#Gratings Exporter

[kajworld]

[birb-tangleblog]

Full res of Hector from [redacted] along w/ the episode description for 'Rapunzel and the Great Tree'

[laesas]

First 4 eps of the FighterTutor supercut are DONE!!!!

[mira-nicodiangelo-grey]

Swedish Cher is always a treat 🤣

Trixie Mattel as Cher but Swedish

[omanu]

.

[fibertechf]

FRP Gratings Manufacturer & Exporter in Gujarat, India

FRP gratings, or Fiberglass Reinforced Plastic gratings, are lightweight and durable structural components made of fiberglass reinforced with thermosetting resin. They are used as an alternative to traditional metal gratings, offering numerous advantages such as corrosion resistance, high strength-to-weight ratio, non-conductive properties, and low maintenance.

FRP gratings are commonly used in industrial and commercial applications such as walkways, platforms, stairs, and trench covers, as well as in corrosive environments like chemical processing plants, wastewater treatment facilities, and offshore drilling rigs.

They are available in various sizes, thicknesses, and configurations to meet specific project requirements, and can be customized for color, slip resistance, and other features. Additionally, they are easy to install and can be cut to fit on-site with standard hand tools.

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[najia-cooks]

[ID: A greyish brown stew presented alongside flatbread, red pepper paste, green peppers, and carrot sticks. End ID]

سماقية / Summagiyya (Gazan stew with chard, chickpea, sumac, and 'lamb')

Summagiyya (سُمَّاقِيَّة; also translitered "sumagiyya", "sumaghiyyeh" or "sumaqiyya") is one of the signature dishes of the Gaza strip, in particular Gaza City. It consists of lamb, chard, and chickpeas in a sumac-infused broth; savor and zest is added by a dagga of dill seeds, garlic, and peppers, and nutty depth by a generous drizzle of red tahina. The resulting stew is thick, earthy, and slodgily grey (due to the green chard and red sumac)—it also has the characteristic sourness of much Gazan cuisine.

Summagiyya is most often prepared during holidays, especially Eid al-Fitr; it's an excellent make-ahead dish for these occasions, since it's even better once its flavors have had time to meld and mellow overnight. It is served cold alongside fresh vegetables, and eaten by using flatbread to scoop up each bite. This recipe provides a spiced seitan recipe to replace the lamb, but you may also use any lamb or beef substitute of your choice.

Today, summagiyya is often prepared with Israeli white tahina, as decades of punitive import laws, taxes, and restrictions have enforced Palestine's status as a consumer, rather than an producer, of food products. Israeli tariffs on, and confiscations of, Palestinian goods have forced those tahina factories that survived to import sesame seeds rather than using locally grown crops, even as they export the best of their product to Israel. The dubbing of foods such as tahina and hummus as culturally "Israeli" cuisine works to hide this exploitative relationship, and cement an Israeli national identity through the subsuming and erasure of Palestinian existence. It is for this reason that Emad Moussa writes that Palestinian cuisine has a role in "protecting against a people's very extinction."

Medical Aid for Palestinians (MAP) has put out an urgent call for donations to provide medical supplies to Palestinian hospitals when supply lines reopen. Also contact your representatives in the USA, UK, and Canada.

Ingredients:

For the soup:

500g (2 large bunches) chard (شلق), diced

80g Levantine sumac berries (Rhus coriaria)

1/2 cup soaked and boiled chickpeas, mostly cooked (40g dry / scant 1/4 cup)

1/4 cup red tahina

1/2 cup (60g) all-purpose flour

1 large yellow onion

1/4 cup olive oil

1 tsp kosher salt

2 cardamom pods (optional)

2 allspice berries (optional)

More olive oil, to fry

Sumac berries can be found in the spice section of a halal grocery store. If you're unable to locate whole berries, pre-ground will do.

For the dagga:

1 1/2 Tbsp dill seeds

5 cloves garlic

1/2 green cubanelle pepper

2-3 dried red chilis (optional)

1/2 tsp black pepper

1/4 tsp cumin

Dill seeds may be found at a halal, south Asian, or speciality European grocery store. They are commonly used in Indian food and as a pickling spice. At a south Asian grocery store they may be labelled soyo, suva, shepu, or savaa.

For the lamb:

1 cup (120g) vital wheat gluten, aka gluten flour

1/2 Tbsp ground sumac

1/2 tsp ground caraway

1 tsp onion powder

1 tsp Palestinian 7-spice

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1/2 tsp sea salt

1/2 tsp ground black pepper

1/2 tsp ground cumin

1/2 tsp ground aniseed

1/2 tsp turnermic

1 tbsp olive oil

1/2 tsp soy sauce

1 tsp miso paste

2 cloves garlic, grated

2 tsp pomegranate molasses

1 Tbsp white or red tahina

About 1/2 cup vegetarian 'beef' stock from concentrate, or vegetable stock

Pomegranate molasses is simply pomegranate juice that has been reduced to a thick consistency. It may be found in the sauces section of a halal grocery store.

Instructions:

For the soup:

1. Soak dried chickpeas in cool water overnight, or in just-boiled water for an hour. Drain and re-cover with water, and boil for 30-45 minutes, until almost fully cooked. Drain and set aside.

2. Simmer sumac seeds in enough water to cover by a couple inches for about an hour, until the water is dark red. Blend the seeds and water together, then strain the mixture through a cheesecloth.

If you're using ground sumac, skip the blending step. Use a cheesecloth or very fine metal sieve (such as one intended for brewing tea) to remove the ground spice from the water.

3. Whisk the flour into the sumac-infused water.

For the lamb:

1. Combine all dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Add wet ingredients other than stock and stir briefly. Add enough stock to produce a soft, smooth dough.

2. Knead by hand on a clean surface, or put in a stand mixer with paddle attachment on medium-low, for about 5 minutes. You should see stringy strands begin to form in the dough.

3. Allow to rest, covered, for 5-10 minutes to encourage gluten formation. Knead for another 3 minutes. Do not over-knead.

4. Tear the dough into bite-sized pieces.

Stringy seitan being pulled apart into pieces.

You may also shape the dough into a slab and cube it with a sharp knife—the lamb or beef used in summagiyya is usually cubed—but I prefer the texture of torn seitan to sliced.

5. Steam the seitan pieces for 10 minutes in a bamboo steamer or using a metal steamer basket. Place the bamboo steamer in the bottom of a wok and cover its base by about 1/2" (1 cm), then raise the heat to boil the water; lower the heat to keep the water at a simmer. If using a steamer basket, place it over the opening of a pot containing a couple inches of water and bring it to a simmer. Start the timer when the water begins simmering.

6. Heat olive oil on medium-high and sear the steamed seitan pieces, turning as necessary, until deeply browned on all sides. Set aside.

Fried seitan pieces.

You can save a step here by searing the raw seitan, then returning it to the pot after you've fried the onions to simmer it rather than steaming. I found that this produced a mushier texture.

For the dagga (دقة):

1. Grind cumin and black pepper thoroughly in a mortar and pestle, then add dried red pepper and dill seed and crush coarsely. Add green sweet pepper and garlic and pound until a coarse mixture forms.

Dill seeds, green sweet pepper, garlic, and dried red chili on a cutting board, alongside dagga in a large granite mortar.

You may also use a spice mill or food processor.

To assemble:

1. Chop the onion. Wash the chard and slice it thinly in one direction; turn it ninety degrees and slice thinly again.

Diced chard, fried seitan, dagga, and sumac-infused water with flour.

2. In a large pot, heat a couple tablespoons of olive oil on medium. Fry chopped onion, cardamom pods, and allspice berries for a minute until fragrant. Add half of the dagga and fry until fragrant.

3. Add chard and fry, mixing often, until wilted.

Wilted chard in a wok.

4. Add sumac mixture, chickpeas, and water to cover. Bring to a boil, then lower heat to a simmer. If you didn't steam your seitan earlier, add it now.

5. Continue to stir and simmer until the stew is thick, homogenous, and greyish-brown, about 15 minutes.

Simmered stew.

6. Add the remainder of the garlic mixture, the red tahina, a pinch of ground cumin, the 1/4 cup olive oil, and salt to taste. Return the steamed and seared seitan to the pot and mix.

Serve cool with flatbread, sweet green peppers, bitter green and black olives, carrots, leafy greens, and/or pickles.

[arahir]

writering: gdocs and alternatives

or: a desperate plea for a functional word processor. i write a lot, very fast, and need programs that can handle high word counts and offer functionality like heading navigation and cross-device sync. unfortunately, that program does not exist. here is what does:

Google Docs

✅ reliable sync between devices ✅ has most features you need with a simple interface ✅ tabs are nice i guess ✅ offline availability 🟡 mediocre dark mode, yes i care, why fumble this 🟡 limited collab functions with a dubious history of locking authors out of docs they've shared ❌ some features on desktop are not available on mobile (again, why?) ❌ extremely slow load on docs over 100k (30 seconds or until timeout) ❌ mobile load errors over 140k ❌ extreme issues with external keyboard input on some devices

Microsoft Word

✅ it works i guess ✅ oddly enough a great place to throw a chapter for a final spelling edit/polish 🟡 ...but the spell and grammar check make actively writing in ms word nearly impossible unless you gut both features ❌ it has nav features but they are nightmarish to use ❌ ai integration ❌ interface was created in the 90s and yes i have been using it since then and yes it has not improved meaningfully ❌ autosaves to an external program cloud which has always pissed me off when i'm working on a device i also use professionally that uses that cloud ❌❌❌ you have to pay for it

Scrivener

✅ beautiful interface ✅ incredible features ✅ seriously the best writing experience out there 🟡 can be coerced into an automatic online backup but requires an external program to do so and i've heard there are issues with retrieval sometimes ❌❌❌ no built in cross-device sync and thus largely useless

Ellipsus

✅ simple and clean oddly fun to use ✅ font changes apply to the whole doc without you having to select all ✅ export and markdown available ✅ collab capabilities for editing with multiple modes ✅ staunchly anti ai🟡 takes the same amount of time gdocs does to load a 100k document but it CAN load it ❌ poor sync between devices (i could not get it to sync with any reliable speed on large documents) ❌ periodic freezing/crashing on docs above 140k

VERDICT: writing on a single device? scrivener. final polish/spell check/formatting? microsoft word. casual writing for short form between devices? try ellipsus. best overall? google docs, tragically.

DO YOU HAVE AN ALTERNATIVE? please tell me, and i will check it out and give it the hardest test of its life. i am desperate.

QUESTIONS? i can give you a truly exhaustive, grating, detailed accounting of all of these programs and their use down to the most idiotic minutiae, so send me an ask.

[lua-magic]

Intresting Astrology facts (Vedic Astrology)

Twelfth House Venus is exalted, but do you know why?

TWELFTH House is the house of giving and charity.

Ketu is giver, hence, exalted in twelfth house

Venus is known as enemy of ketu then why both these planets exalts in twelfth house?

Because, Venus twelfth house (Untill it is not in sign of Saturn ie, 10 and 11) knows how to give

Venus exaltation in the house of Jupiter that is twelfth house, shows the more you spend your money spiritually ie to help others, your Venus will improve.

So, basic rule of universe is what you give more to others you will get it, so if you want to improve your twelfth house, which is house of bed pleasure, foreign travel, investments, sleep, learn to give others, your twelfth house will improve..

Venus Ketu conjunction is always seen as negative combination, but it is one of the most spiritual combination, only if you see money as spiritual wealth and not Material wealth.

Ketu is spiritual planet, and detachment, be detached from money, spend your money first to help, ketu will bless you.

If you have Venus ketu conjunction and you get influenced easily when you see other's money you are triggering your ketu and ketu will become negative. Always be grateful for your money, and see it spiritually, more spiritual you become regards to money matters more ketu bless you, so whenever you spend your money, bless your money.

Arigato” is Japanese for “Thank you”. It describes the inflow and outflow of cash as a necessary circulation in our life.

What is this technique?( This technique is exclusively for Venus ketu conjunction.)

The technique is extremely simple. Whenever you have an inflow of money, you accept with love and gratitude no matter how small or big the amount is. And you do the same while spending money, that is, spending money with an open heart and gratefulness. The appreciation for the outflow and inflow of cash is as simple as saying a “Thank you”.

Ketu is also your past life pending karma, so don't be sad when someone takes your money, he/she is just finishing past life debt that you took.

Venus Rahu conjunction should always keep their Rahu good, then you get good money, Rahu is foreign land, import export, thinking big.

But, if you get into lust, illicit relationship, multiple relationship, you will trigger your Rahu and Rahu will act negative.

Rahu in vedic astrology are cleaning workers, one of the best remedy of Rahu is donate to cleaning workers.

Venus Mars conjunction has super attractive body 👁️ 👅.

Venus-Mars conjunction should invest money on fertile agriculture lands or atleast in real-estate, Venus is Money and also sperm, Mars is land, Venus Mars is fertile lands.

Whichever house Venus sits in you will get money when you do work related to house,

First house Venus - Work on yourself, your personality, your identity.

Second house Venus - Work on speech, work with Family, cooking, Astrology.

Third house Venus - Work with siblings, work on your skills, communication.

In male's chart Venus third house gets you wife who has Martian quality, that is fighting skill, she will fight and protect you

Fourth house venus- When ever Venus is conjucted with moon, one best remedy is change your place, your birth place your Venus will improve, fourth house is house, work related to decoration of house is good.

In male's chart Venus moon conjunction attracts females who are good in decorations and cleaning of house.

(Rest of the house I will continue in my next blog.)

Afflicted Venus or debilitated Venus also shows physical or sexual abuse

Venus eighth house if afflicted gives you sexual traumas..

Second house and eighth house Venus are great with Astrology and occult.

Treat Money as spiritual wealth your Venus will improve.

Twelfth house is always what you give.

Eighth house is what you have to let go.

Sixth house is what you fight for.

[calabria-mediterranea]

The IGP lemons of Rocca Imperiale, Calabria, Italy

Rocca Imperiale is particularly pleasant because it’s not just a seaside resort but also a genuine old Calabrian small town high up on a panoramic promontory about 200 meters above sea level. With a population of 3,500, the village is the gate to Calabria on the Basilicata border, yet just a 50-minute drive from Matera, Basilicata.

The lemon of Rocca Imperiale is as succulent as that from Sorrento. It earned its own Protected Geographical Indication recognition (IGP) and is sold on the mainland and exported to Northern Europe.

Naturally, such fruit is not waxed, and if you finely pare or grate its skin, you will release its intensely lemony aromatic oils. Rocca Imperiale's lemons are very rich in limonene that confers a sweet taste and intense scent.

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Sweeter Than This

Pairing: Billy Taylor (The Halcyon) x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of war and rationing, sexual inexperience, oral sex (f receiving), smut. Word count: ~3.1k

Summary: When Billy gifts her an orange, almost impossible to come by due to lack of exportation and rationing, he decides he wants to taste something sweeter than fruit. Based on this request.

Author's note: For @notasockpuppetaccount. No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She sits down heavily on a chair in the staff quarters, sighing in relief at the rest she is finally able to give her aching feet and back.

It’s her first day at The Halcyon, one of London’s most prestigious hotels. Money has been tight at home since her father was drafted, and she’d enquired about work just about everywhere she could think of, in order to help her mother make ends meet.

She’d been surprised when The Halcyon had offered her a job as a maid, she had no prior experience and was certain they’d reject her. However, she supposes that in the midst of a war, beggars can’t be choosers, and they are likely as desperate as she is.

Her morning has been spent helping out Kate, a firm but friendly Irish girl, who has taught her how to turn down a bed and scrub a toilet until it gleams white and shiny again. It’s tiring work, the maze of rooms on every floor feels endless, and between being scolded for wrinkled sheets and improperly folded towels she is exhausted, grateful to retreat to the back room once she’s told she can take her lunch break.

Unwrapping the wax paper on the sandwich she’d packed earlier that morning, she wrinkles her nose in disgust. It no longer seems as appetising now that it’s been left to sit in her bag for hours.

She looks up as the door creaks open, a tall, young lad in a bell boy’s uniform walks in. He offers her a tight lipped smile by way of greeting, cheeks turning slightly pink as he moves to retrieve his own sandwich.

“You on your lunch as well?” She asks warmly. Having only spoken properly to Kate so far, she is eager to make friends.

“Yeah,” he says, gesturing towards the empty seat opposite hers at the table, “you mind if I, er…?”

“No, sit down,” she tells him, watching intently as he takes a seat and starts to unwrap his own food.

“Not seen you before,” he comments, looking up at her.

“First day,” she fiddles with the wax paper of her lunch, “I’m knackered.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, loosening his cap and placing it upon the table. “Lost a guest’s dog this morning. Bloody thing slipped the lead when I tried to walk it.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she is unable to stifle the giggle that escapes her. At least someone is having a worse day than she is. “And I thought I had it bad scrubbing toilets.”

“You not eating that then?” He says, nodding towards her sandwich before taking a bite of his own.

She grimaces. “Fish paste. Not sure I can stomach it.”

He nods, talking around a mouthful of food, a habit she would ordinarily find disgusting, but she finds it doesn’t offend her when he does it. “Spam in mine. Mum makes ‘em. Same thing every day.” He swallows before he speaks again, with a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Tell you what, give me half of yours, I’ll give you half of mine. Less boring that way.”

“Yeah, alright,” she grins, sliding hers across to him. She watches as he takes half and then places the remaining part of his in the empty space.

“I’m Billy, by the way,” he tells her, the tips of his ears reddening, suddenly shy again.

“Thanks for the sandwich, Billy,” she says softly, before telling him her name.

They eat their lunch in comfortable silence, until finally it’s time to get back to work.

In the week that follows, her and Billy have lunch together every day, swapping sandwich halves and chatting about their days. The work is hard, but knowing she has a friend gives her something to look forward to, and she finds herself excited to go to work each day.

They talk about anything and everything, their hour-long break always feeling like it evaporates all too quickly. She tells him all about her dad fighting overseas against the Germans, and how she took her job at the Halcyon to bring home extra money for her mum, who’s currently doing factory work for the same reason. Billy tells her that he’ll be eighteen soon, and can’t wait to be drafted. His mum, Peggy, operates the switchboard at the hotel, his dad isn’t around anymore, so she relies on his help to look after his little sister, who he affectionately refers to as “the squirt”.

Shared lunch breaks evolve into after hours games of poker with the rest of the Halcyon staff. They crowd into the back room, sitting around the same table that her and Billy share lunch at, and play for cigarettes. 

She feels her skin grow hot as their knees brush together, unable to help the smile that tugs at her lips as she watches Billy’s brow furrow in confusion as he looks over his cards, a lit cigarette perched between his lips.

“You’re smoking your stake, Billy,” she says with a soft chuckle.

He looks sheepishly at her, plucking the cigarette from between his lips, before throwing his cards down onto the table with a sigh. “Doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve got all Jacks.”

“Billy!” Everyone groans around the table in frustration, chucking their own cards down.

She laughs heartily. He might have ruined the game, but it’s impossible to be angry at him when his big blue eyes go wide and his lips part in shock. 

Billy looks adorable when he’s worried, and it’s an expression he wears often; when he accidentally drops guests’ luggage down the stairs, the time he shuts a lady’s skirt in the lift doors, and especially when she leads him to the scullery, telling him there’s a surprise for him.

His concern quickly morphs into one of his trademark, tight smiles that indicate he’s feeling bashful, as head chef, George, flanked by the rest of the kitchen staff, carries out an enormous birthday cake lit with candles.

“You didn’t think you could hide it from us, did you, Billy?” George jokes, once the obligatory “happy birthday” song has been sung. “Eighteen today!”

She has her first taste of Champagne that day, each member of staff is given a class to toast to Billy. The bubbles tickle her nose, the taste is dry but not unpleasant upon her palate, yet it does nothing to dilute the bitterness that blooms heavy in her chest. 

Billy’s turned eighteen, he’ll be drafted any day now and she’ll lose her best friend. No more shared sandwiches, no more ruined games of poker, no more stolen moments in the housekeeping closet where they laugh uncontrollably over stupid jokes. She’s going to lose Billy, just as she’s lost her dad to this stupid war.

Her heartache is given a brief moment of respite when she looks over at him, also indulging in his first taste of Champagne, and sees the way his face contorts in disgust at the taste. He’s always able to make her smile, even when she doesn’t want to.

It’s only a week later that Billy’s letter arrives. Due to Peggy’s meddling, he won’t be going overseas, he’ll be stationed at the nearby army barracks helping to man the anti aircraft guns. She is secretly pleased that he won’t be too far away, despite his annoyance at his mum’s interference. She feels she could kiss Peggy, such is the depth of her gratitude for what she’s done, but she does her best to hide how pleased she is, comforting Billy, saying how sorry she is for him.

“Cheer up, it might never happen,” he says with a soft smile, as they stand in the hotel foyer. Billy wears his day clothes, having handed his uniform in at the end of his final shift at The Halcyon.

“Already has,” she replies sadly, her heart twinging as she looks up into the big, blue eyes she’s grown to adore.

“How d’you mean?” He asks, frowning slightly.

“You, going off to war,” she sighs, “I won’t see you again.”

“Don’t be daft,” he chuckles, “I’ll only be down the road.”

“You won’t have time for me, Billy.”

He swallows, averting his gaze briefly before meeting her eye once more. “I don’t like fish paste.”

“What?” She asks, squinting slightly, confused.

“I’ve spent the last six months eating fish paste sarnies, just so I’d have an excuse to spend my lunch break with you. Fish paste is disgusting, if I can stomach that then it’ll take more than a stupid war to keep me away from you.”

Her heart flutters, her vision turning misty as a wide smile spreads its way across her features. “Oh, Billy…” she whispers.

Her fingers flex uselessly at her sides, desperate to reach out to him, and she sees his do the same. An opposing, invisible force hangs heavy between them, filled with unspoken declarations, drawing them together and yet pushing them apart simultaneously, until finally they collide in a tight, all encompassing hug.

He smells of Brylcreem and tobacco, and she inhales deeply, committing his scent to memory. She doesn’t want to let go, yet she does, she has to.

Adjusting to life at The Halcyon without Billy around is difficult. Lunch breaks feel empty and lifeless, the poker nights are not the same.

Billy still visits, though his presence is not as frequent as it was before. He’s usually accompanied by his little sister, carrying her into the hotel on piggyback before going to see Peggy in the switchboard room.

To her delight, he makes a point of seeking her out each time. He looks handsome in his uniform, filled with a confidence he didn’t have before. Animatedly, he tells her all about the anti aircraft guns, enthusiastically mimicking the sounds they make, causing her to laugh.

On her eighteenth birthday, Billy turns up at the hotel, looking dapper as ever in his khaki green trousers and jacket. He pulls her into the housekeeping cupboard, shifting the bag he has on his shoulder awkwardly.

“Happy birthday,” he says to her, almost nervous sounding, “got you something.”

She gasps, as he produces a large orange from his bag, handing it to her. The skin is firm in her hands. It’s been a long time since she’s had any fruit that isn’t mock banana; rationing and the lack of imports due to the war mean that it’s produce that’s hard to come by. The hotel’s chief concierge routinely has to decline the requests of high profile guests that request fresh fruit as part of their room service. She turns the orange around in her hands looking at it reverently. 

“Where did you get this?” She stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Not even Feldman can get oranges!”

Billy shrugs, blushing slightly. “Oh, y’know, I’ve got my ways.”

“Thank you, Billy,” she says, voice filled with soft sincerity. An idea strikes her, excitement swirling in her stomach. “We should share it!”

“Really?” He asks hopefully.

“Yeah, unless…” she deflates as realisation of how busy he is now hits her, “you probably can’t get away, it’s a silly idea.” She shakes her head, embarrassment warming her flesh.

He steps forward, eager to reassure her. “No, I’ve got time, I can make time. I’ll come back tomorrow?”

She looks up at him, smiling brightly. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He nods, half turning towards the door. “Well, I should probably–”

“Billy?” She calls to him and he turns back, a look of question on his face, eyebrows raised slightly.

She surges forward, pressing her lips firmly against his cheek, kissing it, before she quickly pulls away again.

For a moment it looks as though Billy has stopped breathing as she watches him, her heart pounding in her chest. Finally, he exhales deeply, his face blushing bright red. He grins and she smiles back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Billy.”

“Yeah…yeah, tomorrow,” he says, adjusting his bag on his shoulder again, before slipping out of the closet door.

He stays true to his promise and the following day they go to the back room, the same place where they have shared so many lunches. This time they sit beside each other, instead of on opposite sides of the table.

Carefully, she slices the orange into segments, giving half to Billy.

The fruit is fleshy and sweet as she bites into it, the tartness of the citrus causing her to emit a satisfied hum as she chews and swallows it.

She looks over at Billy, huffing a laugh as she watches the way the juice drips down his chin.

He looks back, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Come here, you’ve got…” she leans over, wiping the orange residue away with her thumb. Her movements slow, her hand lingering against his face as her eyes settle upon his.

It feels like time stops as their gaze locks, her breath catches in her throat. She is unsure of who moves first, but their lips are against each other, moving slowly at first, filled with uncertainty and inexperience.

He tastes sweet, and their mouths move with more enthusiasm, both able to taste orange upon each other.

They keep their foreheads pressed together once they part for air, both smiling softly.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I met you,” he whispers.

Their relationship shifts from that moment. Billy is unable to take her on dates, can’t bring her flowers, his time at the barracks doesn’t allow for that. They have only a series of stolen moments in the hotel to share, sneaking into rooms which have yet to be made up to spend time together. 

It is all sweet kisses and warm cuddles, neither one of them ready to take the steps that go beyond that yet.

She lays against Billy’s chest on the unmade bed, his arm wrapped around her as the other moves his hand through her hair, stroking it. “Hate that I can’t take you out anywhere fancy,” he murmurs.

“I don’t need any of that,” she reassures him, “just you coming back to me alive is enough.”

“You deserve that though,” he insists, hugging her tighter to him, “when this war is over, I’m gonna take you out for dinner. We’ll get married, and we’ll have a house and fill it full of kids.”

Her chest fills with warmth as she grins up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes soft and filled with fondness as he looks at her, “because…well, because I love you.”

Her grin grows wider and she kisses him deeply, feeling the way the skin of his face flushes beneath her fingertips.

“I love you too,” she whispers as she pulls away.

Their dynamic shifts again after that, their cosy stolen mornings become more heated, their kisses more impassioned, every touch is charged with intent.

Where she felt uncertain and scared of what lies beyond innocent kissing before, she now feels only desire for Billy, but isn’t sure of how to communicate this with him.

He pulls away from her as they share a passionate embrace, trailing kisses over her neck. “Can I try something with you?” He whispers.

“What is it?” She asks, whining softly as he pulls away from her.

“Something that one of the lads at the barracks told me about,” he says, not meeting her eye, “it’s how he pleases his missus, thought you might like it.”

She laughs softly, nervously. “Okay, but what is it?”

He swallows thickly, turning scarlet. “Can I just show you? I’m embarrassed to say.”

She nods, eager to see what he’ll do.

“Lay back for me,” he instructs, and she does, watching him through hooded eyes.

Tentatively, he moves down the messy hotel bed, pushing the skirt of her maid’s uniform above her hips, revealing her knickers and stockings. He bites his lip at the sight, never having seen her in such a state of undress before.

She gasps, her eyes going wide, sudden fear filling her. “Billy, we can’t–”

“No, not that,” he’s quick to reassure her, “not until we’re…you’re ready.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing slightly.

“But…” his eyes flit up to hers, filled with uncertainty, “I do need to take your underwear off. Is that alright?”

She gulps. She’s scared, but also curious and excited, she wants to experience whatever it is that Billy has asked to try. “Yeah,” she says quietly, “yeah, that’s alright.”

Gently and slowly, his nimble fingers drag her knickers away from her body and down her legs, discarding them at the end of the bed.

She has the sudden urge to hide her face as he takes in the sight of her, pupils wide with lust. She is torn between wanting to look away and the desire to watch exactly what he’s doing as he carefully coaxes her legs apart.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, “I-I’ve never done this before.”

She gasps as she feels his tongue move against her, hesitantly exploring her folds. The motion of his mouth between her legs is unsure at first, but as his tongue flicks over her pearl and she lets out a surprised moan of pleasure, Billy grows more confident.

He repeats the motion, causing her to squirm and mewl. It feels so intimate, she wants to pull away, filled with shame, to tell him it’s dirty and they shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time, every time his tongue moves against that particular spot she never wants him to stop.

“God, you taste good,” he mumbles against her.

The movement of his tongue becomes more certain, determined and he laves at her, flicking against the spot that causes her to whimper and grip the bed sheets tightly.

She can feel a pressure building within her, intensifying with every sweep of Billy’s tongue, until finally as he groans against her, circling her bud once more, it reaches its apex and she shudders against him with a surprised cry, feeling boneless as warmth washes over her like the lapping waves of the sea.

“Oh, my god, Billy…'' She breathes heavily.

He lifts his face from between her thighs, a smile on his face, his chin coated in her juices just as it was when they’d shared the orange. She can’t resist the urge to tug him up towards her, kissing him hungrily.

They giggle against each other's lips, both of them breathless.

“I…er…need to clean myself up before I head back,” he tells her, his mouth forming a tight smile, the telltale sign of his shyness that she’s grown to love.

She follows his line of sight to the wet patch on the crotch of his uniform trousers and they both erupt into uncontrollable laughs.

Oh, Billy.

Read on AO3

More Billy Taylor fics

[memoirsofasim]

Hi friends, just a little life update.

We recently had to say goodbye to one of our fur babies. She was on heart meds since early this year and was going okay until last weekend. We made the decision to say goodbye now while her quality of life was still somewhat good. Hardest thing I've ever had to do. I feel a bit lost and empty without her as we had a such a strong connection. She had a big personality, loved lap sits and sleeps, and going off on her own little adventures on our small rural property.

We have one fur baby left and so far notice no health concerns with her. I can see she is lonely though and misses her sister. They were very close and being the runt of the litter she is very timid and tends to shy away from affection if you aren't a dog. 😄

This month and the lead up to Christmas, work is proving to be very busy. I manage all the importing & exporting of stock for a private healthcare company. Usually, I have some spare time at work to scroll tumblr, but it's been flat out lately and the days are flying by. I guess it's good to be busy right now and the fact that I have a secure job, which I'm grateful and thankful for.

Anyways, I'll probably be more absent on here at least until things slow down at work. I've got some posts in my drafts but had a lack of motivation and interest in things since our sweet girl passed.

I hope you are all doing well and take care of yourselves. 🌺

[kindlespark]

this is gonna be SO long and rambly sorry anyway i saw a post abt how babel does queer characters and it got me thinking abt why the tropes it uses would usually turn me off other stories but didn’t here

MAJOR BABEL SPOILERS //

i feel like i’d be more mad abt how robinramy ended up in babel if it marketed itself as queer lit at all or if its fans were going “WOW AMAZING QUEER REP” abt it. but no one told me any of that, so finding out they were gay was just a fun little bonus surprise to me. i get why ppl are eh abt robinramy not getting together/technically still being subtext (which i dont think is really true btw like the book literally says “robin was falling in love” but idk i guess if you were stupid you might’ve assumed that it was falling in love with oxford given how romantic some of the other language is (WHICH IS ALSO THE POINT bc i think robin’s friendship with ramy blurring into romance is why he romanticised like all his friendships/experiences in oxford BUT IM GETTING OFF-TOPIC)). i just think robin’s repression abt being gay was intrinsically tied to his attitudes on imperialism (wrt refusing to acknowledge anything that complicated his life until it was too late) and i don’t consider it a cop out or queerbait. like i genuinely don’t think robinramy could ever have gotten together without drastic alterations being made in terms of plot and character. plus i think it’s clear that kuang didn’t want to write a story with any kind of focus on romance at all, because it’s not that kind of book. there’s no successful het romance either, so it grates a lot less. the only reason romance is included at all is to show the ways in which white entitlement manifests. so the tragic way robinramy played out just made sense to me.

and i speak as someone who accidentally spoiled myself on You Know What in the middle of reading and i was like ugghh boooo dreading it the whole time expecting to roll my eyes when it happened but then when it did i was like. wow im actually not that mad LMFAO 😭😭😭 actually thematically the book sets it up so well that i believed that this was unfortunately the only way it could’ve gone. babel is about the loss and tragedy and grief that colonised people experience. it’s about the lengths people will go to to uphold empire and the lengths ppl will go to to tear it down like idk 😭 i guess it is bury your gays but it didnt bother me this time because i thought it fit thematically ❤️ i enjoy tragedy as a genre a lot and i would’ve made it gay anyway you know. thanks rf kuang for doing it for me so i didnt have to.

WHICH IS ALL TO SAY that i guess if you’re going into babel for the queer rep without appreciating that the story is fundamentally a tragedy it would feel like it’s just reusing tired tropes….. but i think the choices kuang made were rly deliberate and not in a way that feels like trauma porn or shock value. the book is fundamentally about the struggles of poc so the layer of queerness that was introduced felt like a subtle extension of the experiences of characters of colour in the book, and i enjoyed and related to it as a queer chinese person who kind of realised they had to prioritise their fight for the liberation of poc over queerness mainly because the idea of western queer liberation cannot be dissociated from imperialism and many aspects of homophobia as we know it was an export of christian european empire into our colonised countries in the first place and FUCK THIS IS A WHOLE OTHER TANGENT ABOUT HOW I THINK RAMY AS A CHARACTER IS EMBLEMATIC OF THE TENSION AND STRUGGLE THAT QUEER POC DIASPORA HAVE BETWEEN OUR IDENTITIES GODDAMNIT OK FORGET IT POST CANCELLED i just rly think babel’s handling of queer characters is fine and makes sense and i like it personally and maybe i will make a coherent analysis about it one day but that day is not today byeeeeeee

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to Deal Maker's Chapter 196

TL;DR - Game console has a fingerprint recognition function, so Cale couldn't play it. Wi tempting Cale and Raon to stay longer. Alberu and Cale talk about Ahn Roh Man. Cale meets GoB and GoH.

Unplayable Game

So the game console wouldn't let Cale play it because there was a fingerprint recognition function. Even creating a new user needed the fingerprint of the previous owner of the game console. Thus, Cale asked Ron to borrow for a while Blood Demon's arms that got cut off before she turned to dust.

There was some details about the game. The player's avatar was a child, though the child's sex was unclear to Cale. The child stood on a meadow and five planets in different colors were in the sky.

One funny part here:

Cale: (Wait, is it okay for me to show myself operating this game console so naturally to Ron? Uhh... it's too late now though...) Cale: *smiles awkwardly at Ron* Ron: *has a strained smile* Cale: (Did he just look at me as if I'm very funny?) Ron: *reverts back to his gentle smile* I will be heading to Chief Eunuch Wi then. Cale: ...Uh, okay.

Now that this arc is nearing its end, are we finally going to have Cale's conversation with the Molans? I'll be cheering for you, Cale! 😂

Wi's Temptations

The chief eunuch pleaded to Cale to stay in the Central Plains longer by offering him lots of stuff. Slacker life? We'll grant that dream for you! Central Plains food tour? No problem! Raon wants sweets? We have the most delicious fruits, though it will only ripen in 6 months.

Cale's reaction to that was to avoid Wi and try to leave the Central Plains as soon as possible. 🤣🤣🤣 He even found Wi scary when Wi attempted to tempt Raon with sweets. But c'mon, Cale. Someone's finally offering you a chance at a slacker life, but you're running away from it?

Then again, given how the murim people were keeping their distance from Cale as if he was someone so amazing they couldn't dare to approach, Cale's reaction was not a surprise. Yes, Cale. Your bad feeling is right. They are your Caleism believers.

However, HD was now following CH around instead of Cale. What? What about my HD x Cale ship? Did I just see it sinking? Nooooo... 😭

Bright Alberu

We had another conversation with our bright sun, and they discussed about Ahn Roh Man. Cale dismissed the possibility of Ahn Roh Man being a hunter, and Alberu said he would contact Ahn Roh Man through the customer service line of Taerang to get more information.

Cale noticed that Alberu was brightly smiling, and when he asked why, Alberu replied that he had just finished talks with other countries about Cale's mine exports. Cale viewed his smile as insidious, but the author poetically described the smile as "fresher than the flowers blooming on a spring day."

Cale wanted Alberu to come with him in his world hopping, but realized that if Alberu did that, it would only be if Zed was involved and it was a dire situation. Ah, I guess we won't have Alberu going to other worlds too. 😞

Cale and the Gods

Cale finally read GoD's message, and immediately refused meeting GoB. But GoD insisted, even suggesting Cale to just have a peek of GoB's face.

However, things didn't work out for Cale because GoD told Cale that the very impatient GoB was actually heading his way! Cale was still in Blood Demon's childhood bedroom, but he suddenly heard the sound of heels and found himself alone in the room.

Just like GoD, Cale froze and found himself unable to move at the presence of GoB. And when GoB spoke, Cale thought that GoB's voice resembled an elegant old lady... YES! My theory was right! GoB's a woman! 🤩 Our dom mommy Goddess of Balance! Or was it grandma because her voice sounded like an old lady?

GoB explained to Cale that his actions were causing imbalance, and the other worlds and gods had to carry the "counteracting weights" to maintain balance. But Cale and his companions were overdoing it, so the others were having a hard time.

She was grateful to Cale for his work against the hunters, but still warned him that despite his good intentions, balance had to be maintained. And cautioned him that some of the imbalance he created might even come back and harm him and his companions who caused the imbalance. This was something that even she could not stop.

Cale was shocked at her words, and she laughed "Fufu" before proposing a solution - become a god. Okay, I seriously laughed hard at this one. 🤣🤣🤣

GoB said that if a god's myth spreads across worlds, the "laws" of those worlds would accept it as reality, and thus create a new balance. She whispered to Cale's ear if he wanted to become a god, and added that rejecting it was a bad idea.

Her voice sounded gentle and soft, but was also oppressive and insistent. Her words had an irresistible charm, but Cale resisted it. Or more like, Cale was busy trying to resist DA from running wild. 😂

However, while GoB was talking to Cale, another god arrived. It was the God of Hope (GoH), whose arrival was signaled by the flickering lights in the room. And DA's response to that was cutely hilarious. 😂

GoB: *tries to recruit Cale into godhood* DA: Don't stop me, Cale! I want to make a god kneel! Cale: (No.) DA: LET ME OUT, CALE! Cale: (Why are the ancient powers so crazy?) GoH: *arrives in the room* DA: Oh, two gods are too much. Okay, bye! Haha! Cale: (This crazy bastard...)

Ending Remarks

I very much enjoyed today's chapter. The gods part was the best. Cale's slacker life dream keeps getting further from him though... 😂Next chapter would be a continuation of Cale's meeting with the gods. Will GoH also recruit Cale to be a god? 🤣🤣🤣

P.S. GoD, you lucky guy. You get to have mommy Goddess of Balance to dominate you? 😳

[payasita]

Speaking of fic stuff: The Lamb and Nari wake up one morning covered in bandages, surrounded by empty bottles. They have ZERO recollection of the night before. Now what?

He awakes to a taste like bile and rust, and with one hand wrapped in at least twenty layers of gauze.

Narinder takes a second to stare at it, wiggling immobile fingers and contemplating the mechanics of sitting up with a head somehow filled with both cotton and lead. He drops the hand and decides against it, rolling over and pulling a blanket over his head. The movement does absolutely heinous things to his stomach.

A slow minute passes before he realizes he is not under a blanket at all. It's comfortable regardless, so he cannot summon the effort to care. Far softer than anything yet available in the commune. The familiar scent doesn't hurt, warm and securely claimed with his own, and indeed does a good job in blocking out the currently unmanageable stench of the outside world.

Until it's nearly pulled away from him. He clutches onto it with a hiss, and instantly regrets moving so quickly.

"Oh good, you're alive." The Lamb gives it another tug. "Give me back my fleece."

Narinder vaguely remembers having lost a battle against them while at his full divine potential. He'd even had both hands available to him and everything. He cannot truly imagine the odds are with him now.

"Thank you," they huff when he unlatches his claws. He searches for something else to cover his face while they clothe themself. His skull appears to be imploding.

"I am dying," he declares. There's a few seconds of silence. Contemplation on the Lamb's end. Abject suffering on Narinder's.

"Nope. Not sensing it."

"Your competence with the Crown is dubious at best."

"You're not dying," they assure him, lightheartedly, "It just feels like it."

He groans, rolling over and hitting himself in the face with the large gauze lump in his attempt to throw his arm over his eyes. He snarls, and begins blindly picking at it with his free claw to find the edge.

The Lamb snorts, leaning over him. They have an armful of empty bottles under an arm, and are looking infuriatingly chipper.

"How'd you go and do that to yourself?"

He glares at them, pointedly.

"I clearly cannot have done this on my own."

"What, you don't remember?"

"...No," he admits. "What happened, then?"

"Oh, hell if I know," the Lamb laughs, and is saved from having that smile shorn off their face by his vertigo alone.

They move around him and pick up another bottle, inspecting it. "I was at the same feast you were, y'know. And if you'd had all this yourself, you probably would be dead," they gesture to the bundle under their arm, already five or six strong and slipping a bit.

"... Actually, we should probably both still be dead," they tut. "I don't even know what the flock puts in this stuff, 'sides from berries. But wow, they're good at it. Hey, actually, do you think maybe we have the makings of something worth exporting to the outside world? Plimbo's always making trips back and forth to who-knows-where, I bet we could--"

"Lamb."

"Mm?"

"Your chattering is causing me physical pain."

"Oop. ...Guess I should be grateful for the divine healing factor, huh?"

Narinder ponders the irony of wishing Death incarnate to choke, and finally finishes unraveling his hand. He squints at it. He sees no damage whatsoever that might have compelled anyone to waste medical resources on him. Not a strand out of place. He inspects his claws, and finds a bit of blood under them. Odd.

"There must be, like, a dozen bottles of wine in here. Do you think I drank most of it? I remember everyone in the temple cheering when I started chugging one. ...Or, uh. Three," the Lamb recounts, setting the pile down on a nearby table. Narinder watches them, scanning down their body for any abnormalities. No claw marks or stab wounds remain, but they would be gone by now. Still. The fact that he feels metal when he pushes his hand under his pillow is probably worth noting.

"You have a basket around here?" the Lamb asks after a point, "I need somewhere to put these."

Narinder says, "I do not live here."

"...Whuh?"

"This is not my hut."

The Lamb pauses. They glance around, newly curious. Narinder grasps at the bit of metal under his pillow, and retrieves a dagger. It is smeared with blood. He eyes it, vaguely toying with the way light plays off of the dull blade.

"Did I attempt to kill you last night?" he asks idly. The Lamb looks over. They see the knife.

"...Nnnno?" They try, not even attempting to sound certain.

"I believe," Narinder mutters, hardly feeling bothered to spare the focus, "I might have killed someone."

The Lamb looks at him, having the grace to at least look troubled. Narinder, on the other hand, remains far more concerned with the roiling in his stomach.

"... Okay, wait. Wait, I think I remember-- yeah," the Lamb snaps, and points at him. "Yeah! You lost your hand privileges."

"What," Narinder says.

"Yeah! You were doing-- something," the Lamb waves off vaguely, "Yeah, I think I remember-- I had to take the claws away? I mean. That would explain the bandages?"

Narinder glances over. It certainly sounds like the sort of logic they would act upon, in the event of his own uninhibited violence.

"...So I did try and kill you, again."

"Iiii, dunno? I mean. Maybe?" Again, they don't sound remotely sure. The "divine healing factor" does not, it appears, account for episodes of alcoholic blackout. Good to know.

So, trying to kill his spouse was one possible explanation. Admittedly, it wasn't even a far-fetched one. But the ambient stench of this hut offers another.

"Lamb," Narinder sits up, winning a valiant battle with his own vertigo, "Whose shelter is this?"

The Lamb pauses. They look around again at all the bottles strewn about. They look up. At the same time they do, a droplet of blood plops onto their cheek.

"...I think his name was Bremar," the Lamb hums.

"You think?"

"I mean, the Crown can only tell me so much. 'Specially when the corpse in question has somehow been reduced to... uh... streamers."

"Ah."

"So, uh, we should--- we should go."

Narinder growls. His stomach does not agree with the prospect of standing up anytime soon.

"Ten more minutes."

"Nari," the Lamb deadpans, "You eviscerated a guy."

"...Five, then."