your last as the Queen of Curses– given, the dates written in the scrolls on his conquests are accurate... Somehow, you know they are—

Your smile widens, digging pleasantly painful indents in your cheeks, as you retract your hand, shrugging at the stock-still image of shock across.

"What can I say, baby? Learnt to do so, from my king himself."

▸ masterlist

[prettieinpink]

how do I learn to love my appearance? I know it won’t matter if other people think, it matters what I think. So how do I improve my self concept about my appearance?

HOW TO CHANGE THE WAY YOU VIEW YOURSELF (APPEARANCE)

!disclaimer! Please be patient with yourself when learning how to love yourself, and remember that being discouraged and down is all a part of the process. 

UNDERSTAND THE WAY YOU VIEW YOURSELF. Do you tend to view yourself as inferior, or do you think you’re heavily flawed? Write out everything that you think about yourself, anything that comes to mind. 

Then go back and re-read everything. See what is true, or something you have been conditioned to believe and why. Most of the time, our perspective of ourselves is skewed due to many external factors. This activity will help to see which parts of ourselves we see in someone else’s POV. 

TAKE A STEP AWAY FROM THE MIRROR. When you want to improve your perspective of how you look, avoid taking selfies, looking at old photos and prolonged looks in the mirror for maybe a week or fortnight. It’ll help to ground yourself appearance-wise, as you’ll realise that regardless of your attractiveness, it’s possible to live without having to reassure yourself of how attractive you are. 

ACCEPT YOUR FLAWS. You don’t have to embrace them and tell yourself that you love your flaws so much, but just accept the fact that they’re there. It’s okay to dislike parts of ourselves, but we should acknowledge flaws from a place of love, not hatred. 

GIVE YOUR APPEARANCE A BIGGER PURPOSE. Your appearance doesn’t just have to be for aesthetics, it can serve you in different ways. For example, your eyes help you to read your favourite books and your stomach digests all this yummy food. 

Your physical features should not cause you guilt or self-hate, like I said, acknowledge your flaws from a place of love. 

YOUR SOUL IS THE MOST ATTRACTIVE FEATURE OF YOU, and no one else can have a soul and mind that is even remotely similar to you. Instead of worrying about how pretty your face or body looks, worry about how pretty your soul is. Are you nourishing it and allowing it to flourish, or is it slowly rotting in your vessel? 

Once your soul starts to flourish, it will reflect on your vessel(body), and you will notice a difference. 

STUDY YOUR MIND. If you can, take a small notebook and pen everywhere or write on your phone as soon as you get a negative thought about your appearance. If that is too difficult, then write a tally about how many times you’ve thought that way. 

At the end of the day, look at your findings and see what may have triggered this thought to occur. Have you always thought this? Was someone else saying something that conditioned you to believe a certain way? Does your current environment encourage this way of thinking? 

RECOGNISE A NEED FOR A RE-BRAND. Sometimes when we feel unsatisfied with the way we look, it could be that this is us internally craving a re-brand into our higher self. 

Maybe you’ve kept the same style for 5 years and you realise it’s not so flattering, or maybe you feel like your style isn’t in alignment with your ideal self. Whatever the reason, ask yourself if a rebrand is a good idea for you. 

Done! This was difficult to write, but I’m proud of the way it turned out. I hope you can take away at least one thing and take care of yourself! ♡

[nihilnisiluna]

Punishment

He could feel their hand tighten around his throat and the feeling was suffocating. Barely having enough recognition to grab their hand and give a poor attempt to push the hand away. The way his teeth were gritting against each other to the small amount of air he breathes, he can feel it all. In the end, he wouldn't dare lift a sword against the individual standing before him and he knows that neither would his ninjas even if he called for help.

At the sound of footsteps coming closer to the room, his neck felt released from the tight grip it had around it. The individual moved away from him quickly and sat down on the other side of a table. His hand instinctively messaging his throat as he moved from his place on the floor, coughed a little bit.

“I've prepared your dishes, your grace. As well as your tea, my lord.” Thoma's voice rang before he opened up the sliding door to see the individuals on the other side. Bringing in the tray with him, he sat down at the left side of the creator. It was quiet while Thoma served the food and tea, a little humming tune coming from his mouth. Just as he was finishing up and prepared to leave, he heard Ayato’s voice, “sit, Thoma. I believe that it would be in our best interest that you stay and enjoy tea with us.”

“Oh, I couldn't try to impose on you two.” Came Thoma’s reply, but before he would leave, he felt the creator grab onto his sleeve. They only uttered one word while looking away from Thoma’s confused gaze, “stay.”

“Of course, you grace.” He said with his bright smile that made the creator flustered and leaving Ayato more like the third wheel than anything. Seeing the creator pass their cup of tea for Thoma's to enjoy, he knows why he is alive at all. Then again he probably should have realized this the moment the creator said yes to the invitation for some tea. Especially after everything the Yashiro Commission has done on his orders. 

He was too scared to let go of the fact that he was the imposter's favorite, he was blind to see that the real creator was his prisoner. He saw the love in the imposter's eyes and he was addicted to it all. Only Thoma had figured it out, due to the strong connection he had with the creator, the only vessel that the creator used at all in the Kamisato household. Thoma helped others to see the creator for who they really are, how the imposter tried to silence him. 

Ayato released a sigh as he watched the scene before him, with the creator laughing at a story Thoma was telling them. He deserves this punishment, even if his housekeeper was trying to convince him otherwise just the other day. He can see it in the cold unforgiving eyes of the creator when they were alone together.

He can hear Thoma’s words from yesterday as they gave him hope. “My lord, this is your chance to get off on the right foot with them!” That maybe, just maybe the creator and him could start off on a new foot. Seeing there was no point in doing so, he stood up and excused himself, “forgive me, your grace. I must take my leave. I have plenty of work to be done.”

“Ah, my lord, shall I-”

“No, Thoma. That won't be necessary. Please entertain our esteemed guest, I do believe they love your tales about the stray animals you take care of.” He wanted to leave the moment he felt the eyes watching him, but he knew the only reason he was alive. Shouldn't leave the room just yet. 

As he bowed and left the room, he knew the message in those eyes.The creator doesn't want Thoma sad, so he will get to breathe.

And every breath is due to his housekeeper.

Both for him and his sister.

[gothhabiba]

[...] [F]ood culture, because of its ubiquitous and everyday nature, can serve as a medium through which to examine issues concerning how the imagined community is perceived (internally by its members, and externally by others), expressed, engaged with and maintained as well as [to] point out processes and trends that are [...] generally overlooked in the study of identity, nationalism and culture. Additionally, food culture is [...] a useful tool for examining issues concerning the place of indigenous people and their culture, and I would add the other, within the national culture and narratives of settler colonial societies, of which Israel is an example. This includes issues relating to cultural appropriation as well as inclusion and exclusion from the nation.

The relationship between food culture, Zionism and the creation of a new Jewish-Israeli national identity might not appear strong at first. However, from the onset of the Zionist project, food played an important part in the construction of a new Jewish and later on Israeli identity, including its collective memory, national psyche and political aspirations. According to Raviv, from the early stages of Zionism, food was one of the main elements used for national boundary setting and the establishment of a separate Jewish political and economic society in Palestine. Many of the symbols of the new Jewish identity in Palestine, and after 1948, Jewish-Israeli identity, are food related: from Sabra (prickly pear, the name given to a Jewish-born Israeli) and Jaffa oranges (one of Israel’s symbols of production and primary exports), to postcards depicting a pita with falafel and the flag of Israel (one of Israel’s most recognisable postcards) and cottage cheese—a product that has been shortlisted as one of the main symbols of the state of Israel.

This relationship between food and Zionism is also apparent in the historical importance attached to food production, especially agricultural produce, and consumption. In their attempt to establish a separate Jewish society and economy in the pre-state period, Zionist leaders tried to regulate agricultural labour and produce, in order to, among other things, exclude Arab labor and produce. Jewish businesses and private individuals were therefore pressured to buy and consume Jewish only produce. The Zionist emphasis on Jewish only produce, from the Hebrew banana to the Hebrew butter, drew a clear link between national identity, food production and consumption and communal boundaries. This link is still evident in the symbols and coat-of-arms of many of Israel’s cities and regional councils, which are dominated by and or include agricultural tools, fields and orchards and specific agricultural produce.

De-Arabizing Israeli Food Culture

[...] What is interesting about Israeli food writers musing about the origins of and contributions to Israeli food culture is that they provide an indication of the dominant discourse used by the Jewish community in Israel. This discourse, while highlighting the various contributors and contributions to Israeli food culture, omits or fails to mention either an Arab or an Arab-Palestinian element. There are different manifestations or layers to these omissions, the most glaring of which is the presentation of Arab-Palestinian food elements and items present in Israeli food culture, for example hummus and falafel, as part of the Mizrahi-Jewish culture and so as part of Jewish tradition. Other layers of this omission include the representation of Arab-Palestinian food as belonging to a Jewish Israeli food culture; the representation of Arab-Palestinians as vessels that enabled the preservation of older Jewish-biblical traditions; and the depiction of the territory between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea, which includes the West Bank, as either Israeli or part of the Land of Israel (Eretz Yisrael).

The failure, either by design or by default, to mention the Arab and Arab-Palestinian people and their contribution to Israeli food culture is prevalent and present in most Israeli cookbooks. In fact, until very recently you would have been hard pressed to even find the words Arab and or Palestinian in Israeli cookbooks and food writing. This state of affairs is particularly striking when one takes into account the importance Arab and Arab-Palestinian restaurants, food terminology, dishes and culinary items have in everyday Israeli life and culture, and the fact that a significant number of dishes identified by leading Jewish-Israeli chefs as national dishes are also part of the Arab-­Palestinian kitchen—one of these chefs even identifies the “Arab salad” as Israel’s national dish!

Mendel and Ranta argue that two related historical dialectic processes have shaped Zionist and, after the creation of the state of Israel, Jewish-Israeli attitudes towards Arab and Arab-Palestinian food culture. On the one hand, the construction of a “rooted,” “modern” and “native” Israeli food culture was based on fascination with, leading to adaptation, imitation and appropriation of, Arab Palestinian culinary elements, while, on the other hand, Israeli food culture went through a process of de-Arabization—that is to say, the Arab-Palestinian contribution had been erased and overlooked. As the conflict between Zionists and Arab-Palestinians intensified, the balance shifted from fascination and adaptation, to appropriation and de-Arabization, in line with the Zionist aim of replacing the Arab Palestinian people in Palestine, rejecting their political aspirations and establishing a separate Jewish polity.

Early Zionist settlers came to Palestine to establish not only a new state, but also a new nation. In terms of food, this meant rejecting the heavy slow-cooking traditions of Eastern Europe for a lighter, and, in line with the then prevailing concepts of nutrition, also healthier, diet based on dairy products, raw fruit and vegetable and less meat. According to Claudia Roden, “the early pioneers and the first immigrants from Europe … were happy to abandon the ‘Yiddish’ foods of Russia and Poland as a revolt against a past identity and an old life … and foods that represented exile and martydom.”

One of the mechanisms of creating the new food culture was adapting and imitating the local Arab-Palestinians, and to some extent also Bedouin, food traditions and culture. It is important to note, in a similar fashion to other settler-colonial groups, that adaptation and imitation was done at times out of choice, at times out of necessity.

– Ronald Ranta, "Re-Arabizing Israeli Food Culture." Food, Culture & Society 18(4):611-627 (December 2015). DOI: 10.1080/15528014.2015.1088192

[windvexer]

Spirit Vessel Theory & Practical DIY (Traditional Witchcraft Flavored)

(Written in response to an Anon whom I think is probably involved in spirit conjure community, which is where conjurers put spirits inside of a vessel for you and ship them to you. Anon requested to know tips on how to transfer a spirit to a new vessel)

✨big heckin UPG ALERT ahead for the ENTIRE POST✨

In this post, a spirit vessel is any object, including a container filled with objects, which serves as a spirit's physical foothold into our present reality.

Three Varieties of Spirit Vessels: Telephone, Body, House

Please note the particular absence of trap or prison: there is no need for any practitioner to trap or seal a spirit inside of a vessel. This is what we do to unwanted spirits to relocate them to a second location, and it's not how we treat our friends.

My categorization of spirit vessels relates to how the spirit is intended to engage with the vessel.

Telephone Vessel: This is the kind I've most commonly seen and heard of in the conjure community. The spirit lives/exists Elsewhere, but the practitioner has given them a link of communication to this physical object.

The practitioner then works over the object to "call" the spirit and ask it to arrive in their location, or visit it Elsewhere, or just talk while they are in separate locations.

In my opinion, the "telephone" vessel is the least impactful type for the purposes of allowing spirits into our lives, but it's great at what it does: serving as a telephone line. However, as I hope this post will go on to show, it's also the easiest to make because the vessel requires the least amount of preparation and care.

Body Vessel: This is when the spirit vessel is meant to be the body of the spirit as it dwells on Earth. When a vessel is consecrated and dedicated to a spirit, it's understood to be the spirit itself. The form that the vessel takes influences the spirit's ability to work in our reality.

Body vessels may end up looking like little figurine versions of the spirit in question, but they can also be containers specially prepared with decorations and objects heavily linked to the spirit's essence.

Direct examples in witchcraft and folk magic include house and kitchen dollies that are meant to help lighten the load of chores or stop food from burning. Such dolls may be equipped with little brooms, multiple hands, and so forth, to assist with chores.

Another example of a body vessel is the Decaying River God. To create this vessel, I made a deal with the river and then embodied a spirit into this intuitively crafted form. Now, that physical object has become the sacred body of a spirit.

Just as the kitchen doll may be given a broom to assist with sweeping, a spirit's body may be equipped with tools to grant them additional influence and abilities in our world. A related example in witchcraft is to put the feet of small, scurrying Earthen animals (such as a rat or mole) into charm bags, so that the spell can scamper to its destination.

Just because the spirit has a body vessel does not mean they are permanently bound inside of that vessel. Accidentally breaking or losing the vessel isn't like harming the spirit (although obviously it's to be avoided).

Spirits which were born Elsewhere are perhaps more likely to come and go from body vessels, but even beings born with the creation of their body may still leave that physical space and return to it as desired.

House Vessel: This is the same thing as a spirit house or shrine, just a step to the left. We might equip the body vessel with objects that grant the spirit additional powers and capabilities, but in the house vessel, I tend to organize things to be a pleasant and enjoyable respite for the spirit, almost like a custom bedroom.

There may be no object or representation that's intended to be the body of the spirit at all. Nonetheless, the space is still one where the spirit may be fully invited and present, and gives them a strong foothold in our world.

The only real difference I draw between a house vessel and a shrine or spirit house is the intent. A shrine may be to venerate, and a spirit house may be a kind act of providing shelter. But the house vessel's intent is to create a space that makes it easier for a spirit to fully Show Up to our present reality.

Which Variety is Best?

This depends on your needs. For the purposes of witchcraft, spirits are often best given bodies that reflect their nature and empower them to carry out your purpose. I also hold this to be true for spells and any other variety of guy.

Spirits whom we're getting to know, but aren't quite sure of yet, may be best limited to "telephone" status.

House vessels - I haven't got a lot to say, except bringing up the point of them.

You can have multiple telephone lines and house vessels, yet intuition advises that really only one Body should do for the average spirit.

Vessels Themselves Can Suck So It's Worthwhile to Put Some Thought Into It

I believe that the more a spirit vessel is the embodiment of the spirit themselves, the easier it is for the spirit to use that vessel to interact with us and our present reality.

An extreme example can help demonstrate this point.

Imagine you've gotten to know a water spirit. A mermaid, let's say, from an ocean world of pure, opalescent waters, where coral reefs are cities and pet jellyfish are decorated with pearls.

Imagine that the vessel for this mermaid is a jar painted red and decorated with symbols of fire, then further charged with fiery energy. Within the jar is rusty nails, polluted water from the side of the highway, and a heaping spoonful of chili flakes.

I would hazard a guess that you couldn't even agree to get that mermaid to use such a vessel as a telephone line, much less use it as their physical body.

It's not that the spirit is snooty - it's that you're asking him to come into contact with things that irritate and burn him. Not only would it require a huge amount of energy to overcome these differences, but the vessel would nonetheless cause him discomfort.

Intuition may even advise that a simple bowl of water would create a vastly improved "house" vessel for this spirit.

But if it's true that a vessel can be incompatible with a spirit, then it's reasonable to assume that a vessel can be made more and more compatible with a spirit, until it is highly compatible and therefore very easy for the spirit to link to it and use it.

To really improve our mermaid vessel, we might embroider the outside of a bag with a representation of a coral reef, place jellyfish charms and imitation pearls inside of it, and often soak the entire bag in cool, pure water.

This may be the perfect vessel for our mermaid, but totally unsuitable to the pollution monster, who wants to live inside of the rusty nails jar.

This is the primary reason why I find simple unmodified single-object vessels to be not that great. (Examples of this would be, a crystal ring or antique object purchased and used without modifying it to the tastes of the spirit)

While a spirit may select such an object from a lineup and request it's use as a vessel, that doesn't mean that it's going to be an effective vessel.

Especially combined with beliefs in witchcraft about the magical impact of modifying vessels to encapsulate the power of a spell or spirit,

I believe that an unmodified object for use as a spirit vessel is like casting a candle spell with a plain candle to which no herbs or energies are added, and all you do is imprint your raw intent and light the candle.

It'll maybe work, but not nearly as well as it could.

Therefore I believe the form of the vessel matters beyond whether or not the spirit personally likes it, and extends into the realm of sorcerous technique - spirit manifestation is affected depending on if the spirit vessel is made well or made poorly, and especially how much it is physically personalized to the spirit.

Creation of a Useful Vessel

In all cases: Modify the object(s) of the vessel as much as possible to reflect the nature and known qualities of the spirit. As much as possible, work with the spirit to choose modifications, or, work with known lore or with the assistance of spirit workers or diviners.

In the case where a single object (such as a stone) must be used:

Tie the object up in a net where each knot represents a foothold for the spirit to cling on to, or, where each knot ties up a bundle of energy of the sort of thing the spirit likes. (Can be then worn as necklace)

Paint or carve the object, even in a hidden area.

Add additional decorations and embellishments to reflect either the nature of the spirit, or to represent useful tools that the spirit can use to access the object.

Carve out the middle and add bits of paper (with name and permissions written on), and stuff with relevant herbs.

Sight-unseen, I wouldn't recommend single object vessels if you can't heavily/permanently modify them.

In the case where a container vessel (such as a bag, box, or bottle) may be used:

Decorate the exterior, and if space permits the interior, of the container to best reflect an environment enjoyable to the spirit. Consider various techniques: painting, embroidery, carving, burning, and so forth.

Selectively include objects which reflect the spirit's nature, including dried plants, stones, feathers, seeds, bones, and various objects from nature; also charms, trinkets, and tokens (factory-made is fine); also prayers or poems, or drawings or artwork, all of these things symbolic of the spirit and attempting to demonstrate its nature and totality

Include a written sigil or signature of the spirit, and it's name or known names, and epithets. Often best done in fancy magical ink if any is on hand. (I use Sharpies; no need to over-think it)

Charms, amulets, plants, prepared powders or oils, or otherwise, for the purpose of facilitating spirit manifestation and ease of travel between worlds; examples may include specially prepared threads to symbolize links and roads, special spirit-calling powder, magnets to "draw towards," symbols of the Crossroads or of safe and easy travel, and so forth.

In the case where the spirit is likened to an earthly animal, bones or preserved body parts are a very good addition.

In the case where the vessel is itself in the form of a body, such as a figurine or doll:

Hand-craft or heavily modify the creation to represent the vibes as much as possible

Dress, accessorize, ornament, and decorate the figure to represent the spirit or it's known attributes and purposes.

As handicrafters known more about their trade than I do, I don't want to over-comment. Make them a little body. Yes.

Inviting the Spirit to Utilize the Vessel

Unfortunately I will decline to try and provide a specific step-by-step ritual, mostly because I work more intuitively and don't actually have one written up.

But I'll do my best to explain how you can go about it, and some things to consider.

Basically, you'll want to conceptualize four steps:

Final magical preparations

Consecration

Dedication

Invitation

I'll try to explain the reasoning behind including these things, and of course, you'll want to modify or change all of them according to your preferences and needs.

In all cases: Use your magic to make the vessel lovely and filled with spiritual virtues that resonate deeply with the nature of the spirit. This is necessarily vague; a troubleshooting primer for energy work is beyond the scope of this post.

The timing of this work is very well done on special days where the spirit-roads are open, on full moons, or on Mondays.

In cases where the spirit already has a vessel and you want to give them a new one, there is no difference in operation. Make profane and reclaim the old vessel afterwords according to your desires.

Fill the vessel with two types of energy: The first being dense caloric energies from foods, especially oil, nuts, seeds, eggs, and fatty meat. This can be done by placing a food offering next to the vessel and dedicating the food to the spirit.

The second being ethereal and subtle energies, such as produced from blessed incense or energy work. This can be done by blessing and offering incense as you normally do, or channeling your personal energy into the vessel.

Consecrate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which delineates an object as being sacred and separate from the everyday, and turns the object into a Spirit Vessel. (Add'l details below)

Dedicate the vessel: Perform any charm or ritual in your practice which functions to formally gift-give an object to a god or a spirit.

Sometimes, a consecration and a dedication are done in the same ritual, especially when a god is concerned. E.g., "Witchfather, by your name this wand is made holy (consecration). I give this wand to you; it is yours, and when I use it, your hand guides it (dedication)."

The most simplest format of this is something like, "by [the powers I believe allow me to make thing sacred], I make this object sacred [and perhaps I sprinkle some saltwater or whatever formula I believe is necessary to help me make things sacred]. This object is now the vessel for a spirit. Now, it is a Spirit Vessel."

The above being the idea of a consecration; the dedication then being something like,

"[Spirit Name], I invite you into my world and my life. I give you Permission to dwell in this Spirit Vessel and make it your body and your home. I give you Permission to walk in this world through the conduit of this Spirit Vessel. It belongs to you, it is you."

(The above dedication perhaps also revealing something about why "telephone lines" may be a safer bet, the dedication for those being something like, "[Spirit Name], I invite you to observe this vessel and place your fingerprint upon it, so that when I work over it I call out to you, and you can hear me easily no matter how far apart we are.")

Anyway, put some real thought into exactly how much you want this spirit to manifest in your life, because spirit experiences - even when desired and invited - can be very intense and scary, especially if up to that point your experiences with spirits has been limited.

Invite the spirit into the vessel: If not included in your dedication, also formally invite the spirit.

"[Spirit Name], I've prepared this special Vessel for you, and given it to you. I have prepared the way with earthly and aethereal energies, so you may be well-fed and have the power to move within our world. [That's the offering bit innit]. Come now at this time and here in this place, and claim this Vessel as your own."

Etc., something like that.

At this time, the ritual is over with and you can commune with the spirit as desired or close the ritual down in your normal techniques.

Again, if there is an additional/old spirit vessel you no longer want to use, try talking with the spirit about what to do with it; but you can just let it "run dry" and then carefully undo the magic on it. After that, do with it as you please.

[techploration]

Novel City Planning Technique Leads to Fungal Divination Cult

Slime molds are great at planning roads.

Know what that sounds an awful lot like? A neural network (or AI in marketing speak). Vast network of simple nodes that together complete complex tasks.

So what if you put slime mold up against ai?

What if the mold won? What if it turned out nature already perfected scalable neural networks and called them Fungus?

What if then people relied on the decisions of the fungus more and more

We can’t build a model that perfectly recreates the decision making patterns of the slime mold. It consistently beats our most advanced models (and massive simple models). There is something special with the mold

Something Divine

Questioning the decisions of the mold goes from unpopular to sacrilegious. The mold handlers are a religious political sect— the enforcers of the mold’s will.

Antibiotics are viewed as holy fire— penicillin is made from the blood of a god and has the power to kill a god

Fermented foods take on religious importance (reflective of the mold’s power of transformation)— all cultured food must be served raw though. Cooking kills the bacteria, and ruins the symbolism of eating a living god so that they can live on inside the vessel of your body

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Unlucky Kevin

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Who’s that?”

Jib looked up from his lunch platter and followed the direction of Tiy’s nod to the lone human sitting at alone in the cafeteria.

“Ah, that’s right,” Jib remarked as he returned his attention to his food, “I forgot you just transferred in so you wouldn’t know the most famous human on the ship.”

“You need to stay away from them at all costs.” Jib finished as he took a bite of the Tunga sticks.

“Why? I heard humans are friendly.” Tiy remarked as her interest was now peaked. “They do not look like they are dangerous.”

Jib shook his head. “You don’t get it; that’s “Unlucky Kevin”.”

“What?”

Tiy snickered at the name but stopped when Jib’s expression did not soften. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am.” He replied coldly.

“What makes them unlucky?”

“Everyone around him dies.”

Tiy leaned over to look at this Kevin but Jib moved himself into her line of sight blocking her.

“Don’t even look in his direction.” He cautioned. “You don’t want to be caught in his death field.”

The look of confusion must have chipped away some of Jib’s nonresponse as he set down his fork and decided to explain further.

“That human is called Kevin Donger. He originally served in the 113th tactical terran  legion when the campaign started.”

“The 113th?” Tiy replied, “But I thought they all died during the failed drop on Morgus III?”

Jib shook his head. “Everyone but Kevin did. He was the only survivor and was then transferred to the 43rd mechanized terran legion.”

Tiy’s eyes widened at this news. “Didn’t they-“

“-get wiped out during the Springs Offensive on Hape Prime; all of them but him at which point he was transferred to the 800thdrop force.”

“Who-“

“-got annihilated at the final siege of Ogmar Fortress on Ceptus IV.” Jib cut in yet again.

Tiy sat in silence as Jib rattled off several more distinguished terran formations that this Kevin had been transferred to, and each having fallen to a terrible fate on the battlefield. At the end Tiy sat in silence and only now began averting her gaze from the human as the circumstances finally seemed to catch up to her.

“If this is true,” Tiy spoke softly, “why is he still at the frontlines and on our ship?”

Jib shrugged. “Word was he is being sent to his new assignment on Keff V and we were the only ship heading there.”

“Does that not mean we are in danger of dying as well?” Tiy remarked as from the corner of her eye see saw the human getting up and begin to leave the cafeteria.

“I pray to the gods that we are-“ -------------------------------------

“This is Captain Morris; we’ve found the wreckage of the Temen Song and are beginning our search for survivors.”

Looking out from the bridge view screens Morris was not hopeful of the last part. Strewn across the empty void of space before his ship was the blasted remains of a Terengi transport ship. Its hull was breached in several dozen places and it looked as if its engine components had violently torn themselves free from the vessels superstructure like rockets fired from a launcher.

“Any idea what could have done this?”

Morris nodded sadly at his second in command’s question.

“Judging by the layout of damage I would wager a jump drive failure while they were in transit.” He pointed to the deep gouges that ran along the hull of the vessel. “The engines overloaded and traveled faster than the vessel was capable of keeping up and as a result the engines dislodged themselves from the ship and pulled several power conduits out along with them like removing veins from a body.”

His second nodded. “The sudden exit from jump transition coupled with unstable power fluctuations would trigger a critical overload of the power core.” She remarked as the pieces finally fell into place. “If that is the case I’m surprised even this much of the ship is left intact.”

“I’ve got a life sign reading.”

The pair turned from their command platform and looked over at the scanning officer. “I’m reading one life pod at coordinates 237-954 by 716-719.”

With a nod from Morris the screens of the command deck shifted to focus on the new location. Drifting amongst the wreckage was indeed a lone life pod, battered but fully intact.

“How many onboard?” Morris asked.

The scanning officer took a few moments to confirm his readings before replying “Only one sir; and they’re human.”

[hihellomy]

How some characters would go about courting Paimons mama

VENTI:

-you would pick up on your daughter calling Barbatos,The god of freedom,the anemo archon,"tone deaf bard",made you hold in a laugh not be disrespectfull

-Venti will think that you agree with him being tone deaf and feel sadness wash over him,do you not like his songs? He'll be better at them he promises!

-god your daughter knew that she would get away with it,not just cause shes a child,but cause shes your child

-you reassure him dont worry and his happy

-but man dudes is love starved

-he clungs onto you like a new born (if you allow him to even be near you)

-Paimon isnt too thrilled about him acting like hes your kid,she is,you came down here to reunite with her

-Paimon wouldnt mind a second parent,that means more love,and you'll be happier (you did tell you wouldnt leave her again)

-but Venti? Yeah no,mans has to prove himself one way or another

-he will sing Paimon and you so many songs

-spoil you with everything he can (he admitted being Barbatos to be able to have VIP acess to you like all the other archons and important people)

-Paimon and him share a playfull tone and would absolutely mess with others,so this might actually work

-what do you say your grace? Venti is already worshiping you like never before

ZHONGLI:

-1# follower comin' throught

-hes so polite and devoted,being your slave would be such an honor to him,but being your husband? Your daughters father?

-he doesnt care who he has to go through

-Paimon doesnt know if she wants a dad whos so bad with the literal thing he made from his hands

-Zhongli will serve you and praise you theres no tomorow,Paimon aswell

-hes telling her the best tales he knows,spending way too much on food and toys (thats more like a point for childe but-)

-his shield is on him 24/7 with either of you with him in the wild

-but like you have power over all the elements and slay so like dont know why he does this but oh well

-he is and always will be your most devoted your grace, isnt that worth something?

CHILDE:

-spoils you and Paimon

-Zhongli isnt getting that much money from him cause now hes competiton

-Paimon and Teucer deffinetly are having playdates to get to know eachother and have fun

-they might end up being family if Childe succeds after all

-Paimon didnt like the idea of you marrying a fatui harbinger,so childe is on thin ice

-but Paimon is only so young,she could be convinced easily

-he is such a family man,hes perfect to be her father and your lover

-hes killed so many in your name,and he will leave the fatui if you wish,just consider it

TRAVELER:

-this is probably the easiest and we all know why

-they were with your daughter for so long,no one knows them like you both do,its only natural

-Paimon will however go "oh come on! Not you too! Why is everyone so intrested in Paimons mom!?"

-after all you both have control over all the elements in a way,so theyre perfect

-you took them as a vessel for a reason,right?

-but abyss twin?

-alot of drama

-Paimon is gonna tell them that if they even wish to be near you,theyd have to reconcile and apologize to the traveler!

-"say less" Paimon isnt even able to finish her sentence

-but yeah things will be difficult but oh well

[enbyobeyme]

Vessel of the Gods.

In which MC is a lovecraftian God

Old writing, takes place in the og obey me, GN reader. This was made when the I game had like 40ish lessons so keep that in mind

You aren’t fully human. You may not be human at all actually, but your disguise is good, the Gods made sure of that. Since the day of your creation, it has been your job to be a vessel, a catalyst for higher beings. The God who created you was a kind one who thought that you were meant for something greater, and took a liking to its design. You stood by their side reincarnation, after reincarnation.

You have seen horrors beyond comprehension, Gods in higher dimensions. You have experienced being many different creatures ranging from a 50 foot Lovecraftian with trillions of eyes to a simple cat that helped guide young heroes along their journeys to save the world.

It has always been your job to serve the gods and to be a vessel for their spirit, or power. You guide them, speak for them, and even hold balance across dimensions for the Gods..You have spoken to and housed many gods and deities in your body before. It’s nothing new to you. You’ve met many good gods who are all about virtue and thank you for allowing yourself to be a comprehensible vessel to communicate with others. You’ve also met loathsome gods that you regret not kicking out or even killing with their cruel, prideful ways. Some even give you blessings with immense power as thank-yous that stay even into your next reincarnation.

Reincarnation has its drawbacks, however. Sometimes your memory resets to protect you from other Gods who want to know your secrets. All you know is to do the job you are assigned. Your memory always returns to you at some point. Sometimes towards the end of your life. Sometimes immediately.

Luckily, you started your life in this dimension with your memories off the bat, and in a human body. Whilst trying to do the job you were assigned, you were summoned to the Devildom much to your surprise. Being surrounded by demons nothing new. What was new is being able to be summoned by such weak demons. Curiosity came over you and you wanted to stay to understand this world. Your God allowed you to explore and understand this realm and allowed you to do your job of communicating with The Horsemen on the side.

Whilst doing your duties in the Devildom as an exchange student you also contacted The Horsemen of this realm. Pestilence or Conquest as they’re also called came to talk to you first. They were a creature that disguised themself as a simple plague doctor. They came to you in your dreams. They talked about their life as a horseman, their duties. It was your job to appease them, but Pestilence was already appeased from you listening to their story. Nothing needed to be done.

Diavolo was getting suspicious. He felt… more than one presence whenever you were near. You just ignored him and avoided him the best you can as you continued with your job.

Death was met in the RAD Colosseum. They were a disembodied echo in the abyss of nothing. No physical form. Only a constantly transforming voice.

Lucifer always wondered why you seemed to hang out around there to take ‘phone calls’ he never heard any other voice on the phone. 

Death just needed to be escorted to the Mausoleum. You did that easily. Mammon wondered why you wanted to explore the Mausoleum out of the blue.

Famine was a strange one. They disguised themself as a student, as their true gluttonous form was bigger than the devildom. She chose a feminine body to try to blend in but also stick out in the crowd of men you were always surrounded by. She invited you out on a ‘date’ to a more hidden side of town. Leviathan seemed to be jealous that you were going out to dinner with a girl. You felt bad for lying to him.

The minute you stepped into the building you were in another dimension. A huge dinner table stuffed to the brim with food. Famine was the opposite of Beel. She was always full and everyone around her lost their appetite, no matter how hungry they truly were. You both had a chat over dinner. She was kind and to the point. “I do not need anything. There is no need for me without an apocalypse,” you nodded “You only come with the aftermath of War don’t you?” “Yes… most of us do. War is the one who needs appeasing. War looms close over the Devildom. They are not even aware of it.”

That night you got the longest lecture from Asmodeus of all demons. You were gone for almost a full day. You really scared him you know? He thought your date had eaten you! You have to tell him everything. It killed you inside to feed him lies.

War was the only one that ‘possessed you’. In your head, War explained things how they were. If one mistake happens, all three realms would be involved in a devastating war. Your ‘death’ from Belphegor was bad enough, but now there is tension between Micheal and the Lords of the Devildom, along with you as well. You have pacts with all of them.

War was an odd one to house in your head. Their body was flickered between masculine and feminine, but every time you blinked you saw their true Lovecraft form.

War needed you to take them to Diavolo. War must stop this war, or this universe will fall apart.

The next day, you didn’t look like yourself at all. The aura you gave off was menacing and your eyes flickered like a fire. Lucifer knew at that moment that you weren’t you.

“I am sorry for lying to you all about what I am, but this is serious. War needs to speak with everyone.” Just like that, shadows seemed to surround you, and War began to speak. “There is a lot at stake. I need an audience with Diavolo. Now.”

In that moment, all the brothers were terrified of what you truly weren’t. You were far from human.

Lucifer

At first, he understandably very very pissed. You were lying this whole time? And not just any white lie, you made several bold-faced lies. Lucifer didn’t even want to be around you at first. It takes him a bit to understand why you lied

You were trying to protect them, and you were afraid they might hate you. You said something along those lines to him. Yes, you are technically human and you are in a weakened state since you are inside a human vessel, but still! He opened his heart to you, and you didn’t open yours.

After a while, it hits him. You’re a Lovecraft. That had feelings. Lovecraftians tend to be cruel. Lucifer remembers when you were first summoned how stiff and quiet you were. He also remembered that you seemed to hate the Devildom and not understand how things work socially. Mammon, oddly enough, still took a liking to you. You listened to him.

Lucifer thought you would make his precious little brothers sad at first. Honestly, Lucifer was going to threaten you if you tried anything. Then one day he saw you both in the RAD hall, you were smiling and trying your best to interact with Mammon, even if you didn’t really know how.

Lucifer realized that you truly did care about all of them. You weren’t a heartless liar using them, you cared so much about them that you (re)learned emotion. 

Lucifer seeks you out after that. He can’t imagine how you feel. You both kinda ‘started over’ except this time, he got to know the real you. The two of you became even closer. You even show off some of the abilities you earned. (Sometimes you use some of your abilities to rejuvenate him and help him relax)

He’s proud to have such a powerful Lovecraft by his side. He supports you in your work and loves to hear all the tales you have to tell. If you ever pass, he will wait for you to return to him in your next life, no matter what form you take.

Mammon

YOU WHAT.

He’s the most hurt out of all of them. You and him were best friends before everyone else! How could you hide this from him? Were you also lying about being his friend? He forgives you pretty quickly once you explain yourself. You do care, you are his friend, that’s why you kept yourself hidden! “Imagine all the other Lovecrafts who might go after you if they knew you associated with me. I have a lot of enemies Mammon, and I would never forgive myself if they hurt you to get to me.”

Mammon fell even harder. He asks all about the Gods you met. He’s also fascinated by all the blessings, and runes on your body and always wants to show you off.

Loves all the cool abilities you have and your kindness. Don’t think for a second he doesn’t stop protecting you. Yeah, you’re strong but your human form is still weak. It’s sweet seeing how much he cares about you. He also tries to teach you more customs you aren’t used to.

Mammon has a lot of questions about your work too. Once he learns how dangerous it is, he wants you to stop. “You can die? And it’s normal to die on the job?” “Yes but it’s rare and I will always be reborn.”

Mammon knows you can’t simply quit your job and that you have to save the world and all that but he worries. He becomes more affectionate with you. Whenever you have to go out on a job, he always makes sure to spoil you a few days before you leave.

When you come back, especially if you look a bit roughed up, he’s in full nurse mode. He really does love you and always will.

Leviathan

Leviathan was both amazed and terrified when he first found out what you really were. He was quick to understand why you kept it hidden. If you were anything else he would have been ecstatic, but you were a Lovecraft, one of the most violent creatures in the universe. You’re his best friend, you weren’t going to try and hurt them… right?

Lovecrafts were known to take over dimensions and cause endless torture and agony for anyone that comes near them. How were you different? Those worries are soon pushed away when you come up and held him close, apologizing for lying but reassuring him that you did care for him. That’s his Henry…

He asks you to show off your abilities the most. “Ooh mimic that” “transform into this” “do the thing again” he’s in awe.

Honestly a bit jealous of your abilities but you’re his BEST FRIEND. Who else are best friends with an incomprehensible god-like being? He still doesn’t know how he got this lucky either.

Speak to your God and ask them to allow you to travel a few dimensions over… Leviathan is ready to propose right then and there when you bring him an interdimensional first edition copy of TSL.

Satan

He’s less terrified in the moment and more mesmerized. You? A Lovecraftian Vessel? For the elder gods?

Its a once in a lifetime opportunity to be able to able to even get a glimpse at something this ancient and powerful, let alone talk to one. You may know or may know where to find all the secrets of the universe!

The realization kicks in after you and War have a private audience together where he’s left alone. You are a Lovecraftian. Lovecraftians are terrifying things with no compassion. Despite them not having empathy they will not hesitate to take over a universe if a fellow Lovecraft is harmed just to justify their cruelty. You could have just put on an act in front of them to gain their trust and end them while they’re most vulnerable.

Satan thinks back to every kiss you shared, every smile, every laugh- was that all a lie? Satan then remembers your development since you first came here, vs now. You even helped him mend his relationship with Lucifer. Those are not the actions of an evil Lovecraft.

When you come out and War leaves you, he gets caught up on what was said. He might as well gather information before he can confront you. He asks Diavolo everything. Satan is surprised at what he learns.

You don’t want anyone to get hurt? You want to save all three realms? You asked your God to stay here because you cared about them? Satan feels relieved but still needs to confront you. Satan doesn’t dance around the subject. “How do I know I can trust you?” “Because I was created with empathy..?” You cringed at your response, but what do you say? “Hmph… I guess I’ll trust you. For now” You just hugged him close for a long time listening to his heartbeat- you will never get over your fascination with mortals.

Satan asks a lot of questions like a giddy kid. “How’s your God like?” “How were you created?” “Why were you created?” “Why do you do your job?” “Do we know of your god?” ”What are you trying to achieve?” “What’s it like to reincarnate?”

He would love to meet a god or hop dimensions with you. Thankfully, your God helped you plan such an outing.

Asmodeus

EW. EW. EW. Lovecrafts are kind of ugly? How could he fall for one- well okay you’re an exception because you’re cute. Surprisingly, he’s the most chill with it? He’s more upset that you felt like you needed to hide. 

Despite rumor spreading that you may just be some world-eating scum. He can sense your emotions easily. He felt how much you care about others. How much you cared for him. You are definitely not some world-eater and even if you were he wouldn’t let go of you that easily.

You were the only one who loved him for him and not his looks, You were the only other person who he loves as much as himself. You see him as kind, sweet, passionate- all things he has never heard before. You were rare. You loved him.

Asmodeus will also try to stick up for you against his other brothers or calm them with a ‘well they haven’t hurt us, have they?’ he truly believes you are not evil. He asks you a lot of questions once you feel better from dropping the bomb on everyone.

He tries to ask you more… meaningful questions. What is your home like? Are you happy here? Are you happy doing what you do? How are you holding up? It has been a long time since someone you these kinds of things.

Asmodeus loves your abilities and all the stories and beauty hacks you picked up over the years. He hears that your God takes some time to redesign you and come up with something you would also like. Asmo keeps you in mind every time he designs something. No matter what form you take he will always be prepared to have self-care days that you both enjoy. Even after a long day of dimension-hopping, he’ll run a bath for you.

You plan on surprising him with your shapeshifting ability someday. He did say that he wanted to date himself after all...

Beelzebub

So… your kind can potentially hurt his family. He’s very conflicted. On one hand, he understands why you kept yourself hidden, on another, your lie could have gone wrong. Hells, you were possessed by war. You speak to gods! Gods that might want to hurt demons!

Beelzebub gives you the benefit of the doubt. You did warn them and try to help their realms after all. You also helped his brother and chose to forgive his twin, despite what he did. There’s no way you would hurt his family.

Beelzebub also gets super protective of you. While making your way to the castle with War possessing you, other demons figured out quickly that you weren’t human. Rumors spread quickly. Rumors of you trying to kill the prince, of you being dangerous. Some demons even wanted to see your fall. Beelzebub speaks out against the rumors and comforts you. 

“It’s okay I’m quite old you get used to it…” “You shouldn’t…” Beel doesn’t treat you any differently than before. You were family then, your family now. Beel is a bit more relieved that you’re stronger than you look.

You may be his new workout partner. With your abilities, you can help him get stronger, and also help with his hunger. Sometimes when he can’t sleep, you tell him stories of your past.

Being a dimensional being, you’re able to talk to your God and even the dead if they allow it. He cried when you were able to take him to see some past memories of Lilith in a different dimension. “She never blamed you, Beel. Even now, I can feel the love she felt for you.”

Belphegor

He didn’t like humans. He hates Lovecraftians. He also hates liars. But… he likes you… This was complicated. He doesn’t know how to feel. He tried to kill you, he lied to you. Why does he not know how to feel.

“MC… how are you related to Lilith?” “...” “MC tell me!” “I…” “TELL ME!”

You told him the truth. You traveled dimension through dimension. Where did Lilith go when she died? She was kicked out of heaven, became a human, and died with no way to hell. She came to your dimension- an infinite incomprehensible universe. She was a lonely spirit traveling where she met you.

You never met anyone like her, so brave and kind. You both got along well, she helped you with jobs, told you about her family and how much she loved all of them. How she missed them. Kindness towards you was rare, and you wanted to repay it. Your God also tried to help you repay it, you were their loyal subject. All that you could do, was to also give her the ability to reincarnate. So you did. Lilith can experience all kinds of universes and paths of life. Her soul rubbed off on you, hence why you are ‘related’ to her.

Belphegor wanted to try and kill you again in that moment. He knew he couldn’t but how dare you. How dare you not tell him. How dare you get to see her again? He was so, so jealous and would have attacked you if War possessed you again and held him still. Tears ran down his face and he screamed in frustration.

It takes a while after for him to calm down. He knows he acted out but he’s still racked with guilt and grief and he took it out on you- again. All he ever seems to do is hurt you. You came to him first, “She never, ever blamed you, Belphie. She loved you all so much…” Belphie eventually accepted it and for once, it’s like a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders. He grabbed you and held you close to him, sobbing and apologizing over and over.

That same year as you walked the streets of Devildom along side Belphie, you felt a... Familiar energy. Belphegor looked over at you, worried something was wrong. You held out your hand to the small cat that approached you. “Welcome home, Lilith"

Diavolo

He was a bit… Terrified. At first. He is powerful, but Lovecrafts are a few dimensions above him. He has seen refugee demons from other dimensions whose worlds were corrupted and destroyed. His father warned him to not deal with Lovecrafts- they are beyond reason and not worth the headache no matter how powerful you were.

Diavolo had suspicions that you didn’t seem to act much like a human, he just assumed it was fear or shyness from being summoned. He should have put it together sooner...The strange references and ways of speaking, the strange energies within you, the ancient runes that covered his body. How foolish of him.

When we saw your hollow vessel you called a body, possessed by War itself he was put in shock from the energy you gave. “Diavolo. It has been too long. Come. Let’s talk.” The last time he has seen War is when he was a child. His father had many meetings with War during the Celestial War brewing at the time.

Diavolo sat upon his throne, Barbatos at his side protectively, and looked down at you- at War as they began to speak. “Your universe is on the brink of absolute destruction. Interdimensional corruption infests your world. It will destroy everything from the inside. Soon, war will start between all realms as the universe collapses. This Lovecraftian vessel was sent upon your realm to protect it… Please cooperate with them, lest there will be nothing left…”

Diavolo wanted to ask so much, but as soon as War came, he was gone. Your body felt limp, runes lit up and dulled as the soul of War left you. Diavolo stared down at you carefully, gold eyed staring holes into your head. Could he trust you?

“Tell me what you need,” he spoke in a dull, uncaring tone, it was simultaneously demanding and bored. You nodded, “Corruption roots its way into people first, transforming them into beasts from the inside. They get hostile and attack, spreading the disease. I tracked down the source. All I need is your permission to eliminate them.” Diavolo waved his hand dismissively. It’s surprising how cruel he can be, you don’t blame him.

Diavolo gave you permission and dismissed you to do what you must. As you left for a few days to clean up the Devildom. He had some soul searching to do for himself. He was conflicted. He was taught Lovecrafts were never to be trusted, yet here he was now letting one in the Devildom. It took him time to reflect on everything. Diavolo refused to see the world through his father’s lens. He abandoned his own people.

Diavolo goes with his heart and trusts you. Once you come back from your duty, he calls you to his office. Once you’re there he asks you to sit with him. You both speak for a long time, sharing stories from times forgotten. You both open up to each other more. Diavolo then goes silent, thinking, before he thanks you, voice wavering. You saved his people yet again. He is in your debt. The conversation for the rest of the night was nice. It was great to finally talk about your home after so many years away from it. He jokes about your Deity being the God of the Devildom.

Diavolo throws a party in your honor, being sure to show that he has united not two, not three, but four realms. Diavolo now has a Lovecraftian warrior on his side, and he also defends your honor when he hears rumors and slurs being thrown at you. His people are understandably terrified- but that doesn’t mean you should be punished for sins you haven’t committed.

Diavolo grows… softer for you. He finds your abilities amazing and loves to hear you rant about your God/Deity and your culture, your home. It’s all so fascinating to him. You kinda become a knight of the Devildom, keeping balance between dimensions. No matter what you may have to do, what you reincarnate into, or where you go, you will always have a home in the Devildom.

Barbatos

How interesting. He did not at all see this coming. Barbatos had his suspicions that there was more to you, but he never expected… this… His liege comes first, however, and Barbatos makes sure to keep a close eye on you as he gathers his thoughts. He has never felt any ill-will or bad intentions from you at any point, but it never hurt to be cautious. For some reason, he felt a little hurt when he did so.

Barbatos liked you, he fell for you. He rarely got close to anyone. It was rare for him to fall in love or even be friends with someone unless he knew them for years and here you were- able to make him melt within a year. He was fascinated with the effect you had on him- but also disgusted. Like he got… soft. It was so strange to be by his master’s side as you- no- War spoke prophecies through your body about the end of time. He felt… numb in a way. You both were so close.

Barbatos didn’t want to lose that- He already had his time-traveling abilities which he rarely used so he could actually enjoy life as it went and he was happy he didn’t use them when you were around. You genuinely surprised him and excited him. He knew you were different from other Lovecrafts- you had to be. Barbatos was greedy and was not planning to let you go so easily.

You proved him right when you did everything you could to unite the realms when you solved the brother’s family issues when you took time out of your day just to thank him. Here you were- yet again proving him right by trying to protect his home.

Barbatos never bothered or asked about the Lovecraftian side of you. It never mattered to him then, and it won’t matter now, but he does love it when you talk about the dimensions. He can even relate to it sometimes with his time travel powers. Barbatos never traits you any differently- only now he knows that you don’t need protection.

He knows how hard your job must be. Interacting with a bunch of powerful being dimensions above you. You were also a servant in a way. You both got close cause of that. It was nice complaining and letting loose in the presence of each other with no need to be professional. He has always found your abilities useful and will ask if you can help him with more strenuous tasks. “You can lift about a few hundred times your weight right? Can you help me relocate the statues in the old colosseum?”

You even one-time shapeshifted into Barbatos when he was sick. You turned off his watch and his alarm and took over his tasks for the day as Barbatos slept in. When he woke up- he panicked until he saw himself across the room. The doppelganger shifted back. “Please- rest more I’ll take over for today…” He is… In love...

It’s a secret between the two of you but sometimes you take him a few dimensions over to show him all the strange teas, ingredients, and spices the multiverse has to offer. He now has a secret garden that only a few know about, filled with all the gifts you have given him.

Barbatos knows that it will soon be time for you to leave this realm, and to be honest, he is not ready for it. Barbatos knows that your job is important and that you both will meet again. When you’re gone he spends a lot of time reminiscing in the garden and tending to the plants.

He notices that a bird has gotten in and is also tending to the plants. He can recognize your soul anywhere. So this is the form of your next life? No matter the reincarnation you always meet him in the secret garden, and he always welcomes you back into his heart.

Luke

Fear. If demons were terrifying- Lovecrafts were worse. Demons may embody sin but Lovecrafts make them. Lovecrafts are dangerous. He knows. There have been many horror stories of angels who have never returned from scouting- or warriors who go off to fight an interdimensional interloper, just to find out it’s a Lovecraft. Angels have their wings torn and their halos bent if they are lucky, but most of the time they just become a hollow shell of an angel- corrupted by the presence of such a high being. Some of them are even more incomprehensible than God himself.

You were a Lovecraft- a monster in Luke’s eyes. That broke his heart. You were a sibling to him- his best friend. And you- you are the enemy? All the times you both hung out, baked together, the time you protected him from Lucifer, ready to fight to defend him- was it all a lie to get him to trust you? He… He needs to talk to Simeon.

Simeon does not give him an answer. Simeon told him that he could tell Luke how to feel about you- it was up to him. Luke refused to believe you were evil. You couldn’t be! But he will admit. He is young. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing. He didn’t know much about the horsemen.

He overheard everyone talking about the Lovecraftian exchange student- even rumors that you were trying to save the realms- then more about wanting to destroy it. Luke wanted to get to the bottom of it. He didn’t care if it hurt- he wanted the truth.

Luke took up the courage to go up to you himself in your room. He held himself together until he saw you when the door opened- images of your possessed body and you in front of him- ready to die for him flashed into his head. He burst into tears and buried his face into your shirt, his hands balling into fists as he grabs your shirt.

You hugged him close to you. “It’s okay Luke, I’m here, I did swear to always look after you, right little bro?” He sobbed harder. “Y-you-you? They… They all said that you were e-evil! B-b-but I KNOW it’s not t-true, right?! I know it is not!” Luke was ugly sobbing at this point. You cradled his head in your hands and hold him.

You told him everything- from your home, your dimension, your job, your deity, your intentions, and everything he wanted to know. Luke held onto every word. “I swore to protect you- and that means your home as well.” “I knew it! You were looking after everyone!” Luke sniffles and hugs you closer. You were the best sibling anyone could ever have. He really looks up to you.

Luke doesn’t understand everything at first and he may need some explanation. Your powers fascinated him. You end up shapeshifting a lot to impress him, or telling some very weird recipes across dimensions that you both make together to see if it actually works (most of it can put Solomon’s cooking to shame. Seriously eldritch horrors need some taste buds.

Sometimes, you watch over him from above or disguise yourself as an alley cat to give him a small boost in emotion he gets from a wild cat “accidentally” guiding him to where he was supposed to go. It takes him some time to understand other gods. Is it strange he wants to meet yours?

You do take him to see your interdimensional home in the stars where your god lay. Luke was fascinated by all. The creepy but oddly cute creatures, the beautiful but also endless landscape, time didn’t feel real, and sometimes if he thought hard enough, the area around him changes.

Luke is very much conflicted with your job and reincarnations. On one hand, you don’t die, but on the other, your job is very hard. He gets kinda grumpy about it, and when it is time for you to reincarnate, it gives him a sense of happiness that no matter what form he takes, you will be there to cheer for him.

Simeon

Ah. That’s… concerning… Lovecraftians… He is not going to judge you yet. You haven’t done anything yet. It wasn’t fair to blame you for the atrocities that your kind have committed. He goes to Diavolo and Lucifer first, asking about what happened. When he realizes that you are in a way, a warlock or vessel, he needs some time to think about it.

He doesn’t believe your evil. An evil person would not have helped him nor Luke, let alone mend the brother relationship and try and protect the Devildom. You also put your life on the line to protect Luke. Even if you were evil in the past, you at least are trying to repent and get better and he would help with that.

Simeon goes to you, ignoring all the rumors and warnings spread about you. “Ah, hello there MC. How have you been holding up?” “You’re here just to see if the rumors are true, aren’t you?” Simeon frowned, “I know you aren’t anything like the rumors say you are. I came to check up on you- I can’t imagine how you feel…” You hugged Simeon, face pressed into his chest and your hands enjoying the warmth of his bare back.

Simeon does admit he wishes you were a bit more truthful, however, he doesn’t blame you after watching the fallout from the Devildom knowing. Simeon comforts you for a bit. He decided to talk to you for a bit, asking some questions to ease his curiosity. Watching your expression sadden when you mention your home, makes him realize how homesick you truly were.

Simeon asks a lot about your Deity and your abilities. He finds it all fascinating and finds himself writing a new book series based around the things you told him- he finds it inspiring and it’s a step in the direction of people accepting you.

In a way, he relates Seraphs, Archangels, and all those ranks to your job. Simeon can’t imagine the pressure you’re under and all you have seen over the years. You even tell him about your ability to host gods in your body which he would like to try out. It’s up to you to show him. You tell him stories about reincarnation, he hopes in the back of his mind that when it is time for your departure, you may become an angel in your next life with him.

Until then, he will stay by your side and support you when you come back from a rough job. Simeon heals up any wounds you may have and lets you rest. You often thank him back by helping him sneak out from the Celestial Realm to take a break in your realm where you both have no worries. He loves to see all the strange creatures and cultures in your lonely home. Maybe you may carry his soul with you when his time comes.

Solomon

He has no fear or worries upon learning of what you were. He is the opposite, in fact, Solomon knows that you won’t hurt anyone, and it isn’t his first time dealing with something like this either. You’re old and knowledgeable, you most definitely are powerful as well, a strong ally to have. Maybe he can make a pact with you?

Solomon is still concerned for you though, you are his friend after all. You do seem down from all attention on you. He knows, however, that having someone pity and coddles you must be frustrating. He instead bothers you in a very Solomon way. Solomon comes over with some… ‘food’ he made you and decides to gossip with you.

“You know, you must have knowledge and all types of stories to tell.” You both ended up dragging and gossiping about certain gods and goddesses. “Fuck Zeus bro, he couldn’t take a hit and kept trying to get inside me in more ways than one!” You both had good laughs and made a lot of old jokes only the two of you would understand.

Solomon waits for you to calm down before he asks with his smug tone “You know, I would love to make a pact with you…” “I’ll… Consider it.” He jokes about making a pact with you a lot, having a Deity Vessel under your control would be helpful, especially with your ability to communicate with gods. You also share with him bits of forgotten knowledge, lost in time. You also tell him ancient cooking techniques in hopes he gets the hint. (he doesnt)

You do end up making a pact with him at some point. Throughout the years, reincarnation, after reincarnation, he is always able to summon you to him once again and you never tire of his antics. Even if you don’t remember him at first, you always end up falling for him time and time again. You both become a bit well known among those who study magic. Stories and tales of a powerful wizard and the incomprehensible eldritch horror traveling together and saving universes and going on dates at coffee shops ran by angels are spread around. You both are legends and monsterfucker icons.

He starts to also ask for your help with things a lot more- “This Arcane book filled with ancient knowledge is written in Tounges? Can you read it?” “This spell was never recorded properly and has a lot of missing pieces, can you go over it with me, I feel like you may recognize this.”

You and Solomon also travel through dimensions together a lot. Sometimes he asks you to take him to your world or to go with you on a job when you have to deal with some gods. In a way, you both become apprentices to each other. Solomon also offers to help with your reincarnation, he has a few spells to help keep your soul in a certain domain…

Either way, he is always there for you, and when his time comes, you will be there for him, ready to guide him through your dimension.

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Die Moosweiblein

Moss Women

Moss Women are female forest spirits from German legend. They belong to the poor souls.

Moos Women occur in Saxony, Thuringia, on the Saale, in Orlagau, in the Harz mountain, in the Vogtland, in Upper Palatinate, in the Bavarian Forest, in Franconia and Upper Franconia, in the Bohemian Forest, around Warnsdorf in the northern Czech Republic, in the Giant Mountains and in Westphalia.

Depending on the region, Moss Women have a different appearance. Most often, they are as short as a three to five year old child. They have an ugly appearance, often entirely covered in moss, and are hunchbacked. They appear to be very old with grey, wrinkled faces abd blackened, blind eyes. They have long black or white unkempt hair. Their voices are high-pitched and squeaky. They are always barefoot. They often carry brushwood in a pannier on their back or in their apron. They use a walking stick to support their unsteady gait.

Moss Women are living in the forest, where they are dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees. They are sleeping in beds from moss. They are living in large families and can have children from Wood Kobolds or humans. They like to bake delicious cake, and when they do, mist is coming out of the forest. When politely asked for, they serve the cake also to humans.

Moss women know herbs and are skilled at both sending and healing illnesses. If people mock them, they send them ailments. This can happen in a variety of ways. They can squeeze people so hard that they become sick and miserable, and they can sit on them so that they become lame. They can also breathe on them, which causes people to get bumps or ulcers on their faces. Moss women also have knowledge of the future.

Moss women reward people by giving them wood shavings or leaves that turn into gold. They also give balls of yarn that never end unless you deliberately look for their end, or webs and knitted items that bring luck and blessings into the house. The moss women also show their gratitude with well-intentioned advice and warnings. They also look after children in the forest, lead people out of the forest at night without getting lost, or help them find deer and roe deer antlers.

On the other hand, moss women steal bread and dumplings. They cannot tolerate caraway bread, however, which is why they cry out: caraway bread, our death. The same goes for "piped" bread, i.e. bread into which the tip of your finger has been pressed. They cannot touch counted baked goods either. On the other hand, the moss women rightfully own some of the hay cuttings and the water that drops on the rim of the vessel when scooped out, as well as some of the linseed, flax stalks, ears of grain and tree fruit, as well as the flour that sticks to the frame of the bucket and any leftover bread crumbs. Moss women allow people to gather wood in the forest if they first receive a piece of bread or a dumpling as a gift

Sometimes moss women help people with deeds and advice. They visit people's houses and do various jobs, for example they spin flax and wool at night, they scrub, feed, milk, mow, help with haymaking and harvesting. If moss women receive food from shepherds, they bless their cows, which then produce more milk. For craftsmen, they protect their tools from thieves. As household spirits, moss women bring luck and blessings, but also require to receive food offerings in return. They detest people's cursing and vices. They love silence, hate quarrels and curses, and are driven away by them, just as they disappear never to be seen again if they are given new clothes. Whenever bast is peeled from a tree, a Moosweiblein must die.

On the river Saale, the Buschgroßmutter (bush grandmother) is known as the queen of the moss women. Strictly speaking, the bush grandmother is the mother of the moss women (here: moss girls), with whom she travels around the country, usually in a small cart. She has messy hair and a fixed gaze. The bush grandmother is also a bogeyman. The bush grandmother also appears in Silesia, where she is called Pusch-Grohla.

[frogzxch]

Trueform!Sukuna x Servantgoddess!Reader

Summery:

Reader is basically in a servants body which is like her vessel in this era and she was secretly a goddess from another uni but unexpectedly she died in her world and got rebirth when the servant touch a red spider lily

Slight smut, fluff, death, didnt fully proof read huhu

Word count? I dont know

As always the two face man again killed a servant for a small mistake and you have to clean the body after it was getting annoying for you as you wish to go back to your home your own world but sadly you died as you already prepared the tools you will use for cleaning the body one of the concubine entered the throne room scared such a beautiful girl pure and innocent on the outside but yet naive and stupid in the inside the king of curses doted her alot Sukuna has favorite concubine and less favorite one

" There's my good girl come here... " Sukuna spoke on a soothing and velvety voice

The girl immediately go to him on his throne as he tap his lap the concubine sat on his lap obediently you already know what will come next the king will just fuck the life out of her on his throne again you can hear loud moans from the girl as Sukuna fucks her hard in her wet cunt the girl was blank on her mind as she is full of Sukuna large cocks it was discusting for you as you were done you silently go out of the throne room and in a insan you open the bag of the body and puke

" eww....god give me back my life jesus I can't take it anymore "

After disposing the body you proceed to go back and just do what servant usually do that is serving and helping and sleep and wake up early the cycle goes on and on your lucky enough to be alive. As days turns week and weeks turns into months you were desperate to go home and try to find a way every night you would cry silently in the room figuring out how to go back to your own world in peace...

" you servant girl I need you to pick up some fine kimono in the market hurry! "

Ahh the concubine who the king of curses loves only for pleasure her name was Yuri Ryomen she was getting on your nerves to as well sometimes you just wish your powers and immortality will be back so you can just kill this mf in peace bu sadly god punish you I guess as Yuri throws the golden coins at you, you just pick it up and bow then go out of the temple and head your way to the nearby village and go to a store after buying you notice Yuri was running at you in a scared expression she push you forward then you see a curse....a large one you look at her

" m-my lady please stay back "

In a instant she throws on a tantrum and scream like a child throwing a rock at the curse it was big and scary looking with four red glowing eyes looking like a shadow with smoke sharp teeths ready to bite it's prey but in the moment it seems familiar to you it was like your companion in your world with no hesitation you rush to the curse Yuri was in full shock but ran away as soon you go closer to it she left you but no worries to you once you touch the curse it recognize you and it communicates to you

" Y-Yn....I can't believe it it's you my lady! " it's voice echo's through your ears no one can hear it speak other than it's owner you smirk and felt much more confident

" My lovely companion such a lucky day to be with you again, I hope you don't miss me to much hm? " You pat it and it goes through your skin it was going in your body that you stole, you two became one it's like venom hihi you giggled and look around then just go back to the temple like nothing had happend.

Next day you haven't heard anything about Yuri it's like she disappeared from the world without a word as you serve the food to your master the king himself he quite senses something in you, you can sense his eye looking at you piercing deep in your soul " you.. " your heart start to beat so fast you raise your head " yes master? " Sukuna was still looking straight at you coldly " Come closer.. " you nodded and go closer to him as he stands up on his throne and goes to you he was 7th tall and damn the size difference " what is it my lord? " He brush the strands bothering your hair suddenly he leans closer he can see something deep in your eyes " You can't hide yourself from me my little flower " in a instant you froze and look at him " w-what... " he let out a deep chuckle " don't play dumb y/n....why do you keep hiding? First you got killed now your locking yourself up in this servant body? " he lifted you up with his upper set of arms and you hold onto his shoulder as his upper right arm cuped your small fragile face as the other upper arm kiss your left hand you we're totally confused yet felt strange " what are you doing...im confuse.. " you look at him with a confuse expression " dear....I will make you remember.... " and after cupping your face he gesture his right upper hand to your forehead and your true identity once again reveal your hair color changed and also your eyes and face to your goddess form....

At the end you live with him trying to process what happend....

Sooo yeeehhh plot twist the goddess yn was actually kuna late dead wife and kuna decided to look for a concubine and there is yuri, well Yuri basically got killed by him because in that curse scene he was there watching all along it was a test and when he found out abt you he instantly didn't hesitate to have you back to become his wife once again his queen his one and only love

[tastesoftamriel]

I have woken up sick in bed for the third day running and missing some childhood foods I grew up with in Southeast Asia. So of course the first thing my brain spits out at me are the Tamrielic origins of es puter (es poot-er, lit. "turned ice"), a traditional Indonesian ice cream. It looks like this!

Es puter is traditionally made by pouring sweetened or flavoured coconut milk into a metal or plastic vessel, which is submerged in ice and rotated periodically until an ice-cream texture is achieved. Some popular es puter flavours include sweet corn, ube, chocolate, and coconut.

While es puter is totally fine to eat on its own (it is served in little scoops at roadside vendors and you can buy them in tubs at the supermarket now), the true experience is when you turn it into a heaped sundae!

Es puter can be served with any number of toppings. Popular additions include small cubes of white bread (somewhat akin to bite-sized bread pudding), sweet corn, jelly, azuki beans, cendol, avocado, or sago pearls. It's often drizzled with a good amount of chocolate syrup to finish.

I'd like to call es puter an Argonian treat, made predominantly in more urban areas around and within Black Marsh like Lilmoth and Stormhold, due to the availability of alchemical ingredients to preserve the ice (like frost salts and saltpeter). That isn't to say that rural Argonians aren't fans of es puter, but ice mages can be a rarity out in the swamps, making this dessert a treat for travellers in bigger towns and settlements.

Other popular Argonian es puter flavours in Black Marsh include scuttlebloom nectar, banana, papaya, and seaweed. Top your scoops with some fresh tropical fruit, candied mealworm, and a dash of scuttlebloom nectar, and you have a cold treat of legendary proportions!

[seakicker]

hello i have returned w priest childe food

as ofc the reader is a naive nun, they had no idea what to do with this growing situation between their legs. in fact, reader believes that this was some sort of force was trying to tempt them away from their duties. considering how well they trust childe as he was the one who took them in, they go to him for help. little would they know, reader would end up bent over the podium, taking his massive cock over and over and over again while reciting a prayer of salvation that he deemed necessary for this ritual

yes yes yes, this indeed... it's easy to feed you lies when it comes to sex and intimacy when he's starting with a total blank slate. he doesn't have to go through the process of reversing or overriding what you already know when you don't know anything... he very well could convince you that children are made when two people who love each other hold hands lmfao

cw: afab + gn reader, reader is a nun and childe is the head priest. religious themes/talk, emotional manipulation, reader is Desperate for approval, dubious consent (reader consents but because of the idea of "i need to do this" rather than active sexual desire), abuse of power/authority, no foreplay/childe pushes into you when you're kinda dry

also crossposted to ao3 if you prefer to read content there.

It is not within a nun’s line of duty to indulge.

Your tiny little monastery bedroom is noticeably devoid of any furniture or decorations beyond your bed, desk, dresser, and bedside book compiling all of the church’s values and teachings in their service to the Tsaritsa. You get by with only what you must; you don’t waste your money on frivolous, unnecessary items to enhance your appearance or show off any sort of social standing. You sustain yourself with simple, basic foods like potato soup and bread; any food item more fanciful would be better either gifted to the homeless or to the Tsaritsa Herself as an offering. 

If you have the money to throw at purchases of expensive clothing, fine dining, or fancy interior decorations, then you have the money to donate to the church or otherwise put to better use than downright wasting it on yourself. 

Just as it is not their duty to indulge in the more tangible pleasures of mankind, a nun needn’t concern themselves with relationships outside of that of the one between them and the Tsaritsa. Needless to say, romantic and sexual relationships are explicitly forbidden— such depraved encounters only serve as distractions from your one true duty: your service to the Tsaritsa. 

Save for the Archon Herself, no figure has been more vital to the development and enhancement of your faith in the Tsaritsa and Her kindness, loyalty to the Greater Cathedral of Snezhnaya as a gesture of gratitude for all the kindness it has blessed you with, and insistence on always being the best representation of Her you can be than the monastery’s head priest Tartaglia. 

It’s hard to remember anything of note from your life prior to joining the Church— Tartaglia took you in about two years ago out of the goodness of his own heart as a member of the clergy; he mentioned that he is but a vessel for the Tsaritsa’s divine kindness and that it is his duty as a direct representative of her to pay that kindness forward. Turning his back on a destitute, helpless being, someone created in the Tsaritsa’s own image at that— you’re just as much a creation of Her as he is—like yourself at the time would have gone against everything the Church stands for. 

A whispered promise to deliver you from the vices and horrors of man and into the warm, loving embrace of the Tsaritsa was all it took for you to accept Tartaglia’s invitation to the Church. You would have accepted any offer of food and shelter at that time— whether or not it was simply luck or divine fate that it was Tartaglia who found you, cold and ill and alone, is beyond your comprehension. As far as you’re concerned, it’s both— who alive could show you more kindness than Tartaglia has throughout the past two years?

In addition to his otherworldly kindness, Tartaglia has shown you no shortage of patience since he took you in and insisted to personally teach you in the gospel of the Tsaritsa and personally train you in all the duties of a good, faithful nun. His affectionate nickname of “little lamb” has stuck with you ever since he first called you a lost one: a wayward, helpless, lost little lamb in dire need of the Tsaritsa’s— and his— guiding hand. He dressed you in the warm, soft dress and robes customary of all nuns, a massive upgrade from the tattered, worn clothes he found you in. When he had asked you if they fit your body comfortably, you didn’t tell him that they felt a little tight around your bust or your hips— beggars can’t be choosers, and all of his teachings of gratitude and thankfulness would go to waste were you to have the audacity to complain about a brand-new, clean, fresh outfit, wouldn’t they? Who on Tsaritsa’s green planet would even dream of complaining about anything when they previously had nothing?

You know better. Even if you didn’t know better before, you certainly do now— Tartaglia’s gentle guidance has taught you at least that much.

“Little lamb,” Tartaglia calls, resting a hand over yours as you go to flip a page in the Scripture book you’re holding. A chronicle of the Tsaritsa’s historical feats and accomplishments in addition to her dream for all of Snezhnaya, rather all of Teyvat, serves as the basis for the Church’s teachings, and Tartaglia personally ensures that you don’t fall behind on your readings by meeting with you every Monday evening. The desolate silence of the Cathedral after hours serves as the location for these studies— it allows you to immerse yourself in the grandiosity and significance of the Cathedral while you read. 

He clears his throat and repeats himself. “Little lamb, stay focused.” 

You smile sheepishly like a child caught sneaking a treat. “I’m sorry,” you offer, glancing over at Tartaglia’s gloved hand resting on your bare one.

He hums. “Something on your mind?” 

Ah. He’s always been able to see right through you— whereas someone else may have just concluded that you were growing bored of reading after having done so for three hours straight, Tartaglia deduces that your mind is elsewhere. He deduces not that you’re bored of the Tsartisa’s divine accomplishments because you’re a good, dutiful, dignified nun who would never, ever tire of hearing of Her feats. He can confidently assert that you’re everything a nun representing the Tsaritsa should be because he personally taught you everything you know.

Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Allowing your mind to wander when you should be focusing on Her teachings is mortifying enough, but being caught daydreaming by Tartaglia is leagues more humiliating. “It’s nothing, I promise. Surely nothing more deserving of my attention than our studies.”

Tartaglia hums again as if he’s in thought then moves to close your book, resting his hand on the front cover. “Well, if it’s important enough to distract you from our readings, then it has to be worth hearing out, right?”

You didn’t think of it that way. Finally forcing yourself to make eye contact with him, you take a deep breath to steady yourself and begin speaking. “It’s embarrassing, really,” you force a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood… or maybe it’s to distract you from the fact that the useless, wasteful wandering of your mind just caused Tartaglia to end your lessons early. 

“It’s just that I…” Your voice grows quieter and quieter the more you attempt to speak. 

Tartaglia leans in closer, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can say it, little lamb.” 

“It’s humiliating, truly,” you finally continue. “But recently I… I’ve been having thoughts in need of purging, sir. M-More frequently than usual— they’ve only grown in frequency and intensity since our last cleansing.”

Thoughts in need of purging or, in other words, sexual thoughts that you’ve been taught to never, ever indulge because nuns do not indulge in lust. At first, the thoughts were infrequent enough to the point where you could effortlessly ignore them— even just the slightest distraction buried these thoughts completely. You could opt to sweep the Cathedral or tidy up your quarters and the thoughts would be gone just like that. 

The timeline gets fuzzier the more you attempt to recall it, but you guess that those thoughts first appeared about three months or so following when Tartaglia first took you in. You didn’t actually confess them until about six months into your mentorship under him, and he was quick to offer you a method to truly purge— not just suppress— your mind and heart of these lustful thoughts. 

However, those thoughts have yet to be truly purged. You must be broken— the thoughts have only increased exponentially following each and every cleansing session; whenever you and Tartaglia finish, your thoughts only grow more intense than before and you find yourself caught between the shame of confessing your moral degradation and the guilt of living silently with your thoughts. The idea of confessing that despite all Tartaglia’s patience and kindness with you and the cleansing rituals, your thoughts have only grown lewder and darker and nastier… how would that make you look? How could you ever look him in the eye and tell him that you fear you’re getting worse despite all his attempts to help you get better? 

Despite your internal conflict, you always, always confessed— you’ve probably had about seven of your private cleansing sessions with Tartaglia now. He taught you to never keep sins a secret, whether you actually acted on them or not. 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment— the minute of silence feels like thirty years and you begin to brace yourself for the firm scolding you deserve rather than the warm understanding he continues to undeservingly spoil you with. You wouldn’t be upset if he were to reprimand you or punish you for your incessant sinning— it’s what you deserve more than you deserve even an ounce of his kindness. 

That scolding never comes, however, and once those metaphorical thirty years have passed, he clears his throat, removes his hand from yours, and leans back in his seat. “I understand, little lamb. I’m glad you’re being honest about it.”

“Hey, look at me,” he coaxes. You didn’t even really notice that your gaze fell down to your lap rather than looking up at him until this request; surely it would have been more polite and sincere of you to look him in the eye while confessing the depths of your sins. 

“I’m sorry,” you rasp, hesitantly (and finally) looking him in the eye per his request. “I’m so sorry, sir. You’ve been doing so much to help me curb these thoughts and they still… I still…” 

He shushes you with a soft shh, taking your hand in his once more and smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Sweetheart, it’s my job to help you and guide you. You know that. If I were the type to give up on you for failing once or twice or even a hundred times, what kind of mentor would I be? Little lamb, our cleansing sessions are important to me because I can see that you’re improving.” 

His kindness knows no bounds. Whereas he could have chosen to curse you or damn you for your incessant lustful thoughts, he instead expressed patience and understanding. 

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man. 

“I guess that means another session is in order, huh, little lamb?” Tartaglia prompts you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “We’ll continue our readings tomorrow once you’re… less distracted.” 

You laugh hesitantly, having been reminded of the utter humiliation of interrupting your weekly readings before you finished them by being too busy having lustful thoughts instead. You slowly rise to your feet and make your way over to the center podium where Tartaglia conducts all of his sermons— your cleansing rituals always take place right here because it’s, in his words, the holiest place in the entire monastery. 

You’re mortified. Humiliated. Here you are, a stupid wench of a nun who can’t seem to learn how to properly behave despite all of Tartaglia’s attempts at helping you. How long will you continue to test his patience, reverse his efforts, and take advantage of his kindness? When will you ever, ever learn? 

The sound of Tartaglia’s chair sliding against the cool marble floor alerts you that he’s ready to begin as well. He makes his way over to you and stands just behind you, a strong hand settling reassuringly on your hip through the thin cotton of your floor-length standard dress. 

He chuckles in a manner you’ve never heard from him before. There’s an unsettling sort of darkness in the way he laughs, his right hand gripping your hip and the left seizing hold of your chin to turn your head slightly towards him. Were you in the position to even dream of questioning him, you would probably find yourself unnerved by the sound— but you are in no position to doubt the man who’s shown you nothing but kindness since the day he met you. When you’re a lowly, sinful, wasteful little nun, you don’t have the right to doubt a man leagues more powerful, wiser, and well-versed in the Tsaritsa’s teachings than you are. 

These are not the depraved cackles of a man outside of the Church’s influence staking claim on a pliant, unwitting toy. Tartaglia would never steer you wrong, he would never do anything outside of your best interests as an aspiring member of the Church, he would never hurt you. 

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man. 

He caresses your chin and hums a hymn you recognize from his sermons. “I must admit,” he whispers, gazing at you with an expression you couldn’t begin to decipher— it’s some mix of rueful bitterness, anticipation, and sadism. “I’ve been guiding you for two years now, and to see progress this slow… it does make me wonder if you’ll ever learn,” Tartaglia breathes against your lips, grinning salaciously in a way wholly unbefitting of a priest. “It’d be wrong of me to deem one of the Tsaritsa’s subjects a lost cause, but…”

Chuckling again, he releases your chin from his grip and traces a thumb up the swell of your cheek. Is he checking for tears? “But you?” He finally continues. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re even able to be redeemed. If it’s gotten to the point where you can’t even focus on your usual readings… maybe you’re just not cut out for this sort of thing, huh?”

Practically immediately following the last syllable that leaves Tartaglia’s mouth, a pained gasp escapes you and your eyes go wide with a sort of frantic horror. “No! Please, no, I’ll do— I’ll do anything!” Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you beg him, plead him, implore him to help you— you really, truly would do anything to remain in the Tsaritsa’s— no, in his— good graces. 

He says nothing when you drop to your knees before him in a desperate display of submission, clumsily knocking one of your feet against the base of the podium. A tear falls from your eye and you don’t stop your body from throwing itself at his feet, clinging to the sweeping skirts of his robes like a lifeline. “Please, sir,” you wail pathetically, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing as if your filthy, self-victimizing tears will wash away the grime of your sins. 

While not undeserved even in the slightest nor totally unexpected, his sudden cruelty has you feeling more terrified than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life. Has he finally run out of patience? Has the dutiful, kind, intelligent Tartaglia who took you in when you didn’t have even a single mora to your name grown fed up with your stagnating progress? Have you gone backwards despite all the sessions you’ve gone through with him? Is he beginning to view his decision to take you in as a mistake? Is he going to brand your salvation a fruitless endeavor, forsake you, and throw you back out onto the streets of which he first plucked you from?

No. You won’t let that happen. He’s given you so much and you won’t let all of his time and efforts go to waste— you will improve. You will not simply indulge in his kindness while keeping it from changing your heart; you will take his teachings and allow yourself to be born anew as the spitting image of a follow of the Tsartisa. 

“Please forgive me,” you wail weakly, throat already feeling hoarse. With your mind gone and your desperation controlling your body’s autopilot feature, you bury your face in the fabric of his robe and continue to cry and cry and cry. 

Unbeknownst to you, Tartaglia smiles. 

“I forgive you,” he notes simply. “But you’re not trying to earn my forgiveness, are you? You’ll need to work for Her forgiveness if you’d like to really show me what a sweet, dutiful nun you can be. 

I forgive you, he said. You suck in a shaky breath and do your best to quiet your body-wracking sobs into tiny, pitiful hiccups and coughs instead. Tartaglia looks down at you with all the empathy of a stranger passing a wounded animal on the street and you buckle against him, your arms wrapping around his legs. 

“Let’s not waste any more time, alright?” Tartaglia says with a grin, prompting you to bashfully apologize again and clumsily rise to your feet. He doesn’t need to ask you to bend yourself over the podium because you know the process plenty well by now— the cleansing ritual involves partaking in behavior nuns are typically required to swear off, so if that fact alone doesn’t inform you of the desperation of the whole situation, nothing will. If Tartaglia deems it fit to break your vow of celibacy— and you would never even dream of questioning the logic behind this— in order to purge you of your sins, then you’ll accept no matter what. 

He hums in approval at your obedience. You catch on quickly… it’s a shame that you don’t truly internalize his teachings and learn quickly. 

“It’s okay, little lamb,” he reassures you, gently clutching your dress and lifting the fabric slowly until he’s exposed your ass to the cool Cathedral air. “You’ll do well tonight— just as you always do, right?”

You will. You’ll do so well tonight. You’ll behave and perform better than you ever have because you need to— it’s one thing to mess up your first time and a whole different thing to mess up your eighth time. You won’t let Tartaglia’s guidance go to waste, you won’t allow yourself to go to waste so long as he sees potential in you, and you won’t give up as long as Tartaglia continues to view you worthy of molding, changing, and shaping into the ideal nun. 

It’ll be okay. 

It’ll be okay. 

It’ll be okay. 

Slowly working your white panties down your thighs, Tartaglia gently parts your legs wider by knocking his foot against your ankles, all but kicking you open to give him some room to work with. You don’t feel as wet this time as you have in past sessions… does that mean your body’s ridding itself of all your sin and lust? He taught you that wetness is a sign of your body’s cravings, and if you’re no longer growing wet… that’s a good thing, right? The thought alone fills you with hope that you are not, in fact, a lost cause. 

The initial push of Tartaglia’s cock into your entrance hurts. You don’t deduce that it’s because you’re not all that wet this time— no, you decide that it’s because your sins are finally leaving your body and because nothing worth having ever comes easily. The pain is a sign that the ritual’s working as far as you’re concerned… and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief amidst your whimpers of pain as he continues to push inch after inch of himself into you. 

“Thank you,” you wheeze as your body attempts to relax around him. “Thank you for taking pity on me and… guiding me.” Just as you bent over his podium without being asked, you clasp your hands together in prayer before Tartaglia can ask you to— if you want to show him how obedient and receptive to his teachings you can be, it’s now or never. 

It hurts, but you don’t complain. Why would you ever complain when he’s trying to help you? Why would you complain when this is surely your body’s way of notifying you that your sins are leaving it?

“There you go,” Tartaglia grunts, cursing under his breath because you’re so fucking tight— he’ll have to remind himself that you’re not really one he can skip foreplay with, especially not when you’re this much of a wreck. “I knew you could do it, little lamb. I’ve always believed in you, you know. I’ve always thought that you’re special.” 

You barely have the mental capacity or rationality to compare these praises to his prior comments about you potentially being a lost cause. 

Your body adapts quickly enough— the stress of the somewhat dry entrance causes your body to quickly overcompensate, producing enough juices as possible in a limited timeframe in order to allow Tartaglia a relatively comfortable slide in and out of your pussy. He figures that nerves are to blame (or thank, in his case?) for your sudden insane tightness, your pussy squeezing up so tight he can barely manage to pull out. Oh sweet Tsaritsa, he thinks with a sleazy grin. This sort of nun is the best there is. 

“Your prayers, little lamb,” Tartaglia reminds you, grinning when you gasp out another apology for being so pitifully forgetful. It’s a prayer he himself wrote just for this occasion; just for you— that should prove the depths of his love and concern for you enough, right?

Nodding your head in understanding, you bow your head down to hang between your arms. “My Royal Highness, the divine Tsaritsa,” you begin quietly, crying out for Tartaglia when he blesses you with a thrust so deep you feel it all the way in your belly. “I plead for Your forgiveness. Forgive my transgressions and pardon my sins. Though I—” 

A moan of Tartaglia’s name falls from your lips and cuts your prayer short. Your priest seizes hold of your hips and all but jackhammers into you from behind, slaps resounding throughout the empty Cathedral as you pitifully attempt to complete your prayer amidst the sinful, sinful pleasure Tartaglia’s drowning you in. 

“Though I,” you repeat yourself, starting the sentence from the top. “Though I may be imperfect, and though I may act in ways unbefitting of a pupil of Yours, I beg for Your forgiveness.”

Another hard thrust has you faltering, and you fight off your instinct to unclasp your hands from their prayer position and grab at the podium for stability. Tartaglia’s hands grip your hips harder and harder to the point where you swear you can feel his fingernails through the fabric of his gloves.

“I vow to always act in a way befitting of Your image.” You squeeze your hands together so hard they begin to shake, your breath coming to you only in staccato gasps and strained whimpers. “Amen.” 

As you finish your prayer, Tartaglia hums in approval from behind you and rubs his hand over your ass in a soothing gesture. “There you go,” he praises. “You did such a wonderful job. I told you that you grow better and better the more sessions we have… perhaps we should make these part of our weekly routine rather than sticking to a case-by-case basis, hm?”

Whatever it takes to reach salvation and prove yourself to him. He’s such a busy, busy man and him taking time out of his schedule to read Scripture with you is already more than you deserve, and here he is, offering to cleanse you of your sins weekly and keep you at your absolute purest. 

Would it be sacrilegious to claim that Tartaglia’s kindness surpasses that of even the Tsaritsa Herself?