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najia-cooks · 11 months ago

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[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.

#Palestine #Israel #vegetarian recipes #Palestinian #falafel #chickpeas #sumac #onions #garlic #parsley #cilantro #dill seeds #sesame seeds #tahina #yoghurt #long post /

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ender-girl-13 · 10 months ago

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Thoughts on Palworld

Leave it to the internet to miss the entire point of people disliking Palworld. It's not because they are taking money from Pokémon. It not because they think Pokémon but with guns is stupid. IT'S ABOUT ARTISTIC INTEGRITY AND ORIGINALITY! Some of the Pals are just blatant rip-off's/fusions of existing Pokémon. If people try to steal Pokémon's designs and actually sell that as a commercial product that may give the impression that it's ok to steal others art and encourage it! If all of the Pals they made were original I would love to play it!

P.S

Apparently the accusations of them ripping Pokémon models was false. (Sorry about that) But they did basically do the 3D modeling version of tracing which is still bad. Also I've watched more videos on this game and it is very POSSIBLE they have stolen fan Fakemon designs and changed them up a little which is still shitty of them.

Again I will reiterate I would love this game and it's success if it wasn't so creatively bankrupt and plagiarized.

Here are some alternative Pokémon-esce games to play!

Cassette Beasts - Try to find you way out of this land and transform into and fuse Beasts!

TemTem - Very cute art style and can play online with other people! Also has a Nuzlocke/Randomlocke Mode.

Ooblets - Have card dance battles with other Ooblets and have them help you on your farm. You can also run your own shop!

Coromon - You're a newly minted Battle Researcher and your job gets attacked on your first day of work! Track down the invaders and discover the rising threat around Velua! Has different difficultly modes and customization.

Monster Sanctuary - A Monster Taming Metroidvania Sidescroller

Here are some Pokémon fan games to try!

Reborn - Has decent difficulty/One of the most difficult fan games I've come across. Has new Pokémon Forms

Uranium - Original Region and Pokémon

Insurgence - Has an option for a slightly darker twist on the traditional Pokémon story. Has new Pokémon/Forms

Xenoverse - Haven't play or watched it but looks very promising. Originally in Spanish but has a English translation as well.

Phoenix Rising - Still in development and only has one episode. Has new Pokémon Forms and amazing art and visuals

Red Adventures - From what I've seen it seems to be a game version of The Pokémon Adventures Manga

Castaway - Your plane crashes and you are left to discover the secrets of a mysterious island.

Mewyou - A game where you play as Mew!

Axis - You are teleported from our world to the Pokémon world/You're still human

Ethereal Gates - Still only a Demo at the moment/Unsure if they are still making it

I will add more to this list if asked!

#Ender's Thoughts - Pokémon

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illyabata · 1 year ago

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scars are A Thing™ with wriothesley and nobody can convince me otherwise, idc if there is zero mention of his scars or their meaning when he comes out idc it’s my permanent headcanon that scars and their stories are simply entangled with his character idc

so now i give you: wriothesley who is fascinated by your scars

tw: discussion of scars lol, but in no way do i indicate their origin unless it’s stretch marks. however if talk of scars at all is triggering to you, dont read!! it’s sweet fluffy stuff, but that doesn’t matter if it will trigger you. please take care :)

sfw, big brainrot under cut

theyre so much smaller than his, more delicate, just like you. doesnt matter if compared to other people you are big or tall, he’s such a big guy that he makes you feel small no matter your size or height. and no matter what your scars look like to you, to him they are beautiful. to him they are delicate.

he’s enamored by all of your scars no matter their origin—stretch marks, however, seem to intrigue him the most of all. he’s absolutely transfixed by them, and you can never understand why. he’s simply mesmerized by the way the blemished skin stretches as he thumbs and presses it, watching the discoloration flatten itself only to bloat back when he leaves it alone. for some reason he just seems so puzzled by the concept of natural scarring of the body; nothing had happened to harm you for these to appear—they’re simply the product of change, your skin either going through rapid periods of expanding or shrinking. he thinks they’re pretty.

he’d spend so long just running his rough fingers over your skin, absorbed in the feeling of the puckered tissue under his own blemished hands. whether the scars are stretch marks or from something else, he loves them, he loves you.

this might sound weird but i just like to imagine you both spend time gently tracing each others’ scars as comfort, like it sounds weird in words but it makes sense i promise. there is something intimate and fascinating about scars, no matter what they’re from; it’s truly like the language of your body’s history, a record of what has occurred. you can resent them or be proud of them, it really depends on the person and situation—but regardless, scars are always a record, and that is a constant no matter the person.

and if you’re not comfortable with that level of touch or that much attention on your scars, that is absolutely okay. he’s not going to make you uncomfortable, he’ll always ask if it’s okay before he looks at or touches them—or touches you at all, really. he never wants to hurt you. and if you say you’d rather he not touch your scars, he’ll understand and just show you he loves you—all of you—in some other way.

like idk about anyone else or if its just me and im fucking insane but sometimes i get lost looking at my own scars; sometimes the human body at work is just kind of fascinating to watch, and even more so in retrospect. it’s like holy fuck you’re looking at its handiwork, you can plainly see how the skin has been so masterfully rebuilt into this little woven bandaid of cells, carefully crafted to not only rebuild but protect. your body has looked after itself, and it will continue to do so. and thats just kind of a fascinating thing to me idk😭

some extra thoughts about scars, not really to do with wrio; red brackets will indicate the end of it if you want to skip: [[ it usually replaces any feeling of disgust i have because instead of focusing on the bad feeling of remembering where they came from or being sad at the way they look im able to think about how cool it is the way my body recovered and made my skin even stronger; it didnt just wipe it all away and give me a clean slate so i could forget, it pieced the cells together again bit by bit until it had not only replaced the wound but enforced it—so instead of forgetting the bad feelings, they were replaced by wonder. sort of like a sign that says “proof that where once there was pain, now there is strength”. it’s kind of like how they say you don’t just try to quit bad habits, you must replace the bad habit with a good one. you can replace the bad feelings associated with your scars with new feelings, whether they are good feelings or neutral feelings or meh feelings. ]]

before you, he understood scars to be an ugly thing—a source of shame, a show for others to marvel at if he left them uncovered, for them to ogle at and whisper about as if trying to guess the origin of the wounds was a sort of entertainment to them. and then in the fortress of meropide, his scars felt much less like a source of shame and more like an intimidation factor (which wasn’t something he necessarily felt good about, but it was something that he benefitted from as the duke). but when you came along and he began to know you, suddenly they were this beautiful, fascinating phenomenon that lead him to view his own scars in a different light.

he’s a powerful, strong man, yes. he’s intimidating and feared, but he is also loved, and all for good reason—he is solid and safe, an image of reliability to others. and sometimes it could weigh him down when he couldn’t seem to let another help carry the burden.

the way you made him feel, though, tracing his big ugly scars like they were rivers, like they weren’t repulsive—it changed him entirely, and it changed the way he saw himself. in the overworld, he was a criminal brute slathered in the proof of his savageness. in the fortress, he was the rock-solid standard for redemption, and he had to uphold his firm reputation. but with you, he was able to be fragile; with you, the walls he had built to protect himself from both sides of fontaine’s society came tumbling down, because he didn’t have to pretend when he was with you.

if such a small, sweet thing like you could see him in such a kind light with so much love in those eyes of yours, perhaps he was not so bad after all.

everyone else in all of teyvat could believe he was truly a bad guy like he sometimes enjoyed playing at—but it wouldn’t matter, because there you were in his bed every night, held fast in his big arms as you mindlessly traced the long, thin writings engraved in his skin, letting the stories they told lull you to sleep.

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley fluff #genshin impact #wrio x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin wriothesley #genshin x reader #mbj.write

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elspethdekarios · 7 months ago

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Random Gale Dekarios Headcanons

Hello I'm just thinking about That Man again

These are all SFW and just mundane life-after-tadpole thoughts.

Gale's home is clean but he is messy. The dishes are done, scented candles are lit, linens are laundered, but my man's got shit everywhere. Parchment, books, and quills are scattered in the areas he finds himself working in most often. Potion bottles in disarray. Random trinkets throughout the house. Grooming products cluttering the bathroom sink. He's very diligent about making his bed every morning, though.

Once he and tav have settled down post-game, his favorite thing to do is surprise them with breakfast in bed. He gets up extra early and goes all out on creating a tray of food--making their favorite tea, eggs exactly how they like them (extra butter, though, always), pancakes or some sort of pastry he can whip up quickly, and a vase holding a flower plucked from the window planter. He does this at least once a tenday.

Gale was worried his tower would be in the same depression-mess state as he left it once he brought tav home. He spent the journey home apologizing in advance for the disarray and promising that he's not a slob, he swears, it was just a difficult time. Tav, of course, assures him that there's no need to apologize, and that they'll help him clean the place up once they get there. Once they arrive, he cringes as he opens the front door, only to be taken aback by his home looking perfectly normal and clean. A grin spreads across his face as Tara stretches from her cushion in the window. ("Honestly, Mr. Dekarios, did you think I'd continue to live in such a state?")

He carries around a small portrait of tav in his pocket. Origin of this hc here lol

I know in the epilogue, the orb and all traces of it are completely gone, but I like to think that it left a scar. In certain lighting you can see that it's not just on his skin like a tattoo, but it's almost carved into his flesh, like a scar. I'm sure Mystra could smooth the skin where the orb was like it never happened, but we all know she's a petty bitch, so I think it's reasonable to think she could have taken the scar away, but chose to leave it as a reminder of Gale's mistake. The dark, weaving swirls have turned pale pink and translucent. Tav likes to mindlessly run their fingers over it while they lie in bed at night.

Speaking of, you cannot tell me the orb doesn't leave Gale with some sort of chronic pain, even after it's cured. I'm sure it's not as intense as the arcane hunger he felt before, but there are bound to be days where he's just very lethargic or dealing with lingering pain/discomfort similar to what he felt before the orb was dormant.

On a lighter note--he always has music playing in his home. Whether it's the piano in his study or an enchanted lyre he's charmed to float around in the kitchen as he cooks.

#gale #bg3 #gale headcanons #text

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xenosagaepisodeone · 6 months ago

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For the last 2 weeks I've been transfixed on a strain of lost media I've come to call "bad memory induced media", where the supposed media in question does not (or at least more than likely does not) exist, but there are swaths of people convinced that they have definitely seen it at some point. There is rarely anything more to go off of for the hunt than a vague summary outlined in a post on some forum, but the lack of specificity allows people to fill in the blanks with similar types of media that they've seen, giving them the impression that they've already experienced it. I've found that this is extremely common for alleged lost shock media in particular, which isn't surprising. I talked a little about this on my LOL SUPERMAN post, and I get the impression that a similar strain of logic applies on a smaller scale.

Anyway, 2 major cases I have been looking at for a while are Saki Sanobashi/Go For A Punch and Evil Farm Game. Saki Sanobashi in particular fascinates me because an urban legend like this should have crumbled to the wayside by like 2018 at the latest, since that's when anime more or less became demystified to normal people. The basic premise is that it is an 80s/90s horror anime about anywhere from 4-8 girls trapped in a bathroom. The girls talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and philosophies before slowly going insane and dying one by one. If you like horror stuff you probably are already getting the vague impression that it sounds familiar- which could be influenced by any swath of media artifacts from Saw to the Russian Sleep Experiment creepypasta to the Ikea SCP to ClockUp's Euphoria to snippets of Battle Royale to that one Grisaia no Kajitsu arc. OP insisted he found it fully subbed on the deep web (omegalul) and hasn't found a trace of it since, implying some kind of murky origin or legal status (the OVA is not pornographic btw). As you can probably tell, I think this is silly. Like, so much goes into anime production that it would be difficult to hide any traces of this thing's existence. Someone had to voice act those girls. Someone had to sit hunched over a desk and draw that settei. OVAs were such a new thing in the 80s and 90s that both sfw and nsfw series were advertised in magazines. The only way that this could be so lost that not even a MAL entry remains is if it had been a student/indie production or something made for a single comiket event...but even at that....you're telling me that someone still managed to rip this from a vhs and subtitle it? And then chose to upload it to the deep web instead of youtube? even the title sounds like something google translated but didnt format correctly ("Saki Sanobashi" being gibberish while "Saki-san no Bashi" translates to "Saki-san's Bridge").

And yet there are people who will say "I definitely saw this at some point" because they saw a reaction image similar to the alleged scene where the protagonist smashes someone's head into a mirror. "The neck scratching death sounds familiar...." because you watched a higurashi amv! And OP did too, and thought it was so creepy that he involved it in his fake story. It's almost grating how much you have to suspend your disbelief to embrace that something like this exists in the exact way that stories like this insist. While many people have accepted that the series is likely not real in the last 4 or so years, there still persists a cohort of people hunting for Saki Sanobashi, likely because they are kids who are now too old to believe in Squidward's Suicide.

Evil Farm Game gives me a chuckle because it goes like this: a redditor posts to r/tipofmytongue about an old flash game where you play as a farmer who kills his wife and then has to hide her body while going about his farm tasks. The setup is completely fine and actually kind of reminiscent of a few story driven flash games I played on newgrounds as a kid. Many people came forward insisting that they had played this as well, one person even producing a link to a file from their hard drive that they couldn't open, but strongly believed that the game was there. A subreddit was even created to support the search. The twist is that it was a misremembered joke from a vinesauce stream.

Everyone knows that memory is an extremely fallable thing; people can be coaxed into believing that they did or saw things that they didn't with the correct prompts. What gets me is that a lot of people on the hunt for "bad memory induced media" seem to largely be hyping themselves up. They want to believe there is something that exists against all reason no matter what. It's chuuni in nature. Do not get me wrong- the interest in finding a cool, mysterious, haunting piece of media isn't lost on me, but dog, the dopamine hit of finding a previously lost 1985 commercial for almonds in a box of vhs tapes you got from eBay is the same.

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readychilledwine · 11 months ago

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You and I

Lose You to Love Me Pt 2

Summary - After running away to the Winter Court, reader has let go of most of her hope that she and Azriel will be able to be together.

Warnings - implied rebound smut, angst

A/n - so sorry this was delayed 💜

Peep Lose You to Love Me here

You sprawled the bed you shared with Kal, eyes shut tightly as you snuggled into his chest and the blanket.

You had left the Night Court three months ago, and were hidden well into the Mountain House. You hadn't originally planned for this though. The feeling of cold fingers tracing your spine, the feeling of soft lips against your forehead.

Viv had left him for Mor moments before your arrival, and in a state of need, desperation, sadness, Kal had taken you to his bed.

And it just simply never stopped.

In fact, his closet now held half of your things, your body products sat in his bathroom, your scent covered his sheets.

To be fair, the soft scent of snow and pine lingered on you. His clothing had began to dominate your wardrobe. His voice had become a source of happiness.

You both knew this was nothing compared to the bliss you had with your mates, but it was still bliss. Joy you both had thought you wouldn't find and didn't deserve.

“Why are you up already, snowflake?” He opened his icy eyes, looking down at you before placing a soft kiss in your head. “I know you are anxious, but Rhysand is coming to speak with us, not to rip you away.” Kallias was observant, you could not deny that. He always knew what worried you, what was on your mind, what you needed.

“It's not Rhys I'm worried about,” you leaned further into his hard chest, lacing your fingers with his before you continued. “It's seeing Azriel. And you having to see Viv.”

Kal hummed, “Would you like me to distract your mind from that, or do you need to feel?”

“Distract me.”

Kal had you dressed in a beautiful white gown with gems falling from the bodice to the skirts like snow. You were both waiting patiently, sipping a pear wine as you sat near a fire and he stood staring out a window with his hands behind his back. You almost jumped as the guards opened the doors, allowing Rhysand and Feyre in. Allowing Cassian and Mor in. Allowing Azriel and Viv in.

They didn't approach you two, not with guards clearly placed for protection. Kal was quickly at your side, placing a hand on your shoulder when Azriel moved to come to you. “I would suggest letting your high lord handle this, Spymaster.” Kal inclined his head to the table, watching as they all took seats and took the head chair closest to you. “Are your questions answered? She is clearly healthy.”

Rhys nodded, looking you over. “Come home. Please.” He was going straight for it. Mindset on a mission. “Nyx misses you. I miss you.”

“We all miss you,” Feyre said softly.

You shook your head, finding Kallias’s hand under the table and feeling him give you a gentle squeeze of reassurance. “You hardly even spoke to me in the months leading to my departure.” Rhys flinched at the reminder that he had pushed you away all on his own.

He would have normally straightened up, kept pushing his wants, his narrative. He would have normally defended himself, but he couldn't. He just nodded. “I know, and I am sorry.”

You could feel Viv's stare and turned to Kal, “It's okay.” His jaw tightened, eyes flashing to you before going back to her. “Go.” They both stood, leaving the room with the guards behind them to go talk somewhere privately.

“Does he love you,” Cassian asked quietly. “Does he make you happy?”

“As happy as he can. He cares for me-”

“But he doesn't love you,” Azriel quickly interrupted. “You're settling for a male who doesn't love you.”

Rhysand pinched the bridge of his nose. “Leave.” He turned to all of them, including his own wife. “Go to your chambers for the night and leave us.”

“No,” Azriel growled. “She's my mate.”

Rhys shot the two of you a look, his eyes wide before staring solely at you. “Y/n, can we go somewhere alone?”

You just nodded, standing and waiting for Rhys to round the table and take your arm. You snuggled into him when he did, but froze as a scarred hand grabbed your upper bicep. “I meant every word,” azriel dropped his hold on you, sitting back down and tucking his wings around himself like a defensive shield.

Rhys allowed you to led him to your untouched room. He instantly noted how empty it was, how stale it smelled, how the sheets were fresh, but the bed help no signs of ypu ever having been in it. “Show me,” his voice broke. “Show me every moment where I failed you. Show me how to fix this.”

You shook your head, teeth holding your bottom lip in place as tears began to fall. “It wasn't just you, Rhys. I felt unneeded and unwanted,” he visibly flinched. “By everyone. You have Feyre, Cassian has Nesta, Lucien had his own friends. Azriel-” your throat tightened again, looking to the ceiling you took a deep breath and continued. “Azriel had Elain. Amren found Varian. Fuck even Mor somehow stole Viv from Kal.”

Rhysand dropped the news that shattered you slightly. “Viv and Mor are no longer together. Viv realized her actions were incredibly stupid, that she loves Kallias, that having been with only one romantic partner wasn't a bad thing. She's here to ask him if she can come home.”

You nodded. “He will tell her yes.”

Rhysand moved closer. “Leaving you where, little moonbeam? What does that leave here for you?” The answer was nothing and you both knew that. You knew how deep that childhood friends to lovers to mates bond ran between the two of them.

The High Lord of Winter loved you, but he would never love you the way he loves his mate, his wife, the queen of his world.

Just as you would never love him the way you loved Azriel. You should never find you soul singing for him the way it did when just the scent of cedar and chilled air floated into a room. You would never have butterflies for him the way you do Azriel. You would never ignite for him the way Azriel made you burn.

“What happened between you and Azriel?”

The question hung in the air like a noose waiting to destroy you both. “After Solstice we,” you looked up again, caving and dropping your shields to allow Rhysand in.

His jaw tightened slightly, looking away from you. “He does love you,” rhysand moved towards the untouched bed. “When our first letters to meet with you were met with silence, and then rejection, Azriel threw himself so deeply into his work Cassian and I began to worry.”

“I love him too,” the confession was silent and instantly met with hands grabbing your upper arms from behind, and a soft comfort scent. Rhysand moved to leave the room, presumably going back to the meeting room. “Did you mean it?”

“Every word. I meant every word. Every kiss.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind, holding tightly as you relaxed into him. “You are my first thought at sunrise, my lady thought when exhaustion forces me into sleep. Even there you haunt me, your voice. Your eyes. Your kindness. Sometimes I wake up and my mind is convinced you were there and that I can still smell you on my pillows.”

Your heartbeat increased at his words, mind swirling. “Kallias and Viv have not left her chambers, guards informed us we are welcome to head to our rooms, but the High Lord and Lady will not be leaving hers tonight.” You smiled at their happy ending coming back once again. “None of us thought that would last.”

“How could it,” you turned in his arms, moving to lace yours around his neck. “Some things are simply meant to be.”

“Things like you and I,”” Azriel held your eye contact, hazel eyes pleading. “Even if one of us was blind to that at first?”

You nodded, meeting him in the middle, knowing he didn't realize what he was doing. “Exactly like you and I.”

Azriel didn't hesitate, pulling you into a deep kiss. One that sealed itself like a promise on both of your hearts.

It was you and him, from here until time stood still.

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x yn #azriel x rhysands sister! reader #Spotify

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sjweminem · 10 months ago

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Baby Academy Hoffman & Professor Strahm (ft. FTM hoffman ❤️) fic FINISHED

18+!!!! 🔞🔞🔞

short excerpt to (hopefully..) pique some interest:

original inspo: this ask

(DISCLAIMER: i am skilled mainly in technical/academic/speech writing and haven't written a fic in like 14 years so please be gentle 😭)

admittedly he was distracted. as usual. mark tolerated most classes in the academy as obligatory lessons to endure in order to, some day, achieve his dream of working in homicide, but for now he was stuck with all the other twenty-somethings learning the basics of police work, seemingly over and over again. well. at least he had something to keep his mind occupied during this lesson in particular. however repetitive the coursework may be, mark couldn't deny the eager anticipation he felt upon entering professor strahm's lecture.

mark could watch those hands for hours, even at the expense of learning whatever new information might unexpectedly, miraculously, be introduced in yet another of his many repetitive classes. he followed those hands- his instructor was one for dramatic gesticulations- and willed himself not to imagine how they might feel on his body. willing, however, not necessarily implying success. no, mark still, despite his best efforts, frequently stared until his imagination led to thoughts of those strong-looking palms at his throat, gripping his thighs, perhaps tracing his lips with a rough finger before shoving the others into his mouth.

suddenly the bell rang, indicating the lecture's end, and, once again, mark realized his complete failure to pay attention or take any notes whatsoever. maybe this little crush was getting out of hand. but how was he supposed to pay attention when strahm seemed to regularly, coyly, meet his eyes mid-lesson, in a stare that felt so unmistakably provocative- appealingly domineering, even- and surely was not wholly imagined, not a product of wishful thinking. no, he was certain that if only they could get each other alone...

"hoffman," an unmistakeable voice cut through the silence of the now-empty classroom, just as mark was headed for the door. there was always something about strahm calling him by his last name that tickled him, although he couldn't fully place why. perhaps it was the possessiveness in his voice. "stay back for a minute or two, yeah?" the request sent a small wave of panic through his body. he swallowed hard; surely he was facing a chewing-out for his increasingly noticeable disinterest in, and distraction from, the course subject matter. his nerves only intensified as he observed his professor rise back up from behind the desk and walk towards the door, at which mark was frozen in place.

his nerves fell away momentarily when strahm closed the door in front of them, replaced suddenly by an onslaught of confusion. however these waves of emotion were superseded by something unidentifiable when he heard the distinct sound of the door being locked. his heart raced. strahm was mere inches away from mark now, standing several inches above him, looking slightly downwards with a smile. "lunch hour," he said in a low, near-whisper. "no one's coming to look for me. or you, i'm assuming." mark shook his head, nervously, in affirmation. strahm looked him up and down, conspicuously, before breaking the tiny distance between them in order to walk back behind his desk. he made a casual "come here" motion with his hand as he did so.

"i'm not stupid," strahm declared, now seated relaxedly in his chair. "and i don't think you are either." mark felt heat rising in his face and prayed he wasn't becoming visibly flushed, but the cheeky smile which spread across his teacher's face suggested otherwise. "but," strahm continued, "you're not exactly subtle, you know that?" mark stood firmly in place. "i don't know what you mean," he replied with all the courage he could muster, trying to maintain eye contact. strahm briefly tilted his head back and laughed before looking mark back in the eye with increased intensity. mark could have sworn there was suggestiveness in that stare. sworn it wasn't his own wishful thinking.

"sure," strahm retorted, dismissively, before making a "come over" motion with his hand, beckoning his student to his side of the desk. mark swallowed hard again, making his way behind his professor's workstation. that flush he had prayed earlier hadn't made its way to his cheeks now felt unmistakably present. that heat in his face only deepened when he felt strahm grip his shirt collar, pulling him closer. with their faces now mere centimeters apart, mark felt a hand on his chin- one of the very hands about which he had spent so many classes fantasizing. strahm held him by the jaw to turn his face to the side. he proceeded to lean in close, lips brushing his student's ear. "don't play dumb," he whispered. "you're not good at it."

mark's lips parted as his breath hitched, a visible shudder running down his spine. strahm took the opportunity, this momentary weakness, to grab him by the sides and pull him into his lap. mark sat, straddling him, legs on either side of his professor's. immediately strahm took the opportunity to run a finger over is needy little pupil's full lips, then pulled mark in even closer to move in for a kiss, but not before biting his lower lip, eliciting from him a half gasp-half moan. mark opened his mouth eagerly, allowing strahm to take full control of the kiss. several times he had to wonder if he was dreaming, however his teacher's hands on his hips and thighs felt all too real.

strahm thumbed at the waistband of mark's pants, brazen enough to undo his belt buckle with one hand. mark shivered despite himself and unconsciously spread his legs further to the sides. his eyes were now closed, but at the sound of a zipper they shot back open. oh shit. shit. he forgot to tell- should he have told? how was he supposed to remember under these circumstances? he shifted nervously but made no attempt to remove himself. he was in it now, for better or worse. a hand- that large, strong hand, god help him- made its way under his now open fly and below the waist of his boxer-briefs. he shuddered, despite himself. a look of confusion painted strahm's face as he reached lower but, to mark's relief, his confounded expression fell away, replaced by that coy smile.

"well isn't this interesting," strahm spoke in a low, half-whisper. he ran his fingers through the wetness that had by now undoubtedly soaked through the fabric of mark's underwear. his student barely had time to process the sensation before he felt two long fingers push roughly inside him, followed soon after by a third. "never really took you for a whore," strahm teased, "but, shit. this wet already, i don't know what else to call you." he was smiling and looking up into mark's eyes as he slid his fingers in and out. mark's eyes fluttered shut, breathing labored, sounds he desperately tried to suppress now escaping his parted lips. it was already too much, the precision finger-fucking, but when strahm began to thumb at his clit during his efforts mark felt the little control he had left fall to pieces. he gripped the chair's armrests and buried his face in the crook of the other man's neck, more whining than moaning.

"i should report you for this, you know," the young cadet breathed out with all the strength he could muster. strahm laughed, increasing the intensity of his ministrations. "and will that be before or after you come, hm? before or after i fuck you like you need?" there was a brief silence. "i- i guess," mark replied with an audible shudder, "i can... i can wait 'till after." "good boy," strahm praised. "tight little thing, too." mark lost himself; control and self-respect flying out the window all thanks to the skilled hand of his teacher. "i can take it," he insisted. "take you. anything." he couldn't even care that he sounded desperate by this point.

"anything," strahm repeated suggestively. without warning he removed his fingers and inserted them roughly into mark's mouth, nearly gagging him. "clean up this mess you made," he continued, "and maybe i'll think about fucking you." mark didn't need to be told twice. he sucked each finger clean, tasting himself on each one, maintaining eye contact the whole time. once strahm evidently deemed his ministrations satisfactory he abruptly pulled his hand away from mark's mouth, earning a choked gasp from the young man, and grabbed him by the hips. he eased him off of his lap in order to stand up and once again face his desk, which he cleared of papers and supplies with two swipes of his arm, files and teaching tools rattling to the floor. just as abruptly he grabbed mark's waist- much more firmly than necessary- until he had brought him into a sitting position atop his work surface. now the height difference wasn't so glaring, and as strahm once again gripped mark's jaw to bring the eager student into a kiss, it was as though their lips fit much more nicely together. this kiss, compared to the last, was far more desperate, hungrier. overflowing with need from both parties.

strahm deepened the kiss to forcefully push mark back until he was lying flush atop the desk, his teacher's arms braced domineeringly by each side of his head. strahm moved lower to kiss his jawline, his neck, before pulling back to crouch between mark's legs. impatiently he pulled both shoes off in order to yank his pants the rest of the way down, and ultimately off. mark's heart raced from a mixture of anticipation and exposure. his thundering pulse only spiked further when he felt strahm's tongue on his cunt, dragging its way up to tease his clit. mark swallowed the moan rising up in his throat. "i wish we were somewhere more private," his professor spoke quietly between licks. "want to hear you." he buried his face back between mark's legs before the young cadet could reply. truthfully it was becoming harder and harder not to be heard.

despite strahm's admission there was something about the semi-public aspect of their affair that both parties rather enjoyed. yes, the locked door freed them from worry over any intrusion, but it wasn't as though no one could be right outside. at the thought mark became acutely aware of his labored breathing, as well as the moans which insisted on escaping his throat despite his best efforts. his thoughts were cut short by strahm's low voice. "i'm a man of my word, he said. "i thought about fucking you... seems doable." mark gasped briefly. "please" was all he could say.

strahm stood up to hover over his supine student and reached for his belt buckle. mark thought he was going to pass out, but perked back up, hearing the zipper. he felt a sudden heat blossom low inside him as strahm took his cock out, moaning softly at the sight- god help him he was big. mark was already lost in thought over how good he must feel when he felt strahm slide the tip of his cock slowly up and down his slick cunt. mark shivered and arched his back, further spreading his legs invitingly, parting his full lips in an enticing manner. soon enough he felt strahm push in.

mark inhaled deeply at the sensation and strahm wasted no time pushing all the way in. mark buried his face in the crook of his neck, hands reaching up and around to claw at his professor's shirt, fingernails digging into his muscular back. he threw his head back as strahm leaned down to kiss and bite his throat, stopping to put a hand around it, keeping him in place. his other hand gripped mark's upper thigh. mark groaned, barely believing that what he had fantasized about nearly every day had become a reality. he couldn't control the sharp moans escaping his lips as strahm's thick cock hit and dragged against his G-spot with every thrust. truthfully he felt a bit embarrassed- there was no way he could last. not for any respectable amount of time, anyways. fortunately for his ego, judging by his labored breathing his teacher wasn't far behind.

"son of a bitch. i've been missing out on your pussy all this time, huh?" strahm exhaled. "it's only fair," mark retorted breathlessly. "been missing out on your dick, after all." he noticed himself tightening around the cock inside him, desperate to feel anything and everything. strahm groaned at the sensation, lowering his head to plant another desperate kiss on his student's perfect mouth. mark could taste himself again on his tongue and his breath hitched, tears stinging his eyes. he could feel himself getting closer, that unmistakeable, throbbing heat between his legs. "professor... mr. strahm," mark breathed out as seductively as he could, "i'm- i can't," he continued in a whimper. strahm looked him in the eye. "go on, baby," he half-whispered, "hard as you can. let me feel you."

the pet name sent mark over the edge, clawing at strahm's back and burying his face in his neck in an attempt to muffle the noises he was now helpless to control. "that's it," strahm whispered, "that's it. good boy." mark nearly sobbed as he felt the shudder run through the older man's body before he came shortly after. mark swore he could feel the heat of it fill him up and moaned at the sensation. "you like that, sweetheart?" strahm panted into his ear. mark nodded eagerly, unable to even make a coherent sound at this point. he whined again as his teacher pulled out, bracing himself atop his student once more to place kisses on his neck and lower stomach. they both rode out their high as they steadied their breathing together, taking their time. mark couldn't help but smile, placing his hands on strahm's face to pull him in for one last tender kiss before they both redressed. mark would never admit it but he was looking forward to feeling his teacher's cum inside him for the rest of the day.

the tone changed suddenly; strahm backed up with a look of concern on his face. "wait," he began. "you... you can't get pregnant, can you?"

mark laughed at his nervousness and shook his head with a smile.

#mark hoffman #peter strahm #hoffstrahm #coffinshipping #saw #I DON'T KNOW HOW NOT TO WRITE AUTISTICALLY

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thebramblewood · 1 year ago

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Lilith and Caleb Vatore's lineage can be traced to Tartosa, from where their forebears emigrated in the early 1800s to establish Willow Creek's first and finest vineyard and winery. The future heirs to the Vatore Family Vineyard (and fortune) were born scarcely two years apart on the cusp of the 20th century. Although lauded and adored by polite society, they quietly resisted cultural norms by declining to pursue courtship well into their young adulthood. Before either could marry, both siblings disappeared under mysterious circumstances, leaving the fate of the family's accumulated wealth (which grew exponentially during Prohibition when underground operations continued alongside the legitimate production of medicinal spirits) to be hotly contested by long-time employees and distant relations alike. More than three decades later, two curious individuals came forward claiming to be their children. Apparently, the missing Vatores (long presumed dead) had assumed new identities, started families, and gone on to lead private yet unexceptional lives. No one could make sense of why the siblings left their inheritance behind, but the strong family resemblance was difficult to deny. Some even thought the resemblance too strong, but the conspiracy theories that arose from these suspicions were simply too preposterous to consider. The new Vatores promptly sold their ancestral estate and business, instead choosing to purchase a neglected Victorian manor in Forgotten Hollow, a strangely secluded and perpetually gloomy village where reported sightings of the same pair (having purportedly not aged a day) continue. Perhaps the old rumors hold some truth after all. Did they discover the fountain of youth, become initiated into a cult of immortality, or unknowingly stumble upon the dark knowledge of vampirism? Or are the Vatore genes simply so powerful that they persist through generations? The truth may never be known. (But some may say certain conclusions can be drawn from the spate of unsolved murders in the area that seemingly only started upon their arrival.)

- Introduction to Tangled Vines: A Complete Investigation of the Vatore Disappearances

Ran these through ArcaneGAN to make them look more like paintings, and I'm a bit obsessed with the results. Originals for comparison below. Special thanks to @sims4thehoes and @smok3inm1rrors for giving me the vineyard idea!

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #sims 4 story #ts4 edit #sims 4 edit #simblr #story: hzid #LORE DROP #just to whet your appetite a little :)#this has cracked open my third eye #i can see the entire vatore universe now #lilith vatore #caleb vatore

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thought-tracing · 8 months ago

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Porter Robinson for Cheerleader release

(3/20/2024, photo by Aylssa Kazew, source)

#music posting #porter robinson #cheerleader #edm #electronic music #pop #music #pop music #an original thought-tracing production

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dwtdog · 5 months ago

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fem dnf week day 3 :P

“Hey Dream,” George says out of the blue, leaning forward from where she’d been relaxing against the couch cushions, phone held lazily above her face. Dream’s head is in her lap, her eyes fluttering slowly open when George calls her name. “Oh shit, were you asleep?”

Dream yawns, lips stretching over her oddly sharp canines, before answering. “Mm- no. Was just resting.”

“That’s good,” George smiles down at her, tracing a finger along her hairline. Dream looks to be on the verge of actually falling asleep, and George has half a mind to let her- her girlfriend is always working too hard, rarely giving herself moments to rest. But out of the corner of her eye, George sees the TikTok that had inspired her original thought still playing on loop, and it gives her the conviction to ask. “Do you want to do something?”

“Like what?” Dream asks, tilting her head back against George’s leg to chase after her fingers as they hover just over her. George obligingly pets through her hair, careful not to tug too hard on messy curls.

“Like you let me do your makeup,” George says, shutting her phone off with a little click. “And you can’t give me any advice.”

That gets a small smile out of Dream. “You just want an excuse to touch my face,” she says accusingly.

George pokes her eyebrow. “What, like I have been for the past few minutes?”

“Exactly,” Dream giggles. “I think you like me. Maybe you even have a crush on me.”

“Well you’re the freak who let’s me touch her face even if you’ll complain about breaking out. You’re obsessed with me,” George pokes her cheek this time.

“What, you want me to stop?” Dream pouts, lips comically turned to a frown. “I think you don’t.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“You’re British, you can’t,”

George huffs. “Fine, whatever. I hate you, and I’m leaving you here. No more pillow. I’ll steal your makeup and use it on myself.”

“Now that I’d like to see,” Dream says, sitting up and freeing George’s legs. “But fine. You do my makeup, no help whatsoever. But you have to let me try your guitar.”

George groans. “Ugh, fine. I guess that’s fair. But if you break it you’re buying me a new one. A better one.”

“What, that’s no fair,” Dream says. “I’m letting you use all my fancy shit with no guarantees.”

“You sound like an advert.”

“You started it!” George shoots back, earning a confused look for Dream as she, as a matter of fact, had not started it. “Whatever, come on. Or I’m going to eat the fancy lipstick you’re always talking about.”

Dream stands quickly, eyes darting between the door to her room and George, who follows suit and stands as well. They’re close, George having stood almost directly into Dream’s chest, which makes both of them blush.

In a rather devious move, George darts forward, standing on her toes to place a quick kiss on Dream’s cheek, before turning and running for the bedroom door. Dream takes a moment to chase after her, the kiss a suitable distraction, and George gleefully pulls the door open, heading straight for the vanity, and all of Dream’s normally off-limits makeup.

It’s a rarity in their relationship, for anything to be unshared. But Dream is very particular about her makeup, because it’s a collection she’d curated for years- one of the few things she ever let herself spend large amounts of money on. She’d been shy the first time she’d told George about it, as if expecting her to judge the expansive collection.

But George had been in awe, completely enamored with her girlfriend’s technical skill at the craft, and how cute she got when she talked about things she was passionate about.

Dream had done George’s makeup a million times before- George didn’t like the feel of it all that much, a bit of a sensory nightmare for her, but she enjoyed Dream’s hands and her gentle touch, so she endured. They’d found a fix eventually, something that had started as a joke- Dream would use clean, dry brushes on George, explaining the colors and products she’d use if she really were doing her makeup.

It’s the only basis of knowledge George has for her current endeavor, but she’s hopeful that her determination will make up for her lack of knowledge.

She’s really not even that sure why she’s so driven to do it all of a sudden. The TikTok had been cute, sure, small touches between a couple who seemed absolutely enamored with each other. It was something about the way they’d looked at each other that had made George misty eyed and wanting, and Dream had been right there.

So here she is, in front of the huge mirror that hangs over the equally ludicrous vanity, covered in all sorts of products. She’s already lost, in tubes and brushes that seem indistinguishable from each other.

Dream appears behind her, arms wrapping around her waist- a common position for them. She rests her head on George’s shoulder, swaying them slightly as they look, together, at the display before them.

It takes George’s breath away, to see them pressed together like this. She likes the way Dream’s hands look hooked in front of her stomach, the way their hair brushes in a mix of dark and light.

But she has a mission.

“Sit,” she commands, stepping away. Dream whines, but she goes to pull the chair from the desk, spinning it around to sit and still be able to face George. “Good job,” George adds cheekily, nudging Dream’s knee with her own as she approaches the desk, eyes scanning for a place to start.

She can feel the way Dream is itching to give her advice with the way she shifts in the chair, socked feet pulling her closer to the desk. George grabs a tube of lipstick.

In the mirror, she sees Dream bite her lip, eyes flicking between the lipstick in George’s hand and her face in the reflection.

George, not one to be stopped by judgemental girlfriends, pops the top off the tube and twists it up, turning to face Dream with her eyes squinted in concentration.

“Do this,” she demands, pursing her lips like a fish. Dream takes a moment to comply, making a few more pointed glances between the lipstick and some other, nondescript tube that George had written off as irrelevant, before finally copying George.

George is careful as she smudges the lipstick along Dream’s lips, wary of damaging it for all her teasing. It hardly seems to work, coming out in patchy bits. She frowns, but keeps trying. She can see Dream already trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking lightly with it.

When the lipstick ends up on Dream’s skin, just above her top lip, it’s both their faults. George pulls back, frowning at Dream. Dream just blinks up at her innocently. “What? Did you do it?”

“I did- something,” George says, rubbing at the mess with her thumb. It works, surprisingly, and she sets the lipstick down to peruse her other options. “This is harder than I thought it would be,” she announces after a moment, turning to glare at Dream like its her fault George had gotten the idea in her head.

That softens Dream’s expression. “Yeah, it can be a lot at first. Look- do you want me to show you?” Her voice gets all shy, like it did the first time she’d talked about this with George.

George melts. “Please,” she says, setting down the palette she’d picked up. “Just- walk me through the eye makeup. I always like it when you do it.”

“Okay,” Dream says, beaming. “It’s kind of tricky, but you have a steady hand which is half the battle.”

Nodding, George picks up a different palette, this one all shades of blue. They seem to glow in the light of the room.

“That’s the palette I used for our first date,” Dream says. “Since you said you were colorblind I figured it would look the best because- y’know.”

“Oh,” George says, breathless. “Can I use it, then? On you?”

“Of course,” Dream scoots closer, until her knees are wrapped around George’s. “But you’ll want to do a primer first.”

She’s a good teacher, walking George through the process with methodical steps. She points out all the products, and explains what they do just like she does when she does George’s makeup, but it’s easier for George to remember when she’s the one using them, touching them, seeing the colors come to life with every touch.

Her hands are steady, but she does mess up a few times. Dream only smiles, saying it’s a good chance to explain the best way to fix mistakes, and walks her through it.

Finally, they get to the last step, which Dream says is the most important element.

“You’ve got to seal the deal,” she explains seriously, looking up at George through her lashes, now clumped with mascara. George hadn’t gotten that part quite right, too afraid to hurt Dream by hitting her in the eye.

“Didn’t we already do the spray-thingy?” George asks, confused. Dream smirks.

“No, that’s not it,” she says. “It’s a special final step, for when you’re doing you’re girlfriends makeup. Super important.”

George wracks her brain, thinking back to the countless times she’d been on the opposite end of this treatment. The problem is, by the end of it she’s usually sleepy and love drunk, overwhelmed by all the small touches used to build the final look, or the pretend version of one.

“I got nothing,” she admits at last, tapping her fingers against the wood of the vanity.

Dream stands, and now it’s George’s turn to look up at her. “You seal it with a kiss, idiot,” she says, her tone not at all consistent with her words- honey sweet, dripping from messy red lips.

George giggles, taking Dream’s hands in hers. She has to admit, the final look is passable, especially from this angle.

Dream’s lips are warm against hers, the lipstick slightly sticky. George uses their joined hands to pull Dream closer until they’re pressed together, all hot bodies and muffled sighs as George demands more, pressing her lips harder against Dream’s, running her tongue over her lips. There’s a bit of a fascinating almost plastic taste, and George chases it.

When they break apart to breathe, George chokes back a laugh. If the lipstick had been messy before, it’s a downright tragedy now,

But Dream is laughing too, her eyes fixed on George’s lips. George whirls to see her reflection in the mirror, groaning when she sees her reflection- an equally disastrous look, and she’d managed to get some of the stuff on her teeth.

“You can be in charge of makeup from now on,” Georeg declares, rubbing furiously at her face with the back of her hand. Dream stops her with gentle fingers on her wrist, shaking her head as she guides it away.

“Thanks baby, and here I was thinking you’d be taking my job,” she teases. George drops her head against Dream’s shoulder, groaning. “But seriously,” Dream adds, bringing a hand up to rest on George’s head. “You weren’t so bad. Really! You have potential.”

George just shakes her head, the fabric of Dream’s shirt soft against her forehead. ��You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re my girlfriend and you have to be nice to me.”

“If I had to be nice to you I’d let you win in Minecraft more,” Dream says in the same sweet voice, and George just sighs. She wouldn’t trade this idiot for the world.

#fem dnf week 2024 #using the right tag this time lmfao #warnign for egregiously bad makeup skills otherwise known as me projecting on george #sorry girl #cq.writing

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transmutationisms · 1 month ago

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You’ve introduced me to so many topics in theory but there are days when I have no idea what you’re talking about and i twirl my hair and kick my feet while I’m lying on my bed and giggle like omg tell me more

hi megan <3 this is fair also sometimes i am truly talking out my ass and making zero effort to make a thought comprehensible to anyone else lol but i remember you've read some of the 'speculative materialists' so you would probably get a kick out of this:

basically i was mostly just drafting a paragraph explaining how the french 'idéologues' in the 1790s-1810s conceived of sense perception and access to external phenomena, and i used kant as a compare/contrast because he's an easy reference point on this topic/time period:

Idéologie itself was never a singular scientific method, but described a loose methodological family (often referred to by ‘Idéologues,’ such as Cabanis, as analysis) that aimed to uncover the deeper truths and universal laws that structured phenomenal observations. It was this quality that led the historian of medicine George Rosen to describe idéologie as a meeting point of empiricism and the “passive psychology” of Étienne Bonnot de Condillac (1714–1780). For Condillac and his followers, including Cabanis, all ideas of the human mind had their origin in sensations—that is, in the impressions made by external objects upon the sensory organs. Thus, an idea could always be broken down to its component sensations, which could be traced back to their external sources. There were no human ideas or mental faculties that did not ultimately take their source from sensory impressions; human understanding could be studied, corrected, and eventually refashioned by careful application of the ‘analytical’ method. Whereas Kant, whose first Critique was published in 1781, defended a distinction between a priori and a posteriori judgments, the Idéologues considered even an inherited tendency or instinct to be ultimately and strictly a product of sensation. If Kantian transcendental idealism dictated that human observation could never directly access the external phenomena in-themselves, idéologie instead embraced the naïve realist position that the external objects could truly be known and described—but only by precise analysis of their noumenal representations.

and then i was like well condillac died in 1780 and cabanis's most famous treatise was published in 1802 so basically the timing lines up really well for this comparison to kant, and what you would need to do is derive these different attitudes toward things-in-themselves from the political-economic contexts that they're embedded in & patterned on. which would be extremely easy to do on the french side because cabanis was 1) a politician and 2) explicitly openly concerned about the health of the workforce as a means of ensuring the continued production of french national wealth, such that my argument about him is essentially that we should be reading him as espousing proto eugenic positions and as verbalising much of the biopolitical remit of the revolutionary and postrevolutionary french state. like essentially, analogous to the way that c. darwin 'found' capitalist competition in nature, you would say something like, cabanis 'found' (naturalised) the need for management and alteration of the labourer's body & physiology in his medico-philosophical treatises.

anyway i would need to brush up on kant biography stuff but given his interest in physical anthropology and specifically his racial essentialism, it would be easy also to argue that his 'correlationist' thinking derived from how he patterned psychology on a teleological racial-hierarchical view of human biology. which is in turn ofc an economic and political argument. so what i would want to prove here is that both these positions, while seemingly disparate, are ultimately just different bourgeois ideologies & follow superstructurally from the material alienation of capitalist labour relations etc etc. i would do this more elegantly and thoroughly in an actual article but this is tumblr.dashboard :-)

#hps

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darkbluekies · 2 months ago

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Blue, look what I found today at my volunteering job. Personally dolls freak me out but I thought you might like to see her 😭 idk how much she originally cost but she’s only £6 here.

Saw her and instantly thought of u lmao

You should know what a coincidence this is!! I just bought a new doll😍

That doll is a new production! She's very cute, I don't think I have one that crawls! But i recognize the Alberon style. I probably own some of their dolls? 🤔her face mold reminds me a bit of my girl L.M. they have similar hands too. I Googled a bit and some of Alberons doll sit in the same position so she's possibly from the same manufacturer! I'm not sure she has a stamp so I can't check that way

I love how she has a name too, it feels so special somehow. Her name is Lucy and the girl I put a picture of, L.M, stands for Lucy Montgomery. Interesting coincidence haha

Thank you so much for showing me her she was adorable 🥹

I bought a doll today, a head, and I will show her under the cut because she might pass as frightening. She's a metal doll whose paint has flaked off. She smy first metal doll!!

By tracing her stamp have traced her back to 1888 — 1930, but based on her hairstyle I feel like 1920 feels like the right time. Possibly earlier, but hard to say

She has a dent in the back of her head which raises my interest🤔 wonder where it came from

I think I'll name her Wera🩷

#comfortkiss

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probablyasocialecologist · 1 year ago

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These claims of an extinction-level threat come from the very same groups creating the technology, and their warning cries about future dangers is drowning out stories on the harms already occurring. There is an abundance of research documenting how AI systems are being used to steal art, control workers, expand private surveillance, and seek greater profits by replacing workforces with algorithms and underpaid workers in the Global South.

The sleight-of-hand trick shifting the debate to existential threats is a marketing strategy, as Los Angeles Times technology columnist Brian Merchant has pointed out. This is an attempt to generate interest in certain products, dictate the terms of regulation, and protect incumbents as they develop more products or further integrate AI into existing ones. After all, if AI is really so dangerous, then why did Altman threaten to pull OpenAI out of the European Union if it moved ahead with regulation? And why, in the same breath, did Altman propose a system that just so happens to protect incumbents: Only tech firms with enough resources to invest in AI safety should be allowed to develop AI.

[...]

First, the industry represents the culmination of various lines of thought that are deeply hostile to democracy. Silicon Valley owes its existence to state intervention and subsidy, at different times working to capture various institutions or wither their ability to interfere with private control of computation. Firms like Facebook, for example, have argued that they are not only too large or complex to break up but that their size must actually be protected and integrated into a geopolitical rivalry with China.

Second, that hostility to democracy, more than a singular product like AI, is amplified by profit-seeking behavior that constructs increasingly larger threats to humanity. It’s Silicon Valley and its emulators worldwide, not AI, that create and finance harmful technologies aimed at surveilling, controlling, exploiting, and killing human beings with little to no room for the public to object. The search for profits and excessive returns, with state subsidy and intervention clearing the way of competition, has and will create a litany of immoral business models and empower brutal regimes alongside “existential” threats. At home, this may look like the surveillance firm and government contractor Palantir creating a deportation machine that terrorizes migrants. Abroad, this may look like the Israeli apartheid state exporting spyware and weapons it has tested on Palestinians.

Third, this combination of a deeply antidemocratic ethos and a desire to seek profits while externalizing costs can’t simply be regulated out of Silicon Valley. These are fundamental attributes of the industry that trace back to the beginning of computation. These origins in optimizing plantations and crushing worker uprisings prefigure the obsession with surveillance and social control that shape what we are told technological innovations are for.

Taken altogether, why should we worry about some far-flung threat of a superintelligent AI when its creators—an insular network of libertarians building digital plantations, surveillance platforms, and killing machines—exist here and now? Their Smaugian hoards, their fundamentalist beliefs about markets and states and democracy, and their track record should be impossible to ignore.

#ai #artificial intelligence #silicon valley #technology #big tech

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afreakingdork · 1 month ago

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Soft Spot - Chapter 10

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

We got a skincare cutie in this week's chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

LAST WARNING FOR THE 🍋 UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

“You move outward toward the hairline …” You adjusted the grip you had on your facial roller and let it glide up Donnie’s beak.

He sat with his eyes closed and let the little crystal glide over his skin.

You playfully bent forward and let it keep going up over his bald head. “Where is that…?”

He cracked one eye at you.

You giggled as you returned to position and rolled in outward strokes over his brow ridge. “How’s it feel?”

“As expected.”

“I still think we should have fridged it.” You moved to the plump of his cheek.

He gave a latent churr.

“You like it.” You spoke without tease and continued over the larger areas of his face.

He waited until you swapped for the smaller stone on the opposite end of the roller before he spoke. “It’s soothing.”

“I’ve seen all kinds of gadgets for pain relief. Aren’t there foam rollers for the body?”

“There are.” Donnie’s head followed the stone as it delicately brushed below his eyelashes.

“Guess it’s hard with your carapace.”

“Contrary.” He forced out as he clearly would have preferred to enjoy the moment. “The soft moniker of my shell means I can.”

“Couple’s yoga…” You smiled inwardly and remembered how flexible he was.

He knew exactly when to tip his head back.

You moved the roller down his throat and over his scars where the churr warbled out through your tool.

You continued to massage him with it long after you had traced all his skin.

“Lymphatic boost...” He gave a blissful rumble.

“Reduces puffiness.” You remembered something else Coral had chattered off when she shoved off some excess beauty products your way.

You knew she was doing some spring cleaning and you were getting what was essentially trash, but Donnie had been marginally curious about what she had purchased. As if prompted by your mate’s glance, your ex-roommate had launched directly into a rant. Donnie listened as she spun a yarn about how these products would help whenever you got pregnant. There wasn’t anything beauty rollers could do to fight the pregnant puffiness caused by water retention, but you let her have her ravings.

It helped offset the source of the objects.

The cleaning for a new season signified that you’d gone a quarter of a year and had yet to get pregnant.

Maybe that was another of Coral’s reasons for dropping this stuff off.

Your friend had seen the crest of your stress from the sidelines. It made you wonder then if these were actually impulse purchases. With each moment she went on about pampering, it seemed to become more apparent that it was all an excuse so you could have an at-home spa day in the name of relaxation.

It made you flip-flop because the Coral you knew was a certain well-to-do. It meant she thought little about splurge purchases and you had once found it commonplace for new gadgets to appear in your space. It concocted a silly storm in her personality as, when paired with her loose awareness of personal space and flippant attitude, she had just as often shoved things she no longer cared for off on you instead of throwing them out.

So you reverted back to your original thought.

This was junk, but you’d at least give it some due.

After Donnie had vetted the products, what was left behind was then brought out one evening.

You both had already washed up with a new kind of cleanser and your husband was on edge about the way it made his skin feel. You covered the feeling up with a gel moisturizer and he sat a strange sort of static under the feeling. It wasn’t sticky so he didn’t have an exact complaint, but the texture was new to him and he was unable to decide how he felt about it.

Once it was absorbed, you suggested the beauty roller to get his mind off it. It had worked like a charm and your big plan was to get some under eye patches on him next. You also hadn’t told him as you already knew he would reject the idea. He had scorned any sort of sticky face mask with his gaze alone when he had gone through the box.

There was a certain measure of bartering that could be done with your mate. He had hard lines, but he was also hopelessly moved to do anything for you. He appreciated that you never took advantage of it, but you also liked to toe the line once in a while. You tried to only do it for silly things like this. In this case, you knew for fact he had never tried a face mask and was probably imagining one that dried and cracked on his skin. You knew the under eye patches weren’t like that, but convincing him that was something else entirely. A direct barter wouldn’t work so you needed to wade him into the water.

You were going to stick a bunny-themed make-up headband on him first.

As a stepping stone.

Not because you were going to take a dozen photos of him wearing the cutesy purple object.

You finished with the beauty roller and kissed the tip of his beak to signify the end of his massage. He peered with sleepy attention through his lids and groping fingers searched for you. You offered your arms and he slid slow fingers over your skin. Without the slightest pinch, he coasted over the length of your forearm and swiped his thumbs to drink you in like a lotion.

You barely registered he had pressed his mouth to yours because tingles were wriggling against your skin. Light coaxes of his fingers conjured goose bumps wherever his pads treaded. He was moving without rhythm and you followed suit against his lips. He cared little for accuracy and that fell in line with his wariness.

The lab outing stood as an outlier amongst Donnie’s nerves. He wasn’t afraid of intimacy, but when affection went too far, he withdrew. He had yet to separate the act of sex from the constant effort of copulation and you didn’t fault him. In an equal and opposite reaction, your body had only recently started to settle. Though you weren’t checking the calendar, you had been so aware of your cycle that some knowledge of it came intuitively. You had been on a sexual edge between periods and the prominence of your mate had you unintentionally waiting for him to fuck you. It was a reaction you hadn’t realized you had made into a pattern until half your carnal equation withdrew from the act.

Your asynchronous make out session acted as strange proof.

It wasn’t leading to anything more than being together and there was something especially pleasing about that.

You unlocked your lips from your mate and nosed into his cheek.

He churred loud and proud as he bumped his head to yours.

“Love you.” You murmured into his throat.

“You.” He managed thickly.

You gave him one last nudge before you disengaged. “Let’s see what’s next…”

His head lolled in a happy hunch as he waited.

You brushed the microfiber of the headband across his cheek in a wad.

He leaned into it.

“It’ll go over your head. Is that okay?”

He nodded with his eyes closed.

You applied the headband and adjusted the bunny ears.

He was so cute you were faulty of bursting.

He was too pacified to be upset.

“Picture?” He wondered knowingly.

“Yes! Love you, love you!” You smashed a kiss into his cheek that nearly knocked him over.

You bet he only kept himself upright for you.

You loved him all the more for it as you took photo after photo of him.

He didn’t exactly pose, but he turned his head side to side so you could get better angles.

“I have one too.” You put on a headband that had frog eyes protruding cutely from the top.

He hummed with little interest and reached out.

You ducked for him and found he adjusted it so it was better centered on your head.

You did your own head turning show for him.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna help me get a facemask on?”

“Sure.” His head lolled toward the box.

“I have some patches for you.”

“No.” He elongated his arm for a digit to hook and bring the container closer.

“Just under your eyes?”

“No.” He looked inside and pulled out a few options. “Which?”

“Please? The gold one?”

“No.” He was ever genial and held up the masks like a hand of cards.

You picked a cooling one and he set the rest aside.

“Gold goes with purple.”

“Depends on the shade.”

“They’re complementary.”

“Yellow is. Shade is still important.”

“Gold is like yellow.”

“Rose gold. White gold.”

You frowned and came close.

He waited with a smile for you to ask again.

You didn’t and took your time in reaching over his shoulders. Once your elbows reached his collar, you set them down on his clavicle and held your arms out straight behind his head. It put you face to face with him and he observed you. You did the same before leaning forward. It pressed your nose tip to his and he made it a feather-like nuzzle before he appraised you again with slipping resolve.

“You can apply the patches for a short duration.”

“Yeah?”

You felt warmed to your core.

Your understanding mate was ever indulgent.

“Yeah.” He kissed you lightly.

You pressed your thanks into him.

Without your arms available to him, he sent those testing fingers into your waist.

It was as if he tapped the heat inside you because it shot straight down to your preferred spout between your legs.

You broke the kiss as soon as you felt the stirring in your loins. “The patches were, uh… still in the box.”

His hands loosened as you moved to look into the crate he pulled over.

The distinct and gaudy pack wasn’t immediately visible so you reached in.

Donnie’s hands tightened and he pulled you.

You came right to him and he moved expertly in a duck of his neck to catch your lips again.

You trilled a soft protest.

He separated from you long enough to get out, “It’s okay.”

You knew exactly how he meant it.

He only said it once, but it echoed in your ears as you threw your arms back around his neck.

It was okay for you to be turned on.

It was okay to move forward.

It was permission to get heated.

He smiled into you as you yanked him closer.

How long had it been?

You had missed one ovulation cycle and were into your next.

You hated how you still thought of it that way.

February 12th was the last time you had coitus.

That was another technical term and you soured on trying to figure it out.

It had been too long.

The last time you had sex was winter.

It was now spring.

You pressed heavily into your mate.

You felt the exact second he hesitated.

You disengaged the moment he did.

He tried to chase you with his mouth to cover up his folly, but you caught a finger to his lips. “Not ready.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

You sent him a hard stare.

He didn’t have anywhere near the same amount of fortitude, but kept your gaze. “I want to be close.”

“We’re close. It doesn’t have to lead to anything.”

“Why stop then?” His brow ridge moved knowingly. “Where had we gone?”

“To…” You tried not to look away physically as you sought a good excuse. “No where, but I wanted to reframe. Make sure you knew it was okay.”

“You are the better liar.” He churred into you.

“How’s that make you happy?” You teased and pecked his beak.

“Because I want to see you writhe.” He pressed on the last word and his gaze grew molten.

Your heart skipped. “N-not an answer to my question…!”

“Retroactively it is, but if you prefer a particular; You improve on that which I lack ergo you are all the more desirable.”

“You don’t lack anything. We’re good at different things. I can’t build tech like you.”

His lids fell as they should for a blink, but when they opened, his eyes grew wide.

“What?”

“My tech.”

“Yeah…?”

He lifted you in his arms and turned you around.

You were sent facing the head of your bed.

He wrapped his arms tightly around your torso and dropped his chin to your shoulder. “What do you see?”

“Our bed?”

“Further.”

“The wall.”

“Upon which…?”

“B.E.D.F.A.S.T.” You told him without particular enlightenment.

The panel had been on your mind since he’d mentioned a new attachment for it.

That had still been months ago depending on which time he referenced it.

You may have done one thing from his list, but you didn’t count on the others.

You hadn’t wanted to bring it up just in case.

B.E.D.F.A.S.T. had also already acted as the progenitor of your lab experiment.

The adjustments to his battle shell had been tech designed straight from it.

He exhaled normally, but it sounded like determination.

“Wanna…?” You offered a vague activity so the choice would be his.

“We’re clean. Showered.”

“We?” The sound popped out of you.

“Internally…? Hm…” Donnie glanced toward the bathroom.

“We’re both clean, but why do you need to be clean?”

“You’re last bowel movement was-”

“Woah! Hey!” You squeaked out of his hold.

He didn’t detain you and smirked after.

“Anal?!”

“With me?” He wondered with a sarcastic edge.

“What does that mean!?”

“It means you aren’t anywhere near prepared enough.”

Despite knowing he was right, you felt a bubble of insult turn down your lips.

“Lengthy process.”

Your brows pinched.

“Ah.” He sounded as if he realized something.

You watched on.

“Clarification.” He readjusted his entire position until he was addressing you on his knees almost like a plea.

You nodded for him to go ahead.

“Anal was not the act I had in mind. Pressure on your colon was a concern.”

“Okay…” You took a moment to separate the concepts. “What… else would do that…?”

“There’s a vaginal wall in common with the rectum.” Donnie spoke as if that was the obvious answer.

“No.” You shook your head. “I mean, yes! I know that, but why is… wait, was? Why was that a concern?”

“Past tense as in passing.”

“It was a passing thought?”

“Yes.”

“You’re being confusing…” You wilted.

“Spur of the moment. I am trying to work out the factors.”

“You’re thinking out loud…” You sort of marveled as that was a rarity for him.

He nodded. “I want you privy to the planning.”

“Does it slow down your thought process?”

“To explain, yes.”

“That’s because I didn’t know what you were doing, sweet.”

He gave an understanding nod.

“Let me catch up?”

His lips parted to speak, but you nudged your knee to his.

It gave him pause where he checked with you.

He studied you for a moment before dipping his head to give you the go ahead.

“You’re still not quite ready for the usual sex, but you want to be the one to please me. You want to see me writhe.”

He sat a little straighter with confirming attention.

“If you’re talking about tech then you want to use that so B.E.D.F.A.S.T. since it’s right here and after that… I guess… you talking about cleanliness…? Were those your safety checks?”

“Correct.”

You smiled at him.

He returned it with growing mirth.

It made you remember one particular question that had been glossed over. “How are you participating?”

As if that was what he was hoping you would ask, he moved obviously to stand.

You had a sense to move as well and followed him off the bed.

In a dip, he caught the frame and moved it out of the way.

You knew the routine and went to push the nightstands.

You got one and he got the other before you met in front of B.E.D.F.A.S.T.

“Double penetration.” He told you with an air as if you were discussing business plans.

His serious demeanor was undermined by his bunny headband.

You slipped yours off to signal him and he did the same.

His continued silence meant he was waiting for your rebuttal.

You weren’t sure you had one, but you went through the facts.

There wouldn’t be anal, you reminded yourself, since you hadn’t prepared.

You doubted he counted your mouth as another hole in this instance or else what had occurred in the lab would have already been double penetration.

You thought back to his phrasing about B.E.D.F.A.S.T.

The first time he mentioned new activities he had listed toys, double penetration, B.E.D.F.A.S.T. and the lab.

He hadn’t been clear on where the boundaries of separation on those things were.

The second time you discussed his spontaneous ideas, he had it narrowed down the list to what seemed like three items.

A supposed mechanism for double penetration.

The lab.

A punishment.

You crossed the center item off the list.

B.E.D.F.A.S.T. was missing which meant it was included in one of the last two.

You were obviously dealing with the first scenario.

Combining that information, you studied your mate.

Pride oozed off him.

You wondered if you should have verbalized all this.

He had.

You also weren’t as much of a stranger to the concept of sharing your thoughts.

“I’m going to be penetrated…” You started.

He waited with baited breath.

“And… you are too…” You reached out and placed a hand to his plastron. “That’s double. You and me?”

You were swooped up into a kiss.

His happiness poured out both from him and his bond.

It covered and filled you until you were made of it.

He barely reigned himself in for tail-wagging excitement as he got you back on your feet, but came with as he couldn’t release your shoulders.

You scrubbed your face into his cheek.

He chirped pleasingly.

You followed suit.

“What do I need to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh?”

“Intuitive.” Donnie held up a finger before he fled for one of the nightstands.

You watched him bring over a familiar box.

“These will make it so.”

You got one of your brain-interface ear pieces on while Donnie applied the other for a pleasant hum against your head.

“We haven’t had exceeding success with seamless integration, but I’ve been refining the algorithm for B.E.D.F.A.S.T.”

“Why is all your innovation centered around the sex machine?” You chuckled.

“Obvious priority.” He responded spun sugar.

You chewed your lip and held out a hand in offering to the machine.

B.E.D.F.A.S.T. was a little clunky, but there wasn’t much delay in it unfurling an arm to meet you.

“Not bad…” You twisted your grip and watched the shaky movement match in close time.

“Machine learning. It’s building on past data.”

“Please don’t tell me B.E.D.F.A.S.T. is gonna be sentient…” Your hand faltered.

So did the machine’s.

Donnie shared your gravity.

“No. I may not recall what code released S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. onto this world, but I have taken care not to repeat it.”

You snorted at his phrasing. “You were on birth control way before I came along.”

Donnie frowned as that wasn’t technically wrong.

“How’s it work?” You tested a pointed finger and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. met you to phone home.

“B.E.D.F.A.S.T. is only active when summoned. My input is exact and yours is being analyzed. It’s built off the same code that allows for it to know where your body is when you call.”

“It was already intelligent.”

“Yes.”

“It’s good at miming.” You were waving at a barely lagging mirror.

“It senses immediate movement and uses prior data to anticipate the next. It is limited to one future step as of yet and we’ll see if I need to apply more.”

“Ah…” You nodded and turned toward your partner. “It’s never held both of us up at the same time.”

“New attachments.” Donnie nodded.

You perked as you had been right about what correlated from his pitches.

“I’ve further reinforced the wall as well.” Donnie knocked on what you knew was once wood and heard a metal clunk.

“Did you get your deposit back on any of those four other apartments?” You rolled your eyes to him.

“I included an improvement clause.”

“You…?”

“Received a stipend upon lease termination.”

“You are a menace.”

He bowed.

You caught his face as he lifted up and kissed squarely into him.

He rumbled for you alone and you felt B.E.D.F.A.S.T. come alive around you. It stretched as if yawning from its slumber and sought its purpose around you. With slides of silicone coated metal pressed reassuringly against your skin, the air layered with many extensions around you and your partner. It felt like a protective cage and you tucked into Donnie.

His arms didn’t come around you and you sensed he needed to do something. He had a sheepish expression waiting when you looked and you moved away to dismiss it. It was another quick jog around the room so he could grab his battle shell. He applied it in the process and you watched it wrap up his shell.

It burst from its usual dutiful confines around his carapace and slipped over his shoulders. You knew this form from his villain suit and looked down before the belt appeared. It manifested thick and locked him into place so he would be most sturdy. You waited for the arms to appear, but instead watched as B.E.D.F.A.S.T. extended an attachment that morphed into the battle shell instead.

You pretended to tug the shoulder attachments as if they were straps. “Secure?”

“Quite.” He tapped his beak to you.

“Who goes first?” You looked over the arms and reached out.

One slipped into your grip and held your hand.

“How does double penetration work with us?”

“Well…” Donnie turned in time as the center panel of B.E.D.F.A.S.T. unfurled.

You didn’t know it could open and gawked as something in a pale purple came through. It fed long and had the curvature of a lengthy hot dog that had blown its casing at one end. An asymmetrical piece of silicone, one end mimicked Donnie’s length and the other bulged out. You knew it to be a double-ended dildo, but it had been adjusted for Donnie’s anatomy. It presented a cock on one end for you and a fleshlight on the other for him. There wasn’t a clean way for the two different shapes to meld so the shafts met at a bulging center. That change point was further highlighted by a lattice of silicone that you thought at first was a design choice. Upon closer inspection though, you found the holes to be vents. “This is to keep you from getting stuck…”

“Correct. It’s adjustable as well.” Donnie took the toy from B.E.D.F.A.S.T. and showed you that if you grabbed each side and rotated them in opposite directions, you could open the vents up further. In the alternating rotation, they could be closed up, but your partner settled on them being open a hair.

You held out your hand and he passed you the toy. Its weight sunk your palms and you heaved it up with both hands. For the length that it had to encompass inside Donnie’s body, your end was matched for balance’s sake. It made the dildo a formidable expanse and you measured it up against your torso where it took up much of your body. “Woah…”

“You see my concerns about your colon.”

“Yeah, this thing will fuck my brains out. What happened to toys not being bigger than you?”

“Testing suggested there wouldn’t be the same leverage.”

“You played without me?” You pressed the glans end to your cheek and knew full well Donnie would never.

He snatched the toy from you. “Never. Computer models.”

“Are they models of us?”

“Proportionately.” Donnie threw up a screen and you were disappointed to find plain looking wire models that only appeared like you in height and weight.

“Guess we settle for our sex tapes.” You put out a comedic sigh before moving closer to your partner. “Any other pre-game details?”

“Lube.” Again, Donnie turned expectantly and one of B.E.D.F.A.S.T.’s arms came down in demonstration.

The tip was barren of a cuff or attachment, but you watched it leak and bead up lubricant in a readied drip.

“All arms are now equipped.”

“Is this what the tank tech was meant for?” You wicked some lube up for the sake of it and rubbed it between your fingers.

“The reservoir, yes.”

“It just so happened to get filled with cum.” You smiled to yourself.

Donnie chuffed.

You used your pinched digits to dip into the dildo’s stroker end and wiped the lube off.

Donnie stared with waning focus into the hole. “I want to watch you ready yourself.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head to catch his eye. “You usually can’t stand the thought.”

“I might interrupt, but I’d like to try.”

“Bit of old, bit of new.” You gestured with each end of the dildo.

He gave a single nod.

“Okay… Let’s see about controlling B.E.D.F.A.S.T. for something more complicated…”

“Should I step back?”

“Yeah.” You heard him move away and readied yourself. You went through a stepwise process of emptying out your thoughts one by one. It came with giving each their space and then allowing them to disappear into a mental ether. You went through your evening to make yourself present. There was the spa session which you didn’t find abandoned as much as adjusted. Then came Donnie’s press for intimacy and all that surrounded it. The baby making slithered around the edges of your mind like a predator waiting to strike, but you subdued it with past memories of B.E.D.F.A.S.T. Pleasure washed out other thoughts and came with your only hang up: you were still dressed.

You focused hard on a removing command and offered up the dildo with open palms. You felt the moment it slipped away and then focused all your intention on your top’s hem. Twisting flat metal pinchers tucked in near your stomach and curled up in the fabric. You kept your eyes closed in envisioning only it being rolled up and over your head. You got caught a little around your arms, but once your top was free you sent Donnie a thrilled look.

He watched on with nothing but satisfaction.

Nodding on that, you moved to step and imagined there being one. B.E.D.F.A.S.T. offered a flat platform for you and you moved up with one foot and tried to quickly switch commands so you could get your bottoms off in the process. There was a clunky hiccup where the machine stalled, but with a little extra mental exertion arms moved to help with your waistband. You reminded yourself to breathe and you were soon stepping out, nude, from your clothes.

Instead of sending your husband another wave of joy, you parsed out what to do next. The pants maneuver proved to you the limitations of simultaneous commands as Donnie had warned. You needed to do one thing at a time so you decided you would be the one handling the dildo. B.E.D.F.A.S.T. would act as support for your body as it usually did.

You pictured yourself held up for your partner and willed the limbs of the machine to your mental image. They reached for you, ready to close up and secured first a belt just like Donnie’s battle shell. They crept from there in easy to remember images of what had been conjured before. Your spine was supported with additional strips cuffing just under your ass cheeks so you could better control rocking strides. From there you were lifted up in a seat and armrests came up to hold you at the ready. When you settled into a comfortable position with your pelvis on display, you found you had unintentionally sent that desire for your mate to watch and found your sex right in his face.

He stared between your legs with hunger tinting his iris before he flicked a ready eye up to you.

“Will you do the lube?”

“Certainly.” A tilt of his head waved an arm that pearled at the ready.

You sought the dildo only for a moment before B.E.D.F.A.S.T. offered it. You took it free from the machine and saw Donnie perk up at the choice. You held the long piece of silicone for a moment and considered how best to hold it. It would have to be with both hands so you gripped firmly on your end of the shaft before holding it up to the lube as one would lift an empty ice cream cone to a dispenser.

Donnie let a metered amount pour out and you shifted the mock glans around to catch the drip. When it satisfactorily soaked the toy, you brought it down and readied it between your legs. It stuck out with the other end nearly hitting your partner and he felt compelled to reach up and take it. You warned him with a glance not to interfere and he offered his participation, “The length will bounce free.”

“Only keep it steady.”

He gave an attentive nod.

You pressed this lesser version of your mate to you and shuddered at the warmth. The toy itself wasn’t exhibiting it, so it must have been the lube. It hadn’t felt like that when you tested it moments ago and you wondered if it was B.E.D.F.A.S.T.’s way of warming up. It was a warm lick as you slipped the flattened glans along the length of your cunt.

The taut, but bouncy nature of the silicone slid through you and you worked the slick on the whole of yourself. Donnie’s lube extension appeared coy in the side of your vision and you shifted your grip to give it space. It didn’t touch you, but dripped down more lube. B.E.D.F.A.S.T. lifted you a little more to catch it and it poured down your sex with a slow leak like honey.

You steered the toy like a rudder to catch the tide, but the excess spread about the toy to curve down your ass. You bet it fled for the floor after that, but you cared little as you lined the dildo up. You pressed your own hole and couldn’t help, but compare it to the lab setting. Whenever Donnie’s tech was the cause, he tested and teased your entrance until he was sure he could enter you comfortably. Of your own hand, you wanted the ache of a split and pushed against the tight ring of flesh. The lube made it a smoother glide, but the stretch was sudden enough.

Your muscles ached to catch up and you refused to let them as you shoved the toy in. It spread you minimally in comparison to the cock you normally took, but it sharply reached deeper as you couldn’t keep feeding it in. You hit your furthest wall almost immediately and shifted the angle for better pleasure. It meant pulling the toy a metered amount out and with it came an abundance of slick.

You found Donnie had the faucet of his attachment turned on to a slow constant and the soak interfered with your grip on the toy. You stretched your grip out longer, but found the distance pulled your arm. In a snap decision to better get off, B.E.D.F.A.S.T. animated and turned you over. The rotation spun in your head and you sat aerial on your knees. Hunched forward and away from your mate so he had a view of your ass, you pumped upward with the toy and down with your hips.

In a crouch you were properly fucking yourself and you felt the dildo slip in and out. The wetness cascaded down your hands and you found the toy was moving more erratically from it. You couldn’t grip its slippery nature and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. came down to lock a cuff on the opposite end. It meant the toy stopped moving and instead you bounced your ass atop it. It pressed deeper with your loosening by the second. It was a bell curve rising action where you would hit a crest before you began to restrict again. The squelch hit your ears as a hungry sound and you moved faster to chase it.

“Not interfering, but your mention of anal…” Donnie’s voice was a jagged warning as he palmed your soaked ass cheeks.

You tried to moan out a warning for him, but he followed your bounce expertly so as not to impede your motion.

Within revolutions, he pulls your cheeks apart in a gesture of kneading your flesh. The press and pull amongst your thrusting found a rolling rhythm. Each time you descended, Donnie would shove inward and then out as you came up. Cold air nipped your asshole and felt like an odd tear in the fabric of the practice until Donnie’s thumb pressed to cover the exit.

You tensed and spasmed on the toy.

“Your asshole is twitching…” Donnie remarked and rolled his thumb over the puckered spot.

“D-don’t…” You tried to flex away from him, but felt how that moved your muscle groups.

You also further descended the toy.

Shame boiled in your cheeks and you shoved off of him and down the length to drown it.

Donnie chased you with fingers long enough to curl around your hips as his thumbs spread you wider.

Your skin slid out from his grip again and again, but it each time followed with renewed effort.

It rolled through you in a concurrent motion where the toy pressed your g-spot and you were crying out as that falling action kicked in.

Teeth sank directly into one of your ass cheeks and you screamed.

“Stop…” Donnie spoke through wet puffs of salvia and refused to disengage.

“W-why!?” You cried out.

“Need…join…”

“Donnie…!” You whined and he extracted himself.

You were flipped over so fast you felt your pupils bounce as they were unable to catch up.

The blur lines reverted as you were once again on your back and the toy hung out of you. The lube dripped down along with it and you heaved forward to catch it right before it fell out of you. B.E.D.F.A.S.T. set you upright just in time and you floated on your knees as Donnie lifted a leg to tug off his joggers. He tossed them aside and you saw in a shift how his slick had poured to just above his knee. “How have you not dropped…?”

“Touch me and I will.” He sent you a barely withheld gaze.

B.E.D.F.A.S.T. moved to pick him up and you saw the difference in the arms. The ones that caught Donnie beefed up to a thickness that rivaled his battle shell and posts shot out to the floor to keep him in the air. Unlike your cuffing binds, your partner’s were half moon’s that acted more as support then restraints. The bulk of his body seemed set from his battle shell and several more of B.E.D.F.A.S.T.’s arms attached to it so he would remain airborne.

You pulled out the dildo and grabbed the lube attachment instead of mentally willing it to you. You poured its nectar down the mouth of the stroker end until it surpassed what could flow from the tiny vents. It filled up like a pot and oozed out like jelly from a donut. Satisfied then, you stuffed the cockhead end back into your cunt and moved B.E.D.F.A.S.T. to bring you to Donnie.

Your mate’s gaze flew to your eager vision and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. lifted him up so his pelvis was in line with yours. He was offered on his knees and spread as wide as you imagined his hips would allow. It caused the leak between his legs to string apart in ropes that snapped from tensile strength. He’d been prepped without touch and he chirped a few lewd times as his tail curled away to further present.

You caught your shaft with a tight fist and aimed the toy. The mouth melded with Donnie’s slit and he aborted a mating call as you felt a counter current press against it. His cock was trying to escape his confines and you slid your other hand up to manipulate the mouth of the toy. In a feeding motion that would extrude icing from a piping bag, you squeezed out the lube inside the toy so it could easily push into him when you applied pressure.

It sent the toy to your maximum depths and stung a constant pressure from the force. You flexed the muscle in your abdomen to help hold it and shimmied the stroker to encourage Donnie’s slit. Your mate warbled as the brunt of his energy went into not dropping and turning what was meant to be a penetrative toy into an external one.

With your innards pushed to their limits, you needed further leverage to get the toy inside him and you reached out to his belt. It was smooth to his skin, but metal bent under your prying fingers so you could get a grip. You yanked your husband’s lower body closer and with it Donnie’s slit began to pucker outward from the pressure. It was the first sign that the toy would slide inside and from practice you knew the moment it did, it would disappear. You eased your mate with a rock, rubbing the toy up and down his hole and each swipe brought him closer.

Warning clicks popped out of him like simmering stew threatening to boil and he squeaked loud into a scream as you were sucked inside. It pulled the toy straight out of you and you moved B.E.D.F.A.S.T. to chase him. It took some back and forth adjustments where he squealed at the sensation of his cock shaking against the mechanism built to hold it.

“You’re good. You’re so good. You’re safe. You’re okay.” You repeated over and over and caught twisted the toy to open up those vents.

A wet lick of air said the seal broke and with it he panted some relief.

“That’s my good mate. My gorgeous mate. Look at you taking me. So good.”

He gave a pitiful chirp that was exhausted, but held the faintest eagerness.

“Good boy. So good…” You moved your hips back and felt a stinging deep in your body.

You doubted it was a bruise, but the prolonged force of the toy in your furthest reaches had bullied tender flesh.

A roll helped shift the toy and your mate popped a sudden squeak as it moved inside him as well.

You looked over his form.

“Hands back, hips forward.”

He followed the command and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. disappeared behind him so he had a hold there.

A frothed ring of white milk bubbled a rim around the saucer of Donnie’s slit.

You tested a thrust and watched the toy bounce within your partner.

He screeched a feral noise up at the ceiling before his gaze shot to you with what looked like a veiled threat if you dared stop again.

You were in motion and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. reacted instinctually. Where you didn’t have the leverage to fuck your partner, B.E.D.F.A.S.T. pressed hard into your spine to aid in your thrusts. You could tell from the timing it was from you and Donnie cried out with each stroke. Stunted moans mixed with turtle chirps and you chased the despeart repeat.

It came with adjusting angles to make him louder than ever before. You hit one such spot that pitched his voice into a broken yell and he thrust back with a force that you weren’t ready for. Your battered insides ached at the feeling and you could only respond with further movement to keep the toy from punishing one spot. You were trapped in the ouroborus as feeding into him fed it further into you.

That felt impossible with the toy’s reach, but indeed the bulging center line of the toy neared your entrance both by look and feel. The waning thickness of it swung back against your outer labia and it was the barest sensation among the numbness from prolonged fucking. It blurred lines and you imagined there was a rusted hitch between your bodies outside of more than just the toy.

B.E.D.F.A.S.T. complied with the vague request and your belt reached to connect to Donnie’s. Your mate moaned endlessly, unaware of the tether, and another attachment reached out. You saw metal pieces move like nanoparticles assembling new chemical formulas. You and Donnie were rapidly becoming one blended entity and a shove of your hips was you trying to connect a final lock.

The pulse of your innermost muscles cried out and the sting felt like it was pressing through your belly button. It would surpass and disappear into your intestines and all the way to your lungs by the way each breath scorched air. You were spit roasted very literally and only missing the turn. It came because you thought it and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. compiled without precaution. It was something you drearily thought needed to be fixed as you were rotated enough to scissor your partner.

Your thoughts whited out at the depths the dildo reached and you felt the exact moment your mons struck Donnie’s. It was tinder from both of you and a snarl echoed your name as your mate came. The thrusting halted in favor of a full press and you thought for sure the toy was going to break your womb. The pain alone was it violating your cervix and now there was a thumping at your entrance in the way of your husband blowing his load.

He pulsed out his orgasm and beyond and your body fell back because you let go. Something kept you from hitting the ground and it was your harness. All the connecting points that had latched between yours and Donnie’s belts were holding you, but there wasn’t enough on your upper body to keep you upright. You were now dangling upside-down with your pelvis still crushed to your mate’s and seed flowed out of the vent holes.

You felt it different from the lube’s gentle warmth and it was fiery lava that poured down the toy and your sopping wet cunt. You imagined it burnt welts into the silicone and oozed over your labia to pry at your entrance. Already stuffed full it could only smear around your entrance uselessly, fingers found the small bit of toy that wasn’t jammed into either of your bodies.

The thickness of the digits read your mate. You squeaked weakly for him and had a darkened thought that he was feeling you up. His fingers caught little amongst all the fluids, but you willed him to with the little left of your lower body. B.E.D.F.A.S.T. was the answer to that and you saw an extension disappear into your lower half. Like a rescue team, it and Donnie then finally dislodged the toy from your cunt. It felt like some relief along with spasms of your inner muscles from where it had been buried.

Blood pooled heavily in your brain from the hanging and you were robbed of your coherence. The toy was gone, but its excess continued to flow. What you knew to be semen flowed over your sex like a fountain and burbled out around your ass and stomach. The drip slid and reached for your breasts. You thought it might reach your nipples when a thumb came flat and wide to your clit. You bucked to life and bounced on the bungee of your chains while your mate ushered you.

“My heart, I’ve got you. Try to breathe.”

You couldn’t swallow let alone breathe.

If you drooled it would go up your nose and you would suffocate.

Yet your mate was focused on your battered cunt.

You groaned as he pressed your clit again and probed you tenderly.

Your inner muscles rejected pleasure in favor of the thrum of pain.

It burned to a numbered degree and held on incessantly.

Donnie did the same in a soaked stroke and twisted a testing finger inside you.

At least that didn’t hurt.

The stimulation was a contrasting offset if anything.

With one hand he maneuvered a wide, flat, rub to your clit and with the other he only tended to your immediate entrance.

He was operating your body like an old finicky switch board. He kept having to pull out cables and plug them in elsewhere. He sought the best connection and it felt like once the line came crystal clear then the pressure valve tensity released. Your body was hissing out the pressure and a vignette colored your vision.

You saw it as something from old camera footage and felt giggly for it. You were watching a moving picture on a nickelodeon and your brain buzzed with the technology. Someone whacked the picture box and with it came another rush of still warm, but now cooler cum. The balm of it poured over your cunt to help and more of it dripped down your body.

You must have been watching The Blob because it crept slower than it should have along your body. It came to life to grab and consume until it engorged itself around your throat. It was swallowing you whole for that body temperature warmth to send you back to stasis. The baseline was sterility and in the jelly you would be preserved until you were returned to your proper time.

You came suddenly and with a harshness that tore open all your inner wounds.

You screeched and it was only a sound to your ears as your vision was gone.You were yanked upright by the fuel in your ears which sloshed. Delirium didn’t so much as flee as gravity peeled it from you. All the fluids were going the opposite way now and you were free to breathe. You did so in long siphons and fell limp against Donnie. He held you close, but you felt B.E.D.F.A.S.T. mixed as there were too many arms.

“Easy. Are you with me, my love?” He pet your back.

“No… I’m dead…” Your voice sapped at your ears.

“Don’t joke…” His voice held only comfort.

You grumbled and nosed until you felt his throat and tucked your face in there.

His churr came up more as a soothing lullaby, but sleep was far from your mind.

You had surpassed that point.

“No more colon…” You hiccupped.

You felt Donnie try not to laugh, but there was a titter to his voice. “Understood. No more.”

You didn’t care how funny he thought it was and snuggled closer. “Bath?”

“Bath.” The syllable thanked you for direction and B.E.D.F.A.S.T. retreated leaving you only in Donnie’s arms and in transport toward the bathroom.

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