#pizza fete

[havatabanca]

#trinidad & tobago #pizza #foodie #foodies #cuisine #st james #st james marketplace #pizza fete #restaurants #food places

[jjungxkook]

blackout (halloween drabble) | jjk

⇥ pairing: roommate!jungkook x reader

⇥ genre: est rel, roommate and college au, fluff, crack, smut

⇥ rating: 18+

⇥ warnings: really just the tiniest hint of angst, but otherwise just crack and fluff I think, spooky szn, he's the Joker and she's Harley Quinn, lame college party, the gang is there, forest stuff, reader is a bit sad and disappointed in jk but he redeems himself!, kissing, sexy times, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, jerking off, fingering, sex in a janitor's closet haha, ass love, and yeah!!

⇥ wc: 5.4k!

⇥ author’s notes: happy early halloween! I will be busy next week, so I thought I could post this one already. also, since it's been one! damn!! year!!! since I dropped anything at all (sry!!). I promise Encore is on its way, so enjoy this in the meantime. very unedited and I started it just yesterday, so pls no hate haha okay that's it!! love you!!!

⇥ summary: Jungkook and you seek a carefree and calm Halloween this year, until it turns into this… nightmare.

–

Jungkook’s make up is smudged beyond repair… And you strongly guess you aren’t faring any better.

Your costumes are basic to their core. In the past hour alone, you’ve seen half a dozen of you. Jungkook rubs at the eyeshadow above the apple of his cheek, smearing the black some more.

He looks like the Joker at the end of his mental capacity. A worse mess than DC’s character already is. Only, Jungkook is still rocking the look – one damn kink of yours if you had a specific one. It’s the loosened tie… the purple coat–

You feel at home in your own role. Sporting the peroxide blonde hair, tied in two tails, one ending in a faded blue, and the other in a dim pink. You purchased colored hair sprays just for today, but can’t wait to wash the chemicals out of your hair.

Jungkook ruined one of the pigtails approximately an hour ago, and it hasn’t recovered since then, no matter how hard you tried to fix it. In truth, you didn’t mind the tugging at that moment anyway.

How could you? Not with the endorphins pumping through you at lightspeed, enhanced by the darkness around you at that stupid college party.

The student representatives organized this year’s big fete, though they must have forgotten to add the fun factor to it. Because the party was lame: the bar was filled with students from various departments, but most of them remained either sober or wound up broke.

Because the drinks were painfully expensive. The numbers on your bills spooked through your mind when you looked at the price, further frustrated when you realized that they weren’t selling much more than dry, small pizza and flavorless toast.

Once again, for an outrageous price.

Halfway through, the two of you snuck to a bathroom, relying on each other’s company alone. But the toilet cabinets were either taken or unspeakably disgusting – so in the rush, you settled for the pitch dark janitor’s closet instead.

You could barely see his silhouette in there, half sober, but not quite acting like it. Intoxicated by how he suckled on your neck, more a vampire than the Joker. Or by how he probably bruised your thighs, your shorts and tights down to your knees, much like his green pants.

You remember the whispers in the dark. The quiet “Wanna pound you into the mattress” and the “We should really go home.” Accompanied by the way he rubbed his cock against your stomach, body inches from you as his fingers dug into your pussy.

But you wouldn’t make it home yet, because his movements were too rapid to stop. The tears pricking your eyes too prominent. The hand around your neck wouldn’t stop pressing in, and you were firmly fixated on jerking him off to the end.

There was no way you were going to go home yet.

When he kissed you, you could taste both your lipsticks on your tongues. And then, cheek against the wall, ass out as he slammed his thick cock into your tight space, you tasted all the spice and sweetness he could offer.

God, a fucking man starved.

You still feel how his thighs held yours together, and your ass cheeks still burn from the palm and nails scratching, slapping, squeezing the flesh…

You tried your best to fix your make up afterwards, but you looked like modern art in the worst way, eyeliner and mascara dry on your face. The Joker’s cheek scars reach to his ears now. And as you look at him now, you still shiver.

His sweat-soaked mane hasn’t fully dried yet, a bit longer than weeks ago. Gives him that wet-hair look you usually enjoy after his showers. And behind the collar of his dress shirt, you still catch a glimpse of the lipstick print he wanted before you went out.

“Here,” he’d said, pointing to his thick, bare neck, adorned by a vein, “I’ll even open a button of my shirt just for this.”

And you were absolutely ready to mark your territory – it seemed he was just as enthusiastic about it. That is, before you forgot and then rectified your mistake in that bar bathroom. He can flex it now after all…

Anyway. Where were you again?

Right. The purple coat.

There’s something incredibly insane about how he’s draped it over his shoulder, both hands in the pockets of his pants. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, his arms veiny and strong. A full lower lip is light red now; your make out session made the bright red fade.

And the goddamn black around his eyes… he could throw the mildest statement at you, and you’d probably still be intimidated.

Could almost distract you from why you refused to give that neck kiss in the first place. Or why you were veiling your true mood.

“What are we gonna do now?” Jungkook asks, nudging your elbow.

“What do you mean? You’re not tired?”

But you understand the idiocy of your question the moment it tumbles out – you’re asking the wrong man. This guy, you have well noticed, does not sleep until late in the night. And a healthy sleep schedule becomes even more of a foreign concept on holidays.

So you’re not surprised when he blows a raspberry and almost mockingly responds, “It’s not even midnight.”

“That’s late, Jungkook,” you still try.

“Not on Halloween.” Yeah. Just what you thought. “Besides, we need to wait for the witching hour. Wanna see the ghosts come out and whatnot.”

You laugh, the scolding hidden behind the smile. “Kook…”

“We could play Uno again!” He suggests, but you instantly scrunch up your nose. Most of the time, he wins – it’s probably why he enjoys it so much. But his next idea is worse. “Or Until Dawn.”

“No way,” you shoot. “You know what’s gonna happen, right?”

Judging the conniving smirk, more daunting with the eerie make up on, you guess he knows very well. He must remember last Halloween as well as you do.

Back when you let him convince you into watching Silent Hill with him, you were already at the edge, but – the sudden knocks at your door and impatient ringing of your bell didn’t help.

You jumped in place, accidentally kicking his shin and nearly knocking over the popcorn. You shed an immediate tear, convinced your heart was going to give out. Jungkook, between the cries of ache, was chuckling, and soon holding your head to his heart.

The cursing against his chest is cemented in your mind; you remember that he turned the movie off for you and switched to something tamer on Disney+.

“We’re together now, Pumpkin,” he tries to argue. “I’ll kiss your fears away.”

You’ll admit, you like the tone of it. It hasn’t been very long, so any term concerning your togetherness covers your skin in chills. And considering how it’s Halloween, the nickname gains just a bit more warmth, too.

But you stay resolute, dodging his constant nudging as you repeat, “No way!”

Your words stop Jungkook in his tracks. The laugh disappears and even his eyes change. Maybe you came off too strong, because behind the mask of the Joker, he looks insecure and taken aback.

“Are you… Okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

You pull down the crop top under your open jacket, clearing your throat when the movement forces his eyes to your chest, right where the shirt stretches over your tits. Folding your arms in front of your torso, you raise your chin in the confidence that’s barely there.

You lie, “Yes. Why?”

“You’re acting like you were before we left. Then you were okay at the party.” He points into a random direction, presumably the one you came from. You don’t know how many turns you took since then, but you’re near the woods now. “Now you’re not anymore again.”

“I’m fine!”

Oops. Too strong again. Maybe the built up frustration and disappointment aren’t gone after all. You thought the evening might change something – apparently not.

Once again, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You stay silent. Look away, haphazardly across the street. The street lamps illuminate the dark path, covered in leaves, surrounded by trees. Has a real Halloween feel to it.

You watch ghosts stroll past you. Some of the students on campus still carry a young, tender spirit, cutting holes in thin blankets to drape them over their bodies. It makes you smile.

But then you look back at Jungkook and immediately wish you had a cloth hiding your true emotions, too. Because when his eyes pierce those dejected holes into your body, you finally cave in.

“You… you know that I was top of my class, right?” You avert your stare, but then decide to focus on his chin instead. “Mr Kim liked my paper so much that he even offered that I join his research? And he’s like, very cherished in the Sociology community?”

Aside from the wind, nature and the world go quiet for a second, just when you do, but then you say, “So it’s a huge opportuni–”

“I know… You told me.”

Oh. So he remembers.

“So I told you,” your voice is quieter now, “and you just… didn’t seem to care? You haven’t spoken about it or asked even once. Not even what the research is on.”

Like a parrot, he repeats, “I know. I… I got busy with my own exams and…”

He stops midway and you wait. Maybe there’s more to come… Or maybe not. He doesn’t budge. You feel your heart drop… You assumed he had forgotten or that you might’ve hallucinated telling him about it. 

But the fact that he remembers, yet doesn’t have it in him to care hurts.

You swallow hard and then sigh, unable to say much more than you already have. He, yet again, purls, “I’m sorry.”

How shitty.

You’ve always helped him with his assignment, each time he needed any aid. He reciprocated it, no doubt, but. Now that you think about it, he distanced himself the moment you got this news and forwarded it to him.

You feel horrible. If you physically could, if you weren’t frozen in place, you’d pour out your heart to him. But all you know is that your mood has dropped to the Earth’s core, your mouth barely open when–

A rough tug pulls you away from Jungkook’s body. You stumble, almost tripping over your own feet, and yelp. There’s no way to still catch your bag mid-air, because whatever culprit snatched it off your shoulder, is already running away.

And into the dense forest. Fuck.

You use all your throat’s might to scream your lungs out, screeching at the perpetrator, “What the fuck!!”

“Hey!” Jungkook yells in kind, following right behind you the moment you start to sprint.

The asphalt is easier to tackle than the forest, though. The ground is soft, still a little damp from the rain of the last days. And the white-black-red Harley Quinn boots with their thick heels do not help.

You chase the figure – he’s tall, a bit too fast for you. Wearing a mask that you’re sure was… green?

You swear and pant when he picks up on pace, and throw more insults into his direction when he takes a sharp, sudden right. Jungkook jogs past you when you look over your shoulder for him, instructing quickly, “I’ll trap him from the left!”

And then, he’s gone. No. What?

“No, I– you can’t leave me alone!” Nothing comes back. Shit, your boyfriend wants you dead. “Fuck.”

With a shake of your head and a deep inhale of a breath, you move. Perhaps you’re too late, because by now, you don’t hear any steps anymore. You don’t know how far behind that thief left you, but as you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere, you halt.

You can’t see anyone anymore. Not the guy. Not Jungkook.

And it’s so uncannily quiet. Dark. The leaves rustle, but only when the breeze blows through them. You search the spot, but there’s truly nobody and nothing; not even a goddamn squirrel.

You call for Jungkook, but don’t receive an answer back.

Where did he go? Did he catch the jerk? It must’ve been a Shrek mask. Of all fucking things. And why do they always run into a forest anyway?

No matter. At least you’ll be able to describe him to the police.

You suck in a breath, leaning down, hands over your knees. Out of air, you groan as your lungs burn. But then you get up, swallowing and sniffling, scared as you whisper to yourself, “The phone…”

You fish it out of your shorts – Hallelujah to whoever created this costume, because they’re a whole lot better than the pocketless jeans in your closet. If you’d put the device in your bag, you’d be screwed properly.

Activating the flashlight, you turn in a slow circle. In the silence, only broken by grasshoppers and other chirping animals, you hear your heart pounding in your ears. A shaking hand holds your phone as you look around.

And right when you’re already through the 360 turn–

Fingers wrap around the hand clutching the phone, definitely not yours. There’s a call of your name, but you barely take the voice in, flinching and screaming in place. Has your voice ever sounded this high pitched?

Ready to throw your phone at him and roundhouse kick the stranger, you lift a leg, but he immediately grabs your wrist in a familiar gesture. Turns the light to his face, squinting at its intensity, and eventually, you realize that…

“What the fuck are you doing?” You spit.

“I was looking for you!” Jungkook answers, lowering the phone. “I didn’t find him.”

“Yeah, I didn’t either! But fuck, why…” You still can’t breathe properly. A hand moves to your chest. “Why did you scare me so much, I–”

Your limbs are trembling, knees attempting to force you down to the ground. But you hold yourself steady, anger growing bloody red inside you. It bubbles and simmers, and when he doesn’t respond, you almost snarl.

You push at his chest, eyes damp. You want to throw more shit at him, even though he’s not at fault – and once you realize, you calm down just a little. The forest is still around you, and you’re still not out of it by far.

Yet, you feel at ease. Because he’s here. Because he’s standing there, in the middle of the night, at fucking Halloween where you could run into any insane axe murderer.

But when you understand where the comfort is coming from, your heart slows down, still beating in your stomach, but at a more normal pace now.

“Fuck,” you whisper once again, and then stumble forward and into his arms.

He cradles you with the fragility of a glass doll. But the squeezes he provides offer warmth your chilled soul craves on this autumn night. Hushed, you hear him speak, “Baby, I…”

His words drip with hesitation and… guilt even. Wrong timing; you can’t dwell on the uncertainty now. Still sniffling, quivering, you press against his chest again. Softer this time, yet unyielding, you demand, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

“No–”

“Honestly, I should’ve just… Congratulated you.”

Wrong timing indeed. He’s agonizing over something that you aren’t bothered with. Not right now, at least. But you heard it so clearly in the timbre of his voice – that he didn’t mean the jump scare. You let him continue.

“I worked so hard on my stuff, too, and then got jealous. Which is absolutely not a good boyfriend treat to have.”

“Kook–”

There’s turmoil in his words. Ugh, what’s going on?

“I’m genuinely thrilled for you. And I–”

There’s an entire conversation to have, you’re sure. But the timing. The fucking timing!

He wants to unveil more, but then something happens. A flicker in your peripheral vision alerts you of a movement, and when you turn your head, you see the same mysterious figure lurking in the shadows.

God, he’s insane. Your guts twist.

Was he eavesdropping all along, or was he simply hiding, trying to remain invisible, inexplicably unwilling to flee? Why did he not run before? This is odd. So chillingly odd.

Or maybe he was still nearby and trying not to make a sound…

You don’t know. And time is not a luxury you can’t afford for pondering such enigmas right now.

New adrenaline surges through you, different this time. The fear is clear, but the guy seems pathetic to a certain level – and if he’s so keen on roaming around, you’ll make sure he stays right in your proximity.

So you listen to the hammering of your heart, and without a second thought, you dash towards the stranger who appears equally startled and disoriented. You feel like a charging bull, closing the distance at an astonishing pace.

That’s what they probably mean when they speak about mothers being able to lift cars for their kids, because you feel invincible. Your shoes may not be designed for such a pursuit, and you’re certainly not as hardcore as Harley Quinn, but they lose against your determination.

The trees blur around you as you relentlessly chase the intruder, only clearing in your vision when you finally catch up with him. Jungkook might be behind you, but you choose not to look behind you this time.

Instead, you yell a battle cry, growling through your teeth, “Don’t you fucking–”

But that’s all before you tackle him to the ground. You expect a fight, expect his slim limbs to fling around, but he barely moves. He lets you push him onto the fallen leaves, and the only glimpse of any sound by him that you catch is a weird voice crack.

“Fu–” Is all you notice, but you can’t analyze the voice before Jungkook is helping you up again. 

You protest, but still get to your feet, watching Jungkook pull the man up harshly. He says to you, “You caught him.”

“Guess so.”

You take another breath, jaw clenched when you move to the stumbling thief and attempt to take the mask off. Shrek, as you said. You can’t quite say whether that night is terrifying or absurd. Probably both.

But the guy fights your try, suddenly mute again, but not resisting when Jungkook pulls at his arm and starts leading him somewhere. What? 

“Where are you going?” You ask, confusion sitting in the valley between your eyebrows. “Let’s go back and call the police, Jungkook.”

“There’s gotta be an opening. Keep going, I just need light to see his face.”

“I have a phone. Jungkook, sto–”

Seems like a very risky moment to ignore you, but Jungkook moves forward with determination. But it’s strange how he isn’t looking around. Never searching his surroundings, as if he already has a certain target in mind.

Now, you’ll admit that his sense of direction is unerring on any other day, too, but this is…

“I swear, you’re gonna kill us both,” you hiss, reflexively lowering your voice in the darkness. The masked mugger is grunting too much to hear you anyway, but you guess that affects Jungkook’s senses, too.

He just won’t stop. At least, until you reach a tiny clearing.

You don’t know how deep in the forest you are, because you can’t see the moon from here. The stars are the mere source of light here, albeit barely enough to illuminate the other bodies standing on the opposite side of the dimly lit space.

Wait. More people? Here?

What the hell.

Their faces, obscured by shadows, are unmoving. You ready yourself for an apology – maybe you interrupted some weird get-together. A shady ritual executed by some secret college club.

But as you strain to discern their features, a gradual realization dawns upon you. One of them steps forward, his features partially hidden, and one or two other familiar friends from your classes occupy the periphery.

It’s Jin. Also Jimin – a guy you and Jungkook met during one of your study sessions. Taehyung introduced him to your group. And the pursuit takes on an even more bewildering turn when you look at Jungkook and see that he’s no longer clutching the robber.

The man is standing there in silence, massaging the back of his head. Seemingly unperturbed. Perplexed and still out of breath, you utter, “What in the world?”

You shake your head, eyes deeply furrowed. You close the distance between you and the confusing figure, snatch your bag from him and finally shed the mask that conceals his identity.

And then, you see it. The unexpected face behind the bizarre charade.

“Taehyung?” You exclaim.

Jungkook, having caught his breath faster than you, mimics your incredulous tone, “Taehyung, what the hell?”

Oh. So he’s just as confused. The man in question glances over to his friend, his expression one of sheer frustration as he grumbles another very puzzling statement.

“Jeon, I will kill you.”

“Sorry,” Jungkook mutters back.

Or… not? Huh?

You’re speechless. Out of movements and words, you keep your feet planted on your spot, blinking as you wait for someone to explain. But they’re not even looking at you, so you seek clear clarification.

“What’s going on here?” You ask.

Jungkook’s half-smile agitates you more than it should. Why the heck is he smiling?! But you breathe in through the nose, hoping for the forest’s scent to calm your nerves.

“Well,” he admits, “I guess I owe him one. ‘Cuz you were not supposed to tackle him.”

“Right!” Taehyung concurs.

“And you were not supposed to disappear!” Jungkook chimes in, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. His voice is tinged with reproach. “You…”

“Guys,” you interject. What the fuck.

Jungkook sighs, full attention on you. You try your hardest to not look at the creepy crowd to your left, friends and acquaintances standing there as if they’re about to sacrifice you to a demon.

“He was supposed to lead you here, but somehow we didn’t manage to pull it through,” Jungkook says.

His words leave you pondering. You have not the darndest clue about what’s going on. So you ask, “We?”

“Your…” The assembled group draws near, a few of your friends holding various items. “Your paper.”

Huh…

They’re carrying indiscernible things. And a pie, and…

“Of course I remembered your paper, baby,” Jungkook declares.

Oh, wait. Is that what you think it is? Because if it is, then your instincts were entirely wrong today. Or the entire time since you received the news. Maybe you were just so out of your mind because of the general Halloween atmosphere?

What were you expecting… An axe murderer for real? Dammit…

No. It was much more obvious, yet impossible to figure out. This man. This man!

A wave of relief washes over you as you process his words. You think that now, you even understand what they’re all holding. Or what it’s for…

“So you weren’t…” You start.

You drift off, watching Jungkook shake his head. His response is heartfelt, his love and pride evident. He looks at you with infinite sweetness; but a lot of guilt, too.

“Jealous?” He finishes. “I’d be crazy to be. You’re part of me.”

His blinking is soft and the tongue licking his red lips shiny in the extremely faint starlight. You know he isn’t done yet, so you wait… Focus on the tingle on your skin.

“You are part of me,” he says again, “so I’ll celebrate any achievement of yours like it’s mine. And this was… is a huge fucking thing to happen for you.”

You feel your head tilt and the muscles in your face relax. Your lips move to a smile, parted to give way to the longest sigh known to humankind. But if you indulged in the cheesy interaction now, your friends would remind you of it every game night.

Which is why you get yourself together, postponing the screeching and second tackling to later when you’re alone again. You shake off some of the weakness he causes every day, and give into the urge to nudge teasingly.

“You’re such a jerk for scaring me like that.”

A playful grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, as typical as can be. “I needed to make it Halloween-themed, Pumpkin. I’m sorry, but you know I had to.”

Your initial scolding turns into a loving retort, “I hate you.”

But the banter is short-lived as you lose against the surge of emotions, your hand moving to push him lightly once again before immediately lifting to his collar. You capture it, pulling him close to you until his wide eyes close and your lips collide.

In the background, you hear an instant chorus of “Aww”s, but grunts, too. Among the cooing, you hear a mumbled speech about how you need to get a room, but you only react with a smile against his mouth. You kiss him deeper, tongues gently intermingling.

And just when the hand holding the back of your head slips to your lower back, pressing you into him, the shiver becomes unbearable. Emotions shoot through your body and down between your legs – so you stop.

For a couple seconds longer, you look at whatever you can see from his eyes in the dark, flashing a smile. He rounds his lips and releases air through them, a temptingly silent way to let you know that you affected him.

You ignore it for your mentality’s sake, moving away from him to look at your friends. You cough and gesture to the objects in their hands, asking, “What’s all this about?”

If you could see them, you’d probably see a mischievous twinkle in their eyes. Jin at least sounds like it as he beckons you closer with a nod, ready to reveal whatever they’ve orchestrated for you.

You already expected the answer to your question, but the wrapping confirms your assumption. Gifts. Quite a few of them, bigger and smaller. As you move from one to the other, they announce the objects before you’re able to rip the paper off.

A friend gifts you a Swarovski Crystalline pen for your “Super fancy notes as you do your super fancy research.” Reflects their support for your scholarly pursuits, you guess.

Jimin surprises you with an exclusive album by your favourite group. Then, a little plushie to destress whenever you need, along with a college survival guide and “Sociology for Dummies” – all by Jin. Of course.

And lastly, a Lord of the Rings Lego set that you’ve desired for super long, a group effort. It’s a labor of love, for sure. A collective endeavor by friends who united to make your dreams come true – but honestly, who scared you to death, too.

You don’t know how you make it out of the forest again, still reprimanding Taehyung and Jungkook on your way out. Granted, you did get lost as a group once, and then found your beloved streetlamps again ten minutes later.

The treasures secured in a bag, Jungkook places them on your couch with a long and deep sigh once you arrive home, calming down from today’s hours. The night seemed endless. Wouldn’t finish – and you’re exhausted beyond measure.

But even through your falling eyelids, you manage one more expressive glance, pure disbelief hiding in your gaze as you say, “I absolutely didn’t expect any of this.”

Jungkook is a true mirror to you. Equally worn out, he lets his head fall a little, one hand still in the pocket of his pants. He looks ridiculously attractive, fatigue or not. Curls of his longer hair hang in his eyes as he rubs them, the smile gentle despite the sinister make up.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, voice low and quiet. “To be honest, I kinda felt bad halfway through.”

Ah. Explains the guilty eyes and voice. The way he attempted to apologize and grew all shy and quiet before you threw Taehyung to the ground.

“Don’t. The plan almost worked, and my heartbeat is still intact.” You laugh, punching his arm lightly. “But… Don’t do shit like that again next year.”

“I can’t promise it. You know that.”

You roll your eyes, watching him try to walk away – and you might not have held him back and grasped the dress shirt at the elbow if…

Is that the window creaking?

You gasp, still more on the edge than you expected, and throw a peek over your shoulder. You moved a couple weeks ago – there’s no way your place is already making these sounds. Or maybe that’s the reason after all… You should get to renovating.

“Was that you, too?” You ask, leaning into him with a cocked eyebrow.

“It was not. How would I do that?” He promises. His words are accompanied by movements; he’s walking around the living room now, as if he’s looking for something. “I’m not a ghost. Just the Joker.”

“A sly one, though…”

You look to the window again as he crams around in the box under your table, and appropriate to the holiday, you detect a harmless raven, perched on the windowsill. The sight elicits a small chuckle – but you don’t hear a sound from Jungkook.

When you turn back to him, you understand why. He’s distracted, still crouching. Then he gets up with… An object in his hand. No, two. Not any you carried home just now, but much smaller, thinner. Paper?

Idly, he walks back to you, fingers adorned in tattooed letters holding two cards toward you. You look into his eyes, confused and seeking answers silently, but he only holds the objects closer to you, urging you to take them.

“What’s that?” You ask.

“Read, and you’ll know.”

And when you oblige, you understand. Maybe the little celebration on the clearing didn’t quite end there. Because the inscription on the cards reveals that he put more thought into this than you knew.

The tiny party and group effort Lego set weren’t his only tokens of affection. The weekend getaway, resting in your hands and awaiting you next week, must be tonight’s finale. A prelude to the impending wave of tedious work. 

“As an escape. Even for just a moment,” Jungkook explains, reaching forward. His hand settles on your cheek and pulls your face up, meeting your eyes. “Just you and me.”

To bask in serenity and rejuvenation, is that it? Just you and him…

“Really?” You wonder, eyes knitted together, lips pouting. You’re drowning in fondness.

“I wanna give you all the relaxation you need, in any way. Big things ahead after that.”

“I’m… You didn’t ha–”

You only get this far, because his lips steal your breath and halt your speech midway. His hand cradles your face, the other arm slinging around your body. The grip holds you tight against him, the heels of your feet almost lifting off the floor.

The kiss won’t stop. Continues deeper. You’re careful to not crumple and crease the cards he gave you, but still wrap your arms around his neck, pushing harder into him. And the tongue… Fuck, this tongue…

When he moves back reluctantly to catch air, he’s panting; and your breath falls against his cheeks just as hot. Your lips are damp, craving more, and you draw closer, trying to feel all of him. The muscles, the embrace, the growing pleasure behind his pants and…

But he lets go, leaves you standing and dizzy. With a wink, he lightly pinches your cheek, thumb brushing against it and suggests, “I’ll head off to freshen up.”

But. No.

You’re not ready to let the moment slip away, no matter how tired you are. So you pull him back again, a playful twinkle in your eyes as you quietly utter a request.

“Don’t take it off just yet.” You say, seeing the way his eyes light up. He understands right away. “Clean up together?”

He smiles. Waits with his answer, busy gripping your wrist as gently as he can before he locks his fingers with yours. He starts pulling you into the direction of the bathroom at snail's pace, reaching to hold both your hands, walking backwards, and causes one last hour-long shiver for the night.

“I really do love every time we save up on water, you know?”

–

Let me know what you think!! Have a good Halloween, love you all and smooching you!!😘

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook oneshot #bts imagine #bts fic #jeongguk smut #jungkook

[insfptourismeskikda]

صور من حفلة عيد البيتز السكيكدية Fête de la pit's skikdienne 📸📢🍕🥘 افتح الصور لمشاهدتها جميعا ⁦♥️⁩ #fete de la pit's skikdienne #Skikda #pizza #algerie @salim_chaoui_21 #Dimou Photoshoot photographe 📸 (à Skikda Ville) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiTDE8-N4El/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#fete #skikda #pizza #algerie #dimou

[endless-ineffabilities]

this world was never meant for a fire like yours

part three.one - lovers adrift

Daemon Targaryen x modern-f!reader / nurse!reader

SERIES MASTERLIST: part one - part two - bonus chapter: unalloyed - part three.one - part three.two - part three.three

word count: 5.6k ▪︎ main masterlist

series synopsis: After a fatal injury on the battefield, Daemon wakes up in a foreign land - our world (where GoT / HoTD does not exist). He meets the reader, a nurse who tends to him and helps him navigate everything. They grow close, and slowly, but unequivocally, fall in love.

themes/warnings: separation, Daemon in his New Moon Bella Swan era, reader in full/overly hectic nurse mode, Viserys losing (even more) hair because of Daemon, Daemon is severely whipped, language

August 2023 / the 8th Moon, 113 AC

A flash of bright red passes by, your peripheral vision drawn to it as if on instinct. You don’t look back as you turn a corner, not wanting to see if it is a similar vehicle.

If it is, then that’s just fucking cruel. As if the universe itself is mocking you.

Because no matter how much you deny it, every single thing reminds you of him. 

Cars. Broken laptops. Your worn-out couch. Old movies. Pizza. Burnt food in your kitchen. Helicopters. The dog-eared paperbacks on your shelf. 

Damn him. Damn him to his ridiculous seven hells.

It has been weeks since Daemon Targaryen disappeared from your life, as easily and as abruptly as he had entered it.

Without a trace, as if you plucked him from your imagination. Except he did leave a mark so indelible it cannot be denied. He left his mark alright, in the form of constant sleepless nights. In how you space out each time his memory hits you. In how nothing in your little apartment seems to be yours anymore. Every corner, every inch of the space screams his name. He has made your world his own. He had claimed your heart… and then left. And now you’re here to pick up the pieces.

You remember the torture reflected in his face, the rage, when his brother came to take him away. You knew how badly he wanted to go home, so you made his choice for him.

You told him to leave. 

Stupid girl. You want to go back to that very moment, and tell yourself to make him stay. You know you should have held him in your arms, keeping him rooted in place. In this world, with you. 

But you opted for selflessness. You chose to have your heart broken, so that Daemon can go home. You know that he would have stayed if you only asked.

Fuck, I should have asked.

______________________

The Rogue Prince has been unpleasant and volatile ever since he returned from that strange other world. He has been made welcome, feted and tended to, day and night. Everyone was initially glad to have their Targaryen prince again. Until they realized how much he had changed.

Daemon quickly went back to his roguish ways, but it seems as if these tendencies increased tenfold. Something was severely wrong with the Rogue prince. Something other than his usual myriad of dangerous flaws. Only a handful knew of his predicament, of his loss.

When the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, chooses to make some remark about how you were just some woman, and an unknowable outsider at that, someone who might never fit in the Seven Kingdoms, Daemon says nothing at first. 

For an entire minute, he sits at the council table, his mind stirring. 

Some of the small council members think the conundrum solved. Their prince must have finally realized that what he wants - who he wants - is an impossibility. But the more discerning of them, those more familiar with Daemon, know otherwise. 

Lord Corlys could have all but predicted what came next, after a grievous line from Ser Otto that goes, “Perhaps we should finally arrange for a union between the Prince and one of the Ladies of the Kingdom. Lord Baratheon’s eldest daughter might be - ” Of course, he does not get to finish imparting this idea, as Daemon rises in a flash, Dark Sister drawn across the table and directed to Ser Otto’s sternum. 

The Kingsguard springs into action. Any harm conducted during the small council meeting, could of course also extend to their King. 

“Daemon!” Viserys growls, his patience having run out. 

The prince simply warns, “I will not have this snivelling sycophant make decisions about who and when I am to wed. And I will not hear any more slander about the woman whom I love, do I make myself clear?”

Ser Otto merely stands his guard, hands half raised by his sides as a gesture to the Kingsguard to not make any sudden attempts to remove the prince from the room, lest he should suffer any grievous harm to his person as a result.

“Daemon,” Viserys implores again, “Ser Otto was merely making a suggestion. What else is the small council for if not to freely discuss matters of import for ourselves and for the Seven Kingdoms? You are their prince, after all. Whom you wed will be most crucial, indeed.”

Daemon begins to relent. Slowly lowering Dark Sister, a sly smirk materializes on his lips, as if to show just how little this perceived threat to Ser Otto means to him. It isn't even enough to warrant an apology. 

Daemon seats himself once more, appearing to look unfazed as he inspects the calluses on his hands. “There is only one reason as to why I even deigned to participate in today’s council meeting. I wish to know if we have finally received word back from those bloody witches who had me returned… the ones who can apparently travel through our realm and the other.”

Viserys sighs, knowing his brother is not there for anything else. Not for his duties. Not for the realm. But for you. “Nothing yet, Daemon. But we are trying-”

He stands abruptly, without any mind to formalities. “Then it appears there is no reason for my presence here.” 

In a moment, before any plea could be spoken, the Prince was gone from the council chambers.

Lord Beesbury, confused, addresses the table, “Was the Prince not meant to report on the recent dealings of his Gold Cloaks with-”

“Oh, what does it matter, my Lord?” Ser Tyland interjects, with a scornful whip of his hair. “Prince Daemon wouldn’t be aware of all the goings on in the Red Keep, seeing as he’s either holed up in his chambers or too busy hunting down those shameless heretics who can miraculously send him back to-”

“Ser Tyland,” Viserys commands, his voice clear for once. “I shall ask that you leave that matter alone. Unless you can be of any help, which I highly fucking doubt.”

A hush falls over the small council. Their King has never been prone to swear freely like a drunken Lyseni, unlike his younger brother. 

“Perhaps,” Ser Otto says, “we should convene this council meeting for another day, my King.”

Viserys merely huffs in response. “Very well.”

As he departs the room with the Kingsguard, he wonders if things will ever be even just an infinitesimal amount of simple when it concerns his brother.

His conclusion comes swiftly - no, it never will be.

______________________

You lower your clipboard on the nurses station, leaning against it in exhaustion.

“Ms. Carlson is stable now, thankfully.” You address Dessa, an older colleague who has been newly stationed at the desk. “We just need to monitor her blood pressure from time to time.”

“Sure thing.” Dessa gives you a once over, clearly not approving your current state. “But sweetheart, why don’t you go home and get some rest? You’ve been taking way too many extra shifts just out of the blue like this, and you have to give yourself a break.”

Taking a deep breath, you roll out the tension in your neck and shoulders. The bright wash of hospital lighting makes you feel slightly nauseous, so you shut your eyes tight. Briefly. 

But not brief enough. In the recesses of your mind, in your memories, you can almost feel him. Hear him.

Leaving this world for but a moment, and gently slipping from consciousness, is enough to make you remember. 

And you remember everything.

‘My love. Come lie with me,’ he would say. 

Your mind reels from exhaustion, and from the perpetual echo of his voice. Leave me alone.

Come back, is what you meant. It’s what you’ll always mean. But his desire to return to his Westeros, to his Seven Kingdoms, was too strong for you to ignore. He swore he wanted to stay with you, so you had to make the choice for him.

This measly world was never meant for Daemon, whose fire can set everything ablaze. And there surely were plenty of times when he almost let his rage and his usual ways get the better of him, if it weren’t for you. His anchor.

You know that he would be too much to bear, and this world would try to quell him. 

It was the right decision. So why did you have to feel so wretched about it?

Because you love him, you big idiot.

“Fuck.” You mutter under your breath, opening your eyes.

“Sorry, what was that?” Dessa’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, the expletive taking her aback. Poor girl just expressed concern, and here I am over her desk, eyes glazed over like a zombie.

“Oh, it’s just… you’re right, I do need some rest. My shift ends in an hour and I plan to sleep for the next 24 hours. At least.” That isn’t the truth, but you don’t feel it necessary to deepen her concern. You could be upfront and admit that you find it hard to fall into slumber, because almost every time, without fail, Daemon is there to welcome you.

His voice. His touch. His burning gaze. Your dreams could be there to offer a sense of comfort, a safe haven that can temporarily ease you out of heartbreak, but all you can feel is a painful loss. 

You don’t think it right to lose yourself in what was, or what could have been. Where would be the point in that? It isn’t as if this is a typical long-distance relationship, and Daemon simply went off to live in another city. 

No. The damn bastard had to go off to an actual other dimension, didn’t he?

How can anyone expect any less from someone like Daemon?

Dessa relaxes, and sighs audibly. “That’s good. Go do that, hon. If you want, I can cover for your next rounds, whenever that’ll be. You’ve been taking up all the extra shifts around here as it is.”

“Thank you, Dessa,” you say genuinely. “I think I’ll go check on 517 one last time before I go.”

You start to push yourself off of the counter and get your bearings, but Abby reaches out for your hand, keeping you in place for a moment longer.

She smiles, and you can’t help but notice something lingering underneath her expression of comfort. As if she knows. 

“It’s going to be alright, y/n,” she says, and the sentiment quickly takes root in you, a sense of warmth wrapping around you like a warm hug. Too soon though, she lets go, and you are snapped back into reality. 

Until she adds, still smiling, “Those we love tend to find their way back to us, ñuha riña, if that is truly what is meant to be.”

Everything stops. It feels as if ice has infiltrated your veins, like some sudden shock. That sounds like…

“What… what did you call me?” you croak.

She merely tilts her head, her smile dropping only slightly, taking on a new emotion. Something like pity. Does she know?

“I don’t know what you mean. I merely gave you a piece of advice, my child.”

You slowly look around, trying to shake some sense back into yourself. Shaking your head, you say, “Right, I must have misheard things. It’s just… I thought I heard you speak…” High Valyrian. His native tongue. 

“Speak what?” She asks, a hint of confusion visible on her face.

“Nothing,” you shake your head quickly, stepping away from the nurses’ station. “Thanks for the advice, Dessa. I’m just… a little out of the loop is all. I’m definitely going to rest after this. I’ll go do some final rounds, and check back with you in 5 minutes?”

“Of course, darling.” She smiles again, and you think of how welcoming the sight is. How genuine. Dessa has this seemingly maternal quality to her, and you feel grateful to be at the receiving end of it. 

You mirror her smile, before finally turning and sauntering towards the rooms.

______________________

When you finally reach your apartment, you have to drag yourself up the flight of steps, your legs feeling like jell-o underneath you.

Dessa is absolutely right. All those extra shifts are taking their toll. In your defense, you believe them to be necessary. Your own messed-up version of therapy. Cooping yourself up in your flat would be torture, when Daemon has left his mark on every inch of the space.

The kitchen where he kept trying to make dishes, only for them to end up charred at the bottom of your trusty IKEA pot. The couch where you spent most nights, curled up in each other’s arms, boxes of takeaway shared between the two of you.

You would dramatically relay your worries about your patients in the ICU, and he would muse about the “peculiar sort of idiots” he had to deal with at the auto shop. By that, he meant irate customers and even women who took a liking to him. So much so that they would deliberately lose small parts of their car engines, only to specifically request Daemon’s assistance. 

He would pull you onto his lap and cage you in his arms, smirking at the poorly masked envy in your expression. Soon after, your worries would dissipate in a haze, his lips snaking smoothly all over your skin.

I’m clearly upset now. Where’s my comforting embrace, huh?

Sullen, you make your way to the kitchen. Upon quick inspection of the fridge, it becomes evident that you desperately need to make a grocery run.

“I’m officially a peasant. No wonder the great Prince of Westeros didn’t want to stay with me.” You rack your brain for other alternatives, taking note to push away the thought of what Daemon would suggest. Freshly made pizza, with all his preferred trappings - spicy salami, heaps of cheese, nduja, and basil. Conveniently delivered straight to your door in a jiff. 

No. Definitely not that. 

The thought of Daemon not having access to such a glorious thing as pizza anymore made you spiteful. Take that. That’s what you get for leaving. 

You drag yourself onto the couch, slumping atop the worn out cushions. Silly girl. Do you think he would care? That world has everything he could ever wish for. 

The sound of knocking on the door pulls you out of your thoughts. Thankfully. Two sure raps on the wood to pull you out of your misery, for who knows how long.

“Hi.” Tom stands on the other side, a sheepish smile on his face. “Care for some company?”

This would be the fourth time since Daemon’s departure that he’s shown up at your door, out of the blue, simply asking to spend time with you. And this would also be the fourth time that you acquiesce, and let him in. 

Any and all distractions are welcome. Even in the form of your neighbour, with his puppy-dog eyes and suggestive remarks that clearly indicate that he still has not gotten over you. Despite being rudely confronted with the reality of you and Daemon, many months ago. 

But the reality is… there is no more you and Daemon, is there? Once Tom grew aware of that, his eagerness returned twofold. 

You did not show the same interest. Not in that way, at least. You made sure of that by saying “I’m glad we’re friends again.” when he first came over. Friends. Only that.

Still, there was some part of you that felt as if you were leading Tom on. By letting him in again, being his friend, you were giving him hope that it could turn into something more. Especially now that you badly needed a shoulder to lean on. 

Before you could let guilt rip through you, you force a smile up at him. “Sure, come in.”

I might pay for this later. 

For now, his carefree laugh and animated talk of everything that’s going on in this world might just help piece together the remains of your heart. 

______________________

*flashback* March 2023 / the 3rd Moon, 113 AC 

It was no easy feat to summon a priestess of the old gods to King’s Landing, but when Prince Daemon disappeared, his brother the King Viserys spared no effort in seeing his brother safely returned. 

Every sept of every religion was consulted. The Maesters of the Citadel. What remains of the water-wizards in Dorne. The magisters of the Free Cities. 

Many of the common folk surmised that perhaps, the volatile Prince Daemon simply took off without any word of warning.

However, that supposition may be easily debated with the fact of Caraxes’ presence on Dragonstone. Daemon would not have left Caraxes behind. If anything, he would have almost certainly ridden on dragonback to wherever he planned to go.

It further complicated matters when some of the soldiers present on the battlefield wherein Daemon was last seen profusely swear that their Prince simply vanished into thin air. 

The Maester were quick to dissuade their King of supposed foolhardy lies. One does not simply vanish. It is unheard of, a mere calumny. Their advice had been near unanimous - the Prince left, or was in hiding. Likely he did not wish to be found, which is why he left his dragon behind, the creature inevitably drawing attention wherever it goes. 

Just when the commotion around his disappearance had somewhat dissipated, a triad of self-proclaimed members of an outer sect, an adjunct to the priestesses of the old gods, made themselves known in the Red Keep. Accompanied by the elder priestess, they asked for an audience with the King, who eagerly welcomed them. His council members, on the other hand, were wrought with suspicion.

The women, three close-knit sisters, introduced themselves as Treesa, Verness, and Dessa.

They claimed to be part of a covert sect that sprung from the Old religion. One that remains largely unknown in Westeros, which warranted the suspicion of the small council. 

“Realmwalkers.” Verness declared in a proud tone. “That is what we call ourselves, borne out of the fact that we can jump from this realm, my King, to another strange yet equally fascinating one. The very same realm that Prince Daemon finds himself trapped in.”

“Trapped? And in another realm, you say?” Viserys’ fury was rising to the surface. “I charge you to speak plainly, and do not offer me such calumnies. Where is my brother?”

Treesa smiled wryly, unperturbed by the King’s growing wrath. “He’s been sent to the realm of Korzion. The realm of steel, if you please. Largely inhibited by men. Like us, but not quite. They’re somewhat more… connected to these… these machines.” There was a faraway look in her eyes, rendering her expression almost vacant. Her gaze met that of the King’s, but it appeared as though she did not really see him. Her mind was elsewhere, her skirts moving alongside her gently swaying figure. 

Upon hearing this, Otto Hightower leaned in to whisper to the King, “These so-called priestesses must only be devising some trickery, my King. Perhaps we should adjourn-”

Dessa interjected, “We can prove it to you, King Viserys. We are the only ones who can ensure that your brother is safely returned to this realm. Whether you trust us or not, that does not alter this truth.”

Viserys stiffened, a decision forming in his mind. Ignoring the look of reproach from his Hand, he took a deep breath and responded, “Tell me everything.”

______________________

September 2023 / the 9th Moon, 113 AC

“It took you a long while to allow yourselves to be found again.” Daemon’s voice, while low and controlled, maintains an underlying impatience. As if he could not be bothered, and is only going through everything for the hope of seeing you again. Sitting casually, partially covered by the shadows, he briefly thinks of how you would definitely make a remark of how much he resembles a ‘Bond villain’ from those movies you love. 

You once ran your fingers repeatedly over his hair, mussing it completely, after a couple of glasses of wine white. Daemon sat there, half in surprise and half in adoration. “Mystery man,” you slurred, smiling sleepily, “you’re someone straight out of a book, or a movie, or… or… my dreams.” Your eyes widened at that, at the incredulity of it all.

“You’ve dreamt about me, have you?” He cheekily responded. This was quite some time before the two of you finally dropped all the pretence and acted on your desires. Before the two of you allowed yourselves to fall completely in love.

“Mmm,” you giggled, “Strange how I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.”

Daemon, for all his brazenness and devil-may-care behaviour, found himself feeling disheartened at your words. Bad boy, you said. But that had a different, softer meaning for you. You were not aware how bad, how malevolent, he actually is. You did not know how he had dismembered enemies in battle, in his blind rage. You did not know how he had selfishly manipulated and lied his way purely to get what he wanted. You did not know that he would kill anyone who tried to hurt you, without reservation, in a heartbeat. 

He thought of how you were too good for him. Sitting there, after hours upon hours of your daily work as a healer, still managing to offer him a meal and spend time with him after near exhaustion, your smile was still whole and true and good. And it was being directed at him. The strange, angry man who infiltrated your little world and did not seem to want to leave. 

He thought, determinedly, that he did not deserve any of it. He did not deserve you.

Treesa’s voice snaps him out of his reverie. “I think I’ve lost you, my prince. You are no longer in this world, as you were.” Sitting across from him in his chambers, she has half a mind to become irate at how Prince Daemon is regarding her as if she is nothing more than the mud on the sole of his princely boots. A mere inconvenience. But her annoyance is restrained by her understanding of how he must be feeling. 

He regains himself, ignoring her remark, and continues, “Where are the others?” Then he flippantly waves his hand. “Never mind that. You said you will help me. Then can you transport me back to her world? Or her to mine? How soon can this be done?”

Treesa smiles slyly, “So many questions. How powerless you must feel against the tides of fate. What if your story has already been determined by the gods? That you meet your love, stay together briefly, only so that she may change you forever?”

“Careful now, witch.”

“Realmwalker.” 

“Whatever you call yourselves. Make no mistake, I am not asking for your help. I demand it, as your prince.”

Treesa just laughs, the shrill sound as light as air. “Do not take us so lightly, Rogue Prince. The one you claim to love is also one of us.”

“What?” 

“Your love from Korzion? Oh yes. She is a Realmwalker too.”

“Impossible.” Daemon says, shaking his head, but he is already running through his memories of you. Was there something that he might have missed? Were there any telltale signs? Had you deceived him?

“It’s the truth.” Treesa shrugs. “Only she does not know it yet. My elder sister, Dessa, is currently in her world and she is going to make herself known to y/n very soon, as who she truly is. Then Dessa may also let her know who she truly is.”

“But she…,” For the first time since he was tongue-tied around your presence, Daemon struggles to find the right words. “She is not from Westeros, is she?”

“No,” Treesa explains, “but she is a descendant of a woman who was. A Realmwalker of old, who chose to live her life in Korzion.”

“Well then,” Daemon stands, as if prepared to jump through a portal that very moment, “if she is of this world, then she can surely come here, can she not? There is nothing that can hinder this. You claim she is a Realmwalker like you. Bring her to me. Or… bring me to her. You’ve done it before.”

“It was Dessa who transported you to Korzion, my prince. And, it is no easy feat to bring another non-walker to Korzion. It can take a heavy toll on any of us. Much was needed to be orchestrated for the King to momentarily travel realms just to coax you back with him.”

Daemon merely petulantly tilts his head, and clenches his jaw, as if to say, ‘how does that help me?’.

“Sit down, my prince,” Treesa sighs. “You’ll know of everything soon enough.”

______________________

The very first Realmwalker or Vyzh-agon was a priestess of the old Religion.

Aesdella, believed to be originally from Old Valyria, and eventually settling in the North of Westeros, was the very first to travel to the realm of Korzion. Our realm. It remains unclear when she was born and when she perished, but she lived well before Aegon’s Conquest. Another source of speculation is how her abilities came to be, but from her bloodline came those with similar abilities. And so forth. Until this very day. 

Only Aesdella’s female descendants inherited this very nature of being a Realmwalker. This power can remain dormant, hidden under the surface, or it can be practiced and essentially turned into a way of living. Such as with the sect of Treesa, Verness, and Dessa, as well as their other sisters and cousins. 

She was believed to be a formidable woman, garnering respect from even those of other religions, and other lands. Though she made sure that her abilities would not be known by others, seeing as she did not trust the nature of men.  These powers, if in the wrong hands, could bring strife to both Korzion and her realm. It has been said that this is why she made sure that only her daughters and their daughters after them would receive her power, but this is mere conjecture.

There are many peculiarities which concern travelling between realms. The Realmwalker would have to envision her precise destination, lest she should accidentally end up in the middle of some remote part of Amazonia. She would require some tools, if she was not necessarily raised in the practice of realm walking. She would need to prick her fingers or her palm with a sharp sliver of moonstone, let her blood meet the raches of a raven’s feather, and recite a chant in High Valyrian. This is enough to awaken the power passed down to her through Aesdella’s bloodline. The feather will turn to ash in her hands, and swirl around her form, multiplying a thousand fold, and in a moment, this daughter of Aesdella will have travelled realms.

Those with immense power resting inside them, would eventually not need the moonstone, nor the raven’s feather, after a while. The chanting matched with pure will is enough. 

A Realmwalker may also transport another to Korzion, and vice versa, but this can exact a heavy toll on both parties if done incorrectly. Which is why Viserys’ jump to Korzion could not be done in a haste, and also why Dessa was rendered unconscious for an entire moon’s turn after having to quickly transport Daemon to Korzion following his fatal injury.

“Dessa saved you by transporting you to Korzion, as realm travel can sometimes have regenerative effects on one’s person. Luckily, your jump proved to be so.” Treesa reveals, the dancing firelight casting shadows on her angular face. “She did this because, and I am certain that you do not remember at all, but you once saved her son’s life, Prince Daemon.”

“You will have to be more particular, as I cannot recall every-”

“Like I said, you do not remember and it does not matter. What matters is that he is alive and well. Dessa is estranged from this son of hers, but will never cease to care for him. It’s a mother’s curse.” Treesa shakes her head in disapproval. Daemon feels inclined to think that she has no children of her own. “You saved her son in battle many moons ago, and so Dessa found a spell that ensured you had blood moonstone on your person, wherever you went. This is one way we can maintain a connection to someone, keep an eye out for them. When she sensed you had been grievously harmed, she immediately triggered the moonstone with a spell that would cause you to walk between realms.”

Daemon listens, not because he is especially intrigued by the entire story. He simply sits, waiting for Treesa to speak about you. Who you truly are, and how this expanse between the both of you can be eliminated.

“Did you know, it was by accident… well, somehow at least… that y/n was in the vicinity after you arrived in Korzion?” Treesa laughs dryly. “Realmwalkers can send another  individual such as yourself to Korzion so long as there is a beacon there for you to go to. Another Realmwalker, you see. Dessa meant to send you close to Verness who had been visiting with her… Korzioni lover.” Distaste flashes again across Treesa's face, which goes to show that she does not share the same affinity for having lovers, much less children with such lovers, unlike her sisters.

Daemon turns and meets her gaze straight on. “And yet, I was sent to… close to…”

“Yes.” Tressa nods. “To y/n. Dessa did not know she existed until then. Her great-grandmother was one of us, yes. When she disappeared ages ago, it was believed that she chose to spend the rest of her days in Korzion. Little was known of whether she fell in love, or whether she eventually had Korzioni children. Daughters that would also carry her ability. But apparently, she has.”

A scoff of disbelief and amazement escapes Daemon’s lips.

“Now, my Rogue prince,” Treesa leans forward on her elbows, the tone having shifted to something much lighter. “Now do you believe in fate?”

______________________

In Korzion, you sit once again on your couch after another long shift at the hospital. Only this time… and perhaps it has grown out of being a rarity at this point… Tom sits beside you, comfortably slouched a mere few inches away.

You lean away from him, opting to stick close to the armrest, hoping he would take this little hint. But he’s chosen to ignore it, ambling closer to you the first chance he got. 

Your laptop is in the low table in front of you, a new flick playing on the screen. Some new Netflix production that Tom chose, which you weren’t so keen on. But what did it matter?

Company is company. A distraction is a distraction. You probably should head straight to sleep, but you didn’t want to risk having yet another dream of Daemon. Another dream that will end abruptly and wrench you back into this grim reality. 

Remnants of takeout sushi containers are scattered on the kitchen counter. When Tom suggested pizza, you were quick to protest. Daemon loved pizza, and he loathed sushi. So, why not have sushi on this fine evening?

“So when will you get to reading it?” Tom asks, referring to the book he lent you. He initially wanted to give it to you as a gift, but you said you didn’t want a gift if there was no occasion. When he responded with, “I don’t need some special occasion to give a gift to a beautiful girl I care about,” you struggled so very hard to maintain a straight face and not roll your eyes. 

Daemon would hate this. If he still cared.

“I guess I’ll start tonight.” You lie, picking the book from your lap, pretending to peruse the back cover. “Seems like quite the read. I don’t think it will be like any of the other books I’ve read.” Of course it won’t. Because I would never purchase this myself.

“That’s great! You’ll love it, it’s a New York Times bestseller. I found it on BookTok.” He says, as if to reassure you, though it doesn’t really do the job.

You sense his arm snaking behind you on the seat, and before you can make some excuse about having to get some water, an unexpected knock echoes from the front door. 

Thank you. Whoever you are.

You rush toward it, finding Dessa on the other side.

“Nuha riña,” she says, a wide smile on her face. “It’s time.”

She said it again. I knew it.  “What the fu-”

She looks over your shoulder, noticing Tom standing close behind, as if in protection. “What about Daemon?” She asks sincerely.

Daemon? You feel your heartbeat falter, taken aback by someone else saying his name out loud. 

“H-how? You never met him. He was gone before you even came to work at…” you pause, choosing your next words carefully. “Who are you?”

She takes your hands in hers, a firm yet gentle hold. 

“The question, my dear, is who are you?”

end of lovers adrift 

______________________

*preview* of part 3.2 - lovers ablaze

October 2023 / the 10th Moon, 113 AC

“This is real?” Your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel somewhat floaty, as if you’re nowhere at all. Perhaps, you are nowhere, not in your realm and not in Daemon’s, but somewhere in the middle. “Am I doing this? Is it working?”

Daemon, who was frozen at the sight of you,  immediately strides forward. Desperate to feel you, his hands hold onto whatever he can. Your face, your hips, your hands. “My darling, all of this is fucking astonishing, and we can certainly marvel at what you can do to no end, but quite frankly, right this moment I could hardly bring myself to care.”

He smashes his lips to yours. They move relentlessly, as if on their own accord, their master groaning like a starved beast. You feel him, or you think you do, his familiar scent engulfing you, and he feels like home. You feel his silver hair sliding between your fingertips, his sharp teeth gnawing gently at your lips, his fingernails digging into your backside and melding your torso onto his.

Daemon is not one to waste time, that’s for sure.

“I miss you,” you breathe, as he kisses down the hollow of your throat.

“As I do you,  my love.” Daemon purrs, nipping at your collarbone, breathing you in. “You simply have no idea…”

You feel him, but only just… and it’s not enough. But it’ll have to do.

“Daemon… this is…” You try to voice out your concern, despite the moment. Dessa was right, your corporeal forms cannot meet through your projection; the two of you stand in your bedroom, but everything seems to be enveloped in a thick fog. If you press hard enough, you think your fingers will simply pass through Daemon as if he were a spectre. You realize that he knows this, too, but chooses to ignore it. 

“This is the closest we’ve been in far too fucking long, my love. It would have been sooner if those cunts made greater effort to-”

You snort, confronted once more with how brash he can be. “Daemon, those cunts? Really? I am one of them, you know. Besides, it’s not their fault.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” His lips form a desperate, wanting smile, as he connects his forehead to yours. “Let me have this. Have you. I need you.”

He’s right. In physical form or otherwise, he is still your Daemon. And you have craved each other too much to be denied any kind of reunion.

“Okay.” Your hand reaches up to cradle his face, and he leans into it. He then looks around, appraising your chambers, as he used to say.

“Nothing changed.” He hums, while holding you tightly to him, as if he’s afraid that you might dissolve into air. “What’s this now? Ever the reader, my heart.” He reaches for the crisp, new paperback novel atop your dresser. 

“Oh, that’s… yeah, someone lent it to me.”

“It certainly does not seem too suited to your tastes.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “Astute observation. It’s my neighbour’s. He apparently thought I needed something new to read.” When he gave you the book, Tom happily explained how he thought you should, “...expose yourself to other things. Things you possibly haven’t tried out before. New films, books, friends. You know to help you forget all about…”

“Your neighbour - what was he called? Tim?” Daemon’s lips curl in distaste.

“You remember his name, Daemon.” You roll your eyes at your lover, and his poorly-veiled jealousy. You were one and the same.

“You’ve been letting him inside your house?” He inquires, voice dropping an entire octave. If looks could kill…

You nod slowly, carefully. “He’s been visiting every now and then. It’s not a big deal.”

Daemon tilts his head, a sinister look appearing on his face. Smirking, he leans in and whispers, “Has that mongrel taken my place, dearest?”

You swallow thickly, his darkened gaze doing much and more to break your self-control. If he doesn’t stand down… well.

“Has any lady taken mine? In that amazing, grand realm of yours, Prince Daemon?” You respond, rising to his challenge. Your fingers snake in between the low-collar of his white tunic. Only Daemon has ever been able to elicit this out of you.

He enjoys the way you directly meet his eyes, unwavering in your stead. No one ever looked at him in such a way; not one has ever seen him as you do. Daemon has always inspired fear and intimidation in others. Those who find themselves comfortable enough to hold a conversation with the Rogue Prince tend to feel ill at ease or on their guard. As if he might turn on them at any moment. 

People usually mosey up to him because of a favour. Because of his status, his reputation. Because they want something out of him. 

But not you. No. Daemon knows that he has only ever inspired love in you.

Well, that and what might have been absolute surprise followed by wariness, when he was suddenly sprung into your world, injured and in a coat of full armour.

He kisses you passionately in response. Once, then pulling away only to breathe, and again, and again.

“No one can ever replace you.” He swears. He has never been a devout man, but in that moment, he curses all the gods that you two are apart. Meeting in this middle-realm is insufficient. He feels you, somehow. But he does not feel your warmth, nor the goosebumps on your skin from his touch. You are there, but you are not. 

But it will have to do. For now.

“Is this ailing you? Sustaining a connection like this, in this place?” Daemon asks.

“Not really,” you admit. “Dessa says I’ll feel quite exhausted afterward, but it shouldn’t take too big of a toll on me. I’m learning the ropes, and there’s a lot to learn. I mean… this is fucking insane.”

“And here you thought me extraordinary. When it was you all along.”

“Hardly.” you smile in return. If you could feel warmth right now, you would certainly feel it blooming across your face. “I’m not the only one, it seems. And, my great-grandmother… she was from your world.” Your smile stretches twofold in awe. 

He brushes a stray strand from your face.

“The Rogue Prince and his Realmwalker. We have always been meant to find each other.”

series taglist: @omgsuperstarg @sebastian025 @iilsenewman @padfootsvixen @teapartydreams @lucytheripper @kindaslightlyacidic @naelys-the-aster @zoleea-exultant @vainillasmil157 @llovinjoonie @outundertheocean @grimistangel @ladespedidas @nanabarnes @pineappleandro @luckythirtxn97 @knockemdeadgirl @stella-cadante @milber32 @canvashearts @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @kryzeria @selahstars @captainweirdo42 @nitimurinvetitumsposts @aemondmyl0ve @eternallyvenus @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @itscheybaby @my-dark-prince @moonmaiden1996 @mukduk-not-murder @partypoison00 @cookielovesbook-akie @borikenlove @avadakadabra93 @luloveseddie @katsav17 @avadakadabra93

Here we are - it's been a LONG time coming.

Grateful to all of yous for struggling through this wait. I know how much of a pain it is when a fic I'm reading just can't get updated soon enough. You guys deserve Daemon Targaryen at his very best 🖤

Oh and fire like yours isn't losing the somewhat lighthearted tone it might have had. The next part is when mayhem ensues, involving denim, vintage leather jackets, pizza!!!, etc. in Westeros. I just had to get through all this explaining as to how Daemon somehow ended up in our world (Korzion).

Maroon part three up next!

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen imagine #house of the dragon #modern!daemon targaryen #modern!daemon targaryen x reader

[copperbadge]

Hi Sam, could you share the timeline for the Shivadverse please? Because the epilogues tend to be little time jump and the books overlap, and Twelve Points confused me a bit in regards to when it takes place, ngl. Like, Eddie went for the coronation, stayed, he and Greg dated for a year(?) and get engaged. Are still engaged when Jess and Noah arrive. Are married during Euro Vision, but engaged (?) when the song is written at the start. And Tiger happens somewhere too, but Alanna and Jerry haven't gotten married yet...

I would love the proper chain of events! How much time has it been since Eddie's arrival and the end of Twelve Points?

Oh sure! I have it all written out (more or less) so find below the cut.

You do kind of have to squint a little in places; they're cramming a lot into a short amount of time and I was deliberately vague with real dates because it makes it easier to sort of slide stuff in, and with the first three books I was shuffling events around a bit. Spring 2022 saw a lot of action and fall 2023 is looking to be the same. :D

To short-answer your question, between the start of Fete For A King (February-ish 2021, don't look too hard at that) and the end of Twelve Points (May 2022) it's been about fifteen months. If we count to the true end of Twelve Points in the epilogue (November-ish 2022) it's been a year and nine months. By the time we hit the end of the planned-out novels (Spring 2024) it will have been three years.

SPRING 2021

Events of Fete For A King (except epilogue): Eddie arrives to cater the coronation; Gregory and Eddie begin a relationship. Michaelis retires and Gregory is crowned king.

Pre-LATT: Jerry is diagnosed with ADHD.

SUMMER 2021

Pre-LATT: Jerry begins medication for ADHD at the start of Infinite Jes.

Events of Infinite Jes (except epilogue): Jes and Noah arrive. Jes and Michaelis begin a relationship in late summer.

FALL 2021

Prologue of Twelve Points: Noah begins school at the Maritime Academy as a Junior. Caleb sees him and Michaelis interacting and composes Young Prince.

Events of the short story Love Like A Freight Train: Gregory and Eddie get frisky in the bedroom.

SPRING 2022:

Events of the short story A Pizza For Purim in March: Eddie makes pizza for Jes and Michaelis.

Epilogues of Fete for a King and Infinite Jes, plus short story Theophile and The Kings: Gregory and Eddie become engaged at Gregory's coronation anniversary ball (April-ish, possibly a bit earlier). Michaelis gives them 18 months before he starts pestering them about grandchildren.

Events of The Lady And The Tiger: Alanna and Jerry travel to Galia; they begin dating and become engaged. Ofelia Ansevali is installed as Duchess.

LATE SPRING/EARLY SUMMER 2022:

Beginning of The Twelve Points Of Caleb Canto: Caleb wins the National Final and meets the royal family; Buck comes to Fons-Askaz to write his next album.

Events of the short story The New Duke: Eddie is made a duke. Michaelis reminds Gregory that they have 16 months left before he starts pestering them about grandchildren.

Events of the short story Gold Digger: Jes fights with their parents about dating Michaelis (prior to attending Eurovision in Turin).

SUMMER 2022:

Ending of The Twelve Points of Caleb Canto: In May, Caleb and Buck compete against each other at Eurovision National Finals.

Noah officially/legally becomes a prince.

PROSPECTIVE: Beginning of The Royals And The Ramblers; Eddie, Gregory, Michaelis, Jes, and Noah visit the Rambler family in California, escorted by Georgie. Monday Rambler is asked to be the royal Surrogate. Monday becomes pregnant circa July.

FALL 2022:

Epilogue of The Twelve Points of Caleb Canto: Buck returns from touring to spend the winter in Fons-Askaz. Noah becomes first mate of the Dychev.

PROSPECTIVE: Royals/Ramblers: Georgie begins a relationship with Monday Rambler. Eddie and Gregory meet and adopt Ioanna. Eddie and Gregory have a huge state wedding.

Events of Cryptofauna Of The Shivadh North: Eddie and Gregory go on vacation and hunt a Svichwurm.

Now, all of that has been written and all but the start of Royals/Ramblers has been published or at least posted. The rest of 2023 is planned out as well so:

SPRING 2023:

PROSPECTIVE: Ending of The Royals And The Ramblers (around late April). The novel spans almost a year, since it begins prior to Monday's pregnancy and ends shortly after she gives birth.

SUMMER 2023:

PROSPECTIVE: The Chicken Salad Wars: Simon LeFevre begins publishing a recipe blog and is recruited into helping plan the Reclamation Day festival. Spans roughly April-August.

PROSPECTIVE: Noah will graduate from the Maritime Academy in June 2023. In theory, if I write his gap year novel, it would begin somewhere around summer 2023. I may not write this one in chronological order (IE, I may write other books set later first, then come back to this one).

FALL 2023:

PROSPECTIVE: Beginning of the yet-untitled Football Novel; Felix Giddings begins building Shivadh RFC and recruiting players for the team's first 11. Spans the midseason gap and will likely end in spring 2024.

PROSPECTIVE: Events of the yet-untitled Roman Ruin Novel; crews hired by Jerry to clear and cultivate portions of the Shivadlakia estate uncover a Roman floor. Unclear how long this novel will span but likely a relatively short period of time.

There are also several stories in the pipeline that have indeterminate dates assigned, but presumably they are further out.

[paulagnewart]

TTTurtle TTTriple TTTrouble!

Dust off your Time Scepters and stop for a quick slice of pizza along the way, as 8th April marked 30 years since fans watched the third live-action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film "schwing" into Australian cinemas.

Everyone's favourite Green Machines were back, and this time it's (quite literally) temporal. A magical mishap sends intrepid reporter April O'Neil tumbling back to 1603 Japan and into the clutches of Lord Norinaga. With time running out to rescue their friend, the brothers follow in hot pursuit. Naturally feudal hijinks ensued as they mastered horse-riding, assisted the nearby rebellion and fought the wicked Walker, at one point even contemplating their place in a world that now appreciates them.

Timed to coincide perfectly with the Easter school holidays, the film was accompanied by a major promotional blitz. Each of the brothers appeared "live" at various shopping centres, fetes and parks across the country to meet their adoring public and perform stage shows, culminating with a reunion for Wonderland Sydney's KidzFest '93.

While Turtlemania had long since reached its peak, the promotion was overall successful. It pulled respectable numbers at the box office, and local critics praised it more often than not. They cited the film as "well-produced" with its "laughable slapsticks, dry wit and special effects", and "well-choreographed" fight scenes "slightly more restrained than the original". Setting the film in feudal Japan "opened new possibilities" for the franchise, and although not high art by any stretch, it nonetheless "makes its popularity with children easy to comprehend", enough to secure a spot among the top 10 VHS tapes of 1993.

It would be another 5 years before Aussies saw the Turtles return to live-action, but until then, they was about to have a real struggle when 1994 saw a new team of heroes arrive to win the hearts (and wallets) of kids nationwide.

#Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #TMNT #TMNT Movie #Leonardo #Donatello #Raphael #Michelangelo #Toy Photography #Action Figures #TMNT Toys #Japanese Garden #Campbelltown #Sydney #New South Wales #Playmates Toys

[projectoffice5487]

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[yummyromy]

tarte flambée à la truffe, de Cyril Lignac

1 pâte à pizza étalée finement (environ 1 mm d’épaisseur)

1 petite truffe noire épluchée et coupée en fines lamelles (garder la peau et la hacher)

Pour la garniture de la tarte :

1 oignon épluché et émincé finement puis cuit au beurre pour qu’il soit fondant

6 champignons de Paris lavés et émincés finement puis poêlés au beurre

50 g de tomme de brebis en lamelles fines

75 g de crème fraîche épaisse

40 g de yaourt grec

1 branche de thym frais

Noix de muscade

Sel fin et poivre du moulin

Préchauffer le four à 225°C position grill. Dans un bol, verser la crème, le yaourt et la peau de la truffe hachée finement. Assaisonner de sel et poivre, parfumer avec la noix de muscade râpée.

Déposer la pâte à pizza sur une plaque à pâtisserie recouverte d’une feuille de papier sulfurisé. Verser le mélange de crème et étaler à l’aide d’une petite spatule. Ajouter harmonieusement les champignons, les oignons et la tomme de brebis. Parsemer de feuilles de thym.

Mettre au four 20 minutes. Couper en parts et ajouter des lamelles de truffe noire. https://www.femina.fr/article/cyril-lignac-dans-tous-en-cuisine-menu-de-fetes-voici-la-recette-de-sa-tarte-flambee-a-la-truffe

[mady-ioana-blog]

#vinhos #travel #wineoftheday #vineyard #winery #winetime #wineporn #winenot #beaujolaisnouveauday #beaujolais #fridays #friday #nightout #friends #pizza #coctail #qualitytime #love #happyday #beaujolaisnouveau #fete #tours #gastronomie #myday #ilovefrance #musee #museum #oenotourisme #rhonetourisme #photooftheday (presso Planeta Buonivini)

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[habsforever]

Danault bringing caufield pizza and wishing everybody a bonne fete saint jean please 😂😂😂

#phillip danault #cole caufield #montreal canadiens

[eretzyisrael]

An extinguished, precious life remembered in Melbourne

Twenty years ago we started the endless process of adjusting to life without our delightful first-born daughter Malka Chana - Malki to her friends - stolen from us before she reached her sixteenth birthday.

Our copy of the Melbourne Herald-Sun's front page report on August 11, 2001 isdamaged. We are trying to acquire a repairedimage.

It wasn't an illness or a tragic accident that removed Malki from the warm embrace of those who loved her. It was a gang of ideology-crazed thugs led by a chillingly satanic Jordanian woman, armed with a powerful explosive package disguised as a human being, an Arab man in his twenties, and egged on by millions of backers.

Those millions still exert a deeply painful influence on our lives.

We scan the Arabic social media six days a week. This week on the day of the twentieth anniversary we saw - though we didn't need it - plenty of evidence of how utterly different the world in which they live their lives is from ours in this generations-long war of terror.

It's a war that Arabs launched against against Jews in Palestine long before the name Palestine was appropriated by the Arab side. And decades before the State of Israel announced its existence as new-born state on the 1948 day the British Mandate ended and six Arab armies invaded.

A random selection of some deeply hostile and ugly anniversary messages appearing on Twitter (minus the links - we have interest in giving these people any traffic or attention):

Today marks the twentieth anniversary of Operation Sbarro carried out by the martyr Izz Al-Din Al-Masri in Jaffa Street in occupied Jerusalem with the help of the liberated captive Ahlam Al-Tamimi in retaliation for the martyrdom of the two leaders Gamal Selim and Jamal Mansour [Arabic]

..A martyrdom operation in the Sbarro restaurant in Jerusalem which led to the deaths of 20 Zionists and the wounding of 100 [Arabic]

We do not want to forget the liberated captive, Ahlam Al-Tamimi, who carried the attacker of the Sbarro restaurant, Izz Al-Din Al-Masri, to the restaurant after which she was arrested by the occupation army [Arabic]

Prepare it for them in the manner of the people of Aqaba and serve it [pizza] hot and delicious. Al-Masri [the name of the human bomb], go through here. Occupied Jerusalem August 9, 2001 [Arabic]

Proud of our representative from the family in the heroic operation. The liberated captive, Ahlam Al-Tamimi, who transported the martyr Izz Al-Din Al-Masri and handed him a guitar stuffed with maddening death [Arabic - posted by a male with the surname Tamimi]

...Al-Masri was killed on the responsibility of the Jews and their responsibility is extensive [Arabic]

If her parents hadn’t chosen to become foreign invaders she’d probably be alive now

My argument is with the creation of an apartheid theocratic state created by the West (mostly by the US and Britain) in Palestine largely so Jews wouldn't immigrate to the US. I'm a Jew not an Israeli Zionist. She should never have been put in this position by her dad.

We saw no Arabic messages condemning or criticizing Tamimi or the massacre. They might exist and we're just not seeing them, but the truth is we have been looking for years and not finding.

Malki, like her father, was born in Australia. The current edition of the Australian Jewish News, a weekly community-focused newspaper, ran this editorial on Thursday. It's reprinted with the permission of its editor, Zeddy Lawrence.

‘A precious life extinguished’

"THE Australian Jewish community was in mourning this week," reported The AJN 20 years ago, on Friday, August 17, 2001. "The death of 15-year-old Malki Roth in the Sbarro bombing catapulted Israel's crisis into personal grief for much of this community."

Fifteen innocent people were killed in the terrorist attack just a few days earlier, when a guitar case packed with nails was detonated at the central Jerusalem pizza restaurant. Among the victims were seven people aged between just two and 16. Scores of other diners were wounded.

Reflecting on the death of his daughter at the time, Arnold Roth told The AJN, "This was the extinguishing of a precious life."

Ahlam Aref Ahmad Al-Tamimi, who masterminded the attack and drove the bomber to the restaurant, was apprehended by Israel soon afterwards and sentenced to 16 life terms in an Israeli jail. But in 2011, she was one of more than 1000 Palestinian prisoners freed in exchange for the release of Gilad Shalit, who had been held hostage in Gaza for five years.

Since that time, Tamimi has lived in Jordan, feted as a celebrity, and expressing her joy at the high death toll the Sbarro bombing inflicted.

Determined to bring her back to justice, Arnold and his American-born wife Frimet have long called for her to be extradited to the US, as Malki and another victim held American citizenship.

A warrant was issued, but insisting the extradition treaty between the countries was never ratified, Jordan has never acted on it.

The latest evidence, however, appears to show that the treaty was indeed signed.

With that in mind, as the community marks 20 years since Malki's death, the Roths are hoping their sustained campaign may bear fruit.

Pressure is mounting within Washington for the US to withhold foreign assistance from Jordan, and they're urging the Australian government – who they claim have been reticent to speak out – to also take a stand.

Twenty years on, we share their hope that the authorities, both here and Stateside, will take action, so that the unrepentant, bragging terrorist who has Malki's blood on her hands will soon be back behind bars, where she belongs.

The same AJN edition carried this article by senior journalist Peter Kohn:

Still seeking justice for Malki Roth

ON the 20th of Av this year (July 29), Arnold and Frimet Roth visited the Israeli grave of Malki Roth and recited Kaddish. It was their daughter’s yahrzeit – 20 years after the Australian-born teenager was murdered in a Palestinian terrorist attack at a Jerusalem pizzeria, along with 15 others, including seven children.

“Life was heavy,” Malki’s father told The AJN this week, reflecting on the yahrzeit. “You’re missing somebody desperately and feel awful about the fact that she’s not part of your life.”

But this Monday, August 9, the secular anniversary of Malki’s killing, Roth was back on Zoom and on the phone continuing his relentless campaign to see Ahlam Tamimi, the mastermind of the attack, extradited from Jordan to the US. “The ninth of August … that’s all about justice,” he stated.

Tamimi had picked out the Sbarro pizzeria targeted by her and another bomber on August 9, 2001, her accomplice dying in the attack. Tamimi left the scene disguised as a tourist, later professing her glee as the ever-rising death toll was reported.

Although sentenced in Israel to 16 consecutive life terms, she was exchanged in a 2011 prisoner swap to free Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit from Hamas captivity. She continues to be feted as a media celebrity in Jordan, and, according to Roth, she recently added a regular newspaper column to her stint as a Jordanian TV show host.

In the US, she faces charges relating to the death of two American citizens – Malki, who held dual citizenship, being one of them – and an extradition request was issued in 2017.

But four years on, Roth is still battling three governments to get Tamimi extradited.

For years, the US had maintained its hands were tied because Jordan had not ratified its extradition treaty, a position stated by a Jordanian court in 2017. However, in 2019, Roth learned from an American official that Jordan had indeed ratified the treaty as far back as 1995.

Last year, under US freedom-of-information laws, he even received an archived letter from Jordan’s former monarch King Hussein to the US State Department confirming that fact. He is hopeful this legal development will provide a much needed stepping stone.

Desperate for the Australian government to weigh in, Roth’s entreaties to Malcolm Turnbull when he was PM did not bear fruit. Approaches to Prime Minister Scott Morrison last year were referred to Foreign Minister Marise Payne, whose office cited constitutional problems in Jordan with extraditing its nationals, an assertion Roth rejects because oddly “it goes beyond what the Jordanians say”.

In Israel meanwhile, Roth says his fight to have Tamimi extradited to the US has been “betrayed by a chain of Netanyahu governments and, so far at least, by the new government. Of course, Israel could do something. But Israel has no charges against this woman. Israel has washed its hands of the case.”

Roth’s growing perception is that justice for Malki has become expendable to higher policy priorities in Jerusalem, Washington and Canberra.

“There’s a lot of group-think going on – among Israelis, among Americans, among media people,” he said, describing Tamimi as “the most wanted female fugitive alive today”.

The Roths maintain their ties to the families of other victims of the Sbarro bombing, particularly to a victim who remains “in a vegetative state”, he said.

Arnold remains honorary chair of the Malki Foundation, established in his daughter’s memory to support children with disabilities. Malki had been a caring, loving companion to her severely disabled younger sister and others with special needs.

“A 15-year-old girl who had a legacy – it’s unbelievable, but she did,” exclaimed Roth. “She was so good, so empathetic, so involved in making the world better for children with special needs.”

This blog isn't a memorial to our daughter. That function belongs to the website of the Malki Foundation (www.kerenmalki.org). We hope you will visit it.

In the context of terrorism and the worldwide efforts to defeat it, we write here at the site you are now visiting about our efforts to bring Malki's killers to justice - in particular Ahlam Tamimi. the Jordanian orchestrator of the massacre at Sbarro twenty years ago.

Tamimi, now 41 years old and a celebrity in the Arab world, lives free and famous in her homeland despite being the world's most woman female fugitive with a $5M reward issued by the US State Department for her capture and conviction.

One valuable way to give us your support is to sign our petition at change.org/ExtraditeTamimi

#AJN #Australia #Herald Sun #Jordan #JusticeForMalki #melbourne #Rewards for Justice #Sbarro #State Department

[brian-in-finance]

THE NATIONAL BOARD OF REVIEW NAMES 2021 HONOREES

The Organization’s 2021 Gala will be held on Tuesday, January 11, 2022

New York, NY (December 2, 2021) – The National Board of Review announced today their 2021 honorees, with top awards including Licorice Pizza for Best Film; Paul Thomas Anderson for Best Director for Licorice Pizza; Will Smith for Best Actor for King Richard; and Rachel Zegler for Best Actress for West Side Story.

NBR President Annie Schulhof said, “In a moment of transition and uncertainty, there is nothing like Licorice Pizza to remind us of the joy, hope, and exhilaration that great cinema can inspire. The NBR is honored to award the movie as its Best Film of 2021, as well as its brilliant creator, Paul Thomas Anderson, and all of our other awardees.”

The 2021 awards continue the NBR’s tradition of recognizing excellence in filmmaking, which was established in 1909. This year 221 films were viewed by a select group of film enthusiasts, filmmakers, professionals, academics, and students, many of which were followed by in-depth discussions with directors, actors, producers, and screenwriters. Voting ballots were tabulated by the accounting firm of Lutz & Carr, LLP.

The National Board of Review’s awards celebrate the art of cinema, with categories that include Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor and Actress, Best Original and Adapted Screenplay, Breakthrough Performance, and Directorial Debut, as well as their signature honors the Freedom of Expression Award and Outstanding Achievement in Cinematography.

The honorees will be feted at the NBR Awards Gala, hosted by Willie Geist, on Tuesday, January 11, 2022. To request credentials to the evening’s red carpet, please fill out a credential application here by Tuesday, January 4, 2022.

Below is a full list of the 2021 award recipients, announced by the National Board of Review:

Best Film: LICORICE PIZZA

Best Director: Paul Thomas Anderson, LICORICE PIZZA

Best Actor: Will Smith, KING RICHARD

Best Actress: Rachel Zegler, WEST SIDE STORY

Best Supporting Actor: Ciarán Hinds, BELFAST

Best Supporting Actress: Aunjanue Ellis, KING RICHARD

Best Adapted Screenplay: Asghar Farhadi, A HERO

Best Original Screenplay: Joel Coen, THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

Breakthrough Performance: Alana Haim & Cooper Hoffman, LICORICE PIZZA

Best Directorial Debut: Michael Sarnoski, PIG

Best Animated Feature: ENCANTO

Best Foreign Language Film: A HERO

Best Documentary: SUMMER OF SOUL (…OR, WHEN THE REVOLUTION COULD NOT BE TELEVISED)

Best Ensemble: THE HARDER THEY FALL

Outstanding Achievement in Cinematography: Bruno Delbonnel, THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

NBR Freedom of Expression Award: FLEE

Top Films (in alphabetical order)

Belfast

Don’t Look Up

Dune

King Richard

The Last Duel

Nightmare Alley

Red Rocket

The Tragedy of Macbeth

West Side Story

Top 5 Foreign Language Films (in alphabetical order)

Benedetta

Lamb

Lingui, The Sacred Bonds

Titane

The Worst Person in the World

ABOUT THE NATIONAL BOARD OF REVIEW

Since 1909, the National Board of Review has dedicated its efforts to the support of cinema as both art and entertainment. Each year, this select group of film enthusiasts, filmmakers, professionals and academics of varying ages and backgrounds watches over 250 films and participates in illuminating discussions with directors, actors, producers and screenwriters before announcing their selections for the best work of the year.

Remember… I’m not really involved in the Hollywood machine. I’ve worked in Hollywood films but I never decided to move over there or work only in that kind of vein. I’m more a gun for hire who sees what comes up. But I have worked with some extraordinary people, and I still think, how the hell did that happen? — Ciarán Hinds, Independent.ie, 4 July 2021

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #BelfastMovie #2021 Honorees #Best Supporting Actor #Top Film #National Board of Review #Gala #11 January 2022 #New York City New York USA #Belfast #Now in North America #Worldwide 2022 #Campaign To Shorten Awards Season

[flowerfan2]

Where All The Lights Are Bright

1500 words of David x Patrick.  A03.  T.

A visit to NYC leaves Patrick feeling out of place.  David, not surprisingly, has an opinion.

(A/N:  Apparently writing David/Patrick emotional h/c is my favorite way to spend a Saturday morning... if you like my fic, please subscribe on A03 - tomorrow the Frozen Over Fest fics will be revealed and I’m really excited about sharing that one with you!  **** And now back to this story.)

Patrick stands in front of the hotel bathroom sink, hands splayed on the cold marble countertop.  His uncertain reflection stares back at him.

It’s late, and Patrick is tired.  He and David flew in last night, Alexis insisting that everyone come to New York City to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.  Johnny put them all up at the Ritz, taking advantage of a discount offered by an industry connection, and took them out for a celebratory dinner at the Four Seasons.  Patrick has never been anywhere like it – the wait staff hovered so close, you couldn’t sneeze without one of them offering you a tissue.

After that, Alexis had arranged for a table at one of her favorite clubs.  The word had apparently gotten out that the Roses were in town, and Alexis had spent the evening being air-kissed by more people than Patrick could count.  David, too.

David had looked particularly stunning tonight.  Instead of one of his usual fluffy sweaters, he had worn a black Dior jacket with a white rose pattern on one side, paired with slim black pants and a form-fitting black shirt.  Patrick wore one of his nicest blazers, but in contrast to the picture painted by his glamorous husband, he felt like the help.  And frankly, the wait staff at the Four Seasons looked snazzier than he did.

In Schitt’s Creek, David stands out.  He isn’t to everyone’s taste, but people have come to love him, although Patrick hears the comment “I just don’t understand his clothes” on a regular basis.  Tonight, Patrick was the odd one out, looking like a drab schoolteacher while David and Alexis were feted by the beautiful people.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door, and Patrick is started out of his thoughts.  

“Have you suddenly decided to take my advice about a more intensive skin care routine?  Because while I applaud the effort, we would need to do a careful evaluation of your skin first.  You can’t just jump into something like that.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Patrick replies.  But David must hear something in his voice, because he knocks again.

“Patrick?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve got several different brands of painkillers in my toiletry bag,” David offers.  But Patrick doesn’t have a headache.  That’s not where it hurts.

“I said I’m fine, I’ll be right out.”  Hiding in the bathroom isn’t going to help anything.  Patrick brushes his hands over himself, his worn white t-shirt and sleep pants unchanged from the last time he looked, and opens the door.

David is standing there, a hand on his hip.  He’s wearing the striped pajama top he’s had for years, as familiar to Patrick as his own face, and suddenly Patrick is swamped with feelings.

“Honey?” David asks, his hands fluttering towards him and landing on Patrick’s shoulders as they have thousands of times before.  “What’s wrong?”

Patrick tries to shrug it off.  “I’m just tired.”  Patrick reaches for David, trying to judge whether he can distract him with sex.  David doesn’t fall for it.  Wrinkling his brow in confusion, he snags Patrick’s wandering hands and holds them in his own.

“Patrick.”  They’ve known each other for years now, and Patrick��s tendency to avoid discussing things has gotten better, but it hasn’t gone away completely.  “What’s going on?”

Patrick sighs and moves to the bed.  David sits down next to him, his dark eyes full of concern.  Patrick’s gaze flickers around the well-appointed room, with its cream and camel color palette and graceful yet modern furnishings.  It’s just like David, sophisticated and fashionable.  David belongs on these high thread count sheets; Patrick, not so much.

He doesn’t even realize that tears are welling in his eyes until David is wiping them away.  He tries to explain, but nothing comes out.  David wraps his arms around him and Patrick digs his face into his neck.  He breathes in sharply and David holds him tighter.

Patrick loves David more than he ever thought he could love another person.  He never feels safer than when David envelops him in his arms, his body blocking out the world.  But tonight there’s still an ache of uncertainty in his chest.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”  David asks again, pressing circles into Patrick’s back.  “Did something happen tonight?”  

Patrick can hear the worry in David’s voice, an echo, perhaps, of other nights in other clubs.  He knows David has had plenty of bad experiences in the past.  But nothing particularly bad happened to Patrick tonight.  Everyone he met was pleasant enough, as their eyes slid over him to land on David or Alexis.

“It’s fine,” Patrick says, and David pulls back, his hands coming up to frame Patrick’s face.

“It is absolutely not fine, and you need to stop saying that,” David says firmly.  “You are upset, and that is not fine.”

Silence hangs between them, and Patrick scrambles for something to say.  “We don’t match,” is what he finally comes up with.  It’s not quite what he means.

David looks at him, puzzled.  “In what way?”

“You’re… you.  And I’m…”

David tilts his head.  “Could you give me a little more to work with?”

“You outshine me.”

David rubs his hands up and down Patrick’s bare arms, sucking on his lips as he considers this.  “I did offer to help you pick out an outfit for tonight.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh.  “I don’t think anything in my closet would make a difference.  It’s not just the clothes.”

David leans in, kissing the side of Patrick’s face and looping his arms around his shoulders.  David is so generous with his touch.  His hands are always finding Patrick, petting and reassuring, turning him on and calming him down, always seeming to know which one he needs.  “What is it, then?”

“I don’t belong here.”

David runs his thumb along Patrick’s cheek.  “I disagree.”

“Come on, you have to see it.  I looked like an idiot tonight.”

David sits back and grips Patrick’s shoulders.  “I’m sorry you had a bad time at the club.  But I won’t let you judge yourself by whether you fit in with rich snobs.  Why would you care what they think of you, anyway?”

“You care about what they think of you.”

David purses his lips.  “I used to.  And then I realized the error of my ways.”  He runs his hands down Patrick’s arms to his elbows, and shakes them a little.  “I love you.  You are a perfect match for me, and you know it.  Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh.  “Did you just quote your mother at me?”

“I don’t think she made it up.  But she’s right.  Those people don’t know you.  I do.”

“And you think we match?  Even though I’ve never been to restaurants with five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine, or hotels with Carrera marble in the bathrooms?”  The hotel provided this information on its website, as though the type of marble on the countertops was of critical importance in choosing where to spend the night.

“We do. Even though you said a Ritz was a cracker, not a hotel.”  David says, rubbing his nose against Patrick’s.

“I was joking,” Patrick says, a laugh bursting its way past the ache in his chest.  

“Even though you thought Alexis would like to go bowling for her birthday.”

“That was when she lived in Schitt’s Creek, and she had a great time.”  Patrick can’t help but keep laughing, as David pushes him down on the bed and presses kisses into his neck.  He lets the ache disappear, and the space is filled instantly by the love he feels for this amazing man.  

David kisses him behind his ear, and nibbles at his earlobe.  “Even if you insisted on singing to me in public.”  David’s voice drops deeper.  He’s not really trying to keep up the joke with this one.  It’s proof that they do match, not the opposite.

“You loved it,” Patrick says, and David kisses him on the lips, sweet and fond.

“I did.  I loved it before I even fully understood what you were doing to me.”  David rolls to his side, pulling Patrick with him and catching his gaze.  “You taught me how to feel love, Patrick. I think that makes us a pretty good match.”

Patrick loses himself in David’s eyes for a long moment, then kisses him until he has to come up for air.  “I love you.”  David knows how to make him laugh.  He knows when he needs to be pushed, and when he needs to be held.  He knows him, and he loves him – plain, unadorned Patrick Brewer.

“I love you too,” David says.  “Always.”

Patrick curls himself against David, his head on his shoulder and arm slung over his waist.  David pulls him in, one hand against the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.  

“I still don’t fit in New York City,” Patrick says.  But it doesn’t hurt to think it now, it just seems like a fact, one that’s not so important anymore.  He snuggles up against David, breathing in the warm scent of his body.

“Just because you don’t like pretentious clubs doesn’t mean you should write off all five boroughs,” David says loftily.

“I don’t know, what could be better than pretentious clubs?”

David sighs.  “The pizza, Patrick.  And the bagels.  But most importantly, the pizza.”

#Schitt's Creek #Schitt's Creek fic #David x Patrick #Patrick Brewer #David Rose

[skippyv20]

If you read it carefully, you will figure out a lot about Markle and her relationship with MA.

Inside the shady world of promoters who recruit ‘hot girls’ for parties

For years, Ashley Mears would get text messages from Thibault,* a Manhattan club promoter she met when she was a model in the early 2000s.

“He would always text the same thing, like, ‘Oh baby, sushi dinner this weekend. Are you coming?’ ” recalled Mears.

Still, she never blocked his messages. Plenty of her acquaintances knew Thibault: He and his crew were notorious for hanging around modeling agencies, pursuing beautiful young women to fill VIP tables at exclusive nightclubs like 1OAK and Lavo. And she remained intrigued.

So, finally, in 2011 — after she had left New York City for a sociology professorship at Boston University — she responded to one of his invites.

“I was like, ‘I’m curious about this sushi dinner. Yeah, 

I’ll come,’ ” she said.

Mears wasn’t too impressed with the meal, but what she witnessed at the club after dinner was something else 

“I had never seen bottle service at that scale before,” she said. “There were these parades of the bottles that came out with sparklers, and the cocktail waitresses in these tight, revealing dresses carried these bottles that were burning. I found it really fascinating.”

For the next year and a half, from late 2011 to early 2013, Mears documented this world of promoters and the models they recruited just to hang out and look pretty at events in exchange for nothing more than free drinks, gifts, even rent. Tall, slender with high cheekbones and doe-like eyes, Mears easily embedded herself into the “models and bottles” scene, though at 31 she was a good decade older than many of the other women invited.

As depicted in her new book, “Very Important People: Status and Beauty in the Global Party Circuit” (Princeton University Press), Mears met and interviewed 44 promoters, who are paid by clubs or by rich clients to bring models — referred to as “girls” — to their parties. She followed them through clubs in New York City, mansion fetes in the Hamptons, festivals in Miami and yachts in the Mediterranean. And like the 20 girls she interviewed, who accompanied these men, she got to enjoy $1,700 bottles of champagne, “vacations” in Cannes and St. Tropez and even, briefly, a loft apartment in Union Square.

But she also saw the uglier side of this glamorous life: models losing jobs because they were too hungover to make appointments after partying all night, a client forcing champagne down a girl’s throat when she didn’t look like she was having sufficient fun, even what seemed like low-key extortion and prostitution.

Mears met Thibault the way many models meet promoters: because he was hanging around Soho, looking for attractive young women outside model castings or trendy hangouts like Pinkberry.

Promoters are paid by club owners to bring “quality people” — rich men, celebrities and beautiful women — to their spaces, boosting the image of the club and inspiring wealthy clients to spend their money. They can earn as much as $4,500 a night, depending on how many expensive bottles of champagne they and their girls can squeeze from a wealthy client. Because they often are tasked with doing this five nights a week, they need to keep a robust roster of young, attractive women on their books. And they’ll recruit them by any means necessary.

One promoter Mears interviewed, Ethan, said that he faked his résumé just so he could get an unpaid internship at a top modeling agency.

“I was the first person in there and the last person to leave every day. I put in, like, ten-hour days, for free, five days a week,” said Ethan.

Other promoters had creepier methods — like the guy, now a club owner, who disguised himself as a pizza deliveryman to get past the doorman in a model apartment owned by an agency. (Once inside, he shed his pizza uniform, knocked on doors and invited girls to his parties — he got mostly rejected, but a few agreed.)

Some promoters, like Thibault, were able to get numbers for model apartments owned by agencies and would cold-call these places to invite girls to parties. Once Thibault had Mears call these apartments and asked her to pretend to be a work acquaintance, saying, “Hey, this is Ashley, we met at a casting a while ago.”

“Once I hooked her attention,” Mears writes, “I was to tell her that we were throwing a big party with sushi, and that we would send a driver … to pick her up. I could always add that a celebrity was going to be at the club, like Leonardo DiCaprio or Kanye West.”

Some models didn’t appreciate such tactics — “They are clowns,” one 28-year-old model told Mears of Thibault and his crew.

Yet others found these promoters charming and fun. “Promoters can be the cutest, sweetest, most amazing people ever,” said Nina, a model who hung out with Thibault’s crew — and ended up in a relationship with him.

In fact, the promoters did work hard to cultivate friendships with their girls — taking them bowling, or to the movies, or to kickboxing. They even drove them to their model castings and helped them move apartments, all so they would view going to the club not as something transactional, but as just hanging out with their friend.

The evening always started with a free 10 p.m. dinner at a restaurant, with the expectation that the girl would spend three hours afterward at the club. She was expected to wear a tight dress and high heels — and some promoters even had extra clingy frocks in their cars if a girl came dressed too frumpily.

One model, named Hannah, told Mears about how one girl showed up to a Miami yacht party with an unshaved bikini area. The promoter ordered her to the bathroom to “fix it.”

Nina told Mears of another promoter she had gone out with who tried to prevent her from leaving a club at 1 a.m. He grabbed and shook her, saying, “You’re not gonna leave here … I paid for your drink, so now you stay here at least until 3.”

Most of the time, girls can leave a boring party or sever ties with a bad promoter. But some relationships are more like indentured servitude.

Take the promoter team of Pablo and Vanna (one of the rare female promoters Mears encountered), who kept a model apartment on Union Square. As many as seven models at a time lived there for free — in exchange for accompanying Pablo and Vanna to clubs like Provocateur and Marquee from midnight to 3 a.m. four nights a week.

“I don’t look at it as a burden but I look at it as work,” said one of their tenants, Renee.

“We’re, like, representing them,” said another, Catherine. “Like, we understand that we’re there to make them look good … We understand that we’re friends but we’re supporting them; we don’t mind.”

Yet Mears said the two weeks she spent living in the apartment were terrible: trash piled up near the front door, Four Loko energy drinks and full ashtrays littered the living room floor and “dried-out contact lenses stuck to the kitchen counter.”

The mandatory partying also took a toll on the tenants’ career aspirations, too — they often couldn’t wake up early enough to go to castings, or would show up at work looking hungover and unhealthy. One Wednesday night, at 2:30 a.m., Catherine wanted to go home, but one of Pablo’s employees, Toby, told her she had to stay due to her housing agreement.

“I love her,” Toby told Mears while downing shots of tequila, “but that bitch has to stay till 3. That’s the rules! Blame it on the game!”

While most clients were just happy to be around beautiful women, some wanted more. And promoters would benefit from it.

As one promoter admitted: “A client gave me a grand just for gathering together the party. And at the end of the night he actually got laid by two of the girls and he gave me another two grand.”

Yet most of the sex happens not between girls and clients, but between girls and promoters. As one promoter told Mears, “If any promoter tries to tell you that f–king isn’t part of his business plan, he’s a liar.”

Even if a promoter and a girl do fall in love, it generally ends badly. After Nina became pregnant with Thibault’s baby, she found out that he was cheating on her with a much younger woman who had been part of their entourage. She left him soon after having the baby and still had not received child support after years of fighting him in court.

So why do young women put up with it? The sore feet, the constant scrutiny, the long hours, the exploitation?

Some women did it to network. One model told Mears she found an internship in finance through the connections she made at clubs. Another, a Columbia University graduate, said she never would have gotten to hobnob with such an elite crowd had she not been a girl at the club.

“You have great conversations with them about what they do and you learn about venture capital or politics or about these sorts of things, so for me it’s sort of an educational thing … How else would I get to talk to a guy who started a venture capital firm or whatever else? I’m not gonna meet him out at a bar on the Lower East Side.”

Yet most of these women aren’t go-getters but young and naive, with little money and few friends in the city. They are happy to receive free meals, free drinks and companionship. Plus for all its problems, nightlife can be dazzling and fun.

As Nora, a 25-year-old ex-model, told her: “You do end up feeling like one of the elite. I know it sounds so stupid, but … it’s being able to hang out with friends and having someone tell you, ‘You’re beautiful,’ so you don’t have to pay for anything.”

Mears agrees. “There are some moments, when the music is right and the venue looks gorgeous and the crowd is in sync that are truly transcendent,” she told The Post. “It’s seductive to be around so much wealth and beauty — it’s an ego-stroke.”

*The names of all promoters and models have been changed.

/By Raquel Laneri/

Great insight for sure....thank you😊❤️❤️❤️❤️

[copperbadge]

I find myself, after looking at the pics of your rolls today, wondering: How good is Eddie at baking?

Well, there is the line in Fete -- or was in the early drafts, and I don't think it's been cut -- where Eddie says it's a good thing Simon's doing the cake for the coronation because Eddie's not a pastry chef. Although in Fete he seems to be serviceable at cookies, at least when he's making them with little kids, and he's super interested in learning about local breads. He has a solid grounding in the chemistry of bread -- he's test-kitchening an ideal, flexible, foolproof pizza recipe at the start of Infinite Jes and playing with crust flavorings there. And in Lady And The Tiger he's clearly studied baking; Gregory sees him mentally reaching for memories of a class he's taken as he reels off the differences between bread and pastry.

So, honestly, probably a bit like me -- strong grounding with breads, decent at cookies, but he's never really bothered with anything fancy or demanding. Eddie's the kind of chef who's a good all-rounder but not a standout anywhere. He'll never be Michelin-starred at anything and certainly not at baking, but he's not really interested in who's the best at anything, that's not why he cooks.

He's probably dreadful at cakes, though. Might be like me where he likes cake fine but won't go out of his way for it and thus never really put in the effort to learn how to make a decent one. He'd much rather make a sweet cornbread.

#food #baking #shivadhverse

[thepanicoffice]

Half Crown Piece

[...]

I myself have, on occasion, been a member of several of the great European Royal Families [1]. I weave myself into them quietly, like hereditary susceptibility to gout, and then disappear without warning, like embezzled charitable donations.

And yet, there is more – a great deal more – that qualifies me to opine, with the zest of a gossipy courtier, on the travails of our much-maligned monarchy.

Indeed, at first glance, there is much that unites me with the Duchess of Sussex: I have had a moderately successful acting career stymied by a torrid love affair with a troubled redhead [2], have a publicly venomous relationship with my father that has played out on the front pages of the gutter press [3], and (I assume) we have both secretly urinated in the vestry at St George’s Chapel in Windsor before a major event was due to take place.

Yet despite these almost eerie similarities, I’m afraid I am at a loss to understand the Duchess’s mindset and the Sussexes’ candid and inexcusably American interview.

Like her, I have had my share of unpleasant skirmishes with the media. I too know the sting of being outrageously accused by spiteful commentators of ‘not being black enough to have experienced racism’. However, unlike Meghan, I managed to rise above it and, with dignity, continued to deliver my impromptu speech at the MOBO Awards.

In fact, I have relished the ongoing war of words (and, briefly, before I saw sense, letter bombs) between myself and that shrill costermonger of pungent, overripe opinions, Piers Morgan. Having spent much of the early 2000s leaving messages on my own voicemail calling him an elaborate mutton-sculpture in the hope that they would eventually find their way back to his hot, puce little ears, I simply cannot understand the Duchess’s reticence to exchange insults with a man with such a hefty trade deficit.

The enmity of Piers Morgan is a gift to be treasured. If they did it in vouchers, I’d give them to my dearest relations [4] for every birthday and Christmas.

The point I am getting at here is that, with time and the patient support of the ermine-swaddled nucleus of the Royal Family, the Duchess could have learned the ancient rules of combat on which their relationship with the media is founded. When they offer ritual humiliation, you smile sheepishly and endure it. When they offer you incriminating allegations, you chunter unconvincingly with anecdotes about pizza outlets. When they hound a relative to their death, you cheerfully accept it in exchange for some bar polish for your gilded cage.

This is the quid pro quo of the empty cipher of your life, the price paid for the honour of drifting around needlessly large and difficult to heat houses; for the privilege of attending garden fetes and asking people, incessantly, what it is they do; for soaking in the quiet scorn of your social circle, who are just as wealthy as you but don’t have to spend every other day trapped in the pallid light of the hospital ward they are opening.

But no, clearly those privileges – of being an absurd and costly anachronism, like an antique foot-pedal sewing machine or leech beauty treatments – aren’t good enough for the Sussexes.

That’s why, in my fleeting outrage, I have created a petition calling for Harry and his children to be removed from the line of succession, finally injecting a bit of democracy into the principle of hereditary succession.

At least, until I lose interest and, with the true privilege of the super-rich – unencumbered by the stifling confines of duty to an institution whose right to exist is predicated on its own powerlessness – I return to the warm azure waters of my tropical island, far beyond the gaze of a voracious press, free to shoot idly at porpoises.

---------

[1] I still rule over a small protectorate in Schleswig-Holstein, whether they recognise it or not, which entitles me to a proportion of the yield of the annual pig harvest. One day soon, I will make my way there in my best overalls and my hog-plucking gloves and take what is rightfully mine.

[2] Antony Worrall Thompson can deny it all he likes. We both know what happened and there’s only one way to interpret those photographs.

[3] And, never one to miss out on a scoop, even one to my own extreme national humiliation, the pages of the Panic Office itself.

[4] Had any survived that regrettable and not provably suspicious yacht fire two years ago.

#Maslin #Editor #Royal Correspondent #Sussexes #Harry #Meghan #Gilded Cage