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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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hotvintagepoll · 24 days

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Propaganda

Machiko Kyō (Rashomon, Floating Weeds, Older Brother Younger Sister)— Considered an early sex symbol in Japanese cinema. Also just an ethereal beauty who can also go feral/unhinged in a glorious way.

Judy Garland (Meet Me In St. Louis, A Star is Born, Summer Stock)— Judy is the GOAT when it comes to classic movie musicals. The voice of an angel who deserved so much better than she got. She can sing she can dance she can act she's a triple threat. Though she had a turbulent personal life (her treatment as a child star by the studio system makes me mad as hell like Louis b Mayer fight me ((she was made to believe that she was physically unattractive by the constant criticism of film executives who made her feel ugly and who manipulated her onscreen appearance by capping her teeth and using discs in her nose to change its shape and Mayer called her "my little hunchback" like imagine hearing that as a child and not having damage)) she always goddamn delivered on screen and in any performance she gave. She began in vaudeville performing with her sisters and was signed to MGM at 13. Starting out in supporting parts especially paired with mickey Rooney in a bunch of films (she's the best part tbh) she eventually transferred to the lead role. She is best known for her starring role in movie musicals like the iconic Wizard of Oz (somewhere over the rainbow still hits hard and is ranked the top film song of all time), meet me in St. Louis (Judy singing have your self a merry little Christmas brings tears to the eyes she is that powerful), the Harvey girls (she looks like a technicolor dream and sings a catchy af song about trains), Easter parade ( dancing and singing with Fred Astaire), for me and my gal, the pirate, and summer stock ( with pal Gene Kelly who she helped when he was starting out and he helped her when she was struggling). But she also does non- singing just as well like the clock ( her first movie where she sings no songs and is an underrated ww2 era romance), her Oscar nominated a star is born ( like the man that got away she put her whole soul in that and I have beef with the fact she lost to grace kelly ((whom I love but like still not even her best work)), and judgement at Nuremberg (a courtroom drama about the nazi war criminal trials). Outside of film she made concert appearances to record-breaking audiences, released 8 studio albums, and had her own Emmy-nominated tv series. She was the youngest (39) and first female recipient of the Cecil B DeMille award for lifetime achievement in the film industry. Girl was a lifelong democrat and was a financial and moral supporter of many causes including the civil rights movement (she was at the March on Washington and held a press conference to protest the 16th street Baptist church bombings). She was a friend of the Kennedy family and would call jfk weekly often ending the calls by singing the first few lines of somewhere over the rainbow (she thought of them as Gemini twins).She was a member of the committee for the first amendment which was formed in response to the HUAC investigations. Though she died far too young and tragically she remains an icon for her work and her life. As a girl who didn't feel like i was as pretty as everyone else I have always felt a connection to Judy and I just really love her.

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Machiko Kyō:

Judy:

Judy's voice alone qualifies her for at least top ten hottest HOT VINTAGE MOVIE WOMEN. She was a truly incredible swing singer, with a stunning voice on top of her technique. Her short dark hair looked incredible in just about any style. Have I mentioned her swagger? I can’t do it justice with words. She had swagger. She was funny as hell, and clever too. Incredibly charming and cool. I adore her.

Her eyes, her voice have bewitched me

I mean how can you beat the one and only Judy? She's beautiful, her smile is contagious, the way she sings with her whole body. You can't help but love her.

youtube

Beautiful woman, love her singing voice. And she can do everything between happy or silly and angry or heartbroken

#judy garland #machiko kyō #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3

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vilsoo · 7 months

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 ⌇GETO SUGURU

witch!reader x married!geto suguru || WC: 10,779

𖤐 SYNOPSIS. love and sex spells are your expertise; saving your client’s relationships and marriage with your witchcraft. you’d never go out your way to ruin them, until, you meet the handsome married man geto suguru…

𖤐 WARNINGS. witch disguised as sex therapist, implied homewrecking, slight yandere, witchcraft, seduction, impersonation, bodysnatching, body/soul possession, toxicity, eventual smut, horror/thriller themes.

HORRORLAND/KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

[ANNOUNCER] Your attention please! Horrorland is now opened for all guests. We hope you enjoy our new exciting attractions and parklands this year, such as as Maneaterville, Monster F***** Woodlands, and the return of Horrorland’s famous parkland, Sex and Horror City! Please remember to be mindful of other guests making their way through and abide by our safety rules. Thank you for coming to Horrorland this Halloween!

[RIDE ANNOUNCER] As you are getting seated, be mindful that this 4D simulation ride contains flashing scenes, special effects, and jarring motions. Please remember to stay seated and keep all arms and legs inside when the vehicle is in motion. Keep your 4D glasses on for a better experience. Any kind of photography is not allowed during the ride. And absolutely no eating, smoking, or drinking while riding. Thanks for your attention and cooperation. We hope you enjoy.

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Ancient love magic, love spells, sex rituals, charms, potions, invocations, incantations, enchantments, runes, hexes, witchcraft.

300 years ago around the early 15th century, you’ve grown as a love witch; mastering the most powerful love and sex spells that many others failed to do. Some covens never knew of this magic nor practiced them, which is why you’ve been protecting it. You were mostly an independent witch your whole life, keeping yourself hidden and far away from the town and its people.

Most of these love spells weren’t learned from the ancient books you came across. You were taught from the love deities themselves; Venus, Krishna, Eos, Aphrodite, and so on. Goddesses that were associated with romance, lust, and sexuality were your teachers for several years. And in exchange, all you had to do was honor them through ritual, prayer, offerings, and most importantly keeping your sexual energy and prowess protected.

It wasn’t until one evening during the witch-hunt period, you fell in love with a man you’ve been seeing. A man that was bewitched and under all your spells, using them to keep him around longer. You loved him so much that you were willing to give up practicing witchcraft and gain your years of humanity back; everything that you missed out on and being a normal, regular citizen living your youth…

Sadly, the good memories and moments you shared just had to end so abruptly. It was hard to keep your witch life hidden, even though you believed nobody would suspect you. When he found your secret basement where all your witchcraft books, candles, pentagrams, cauldrons, and many other powerful objects were hidden, you were outed immediately.

At least you were protected by your divine spirits and guardian angels during the chase. Nobody found you nor did you get burned at the stake, thankfully. You were also able to find a remote location away from civilization, but it was difficult living like this; not being able to retain a normal life with your humanity. But the goddesses noticed, giving you the gift of staying youthful, young, and beautiful forever until the end of time. When the witch-hunt period passed, you managed to live for centuries finally enjoying a normal life through different eras and generations without time catching up.

You’ve then decided to never use your love spells on the people you have an eye on; instead, you wanted to help others.

Fast forward to present time, you were a licensed couples counselor, relationship advisor, and sex therapist. You’ve been helping broken relationships and marriages with your “wise advice” when really you were just doing your love spells behind the scenes. Of course, all their problems went away and customers would give their best reviews and really good pay. The same with sex therapy too; when in need of advice on how to spice things up in bed, you offer it while manifesting the most powerful and passionate sexual energy for them. And ‘till this day, you still honor your love deities even though they retired as your teachers centuries ago.

“Doctor Y/N is ready to see you now,” said your secretary, opening your office doors as your next male client sauntered in.

When your gaze flickered to the man’s face, in that mere, fleeting moment, something alluring about him blossomed within you. Settling on those deep and dark eyes as if linked to the primordial abyss— his charm, beauty, presence, and his energy alone had you hopelessly afflicted…! You haven’t felt such powerful infatuation and attraction in centuries that it was like discovering parts of you that were hidden beneath… What was it about this stranger and his sexual energy that you were oddly drawn to?

You forced yourself from your perverse thoughts and professionally greeted him just like any other client. “Afternoon, you must be Suguru. How are you today?”

“I’m good, how are you?” he coaxed as he sat across from your sofa, the sultry in his voice as smooth as molasses and so ravagingly rich in flavor. So hypnotizing and much more powerful than any enchantment. And his aura was so passionate and bright as the sun, radiant and all illuminating, like a lotus flower bathing on a still pond.

You sighed deeply and recomposed yourself as you sat down. “I’m doing good,” you beamed, not realizing you were all doe-eyed towards him. “You, uh, want anything to drink before we start?”

The way he smiled and chuckled softly out of nervousness was so precious to descry. “No, no. I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

“So, what brings you to this session?”

Your eyes never left Geto’s face as if he was etched deep within your skin, watching him exhale deeply from his agitation. “A close friend of mine recommended you to me. You’re a very skilled therapist and I’ve seen lots of good reviews about you. You must be really good at your job.”

“Thank you,” you beamed, feeling your heart skip a beat from his compliment. “I love what I do and it’s very heartwarming to hear from my clients that they’re satisfied after our sessions.”

“That’s very good to hear, doctor.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Me? Ah… just a little,” he faltered. “I’ve never been to a sex therapist before and I never really talk about my wife and I’s sex life.”

Wife?

Just hearing that come out of those saccharine lips of his had the synapses of your brain frozen. The image of him married, spending the rest of his life with another woman ripped your mind up like a vice and paralyzed you. Immediately the silver titanium wedding ring caught your eye. It felt as if you only had one second to go through all five stages of grief and then force yourself to remain composed and professional.

You. Would. Never.

You were strictly against ruining people’s relationships and marriage. You’d never have just a fleeting thought of homewrecking someone’s marriage or promoting infidelity. It would be a major taboo as a witch! But then again, there was this feeling inside that was screaming at you to keep this man and his sexual energy wrapped around your finger… at a safe and professional distance.

You swallowed thickly. “Oh, that’s okay. That’s normal, Suguru! But in order for you to open up to me, I’m going to ask a few questions about you and your wife’s sex life, will that be fine?”

“Yes, please,” he gestured.

“Can you provide your sexual history? Like when was the last time you had sex with her?”

The moment he had to think about it, you knew where this was going. You almost felt pity. “Uh… I believe three weeks ago? I know, that sounds a little unusual, but, we’ve been very busy lately.”

“I see. Are you guys at least intimate and loving with each other outside of sex, though?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re very passionate with each other. My wife is very charismatic, endearing, beautiful... there’s so much I love about her. But when we we’re in bed, she still wants to take things slow; even though we’re very comfortable with each other. We mostly make love. You know, soft vanilla sex; not that there’s anything wrong with that. I would never pressure her to do something that she’s uncomfortable with. But, I came to you today because… I want to be more experimental with her. I want to spice things up in the bed and make sure she’s enjoying it. And even though I communicate about it to her, she’s still closed off about it. How can I make her open up to me?”

You hummed, trying not to go crazy over the fantasies of him making love like those passionate sex scenes you’ve seen in movies or homemade porn. “I’ve dealt with several clients experiencing that same reluctance your wife has. There’s a variety of reasons; she’s either very shy and awkward about it, or she’s just disgusted about sex in general. Low libido also contributes. It’s extremely common nowadays in women.”

Geto had a dejected sigh, worried about his wife. “Do you mind elaborating, doctor..?”

“When it comes to sex, not all women can voice out what they want. It doesn’t mean that there is something wrong; it just means she’s naturally shy about sex, and that’s completely normal,” you explained. “If your wife seems to want to make you happy in bed but is also reluctant, you should try reassuring to her that you love her, and your desire for a more exciting sex life doesn’t mean that you don’t love and desire her already. Tell her what you’ve done before and what you haven’t. She may feel more secure about trying something new with you. And express why you want a more exciting sex life with her.”

“I really hope I didn’t make her feel that way. God, I would be sick to my stomach if I ever made her feel insecure about herself. What is it about me that makes her… shy?”

You lean back on your sofa, smoothing out your long skirt while trying not to rub your thighs together. You’ve never felt such forbidden lust for a client before, especially a married man. It felt as if you were under a spell instead.

“Um, well— your presence and your aura just radiate… dominance to me,” you piqued while tilting your head. “It’s like… you know what you want and how to get it so easily. A shy woman wouldn’t even dare to take control. In order for that not to happen, allow her to empathize with your awkwardness or shyness about some things in bed. She’ll be a lot more willing to open up to you in return.”

His strong devotion to pleasure his wife was so intense to you. It made your chest thunder and your stomach twist; you had no idea what was going on with you and this stranger’s energy invading into yours. Just how powerful is his lust that it’s making you not think straight? You were feeling needy and filthy, and your energy was drawn into him and him only.

“I see... well, you’re right. I’m feeling a lot more confident that after taking in your advice and support, we’ll definitely cooperate together. She doesn’t have to be all shy with me. We can just work through it together, right?”

You agreed. For the past 30 minutes of spending more time knowing about Geto and his wife in order for the sex rituals to work, you asked more questions and went through the regular procedures of sex therapy. But the more you lingered with him, the more the tension thickened. Suguru had you infatuated and distracted. And even though he had a wife, you couldn’t help but feel such strong attraction. You tried your best not to seduce him. You tried your best to not let your mind wander off into filthy fantasies of him. But the furtive heat and wetness pooling between your legs felt as if it was transmitting onto your sofa. You had this erratic throbbing in the walls of your pussy the more you interacted with him. And you had no fucking clue why.

When Suguru left, you immediately had to take care of yourself. Keeping a spare vibrator in your drawer, you locked the doors and sat down on the sofa Geto was sitting on, spreading your legs while getting off to the vibrator stimulating your aching clit. You’ve abandoned your shame long ago about masturbating in your office on your break; you needed this badly. But such lust and fervor has never felt so urgent in your life that it heavily concerned you.

You moaned as softly as you could, having to muffle yourself to not let anyone nearby hear. And after cumming this fast for the first time in ages, you cleaned yourself up and got ready to leave for home and perform the sex ritual for Geto and his wife. You had to keep pushing away your jealousy in order to satisfy him. The spell would backfire if there were any feelings evolved, anyways. Never has this ever happened to you, though; for centuries you never knew your body could react this way over a man.

What’s spine-chilling was not even knowing why this was happening all of a sudden and why it’s happening in this time and age. It’s like your sexual energy and prowess that you’ve been protecting took over your poise, immobilizing your chaste and unleashing your inner promiscuity, like a deadly parasite attached to you and wanting to feed off it. And for Geto Suguru, a married man and loving husband, his mystifying sexual energy was enough to corrupt you entirely.

I have to stay away from him.

But, if the spell backfires, his marriage would be ruined forever…

That would be my first ever failure as a sexual therapist and healer.

You finally got home and headed to your magicarium, which is your basement with all your witchcraft and magic objects organized neatly. It was time for you to let go of Geto Suguru and only focus on improving his marriage and sex life. Stay professional and proceed with the ritual; then you’ll never have to see or even think of him. You rushed around like this was a life-endangering emergency, gathering everything that you needed. But as you were preparing your ingredients, you suddenly thought about a short-term memory loss spell.

Could that work..?

Since it’s a spell that hasn’t been used in several years, you had to go through all your bookshelves filled with thousands of spells and enchantments. Everything witchcraft related. You tried searching through your potions and journal entries, desperately looking everywhere just to get that man out of your mind. But as you were skimming one last time through your bookshelf, a thick book of various rituals fell down from the shelf.

When you head over to pick it up, the title and the cover caught your eye; something entirely different, something you’ve never performed successfully thousands of years ago; body and soul possession.

Your heart was rapidly racing in your chest for absolutely no reason. Then, you felt it again; your energy being drawn into a force you knew was corrupted… But instead of your sexual energy, it was your impulsiveness. You can feel it pounding inside your head, all the thoughts digging pathways into your brain more agonizing than any migraine. What was going on? What’s happening to you? Why are you feeling like this…?

You dropped the book to hold your face from the rush of anxiety, emitting a loud thud on the floor and opening to a random page right below. When you glanced down and read the subheading, only then had you realized what you fallen into…

This wasn’t witchcraft. It was all demon magic. Black magic. Corrosive to the soul, a diabolic price to pay. You get on your knees and proceed to read the spell out of curiosity:

Body and soul possession: Every intricate detail of this spell is uniquely crafted to mirror your aspirations, summoning the cosmic forces to reshape your physical existence. To perform body and soul possession, one must chant the incantation 3 times during the witching hour on full moon. Allow your soul to possess the other individual’s body and mind, letting go of your old self and feeling reborn into a new life. Your motivation, rapacity, greed, and selfish desires must be intense and strong enough for the body and soul possession to succeed. There will be no going back to your original form if you follow this method, however…

And in that moment, something shifted within you. You could feel the tides of time coming to a halt as sinister impulses took over you, an expulsion of foreign energy spreading like cursed blood in your veins. Imprisoning your lust for what felt like several years had now been released, your energy now lascivious and greedy to satisfy your primal needs. You’ve betrayed your true nature of being a passionate, endearing couples counselor. You failed to protect what your deities have been protecting for you. You’re now a victim to your own rapacious desire, enslaved to this rhythm of such unquenchable fire.

Your entire life, you’ve been stuck in a body that never ages. You’ve lost your friends and families from centuries ago while you get to live as this immortal witch, staying young forever and scorching the earth. But not anymore; no matter how many times you’ve tried dying, tried breaking your curse, tried being reincarnated to a mortal woman, and tried black magic that backfired, you finally found a new life to look forward to. A way you can finally free yourself.

Geto Suguru’s wife was the perfect body to possess. And with your soul inside of her body, you can finally have a taste of his energy you’ve been craving for the longest.

He will be yours to keep forever.

To execute this plan, you had to wait a couple of weeks for the full moon that falls on October 28th this year. It was an agonizing wait, so you decided to pretend things were all going normal and resumed your regular schedule for work. When you performed the sex ritual for Geto and his temporary wife, you just had to know for yourself how it all goes down. And how do you do this? By stalking them both at their house.

A day later after the ritual, you cast another spell that lets you mind control a crow and see through their eyes. The crow was perched on their windowsill, watching as Geto came home from work with his blazer draped over his arm and his body fatigued. His wife then comes in a few seconds later, arms opened for a tight embrace.

“…Hey, hey. I missed you a lot, too,” Geto chuckled as he kissed her cheek. “What’s all this, hm?”

The smile on his face was out of subtle bewilderment, as if he was stunned from his wife all over him like there was no tomorrow, greeting him with kisses all over his face. Evidence that the spell was beginning to work.

“What? I just missed you,” she coaxed, diving into a deep, passionate kiss with him that it made your stomach churn as you watched. “Dinner’s also ready.”

Geto’s lips brush the crook of her neck, taking in the scent of her enhanced pheremones. You can immediately tell by his longing expression that he was already turned on, gliding his hands down her body. But knowing his limits, he purposefully held himself back from taking her on right there.

“You smell… really good,” he whispers. “I’d rather have you for dinner instead.”

The two of them laughed it off, his wife taking his hand to bring him into the kitchen. The rest of their banter was blurred out of your mind when all you thought about was how intimate Geto was. Replaying the way he held her, how he kissed her. Such a loyal, loving husband with powerful underlying sexual energy you were dying to have a taste of.

It was nice to see your magic working perfectly, but that wasn’t your main concern. Not once in your life you ever doubted your love and sex spells. But in this very moment, your main focus was her. Knowing everything about her life, from her identity, schedule, routine, background, personality, etc. in order to take her place and possess her body.

Their dinner conversation was going on for too long. You needed to know more about their life at home and in public together. Just absorbing his wife’s memories wouldn’t even be enough. It’s gonna take a lot for you to fit in this new life, but you were heavily dedicated. And it wouldn’t be that difficult with so many spells you’ve practiced for eternity.

When nightfall finally approaches, the energy in the bedroom was enough to intoxicate your bloodstream. Even from several miles way it invaded you like fire in your ribs and coals upon your tongue, fueling you with such fervor. It seems that the couple had communicated with each other effectively, expressing all of their desires and fantasies in bed. A passionate, special night for them indeed; but it was such a shame that this won’t be going on for long.

Still stalking from the eyes of a crow, the feathers blended with the pitch black sky as you stayed perched by their windows. Geto Suguru has never looked so yummy to you; his body, his face, the size of his big cock… you wanted to get off so bad by the heavenly sight of him. It was already too late to pull away since you were drawn into the energy flowing in the room.

At first, he was so gentle with her. Checking up with her every few minutes as he was going down on her and caressing her body. You were too aroused by this; way too aroused from how he was eating her pussy out. If you closed your eyes and tried enough, you could picture him eating you out instead. Wondering how you would react as Geto kept teasing, making you pull onto his bedsheets that begins to stick onto your skin, crying out his name as you grind your hips on his face...

Then you watched as she got on his knees, gazing up at him with the most tantalizing look in her eyes. You sensed that she was an amateur; her first time ever going down on a male. Geto was still being gentle, willing to guide her and teach her. It was a slow process; but fuck, if only that were you instead. The tight circle of your lips rolling upwards and downwards, peering through your eyelashes and pinning your gaze on him the whole time until he had the urge to fuck your throat... Oh, he’ll have no fucking idea.

You can also hear him talking her through it. Praising her taking his dick so good, but also calling her “my little slut.” God, if only that were you. Showing his gentle dominance that gradually switches to a rough, degrading dom that loves putting a woman in her place. Fucking her until she cries, until she screams, until she orgasms multiple times. That was the kind of energy from Geto that you sensed; all that repressed rough fantasies and desires that he’s been holding back on for so long were bound to come out.

Such a shame, Suguru. She was the first to experience how much of a filthy person you really are deep down...

It’s unbelievable that this man hasn’t laid one finger on you or stood within your presence up close; yet he’s the only man that’s making you muffle your moans and whines out of shame in your own home. Playing with yourself, getting off to this filthy sight… no man has ever had you become this pathetic ever. But deep down, you secretly loved it; as if he’s given you all the power to ruin yourself. That once he lays a finger on you, you want him to make it hurt real good…

The stalking mission became worse as the days gone by, but at least you were making tons of progress retaining information. Whenever the couple wasn’t home, you’d find yourself roaming about inside, sneaking in through their mirrors. You analyzed every room in their home, the way every decoration was arranged, the way their drawers were organized, the food that makes up their pantry, the books that they read, mostly everything until his wife comes home from work. You had to know about where she works, what kind of car she drives, and what exactly she does.

While handling other clients back at work, Geto’s session would occur once a week over Zoom meetings. You got to “officially” meet his wife, putting on a polite and professional facade as you continued “advising” them and following sex therapy procedures. But this mission was all you were invested in for weeks, now taking off so many days from your job just to focus on the couple. It was also fascinating to witness how far they came from their timid sex experience to the point they’ve fucked all over the house every day and night, taking their sexual frustrations out on each other and then having the sweetest, intimate aftercare.

But it wasn’t until your blazing envy and prolonged jealousy of his wife provoked you; You wanted to drain her energy that she was sharing with Geto by psychologically torturing her every few nights. She needed to know that there was someone out there, lurking in the vulnerable edges of her mind, always watching her nearby. Standing beside her bed at night, watching her deep in her slumber. You were a snake slithered into position and ready to strike. Your unsettling presence then waking her up in the middle of the night, shooting up from her bed with a startled gasp and looking around to find nobody.

The hunt for her was never going to stop. All the times she would be alone, whether at work or at home doing chores, you’d torment her with dark magic that paralyzes her with this sinking sensation of diabolical fear and painful turmoil. You gained such satisfaction and amusement out of this, threatening her in the most sinister ways that was all in her head. That was the beauty of black magic and witchcraft; getting exactly what you want out of something standing in your way.

The 28th was finally here. Your mind is screaming at you that it’s time. This was the last night of your mundane life as a witch and being reborn as a normal human being, finally getting a taste of death. There was nothing to miss from a life of immortality. There was no point in honoring your love deities since they don’t come around anymore. And as much as you loved your career in couples counseling, it was time to “retire.”

With your soul leaving your body forever, you decided to leave yourself in a remote location where no one could find your body. You emptied out your whole house as if you moved out and sold it. All of your witchcraft books and powerful objects were stored in another spare underground magicarium you used for centuries, safely hidden and guarded where no one else could find or trespass.

The shroud of night draws nigh, darkness swallowing every last bit of light on earth. At a darkened alleyway, you find his wife walking to the parking lot after her shift. The air around falls colder, sending a shiver coursing down her spine. You can see her but she can’t see you. But she can feel you. You want her to feel you reaping on her. You kept your eyes on her like a prowling wolf seeing their prey on the periphery of their new territory. The eerie, icy silence was enough to make all the hair rise on her skin.

Te video.

You tread so fondly and almost too carefully, ever so gracefully near her body, but as light as a rare breeze in a scorching desert. She still can’t see you, but she heard you; your wintry, delicate whispers of wicked incantations that reverberated in her ears and soaked into the air. She halted on her pathway and averted her head around in alarm, her breathing growing rapid and her eyes darting at every corner.

Such a fickle soul she was, perfect to be tormented alone in a dismal night like this. As much as you wanted her gone, you couldn’t help but take predatory thrill in agonizing a soul like hers that was soon to face the worse demise.

Tu es mortua mulier…

Tu autem ad me pertinent…

She let out a yelp when her head began throbbing, seeing the world around her spin as if she was nauseous. Your incantations now scream in her ears like a shrieking banshee, seizing every fiber of her being in bone-chilling horror. She holds onto the rough concrete wall and kept her head low like she was going to vomit, panting heavily until her heartbeat expelled all of the air from her lungs.

The lamps on the alleyway begin to flicker erratically. A flock of crows caw loudly as they fly fast up above. There were no sounds of cars. No sign of people around. She was a victim trapped in your menacing mind, twisting her reality into a night terror, almost resembling a bad drug trip.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

The woman turned her head ever so slowly to a puddle beside her, leaky water from a ledge dripping on its rippling surface. She leans forward to stare at her reflection, her facial expression mixed with tumult and distorted curiosity. With the alleyway being dark, seeing herself this way was like staring at a helpless version of herself lost in an abyss. Sunken away, forgotten from the world, never to be heard from again…

“No, I— I need to get back,” she uttered to herself. “I need to go home.”

Excipio.

Lured by your incantations messing with her head once again, her eyes follow the direction the sudden gush of wind drifted, all the way to the end of the alleyway. But what she didn’t know, the moment she took her curious eyes off the puddle that suddenly rippled, her reflection was not mirroring her at all.

Her reflection curves a wicked smirk at the corner of her lips, eyes widening as if a feral predator finally cornered their puny prey. In a blink of an eye, you can hear the wife screaming when your hand reached out of the puddle and grabbed her. How unfortunate that her screaming and crying for help was futile, trying her hardest to fight back such a deadly force. She should’ve known it was the last night of her life.

Munera porto mea consortes, corpora muta per auras...

She screams, she shrieks, she struggles with the black water coming out from the puddle transfiguring into a solid rope to bind her wrists behind her head, pinning her down to the ground.

Munera porto mea consortes, corpora muta per auras…

Her head suddenly shoots back with her mouth agape, a sign that she’s no longer in control of her own body. Her eyes start to glow and her limbs completely freeze like a deer in headlights. You can feel your soul resonating into her body as you kept repeating the incantation. She tried fighting it; she really tried her best fighting to keep her own body, like pulling a tooth with a string. But nothing could beat dark magic, finally eating away her soul and energy until she feels herself withering away. Finally cascading on her heart, her mind, body, and soul is now a lost one, somewhere drowning in a deep and dark abyss.

It was time to go home to your husband.

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Something shifted in the air when Geto was at home that night.

That feeling of needles piercing on the sides of his body for just a fleeting second. A random shiver running down his spine. A wave of nausea cascading in his stomach. His gut suddenly twisting out of nowhere. He had no idea why he felt this way; why this agitation suddenly washed over him. The last time he endured a gut-wrenching feeling like this was months ago for his first sex therapy session, which he found out Doctor Y/N no longer works there.

Thank goodness for her. If it weren’t for her advice, my wife wouldn’t be as confident in bed with me as she is now, he marveled in his head.

Geto was in the kitchen chopping up vegetables. Saturdays are when his wife comes home late for working overtime, which means he has to prepare dinner tonight. But what utterly surprised him was her coming home earlier than the usual time she arrives.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Of course, greeting each other after coming home from work was a normal thing they do everyday. But your enthusiasm coming home after working 10 hours was just a little anomalous to Geto. But it shouldn’t even be that big of a deal, right..? Maybe she has exciting news. Maybe she’s just happy to come home early. He would admit, her enthusiasm was just adorable. Any expression of happiness and joy from his wife was a beautiful sight to witness.

You make your way to the kitchen, immediately coming together to embrace. Geto felt his lungs closing in on him from how tight you were hugging him, squeezing all the oxygen out of him that he didn’t have enough time to register it.

“Oh my goodness— baby,” he chuckled breathlessly, sliding his hand down to hold your waist. His caresses drizzled under your skin, lulling you and feeling his body heat radiating onto you. Oh, his scent was just enough to send your desires and wanton lust ablaze. Starved of love for far too long, it felt painful deep down, like having an appetite for something unreachable.

“How was work? Everything okay?” Geto’s eyebrows slightly drew together, mentally contemplating this sudden rush of energy you had compared to this morning where you were all groggily and not in the mood for work.

You kept touching him, fiddling with his collar and running your hands down his chest. You couldn’t believe you were finally this close to him; it made you so nervous deep down. His physique was a masterpiece of curvaceous precision, artwork sculpted and delicately lined that you’ve adorned ever since you first laid your eyes on him. It was like doing a reality check to see if this was all real and not just a forbidden fantasy, that Geto Suguru truly belonged to you. Admiring him like an award, rather, a prized possession that you worked so hard to achieve.

“Work was… tiring,” you reply with a feigned sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I was also distracted today, too…”

“Oh? And why is that?” He smirked and inched his lips closer, giving you exactly what you wanted that you just couldn’t bare holding back longer. How can you crave something so rich and true that existence felt like it paled in comparison?

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you at work,” you muttered coyly. “Especially about this morning when you took care of me…”

“Oh, baby…” Geto held onto your hips as he guided you gently to the counter behind you. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

The way your eyes glimmered with passion and fire was so ravishing to him. He knows just how bad you want it, until he suddenly thought about the vegetables that were unfinished.

“…But, I gotta feed you first. You’ve been working so hard. You must be exhausted.”

With a soft kiss on the forehead, Geto walks back over to where the cutting board of vegetables laid, grabbing the knife and continuing to chop. You’ve never got to experience a domestic life with a man this way. He was the ideal, perfect husband. Financially supportive, stable, loyal, loving, housekeeping, all of the qualities and categories you’ve observed while stalking him several weeks prior. But god, you couldn’t wait to physically and spiritually experience the way he is in bed…

The rest of the evening you were getting ready upstairs, then headed down to the kitchen a few minutes later to aid him in preparing. Nothing unusual, unordinary, or out of place happening as the rest of the evening went on. You adjusted pretty quickly with the aid of his wife’s memories that you absorbed. You knew what food he liked, how to operate the stoves and other kitchen supplies, how they set the table, what time they usually eat dinner, and so on. And of course, a sprinkle of flirting here and there.

“Hm. Did you add something?” Geto asks after he ate a spoonful of the food you helped making at the dinner table. “I never tasted Zaru Soba like this before. I thought you’d always follow the same recipe.”

You panicked, not knowing that you might have accidentally changed something and tension would suddenly form over small stuff like this. “Um— I just felt a little… experimental today. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”

“No, no, honey,” he chuckles, reaching over to hold your hand in reassurance. “It doesn’t taste bad. I just thought… this was your family recipe and you stuck with it for years. But no harm in adding something new, right?”

You chuckled it off, trying to recompose yourself from the rapid beating of your heart. Perhaps there were major differences between you and his wife that would take time to adjust. However, you refused. Geto, on the other hand, scrutinized your little mannerisms like always. He’s attracted to every small thing his wife does; whether it’d be the way she sits, the way she speaks, the cute facial expressions she makes that makes him want to figure out what she’s thinking about. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling tonight.

Saturday evening dinners, he knows that you’re tired. Drained, enervated, and groggy all because of work. His wife would eat more slowly and frequently grab the pitcher on the table to keep refilling her glass from dehydration. The water in the pitcher would be iced as well, but tonight you left it at room temperature. You were almost finished with your plate, which is unusual because Geto always finishes his food before you, just so he can sit, talk, and listen as you ate. And the way you sat as well; usually you’d be slouching and massaging your thighs because of soreness and cramps and stress. Right now, your leg was folded on the other and your back seemed perfectly fine, shoulders pushed back like how you would sit in the fancy restaurants he would take you. But he knows just how comfortable you are with him at home that you don’t even have to act all modest and fancy.

How weird. I never overthink about my wife and her wellbeing, Geto vacillated in his mind. She’s just in a good mood..! There’s nothing wrong with her. Nothing about her changed at all…

“What are you thinking about, hm?” you coaxed, rubbing your foot against his leg under the table it caught him off guard. Your gaze flickers onto his, the heated look in your eyes seeping into his skin like water in a wound. The way you take him in was something he’s never seen nor felt before. His wife’s “fuck-me” eyes would be more submissive, more doe-eyed, more slothful, more yearning. That glimmer in your eyes that makes him lose his mind… But the look you gave him just now was enough to penetrate his psyche; rapacious, calculated, greedy— like a predator feening on its prey that it captured, having him all to yourself.

“Ah, I was just…”

Geto’s been contemplating the past ten minutes that he wasn’t even able to register you leaning in closer to kiss him. But it wasn’t just any soft, passionate kiss like you were trying to soothe him or give a loving, tender gesture. The way you kissed him was out of urgency, as if a rush of adrenaline took over you. The greed and desire he could see in your eyes earlier resonated in the kiss. He was confused, but at the same time… he couldn’t resist the way you clung onto him like he’s the only solid thing in your hazy world.

Your bodies bled into one as he kissed you, picking you up just to set you down on the dining table. As much as he wanted to be gentle with you, you were the one that kept devouring farther and rougher in his mouth, turning the kiss sloppy and barricading your hearing with heavy breathing. You’ve been wanting this ever since he stepped foot into your office that day. To feel his ravenous, depraved sexual energy coursing in your veins and setting your ribs on fire. Your wild ecstasy was fulfilling you so incredibly, an insatiable hunger and frenzy growing right at its peak that it greeds for more…!

“Fuck— wait, baby,” Geto breathed out in between kisses, still astounded from how energetic and horny you were despite working a 10 hour shift. “You still haven’t told me about work… What happened? Why are you so worked up tonight, hm?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you purred in his ear, realizing just how good you were at improvising and playing along. “Right now I just want you, Suguru… I want you right here on this table.”

“You didn’t have to tell me twice. I’ll fuck you until the legs of this table breaks.”

Arousal has never felt this intense; maybe you were much more wild and ravenous than Geto deep down. Like an animal driven by nothing more than the primal need to claim him as your own. He could feel how wet and hot you were for him just by lightly brushing his fingertips on your panties, seeing you squirm and grind your hips against him just for friction. Your body’s reaction and your desperation were so adorable to him it made his cock stir in his pants. Perhaps this was the only way to make him stop overthinking about the small stuff and get over it.

Suguru lowered himself down as he pushed your panties to the side. “I’ll eat this pretty pussy out from the back and then fuck you like I always do…”

You could feel him licking the glistening juices off your skin, savoring the taste and the delicate scent that drove him fucking insane. He proceeded to push a finger inside you, so slick and wet for him, emitting whimpers and moans out of your mouth. He adored hearing you make such filthy noises that reverberate off the walls. And he loved whenever you bucked against his face as his fingers curled inside you, hitting the spot and sucking on your clit that he knows drives his wife insane. He would never go on without eating her pussy; not just for her pleasure, but his pleasure as well.

He was also a man that kept his promises; several moments later your head was pinned down on the table as he fucked you so viciously on the table that you were on your tip toes. Shameless moans soaking into the air, his thrusts so rough that the table moved inch by inch on the floor it started creaking. You could finally feel it; you could taste it, you could down it like a drug, you enthralled in his sexual energy… An ecstatic feeling blooming like knots in your stomach and acquainting many unfamiliar parts of you that you never knew were there. Nearly knocked out of air, your vision becomes hazy as he fucks you through your orgasm, past the point where you're crying two octaves higher than you're used to.

Geto has never seen his wife come so hard like that. As if he finally awakened her inner whore, overtaking the pleasure instead of surrendering to it just to soothe her. Oh, she wanted more. She wanted to make it hurt. Make her lose her mind. It made his cock throb when he could see how greedy you really were, how you were so writhed with lust and addicted to the drunken-like feeling when you orgasm all over his cock. As much as he wanted to be the gentle dom he always was to his wife, something about tonight and the exchange of energy in the kitchen made him wild. He was hungry. He was ravenous…

I’ve never felt this way before, he thought to himself. As if my wife bewitched me or something…

If only the poor man knew. Because for the next few days and nights at the Suguru residence, things started feeling different.

Specifically with his wife.

Sure, your sex life together has improved ever since the sex therapy sessions with Doctor Y/N. He was able to indulge in some of his fantasies, including his wife’s. But sometimes it would get out of control; less intimate, less emotional, and more of a way to “get each other off” kinda thing. It wasn’t sex or making love… It was just fucking. He wanted this to be a balance between the passion and roughness. But it was leaning too far into roughness...

Aside what’s been going on in the bedroom, he started taking note of all the small mannerisms and things you do again. Recounting the time of how you started falling asleep way later than him now. The time you reorganized your beauty products and stopped using majority of them, which is unusual because you were obsessed with those specific makeup brands. Even your style and fashion taste is a tad bit different now, especially when you’re off to work— A little more provocative, he would describe. And the fact that you were suddenly all spiritual and astrological, which is extremely odd since that’s one of Geto’s expertise and his wife was unfamiliar with it.

You were never this… bold or outgoing. Out and about in public, you’d be so engaging, eloquent, and confident; the traits of an independent, feminine woman. It may be astonishing to see you’re out of your comfort zone, but seeing this behavior come out of nowhere rather than gradually made him overthink. It was like a light switch where the personality he fell in love with completely reformed itself in just a mere second. You don’t even drink that much either, until, Geto came home one night to you drinking tequila. He knew that too much would make his wife throw up, but taking it away from you suddenly stirred up an argument.

“The Hell’s wrong with you? Why are you acting so weird, lately?” he chided.

“What do you mean I’m being weird? I’m your wife, for fuck’s sake. This is how I normally am!”

“You know that your alcohol tolerance is low with tequila. Give it to me. You’re drunk!”

Your body temperature is even different when you’re cuddling together that it concerned him. And the fragrance you wear that he was so addicted to began to change as well. It was unsettling to even think of or witness, but then again, he kept constantly gaslighting himself that you’re really his wife. Physically the same, like her eyes, hair, face, body, and all... Nothing really changed about your appearance except for the new hairstyles you do and the attires you wear now. You stuck with your regular routine and schedule, knew how everything in the house works, remembered important dates, car payments and all that… There wasn’t anything out of order pertaining to physical matters.

But this gut feeling he endured four weeks ago when you came home on the 28th just couldn’t stop churning in him… There’s a fear that hides in a corner of his brain. Deeper than what he overthinks, like his intrusive thoughts.

No. Couldn’t be.

Why would I think such a thing about her?

He studied his wife again, who was napping right on his lap. Your face remained nonchalant and emotionless as you slept, which was also odd. Usually she would have her lips slightly perched apart as she’s deep in slumber, softly breathing. Sound asleep just like a baby that makes him want to plant kisses all over her precious face. But now you look like you don’t want to be bothered or woken up.

Then he found himself staring at the photos hung on the wall. Their wedding pictures, their anniversaries, vacations, and family gatherings all made him oddly nostalgic, like he’s never going to experience these precious moments of time ever again. He kept staring at his wife on the photos; timid, shy, but undeniably adorable. He really brought the best out of her as she did for him as well. But why does it feel like the woman on the photos is not the same woman laying on his lap right now?

I can’t be having thoughts like this, he panicked. I don’t want to have thoughts like this.

That’s my wife. I married her.

Why would she be any different?

More time had passed, and Geto’s gut feeling kept scorching in him like an endless flame. Because it wasn’t just this bottomless pit of anxiety swirling in his stomach. An irrational fear, fairly similar to paranoia and anxiety, like something or someone is watching him. Keeping him close by. Prompting him to keep looking back over his shoulder, or feel his skin crawl during the nights he struggles to fall asleep over this bullshit.

There were some unsettling nights with his wife. As if her presence, her aura, everything about her energy resonated to him as… caution. Eerie, abnormal, grim. When he first met his wife, she was a sweetheart, a delicate woman; the moment she steps into the room, his body would blossom with unending ecstasy and rapture. He was smitten, madly in love. It made him want to protect her, to hold her all day, to devote himself to her forever… But now he feels the need to shield himself, to keep some distance away from her, and try not to “provoke” her like she’s a deadly predator that’s keeping her prey hostage, ready to strike at any minute. And even though he tried communicating to her about what he feels, it was straight to rough make-up sex. But her strange, erratic behavior still never changes…

Give me a sign, universe, if my gut feeling about my wife is correct…

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There really was no other way.

It’s a sad reality that people can just change in a snap of a finger. Watching the people that you sincerely care for and love the most just become a whole different person is gut-wrenching and agonizing to bare. Geto couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t understand how this all happened, completely changing the course of the beautiful future him and his wife planned together.

It was impossible to put his finger on. Was his wife really putting on a facade this whole time around him? No. He never questioned anything about her until now and it freaked him out. Seeing her change and act like a whole other person in over a span of a few weeks was just impractical. But at the same time, he couldn’t keep lying to himself anymore.

He had his bags ready with everything he needed just to get away for a couple of days. There was obviously that lingering regret that he might be making the wrong choice. But he was a man that always trusted his gut; never has he ever endured this feeling of every nerve of his body being on high alert. Frozen, tangled in a heap of himself. But because his body had failed him, his mind bears the weight. Like speeding through every option, every possible source of control.

Once you left to go buy food, he was ready to go. Driving far away to the finished lakehouse which is one of the properties he owns, but never took his wife yet since it was under construction for a few months. Never looking back, trying so hard not to dwell on his emotions. His wife’s attitude, behavior, actions… everything was all elusive to him. The way it invaded his mind was the sign all along— a warning, rather. And then there’s this paralyzing belief that led him to his intrusive thoughts, like an insane theory that she is someone else, someone new living in her skin, taking over her body…

My wife is gone. Someone killed her.

That was the mindset he forced himself to conjecture. The drive was two and a half hours, and even though he believed that he left everything behind with no trace, there was that same symphony of paranoia causing a cacophony in his mind. That dreadful feeling of being followed or watched when he leasts expects it. The sinking feeling of making the wrong choice and it was all in his head. His anxiety would even skyrocket if a black Audi, the car his “wife” drives, started following him for more than five minutes.

She’s gone. She’s not coming back.

When he finally made it to the lake house, he was absolutely lost. He’s never felt this alone without the love of his life. He knew that his life, his body, his soul would be devoid without her, and it felt as if he had been grieving, still in denial about what happened. He just couldn’t let her go, but then again… that’s not the same woman he met four years ago.

She’s not going to find you here, he promised himself. Stop being paranoid now. It’s over. She’s gone.

The sunset radiated a soft glow right through the wide windows, feeling his body soothe from all that nausea-induced anxiety and paranoia. Reconnecting with nature; that was exactly what he needed the most. Reveling in the crisp breeze and the lingering scent of pine trees, Autumn was the season that he associated his wife with. Consuming everything pumpkin flavored, raking the orange and yellow leaves littering their yard, being able to wear her favorite sweaters again…

Stop reminding yourself of her. She’s dead.

As he was meditating and alleviating himself with tea the past few minutes, it was already nightfall. The stars were sloshing behind moldy gray clouds. The moon was a waning gibbous, shyly peaking from the shadows with one of its symmetrical sides. He needed to relish in this beautiful moment of tranquility and let himself go from reality.

But it wasn’t until the loud caw of a crow from nearby startled him, perched right on the balcony’s railing just to stare into his eyes. Too enervated from the situation, he ignored it and just went back inside, locking all the doors and windows and closing the blinds. So much pain weighing down on his heart to bear, clinging to his skin like static and stalking him like his own shadow. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. He needed all the time in the world to be alone.

But those damn crows outside the house wouldn’t shut up. He can hear them swarming in groups through trees, followed by the cool winds rustling the leaves. The sounds of nature began to exasperate him along with the ticking of the clock in his room, preventing him from drifting off to sleep. It made his stomach twist and ache again, thinking that the outdoor noises were something else in a remote location like this. Animals? Intruders…?

His heart dropped down into his stomach again. Distressed and unsettled, like anticipating trauma, it was back to the point he had to keep looking over his shoulders, wary as ever. He didn’t know if this was real or a nightmare. With every tick of the clock his stomach falls sick, causing his heart vessel to stretch, pump, and rush to survive.

He’s never known the true feeling of terror in all his life. Psychological torment, anguish, a fight-or-flight moment… He holds his breath as he slipped off the bed and saunters warily downstairs to the kitchen and slipped out the largest knife from the wooden knife holder. He can sense that someone’s here already, feel the presence of some being closing in on his ears and neck. After all the shit he endured the past couple weeks, he let his underlying aggravation seep instead of his paranoia, cluthing the handle of the knife tighter. He was ready to strike at any minute, at any second he sees or feels something unusual in the house.

He checked the front door. Still locked. Everything downstairs remained the same as it was when he arrived, nothing out of place or unusual. It was dark outside, but the moonshine was luminous enough to gleam through the blinds. The sounds of nature became prolonged-silence, the tension so thick it was impossible to slice through. He decided to head back upstairs, still wielding the knife in his hand. If everything was really fine, and there were no signs of breakage or intruders rummaging in any areas of the house… how the Hell was his “wife” sitting so gracefully on his bed, the moment he turned on the lights?

His heart raced like wildfire after seeing you, pounding loudly in his ears. He could feel his own blood being forced through his veins with every loud thump from such unimaginable, staggering fear. You slant your head at him with a small smirk, dressed in a pink silk robe with nothing underneath. Your hands propped beside you, arching your back and folding your legs to show your skin underneath. He remembers his wife wearing that silk robe when they were on honeymoon, which adorned her figure so beautifully… But nothing about this was beautiful or even an attempt to seduce him— he had tempered rage. Fear. Bewilderment. Anger. Frustration. You see it all like a flint behind his eyes, a surging storm taking over.

“Is that how you greet your wife? Holding a knife in your hand like that?” you coaxed, slanting your head at him with a cocky smile it pissed him off.

“You are not my wife,” Geto spat out, pointing the knife at your expressionless self. He cautiously ambles closer towards the bed, feeling his heart beat erratically. “Who are you!?”

The question made her stifle her laugh. She stood up from the bed and Geto backed up, clutching tightly on the knife’s handle he could feel his palms become clammy.

“I’m your wife, Suguru. I’ve always been your wife. We’ve known each other ever since Satoru introduced you to me—“

“You’re not!” he chastised. “You’re not… my—“

“Oh, but I am. You married me in November last year in Thailand. And we had our honeymoon in Malaysia. Remember when I wore this for you?”

Geto’s nose flared as he held back tears, feeling his throat ache as if he was being choked by barbed wire. “Stop. Just— just fucking tell me who you are. I know that you’re not her. Stop fucking lying to me. You’re not the same!”

“And if I wasn’t?” she piqued. “Imagine how terrifying that would be if I really wasn’t your wife all along. Now put the knife down.”

His jaw clenched harder, glaring down at you.“That won’t be happening. I know witchcraft when I see it— what the fuck did you do to her!?”

“You’re fucking insane.” You deadpanned at him as if he offended you, your gesture switching from tender and endearing to menacing, like you were ready to strike him on sight. It made his heart leap.

“Don’t you want a wife who’s not so fragile? Not so delicate and shy and… timid? Knows how to defend herself, knows how to act like an independent woman?” You ambled much closer and Geto was rendered frozen, flinching slightly when you whispered in his ear, “A wife who can fulfill all those dirty fantasies of yours and keep our sex life healthy?”

“She’s not— I don’t need—“

“Yes. You do. I can’t imagine myself living in your shadow all the time. That was our tiny, little flaw in our marriage. Acting as if I don’t have a mind of my own and can’t make smart decisions for myself. Now, you…” your tone falls sharper, channeling up your frustration to roughly push him against the wall so abruptly that the knife slipped from his hands. “What you did tonight, Suguru… Running away from me before our wedding anniversary, leaving our wedding ring on the table, abandoning me as if I was nothing to you… makes me think you’re ungrateful for everything I’ve done. For you, for us, for our marriage.”

Geto felt an uncontrollable ache scorching in his body from this foreign feeling of despair and hopelessness— once again, terror had struck him. The way his body and mind reacts is something he never experienced in his life until now, until the last few weeks, until his “wife” ruined his life…

“No, that was— Please—“ he stammered, gasping when your hand clutches around his throat and roughly pinning him against the wall.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Suguru,” you chided breathlessly. “Our marriage was supposed to be perfect! I did everything I could to fix myself as a wife. And because you didn’t like it, you ruined everything.”

He struggled fighting your suffocating grasp, trying to speak but some words got caught in his throat. When he first heard the phrase, “a woman is no man’s peace,” he hardly believed that would be the case with his wife until tonight.

“I’m— I’m so— sorry—“

When you let go of his throat so abruptly, he fell to his knees, gasping and coughing heavily as he was trying to catch his breath. Never has he ever thought of putting his hands on his wife. Never has he seen it coming from her that she would be the first to hurt him, to put her hands on him. It made him frazzled, penting up all the pain and ache that will never go away. He stared at the floor, swimming in regret and fear until he found the knife sitting under the bed.

“I— I made a mistake,” he breathed out, gazing up at you on his knees as he slowly inched near his bed. “I’m sorry. I was scared. It’s a pathetic, coward excuse of a husband like me. But we can go home, we’ll— we’ll pretend this night never happened. I won’t tell anyone— Please, love. Let’s just go home…”

You slanted your head again and scoffed. “Won’t tell anyone?”

Who is there even to tell?

“If you just want me… for my money or for sex,” he grunted, “It’s fine, I— I just really wanna go home and… be there for you. Fix our marriage together. Live our life together until we die. I’ll even give you my kids.”

“Kids?”

High on adrenaline, Geto grabbed the knife and sliced it through her leg with a grunt, emitting an agonizing shriek from you. As you wailed in pain and screamed at him furiously, he scrambled on his feet and ran as fast as he could downstairs and out the door. Cursing at himself for not grabbing the car keys, his body was still high on alert and adrenaline, urging him to run towards the dark woods where he could hide temporarily until she’s out the house. It was a dangerous, stupid situation he put himself into— but at least he knew some of the neighbors nearby where he could get help. All he had to do was run and never look back, just how he did before.

As he was making his way through the woods, panting heavily and constantly looking back at his shoulders, he tripped over something hard on the dirt and fell into a pit that was hidden behind bushes. Groaning in pain and trying to regain his stability, he tried analyzing where he had fallen, until, something macabre caught his eye.

Doctor Y/N. His sex therapist. Her dead, soulless body laying right in the pit he fell into.

He finally fathomed his true demise. His eyes widened in horror from this inescapable, indescribable terror burning his brain like acid. As if his heart wasn’t erratically thundering and pounding in his chest already, his pulse kept rapidly accelerating and accelerating until he felt like passing out. It took him awhile for this all to register, all to make sense in the nightmare he’s currently living. And for the first time in his life, he screamed bloody murder.

The crows cawing loudly within the trees blended with his scream. You were already caught up with him despite your injury, looking down at your old body and then at Geto who was in distress, which you found hilarious. Now you finally have him wrapped around your finger after understanding the situation— if only the desperate man had listened to you before.

“Oh, Suguru. Did you kill your therapist and bury her near your lakehouse?” you chuckled in amusement. “Try running from me again. If you do… I might as well tell the police that you killed Doctor Y/N…”

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[RIDE ANNOUNCER] Please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop. Then collect your belongings, watch your head, and step carefully out the vehicle. Don’t forget to dispose your 4D glasses at the bins before you exit. On behalf of all of our crew, thanks for riding with us, and we hope you have a happy and memorable visit here at Horrorland!

𖤐 TAGS. @kyumimii @crysugu @red-velvet-moth-hearts @atinystaypixie @rinshoe @justmaragudytha @apwing @mqfuyuu @1tslilithh @arikomot0si @strawberrymilk4k @tojigasam @strvwberrymilk @shycoffeetaco @honeybeegoburrr8 @killzenin @ackachii @xxhamtara @ecstaacy @migueloharacumslut @hayati17 @palefuckinghost @nanananamiiii @shoyosdoll @blackhoodlea @rodeo-star @dollicries @hehehehesthings @oneofthesevensins @jaennii

inspired by the horror fic “dead ringer” by emphemeron, t0bemadeofglass, the lemonade poems by warsan shire, and slightly inspired by Multiverse of Madness.

#🕸️. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen geto #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto smut #tw witchcraft #tw yandere #tw homewrecking #tw body possession #tw horror

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genderkoolaid · 2 months

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It was that choice to be a community that led to the political mobilization of trans men as part of the queer liberation movement. In the pre-Stonewall era, the trans men who had the luxury of being out were rare and isolated cases, and often came from extremely privileged backgrounds that helped mitigate their gender: Eccentric millionaire Reed Erickson, who funded much early medical research on gender-affirming care, or British aristocrat Michael Dillon, a doctor whose 1946 book Self: A Study in Ethics and Endocrinology was one of the first books on trans medical treatment. The rest either went stealth (like jazz musician Billy Tipton, whose trans status was discovered only after his death) or never got to transition at all (like civil rights leader Pauli Murray, who spent much of their youth looking for doctors to prescribe them testosterone, then stopped when they became a nationally known figure). The idea of trans men as a coalition—a group of ordinary people organized around their shared political interests, gaining strength from numbers—was new, and it largely took shape in the lineage that ran from Dain to Sullivan to Green.

Great article on the history of transmasc erasure & activism in the US. It talks about how wildly shitty the WPATH was to trans men (initially having nothing on transmasc care, then making Jamison Green do a ton of unpaid labor to come up with guidelines, keeping none of them but using his name to get activists to shut up, then adopting his guidelines but never crediting him).

#m.

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blackhistorystoryteller · 9 months

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Black history is not slavery

Slavery is not the only history of black Black history goes deeper than slave trade

This is a message for my black brothers and sisters

Today I will be talking about the people of benin

The historical kingdom of Benin was established in the forested region of West Africa in the 1200s C.E. According to history, the Edo people of southern Nigeria founded Benin. They no longer wanted to be ruled by their kings, known as the ogisos. They asked a prince from Ife, an important West African kingdom, to take control. The first oba, or king, in Benin was Eweka. He was the son of the prince from Ife.The kingdom reached its greatest power and size under Oba Ewuare the Great. He expanded the kingdom and improved the capital, present-day Benin City; the city was defined by massive walls. The height of power for Benin’s monarchs began during this period. To honor the powerful obas, the people of Benin participated in many rituals that expressed their devotion and loyalty, including human sacrifices.Artists of the Benin Kingdom were well known for working in many materials, particularly brass, wood, and ivory. They were famous for their bas-relief sculptures, particularly plaques, and life-size head sculptures. The plaques typically portrayed historical events, and the heads were often naturalistic and life size. Artisans also carved many different ivory objects, including masks and, for their European trade partners, salt cellars.The success of Benin was fueled by its lively trade. Tradesmen and artisans from Benin developed relationships with the Portuguese, who sought after the kingdom’s artwork, gold, ivory, and pepper. In the early modern era, Benin was also heavily involved in the West African slave trade. They would capture men, women, and children from rival peoples and sell them into slavery to European and American buyers. This trade provided a significant source of wealth for the kingdom.Benin began to lose power during the 1800s, as royal family members fought for power and control of the throne. Civil wars broke out, dealing a significant blow to both Benin’s administration as well as its economy. In its weakened state, Benin struggled to resist foreign interference in its trading network, particularly by the British. A desire for control over West African trade and territory ultimately led to a British invasion of Benin in 1897. Benin City was burned by the British, who then made the kingdom part of British Nigeria (which became Nigeria after the country gained independence in 1960). After that time, the kingdom no longer played a governing role in West Africa. However, even today, the oba still serves in Benin City as a government advisor.

#life #culture #black history #history #blm blacklivesmatter #aesthetic #generations from exile tribe #genshin fanart #sculpture #nigeria #heritage #transgender #traditional media

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rjzimmerman · 11 days

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Excerpt from this Op-Ed from the New York Times:

At first glance, Xi Jinping seems to have lost the plot.

China’s president appears to be smothering the entrepreneurial dynamism that allowed his country to crawl out of poverty and become the factory of the world. He has brushed aside Deng Xiaoping’s maxim “To get rich is glorious” in favor of centralized planning and Communist-sounding slogans like “ecological civilization” and “new, quality productive forces,” which have prompted predictions of the end of China’s economic miracle.

But Mr. Xi is, in fact, making a decades-long bet that China can dominate the global transition to green energy, with his one-party state acting as the driving force in a way that free markets cannot or will not. His ultimate goal is not just to address one of humanity’s most urgent problems — climate change — but also to position China as the global savior in the process.

It has already begun. In recent years, the transition away from fossil fuels has become Mr. Xi’s mantra and the common thread in China’s industrial policies. It’s yielding results: China is now the world’s leading manufacturer of climate-friendly technologies, such as solar panels, batteries and electric vehicles. Last year the energy transition was China’s single biggest driver of overall investment and economic growth, making it the first large economy to achieve that.

This raises an important question for the United States and all of humanity: Is Mr. Xi right? Is a state-directed system like China’s better positioned to solve a generational crisis like climate change, or is a decentralized market approach — i.e., the American way — the answer?

How this plays out could have serious implications for American power and influence.

Look at what happened in the early 20th century, when fascism posed a global threat. America entered the fight late, but with its industrial power — the arsenal of democracy — it emerged on top. Whoever unlocks the door inherits the kingdom, and the United States set about building a new architecture of trade and international relations. The era of American dominance began.

Climate change is, similarly, a global problem, one that threatens our species and the world’s biodiversity. Where do Brazil, Pakistan, Indonesia and other large developing nations that are already grappling with the effects of climate change find their solutions? It will be in technologies that offer an affordable path to decarbonization, and so far, it’s China that is providing most of the solar panels, electric cars and more. China’s exports, increasingly led by green technology, are booming, and much of the growth involves exports to developing countries.

From the American neoliberal economic viewpoint, a state-led push like this might seem illegitimate or even unfair. The state, with its subsidies and political directives, is making decisions that are better left to the markets, the thinking goes.

But China’s leaders have their own calculations, which prioritize stability decades from now over shareholder returns today. Chinese history is littered with dynasties that fell because of famines, floods or failures to adapt to new realities. The Chinese Communist Party’s centrally planned system values constant struggle for its own sake, and today’s struggle is against climate change. China received a frightening reminder of this in 2022, when vast areas of the country baked for weeks under a record heat wave that dried up rivers, withered crops and was blamed for several heatstroke deaths.

#China #climate change #renewable energy

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bruhstation · 2 months

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Wait a sec, so if Hiro was a time traveler who fast forward through 100 years did he leave anyone behind in the past like say.. a wife or maybe a child?

Did Hiro have any family ?

hiro does, sadly. his family never knew what happened to him despite the outrage his disappearance sparked in japan, and hiro in casa tidmouth didn’t know how the entirety of his nuclear family got destroyed by one of japan’s greatest natural catasthropes.

hiro’s wife and children (except satoko) were eventually wiped out the Great Kanto Earthquake in 1923, but he does have descendants of his own that he managed to meet after the events of casa tidmouth’s Hero of the Rails arc.

(more info about them under the cut)

THE YEAR IS 1894.

Hiro Hideki

秀紀弘 Hideki Hiro

Age: 57 (before transportation, canon Casa Tidmouth is 62)

The patriarch of the Hideki family. Wise, calm, level headed, but has a tendency to overwork himself and put others before himself. He has a mindset of finishing his work first before rewarding himself with the most basic necessities such as eating or going to the bathroom which exasperated Kamome.

Hiro originated from 1894, the Meiji era. Before he was transported to 1994, he’s a civil engineer and railway inspector that was heavily involved during the modernization and westernization of Japan and oversaw the construction of the Tokyo to Yokohama railway in 1872 and its subsequent expansion to Kozu in the following years.

In an attempt to further the connections with the United Kingdom and as part of a collaboration to improvise their engines and railways, the Emperor formed a research group and sent them to England and its surrounding islands – one of them being the Island of Sodor, infamous for its rumored supernatural influence and cases of outsiders going missing (not a great idea, Emperor). Hiro was sent there alongside his colleagues and seniors and the next thing he knew… his environment was alien, his clothes were tattered, he cannot remember anything, and he’s all alone in a steep siding.

Kamome Hideki

秀紀鴎 Hideki Kamome

Age: 54 (83 at death)

Hiro’s wife. Their marriage was arranged by their parents but Hiro fell in love with her at first sight. While Hiro speaks gently and avoids unnecessary conflict, Kamome is blunt and goes straight to the point when talking. She was constantly seen wearing a tasuki sash and was well-toned for her age. The neighbors and family’s acquaintances see her as a scary woman with a sharp tongue and even sharper eyes, but… that’s just how her face is. Kamome doesn’t take compliments well and instead of smiling, she usually purses her lips or scrunch her eyebrows to express her happiness (Hiro thinks it’s cute).

During the early years of Hiro’s disappearance, Kamome put on a strong facade for their children. She didn’t have much financial worries because their children already had jobs. Hirokazu’s and Akira’s families visit from time to time, and Kamome quickly came into terms with Hiro’s disappearance, but the loneliness and frustration inside her heart still well.

I took her given name from the limited express train service that JR Kyushu operated, Kamome. Her name also means “seagull”.

Hirokazu Hideki

秀紀弘和 Hideki Hirokazu

Age: 34 (63 at death)

Hiro’s eldest son. He was named after his father. Hirokazu was a serious, rigid man — always bent on following every rule there in his line of work and wouldn't hesitate to reprimand people for messing up. He liked expressing his thoughts (usually related to Japanese politics) without sugarcoating anything and got a knack for debating with his peers, so he’s often exhausted with his father who’s always calm and open to anything Hirokazu says without refuting much of his opinions. Despite being polar opposites, Hirokazu greatly respected and adored Hiro — hence why he followed in his footsteps to become a civil engineer.

Ever since Hiro disappeared, everytime Kamome looked at Hirokazu she felt like he resembled Hiro more and more. Hirokazu’s responsibility in taking care of his family (especially his elderly mother) grew stronger and his need to live up to his father’s legacy eats away at him.

Akira Hideki

秀紀明 Hideki Akira

Age: 31 (60 at death)

A shy, stoic woman whose social battery drains quickly. She’s soft spoken and doesn’t talk much because of her social anxiety, so he enjoyed conversations with her gentle father more. Akira is also kinda awkward at socializing — behind her neutral face, she’s constantly nervous when faced with a crowd or an unexpected acquaintance of either his father or mother who wanted to chat with her, something she’s extremely self conscious about (Hiro told her she’s fine the way she is). When she succeeded in a conversation, however, she got all fired up and overly proud of herself Akira married a wealthy textile businessman who’s been seeing her for a while and is incredibly smitten with her.

After Hiro went missing, Akira’s husband, mother, and siblings often find her wandering around the train station, sitting solemnly or even asking railwaymen and random passersby if they’ve seen her father. She wasn’t doing mentally well, but luckily her family was there for her.

Masaharu Hideki

秀紀雅治 Hideki Masaharu

Age: 24 (53 at death)

A student from the Tokyo Imperial University. He studies medicine and was an apprentice of his professor at a hospital in Tokyo. He’s timid, always stressed out, and have trouble standing up for himself, especially against his professor who always reprimand him for even the smallest things such as being late to a conference or being too slow to hand him an operating tool. Masaharu was also a mama’s boy. Kamome fusses over him and always tells him to eat more. Hiro too, but he’s not the most stern.

His professor used his connections to help Masaharu look for his father. Rescue teams, fellow colleagues from Europe, even autopsy labs and funeral homes — he looked everywhere, yet he and Masaharu are stumped. Masaharu felt so useless and even considered dropping out, but Kamome and Hirokazu dragged him back to reality, which made Masaharu end up crying.

Hisae Hideki

秀紀久愛 Hideki Hisae

Age: 21 (50 at death)

Spunky, stubborn, and always up-to-date. She is IN LOVE with western fashion and a HUGE francophile. She’s a tad spoiled and always asks Hiro for some money whenever new clothes hit the market. Hisae likes dressing up her younger sister Satoko in various clothes she made or bought. She also worked at Irohanayama’s tea house because government officials and their wives always visit in their western attire. She’s also good at talking with people and pleasing upper-crusts. She dreamed of visiting France someday, though this is mostly because of the rose-tinted glasses she has for Europe.

After Hiro went missing, Hisae spent most of her days moping, not wanting to eat or leave her room until Hirokazu and Satoko convinced her to. One day, she suddenly stopped holing herself up in her room, quit her tea house job, and planned on opening her own clothes shop.

Satoko Hideki

秀紀聡子 Hideki Satoko

Age: 17 (46 during Great Kanto Earthquake)

Being the youngest and most obedient, Kamome frequently asked her to go out to town to run errands. Generally a quiet person, though she always butt heads with her more hotheaded sister Hisae. Most of her clothes during her late teenage years are hand-me-downs from her. She didn’t really have any notable abilities or talents, but she likes collecting hairpins and combs.

In 1923, Satoko survived the Great Kanto Earthquake because she lived at her husband’s hometown far from Tokyo, making her the only living member of Hiro’s nuclear family (some grandchildren from the Hideki family survived but that’s another story. It’ll make this tree longer)

She is Kenji and Kana’s great grandmother.

———

THE YEAR IS 1999.

Kenji and Kana met Hiro during their visit to the Great Kanto Earthquake Memorial Museum. When Kana was taking pictures of the memorial hall for her school assignments, Kana spotted Hiro staring at the list of names. Kenji went to the bathroom for a second, and Kana saw Hiro sitting alone on the bench. Kana sat beside him and sparked a conversation, leading to them eventually becoming friends. Kenji joined them shortly after, and they parted ways soon after it got dark and Kana urged Kenji to take her home so she can print her photos. Hiro bid them farewell, looking wistful but also satisfied with himself.

Neither of them knew that they’re Hiro’s great great grandchildren… until much, much, later.

Kenji Shirogane

白鐘健二 Shirogane Kenji

Age: 22

Lives in Shinjuku, Tokyo, with his younger sister, Kana. Ever since their parents went abroad for work-related purposes, Kenji has been acting as a guardian for his sister. He studies biomed at Tokyo University in Bunkyou. He goes there via the Yamanote line.

Kenji’s great at cooking and Kana only likes his curry rice because he doesn’t put any “weird” vegetables in it. He likes Japanese variety shows like Takeshi’s Castle and Gaki no Tsukai.

Kana Shirogane

白鐘華菜 Shirogane Kana

Age: 16

Lives in Shinjuku, Tokyo, with her older brother, Kenji. Second year in high school. She’s in the sports club at her school and is a star for the girls’ running team. A cheerful and hyperactive girl, Kana is rather mischievous and can put on crocodile tears whenever Kenji doesn’t allow her to do something. She frequently gets into trouble at school because of her purple inner dye and grommet belt.

Kana is also quite foul-mouthed and has little respect towards most adults that boss her around, labeling her as a problem child at school. Kenji’s fond of her, but he also describes her as “disrespectful towards older folks”. She would also pull on his nose whenever she’s hungry in the middle of the night and saw Kenji sleeping by the couch to wake him up. However, she truly cares about her family and loves her older brother. Kana’s just a kid being a kid.

#asks #isjssjsjshuuuuuuuuuuuuyyyyyyyyyy #ttte hiro #ttte kenji #ttte kana #kamome (oc)#hirokazu (oc)#akira (oc)#masaharu (oc)#hisae (oc)#satoko (oc)#casa tidmouth #casa tidmouth act 2 #senjart #(insert spencer whispering into hiro’s ear about how nobody is waiting for him in japan)

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ichorai · 1 year

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the scientist & the assassin ; natasha romanoff.

read part two ; afterlife.

pairing ; natasha romanoff x gn!scientist!reader

synopsis ; fragments of time with your girlfriend, soon-to-be-wife, natasha.

words ; 4.4k

themes ; fluff, mild angst, established relationship, scientist au

warnings / includes ; a bit of cursing, blood/injury, set before civil war era, avengers found family trope idec, sexual innuendos, bucky and sam annoying reader lol, steve being an absolute sweetheart, mentions of fire, liho cameo, mentions of yelena

main masterlist.

JANUARY.

Small sparks flew up from the welding torch as you worked the blue flame over the metal, eyes narrowed with concentration. It was a delicate process, and you were taking extra caution not to mess the process up. You were building new protective gear on Nick Fury’s request, and had to make sure that it was without fault.

Your girlfriend of three years, however, clearly had other plans. Natasha was leaning against your workbench, brows quirked as she repeated the question that had flown right over your head in the midst of your fixation.

You hastily turned the fire off and shoved the protective welding mask away from your face so you could properly look at her. “Huh? Did you say something?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, though not without a ghost of a grin to her lips. With a sigh, she asked the question for a third time. “I know you’re busy making all your little gizmos and gadgets… but are you coming to Tony’s party?”

A beat of silence. You blinked in confusion. It was only then did you realize that your girlfriend was all dressed up, face dolled up with flawless makeup, donned in a silken, viridescent dress that complimented her figure beautifully. “What party?”

“The annual New Years’ party—Tony’s asked you to come a million times. You’re not gonna leave me all alone with him, are you?” Natasha asked, walking closer to you until her nose was only an inch from yours, placing her hands on the lapels of your lab coat, tugging you closer.

A gulp lodged in your throat. “No, ma’am,” you murmured, lips dipping forward to catch hers.

She leaned back before you could, however, tilting her head expectedly. There was a playful glint to the deep green of her irises. “Go get ready, then. I already laid out a matching outfit for you to save you the hassle. Who knows… maybe we can leave a bit early too…”

Before she could finish her sentence, you were already shirking off your white coat, hurrying out of the laboratory to get changed for the party. Natasha couldn’t help the amused smile gracing the corner of her lips as she watched you scramble away.

FEBRUARY.

Blood dripped from her cheek. Her hair, her dress, her legs. She was drenched in it.

A shuddering sigh of exhaust fell from her split lips. She gingerly slipped out of her heels, holding the two of them in one hand and walking up to the house barefoot.

“Nat,” you whispered in part-horror, part-concern at her bloodied state when you swung the door open.

“It’s not mine,” she hoarsely mumbled, slipping past you, bee-lining towards the bathroom, in dire need of some cleaning.

Her eyes were heavy with fatigue, plagued with memories of the bloodbath of a mission. There were many questions you wanted to ask her, but you held your tongue. She was in no state to answer your barrage of queries, and needed nothing more than someone to care for her, for a change.

Gently, you took her crimson-slickened hands within yours, uncaring of the blood smearing on your skin. You led her to the rest of the way to the bathroom, gently telling her to take a seat on the edge of the bathtub. A small towel cloth was dampened beneath the faucet, and you slowly cleaned off the delicate wounds littered over her arms, her face, and her abdomen. The two of you were completely silent, basking in the comfort of being there for each other. Natasha’s green eyes shone with simultaneous gratitude and hollow trauma. For a moment, it appeared as if she was going to weep, but she kept the tears at bay.

Once you cleaned off most of the blood, you left the bathroom to fetch her some of her sleep clothes—which was really just a worn, sleeveless shirt of some obscure rock band you didn’t recognize, and a soft pair of basketball shorts. She had wiped away the rest of the blood when you came back, stripping her outer layers and shirking them into the sink to wash later.

For now, the both of you just needed to sleep.

She slipped on the pajamas, before settling into the bed with a lethargic sigh.

“Thank you,” she croaked out just as you clambered beneath the blankets on the other side of the large bed.

You hummed in response, roping her close to you, pressing a soft kiss to her hairline. This time, Natasha had to willfully force the urge to cry away.

“Get some rest, Nat. I love you,” you said into her skin.

Natasha relaxed into your hold, eyes drooping shut. She wanted to say that she loved you back, but found that she was already falling into a deep slumber.

MARCH.

“What about Jennifer? She’s in the analytics department,” said Natasha, sipping on her iced tea as she eyed Steve expectantly. “I can set you up with her if you want.”

The blonde man shifted uncomfortably. “I… I don’t know, Nat—”

“For God’s sake, Nat, stop it already!” you exclaimed, but not without an exasperated smile to your lips. “Look at him, you’re embarrassing the poor guy. Sorry, Steve—she’s just looking out for you.”

The hundred-year-old man smiled handsomely, forking some scrambled eggs into his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m not really looking to date at the moment… still trying to figure out how things work this century before I can really settle down.”

“Well, you take your time, Steve,” you told him gently.

“You sure? Rumor has it Allison from human resources has had her eye on you for a while—ow! I was joking!” she exclaimed when you sharply elbowed her in the ribs. “But, really, Cap… I’m happy you’re taking your time.”

The blonde hummed gratefully. “What about you two? Any plans on…” He gestured vaguely, which made you and Natasha glance at each other with a grin.

Your girlfriend scoffed, the green of her eyes glimmering with mirth. “Why? You wanna be the best man?”

Steve seemed to splutter at that, vehemently trying to backtrack. Heat flushed his cheeks a soft pink hue.

“I’m just pulling your leg, Steve,” Natasha quipped, playfully kicking at his foot beneath the table. “Lighten up, will you?”

“We haven’t even spoken about marriage yet,” you chimed in, smiling warmly at the ex-assassin. “But who knows? Maybe we will soon.”

APRIL.

Nails tapped loudly against the surface of the table she was sitting on, legs crossed as she languidly leaned back, staring up at the artificial white lights of the laboratory. She was saying something—something about her last mission with Tony.

Judging by her expression you quickly stole a glance at, you could tell that she was complaining. There was a slight knit to her brow, and she was frowning ever so slightly.

You made quiet, absentminded noises of acknowledgement as she told her story, nodding emphatically. You were working on a device to immediately disable strong magnetic fields, tinkering with the small bits and pieces with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t know, maybe I should just stop worrying about him—it’s not my problem if Tony drinks until he can barely stand up…”

She trailed off, tilting her head back down to watch you work. With an amused scoff, she said your name. Without taking your eyes off your work, you merely hummed, “Mhm?”

“You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said, have you?”

Hopping down from the table, she made her way closer to you, her fingers nimbly slotting beneath your chin. You met her gaze, briefly glancing down at her parted lips, skin flushing with embarrassment.

Sheepish, you grinned apologetically. “Sorry, Nat.” She arched a sharp brow and you winced. “I love you…?”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha acquiesced, a ghost of a grin tracing the corner of her lips. “I love you, too.” She let you go to haul herself back up onto the table, swinging her legs in an almost child-like manner. “Anyways, as I was saying…”

MAY.

Sunglasses, glasses of chilled orange juice, and warm sand beneath your feet.

Closer to the beach’s shallow waves, Bruce, Steve, and Clint were playing with a frisbee, while Tony and Thor were off on a ski-boat, skimming across the waters much faster than they probably should be going. The team was on a little mini-vacation, needing some well-deserved rest after going on nonstop, continuous missions.

A book was cracked open on your lap, one that you had been meaning to start for ages now, but never had the time before. Beside you was your girlfriend, lathering sunscreen over her arms and exposed skin. “Did you put on sunscreen?” she asked you, offering the bottle.

“Yeah,” you replied, prying your eyes away from the novel to press a kiss to her cheek, and then another to the side of her nose.

She grinned beautifully, the green of her eyes gleaming with fondness. “You’re such a nerd. Who brings a book to the beach?”

“Well… look who’s dating the nerd who brought a book to the beach?” you replied with a level tone, trying your best to suppress your growing smile.

Huffing in amusement, Natasha lightly shoved you, taking another sip of her orange juice. “God, it just feels like we never get to fully relax like this, you know? I wish every day could be like this.”

Shutting your book, you placed it off to the side and shuffled closer to her, curling an arm over her shoulders.

“Yeah,” you hummed, tracing aimless shapes along the skin of her arm. Hesitant, you spoke up again, “Hey, you remember when Steve asked us about getting married?”

“Mhm?”

“Well, uhm…” you started, but thought better of it, not wanting to ruin such a perfect moment as this one by forcing your girlfriend into a commitment you weren’t even sure she really wanted.

When you trailed off, Natasha pulled away from you slightly, her head cocked in an expectant manner.

“If you’re not gonna ask me, then I will,” she told you with a laugh to her voice. “You wanna get married?”

For a moment, you spluttered for words, not expecting this turn of events.

“You… Nat, are you sure?” you rasped, cupping her face gently. “I don’t want you to rush into anything. Yes, a thousand times yes, but fair warning—it means you’ll be stuck with me forever. Forever is like… a really long time.”

Natasha hummed, leaning forward until your nose brushed against hers. Gods, you loved this woman so fucking much.

“Sounds like a nightmare,” she whispered, a ghost of a smile to her lips. “Sign me up.”

With that, she kissed you, tasting of orange juice and a tiny bit of sunscreen.

JUNE.

Sam and Bucky hovered around your lab like a pair of incessant flies that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much you swatted at them.

“Don’t touch that, Bucky,” you found yourself saying nearly twenty times, followed by an exasperated sigh as he would proceed to prod and poke at the machinery.

Sam was no better, asking you about a million questions in regard to all the different gadgets and gizmos in progress.

On a normal day, you usually wouldn’t let these two into your lab, but you were ordered to fix and improve both of their broken comm links, and made the terrible mistake of inviting them to come watch. Of course, they grew bored of watching you toy with wires and circuits, opting to wander around your lab with wide, curious eyes.

“Hey, what’s this?” Sam asked, holding up a small, black cube half the size of his palm.

“Collapsible motorcycle,” you replied, briefly glancing at him, before returning your gaze to your work on the table. “Just don’t press the button on the bottom.”

Whistling with clear impression, Sam looked nearly tempted to try it out. But he knew you would slice his hand off if he did, so he set the cube back down. “That’s sick, man. Who’s it for?”

“Nat,” you said. “Made it for her. It’s still in its testing phase—I’m hoping it'll be all done and ready by her birthday.”

Bucky glanced over Sam’s shoulder to look at the cube. “I like riding motorbikes,” he said. “Could you make me one?”

“Unless you could get Fury to order me, that’s a no,” you huffed out with a mild laugh. “I barely agreed to fix your comms for you—which, by the way, how did you even break them this bad? Did you guys pour a bucket of water over and stomp on them, or something?”

At the memory of Bucky and Sam both accidentally tumbling into a river during a mission, they both grimaced.

“Something like that, sure,” said the century-old man, wearily pulling at his face.

“That’s not fair,” Sam, a full grown man, just about whined. You halted in your ministrations, raising a brow. “How come you don’t make us any fancy little tools or weapons or bikes or magical gizmos, but you make ‘em for Nat?”

Scoffing, you dipped your head back down to continue polishing off their comms. “Yeah, well, she’s my fiance.”

“And?” said Sam, placing his hands on his hips. “Am I not your best friend? Is Mr. Cyborg here not your second best friend?”

Another deeply amused laugh rumbled from within your chest. “With how you two are behaving, I’d say Steve is my best friend right now.”

The two were left sulking in your lab for the next hour, with Bucky nearly catching on fire when he picked up a flamethrower disguised as a potted plant. Both of them left with charred fingers, singed eyebrows, and about half a dozen of your tiny gadgets stuffed within their pockets.

JULY.

It was Steve’s birthday, which meant Natasha organized a barbecue in Clint’s large backyard. There were red, white, and blue streamers hung up over the trees and over the house’s porch, several star-shaped lanterns decorating the wooden tables set out. Bruce and Tony were manning the grills, while you were playing a game of catch with Peter and Clint’s kids. The rest of the Avengers were gathered by one of the tables, piling up their plates high with food.

The air was heavy with the mouth-watering aroma of cooking hot dogs, grilled corn, and juicy burgers. Dessert was an assortment of cookies, an array of melting popsicles, and a large blue birthday cake that made Steve smile so wide it was yet to leave his face.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Natasha speaking to Thor, her hand extended out to him as the God inspected the ring on her finger.

“A grand ring, that is!” the Norse God bellowed. “Green suits you, Natasha.”

“Thanks, Thor,” said your fiance, grinning warmly. The two walked off to grab some hotdog buns and harass Tony to hurry up with cooking.

The ball nearly hit you in the face because you were so busy staring at Natasha, stopping inches from your nose when Peter darted forward with his near inhumane reaction time to grab it away.

“Woah!” he exclaimed, afraid to have accidentally hurt you by hurling a fast ball at you when you weren’t even paying attention. “Sorry, are you okay? What are you looking at?”

You pursed your lips, glancing one last time at Natasha. A blush creeped up your neck. She was going to marry you soon. How on earth did you get so lucky?

“Nothing, kid. Come on, hand me the ball, why’d you stop?” you cleared your throat in a fruitless attempt to play it off.

Peter followed your line of sight, brows raising when he caught sight of Natasha now showing off her ring to Steve and Bucky. He smiled slightly, but didn’t say anything about it, instead tossing the ball right back to you (which you still somehow missed catching).

AUGUST.

“Here,” you said, handing her the steaming mug of coffee, just how she liked it—dark with a tiny bit of sugar. “You okay? You’ve been more quiet than usual the past few days.”

The two of you leaned against the balcony’s railing, watching the sun rise over the cityscape, painting the sky a myriad of soft oranges and clementines and tangerines. With your free hand, the other being occupied by your own hot cup of tea, you wrapped around Natasha’s waist, tugging her close. You pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, brushing an errant strand of hair falling away from her loose braid.

“Sorry, I’ve just recently been thinking,” she whispered, a bit distant. “My sister is out there, somewhere. Sometimes I think it’s best to just give her her space, since she hasn’t reached out, either. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me ever again—after all, I’m a living, breathing reminder of the Red Room. The terrible things we were forced to do. I’m not too upset about it… it’s not like we were a real family, anyway. I don’t know. I guess I just miss her.”

You weren’t entirely sure what to tell her. Go find her sister? Forget about her? Tell her to think about it some more? Natasha rarely ever spoke about her past, much less her temporary ‘fake’ family.

A frown crossed over your lips, brows divoting. “Nat, if your sister really wanted to see you, she would reach out. You’re an Avenger—it’s not that hard to find you. You can’t really say the same about her… you don’t know a single thing about where she might be now. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Natasha sipped on her coffee, blowing out a tired sigh. Tears warbled over her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away, sniffing slightly.

“Do you think she remembers me?” her voice broke just a bit. “Because sometimes I forget what her face looks like. Did she have blue eyes, or were they green like mine? How blonde was her hair? What did her smile look like? I… I’m scared I’ll just completely forget and I won’t ever see her again to—”

“She remembers,” you murmured in response. “You were her sister. She’d remember.”

Another sniffle. Natasha wiped away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

“God, sorry. I’m such a mess,” she croaked, laughing bitterly.

“And I love you anyway,” you told her, kissing her just below her watery eyes. “Come on—let’s go watch some TV.”

SEPTEMBER.

The wedding was a small, quiet event.

You, Natasha, and the rest of the Avengers family were once again gathered in Clint’s expansive yard—though, this time, everybody was dressed much more formally than they had on Steve’s birthday. The ceremony was full of tears and sniffling, tissues and running mascara.

The vows you had written for Nat were long and nearly ramble-y, whilst hers were perfectly short and to-the-point.

Once Bruce had officiated the two of you (having learned how to do so online), you had embraced each other with a watery kiss, grinning against one anothers’ lips. The rest of the group had burst into raucous applause, Tony and Steve the loudest of them all, the two of them being the best men of the wedding.

Then came the food and the dancing, which lasted well into the night.

She was glowing the entire time. Your wife was glowing.

And when you told her so, she smiled, all wide and toothy. “It’s just nervous sweat,” she replied with a laugh as you gripped her waist tighter, before twirling her around in your arms.

“God, I love you,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against hers.

The green of her eyes sparkled with your words. “I love you, too. I can’t believe we’re married now.”

“Take your time,” you hummed. “You’ve got the rest of your life to get used to it.”

OCTOBER.

Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, tongue poking out the corner of your mouth. The table was a mess, covered in orange mush, a dozen knives, and your phone playing a video on how to properly carve a pumpkin.

“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath when you messed up the shape, letting out a long, drawn-out groan. “Why is this so hard? It’s just a pumpkin!”

When you glanced at Natasha and her fruit, you weren’t at all surprised to see that she was well into carving an intricate, detailed design with wide eye-holes and gnarled teeth.

“It’s not that hard,” she replied with an easy smile, clearly amused at your struggling. “What’s going on with you? You’re usually really good with your hands.”

Heat flushed up your neck and spidered across the skin of your cheeks at the hidden insinuation behind her words. “I don’t know,” you huffed, wiping down your hands on the apron you were wearing. Usually you weren’t one to give up so easily, but you had been tinkering with several new task-droids, and there was no better time than now to test them out.

“What are you doing?” she curiously asked once you slid off your seat, reaching into one of the cabinets to pull out the little cuboid robots. “God, it feels like I’m in a Black Mirror episode,” she murmured, watching them come to life and start carving up your pumpkin for you with tiny microblades after you input a design for them to work on.

“San Junipero Black Mirror or Metalhead Black Mirror?” you replied, propping your face up on an elbow as you watched the small bots diligently work.

Your wife scowled, her sharp brows divoting. “Definitely Metalhead.”

The both of you shuddered, before you dipped forward to press a kiss to her cheek. “I’m gonna make us a batch of cookies—at least that I know I can’t mess up.”

NOVEMBER.

A wince, a frown, an uncomfortable shift. Natasha was used to pain, and was taught from a young age to steel herself, but the wounds usually never got this bad.

There was a deep slash across her stomach, dark blood dousing the entirety of her abdomen, dripping down her sides and leaking off the lab table you had set her on. You tried to be gentle while you cleaned her up, tried to be quick with the stitches to lessen the pain—but the wound was tender and wide, and you had to slow down to be careful.

The entire time, your face bore an expression of pure worry and concern.

“I’m sorry,” she hoarsely whispered, lips twisted into a grimace.

“For what?” you quietly mumbled, focused on fixing her up.

She blew out a pained sigh as you started another stitch. “For making you worry. I shouldn’t have gone on that mission, I know.”

“Well, you did,” you lightly replied, teeth gnashing together. “No reason to dwell on it. It’s okay, Nat. I’m not mad at you.”

There was a beat of silence. She laid back, fists clenched by her sides as she endured through the pain.

“Just disappointed?” she asked, gingerly laughing, despite the pain it brought to her chest.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I am. I just don’t like seeing you pointlessly throwing yourself headfirst into a suicidal mission, just to come crawling back in shreds. I also don’t like seeing you hurt because I love you, and I need you to be more careful for me.”

Natasha pursed her lips. Her green eyes flashed with pain when you wiped away the excess blood. “Okay,” your wife croaked. “I love you, too.”

DECEMBER.

“Open it!” you goaded, nudging Natasha to the suspiciously unwrapped box.

Her green eyes were narrowed as she shot you a warning look. “I swear to God, if a fake snake is gonna come flying out like last time—”

“It’s your birthday, I would never!” you interrupted impatiently, gesturing to the box once more.

With a huff, Natasha peeled back the loose lids of the cardboard box, making a noise of surprise upon seeing a little black cat curled up inside, snoozing contentedly.

“Oh, my God. You got us a little kitty,” she crooned, slowly picking the cat up. The black-pelted feline purred at the contact, nuzzling her dark nose against Natasha’s face. “This is literally the best thing you’ve ever gotten me. It beats anything you’ve ever made for me!”

Clearing your throat, you toyed with the collapsible motorcycle you had hidden in your pocket. “Well… don’t say that too quickly. You wanna name her?”

Natasha stroked the cat’s dark head, her hazel eyes happily blinking shut. “Liho. It means misfortune in Russian—black cats are bad luck, right? She’ll have to prove her name wrong.”

“Liho,” you parroted, smiling so wide it was a wonder your face didn’t split into two.

With a grin, Natasha placed Liho back down on the ground, who took to weaving between both of your legs, her fluffy tail curved around your shins.

“God, I love you,” your wife suddenly announced, cupping your face between her palms and littering several chaste kisses all over your cheeks. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“You’re gonna love me more after this,” you told her, brandishing the small black cuboid from your pocket. “Come on—I’m gonna have to show you this outside. Let’s go, Liho.”

The three of you made your way out of the house, Liho silently following along like a shadow. You beamed brightly at the small cat, then at your wife, who was squinting against the sharp sunlight, smiling nonetheless. It was all so perfect, nearly too good to be true.

Until the collapsible motorcycle burst into flames while you were trying to uncollapse it, which had Natasha yanking the curious Liho away from the growing fire as you ran into the house to grab the extinguisher.

Alright—maybe not entirely perfect… but amazing nonetheless.

“Happy birthday?” you sheepishly said as you doused the flames away. “That was, uh… that was supposed to do that.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, setting Liho back down before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You can clean that up later. Let’s go cut the cake—maybe we can skip on blowing out the candles this year.”

As the three of you made your way back inside the house, Natasha glanced down at the little black cat trotting in front of you. “She’s living up to her name so far. God, I can’t believe you got me a cursed cat for my birthday.”

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